these days. september. goodbye. october. hello! the highs of 99 and the hits of 106 and the joy of 69. this song does things to my brain, like these days. a flip. a year ago. now. grad school? what. Alaska? what. I supposedly land on ice on January 7, 2014 at 4:30 p.m.. danger, danger, danger. nothing is confirmed. medical clearance not yet obtained. program directors have yet to offer a firm yes, yes, yes, all is well, all is waiting, all is settled. haven't completed my 40 hour satellite TA orientation because why give 40 hours to something not yet a definite totally sure thing? I don't know if I'll have a room to call my own, a place defined as home. I won't believe it until I'm there, until I see the sun set before three in the afternoon, until I'm in a classroom, me the teacher, me the student, me there then now. I won't believe it until my skin is peeling flaking reddening from the cold.
so for now I work the office job. corporate, hush hush. heels and skirts in a shiny office tower. I’m a master of cover letters. I’m a master of writing about something I know nothing about.
so for now I’m an occasional server for a catering company. rocking the art of being invisible except for when one is thirsty or hungry or wanting something anything anybody. I’m learning the art of not flinching when a bony lady pats her hips and glances at my definitely not so bony ass and my definitely not so bony waist. I’m learning the art of not flinching when said bony lady sneers at the crab lettuce cups on my tray and says she’s on diet, so no, no, no thanks. there’s an art of not drinking the abandoned never touched glass of wine of beer of martini of whatever. there’s also an art to swallowing champagne without it being considered drinking on the job. there’s totally an art to taking selfies with your boss and four other servers in the catering truck cab after a six hour gig in khakis on a triple digit day.
so for now I’m an occasional writing consultant, tutoring a Hayden. the boy is not named Hayden. a Hayden is a phrase that will mean nothing to anyone but me and maybe, like, six other people. the boy is not a boy but a MAN of my own age, but hey, boyboyboy. these are the words I use. is it even tutoring? I’m helping this Hayden with his college application essays. boosting the self esteem. shattering writer’s block. I love this. this job. this job gives me a high that has me speeding from his home grinning like a fool. always hyper-hyper after tutoring/counseling/discussing. I miss CC’s writing center. so for now on occasion I feel like I’m doing something that fills me and fills another, and this will satisfy me until I’m there, north in Alaska, until I’m (supposedly) teaching composition and in another writing center, a new writing center, new to me.
that’s my new There.
and, not for now, because this is an always–an anywhere and everywhere and always–I’m revising and I’m trying to remember I’m REVISING and NOT rewriting and that is the happiest part of my life, the revising, or one of the happiest, even if I feel like I’m not doing enough of it. but, you know (you totally don’t know), it feels so raw and absurd and fast. this revision, what I’m trying to accomplish with this support I never anticipated and that I feel so undeserving of, but maybe that’s just my head playing games. point is, what I’m trying to say, what I’m getting at, is that’s all I have to say on the subject: I’m revising my mess of a 78,000-word manuscript and IT’S GOING GRAND, OKAY?
tired beyond tired these days. I cry a lot because I’m so tired and I’m so bloody tired of being tired, so bloody frustrated that this happened. my still being here. my body burning out. accidentally falling asleep midday with my laptop on my face. I never knew how to nap before and I guess the secret to napping is to not try. so I’m tired tired tired, but then midnight HITS and my heart paces as fast as this beat. vinayasa flow or whatever. probably doesn’t help that I’m snapchatting/texting like a fool like a swoony child like teenage me in the evening, taking myself out of the right now, clawing at January ideals. probably doesn’t help that I’ve burned through my adrenals and my neurotransmitters are shot. my doctor believes I have and have had Lyme disease. that probably doesn’t help either. I like to think my stretching helps. deep breath. I’m back in a ballet class but instead of starting at 2:45 pm, we reach for the barre at 8 and ballet makes me crazy hyper happy sad feeling good, so it’s another thing that doesn’t help the sleeping thing but I totally adore it so continue to go.
except for tonight. tonight I skipped ballet because I was too tired and too dizzy and it’s probably not brilliant to spin when you’re already experiencing virtgo, no?
deferring is weird. what is this. living at home. I have a degree. I don’t have a diploma. should be somewhere, there, but I am here. no. shut up. that’s bullshit. what I’m saying–it’s fucking bullshit. I’m where I should be. I’m resting. I’m seeing specialists and doctors and having blood sucked from my arm on a weekly basis. I’m making this body a priority, trying to heal, trying to solve mysteries. all the while working these jobs because I spent all of my savings on an idiotic last minute (but not last minute trip at all) to the place I’ll be moving to in three (!) months.
Ecid is quite possibly the only musician I’ve posted on this blog. him and maybe Kristoff Krane and Eyedea & Abilities and maybe Saturday Morning Soundtrack, which is kind of funny, because it’s not like I only listen to their genre, don’t even listen to them much at all anymore, but what is it, why is it I only link to them? I don’t know. the pace of the music makes me type faster than my usual fast-fast typing, blogblogblog, I can only write blogs to their music, and their music compels me to post it with my words or put words down while playing the track on loop, until my head aches.
right now, right here on my bedroom floor, I miss Humboldt County in a way that hurts my throat. that semester in the trees. what was I? sad, manic, inspired, rutted, speeding up the 101 too fast so fast what are you doing where are you going, driving two hours east just to be closer to Colorado for a minute before turning around, dropping Astronomy and writing my first analytical essay at nineteen, getting lost in the Redwood Forest and wondering if this is it, is this the end, wait wait wait wait. all before CC. before any of what I am now. I blogged daily then. it was necessary. so necessary. I felt much safer, hidden. now here I am and here you are, whoever you are, and it’s like HEY where’s the filter HEY fuck the filter HEY I should probably find a filter or go stretch and chill out. that blurry photo above reminds me of then, Spring 2011, Arcata, the head spin. that blurry photo was captured in a lonely hotel room in Anchorage in August when it was starting to hit that fuck no could I defer to Fall, fuck no could I wait that long, fuck yes January, I can heal by then, I can, I can, I can. so I took a photo as evidence of the Right Then Right Now. because I was in a city alone and missing Fairbanks and that wasn’t supposed to happen.
two years ago in Colorado, I went and saw Ecid play in this tiny little brick-walled bar. I drove from the Springs to Denver alone and I drank too much red wine, so I had to hang out at the bar for an hour or so after the show before I could drive home. I sat on the back patio with him and Mercies May and Chris Caesar of Literati and it was hazy and I was so sleepy but I remember thinking that years from then I would wish I’d paid better attention to the memory. Chris Caesar and I messaged on Facebook regularly for a month after. I don’t think that fact has any relevance.
sometimes my heart booms in my chest so fast and so rough I need to scream I need to run I need to tackle someone with a hug with a something with a I don’t know. I miss Colorado Spring too. More than Humboldt County. even more, even still, I miss Fairbanks. Alaska! is that possible? I miss my two days and I miss what I’m missing, what could be now but what isn’t now, all the while understanding I’m not meant to be there right now, but meant to be there after right now, right here. I’m nostalgic for January, for what will be, what hasn’t happened yet, that maybe won’t happen, and that’s okay, but it exists in this form, in my mind. so it’s there. it’s real, in a way that I can’t articulate.
I need to stop typing because I need to stop listening to this song because I’m already sick of it and because I need to calm down because I need to try to maybe sleep.