The Light Is Still On

And so, how the hell are ya?

As for me, I didn’t intend to go on a blogging break, but I s’pose that’s what happened.

Thanks to everytwo who checked in.

Towards the end of last year, like everyone, I was close to burnout levels. I wanted to write my year-in-review, but I already knew the comments:

Thanks for sharing.

I appreciate you.

Go, Isla!

And I s’pose after ten years, I want a writing space that’s useful to you, worth it for me, and not an echo-chamber.

This was my most popular post last year, in case anyone’s taking bets.

And I was doing the same as everyone else. Getting through the days, homeschooling a kid who eventually got bored with my teaching skills.

‘Am I a good teacher?’

‘Well, you haven’t been trained.’

Like everyone else, bingeing on snacks and shows and hope. Missing my friends. Needing a teleporter. That last one, for real.

I think sleep is over-rated, would rather be doing, or out, or anything.

I love dreaming, but last year, I had the same dream every night.

Going somewhere, pushing myself along a street, uphill, lined with shut shops. Found a building, but none I ever lived in. There’s a lift with one of those accordion shutters that won’t shut. And so I’m stuck, every night.

I would get up from the dream every morning. Sing learning songs with the kid. My book notes are coffee-ringed and sticky with ice-lolly sugar. Sealed like an envelope. I couldn’t reach a pen.

There’s an extension, and then another. I’m nearly 40, and our house is still on the market. Our house that would have been really good to have lock-down in. With my giant bed, all my books, my roll-in shower, and no storage fees.

I could stay up and find some words, but there’s TV. I like to watch creative people competing.

‘Am I as good as that?’ I ask. This is my husband, I sleep with him, so he’s supposed to say, ‘Yes, better.’

We’ve been in the city for a year. This old home with old friends we’ve seen once or not at all. I try to talk over the TV, through a mask, sometimes. Those times are few because out is less often. My mask is a political statement. Yes, really.

‘Am I a good mother?’ I ask my kid. I know we shouldn’t, but I do. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘The only one for me.’

My mother gets sick, then sicker, then hopeful. I need a teleporter, and this is all another book.

I annoy myself and other old friends at four in the morning. I forget where I am and check my pores in the box in the corner of the screen.

I am not a cat, either.

So, I guess what I’m saying is, keep writing. People need to read it.

The light’s still on.

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Also published on Medium.