If you have been reading my blog, you know about the fix I am in. I, an adequate but not terrific writer, moved into an isolated ELYSIAN house isolated from the distractions of life-- or so I thought. While I was dreaming of Best Sellers or Pulitzers or Nobels I had an ill-natured conflict with my young neighbors. The young wife's death by drowning in my pond is being investigated by local authorities. Ordered to 'remain in the jurisdiction', I have been for days more alone than I had ever imagined. The one soul offering me friendship -- even going with me for police interrogation-- was Jennifer. (For complete details read the two previous blogs.)
Now a Continuation.
The solitude sought and cherished last week reshaped itself into a sentence of solitary confinement. My days, filled with worry, followed by nights of sleepless tossing and jolting dreams when finally I do sleep have taken on a Sisyphean aspect.
The solitude I sought! Access to my pond free from the church-glazed judgment of my young neighbors! Gone now as was Harold, the young husband who had moved to the house of his father-in law, the preacher whose church I had dismissed as a nuisance.
Solitude is good only when it it is chosen. Never if it is imposed. I had neither seen nor heard from Jennifer, my only friend in this god imprisoned neighborhood since the 'don't leave the jurisdiction' pronouncement. The burden of once hoped for solitude, now hated, responded only temporarily to drink. Mt writing goal of ten pages a day fell prey to too much wine, too little food and sleep, no human interaction. Lack of real life interactions can be tolerated so long as I have the vicarious interaction with the characters of my stories. But they too had abandoned me.
Thus two days later it was with a blood rush and racing heartbeat that I spotted Jennifer down the aisle of FOOD TIME. With quickened step I drew my cart beside hers. "Hello, my only supporter."
"Connie, I wasn't sure you were still around." Her eyes never met mine; there was no smile.
"Really?" I tried to read her demeanor. "I'm still confined to 'the jurisdiction'."
In a small and shaky voice she said, "I'd forgotten. Any word yet?"
"Not a peep. And I've seen no-one. Not even Harold."
"He's with his in-laws. The funeral was day before yesterday."
"You went?"
"Yes, it seemed the right thing to do."
"Do you know if there's any word on the autopsy?" The conversation had gone from uncomfortable to intolerable.
"Just drowning is all I've heard. No way of knowing how it happened. It would have helped if you or Harold had witnessed it." she shrugged. "But--" she hesitated. "neither of you did. We may never know just what happened."
* * * *
Later at home with my scant supply of groceries and adequate supply of wine put away Jennifer's cold, almost hostile, nature played over and over in memory. At one point I burst into laughter as the Wordsworth poem pushed into my thoughts.
For oft, when on couch I lie
in vacant or in pensive mood.
They flash upon the inward eye
which is the bliss of solitude.
But not the dancing daffodils-- the grassy bank of my pond. Not blissful after that first week-- likely never blissful again. I had to leave this place. What was to be my Eden, conducive to a burst of productivity, had turned into a life sucking prison. I must call the sheriff and find out were matters stood. And I would. I would call the sheriff-- tomorrow. I uncorked a bottle of wine.
