If a Sunday Update is just that, a Sunday Update, then I’ll keep it simple (I think I’ve written that sentence before).
I moved out of the bed bug motel. A friend generously lent me her attic space to store my stuff for the time being. I got my money back in order. Or at least it’s on the mend.
This is enough.
I finished a phenomenal book. I Love Dick. I’ll tell you about that later.
I’m changing my habits. I anticipate failure because I’m only human. Even so, I’m excited. I’m excited to be human. I’m excited to be calm. I’m excited to think with futurity. I want things, and I believe I can do all in my power to attain them.
I’m reading Virginia Woolf’s The Waves now. I’m working only one job. I’m keeping it simple, stupid (me, not you).
Everything I have, at this point, fits neatly into less than 10 boxes. My mother reminded that this time last year I was selling all my possessions. She remarked that maybe I’m not supposed to lead this life with very much. In lieu of writing new content, I thought I’d share this doodle I found from a few years ago. It’s a large block of text, unedited. It’s kind of an impenetrable wall, so if you can’t stand to read it, I understand.
“What’s important? I can’t stop asking myself. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. Nothing, not a thing, in this apartment seems vital, but I’m scared. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. I graduate college, after so many stops and starts, none of them seem important now. I want to get rid of it all. Every last stitch, every last page, not to forget, the body doesn’t forget, but to rest. Each page each line each carelessly formed letter can carry its own weight. I don’t need to feel the physical presence of these books to know I was here. I am here. They only make me sad. They only make me see how selfish I was, ha, how hard I am on myself. Each turn of the page, I fear the appearance of trauma. Each line I sniff for the stench of darkness, but maybe my childhood wasn’t all that bad. The journals are that too. They are simple and overly dramatic, here I am, ten eleven twelve, as foolish and funny as any girl child at that age. I hate my pimples. I want to be in love. I hate algebra. Being a teenage is a waste of my precious precocious time. How is it any different now? There was a girl, documenting each day each flower each passing feeling and fancy as though if she wrote it down it would—what? Stay forever? I already knew it was all real. It all felt so real. Each piece was real. It isn’t a question, a preponderance, of reality. I’ve known where I am. I’ve always felt my feet on the ground. I also have no instinct for destruction. Years ago, I might’ve fancied myself capable. Even at my worse, I could never implode. Calling myself spineless, a clear deep shaking part of me will always reach for air above the surface. There is a gasp inside of me. Always pushing towards air. What’s important? I can’t stop. I could burn all these journals and it wouldn’t stop. I could disappear from my internet and it wouldn’t stop. In the narrative of who I am, who I was, was she ever here, I fancy someone will look back and chronicle the brilliant shards of me through these journals. But I know, inherently, I am no more immortal than Constantine and Edith Wharton. Death comes to us all. I’m twenty three years old. Twenty four next month. I don’t have the stomach for archival. Nostalgia is nothing but a sprung leak. I’m not afraid anymore of what lurks, what doesn’t. I was a happy child. I am a happy adult. For whatever shit concoction of superfluous hurt I’ve brewed over my brief lifetime, there’s no need to save it all on a hard drive. And even the good parts, the best parts, I know them. I will myself to know them. To save them on the sun bleached driftwood white of my bones, long long after my husk has dried and blown away. What’s important? I’ve stop asking myself. We must know. In that infinite space between gut and spine, stomach and heart, whatever glorious blackhole I’ve felt enclosed in my ribs (I cannot make you believe it’s there I only have known of it since I could walk), there is the knowledge and the calm. Put there by insidious god, whom I believed in. Put there by whatever is burning in the stars. Put there by heaven by hell by the sound of conception and breaking bones. It all heals. It all starts again. What’s important? Do I need to know? What’s important? Does anyone? What’s important? The word itself unreal. The feeling’s back. Vast. Forget what’s important. What am I trying to convince myself of? “
I’m super dramatic.
On Friday, I’ll fly to Texas until Monday. Jake’s coming with me.
Life goes on, rah.
The most exceptional thing to happen this week is the rain.
I love you. I miss you. I hope to see you soon.