17 November 2018

day seventeen




birds
coffee
embroidery
avocados
artichokes
public radio
hot tea
hot sauce
historical fiction
orange marmalade
documentaries
tomatoes
fleetwood mac
reading glasses
mornings

(things I love now that I didn't thirty years ago)

16 November 2018

it's true




all I really want to do is read books and ride bikes and listen to records so I am basically just my fourth grade self, all over again.

15 November 2018

it's 9:59

and I've done it again. I've waited until the end of the day to write and I have nothing left. not a thing. why? why do I do it? all I can think about now is the bed. and the book. and the t-shirt. and the way I will crawl into all three of them within the hour.

13 November 2018

day thirteen


the problem is that I wait until the end of the day to begin writing. when I am feeling pretty much all used up and my eyes are bleary from editing and my brain is weary from thinking and my body is tired from living.

I used to come alive at night. after everyone else went to bed and quiet fell over the house, my brain lit up like a neon sign. it felt like I could do anything. make anything, write anything. all my magic unfurled after midnight.

there is no magic unfurling after midnight now. there is actually no magic unfurling anytime after nine. it is currently 9:08pm and I am telling you people right now, I am struggling. after nine, everything looks wrong, feels wrong. and what I have come to realize is that things feel wrong because I have no optimism left. these days, I have a very fixed daily amount. once it's gone, it's gone. but what I also know now is that if I just slip into bed and read my book and fall asleep, the optimism will magically regenerate and return in the morning. there will be coffee and a fresh chunk of daily optimism for the taking. most of the time, anyway.

some days, I'm careless with it. I squander it, spend it all in one place. as if I have no concept of what it means to pace. sometimes it runs out long before the day is over and I am forced to run on faulty reserves. this never ends well. and my family has come to recognize this part of who I am. once, when we were all sitting around a bonfire in the backyard, staring in silence at flames dying and embers cooling in a fat pile of ash, ezra said, "look. it's mom's optimism."

and I laughed, because it was true.

12 November 2018

well, I asked

me, after dinner: "so, what should I write about tonight?"

ava: "slurpees."

ezra: "define slurpees."

ward: "love. you should write about love."

ward: "talk about trump. you love trump."

ezra: "you should also probably write about how I'm almost done folding all these paper cranes."

ava: "polygamy."

ward: "make one of your lists. you should make a list of um, movies."

ava: "toilets. public toilets."

ladies and gentlemen, this be my monday night. 

11 November 2018

day eleven



I watched this today and it made me happy. (november, two years ago)

10 November 2018

friday night

I had the sads last night and nothing helped. not the tater tots, not the hot shower, not the book in bed. not even claire de lune loud in my headphones. sometimes the sads are like that, though. you just have to sit in them for a little while, let yourself feel them.  

I thought about a midnight walk, I thought about cutting my hair. I thought about how good it might feel to take a pair of scissors and cut my braids right off, I thought about the sound the scissors against my hair might make, about the jolt I'd get from the sight of braids in the sink. that jolt appealed to me. 

I thought about writing, about how the push of a pen against paper feels. I thought about posting here. and then I fell into a deep, boneless sleep and now it's morning and there's sunlight and coffee and miraculously, banana bread in the oven. I made it to the other side, braids intact. 

good morning.