n. frustration with how long it takes to get to know someone—spending the first few weeks chatting in their psychological entryway, with each subsequent conversation like entering a different anteroom, each a little closer to the center of the house—wishing instead that you could start there and…
2. This afternoon I had a nice little moment with Joe Jonas when he held my hand and I saw that he had lovely-colored eyes. If nothing else, it’s comforting to know that my heart is still able to flutter.
It’s early in the morning. I’m sitting by the window with my toast and coffee, and snow has begun to fall. We’d given up on more snow this year—taken it personally, even. But gently, gently now it fills up all the cracks. Flowerbeds are the first to go, with those early crocuses & daffodils, then branches and window ledges and all the rest of it. I woke up feeling a little lighter: heart a little less heavy, hands a bit more able. They’re such strange things, lightness & sadness, coming and going seemingly of their own volition. And yet, I can’t help trying to hold onto lightness as though convincing snow not to melt. “Stay. Please, stay.”
After a few scrapes at the bottom of the well, a few good meals, and a lot of sleep, I worked through some thoughts gently in the morning sunshine and felt a bit better.
If only mornings weren’t interrupted by the intrusion of the rest of the day. I’m trying to think of nice things, trying to stay within an arm’s length of alright. Tea, Downton Abbey, & a blanket to see me through.
Drinking cabernet sauvignon and reading Fitzgerald. The Beautiful and the Damned.
I learned last week that my great-grandmother commited suicide. She traveled Europe as a dancer, fell in love with an Italian comedian, had my grandmother, and fled back to England during WWII. Then one day she took sleeping pills, stepped into a bath, and fell asleep. How could I not know such a thing about one whose existence gave me my own? And I can’t stop wondering—how much of her is in me?
Early morning rain, a cup of coffee to warm your hands, the soft light of the lamp, and heart-string music. Eventually the day will have to begin, and you’ll be whisked away from yourself—but not yet. You are all yours for a few more gentle minutes.
“May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.”—Neil Gaiman
Saturdays are both the happiest and saddest day of my week. Morning is a very simple joy: waking slowly, not having to work, sipping coffee in my pajamas in the sunshine. There’s so much possibility in morning. Even the middle of the day has a sense of goodness to it, but I always get a sinking feeling when the sun goes down. I suppose I’m lonely or bored or lacking purpose. And besides, I’m suffering an enormous sugar crash after making a batch of eucalyptus lollies and eating half of it.
“Oh, but you mustn’t stop there—just at the most interesting part. Go on." "But you see, Miss Helier, this isn’t a serial story. This is real life; and real life stops just where it chooses.”—Agatha Christie, The Thirteen Problems
Falling into deep, cozy conversation with a familiar old friend such that time and space temporarily slip away. Perhaps it’s late at night. Perhaps you’ve both had a little something to drink. Likely, you are reminiscing together about times so long ago that they seem like another life. And perhaps you say so, feeling that in a quarter century (or so) you have lived several lives. “No, no other lifetimes,” they assure you, “you’re always you and I’m always me. That’s just life.”