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I am suffering from the worst head cold I have ever had. I want to attack it with a flame thrower, something massive and terrifying so that it is destroyed or leaves the battleground at once. Seriously. I also did not get to watch my alma mater’s first football game last night, another aggravation almost beyond endurance. That I am surviving both is small comfort, a tattered, threadbare blanket in this plane crash on Antarctica, which is exactly how I feel right now. Alone in a desolate, frozen, unforgiving, punishing landscape. Such is my existence, my only hope of survival resting in my own hands. Winds howl and swirl, and I answer, a primeval cry of simple acknowledgment. I am still here.
Of course, this imaginative metaphor is a product of being stuffed to the gills with OTC remedies, but still, the images are real, and they burn, like a small fire. Not enough warmth for my fingers and toes.
This is Labor Day weekend, the last holiday of summer, and I imagine howling winds, blowing snow, massive up surges of ice. Too much?
It has been a strange summer for me. One crisis after another, conflicts unresolved, with long-held assumptions shredded on a regular basis. It tends to send one scurrying back to the basics.
For me, the basics consist of writing, alone, wrapped in the sharp images that come to me infrequently, amazingly, trusting what I see and hear in my head. They consist of clinging to home and my partner as the only sources of safety and rest. It means shutting down everything else, boarding the windows, hunkering down. This piece of ground is the only one not shifting underneath.
The writing. A writer is a person who writes.