a winter state of being
lwh
where all traction is lost but
the wonder is unending
Category: Letters Home
“I never could get the hang of Thursday”
Arthur Dent
Thursday is easy. It is preceded by Wednesday and followed by Friday.
Wednesday is the pivot point of the week. The day of looking forward to the work I have to do and looking back to see how much of my to-do list I have accomplished. Wednesday is that rising feeling that I won’t get it all done.
Thursday is the day of defeat. Wednesday’s rising sense of doom settles in with a detailed list of those things that will not get done.
Friday is just “do the best you can.”
Monday is, of course, the day of hopeful optimism. The day of finding all the Things and putting them onto a tidy to-do list and knocking off the first one
But Tuesday — what the hell is Tuesday? Tuesday is the day of shifting priorities as everyone else’s Monday to-do list collides with yours (confusion, anxiety.) It can be a day of ticking the boxes on the to-do list (pride.) A day of plugging along on some big project (variously: accomplishment, boredom, or utter panic.) Or, it can be a day of waiting for the inputs and replies (boredom and fidgety nothingness.)
I never know what sort of day Tuesday is going to be. How can I anticipate my (emotional) mind set on a day with so many variables?
No, I never could get the hang of Tuesday.
Which probably says more about my need for emotional predictability than it does about Tuesday.
Dearest ones,
I went to a lecture last week. Ilya Kaminsky, a famous Ukrainian poet, began by asking “How is life on this shiny planet?” I did not know how to answer him. He taped pictures by Diego Rivera to the wall and read from Calvino’s Invisible Cities. He spoke of how our work is always in conversation with others and pointed to two of my favorite artists. I was, all at the same time, utterly chuffed and in complete despair. And I wondered how am I ever going to find myself in the middle of that conversation? I remain a child standing at the edge of the room watching the adults play word games in a language that I am just learning.
Later that afternoon while driving down the hill to town I was overcome by a deep wave of homesickness.
Do you remember the empty lot in downtown? The one that is so deep? There is an apple tree down there. Filled with little green apples — green apples that are about to ripen, many have red shoulders already. Somehow this does not seem hopeful to me. I must be deranged in some way.
Between all that and the disappointing lemon cake… well you can imagine my state of mind.
Yrs affectionately, L
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