I have just realised why I can't write anything creative at the moment. It's because my soul is depressed and weighed down. My thoughts, instead of soaring in space, are wearing concrete wellies. I may as well be at the bottom of the Thames, looking at the world through muddy water.
I was deep in Writing Magazine just now,drinking a mug of Earl Grey and munching a piece of my slightly singed cherry cake, searching for inspiration amongst the magazine's pages when all of a sudden Mr G clumped in with, "What are we having for dinner then?" Having just had tea and cake, I was replete and didn't want to think of more food, but he got ratty. Usually he just gets on with cooking something (as it's his house) and asks me if I fancy any. If he wishes me to cook, he needs to tell me earlier in the day. I often offer to cook, but he is much better at it than me, and usually doesn't like the way I cook or the meals I produce. For example, I like to throw fruit in a curry, and I love using root vegetables, which he hates, so, to keep the peace, I let him get on with it. After his strokes, I did all the cooking for a few day, then he insisted on taking over because he needed to. He wouldn't give up, even if he dropped stuff on the floor a hundred times. He is brilliant, I admire him immensely, but he is very difficult to live with and our food tastes hardly coincide at all.
There was nothing in my fridge and I hadn't a clue what was in his (yes, we have separate fridges because I can't cram my fruit and salad on top of his bacon and pies) so I answered vaguely, "I don't know, I'm not hungry at the moment" - because I can't decide on a meal when I'm feeling full. A few cross words ensued and he threw down the spuds and got out the frying pan, snorting "I'll sort myself out. I can't wait for you." Well, I wouldn't expect him to. He can eat when he damn well likes!
He goes to bed two hours before I do, gets up at least two hours earlier and his appetite is set to different times. He likes dinner at 6 pm, I like it between 8 and 8.30. And when I'm trying to think creative thoughts, I need to be left alone. I don't ask for much, just for some space. Now, I'm back in the freezing attic again, contemplating washing my hair and catching a chill - though that won't be as bad as the chill downstairs in the kitchen.
The unpleasant interruption has killed the tiny little ideas that were trying to germinate, like a sudden hard frost would wither seedlings. If only I could find my own place to live. Then we might get on better as I wouldn't feel like a permanent house guest. Perhaps my weighed-down soul would be able to shake off its concrete boots and learn how to fly again.
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4 comments:
I know exactly how you feel re not being able to write. I also share some of your differences from your partner. Mine likes different food and at earlier times, and goes to bed hours earlier than I do, but he is not normally unreasonable like Mr.G. seems to be.
I really do think you need to chip the concrete off your soul and haave courage to get a place of your own again. You always seem to find a 'reason' not to do so, even when you find a place you like. For instance, that last place you backed out of buying, you could have camped out there to supervise the builders. Not trying to be horrible, just trying to jolt you out of the fear you've become entrenched in. xxx
I couldn't encamp with no heating or water! Not till the rewiring and replumbing had been done. But I have to work, too, and with no broadband or electricity (till it's all sorted), I couldn't have done my editing. Still I'm off to see some more places this week.
Good luck with the house/flat hunting.
I'm with Jacula.
You need to be jolted.
*hands you a jackhammer for your cemented soul*
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