Next thing I know, weeks pass.
Things are noisy, everywhere. I bought some manner of foot soak. I try to chase that moment in between thoughts that the (audio) book says is our lifeline to eternity (not in those words) while staring at the white bathroom tiles.
Nights are good, mostly. Weekends were crazy (first time at Sonya's and then Anawangin), several lunches were free, I have met (and re-met) some of the more interesting / well-adjusted members of society.
A frustration I have gotten over but not so: I had wanted for so long to become a great man. The kind that thinks of big things and little things, the long and the short, the stories beneath histories, the mastery of the art of living. Being a woman is a chore, but (okay) is not without perks.
We took a visiting man from the office somewhere cold and he had a mind as big as the sky. He was talking about his daughter's beach wedding and the perfect sunrise and he remarked how he found it funny that we thought it would have been great to take a picture of that moment to capture it for eternity.
He was really laughing at: being in a crowd about to witness an actual rocket launch (this guy was this close to becoming an astronaut but busted the fantasy by revealing that a big chunk of space travel was like being locked up in a bathroom with five other guys for months--sure an earth rise for real would have been cool but that's all you get out of it). The ground begins to tremble and the boosters start spewing enormous amounts of fire and energy, getting ready for takeoff. As the rocket leaves the earth--click click click--he looks around, and people are looking through viewfinders, taking pictures. This is it, a moment of historical significance, and he was the only one at the viewing deck who actually saw it with his bare eyes.
You get old and you get the angas to say these things to younger people. The good thing with being young is you can get a crash course on a lotta stuff by talking to them nice old people. I just say old with a lot of fondness but there's absolutely nothing old about people who are living lives they are in love with.
This week I've been grappling with the realization that even if I get a kick out of thinking I can take care of people, the truth is I am at my best when I can take care of me.
It's been fun so far. While at Fully Booked a while ago I noticed I used to make up stories about groups with an assortment of characters when I was younger but now the thought of sitting with one major character throughout a project is no longer as scary. Maybe you really can't separate the writer from what is written--there must be theories about that but I don't do theories unless I've made them up myself.
I don't read as much as I say I do. They take away time from making up stuff. And although making up stuff is not like drawing blood for me, making up universes is. That is why I need all the brain cells I can get.
Speaking of brain cells, I lost some this weekend. Predictably, there was a theme for the night and it was this: that the two white things from the beach must have been goats.
Speaking of predictability, this afternoon Eric wanted to talk to me about stuff, and at one point he actually read my mind and answered the question that had formed in my head but wasn't able to deliver on account of a particularly bothersome mouth sore at the edge of my mouth. A sad thing to be so damn consistent, I say in my head. He really could have carried out that conversation without me in the room. Tragic.
Speaking of writing, I must, as it is 10:30 and I have things in my head I need to write.
Note to self: don't abandon the blog. It has feelings.