Nothing written since October, and this will be a lacklustre return . . . given that work deadlines and anxiety lead to a lack of sleep last night, and there are still half-packed bags for an impending trip to NZ. I've been composing posts and analysis and stories in my head for months now. A lot of it about anxiety and waiting, and the odd experience of being on leave without pay while my lovely wee girl was well.
She's been fine.
But I was preparing for a crisis. I was girding myself for tragedy and pain and grief, and then when it didn't happen, I've had to try to turn it into a celebration. And it was surprising and confronting to realise that I had to self-consciously allow myself to enjoy "the gift" of extra time with her. Holyl shit, do I need a mindfulness perspective.
And then there's all that displaced worry.
Because I am, after all, a duck. Apposite, given the terrible floods and the experience of living in a city awash with water. Awash with stories. Awash with acceptable narratives of heroism and survival, while the half-heard stories of bad behaviour and pettiness get washed away. And so the cartoon duck sails calmly along, while paddling like fuck underwater. Frantic little legs, with no time for defoliation.
So this, my friends, is a bad beginning. No links. No argument. No stories to share. Working on it.
