My belly aches from the leftover pasta I had for “lunch” a little bit ago. My back aches from the way I hunch on the sofa over my MacBook. My Girl works on the Beethoven (the Pathetique, Op. 13). I read through my NaNo from November, which isn’t nearly as awful as I remember (the teen characters are well drawn, at least), then switch over and try to write MFA application essays. (I fail.) Pickles’ (the cat's) ear twitches; he shakes his head and stands up to walk in that incessant circle that redistributes him on the sofa.
I love listening to the Girl work through a difficult piece of music even if she’s messing up parts of it right now. Who cares? The attempt makes her smarter. "I'm just going to keep playing this bit until I get it," she says.
I feel better today, more open and “lyrical,” probably from hearing all the music spilling from my daughter's fingers, her laptop, her throat.
My head is in the "wrong" place still. I’ve lost myself. I want to be in school by this summer, but I can’t make myself do the work to apply. How will I manage to do the work to get through a program if I can’t do the work to apply?
Well, here’s an interesting truth. I am doing the work to apply. It’s just taking me along some kind of hazardous and circuitous routes that I don’t recognize.
What I really don’t recognize is myself.