supposed to be writing (#22)

... and i'm always surprised by it

usually, i don’t want to write. i’m not ready to write, so i rush around me, fill up the gaps in between my breaths with tasks to make me want to do this job. i have a new mouse, a new setup, i have a new optical prescription (this one was needed – but in truth everything was needed. i don’t want to write but sometimes you have to, the words flow because finally you’ve balanced food content with caffeine in the intrepid lining of your stomach or you finished before the coffee got cold. i astonish myself because it’s no longer me who is writing, just words reacting with the chemical solution of light and woodland air in the dimming summer light. the river looked like “melted rock, cooled and contoured against the …” the land as though it were also breathing, settled into itself, reabsorbing the mossy green interlopers, the full strength of night. curving through the clouds and mountains, who domed above us softly, no sunset but a storm front: grey offsetting grey, granite darkness shimmering without starlight.

commitment to oneself is harder than committing to others – like you beautiful readers who react to these non-linear linguistic experiments, it always surprises me. this commitment to writing is an obligation : one i chose myself, i guess, but worse, one that chooses me, makes me stop the other things i am doing to not lose the idea or the mood or the capacity to even type. i’ve been thinking about commitment because i am committed to many things that don’t feel like choices: caring about what i do, being “thoughtful”: like can you choose to be less invested? isn’t that a lot of effort? i barely had breakfast, and i barely decided to return to bimonthly posts (this one’s for you CL) and yet i’m seated in my painstakingly assembled workspace to tell you nothing in particular, which tells me nothing but that there are things i could express, thoughts piling up in formats i haven’t dreamt of – stop deleting). it’s september and i have a clean start and fresh sheets, i have a giant bruise, i have contacts that give me less of a headache. i ready myself for the 15 minutes where it doesn’t feel like a push, where i write and don’t evaluate, where i let it be vain and indulgent and speak for itself.

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–      feed me

never again negronis (YL!! AB!!); muhammara in cobble hill; hand rolls and chalk red makgeolli; fried pickles as chips or tempura; stealthily imported wine, for regulars; hot chicken with proper digestive aids; perfect flat white when you were only going for filtered coffee.

if i could poll you (eta; omg i can), i would like to know who has ever followed one of these recipes, as my own father (dad!!!) told me he skips this section. it’s okay if you haven’t but also it is your loss, especially once i have access to a normal kitchen again.

–      read me

second place, rachel cusk : i’ve barely started but this loses points for its epistolary format, primarily because the letters are addressed to the most unlikely name for a recipient: jeffers. i suppose the author is british, but it’s no less distressing. i will keep reading it for fun (upstate new york marsh + mysterious artist figure) and its abstract impressionist cover.

bird by bird, anne lamott & the professor is in, karen kelsky : everyone assumes that you, a phd student, have already sought out these books… now i have.

–      ­take care of me

trim the flowers you bought on a whim way sooner than you think, like day 2. get your hair cut and use cuticle oil. moisturize generally! but especially your tired, tense typing hands. don’t wear holes with socks in them. open a new bag of coffee beans instead of suffering through horrible, stale medium roast. autopay your bills. refill your water bottle.

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