The Siesta

A short story in response to the painting The Siesta by Paul Gaugin.


The heat of the day brought is onto the porch and out of the sun. Keeping their proper distance, the men sat in the grass, smoking in the shade of the bunkhouse and winning nickles and buttons from each other in mindless wagers.

It took a long time to get comfortable with the proximity of my new 'sisters', A near lifetime together had brought with it a physical familiarity between them that was alien to me.

Alice would always be on the edge, one leg dangling down to swish the long grass that evaded the mower's reach. She'd sing softly to herself or, when asked, would share one of the stories her momma had taught her in the days before she died.

Constance seemed allergic to rest. Always anxious of the list of chores left to accomplish before lamp-lighting, she would ever have something with her to do - ironing, darning, trimming the lamps. Her industry made me nervous, but if I ever offered to assist, or tried to bring a chore of my own onto the porch, Natty would scold me.

"Child - you just let that be now." She would say, taking my basket out of my hand, "Never mind her fuss. You sit beside me here and take your rest.".

It was Natty who took siesta the most seriously. Sprawled out on a pillow she would talk and dream, even daring to gossip until Constance started tutting when, with a small giggle, would roll onto her back and ask Alice to sing.

Wanting > Shoulding

I've been challenged to live with some new language.

As a world-class procrastinator I 'should' all over myself all day, every day. "I should clean the bathroom", "I should tidy the kids' room... make the beds, repack their drawers... you know, I should make it nice.", "I really should be reading every day.". Or, alternatively, "I need to work out where the social security office is so I can get my card tomorrow morning.", "I need to get my office sorted before I can sit down properly.".

By changing need and should to want, it puts everything in a different light.

I want to write today. Actually, I want to write everyday, and this makes it liberating, instead of crushing. There is no guilt in leaving the bathroom a little grimey, the kids clothes a little spewed, or a pile of papers either side of my laptop. I will find out where the Social is later... but first I'll write.

Oh, wait. I just did.

Predictability

So I go and see a film of a book of a blog of a book, about women finding their loves of words and men and food... a brilliantly written screenplay to boot... and come home inspired to write.

"I am a writer" says Amy Adams/Julie at the end of the film.

I feel like I've wasted this year, in terms of writing. Yes I've done bits - a few things for magazines and studies, but I've lost the art of just putting my thoughts into words. And, when I go back and read old blogs - as I did when I opened the laptop this evening - I realise that I AM good at it.

I am a writer.

I need to throw off the fear. Throw off the procrastination. Throw of the inertial caused by the many and heavy stresses life seems to throw me, and write.

So I promise myself. This blog will live. The other, my older and more public one, may morph a little, but this will be my home. And on it will grow my words.