I am standing here at my computer in my underwear and I am bristling with ideas.
What a powerful thing it is to put words on a page—to guide thoughts and help someone create images in their mind.
A declaration:
To hell with an MFA. Okay, step back—MFAs can be good, I think, the point is I don't need one.
I've been sitting here thinking I'll work for a couple of years, write in my free time, get better at writing, then when I'm in an MFA program—that's when I can really get down to business.
No. I reject that. That's Wrong. See, I can start all of that now. Why do I need to wait two years before I start taking myself seriously? Like all the writing between now and then is just child's play, just fodder so that when the real writing begins I'll have a leg to stand on.
No, the real writing can and will and does start right this moment.
Reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Wikipedia page got me thinking of all this. Everything Is Illuminated started as a senior thesis. As an undergrad. I am an undergrad. Why can't my writing be just as urgent, just as focused, as his was?
I'm having a moment of, Damn it, if you can do it, so can I. This is good, this is a good moment to have.
The point is I don't need to piddle around with my writing, biding my time until I've had enough life experience for an MFA.
There's no set path for a writer, but there's some kind of path and, for me, that always involved taking time off, doing an MFA, applying for the Stegner Fellowship, teaching, then maybe, at the end of all of that, maybe I'd have a manuscript that was halfway decent and salable.
Screw that. This is my declaration:
*I refuse to wait for my writing to simply happen.
*I refuse to twiddle my thumbs.
*I pledge to devote myself to my writing.
*I pledge to take my writing seriously while not taking myself too seriously.
*I do not need an MFA to make me into a writer.
*I already am a writer.
*I have enough tools and knowledge to start writing in earnest now, this very moment, this second, this moment in time. There is never a better time to start than now. There is never a more important sentence than the one I'm currently working on.
*I pledge to write new stories.
*I pledge to be honest in my writing.
*I pledge to only write about the things in which I believe.
*I pledge to not be cute.
*I pledge to kill my (literary) babies.
*I pledge I pledge I pledge I refuse I pledge, God damn it, from this moment on—writing Matters.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
JSF is an author and So Can You
Just got back from Jonathan Safran Foer reading... thoughts swirling... need to get this all down.
JSF is intensely devoted to his work. He is intensely literary. I don't know that I want to be that, necessarily, but what can I get from that? That this man puts all of himself behind his work. You get the idea he lives and breathes his work... that his work suffuses every atom of himself. When he interviews he's boring, when he talks he is slow and measured and heartbreakingly intellectual... and he is a man who writes. He gets stuff done. He wrote Everything Is Illuminated right after graduating (undergrad or grad?), and I'm thinking, God damn it, this guy believes in himself, he takes his own work seriously, he labors over it, believes in it, sees its potential.
Don't know if I want all of that. The believing part, though—I am, starting this very instant, going to do that more. Believe in my own work, see its potential, and work toward that potential. JSF is a great author who does great work... and I think it's because he believes so intensely in his own ability. I will, starting now, borrow that intensity of belief from him.
Thinking...books...could I write one? And what would it be? I'm thinking of this blog, I'm thinking of all these snippets of things. These moments in time. Short story collections don't sell. But The Things They Carried sells. Is TTTC a novel? To me, it's a collection of short stories... I guess you'd call it a series of interconnected stories. But, really, it's just a bunch of different attempts to get at some sort of truth. Attacking this thing called war from many different angles, different perspectives, different times... that, to me, is not daunting. That, to me, sounds fun. That is something I could do. What about? Subject matter... of course... the death of a mother. That, for me, is the heart. When I say that I think, Won't readers think, Oh great, another novel about a dead parent. That's my biggest hang-up about all this. Does anyone really want to read about that? About all of these depressing things? But isn't there beauty in it?
Tim O'Brien says that he dives into this huge pile of shit called War and tries to find some beauty in it. It's diving into this enormous mess and trying to salvage something. Couldn't I do that? Couldn't I dive into my mom's death and salvage things?
Wouldn't want it to be too sentimental. That's always my fear with this stuff—too sentimental, too this, too that—really, though, did that ever get anyone anywhere? Write your things, if it's too much cut back—but don't cut back before you've written the damn thing.
To me, that sounds like all sorts of heaven. Going at my mom's death from different angles. Tackling it with different pieces. Working around it, coming at it from under, the side, looking at it from up close, from far away.
Read TTTC and see how O'Brien does it? That could be good.
I also think of Vonnegut. Telling stories in these very small bite-sized chunks. Think Slaughterhouse-Five. Think any novel by Vonnegut. All these small chunks—that appeals to me, I think I can do that. These short little bursts of things... these short little bursts that, when you step back and look at them, are a Whole Thing.
And that's it. Wow those thoughts flew out of me, and I'm excited about these ideas. That maybe this blog-style writing isn't necessarily in vain. And I could have stories, and poems, and pictures, and I could have these what if things, like my What about an infinite telescope?
What if it was a boy's diary? What if I assume the character of a person trying to make sense out of all these things. A person who just throws all of these different things at this problem trying to make sense, trying to figure something out, trying to get something out of it.
Gets to the heart of: what am I interested in writing? What really captivates me? I love what if questions. I love bending reality. I love magical realism. I mean, we could tell false stories about what didn't happen. I love those, like in ELAIC at the end when Oskar talks about what it would be like if 9/11 played out in reverse, or when he invents things like the singing tea kettle, or the underground skyscraper that holds dead people. I love suffusing a text with those elements—it creates possibility. Best to do that early—show the reader the ropes—in my world, these are the possibilities, in my world, these things can happen, in my world, you have to be ready.
Read TTTC, read SH5, read ELAIC. That should be my spring break homework. Yes.
And let those ideas run.....~~~~
and run~~
and run~~~
JSF is intensely devoted to his work. He is intensely literary. I don't know that I want to be that, necessarily, but what can I get from that? That this man puts all of himself behind his work. You get the idea he lives and breathes his work... that his work suffuses every atom of himself. When he interviews he's boring, when he talks he is slow and measured and heartbreakingly intellectual... and he is a man who writes. He gets stuff done. He wrote Everything Is Illuminated right after graduating (undergrad or grad?), and I'm thinking, God damn it, this guy believes in himself, he takes his own work seriously, he labors over it, believes in it, sees its potential.
Don't know if I want all of that. The believing part, though—I am, starting this very instant, going to do that more. Believe in my own work, see its potential, and work toward that potential. JSF is a great author who does great work... and I think it's because he believes so intensely in his own ability. I will, starting now, borrow that intensity of belief from him.
Thinking...books...could I write one? And what would it be? I'm thinking of this blog, I'm thinking of all these snippets of things. These moments in time. Short story collections don't sell. But The Things They Carried sells. Is TTTC a novel? To me, it's a collection of short stories... I guess you'd call it a series of interconnected stories. But, really, it's just a bunch of different attempts to get at some sort of truth. Attacking this thing called war from many different angles, different perspectives, different times... that, to me, is not daunting. That, to me, sounds fun. That is something I could do. What about? Subject matter... of course... the death of a mother. That, for me, is the heart. When I say that I think, Won't readers think, Oh great, another novel about a dead parent. That's my biggest hang-up about all this. Does anyone really want to read about that? About all of these depressing things? But isn't there beauty in it?
Tim O'Brien says that he dives into this huge pile of shit called War and tries to find some beauty in it. It's diving into this enormous mess and trying to salvage something. Couldn't I do that? Couldn't I dive into my mom's death and salvage things?
Wouldn't want it to be too sentimental. That's always my fear with this stuff—too sentimental, too this, too that—really, though, did that ever get anyone anywhere? Write your things, if it's too much cut back—but don't cut back before you've written the damn thing.
To me, that sounds like all sorts of heaven. Going at my mom's death from different angles. Tackling it with different pieces. Working around it, coming at it from under, the side, looking at it from up close, from far away.
Read TTTC and see how O'Brien does it? That could be good.
I also think of Vonnegut. Telling stories in these very small bite-sized chunks. Think Slaughterhouse-Five. Think any novel by Vonnegut. All these small chunks—that appeals to me, I think I can do that. These short little bursts of things... these short little bursts that, when you step back and look at them, are a Whole Thing.
And that's it. Wow those thoughts flew out of me, and I'm excited about these ideas. That maybe this blog-style writing isn't necessarily in vain. And I could have stories, and poems, and pictures, and I could have these what if things, like my What about an infinite telescope?
What if it was a boy's diary? What if I assume the character of a person trying to make sense out of all these things. A person who just throws all of these different things at this problem trying to make sense, trying to figure something out, trying to get something out of it.
Gets to the heart of: what am I interested in writing? What really captivates me? I love what if questions. I love bending reality. I love magical realism. I mean, we could tell false stories about what didn't happen. I love those, like in ELAIC at the end when Oskar talks about what it would be like if 9/11 played out in reverse, or when he invents things like the singing tea kettle, or the underground skyscraper that holds dead people. I love suffusing a text with those elements—it creates possibility. Best to do that early—show the reader the ropes—in my world, these are the possibilities, in my world, these things can happen, in my world, you have to be ready.
Read TTTC, read SH5, read ELAIC. That should be my spring break homework. Yes.
And let those ideas run.....~~~~
and run~~
and run~~~
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Dust dust dust
I don't feel the rush to write today, that yummy energy that comes with juicy ideas . . . but I've got to do it anyway. I have ten minutes before I have to get ready for class and, damn it, I'm going to keep myself sharp . . . always keeping myself sharp.
Here are some thoughts.
Ash Wednesday is a funny day. I never know about it until I see people with greasy grey crosses etched in their foreheads. For a moment I almost say to them, Hey, you've got something just—there. I imagine rubbing it off with a singular, hard stroke of my thumb. Then I realize, and I think Oh, that's nice, that's pretty cool—And isn't it a great thing that your religion gives you this one day where everyone can do face paint?
I remember catching moths when I was young, until one day someone said to be careful. Be careful, they said. If you rub the dust off their wings they will no longer be able to fly. I imagined a magic, invisible powder coating the moth's papery pinions and when I caught them I was gentle. I would cup them in my hand and feel their fluttering little bodies dusting my palms and I would tell them to be still—don't rub it off, you won't be able to fly anymore.
I feel like I'm building images for later. Or for now. Who knows what they're for? And are they any good? And what are they worth? And how much could they really be worth, me sitting here ten minutes before class tossing them up lazily on the page in a few quick strokes. One day, I hope to be like Picasso. Once a woman asked Picasso for a sketch. He said, Sure, and after he had sketched something up he told her it would cost $10,000. The woman was astounded, said, But that didn't even take you five minutes! Isn't $10,000 too much for five minutes of work? And Picasso said, My friend, it took me thirty years to learn how to do that in five minutes.
One day I want to be like that. Which will take practice. Which will take effort. Which will take a lot of episodes of me sitting down to write when I don't want to for the sake of getting better.
Here are some thoughts.
Ash Wednesday is a funny day. I never know about it until I see people with greasy grey crosses etched in their foreheads. For a moment I almost say to them, Hey, you've got something just—there. I imagine rubbing it off with a singular, hard stroke of my thumb. Then I realize, and I think Oh, that's nice, that's pretty cool—And isn't it a great thing that your religion gives you this one day where everyone can do face paint?
I remember catching moths when I was young, until one day someone said to be careful. Be careful, they said. If you rub the dust off their wings they will no longer be able to fly. I imagined a magic, invisible powder coating the moth's papery pinions and when I caught them I was gentle. I would cup them in my hand and feel their fluttering little bodies dusting my palms and I would tell them to be still—don't rub it off, you won't be able to fly anymore.
I feel like I'm building images for later. Or for now. Who knows what they're for? And are they any good? And what are they worth? And how much could they really be worth, me sitting here ten minutes before class tossing them up lazily on the page in a few quick strokes. One day, I hope to be like Picasso. Once a woman asked Picasso for a sketch. He said, Sure, and after he had sketched something up he told her it would cost $10,000. The woman was astounded, said, But that didn't even take you five minutes! Isn't $10,000 too much for five minutes of work? And Picasso said, My friend, it took me thirty years to learn how to do that in five minutes.
One day I want to be like that. Which will take practice. Which will take effort. Which will take a lot of episodes of me sitting down to write when I don't want to for the sake of getting better.
Sunday, March 11, 2012
Clever plans and wishy washy brains
Yesterday was strange. I spent all day in front of the television watching soccer. This was my soccer day, the first day of the MLS season, and I'd planned it. All day, soccer. I deserved it. You know? I didn't like it. Being in front of the television all day made me feel like a zombie. When I'm watching television, or playing video games, or on the computer surfing the internet, I'm not exactly living life.
That got me thinking about myself as a kid. After Mom died I Plugged In. I plugged into my computer, I plugged into my television, I plugged into my video games. I Plugged In and the rest of the world dripped away and I put my reality inside a box. Who I was shifted from a place in my heart to a place on my screen, on the Internet, in the stories of video game characters . . . it was a coping mechanism, and I did what I had to do. Still, it made me sad to realize I had lived so much of my life like that. It's scary how quickly and thoroughly I removed myself from life, and how long my spirit lived inside those buzzing wires and electronic switches.
I watched some performances from Def Jam Poetry yesterday. I hadn't watched any in a while, and it got me excited to write and perform again. I was watching those, and I was thinking about the shows I've seen on campus, and I thought to myself, I can do that. I can do that, and I can do it well, and I'm not a poet but I can perform, and I'm not a poet but I can write. I'm going to give it a shot.
Life? Lately... from Heidi and my breakup until a week or so ago I had been struggling with intense longing. Not for Heidi... for friendships, and for one in particular, one I wanted very badly. And it just wasn't happening. You know? Not all people have to be Best Friends. That's the way life works. Still, I wanted it, I wanted it so much I thought about it all the time, and now it sounds more like Love than friendship, but I think I'll split the two and call it Infatuation—which it was. I was infatuated. Puppy love.
It's exciting to be infatuated. Touch and taste and sound and emotion got amplified twice over and I felt very alive. Also, my brain was invaded every second by daydreams—playing out scenarios, thinking about things I would say, things I would do, how I would win love. This is what I like to call Useless Thinking.
I had this great idea. I was sitting on the fourth floor stairwell in Meyer Library. It's a big, carpeted stairwell, and at the time every floor was closed except the first. If the first floor door were locked, I would be trapped in the stairwell. This got me thinking, and I hatched a Clever Plan.
Say I get trapped in the stairwell. Say I'm locked in until morning. Say I call this person and she comes. Behind the door, so close to me, separated by a simple slab of milled tree, she sits. And there we stay awake and we talk, and we pass notes under the locked doors, and we press our backs against each others through the wood, and we tell each other secrets, and why not? What would you say if you were trapped for twelve hours with nothing to do but keep each other company? I think special circumstances like that can change two people's relationship in profound ways. Ever been on a misadventure with someone? Ever gotten lost? Ever had to fight and claw with another person? You can't help but get close—it's in our biology, swirling remnants of our time as hunter gatherers, protecting each other from Wild Things. You're on an airplane about to crash—what do you say to your friend sitting next to you? That you love them? That all this time you've loved them in secret? And as far as telling them goes it took the prospect of death to get the guts. In the stairwell with our backs against the wood with our backs against each other's I would stay awake. And after a while I would whisper, "Are you asleep?" and she would say no, and I would tell her I love her. And then the next morning when the doors are unlocked it would be seeing her for the first time.
Yeah, it's a Clever Plan, and Clever Plans never work. Yeah, these are Silly Notions. Yeah, they're just fun tricks of the brain and don't mean anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
So? It's good to think about these things. Think about this: if this were your last day on Earth, what would you say to a person? What would you say if you didn't have the luxury of time? And why not say that thing now? And why not show your hand? And why not play your love on the table?
Anne Lamott talked about this in her excellent book on writing, Bird by Bird. She said to spend it all. Shoot it now. Give everything, right now—don't hold back. If you think of a great line and have the urge to save it for later, that's a sure sign that you should use it now. She says, you will always think of more good lines. She says, a good line is only good if you use it now.
It's true. And it's also true with people. You see someone at a party you've wanted to meet for a while. You go back in forth in your mind. Should I, shouldn't I, what will happen, what will they think of me. It's the Wishy Washy Brain. That indecision—I take it now as a sign. Just like in writing. It's a sign that now is the time to do this. If I'm apprehensive—perfect! Now you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you do it now you're doing it right. If I ever have the thought, "this can wait until later," that's a sure sign that no, it cannot.
How do you get to know someone deeply? It's been so long since I've tried. I feel rusty, out of practice. Do I still know how to make a person feel safe? Do I still know how to imbue trust in a person?
Open up, open up—and when you're very open, open yourself more still. And be kind. And be gentle. And respect the Nature of Things.
That got me thinking about myself as a kid. After Mom died I Plugged In. I plugged into my computer, I plugged into my television, I plugged into my video games. I Plugged In and the rest of the world dripped away and I put my reality inside a box. Who I was shifted from a place in my heart to a place on my screen, on the Internet, in the stories of video game characters . . . it was a coping mechanism, and I did what I had to do. Still, it made me sad to realize I had lived so much of my life like that. It's scary how quickly and thoroughly I removed myself from life, and how long my spirit lived inside those buzzing wires and electronic switches.
I watched some performances from Def Jam Poetry yesterday. I hadn't watched any in a while, and it got me excited to write and perform again. I was watching those, and I was thinking about the shows I've seen on campus, and I thought to myself, I can do that. I can do that, and I can do it well, and I'm not a poet but I can perform, and I'm not a poet but I can write. I'm going to give it a shot.
Life? Lately... from Heidi and my breakup until a week or so ago I had been struggling with intense longing. Not for Heidi... for friendships, and for one in particular, one I wanted very badly. And it just wasn't happening. You know? Not all people have to be Best Friends. That's the way life works. Still, I wanted it, I wanted it so much I thought about it all the time, and now it sounds more like Love than friendship, but I think I'll split the two and call it Infatuation—which it was. I was infatuated. Puppy love.
It's exciting to be infatuated. Touch and taste and sound and emotion got amplified twice over and I felt very alive. Also, my brain was invaded every second by daydreams—playing out scenarios, thinking about things I would say, things I would do, how I would win love. This is what I like to call Useless Thinking.
I had this great idea. I was sitting on the fourth floor stairwell in Meyer Library. It's a big, carpeted stairwell, and at the time every floor was closed except the first. If the first floor door were locked, I would be trapped in the stairwell. This got me thinking, and I hatched a Clever Plan.
Say I get trapped in the stairwell. Say I'm locked in until morning. Say I call this person and she comes. Behind the door, so close to me, separated by a simple slab of milled tree, she sits. And there we stay awake and we talk, and we pass notes under the locked doors, and we press our backs against each others through the wood, and we tell each other secrets, and why not? What would you say if you were trapped for twelve hours with nothing to do but keep each other company? I think special circumstances like that can change two people's relationship in profound ways. Ever been on a misadventure with someone? Ever gotten lost? Ever had to fight and claw with another person? You can't help but get close—it's in our biology, swirling remnants of our time as hunter gatherers, protecting each other from Wild Things. You're on an airplane about to crash—what do you say to your friend sitting next to you? That you love them? That all this time you've loved them in secret? And as far as telling them goes it took the prospect of death to get the guts. In the stairwell with our backs against the wood with our backs against each other's I would stay awake. And after a while I would whisper, "Are you asleep?" and she would say no, and I would tell her I love her. And then the next morning when the doors are unlocked it would be seeing her for the first time.
Yeah, it's a Clever Plan, and Clever Plans never work. Yeah, these are Silly Notions. Yeah, they're just fun tricks of the brain and don't mean anything. Yeah, yeah, yeah.
So? It's good to think about these things. Think about this: if this were your last day on Earth, what would you say to a person? What would you say if you didn't have the luxury of time? And why not say that thing now? And why not show your hand? And why not play your love on the table?
Anne Lamott talked about this in her excellent book on writing, Bird by Bird. She said to spend it all. Shoot it now. Give everything, right now—don't hold back. If you think of a great line and have the urge to save it for later, that's a sure sign that you should use it now. She says, you will always think of more good lines. She says, a good line is only good if you use it now.
It's true. And it's also true with people. You see someone at a party you've wanted to meet for a while. You go back in forth in your mind. Should I, shouldn't I, what will happen, what will they think of me. It's the Wishy Washy Brain. That indecision—I take it now as a sign. Just like in writing. It's a sign that now is the time to do this. If I'm apprehensive—perfect! Now you know without a shadow of a doubt that if you do it now you're doing it right. If I ever have the thought, "this can wait until later," that's a sure sign that no, it cannot.
How do you get to know someone deeply? It's been so long since I've tried. I feel rusty, out of practice. Do I still know how to make a person feel safe? Do I still know how to imbue trust in a person?
Open up, open up—and when you're very open, open yourself more still. And be kind. And be gentle. And respect the Nature of Things.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Ghost calls
Today was an Off Day. I'm blaming it on the full moon. Now I will howl at it...
...
I opened my window and howled and it felt pretty okay. What's the deal?
Sometimes I get ghost calls. I look at my phone and see it's my ex-girlfriend and I start feeling Off. Things rush back. I put down my phone and continue working, or playing ukulele, or whatever it is I'm doing that isn't Talking to my Ex. A while later I'll have a message and when I check it I hear minutes of far-away voices.
I always listen to the messages all the way through. What if she were in danger and I was the only person she thought of to call, and I will only be able to help her if I listen hard to the garbled voices on the other end? So that's what I do. There's never any message.
Like I said, it's a ghost call.
I ran into my ex-girlfriend at Olives today. I've been wondering how long it would take for us to run into each other, and I thought it might happen at Olives, and it did, and I wonder if I accidentally willed it to happen. I saw her come through the door, saw her see me, saw her almost turn around and leave. I said hi and waved. I tried to be friendly and cordial. She did not seem capable, so I stopped talking to her and focused on my breathing and closed my eyes and then focused on ordering my food. As I was leaving I turned around and said goodbye, and left, and she followed me out.
She said sorry and asked if it was weird. I said, Yes, it is weird. We were both going the same way so we talked for a bit. She's been doing a lot of things for herself lately and has lots of interviews and I was happy to hear that. I was also happy to not spend more time talking than was needed.
She asked me how I was. I said, Very good. I told her I was writing a lot. I said, I'd better go.
She said, Your birthday's coming up.
The small hairs on my nape jumped. Yes, it is, I said. I knew she was trying to get me to say something about my birthday, about how I wanted to see her, about how I would save a slice of my day for her.
I did not say anything about my birthday. I said I had no plans. I did not say I would see her. This was me doing a good job of Protecting Boundaries.
Before we parted ways she asked again, Was this weird?
I said, Yes. Because it was weird and I wasn't going to lie.
She said, Why?
I thought, Why the fuck do you think, we haven't talked since you tried to wrangle me into the relationship again and you're trying to wrangle me into things right now, and it's just hard to see an ex-significant-other right after breaking up, and isn't that something everyone knows?
I said, Well we haven't talked since the break-up, so it's bound to be weird.
I could tell she wanted some sort of unsaid promise that things would get better between us. Giving those promises wasn't in my heart, so I didn't give them. That was me doing a good job Protecting Boundaries again.
Afterward, I felt off. Cold shivers. Need to take a shower. Bad juju. Fingers poking at stitches. Just—yuck.
Maybe that's why I've felt off today. I'm not sure. I'm happy if I'm happy, I'm happy if I'm sad, I'm happy if I'm lonely—because I'm feeling something. Now, I feel very blank, and that is something I do not like. Blankness has no energy. You can't do anything with blankness.
The best thing to do, I think, is to just let it go. I feel blank. Tomorrow, I will not feel blank. Two minutes from now, I may not feel blank. So, It's Okay.
I don't like Ghost Calls. I don't like Unexpected Run-Ins. Damn.
...
I opened my window and howled and it felt pretty okay. What's the deal?
Sometimes I get ghost calls. I look at my phone and see it's my ex-girlfriend and I start feeling Off. Things rush back. I put down my phone and continue working, or playing ukulele, or whatever it is I'm doing that isn't Talking to my Ex. A while later I'll have a message and when I check it I hear minutes of far-away voices.
I always listen to the messages all the way through. What if she were in danger and I was the only person she thought of to call, and I will only be able to help her if I listen hard to the garbled voices on the other end? So that's what I do. There's never any message.
Like I said, it's a ghost call.
I ran into my ex-girlfriend at Olives today. I've been wondering how long it would take for us to run into each other, and I thought it might happen at Olives, and it did, and I wonder if I accidentally willed it to happen. I saw her come through the door, saw her see me, saw her almost turn around and leave. I said hi and waved. I tried to be friendly and cordial. She did not seem capable, so I stopped talking to her and focused on my breathing and closed my eyes and then focused on ordering my food. As I was leaving I turned around and said goodbye, and left, and she followed me out.
She said sorry and asked if it was weird. I said, Yes, it is weird. We were both going the same way so we talked for a bit. She's been doing a lot of things for herself lately and has lots of interviews and I was happy to hear that. I was also happy to not spend more time talking than was needed.
She asked me how I was. I said, Very good. I told her I was writing a lot. I said, I'd better go.
She said, Your birthday's coming up.
The small hairs on my nape jumped. Yes, it is, I said. I knew she was trying to get me to say something about my birthday, about how I wanted to see her, about how I would save a slice of my day for her.
I did not say anything about my birthday. I said I had no plans. I did not say I would see her. This was me doing a good job of Protecting Boundaries.
Before we parted ways she asked again, Was this weird?
I said, Yes. Because it was weird and I wasn't going to lie.
She said, Why?
I thought, Why the fuck do you think, we haven't talked since you tried to wrangle me into the relationship again and you're trying to wrangle me into things right now, and it's just hard to see an ex-significant-other right after breaking up, and isn't that something everyone knows?
I said, Well we haven't talked since the break-up, so it's bound to be weird.
I could tell she wanted some sort of unsaid promise that things would get better between us. Giving those promises wasn't in my heart, so I didn't give them. That was me doing a good job Protecting Boundaries again.
Afterward, I felt off. Cold shivers. Need to take a shower. Bad juju. Fingers poking at stitches. Just—yuck.
Maybe that's why I've felt off today. I'm not sure. I'm happy if I'm happy, I'm happy if I'm sad, I'm happy if I'm lonely—because I'm feeling something. Now, I feel very blank, and that is something I do not like. Blankness has no energy. You can't do anything with blankness.
The best thing to do, I think, is to just let it go. I feel blank. Tomorrow, I will not feel blank. Two minutes from now, I may not feel blank. So, It's Okay.
I don't like Ghost Calls. I don't like Unexpected Run-Ins. Damn.
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