The gloriously crispy day clarifies everything. It shows up the dirty window panes and the hidden cobwebs in the forgotten corners and so it makes me want to address everything all at once. Bluest of days and cold to the extreme. Not a cloud in sight. The trees stark and bare call out for salvation and attention like open arms waiting for embrace. I stall. Watch. I am caught in the still frozen air like an icicle waiting to melt. Nothing could ever be so worthwhile. There are days like this. All is somewhat right and I don't even know what the right is. My soul drowns in the day.
I got the long awaited email that my scripts were accepted for radio. Long after I submitted them. I had given up hope. To be honest I had thrown them out. I spied them under a pile of papers on the coffee table one day and had torn them up in frustration. But behold, the email told me the contrary. My scripts were acceptable. Just a little 'tweak' here and there. The email said that we should do this sooner or later. I freaked out for a minute thinking I did not have the material but attachments are a beautiful thing. There they were. Intact and as alive as I had sent them out all those months before. My words were still in existence.Tweaking is another matter.
Off to the parent teacher meeting I went with a confident step. The English teacher tells me my son is doing well. His vocabulary is way ahead of the others. I swell with pride. The English teacher talks about the Catcher in the Rye and how my son is mastering the novel well.
Parent teacher meetings are interesting. You have teachers telling you how well your son is doing and you want to say that you know but you don't. There is something about sitting across a desk and the queue of people behind you waiting their turn that turns you into a silent, mute observer. The constant twitch of impatience. I was happy but wondered how much the teachers knew about how we talk about Holden Caulfield at dinner, how we discuss Yeats, how we mull over words like a big box of dark, rich chocolates every night at dinner. How we break up the curricula and turn it into life. Dessert and breakfast.
No matter. Everything comes out in the end. I felt upset that my faith in my scripts was so weak. I mean to say whatever I write must have some meaning no matter what it is. You can always second doubt yourself. Tear up your words. Toss them out the window. Burn the thought. The impetus that got you going in the first place. And I was mad at myself that I was counting on somebody else to like what I wrote. That's the first trap to fall into. It is like a web that catches on to you and censors your voice. Has you squeaking like a little fly void of flight. It can strangle the guts out of you, trap what you have to say until all you have left is a feeble attempt at pleasing the audience. Ultimately caught in a web of your own doing.