in my perfect world I would be sitting in blankets reading little house on the prairie, which I have never read. I would have a lot less stuff, even though I constantly crave other stuff. my stuff wouldn't be all over the floor of the house, which is where it is right now. I would have a house. it would have wood floors, but maybe carpet in the bedrooms.
in my perfect world I would have a cabin like the one scott lenhardt uses as a studio in this video. I would retreat to it to write. in my perfect world, I would write a lot more, like maybe for a living. or maybe not, because that would be too much pressure, but in any case I would have a better grasp of how to write fiction, or at least of what kind of writing I would like to do. the cabin would be in the woods. obviously.
in my perfect world, my calf would miraculously stop hurting on its own.
in my perfect world I would right now be drinking a beer at a pub somewhere in the UK, alone, in the rain. someone would think of me as 'that American girl in the bright scarf.'
running at night lately, after most everything else is finished. I allow myself to wear too many warm layers, which is the only way I make it out the door at all. it's cold for a minute or two and then it's fine, and I'm out in the night air and even though I've been dreading it, the run is usually the only time of day when I feel like I'm worth something. there is the smell of someone's dinner wafting from one house. halfway down 52nd, a single whiff of pine tree. near the gas station on duke, I can smell someone's fabric softener, steaming out of a dryer vent. there is my breath in the air, and the lights of the cars that pass, and my footsteps. in the cold, the muscles in my hip contract so that it feels like something is rubbing up against my skin.
in depression, these are my safe places so far: my bed, and the road.