I open this without knowing what I'll write tonight. Everything is in motion, it feels like. Our house, the furniture moving through it like insubstantial chimeras, toys piled in the living room one day, reconfigured in a child's room the next. Dan is home, working so hard on making this house pleasant, an inviting environment for us and for those shadow figures who may come after, he's home and then he's not, he's back at work, back there, back in that other life we live nine months of the year, him there and me here with Damian, driving Damian across town every single weekday, the drive and the therapies grinding me down over the past three and a half years, like glass hardening in fire. But this too, over. One more week. No more therapeutic preschool. A pause and then turn the page, a new chapter. Anew. And me? Who am I? What am I? Writer? Photographer? Where does my future lie? Can it be both? Who am I when I'm not bleached, transparent from the constant wearying struggle to stay in motion?
I end this not knowing exactly what I've written and perhaps it's best that way. Not knowing is a kind of knowing, the way a blind person can sometimes sense the shape of a room she's never seen.Posted by Tamar at August 7, 2004 11:59 PM