End of February 2023: I Let the Minutes and Hours Slip by Easy

It’s the end of the shortest month of the year. There is something sinister in the air I said to a friend in a letter recently. But maybe that’s just me. I think winter is just tough on the psyche (and tough on the bones). And sometimes—in this season—examining myself for too long is not the best idea. It causes me to dissociate, for better or for worse!

Do you agree? Do you like dissociation as much as I do? It feels strange to say because it involves a weird conflict of interests. I want time to move faster and I want discomfort to be subdued. But I also want to be as self-aware as possible. I want to live in the moment and I want to live in every moment. I want to feel it!

From the perspective of a writer and/or artist, it seems better to feel everything deeply and truly. Even the depths of sadness can be informative and can help me create something that feels more authentic and relatable. But this is such a weird way to go through life! And it feels like such a weird thing to justify… the pain? I’m still working through these thoughts. I guess what I’m trying to do at the end of the day is feel content to just exist. To just be.

So… my recommendation for the coming weeks is to slow down in an intentional way. This recommendation (as is this entire blog) is mostly for me, so take this with a grain of salt. But being slow and deliberate and enjoying the process has been my saving grace on some especially tough days. Like, I will stop my work to edit an old poem. Or I will write a letter to J in New York or Z in Palo Alto and then walk to the mailbox and drop it in. Or I will vacuum and zone out. Or I will drink a bottle of Gatorade slowly and really try to pin down what “Icy Blue” is, as a flavor. Or I will tape some ticket stubs into my notebook. Or I will write this blog post.

Cheers to feeling content and happy and healthy and good in the coming month! Goodbye for now and see you at the end of March.

January

I am not vicious
I love to stare
when light hits the room across the street 
as if by an alien sun.
I like to think those people get the kind of sleep I crave 
as I move my pothos to the floor
or back to the sill. 
I hope for peace 
and finally heat 
but time hasn't yet come 
for me: thoughts fall like marbles 
and dry hands press air,
It is still only winter
and we wait in our corners,
I am a cold planet 
pruning and crying,
killing and dying.