Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Ode to what was

There's a sippy cup on my counter, and a binky on every possible surface. I put him down for a nap a few minutes ago, and I tried to think about all the things I want to do- and the most awful feeling of longing stole through the gates of my mind like some yellowing fog.

To be on campus again, to be studying- to be addicted to the heady throbbing feeling of translation work, to have a giant cup of coffee and no other purpose than this one on front of me. To be free to be stupid (oh how I used to smoke... and oh how I miss the whole ritual) to go out clubbing or stay out at a coffeehouse for hours upon hours just writing, observing, reading. The luxurious words! The luxury of the time spent however the hell I wanted to-

To go back to the year I studied Old English, to go back to scholarly and self-indulgent pursuits.

I cannot write fiction unless I am not at home. I cannot put on headphones and zone out. I keep the monitor by me, humming anxiously, while I run around clearing up and doing laundry. I am no longer just myself, and it was easier to be more-than-me when he was so dependent.

That's it, you know. Some weird limbo of dependence and autonomy, leaving me hanging towards the open window, to smell teh breeze, but not to actually play outside...IT is the haunting possibility.

And, it seems my son no longer wants to nurse- but tha tmay be another heart-wrenching post. I bought "no more milk tea." I wanna cry, and at the same time I am exultant. To be free of trying to breast feed? Because he just won't take it during the day. If I force him, he opens his mouth and "bah-bah-bahs" against my breast. Which is stinking funny, but also frustrating. Shouldn't he want to? I just wasn't prepared to feel so selfish when my child decided to skip the boob.

Sigh. I miss coffee and schoolwork and yes, I do miss the cigarettes. I hate that I do. I hate that I want to go through the whole moment of it. It signified my secret selfish time. It was a treasured part of my day- the first one of the morning with the perfect cup of coffee.

I also used it to write. I had the worst time writing wihtout them. There just was this feeling of missing the spark. Stephen King talks about getting off of them and how he felt writing after he did. At least I know the process is the same from one writer to the next.

I am longing to be what I will never be again. I don't quite know how to deal with it, and I hate that, too.

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