Here is the thing about living alone: it is painfully self-conscious. What does it say about you (as a person, as an artist) if you pee with the door open? You feel weird about putting on mascara and lipstick just to sit at your desk at home, but even more weird about trying to write poetry looking like a mess. You feel you should feel comfortable, sweatpants, whatever, but you don't. There never seems to be a good enough reason to go to bed. You have so much freedom; you should work until 2 every night. What about meals? There are nights when you cook--cornbread, baked beans from scratch, even vegetables and a drink--and then realize that, with no one to talk to, you can eat your whole supper in under five minutes.
You are continually surprised by this need to be watched. You watch yourself. You take pictures of those photogenic breakfasts and post them on the internet. You usually refrain from taking your shirt off as soon as you get home, and when you don't refrain, you'd better believe the tights you're wearing aren't one of the pairs that cut into your stomach. David Foster Wallace was talking about this before you were born. Is it human nature, the internet, or old-fashioned TV, as he argued?
Of course, people are rarely watching and rarely care. You can relax.
Can you? You explain that when people oblige you by watching you, at least you feel free to train your laser gaze elsewhere.
This afternoon, after writing my Middle Easter Narratives final, I went to K and K, the German deli and import store. I wanted Christmas things. I bought three different kinds of packaged gingerbread (Honigplatzchen, Pfeffernusse, Dominosteine), poppyseeds to make a roll, bratwurst, prosciutto, Christmas incense, Swedish angel chimes, ground anise, Christollen spice, Hirschhornsalz and Potasche. Three kinds of gingerbread is not enough, clearly, because I need the esoteric levening agents to make Pfefferkuchenplatzchen next week. Want some?
Making Christmas alone, with no one to see, is another question.