I came home, turned back my sleeping computer and remembered, blearily, that I was searching “young Bernie Sanders” last night.
So I am questioning what is best to do right at this particular juncture. The cats, some will be pleased to know, have been fed and are now sleeping or hiding from this steady rainstorm, these bowling gods rolling strikes overhead. I, too, have supped and am just at the natural point of sickening. I know I need to keep writing, keep getting the outline scraped up and laid out on the table for closer inspection, but I think finishing this first will reduce one more distraction.
I am, as has been one of my unrealized hopes for many a moon, entirely alone. I don’t know why, but my body feels some sort of psychic corset come off and my spirit begins to draw back in all that lost elan vitae that burns off when I’m accompanied. When there’s someone else to worry about. How many years, dorm rooms, apartments, travels have been conquered by the steady processing of my own head focusing on my own business. Of course, I got so much wrong, set so many failed policies, but I also built strength you can’t have if you have a backup plan, an auxiliary power supply.
I am thinking of Florence now, and the hotel room that was mine for twenty-four hours. The fact that I got there on my own, that I could handle all the ups and downs, even the sudden unexpected panic of what in the holy hell am I doing here after days of being in Italy without a question as to whether I could do it, I swear, the time I spend accountable to my own self makes that possible. It is part of why it’s hard to envision a life of partnership. I feel locked up and needing to be appropriate, I stop thinking about “can I just run out and get this thing I have to do done” and it’s all about, “How can we both do this, how can you do this for me so I can zone out and live in the middle distances while we go?” In some senses, anyway.
Is this the devil having fun? We have to balance what is possible with what is sane and safe and that has such a weight attached to it that it must be balanced again by a willingness to push. I haven’t been so willing to push of late, and I need to, right past these memories. These anxieties and worries.
I want to have written this. It doesn’t matter if it’s awful. It will be the best I know how to do right now and there’s another story pushing behind it, making it move through me. It’s time to let it go. It’s time for so many new things my heart is craving. The denial of these desires has puckered my edges, frayed my hems.
It was my uncle’s funeral today. Everyone says it was a nice service.
I am alone, alone, alone enough.