It’s a constant, the to and fro between certainty and uncertainty, knowing and not knowing, strength and weakness. A constant adjusting of ideas, behaviour and endurance. Often it is down to tiredness, lack of resistance and fear. Certainty is rarely with me these days. Perhaps it has never been. I’ve always seen both sides. I am biddable, like a tree in the wind or a feather carried where it may. (There is a feather on my bedroom floor and however often I pick it up and put it in my dressing gown pocket it is returns to the same place as before.) And I am all too easily intimidated by what I see to be other people’s talents. I cannot match her in story or drama, but that doesn’t mean my story shouldn’t be told. Isn’t worthy of being done.
You don’t know what it is going to be yet, he says, with never a trace of frustration, even though we return to this time and time again. And he is right I don’t. I don’t know what it is going to be, if anything. I just need to write it. To see it through. Even through the turgid times like now when nothing is coming easily. Where every word is weighed.
Two last minute sessions yesterday which meant I didn’t finish what I’d intended. Frustrating though it is I must and do acquiesce. It is a necessary source of money and not a difficult job by any means. I am grateful. And I can read. Which I do, exhaustively.
A breezy morning. The sea was alive. It is exciting when it is like that. I could hear it from North Road. He is just gone out now in his big coat with its ‘lid’. No day off in sight. Not yet. And how I long to sprawl on that sofa. Though tea isn’t the same since turning wholly vegan. The taste isn’t right. Coffee meanwhile is better. I yield. I accept. And I am thankful for all things.
Meanwhile, I await the phone call.