I wrote this post a year and nine months ago. I was so unhappy then, dying physically and emotionally faster than any 41-year-old woman ought to be.
It makes me so sad to read it, so sad for that poor, sad, chasing-after-the-wrong-things girl, sad on a level that makes me suck in my stomach like I got punched.
And yet, I'm so, so grateful, more than I can tell you, more than this scary blank text box can express by any means, ever. I'm so concurrently happy and giddy and STUPID with this new gratitude that there were other possibilities, that something beyond the confines of my brain and body was at work to conspire for my good when I absolutely could not, although that's certainly what I thought I was doing, what I've thought I've been doing all along. My circuits were jammed. My picker -- for people, for places, for trustworthy sources of, well, almost everything good, both inside and outside of myself -- was smashed.
Things were sideways, all the time, and now they are a little less so. I'm still picking and choosing the words for how they were and how they are, because that latter thing is, as I know it must be now, a shape-shifter. It shot out of something way, way bigger than me and is taking its own form now, housed in the body of a woman who is really, for now, just along for the very daily ride.
I'm more protective of what I say than I have ever been, which is to say that I'm protective at all. I'm more interested in who I talk to and what my words mean, too, not just for me, but for the people I'm lobbing them at, the people I'm tacitly asking to engage, I guess, at least to some extent. I'm not as into barfing them all out into the void as I used to be, for various reasons, but mostly because (and this is freedom) I don't have to anymore, for any particular reason. I don't need it like I did. I don't really need it at all. That part was, shockingly to me, one of the easiest to let go (as I realize as I type this is true of most of the things I thought were the most crucial, particularly in the last few years of driving my psychic car repeatedly into the same old walls. People are sort of inherently dumb, bless our lumbering hearts.)
That doesn't mean I don't miss it sometimes, though. It doesn't mean blogging hasn't been really good for me and to me, in most of the ways that matter. It's still pretty much the easiest thing I can do. And so today when I came across the Bukowski poem again today that I quoted at the top, and it reminded me of this post, I let it lead me back to here, and I started typing.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
Word, and also, hi. That's mostly what's been going on around here. I've been kind of busy, beating death in life. It's as dramatic and as basic and boring as it can be, at the same time.
I may try this every day thing again, I may not, but at least for today, I did.
November's calling. It always does.