By Gillie Easdon
So. I sit at my desk, inside on a glorious summer-dregs day and
my fingers rest on “asdf jkl;” like they are supposed to. I'm feeling
moderately stoic for being inside at all. Smug, even. Like I have already
accomplished something just because I am not biking down Dallas Road with my
two-string kite ogling the paragliders and kiteboarders as I envy all the dog
owners. Not to mention the buff shirtless joggers. There is lovely scenery
along this wide ocean road.
I type the word, “So”. I stare vacantly at the screen with a
gape generally reserved for elevators. I notice a smudge on the screen. I wipe
it off with my thumb. It leaves a thumb print. I go get a cloth to wipe off the
smudge and am suddenly acutely aware of how dusty my monitor is, and the
keyboard. And the desk. And the laptop adjacent. I wipe them down. I throw the
cloth in the laundry bin. The bin is nearly full. I sit down again. The word “So”
looks more like a swan looking at a bowling ball now. I rub my front teeth with
my left index finger and resume staring at the screen. I’m thirsty.
I get up and make a cup of tea. I spoon a little demerara onto
my tongue and listen to the kettle ruffle its feathers. I check my e-mail again
time today and it is 3:30 p.m.). Five new messages. A smile of
glee slashes across my face. I open hotmail. My smile spills onto the floor.
Hotmail is getting so much junk these days. Maybe Carla will invite me to
Okay. I have my tea. Fingers alight the keyboard and a delicate
right pinky lands, soundless, on the backspace button. Push. Push. Push. Blank
I should do the dishes. I rise and beeline for the kitchen... I
can't believe I have not done the dish— wait, there is only one coffee
cup, a small plate decked with salt, pepper, a little leftover yolk and a
spoon. Do the dishes later. Sit down. Would I just sit down and get to work?
Okay, okay, I’ll just sit down. As I ease my derrière into the seat I wonder if
the laundry room is free but I catch myself and yank my fingers onto the
keyboard. Sit. Stay. Stay.
So. Well. Hmm.
I don't feel like working on my book. I don't really feel like
drumming out articles. I’m still waiting to hear back from a few pitches. No,
don’t feel like doing that. But then again, I don't want to bail on my writing
for the day because then I'll feel like a loser. I wish someone would call,
even to go for coffee. I could somehow justify that. In this type of situation
it is not permissible to initiate that type of activity. I have very strict
rules of this nature.
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