We Are Already Working

Against the Pressure of Making Something

I woke at 6:15 a.m., despite not sleeping much the night before. I woke my son, made him breakfast, drove him to school as the sun came up. I ate his mostly untouched breakfast as I edited a piece I wrote for my job on ICE endangering disabled people, got dressed, then drove myself to a mammogram.

On the way home, I stopped at the library and picked up three books, walked to the grocery store and bought cheese and tortillas for dinner, a strawberry drink for myself and green tea for my son. I wrote up two pitches for articles on immigration and the EPA, respectively.

I went to a meeting. I multi-tasked and edited a piece I wrote on Renee Good’s poetry. I reached out to four freelancers about articles. I read ten pages of one of my library books, a new Octavia E. Butler biography. I cleaned up the kitchen, swept, and did two loads of laundry. I took down and packed away the Christmas tree and switched out the rugs in the living room. I edited more articles.

If enough of us tell the truth about life right now, write it out, some of it will make it out.

My son is home from school, doing math as I write this. As soon as he’s finished, I’ll cook dinner, then clean the kitchen, take out the trash and recycling. I’ll finish folding laundry, maybe watch a couple episodes of a show or read a little of my book. I’m way behind on correspondence. I usually fall asleep with the lights on.

And as my doctor asked me recently, I do not dream anymore.