Every scar out here is a startrail.
words words words words words also health
That title is the most recent line from my current work-in-progress, which is volume 2 of a memoir-in-progress, not to be confused with a novel that’s coming together in a notebook. I honestly can’t tell if I’m inspired or compulsive, if this is a gift or a condition. The memoir was not supposed to be two volumes, but when I came to a sensible conclusion on page 221 on the first work, I thought, “I really didn’t get everything,” and as I was consciously forming that thought I was unconsciously opening a new document. Volume 2 began of it’s own accord, more or less.
On twitter, I semi-joked that my title might be Why Am I Telling You All This? but enough people genuinely liked that title that by George that might be it! Let me know if you have thoughts. It might be the case that once I send these two volumes out to whomever is mad enough to volunteer to read it all, I will come to understand that this should be an epic single volume and not two books. Who knows, about that or anything.
My stomach is inflamed to an unprecedented degree, something that started yesterday morning and had me relieved that our reliable Urgent Care is a pleasant 15-minute walk way from our apartment, and yesterday, unlike today, the weather remembered what season it is. My stomach is reacting to a lot of things, as the body will do: someone I thought I could trust made me feel unsafe which is never fun (they’re at a considerable distance, so I was never actually in danger, but it was a stressful experience nonetheless) and this inflammation surged up the day after that. This on top of the out-of-control uncertainty of not knowing which state in the Union we’re moving to when our lease is up in a month and a half. Never have I had to submit so hard as to two particular MFA admission committees.
It strikes me that when I started the first volume of this memoir-thing I got COVID and now, 50-something pages into vol. 2, my stomach is warring with me. Even the most vulnerable artistic expression doesn’t cause COVID, that much I know, but I’ve started to wonder if acting like I can move in the world to any sane-looking degree while working on these projects is demanding more of my mind and body than I’m built to strictly handle. There are a lot of really, really, really normal people here: if you’re not in the Bay Area than dispel toute suite any images you might have of San Francisco being a welcoming and open-minded place for weirdness. Even me at my most DGAF is still going to be necessarily tampered down just to get from point A to point B in peace. My point B is usually the movie theater or the gym (they’re in the same mall), and yesterday while waiting for my Urgent Care appointment and not physically capable of doing much else, I saw Renfield. I’ve been looking forward to this movie for a multitude of reasons but I did not expect it to take place in New Orleans. When I saw the place for which I am perpetually homesick casually specified on the screen — New Orleans, Present Day — I started unexpectedly crying. I’m guessing I’m the only person who cried at Renfield, which is otherwise a raucous horror-camp romp of a good time.
The Urgent Care is also in the mall, I should add, as are any and all restaurants I rely on for my post-workout protein fix. What would I do without the Stonestown Galleria? I can’t imagine. It is the center of my life. Which is sad. This is a less dramatic reason why I have to get out of here.
Yes I can get on MUNI and go anywhere, but have you ever traveled on MUNI? It is spiritually eviscerating. I’ve had full days out where my day itself has been excellent, wonderful and unforgettable even, and yet I still feel drained when I get home. Once upon a time I traveled with a companion around this fair city, and we effortlessly filled each other’s wellsprings. Ian and I travel differently, usually sticking to walks or hikes in nature after which our souls have been soothed to such a degree that the return to “civilization” is a welcome one.
I can go to Golden Gate park alone and I probably should, and I would, but the problem is, it’s always so cold! Why is it never warm here except those 3 days in October? “It’s San Francisco summer!” Ian’s coworkers gleefully proclaimed over that brief autumn stretch. “What are you doing to celebrate it?”
Summer is supposed to last for months, it’s supposed to melt our sense of reason. SF people like the crisp-brisk-wet-cold because they’re attached to their sense of reason. I’m not. A hedonist with questionable executive functioning is not the most sensible of existences but it works for what I want out of life, at least for now.
I would like to announce that when I started writing this I had a cup of tea that I forgot about in the course of sharing with you. I’m apt to say “Let me live my life!” When Ian gets up, notices my mostly-full cup, and says “oh my god you haven’t drank your tea!” a frequent occurrence, but he’s right, it is freezing now. Oh well, good thing I like iced tea, even though it’s not the right-now season for it, despite the fact that IT SHOULD BE.
Other announcements: I got a bit peckish and there happens to be a bag of pistachios on the arm of the couch on which I’m sitting so I started eating them.
It’s a mad mad mad mad life. No wonder this memoir spans two volumes!
