fuglies.

Today I have the fuglies. Otherwise known as the weepies...but fugly describes the feeling a bit better. I made myself open all the blinds in the house even though it is little more than grey out there. It is the sort of day that I would prefer to keep them closed because sometimes it feels good to hide out--neighbors and dog-walkers unable to look into open window as they go by. Anyway, the soft yellow light shed by lamps is so much more comforting than the steel colored skies outside. But when I have the fuglies, I know that it isn't wise to leave the blinds drawn shut. Like the plants, I need light--however filtered and cold it might be.

After a strong cup of coffee and a dose of morning pages, I took Anu for an extra long walk in the woods. The trails are all slick ice and silence. Anu snuffles along with her nose in the snow with extreme intentness on getting to the bottom of each and every scent. She forgets that she is on a leash and I have to repeatedly remind her: "Anu, no pulling!" Two seconds later I am again being pulled dangerously fast across a patch of ice. This time it is because she herself can't slow down on the ice. When she finally comes to a stop, she turns in my direction with a look of apologetic concern in her eyes until I've safely joined her at the bottom of the hill.

That dog keeps me afloat on even the fugliest of days. And, I swear, she knows how to smile. She also knows how to make me smile.

After walking, I've spent the rest of the morning curled up at the end of the couch reading through essays and trying to organize my thoughts. I read out loud because, for some reason, hearing my own voice keeps me from drifting so quickly into self-doubt. I no longer trust my own words on the page--but, for some reason, when I read them out loud I am able to once-remove them from myself. My inner-critic finds it harder to get a word in edgewise.

I find myself wishing that I could be like the main character, Herald Crick, in the movie Stranger than Fiction. He is able to solve complex mathematical equations by visualizing the answers outside of himself, in the air, written as though on an invisible scratch-pad. The only thing that gets in his way is an irritating voice that is narrating his own ill-fated life--the voice that he can't turn off. I could do without the incessant narration (I am my own worst narrator), but what I desire of Herald Crick's talents, is the ability to visualize a problem to its end: the solution.

Something tells me that there is a very easy answer to the structure my thesis should take, but I am still struggling to find it. I pick things apart and put them back together, in different ways, over and over. But, so far, the puzzle pieces I am working with have not offered the right fit--not yet, anyway. These days, I lack Herald Crick's talent for visualization.

Hence, the fuglies.

12:30. It is lunchtime. I will continue fighting off this feeling. First with a shower. And then with a bowl of soup. Anyway, I have to go to work soon. The fuglies need to fuck off.