Friday, May 29, 2009
How I Think James Spends His Days
James and I are currently on very different schedules. I work during the day, and he goes to work as I get home. We are often two ships passing in the night. I often wonder what he does when I'm not home. I know he writes, and this is how I think it goes:
He says goodbye to me with a cheerful smile. As as he hears the front door of our building shut, he puts on a dark gray woolen sweater, turns on the window mechanism that makes it look like it's always raining, and stares morosely out the window for two or three hours.
Then he wanders into the kitchen, where he stands for a while by the oven and thinks of Sylvia Plath. He wonders how much more she could have accomplished if she had married him, instead of that dumb old Ted Hughes.
He walks, aimlessly, he thinks to himself, back to his desk where he holds a pen poised above a leather bound journal, willing himself to write. Unable to, he shouts, "Blast it all", and throws down the pen.
While he searches for the pen under his desk, he gets a text from me, reading, "please buy bananas. we are out. thanks." He frowns and wonders if Keats ever had to run produce errands. Then he remembers that Keats died very young, and thinks he probably did not.
Over lunch he sighs to himself at least five times, and tries his best to think of sad things that arrested his development in a way noteworthy enough to write down. Not thinking of anything, he watches Stella episodes on Hulu, laughing, bitterly, he thinks to himself, at the sad banality of life.
He spends the remainder of the afternoon composing poorly executed rhyming couplets about me, most of which I will never see.
****It is also possible that James spends his days time traveling. I have no evidence to conclusively prove this is not the case.
****For those who may not know, James just completed his MFA in poetry, so, when I say he "writes", that's what I mean.
*****image from le love