Interiority

Acknowledging an unofficial hiatus

My attention skitters across the world as if it’s made of glass, like glare on a museum diorama. I try to engage, but all I see is my own reflection in disarray, superimposed on a frozen scene. Everything is stillness, and impenetrable. Perspective shifts in these moments; perhaps I am within the enclosure, looking out. I cannot say.

I suppose I should apologize for the lack of recent posting. I could offer any number of excuses. This is my first instinct - ameliorate, explain, promise to do better next time. None of it means anything really, after this many rounds of the routine. All I know is that I don’t feel like writing right now, or performing for an outside audience. I rarely even feel like reading incoming texts these days, nevermind answering them.

What do I have to say for myself then? What caused this sudden shift of desire, this intense need for privacy and aimless focus? What have I been doing with myself, during this period of abrupt silence?

The Vancouver Island Trail was not what I needed. There’s one linear causal narrative for you, and it’s a true one. Simply put, the trail sucked. It was not what I had expected, and I had barely wanted to go hiking at all. I convinced myself that I would enjoy a “simple”, “easy” trail after the GDT. It was not that. It was much less developed than the website would have you think, and took us almost twice as long as we had expected. I spent the latter two weeks of trail just wanting to go home, but not badly enough to quit so close to the end. We had “one week left on trail” for a solid two-and-a-half weeks, and the sections kept being longer than they were supposed to, due to miscounted mileage and bad weather. My body hadn’t recovered from the last trail, and I was completely out of patience for difficult hiking of any kind. I didn’t enjoy much of it, and when I got home, the last thing I wanted to do was write it up.

Here’s another true story: coming home from a trail brings with it a kind of wakeful dreaming. You wander through your home, unfocused and content, trailing your fingers across the edges of objects and wondering why you’ve acquired so many things. Nothing seems urgent or pressing. I find in myself a complete absence of desire, an inability to summon activity or industry. Usually this peaceful boredom lasts a week or two. This time it has lasted almost a month - extended, I think, by the conditions of the pandemic and the anniversary of grief. I don’t have to go to work, and I don’t want to. I don’t have anything I have to do, and so I do… nothing. I’ve occupied myself with the late-twenties desire to nest, to perfect the aesthetics and textures of the space in which I spend my time. I bought a new carpet on clearance, and bookmarked a tutorial on fabric dyeing techniques. I’ve done load after load of laundry, rescuing the last of my clothing from the van, whose roof has sprung a leak. I make a lot of plans to do things, and then make sketches and moodboards of those plans. I continuously refine my vision and estimate costs of materials. I do not start anything. I can’t seem to make decisions. I write on whatever paper is handy, reluctant to commit even to something as inconsequential as a new notebook.

A third version: I’m afraid. After so much time spent inside myself, the world scares me. I can barely check my email, for fear of being scolded by my insurace agent. He’s rightly annoyed that I have yet to schedule a mandatory inspection. Even after I take the plunge and call the fireplace company, after they have signed off and given me an official piece of paper, my fear of reprimand keeps me from sending it in a timely manner. I finally open my email by accident one day and find the dreaded sharp-toned missive waiting in my inbox. I send the report, ten days after its completion, and retreat to my bed for the rest of the day. I could have avoided this if I had gotten over my shame months ago, but instead I flinched away from the overdue obligation and made everything worse for myself, a self-fulfilling prophecy. My anxiety over people being mad at me has created the condition of someone being justifiably angry. Constantine asks what I’d like to eat for dinner and the question creates a jolt of panic - I have no idea what I’d like for dinner, and now an answer is expected of me. I can’t handle the pressure. I tell him I don’t care, whatever is convenient for him, and he presses, trying to be especially nice by catering to me. I put my head under the covers and tell him I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t want anything, leave me alone. All I want is to read my book, where it’s nice and safe and I won’t disappoint anyone. My phone chimes - my mother wants to know if I found the carpet I was looking for. I know how to close the loop on this conversation, but typing a reply seems so intimidating. I guiltily put my phone on silent and go back to my novel. I try not to think about the dirty dishes, or my unread messages, or the writing that’s overdue. I need to think of another book to read when this one is over. I try to read slowly.

A fourth variation: Why does anyone care about what I have to say, when the world is ending? Talking about my adventures would just be in poor taste. Nearly a million people have died of disease, and hurricanes wrack the east coast of the continent. Smoke from catastrophic fires to the south have smeared my sun into a reddish-bronze oval, forcing me to close my windows and stay indoors. The arctic is melting, and the US looks more and more fascist by the day. It’s a bad year for hiking. It’s a bad year for everything else too. Who doesn’t want to hide, given all this? I tell myself this to stop feeling bad about being quiet. Being quiet seems like the most polite choice available. I put on a mask and go buy my groceries for the week, then stop at the liquor store. We make popcorn and pour drinks and watch a movie. What else are we supposed to do? I think, as I close the blank document on my laptop and switch to YouTube.

Number five: The clinic where my doctor works closed permanently, and I missed the deadline for transferring my files. I was on trail when it happened, and I didn’t see the email until it was too late. I call the clinic two towns away where he’s moved to, but he’s on vacation and the other doctors won’t prescribe my controlled medication over the phone. I take the remnants of an old script, one I discontinued because it wrecked my sleep. Predictably, it wrecks my sleep, and when I get back on my regular meds I have the opposite problem. I sleep for most of two days, and the disrupted schedule brings out bad side effects. I spend a week trying to find my equilibrium. I know there’s something I’m supposed to be doing, but I can’t remember what it is. When I find myself back on solid ground, all I want to do is rest. So I do. I don’t feel guilty about not writing. I resolve send an update, so I can take a hiatus without anybody worrying, and then let myself relax without feeling badly.

Six: I’m sorry. I should have told you sooner, but I didn’t want to admit that I was feeling burned out for no good reason. I do feel pretty tapped-out creatively, and I don’t seem to have much physical energy either. I know I should have said something before, but I felt bad, and I was going through something. Anyway, I’m taking a vacation so I can figure stuff out, stuff like finishing moving into my new house and deciding when I need to go back to work. I’ll be coming back though, don’t worry. Stay subscribed so you know when I publish something again. Probably it’ll be pretty soon, but I don’t know when I’ll feel excited about writing publicly again, and I don’t want to force myself to do it before I’m ready. I hope you’re doing ok. We’re doing fine. Take care,

-Magpie