I've been doing the worst kind of writing today: plunging back into a project I've let languish, and the pains they are intense, like working out after the holidays, which incidentally I also should do.
Realism is hard. Let's go shopping.
So I sit in my now-immaculate bedroom, the room I always wanted, a deep rich red with a ridiculously luxurious, ornate bed, a plush red chair at a wee Austenesque writing desk, and do little of anything.
There is a necklace at a little shop down in Coventry called Recovery. I keep meaning to go buy it, since that's kind of my hope for 2008. Just to recover, just to figure out who I am again, just to learn how to live on my own, without the unbroken chain of my old life to keep me dancing, just to be a little bit happy. But, tellingly, I never seem to get around to it. January, in my internal palette, has always been pale, cold golden--in California there is this lemon-colored sky that springs up in January like a crocus, and I used to love that. It was snowing through the sun today here, and the light was the same color. December is dark blue, January is gold. There is a foot of snow on the ground.
I'm at sea in my own life right now. The waves seem very high. I need mariner-craft, I need a seaworthy vessel. I need shore in sight.
I suppose a red bedroom and Rock Band will have to do for now.