Thursday, 10 November 2005
I know, it's only Thursday, but tomorrow is a government holiday so I'm working from home. Thus, it feels like a Friday. And I sit here, by myself at home, cooking a very late dinner and contemplating things, and it reminds me of those Friday nights I had my year alone, when I lived in the condo.
For some reason, Fridays have always been hard for me. Saturday is open, it's for doing and playing. Sunday is for staying home, quiet time, laundry, cooking. For some reason, Friday night has always been the night I long for conversation and people and togetherness. When I lived alone, Friday night was always the night I'd drink beer and call my friend in Tahoe (Spaghetti Western Woman, who I get to see soon hooray!) and talk for hours. If she wasn't home, I'd call everyone on my list, trying to find someone who was home and willing to chat for a while. Sometimes I'd run through ten different numbers, seeking someone to talk to.
On weeknights, I usually don't want to go out. I just want to stay home, maybe cook, probably exercise somehow, and relax. Read a book, catch up with the people I read online, hang out at Chicklit, whatever. For some reason, event though I'm usually tired and don't want to make plans, Friday is the night I want to so something social.
I've felt this a little bit over the last couple of months, and even some before that. Tonight was a big one though. I came home from work and there wasn't anyone online to chat with. I couldn't have a beer since I was going over to a friend's to help out with some stuff once traffic died down, and for the same reason I couldn't get started on any kind of cooking project (hence the really late dinner). And then I wandered over to Chicklit and saw a post that John Fowles died this week.
Fowles is one of my all time favorite authors. His work is accessible to me, the way he writes is both erudite and funny, and I just love his work. I picked up the first volume of his published journals this year as a birthday present to myself, but I hadn't really started them. I wanted to write him a letter first, to tell him how excited I was to read his journal and how much his work meant to me. I wanted to do that before I delved into the mind behind the work. But I put it off, I never got around to it, my life was falling apart and I just didn't do it. And now it's too late.
So I sat and read newspaper obituaries of him online, and I cried. It wasn't all for John Fowles, that was just the trigger to open the floodgates and let it loose. I cried last night, too, for a different reason. There is so much change going on right now, some of it sad and some of it exciting, and I just need to allow myself to cry when the need strikes. I've been holding it back for a week, so when it came out I think it was a little harder than it otherwise would have been. You can read a bit about it, over here. I studied The French Lieutenant's Woman for A levels, and I not only have read The Magus more than fifty times, I have several different versions of it. I'm not kidding, I love his work. I want to write like that.
All of this combined to put me in a rather melancholy state of mind. But I heated up some leftover spaghetti sauce, I boiled some fresh pasta, and I'm having the last glass of a bottle of delicious wine I opened last night, and I feel somewhat better. I am still mourning John Fowles, and will for a while, but I feel okay about myself and my Friday night. Now I just need to get back to writing that novel I'm working on for NaNoWriMo. I have over 16,000 words so far, but I need to keep up at least 2,000 a day in order to finish and I haven't started yet today.
Off I go. Cheers, and happy weekend to you.
If you want to: contact