Ever since I stopped seven day shift work and returned to a Monday to Friday working week, Saturdays have tended to be the most frustrating day of the week for me; I have been torn between the impulse to relax, unwind, chill, do nothing, and the desire to contemplate, and create (through writing, photography or video). Let alone the necessity to attend to domestic maintenance chores. My spouse has accused me of complaining, and she has a valid point of view, I can’t argue that. I can well imagine how frustrating it must be to be married to me, because I can’t escape myself either.
a small victory
Yesterday morning I made the decision to leave the computer turned off. So my day started with me sitting on the couch, cuddling and playing with my three year old (Littlest Miss H), my most loyal buddy. And I was still there when her sister, who is always the last in our house to wake, joined us.
I made breakfast for the girls, and sat with them while they ate. Then I vacuumed the house and cleaned the bathroom too. These are small victories, to be sure, and if you’re new to this blog, you may wonder why I celebrate them so. But for me they are very significant, given my not so distant history.
Later in the morning we took the girls to a birthday party together, and as Mrs H and I drove off for a couple of hours alone together shopping, I spied a photo op, and backed up the car, excused myself and snapped a couple of images on the iPhone. Compromise made, no complaints.
I made it through the afternoon without turning the computer on, and even had a catnap on the couch, while the girls played their game of “Sharon and Karen”. Sure, I’ll admit there was a little complaining, when I lamented my lack of opportunity for the clarity of mind to read my library book, and/or draft that imminent mini-essay about Michael Mann’s Heat. But I made it through the afternoon en famille.
In the evening, Mrs H and I had some time alone again, when our neighbour came to mind the girls, and we headed down to Lygon St for dinner. When we found Papa Gino’s had a line thirty or so people strong out the door, we explored other options, and ended up at Tiamo 2, where we found ourselves a space alone at the rooftop terrace.
We enjoyed our meal and the chance to talk about our goals together for the year – my aims at work, and my home maintenance tasks of repainting our picket fence, finally fitting a front deck, and finishing a feature wall in the backyard. Small goals, future small victories, but steps forward. And just as I reflect on my inner journey onward and upward, for once Mrs H shared an optimism, which I celebrated. The past was not and is not about to repeat itself. She could remember how I was this time last year – and she recounted the specifics of a scene which I cannot even recall, but do not doubt its veracity. (There’s that word again. I am a fan of it, along with authenticity. What, you noticed?)
I was taking notes on the iPhone, sitting in an armchair at Borders after dinner, while Mrs H browsed, and amid all the colour and the words and the books, books, books, even though I found the “writing for publication” section, and leafed through a couple of books, imagining one of them might help me pursue my dream, or direct me closer to publication, I resisted. And it’s not just because I have forced myself to stop any impulse buying (oh, how many times have I justified book purchases with claims that this book would be the one, the one key to unlock the mystery of my long-simmering story untold – too many times), when suddenly –
– BLACK OUT –
“Ohhh,” a mature age lady says, as if it’s a personal affront. No announcement comes on – “I can’t make a page”, I hear on a walkie talkie as employees move about in the dark – and it’s very quiet. There’s no panic.
I complete my thought: I know all I need is time and discipline. The rest I possess. I don’t mean that I can’t learn from reading more, but I know I possess enough to make a stab of it, to get a first draft out. I just need to make the time.
When the power hadn’t returned after twenty minutes or so, we left the store and passed the dozens of cinemagoers who had been forced out of their viewing at Cinema Nova. Around the corner, Brunetti’s had not lost power, and we found our favourite seats, at the window. And over a long macchiato and shared vanilla panzerotti, my good Saturday drew to an end.
