The more I remember my melancholy imaginings of what this Chicago winter would be like, the sillier it seems. Ok, so I imagined it would be this poetic misery, me sitting alone in a cozy apartment, huddled over a laptop with a glass of wine with enough memories to pretend to be an old geezer writing her memoirs.
Except the problem is this: to get to the poetic, the sweet nostalgic poetic, you have to get past the misery. And the misery my friends, the frigidity that covers the Chicago streets and penetrates the soul, is awfully hard to get past. You have to cross a frozen Styx to get to a place where you can have enough hope to express yourself.
Misery. Misery. Misery.
Except the problem is this: to get to the poetic, the sweet nostalgic poetic, you have to get past the misery. And the misery my friends, the frigidity that covers the Chicago streets and penetrates the soul, is awfully hard to get past. You have to cross a frozen Styx to get to a place where you can have enough hope to express yourself.
Misery. Misery. Misery.
1 comment:
At the clinic where I'm working right now, they're very into Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. I'm not sure what I think about the whole package, but I'll admit one part of it has been very helpful for dissertation writing. That is: if you wait to get over or past the misery to do what you want to do, you'll burn a lot of daylight. What if you invite the misery to sit down beside you, pour it a glass of wine, and then get started with your writing? I admit to a couple of times where I've actually said out loud: "hey, anxiety, whassup? I'm going to the coffeeshop to write if you wanna come with."
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