Writer's Block

“Imperfection is beauty,

Madness is genius,

And it's better to be absolutely ridiculous

Than absolutely boring.

And when it comes down to it

I let them think what they want.

If they care enough to be interested

In what I do,

Then I'm already better than them.”

Marilyn Monroe

Day 1

     The temperature gauge clatters on its window mount pulling me away from a daydream. The red dial pointer shows -7 celcius.  It's the axiom to my quandary.  I should probably be outdoors; fresh air might inspire me, move me out of this deadlock.

     It's called “creative slump”, “writers block”, and it rests like a lead anchor in the think tank of my brain, where a circus act should be performing daring trapeze feats and ludicrous clown antics.

     I've spent the last twenty fruitless minutes scouring the internet searching for something thought provoking, anything worthwhile. Marilyn is the only one who spoke to me, and at this moment I can't even say why.

     Peripheral vision is an intriguing thing. My finger shadows dance in a splash of sunlight that plays on the green and yellow afghan to my right, rising and falling in awkward staccatos, then pause, and a grey mass moves upward to scratch a forehead, then back to the laptop keys.

     An artisticly-lacking woman poses on the monitor just to the left of my word processor, her belly protruding and relaxing on command, there to grab my attention and point out my own middle-age conundrum. It works.

     She appears as a sketch from a dress designers easel, blunt pencil-point lines carving out strokes, testifying to her femaleness. Her belly cannot escape notice, probably created with a number four pencil rather than the number two employed for the limbs, breasts and flowing hair strokes.

      “Get rid of Belly Fat.” She is mounted strategically atop the phrase balanced between wanting to know the secret to successful instant weight loss and forgiving herself for looking like this in the first place. “Imperfection is beauty”, I remind her. The corner of her bold upper lip curves upward and her shoulders relax. “Thank you,” she says.

     My bladder stirs, a sign I am not inclined to ignore for long. It plays embarrassing tricks at times and, even in moments of solitude, it has me prisoner to its whims. The tea bag still bobs in the blackening water on the pine table beside me and I shake my head. How many such solaces have I relinquished to distraction. Prodding a finger in, the tea is tepid at best and my nose informs me that the brew has moved beyond the brink of salvation. One thing at a time - bladder relief.

     I notice the sun pouring in through the plate glass window beckoning me to witness a Manitoba winter extravaganza. The Scotch pine hang heavy with the weight of their white burdens, like mamas bouncing their little ones on obtrusive child-bearing hips. They wind down toward the lake, which is swirling with mists of fine flakes that are set to motion in cascades of Minuets and Allemandes.

     Above it, too, the wind toys with nature, the master behind the marionette, drawing grey-white billowing tufts of cloud across an azure backdrop with comical speed. The master does not tire, calling in another line-up from stage left as the first recede behind a green curtain of tree boughs.

     Inspiration lives here, in this tiny cottage tucked purposefully on a crest overlooking one of my Province's great lakes. My intent here is twofold - relax and unwind - write. Only two hours from my home but far enough for the outer layer of household and work responsibility to be removed to the seasonal closet for a time.

     And then it returns, distraction in its finest form. I glance up toward the roof above us, to my husband, and then back to the roof. That sound; the one that awoke us at 2 a.m., 3 a.m. and again at 4 a.m. Light footsteps skittering across the rooftop with adept speed, agility and equal portions of purpose and playfulness from one end to another.

     “They're back,” I grin at him.

      In one quick bound he's pulling on boots and a sweater, headed out the door like a bounty hunter with a runaway in his sights. An insatiable need which overcomes the investigative personality, to be the first to uncover a mystery and report back to a captive audience.

     In his haste he has forgotten that the steps just outside the door are coated with a substantial glaze of icy residue. One, less than cautious, maneuver results in feet that are airborne, sharp impact with the third step and an ungraceful slide to the snowy path below. He lays at the base of the steps gathering coordinates before checking for broken bones and shattered ego.

     There is a fragile moment after such an event when it is safe to buckle over in gut-wrenching laughter and I have chosen the moment with impeccable timing. It's a handy thing I relieved my bladder just moments earlier.

     “Squirrels.” He gazes up at me matter-of-factly. He has a good view of the roof-line from down there. Marilyn comes back to me again. “Better to be absolutely ridiculous than absolutely boring.”

Day 2

     My eyes rise before the sun. “You are on vacation,” I remind them. I touch my husband's arm gently and the sugar-induced snoring ceases for the moment. I lie still, listening. Utter, perfect silence except for the occasional sigh of the wood stove as it shifts from the cooling temperature of the cottage.

     By 10 a.m. I am back on the sofa with laptop open, the clatter of hubby man-handling fried eggs in the kitchen. He is still in his birthday suit – likely will be for another few hours. He's at one with nature this way.

     “Like a deer,” he's informed me. “Or maybe more like a moose in my case.” 

     Unfortunately, it also makes him more prone to injury, the occasional expletive wafting in from the kitchen. He seems to be o.k with that though. I return my attention to the laptop in hand. My tea is steaming beside me. I am focused. A fire crackles nearby. A light snowfall beyond the warmth of the cottage walls provides a protective barrier between myself and my other life.

     “Come look at this!”

     My husband is at the dining room window now, fumbling madly for his I-Phone camera. The bird seed we placed on the deck the night before has proven fodder for an avian eco-system much more accustomed to gaping humans than we to them. Blue-jays, Chickadees and Grosbeak are squaring off for pecking order. The Grosbeak position themselves, one at each end of the square feeder, red-feathered husband on the right, yellow-feathered wife on the left preparing to give thanks for the feast.

     Fastened to a tree branch just feet away a Woodpecker readies his pointed beak for an assault on a Birch tree. Before the day is through we will have witnessed a mama deer and fawn just outside the window. They are in no hurry to get groceries, get to a recital on time, prepare a lavish dinner party or run a local committee. The little one is not languishing in front of an X-Box or begging for fast-food take-out. He follows closely in mama's sure steps, confident in the path she has chosen to meander today.

     I extract one juicy sentence from my right side grey matter, pause, and then another. Inspiration comes in short bursts blackening the page with avarice and cunning. The next pause and my vision is once again drawn to the bright morning outside of my window. It will be a good day for skiing; I can sense it.

     Memory creeps in, times past of cross-country ski trails at this very location, groomed to perfection, coursing out paths through the woods and across the lake like train tracks through infinity. Learning to navigate my newly acquired skis up hills and around corners meant a few unfortunate confrontations with trees that blocked my precarious, down-hill trek. Just getting down the hill was a feat worthy of headline news, but the bend at the bottom – who knew? Hubby awaited my arrival at the base of the tree, holding his breath for me, graciously reserving his laughter till I'd been inspected for head trauma or impalement.

     Nature talks back to you out here. One such trek across the frozen lake with my family one year ago left me awe-struck. I was half-way to our destination, a tiny island of trees. My daughter was still fighting with her equipment on the dock and the others were scattered along the trail like Chinese Checkers, mid-game. The dull crash of thunder broke my stride and I stopped, peering up at the deep blue, mid-afternoon sky. “Huh?” I checked the others for signs of assurance that I was not crazy. There it was again, coming from another direction, louder. Hubby is now within earshot.

     “What the heck is that?” I exclaim.

     He grins, always the wise one. “Ice shifts,” he shouts back smugly. “Winter thunder.”

     I look back at the others; they're undaunted and in hot pursuit of the island destination. My daughter stands riveted to the edge of the dock.

     “Let's go!” I shout to her.

     “What is that?” She echoes my concerns, her voice skipping along the ice surface like a flat stone.

     “It's only a little harmless ice shift!”

     “Forget that!” She's headed back up to the cottage, skis tucked neatly under one arm, poles under the other.

     The ice shifts again, reverberating a hostile crack through the crystally air. I scan my surroundings – there is an equal distance back to the dock behind me and to the island in front of me. My fight or flight instincts kick in. I decide to feign composure, pretend I am unruffled by the imminent opening up of solid ice under my feet and bear on toward the island. My pace is quickened. I am still unsure at this point who is the wiser, my daughter or I.

     Today's ski trek proves to be less threatening. There was no stand off between nature and myself, only the surreal connection of spirits. Along our path through the forest is the groaning tree, the Dali Lama of trees, audibly searching for life's answers as we pass by. Fresh tracks solicit our attention – Coyote? But the biggest accomplishment of my day, week, year? My descent down Snowball Hill, aptly named (by yours truly), for if you fall you'll continue the downward spiral until unrecognizable in human form, completely encased in snow. I achieved it though, on two feet/skis, bum never once grazing the ground, skis turned inward, carving into the snow for control around the bend. After a whoop and a holler, I am ready to take on the world.

Day 3

     Back on my perch on the sofa, pillows tucked around me and a strong cup of Joe in my thermos mug preventing constant trips to the kitchen for seconds and thirds. The wind outside has died down somewhat but still pokes a gentle reminder of last night's stormy gusts which had the old bones of this cottage creaking and snapping like those of a geriatric patient. It was a restless night for all of us.

     Mornings here are my favorite time of day; the time I place the fewest expectations on myself. It's a funny thing how creatures of habit and schedules, such as myself, carry with us a carpet bag of presumption and expectancy, accomplishment being pulled out from the bag here and there and set on the mantle as vestige to a successful day.

     Revelation for a new book plot still eludes me, latent somewhere in my sub-conscious. These things cannot be rushed. I have played one hundred thousand games of Solitaire over the past two days in an effort to prove to Sub-conscious that I'm unrattled by his game of hide and seek. Attention focused elsewhere, he will likely come out of hiding, bored with the game. I am cloaked in nonchalance, victory will eventually be mine. “I let it think what it wants. If it cares enough to be interested in what I do, then I am already better than it.” Thank you Marilyn.

     Breakfast today will be bacon and eggs, the second time this week, it's hubby's speciality. My choice, fresh baked biscuits and fruit.

     The bacon has arrived at the table, protectively encased in tin foil – such a laborious task to get everything onto the table hot and done to everyone's taste. My bacon will be crunchy, eaten with the fingers, shrunken to a third of its original size, salt on a stick. His: pink, flaccid and malleable – so unlike his character. The eggs will be runny - the yolks that is - slathered onto a piece of hot buttered toast, doused with green Tabasco, the same for both of us. Conversation is optional; this one is quiet, most of our words used up last night over Shiraz and popcorn, lasting way into the night.

     I wouldn't be me if I didn't close a great event in song.

     “Thanks for breakfast, dear, cause “You Did It Myyy Waaaaay!”

     He grins, scouring the folds of tin foil for absconding bacon bits.

     Doing dishes here is a dumbed-down version of back home, no fancy serving platters, the most basic of utensils, pots employed more than once for different courses due to the sheer scarcity of them. A combination of hot, soapy water and close proximity in a space of meager proportion lends itself beautifully to silliness. Rapturous renditions of Aunt Olly's "Lonely Little Petunia" or '70's prog rock take flight here confirming the suspicions of wildlife just beyond the kitchen window: the human species has not evolved as fully as they anticipated.

     Tonight, as always, we will crunch down a steep, root-addled path towards the lake, girded with layers of protective outer-wear and “Manitoba-style” slip-on-boots that nearly drag us to the bottom from the sheer weight of them. We go to gaze at the stars from a vantage point known not in Urbania.

     Maybe, if we're lucky, we'll encounter the deer of last year; the one who sneaks up from the darkened tree-line, approaches with curiosity and takes a cautious sniff of these interlopers. Like that of ET, my husband will reach out a welcoming hand and await connection with a warm muzzle and elongated tongue, extended to make sensual interpretation of this humanoid. This time, hubby will leave the glass of libation behind. The deer did not take kindly to the offer.

     Tomorrow, we will restore all of our cottagy incidentals to their respective bags and boxes, saddle them onto sleds and make the trek back to our SUV on the hill. Children await us back home with stories to tell of first days back to school after Christmas break. A business and a mountain of paper-work are calling me back; my bulging midriff reminds me that it's time to get serious about exercise class. My husband's projects lay dormant and expectant in his man-cellar back home, creatively anticipating what they will soon become.

     And somewhere in the far-reaches of 2013 a wedding is to be planned, a Disney vacation unfolded, a high-school graduation celebrated and life to roll out like Highway 66, new stuff around every curve.

     Somewhere, just somewhere in the collective chaos, another book may be written.