They talk about neolithic agriculture on the radio. “Caribou or reindeer are strictly arctic.” Neanderthals buried their dead in caves. In the background the Globe and Mail is refreshing every 120 seconds. I learn about the Blue Jays in slices, crumb by crumb. Lisa will be home soon. A city squirrel is a neurotic, anxious creature, forced into close contact with many species of animal (humans, cars) that might otherwise present some danger to it. It pauses at the top of a gigantic black garbage can. Looks at me.
“What are you doing?”
“Nothing, I don’t have a problem with you.”
“Do you have a problem with me?”
“No, I don’t have a problem with you.”
The squirrel darts up the tree. Chits something to his neighbour.
“I think he had a problem with me.”
I keep thinking about ‘opening the floodgates’. Some days it is has been hard to write. If I am honest with myself I will say these days have gone slowly because I avoided it for other things, or because of despair. Instead of attacking the problem directly, if I feel that I don’t have the time to do that, I will despair. It’s a useless and debilitating reflex. I have many things to write. In order to write them I have to turn my brain into a monastery. At least when I am alone. I work best if, when I am alone, I turn my brain into a monastery. Internet, you have done me no wrong but I don’t like you.
I’m surprised that I’m able to concentrate while the radio is on. I am not really concentrating.
When Lisa comes home I will look at her like I am a squirrel. There will be a lightness in my head that will pull me away from our conversation. If the computer is still on my head will feel like throbbing magnets. At least I can say that I did this.