El tiempo no tiene sentido. Hace poco, me di cuenta de la fecha. Me acuerdo del jueves que entregamos las tesis. Fui por tu oficina pero no estabas. Ya hacía dos días que no estabas. Recibimos las noticias a la noche. Yo me había hecho un gin-tonic malísimo, la primera bebida de la noche, que tomaba despacio por lo agrio que era. Abrí el celular.
magnolias que se vacían
As I told my brother on Saturday, there is no really logical explanation for why cutting off a great deal of my hair should make me feel so much more psychologically grounded. But it did. (I almost want to cut off more, but this ‘do cost me a bucket of dollars and I don’t feel like messing with it.)
Yesterday’s drunken impulse to tell everyone about this phenomenon is definitely related to my discomfort at the recurring questions, “How have you been?” and “How’s it going?” Because obviously if something like a haircut can so significantly bring me back down to earth, my life must really be in shambles. I realized only midway through the day that telling people that I felt so much better post-haircut would probably make them uncomfortable, because like…what did I need to feel so much better about in the first place, and was I implying that I wanted them to ask? The answer to the latter question is no, not consciously. And probably just no. But who knows why it’s so hard to realize what’s happening to your brain…
Since I didn’t want Lawnparties to be a therapy session, but since I didn’t know what else to do, and since I was too messed up to formulate more appropriate questions and things to talk about, I think I just babbled about how cute my cat is and how funny it is that my friend and I work in the same office. Cute cat, hilarious work situation. Topics one and two.
And then I just stopped talking. I had a lot of awkward moments because I just couldn’t get to where they were, and although I wanted to communicate that to them, it didn’t occur to me that it would be okay to. For a variety of reasons. So I’ve had to decide to forgive myself for being moderately overwhelmed yesterday, for being much worse at partying than I was this time last year, for a long string of faux pas that were like…really not so bad, for staring, and for internally projecting my social frustrations.
This is also a good lesson in kindness. I think I just wanted someone to realize that I wasn’t being awkward and cold on purpose; I was just mildly terrified. But I guess it’s just slightly too much to assume that knowing how it feels means knowing what it looks like…maybe…
I am shitty at smiling for the camera. I always come out looking like I’d rather not be having my photo taken. And that is probably because I’d rather not be having my photo taken.
I am not really angry. I’m not even really sad. As a wise man once self-assessed, I am passionate.
Inconvenient truths are hardest at first and get easier, while convenient untruths are easiest at first and get harder.
I have put away reaction as into an envelope (unsealed, serene on the table)
and returned to my heart. I know I am right because my love lies quiet
like the view I know is outside my old bedroom window this very moment,
a dim green and gray caress, swaying slightly, to lie under and hardly notice.
My father said, “I think I’d better get back to my moorings.”
And having made the effort and swum back to shore, I am also content
to collapse, exhausted and chilled, and let the generous sand
fill me with warmth again. No longer bobbing aimlessly along the coast,
I lift my head from my deep breathing to find myself
in a new country whose physic is the color of my body, and
the birds sing of starfall. Its capital will consume me
like a hot fruit, sucked out of sight of the bitter spray of riptide.