Eight weeks ago I started a contract with a new client downtown. For the first time in a while I took the bus, a novelty to work downtown for a few months, a throwback to my early days in Seattle. Of course that ended fast, after three days. They said everyone needs to work from home and the vibe on my floor was a kind of evacuation mode in slow-mo. I met with the help desk and got my credentials, downloaded the mobile apps, authenticated, hurried to the bus. Hardly anyone with masks then, though the driver had one and that felt weird. And I felt bad for having to take the bus. A few weeks later the contract ended early and I was lucky to grab some odd jobs, thanks to my old firm. I wrote case studies and story outlines for marketing copy. And moved a mattress into Dawn’s office where I slept and worked while she recovered from the flu, or whatever it was she had. Cooked, brought her Gatorade and checked in throughout the day asking if she’d temped herself, forcing her to do so. Looking at the calendar, wondering how long I’d be working. Going in and out of wanting to work and just wanting to garden, but holding on to work for some source of comfort, for security. Never feeling that so deeply about work. Losing myself in it like a newfound passion. Going in and out of feeling confident and terribly insecure. The same with my writing, and all the reasons I sucked or I ruled, dancing in and out of that, on and on. Now we sit and wait for packages to arrive and I type blog posts on my phone with my thumbs. I think I have jock itch but I have no idea why. The fox gloves are coming up and I love them for their audacity, for the fact they give so much and require so little. They say it’s going to be a hot one, this summer. But no one knows what it’s really going to be like. Or for how long.

Categories: microblogging, prose, writing

Tags: creative nonfiction, journal writing, Memoir, pacific northwest, Seattle, William Pearse writer