Sunday. Super Bowl Sunday. I decided to stay home and continue with my novel character immersion instead of joining my buddies at the pub for team bonding immersion. I dialed up filed experience stories in which I thought I fit into the social verbal flow and never got in the running, yet clung to my belief I was a contender. Anyone who is heavily socially masked knows the common language.
So, deciding to stay home to focus on character development was, at first, a relief wave into a luxurious nap. But then anxiety creeps in. I can't see the characters and can barely breathe as my limited body enters the transition to the other side. I understand the concept of dying by way of immersion. We're all experiencing big game-changers.
By the time I set about making dinner, I entered a fuzzy hyper vigilante mind frame. I prefer hyper vigilante. Adding a fuzzy filter is like being drugged, and even though I conceptually understand I'vehadn’t been drugged, I fear the worst. I remove a bagel from its wrapper and place it on the cutting board. Visualizing energy flowing up from the soles, I slice the anticipated chewy texture, and then the slice enters my flesh.
Cut skin — I have many files to access. Past practice kicks in, and I bring the second finger of my left hand into my palm compression. The pain triggers a focus split, and I am inclined to follow the Despair Path. Instead, I focus on my diaphragm descending and ascending. I walk to the bathroom and pluck a gauze square from the cabinet. I resist dialing up the story of how the gauze square came to be in the bathroom cabinet and placed the bandage on my finger without looking at the wound. There are enough blood spills to let me know it's more than a paper cut.
Maintaining gauze pressure overrides the pain, and then I use a painter's blue tape roll to keep the gauze tight. I'm openly weeping by this time, and this sluices the creative waterway. I step aside for a brief moment, allowing my characters room to speak.