Extended silence or endless chatter?

Things have been pretty quiet around here.


If I could commit to whether or not to write, I would talk about how I have had a hard time finding much worth saying lately.  Well, that’s not quite true.  I have plenty to say, but most of it is whiny or excessively introspective or tirade-ish (See?  I cannot even come up with an adjective form of a synonym for tirade, which goes to show both how long it has been since I have written and how unfit I currently am for writing).

I would talk about how I spend too much time writing about writing but how it is still one of my favorite topics.

I would talk about how I feel conflicted still by the Sandy incidents, how I am not sure how I feel about going into a profession where it will be expected that I offer words of profound wisdom in the wake of sheer horror, that I wax eloquent and make meaning when perhaps no meaning is there to be made.  I watch newscasters struggle to embody at once objective articulateness, solemnity, and sadness as they speculate about weather patterns and inner psychologies and I read columns of opinion editors arguing that we should not be saying anything but instead simply remain for a while in the silence, and I listen to podcasts—even podcasts about the “most important unimportant things” and English royalty, unashamed, never pretending to tackle matters of substance, embracing their superfluous extravagance—struggle too to acknowledge and ruminate on such events.

I would talk about how we talk too much or talk without really saying anything most of the time.

I would talk about how Dan and I are becoming evermore the married couple and how that both pleases and frightens me.  Our DVD queue grows fuller with each passing day.

I would talk about how I hate to spend many hours of my day on hold and talking to machines in an effort to fix bills and broken appliances and paperwork snafus that are not my fault.

I would talk about how impatient I am when it comes to finding a job and relying upon my husband to provide for both of us, how I desperately wish I could contribute to our household in more ways than by preparing the meals and yet how homemaking has at the same time become my saving grace, what gives my days some semblance of structure and purpose and meaning.  But I do not want to be a housewife.

I would talk about how easy it is to whine about “first world problems” and how Dan and I snorted that very rejoinder to the first episode of Downton Abbey that we watched (yes, we finally broke down and joined the rest of the self-admittedly pretentious American left over the Christmas holidays).

I would talk about how gross rain is because it makes everything damp and cold and gray and depressing—and because it prevents me from spray-painting the shiny brass circa-1980s coatrack a bright, happy yellow.

I would also talk about how gross stiches look.  Yes, stiches, like for wounds.  I have some now thanks to the brilliance I displayed when trying to cut open a frozen bagel for Dan’s breakfast the following morning.  We drove together the emergency clinic in the nasty, half-hearted rainstorm—just heavy enough to make us wet and cold but no so heavy to warrant pulling out the rain gear—which I did anyway, and tripped over the damn brass coatrack in the process.  At least we arrived home from the overpriced medical procedure an ample hour before our ten o’clock bedtime and could squeeze in a DVRed show.

See how much I needed to talk?