Last night I spent a while cutting up a heavy yellow melon called “kandy” that was some kind of hybrid between a honeydew and a cantaloupe and something else. I was trying not to waste too much melon while I cut off the tough skin. It was sweet and somehow acidic, like pineapple. Later that night I had strange dreams with lots of responsibility. I can only attribute those dreams to the kandy melon. I woke up with a splitting headache and the urge to clean out my closet. I sold some clothes at a bougie secondhand store except they “had to pass today” on two dresses. Tonight, I hope my sister is having a great time at her high school dance. She said they were playing “Dynamite” by Taio Cruz and it’s funny to me how things are still the same in a lot of ways. Tomorrow, maybe I’ll have the same thoughts as today. That nothing can surprise me lately. Huh, more cynical and sad than usual, and then there is a surprising breeze that rattles my blinds. [Here in Los Angeles autumn is just an afterthought. And then suddenly its a mild winter.] But back to tomorrow. Maybe P and I will walk a mile to the farmer’s market. Maybe, if we wake up on time and everything else runs on time. Time promises us a lot. It’s hard to believe that promise: that things will change, or that they won’t, or that things will be better, or they won’t, or that time will heal everything and wipe out everything and someday mean nothing to nobody. The more I stay an adult the more I feel the cyclical pull of the generations and their patterns. The universe and its patterns. Do I sense myself joining the wheel? Will I become someone foreign to me? On the day after tomorrow temperatures are supposed to drop. Elsewhere, everything will be ending. I think I’ll feel the same, but I am frustrated at the idea. I am distrustful of time even though it is the most constant thing. Or is it change? Or is it evil? For a moment I think hard about the idea of ubiquitous evil. My florescent lightbulb flickers in the hallway next to the kitchen and I hear a maniacal dog barking outside in the warm night and feel my thighs and there are a number of bug bites and then consider opening the fridge to eat more of that melon. I think I’ll do that. The cold will chill my upper right teeth, like they did the day before.
Tag Archives: August
July and August Again
“Meanwhile the world goes on,” says Mary Oliver. I repeat her poems to myself like mantras—for comfort. Lately I am finding it hard to achieve balance in my life. I want to focus on myself, but I don’t want to sink too far into myself. I want to want things, but I don’t want to obsess over them. I want to feel everything, but not too intensely. Or maybe I do. In retrospect, I always do (it makes for better writing). But I cannot control everything. I can barely control anything. It must be necessary to let go of that urge to dictate the timeline that the world has for me. Otherwise I am wrenching myself from the hands of greater forces.
Taking my own advice this month has been hard. I have been living extrovertedly this month, and now I find that I cannot be alone. I am proud of the person I am, but also seeking nervous attachment. It kind of sucks that the struggle to achieve healthy self-esteem is a lifelong process. Somewhat relatedly: I have a hard time accepting that nothing is really innately fair. The world owes us nothing, but we owe the world everything!
I am on a plane and missing optimism. But it will find me again soon because these things are cyclical. I will make something and return to myself shortly. I will listen to “Flightless Bird, American Mouth” and think about movies. I will eat some pesto. I will put these thoughts out into the ether like I do every month, letting them float there miraculously as lines of code and otherwise meaningless symbols. Meanwhile the world goes on.
End of August 2023: Engulfing
Or: being engulfed? Back to routine and the days are winding up again like a ball of yarn…
I hate that fatigue can sometimes feel satisfying, like a mark of productivity (the body keeps the score?). Sometimes I measure my self-worth with that feeling. I never know how much to buy into that. I think it might be useful to some extent. Like stress. But on another level… it is deeply sad. And it is not chic.
Time and tasks have been swallowing me up. I kind of love it; it’s been almost like a surrender to the rip current of everything that demands my attention. But then again, how could I not hate it?? There is no time for anything. There is only time for that for which there is time. Coming up for a breath like… taking a quiet beat to myself while spreading almond butter on a piece of bread. Or something like that.
End-of-Month | webzine and blog 