Listing slightly but keeping on, nonetheless

To survive these amorphous days, I make lists. Lots of lists. I have a notebook for lists. But then I lose it and I use other notebooks. There are books everywhere. With different lists. What to do today. What to do at work. What to do after I come back. What to prepare for tomorrow. What stories I need to write. What I need to follow up on. Who to send questions to. For the dogs, their food, their walks, their weekly bath.

List upon list upon list. I cling to them and attempt to tick off the items, one by one. Done.

An easing of tension?

A clearing of pain?

And the lists are there to help me survive today. Because when I don't have a list to cling to, when I don't have a list to refer to, I just sit there, staring into space, allowing time to burgeon into this great big nothing, this great big cloud, I can't see in it, I can't see through it...and nothing gets done. Time, it is a-wasting. And then the guilt pours in. And I think, maybe tomorrow, maybe tomorrow...and tomorrow comes and I still haven't done a damn thing.

So enough. No more unstructured time, no more, not knowing how many minutes it takes to walk to the dogs, how many minutes it takes me to write morning pages, how many minutes it takes me to drive to work (with traffic jam and without), how many minutes it takes me if I park downstairs or if I park outside, how many minutes it takes me if I don't defrost the dogs' food the day before, how many minutes it takes me, if I start reading Gift of Rain in the morning and get carried away.

I actually record the time now.

I actually record it in a little book so I know.

I actually go back and check it and see if there is some way I can cut down on time doing this or that.

I actually try to figure out what the fastest way is to write a story.

I actually write out charts for the stories - what do I want to say, what are people supposed to get from reading this.

I move and I move and I move and I move.

Because if I stop, well, I stop indefinitely.

And I sit down and stare into space and time gathers itself in and spreads out on my shoulders and my lap and around me like a hug that never comes. And I breathe or forget to and thoughts dart in and out, gathering no moss, hurting sometimes, leaving no trace other times, like footprints in water.

And so I make lists.

And tomorrow, I won't be here because I'm going to catch a plane first thing in the morning. Part of me is looking forward to it. It will be so nice to see TK again.

And part of me feels that it is all one. Nothing to look forward to. Because if you look forward to something, you will be disappointed. And everything tastes as bland as reheated soup.

Every heart that is breaking tonight
is the heart of a child...