03.04.2003 - 12:45 p.m.

This is me not writing.

This is me not writing for a week, for seven days of snow and rain and ice all over the streets. Seven days of knitting afghan squares until my hands are calloused where I push the needle back through the new stitch, where the yarn scrapes the skin between thumb and forefinger. Twenty-three square feet to finish before May and the wedding. Eight hours per square. The world does not contain enough movies to watch while I do this. I hate that I can�t think through the TV but I watch it anyway and do not write, not even in my head.

This is me in moonlight, not thinking enough about the difference between day and night, between wants and wishes, between me now, and me tomorrow if. Not sleeping where I pay rent.

This is me driving, and wondering at that quality of truth that keeps sliding out from under your fingertips unless someone tells you you�re wrong. It�s funny that I have to test my beliefs so much more when nobody else questions them. As if I can only be certain when someone else is kind enough to provide the doubt. Although I suppose instead, it could be my stubborn streak that provides certain types of clarity.

This is me counting the change in my coat pocket as I shift in my chair, me thinking of last Tuesday�s kiss on the hand at the bar, me behind this stranger's new smile.

This is me, still trained not to talk about appetite. What I learn once, I learn well.

This is me, with nothing to say about seven days.

-stonebridge

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