Today was an unexpected, yet coveted day off for me.  More than likely the woman who works in the substitute dispatch office is trying to teach me a lesson for daring to take last Friday off, but in honesty, I’m not terribly upset.  Her passive/aggressive jibes live somewhere in the realm of the humourous to me at this point; she warrants no more than a shake of the head and a bemused snicker.  As I stretched my toes to the bottom of the bed in the growing morning light, I had no real plan, so I started with a shower and some yoga poses which’ve become increasingly more important of late (the yoga poses, I mean…showers have always been important….)  I find my joints frozen in place and considerably more prone to popping these days.  The weight of the world really does a number one’s posture.

Facebook had begun to tell me that as people, MY PEOPLE, began to emerge from their battened hatches, they were greeted by sunshine and rainbows, so when I opened my blinds to the dusty greys and off-whites of a cool drizzle, I did not begrudge.  A grey day for certain, but not lost to the chasm.

After some general housekeeping (those forays into tedium that have been looming for that moment I have a second), I settled onto my couch and started something marvelously selfish.  (No, no.  Please recall, and with haste, your minds from the gutter.  This isn’t THAT type of confession.  Heathens.)  I jumped back to my books.  After an uncharacteristically book-free summer, and a rather rancid fall run of the solidly MEH.  On the heels of a good read (ROOM by Emma Donaghue), I’d picked up another promising title (The Night Counter by Alia Yunis), and realized how woefully behind The Moleskine Reviews*** have gotten.  So I reviewed the stack.  And logged each Since-Been-Read title.  And I was struck with a little mini thought that sparked this blog post and incited the stream-of-consciousness that has rambled its way onto your screen.

Who the hell am I writing this down for?

In the back of my mind, my journals, my notebooks, my stacks of folded sheets bearing out the evolution of my handwriting; my voice on pulp and parchment, sit in an attic in the future.  Slanted ceilings barely finished while late afternoon light pours into a single window, setting dust motes on fire and faceless twentysomethings open a wooden box to the contents here mentioned.

Today as I wrote, it was a girl.  My girl.  And I wondered, why do I write things down for a daughter I almost surely won’t have?


***wherein I nerd the fuck out and meticulously rate, review and catalogue every book I read in a fancy Moleskine leatherbound created for that exact purpose.  I am seriously THAT GIRL, so yeah, Old Highschool Classmates: I never grew out of it.  Bet you’re totally surprised.


One thought on “Stretch

  1. I can’t answer for you, of course, but if I had to guess I’d say that you write because it’s in you and you have for almost ever. And because writing solidifies things.

    What I miss when you haven’t written in a while is this particular Yawps blend of elegy and fire, whether it’s muted or loud. It’s nice to see it again. Also, that glorified secretary should have a stiletto shoved up her butt.

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