Boat on the bay, November 2008, taken from deck of my house
I find a creeping paralysis of emotions taking me. I've tried distracting myself, I saw "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button" last night. A great distraction. I assigned it an 8 out of 10. But such distractions only inhabit the mind for the time it takes to view the film.
I've a reluctance to connect with friends and family. I prefer this self-imposed isolation. I'm afraid they will see my pyschic distancing from them all. As if they are strangers in a strange land. I bide my time until the feeling passes and I am once again the person they know. Eager to see them, anticipating the solid reconnections.
For now, I resist completely unpacking my suitcases and boxes and hanging clothes in closets and decanting business documents into files. I am a gypsy with Strawbella the caravan waiting outside, tiny in her huge garage, ready for my pots and pans to be hung on the sides.
I read the two books I have on the go at the moment. I journal but only thoughts of what I'm lacking pervade the pages. I miss Newfoundland. Intensely. Deeply. I find the flurry of the city meaningless. The surrounding of the suburbs I inhabit sterile: I went to a small enclave with the dog last night to walk her in reasonable safety and could not find a sidewalk. No pedestrians allowed. No inhabitants walk anywhere. It really frightened me.
I can't make a decision, schedule appointments with clients or commit to a writing workshop with valued colleagues.
I find it hard to sleep which is very unlike me. I was up till 4.00 a.m. I awoke at 10 with a headache. I sneeze all the time.
Perhaps this is the pains of transition from a small, fresh-aired intimate outport to the miasmic pall of the city.
I sense the old black dog pacing the horizon.
Over and over I say to myself : What the f*** is wrong with you?
And
This, too, shall pass.
