Blog Post I Didn’t Have Quite Enough Time to Write, Let Alone Title

Taylor Campbell Photography

Taylor Campbell Photography

It has been almost two years since the formation of August Corps.

Six months since I got married.

Two months since we moved into our new apartment.

One month since we returned from our workshop in Alabama.

Time is moving very quickly. I know everyone says that, but things everyone says are sometimes true. As a child, I always thought adults exaggerated when they said time flies. I suppose things have changed.

In the midst of this season of change and adjustment in life, we are on the precipice of fall. The trees seem to tease with their staunch greenness. Sweaters in my dresser cry out to be worn. Summer stretches her long legs as she heads for the door, luxuriating in this New York September.

I handed off the preschooler I nanny to her teacher an hour and a half ago.

I logged onto the computer at the library ten minutes ago.

She finishes school in two and a half hours.

My session expires in 34 minutes.

Father Time is a demanding parent. He constantly ushers me from one place to another, I hear echoes of his quiet ticking when I remain past my allotment or tarry too long. I beg him to slow down for me, but he is stalwart and presses on. This is discipline, he says.

TENDING LIST:

  • Write blog post

  • Update website

  • Take boots to cobbler

  • Reserve studio space

  • Finish reading current book

  • Read books just checked out from the library that will inevitably delay the reading of books that I already own

  • Fix watch battery

I set three alarms at night, two on my phone and one on the bedside clock. I hit snooze an average of 3.5 times. My mornings are not heroic. 

I pause for a phone call.

I schedule an appointment with my doctor.

15 precious minutes have passed.

18 remain.

Is this panic that I feel? How ridiculous.

I scroll back over what I have written. Was this a waste of time? What could I have been doing? My thoughts pinball to Sarah Ruhl. 100 Essays I Don’t Have Time to Write. A sentiment that strikes a gong somewhere in my sensibility.

You’re not so good at this, you know. My inner critic peers over the top of her round glasses menacingly. She puts down the arts section of her cartoonish newspaper and drinks deeply from her morning cup of judgment.

You could be doing something more productive, like staring blankly at your phone while you try desperately to decide to do something. She isn’t particularly helpful.

I don’t have time to tell you about vulnerability and me. I have only 11 minutes left, you see. We assure you that we’ve had a rocky past but we’re going to work it out. It’s especially hard for us to do art together sometimes. Or write. Or speak. But every relationship hits bumps in the road, you know?

A yellow arrow appears on the screen. Session Time Warning. There are TEN (10) minutes remaining in this session. I am given the option to press OK.

OK?

Yes, I am going to be okay.

I’m just running a little short on time.

Thanks for asking.

Anna Wulfekuhle

August Corps