7:23 PM
The child screams through the monitor and we
are all awoken. She likes to wake up with flare. Every.
Single. Morning. I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s like her mama. We wear
our emotions on our sleeves. She’ll probably suck at poker for the reasons I
do. That isn’t to say I haven’t taken money from seasoned players now and then.
I let my daughter see that I’m holding
aces. She needs to understand what will win the pot.
Poker
stains the walls like cigar smoke
The
stench of old jokes and mind games
Counted cards and folded friends
10:40 AM
Between cleaning and figuring out lunch, I
think about the prolific Isabel Allende.
If only I had ten hours a day to write, rather than two. It’s too bad
for my book I like to keep a tidy house. Someday. And someday I won’t have a
cute toddler to spend my day with. Such
is life.
Time
is the sky wearing a purple dress
Calling the moon her lover
Noon
I am reminded of how eating with my father was
often difficult. At times even the best of meals turned bitter in my mouth
having to see him sitting at the head of the table. Only my brother was allowed
to sit to his right.
My
father was a rock.
At
times I stood behind him,
Hidden
from the beating of the waves.
But
often,
When
salt stung my eyes, and the current shoved me into him until I bruised,
I
wondered why
We
didn’t just go on land.
2:15 PM
The brain fog hits. I’ve never been punched in
the head but I think that this is what it must feel like. I brace myself for
the storm that arrives on schedule and am comforted by the fact that it will
coma as surely as it will go. It only
lasts for a couple of hours, but during that time it’s like I’m floundering in
gloom. God… will my brain ever heal from those awful pills I reacted to?
Doctors are the new drug dealer, getting paid on the side to pedal goods they
barely understand.
It’s not on his Wikipedia page but it was all
over the news when he died. Chris Cornell had a similar reaction and he didn’t
make it, so I feel like one of the lucky ones.
And whether or not this gets better, I’ve decided to live my life full
of gratitude. Writing my novel has been a huge help for my psyche, somewhere to
go when I need to get away.
I also remind myself that I have gleaned so
much wisdom and understanding regarding human suffering and what it means to
overcome withdrawl, (albeit without the pleasure of doing the hard drugs),
which may become a priceless resource for my writing. Haikus often reflect on Buddist zen. Sometimes
I write one to remind myself to relax.
The
dog sniffs his bone
Starlings swarm in a
pink breeze
There
is only now
2:15-3:45 PM
I am engulfed in a merciless, mental murk. I
tell myself that it’s much better than it used to be, and it will only improve.
I focus on the first time that I felt sunlight on my face and it didn’t hurt my
brain. It was one of the happiest moments of my life.
Darkness
is
Understanding
light.
3:45 PM
I don’t notice that the fog is lifting but
suddenly my mind starts wandering and I come up with what one of the characters
in my Harlem story will say to the other. I’ve been struggling to put the right
words in his mouth and I think I’ve finally got it. First draft got it, not final draft got it, but it’s still exciting to have
figured out the gist of it. Writing is like putting together a puzzle, fitting
the right pieces into the right slots, all while riding a rollercoaster. I grab for a pen and paper, maybe the kid will
let me do a bit of writing before demanding I pull out the playdough. I am reminded of some Yakuza poetry I read a
long while ago.
Crisp
autumn Tuesday
He
fits neatly in the trunk
Bright
red Camaro
3:45 – 5:15 PM
Blue seals barking and pink hydras dancing. I
love my kid. And surprisingly, playdough.
In
fifty years
You
won’t remember
That
we sat and played
But
your heart
Will
not have forgotten
5:30 PM
I steal a minute or two before Joe comes home
and do a bit of automatic writing. This is what came out of my mind today. I
ruminate on the idea that our several “minds” fight with each other and the
outcome is what we call consciousness. I think I’ve got characters in
there. Yellow fog and yellow smoke and window panes
seem to make their way into my automatic poems a lot. The women come and go, and there’s the pot,
boiling over. My best line from today’s automatic experiment:
My
mind is the landscape where every horse I’ve ever seen lives
6:30 PM
Dinner. I have a husband who thankfully doesn’t
mind hearing about the intricacies of writing a sex scene, and how sex in
literature is political. The actions you describe serve to inform the
relationship, there are matters of consent, there are issues of keeping it
tasteful but interesting, and it goes without saying that the female must have
a voice in it all. In my book there is an interracial/intersexual sex scene so
there’s that too. Tone became supreme in that case.
The writing can’t be mechanical but you have to
give the reader something to go off of. Writing sex scenes is almost exactly
like writing battle scenes, you give the reader enough information to know what
is going on in general but leave the details to their imaginations, for the
most part. It is more important to focus on what the characters are feeling,
and how the action impacts the plot and character development. I love writing battle scenes. They can be
sexy too.
7:45 PM
My friend had her baby! All I could tell her
before she went into labor was that parenthood is the brightest heights of joy
mixed with the darkest depths of fear. Joy for seeing the face of generations
in front of you, joy for the look in their eyes the first time they appreciate
a sunset or the moon rising, fear for the challenges that the little being you
just brought into life will inevitably go through.
I almost send her a text talking about my
character Isa and how she was part of a difficult birth as well, but now is not
the time.
9:03 pm
The first thing I do once my daughter is down
and my husband is watching his sports is open up YouTube and look for either Lazaretto by Jack White, Do I Wanna Know by Arctic Monkeys or anything
by Interpol. Tonight I’ve decided to listen to a playlist starting with Evil by Interpol. Being pleasantly
unsettled by dark guitar riffs is imperative to my writing process, it’s like
sinking in to the embrace of an old friend. It keeps everything in me awake. Maybe this is why my writing gets really dark
sometimes.
The second thing I do is crack open the
Saskatoon Berry ice cream of glory. We got it on the weekend on our visit to
the Saskatoon Farm. If you have small kids and you haven’t been there, you’d
probably like it. They have a chef in their Mexican restaurant named Chino.
That’s how I knew the place was legit.
It’s a nickname that gets used all the time in Latin America.
10:45 pm
I crack open “Midnight’s Children”, one of the
books I’m currently reading. I get through as much of it as I can given how
tired I am, because as anyone who has read Rushdie knows, reading his work is
like watching a dramatic fireworks display unfold on every page. His work is gorgeous, but I find reading it on
the demanding side. I’ve got a chronological glossary of obscure or foreign
words he uses in the book open on my computer which I refer to at least once
every page or two. His brilliance is dazzling.
11:30 pm
I stayed up way too late again. I’m going to
regret this in the morning, like I always do, and then do it again tomorrow
night, because until this book is done I really have no options and refuse to
rest like normal people do.
11:35 pm
Lights off.
11:45 pm
Goddamm it, that’s what exactly what needs to
happen with Udal and Saumya! I fumble around in the dark for my phone and type
notes. Fuck, now I’m awake again. Ah well. It was worth it.
11:55 pm
Lights off. This time for good.
Eva
Gonzalez calls Calgary, Alberta home. She has had
poetry published in Filling Station
Magazine and NoD Magazine. After
receiving an English BA from the University of Calgary she started working on
her debut novel, due out sometime in 2019. Also, she once defended experimental poetry as
being poetry at a public trial once in downtown Calgary.
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