A little after 7 a.m. yesterday morning our power winked out, and a cold white silence engulfed our new house. It was incredible! No internet ... no email ... no working on the magazine.
What to do?
Well, first I drained all the water from the pipes into drinking vessels. Then I went outside and brought in some of the downed twigs and branches to dry out for later when I was pretty sure we'd be needing the fireplace as our only source of heat.
Then I very happily time-traveled to around 1980, to a time before interwebs when paper, pens, and several typewriters were my currency and my joy. I've defined myself as a writer for most of my life, and that means that I need to get the phrases in my head out to the world, somehow. Any how.
Sure, stuff gets lost in the process. The perfect sentence sort of dries up on the page or runs out of color before the ink leaves the pen. But, a writer will always try to get some faint image of it pinned down before it flies away forever. The words must speak, over and out.
Diaries and journals are some of my most prized possessions. A print-out of a daily journal i used to keep on the web is another treasure, now that the Way-Back Machine doesn't go all the way back. So, yesterday I spent some hours standing these old friends back up on their shelves.
I had nine full hours of eerie quiet. So quiet. Except for the backed-up words in my head, which I'm now transcribing here. The electricity came gushing back twenty-four hours ago, and I've been tending to email ever since.
But do you know what's really really weird? Time just crawled by yesterday ... it dragged. It loitered and it dawdled. Each hour was a long shadow, stretching across a white page of snow. It was lovely.