Four to Seven — Linda Jones
Linda Jones is an award-winning NYC based actor and voice coach currently working in audiobook narration and voice over, as well as theatre, film and television.
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12 Jan 2004 Four to Seven

It is beautiful here and I think the city might be trying to kill me.

(Actually that’s really not right at all because every time I push up against it, it gives a little more; it pushes, I push back and the game is in full swing.)

(My GOD man, it’s seven freakin’ degrees outside. Seven. I can count the temperature on my fingers.)

WHAT I’VE LEARNED TO DATE, as of 1/11/2004: I’ve learned that cold compounds and there’s nothing I can do about it. That’s what I’ve learned. I walk about a mile to work every day, and every day when I step outside it seems actually not-so-bad: frosty, yes, but manageable. Three blocks later I realize I can’t feel my thighs and my eyeballs are cold.

That being said. I am inside now, next to my over-achieving radiator, not far from my very large, warm, sleepy bed and I’m turned so that I can watch the snow fall by the streetlight. And I think I love it here. I think – I wonder – what has taken me so long.

This is my chapter two. Late, I know, and I’m sorry to be so out of touch. I wanted to write with more to say, maybe more developments, tangibles, you know. More.

November came and went without a word from me and then December happened in a rush, a flurry of holidays and birthdays and the new job pushing in and lunches and people and subways and taxis and moving, always always moving.

My sense of time here is skewed. I leave for a week and I didn’t get away; gone for 24 hours and the whole world has changed. A day, a week – never quite shaped the way I expect them to be but they come and go nonetheless.

I can prove it. I have a calendar.

So. Time is different here.

Everything is different here.

Good. But different. …and strange. Or at least my life has been lately, by a long mile.

The job? Layoffs. Last Friday actually, three people gone – half the staff and I’m one of four core people manning the fort. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The streets are quiet, fewer people, a dusting of snow; no cars honking, a taxi or two – maybe, but… strange. And I see no reason for it really, other than my state of mind.

And then the car – trouble. Last Tuesday, actually. (Yes I KNOW I’m not supposed to have a car in Manhattan, it’s against the rules and a sin and illegal as well but – I do. I have one. So shoot me.) (I think I’m in love with my mechanic named Gus.)

And then a friend. Of a friend. Last Thursday. Actually. Prayers are needed. She is 41 years old and has been given four to seven years more. Maybe. Cancer. In her blood and her bones and her brain.

Four to seven years. It keeps circling at me and I haven’t even met this woman although being that she’s my dear friend’s dear friend, I worry and I keep her in my thoughts. But that’s not it. Four to seven years. That’s it. That’s what haunts me, that’s what’s in my brain around and around and around. What could I do in four to seven years’ time? What is possible? So much – so much. Given months, it would be different, of course, but years. My god – years. Where was I four to seven years ago? Where will I be?

I’ve been feeling a little less than solid recently – translucent, floaty, like things could pass through: like that moment in the old Star Trek just as they were starting to beam away somewhere – and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. It’s a byproduct of the move. Change. Unrest. New-ness. Foreign. A moment when anything could happen and probably will although it might not be visible.

I’m here. I made it. I did it. And I wonder – what took me so long?

Linda Jones
[email protected]
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