I dreamed of an infant in the back seat of my car. I would see her and think "Oh---I must take take care of that baby!" Upon arrival at my destination, I'd get swept up in the usual whirlwind of activity and forget. When next I heard her cry, I'd be overcome with remorse and promise myself to do better, then promptly forget about her when I reached my destination and got sucked into what the people there needed/expected from me.
The baby's name was Lorraine (the name of a cousin who died of SIDSs when I was 10). After days of this, I got into the car and realized Lorraine was near death--dehydrated, emaciated, nearly catatonic. My greatest concern then was how to get medical help without letting anyone know I'd forgotten her for so long. I wasn't afraid of being prosecuted--I was concerned about what people would think of me.
Lately, I've been working too much and at the wrong things. I edit furiously, 12 to 14 hours a day, and do the best possible job I can. I want to earn a full-time, permanent job with this client. From time to time, I think of my stories, the ones inside, longing to get out. Sense memories, the feeling of the act of writing arises and drifts away like a runner's breath on a cold morning.
And can we talk about my obsession with what others thing?
Know what I've been doing in my "free" time? Power washing and sealing my decks. I'm hosting a shower for Evan and Kristen a week from Saturday, and I've been obsessing over every inch of the house, including the decks and arbor. Three days in a row I edited from 7:00 am to noon, worked on the deck from noon to 7:00 or 8:00 pm, then edited until 2:00 am or later.
All this so no one looks at my decks and thinks I could use some help now and then.
What part of me is the baby in the back seat, slowing starving to death?