Equinoxes

It was the end of April, and I was blooming in the riotous peak of spring.

The curls that had framed my frazzled head from pre-puberty through my depressed and searching 20s and the very beginning of my 30s were leaving me, replaced with relaxed, natural waves — the kind I’d always dreamed of having when I was younger, but could never achieve. My skin was slowly healing, evening out in tone. My body no longer felt like such a betrayal, such an ugly stranger.

I had brought a new little familiar into my life; the first time I’d be caring for an animal entirely on my own. I was becoming more myself than I’d ever been.

I was falling in love again, not quite as much in denial about it as the one before, and while simultaneously losing that first ever love — the one who’d both helped me to grow, while also putting me through more than I knew how to take; who’d both said some of the most wonderful things I’d ever heard, and by far the worst thing — and I needed to finally be honest and open to both. The one I was falling into in its place might very well have been as hopeless as the one preceding it, but it was beyond too late to stop it; I could only accept it.

I was beginning to write my memoirs. I needed to both let go, and embrace whatever my future held. I had to let go. It was the hardest thing I’d ever done. I needed to create, to move on, to move forward. I needed to finally see myself.

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A: Just More of the Same

Q: What’s another hundred days, on top of the 365 already preceding?

Ah, right. That.

I genuinely pity whoever falls for this same bullshit the next time. And the next, and the next…

 

 

How do I work this?

I had a thing, for a good portion of my years in school, all the way up through high school — likely influenced at least somewhat by my godfather, a highly sought after architect of, at that time, the richest homeowners in the country — about occasionally but obsessively designing my own imaginary house. Thinking back now, I’m not entirely sure where the desire to do so came from: I loved my childhood house. (And I do mean I loved it; I was fiercely devoted to it in a way I’ve never felt about any other place I’ve lived, observed and lived within it with deep affection and attachment for as long as I could remember, photographed it obsessively once I knew we’d be moving out after 17 years living there.)

doors

Doors (Carmel Valley, 19 April 2004). When I say I documented my childhood house obsessively, before we left (June 2004), I mean it sincerely. There was a light that lived in that house, which I did my best to capture — my father imparted to me the importance of the meaning of photography, which is “to paint with light” — but have never encountered anywhere else I’ve visited or lived. I’m always looking for it, but I have never found it again. I don’t imagine I ever will. The only place it still lives is in a few achingly earnest photographs I took when I was 17 and mourning.

Maybe it was just one more way of exercising my visual thinking acuity, or just another doodling outlet or outlet for my little Lego-loving ass… Maybe it was just a little girl who’d never known what it was like to have money trying to imagine a world where you get to create your own living space, the way they entice you to do in home style magazines and those early demo computers in hardware stores: the way rich people do. It definitely is to blame for my long-lasting and bizarrely fierce dedication to the use of graphing paper. To this day, any time I move, I still create a scale model of the room I’ll be moving into, complete with loose pieces representing every piece of furniture, and plot it all out before I actually lift any boxes or hammer any nails in.

This past weekend, the landlord has been (finally) doing some sorely needed renovations on the main bathroom in our apartment, which meant all three of us needed to find somewhere else to shower for a few days, while the paint and new caulking dried. Thanks to a very fortunate bit of timing, another tenant in the building, who’d lived in one of the upstairs units, to the east side of the building, just moved out at the end of January; we were able to wheedle the landlord’sĀ permission to leave the back door to the place open for a few days, so we could make use of the shower up there, in the now vacant unit. I’ve lived in this building for over four years now, but I’d never once ventured upstairs, or even into another one of the six or seven other units, until now. (The fact that I’m honestly not sure — still! — whether there are six or seven besides ours probably makes that fairly embarrassingly clear.)

Walking into that apartment for the first time the other day, I was a bit floored, and suddenly wished, in a way I hadn’t done in many long years, that I could afford to live on my own. It reminded me of a game I once played with a childhood friend, where we’d run across the street from our neighborhood to the freshly built houses across the street — as San Diego expanded wildly in all directions and overbuilt itself into a sprawling suburban, traffic-ridden hell arguably worse than the bits of LA everyone bitches about the most — let ourselves into one of the three furnished model units the realtors always seemed to leave unlocked, and play dream house in them. But this, now, was somehow even better: this apartment here is, for the time being, blissfully empty. It’s a truly blank canvas.

It’s smaller overall, with fewer rooms — meant for one tenant (at most two), whereas we’re able to fit three into ours fairly well — and the bathroom itself, our point for having access to it now, is certainly smaller than ours. (No dedicated parking space either, so far as I know.) But… hardwood floors! Be still my heart. An A/C unit in the living room! Fewer rooms means they’re all at least somewhat larger, too, particularly the kitchen. Though the first thing I swooned at, even before the flooring, was the large picture windows facing out onto the main street. Sure, the bedroom is the closest to the street, but I sleep like the dead, so what do I care about road noise? Those windows are heavenly. There’s a ceiling fan in the bathroom, and their window isn’t painted shut! The air flow is divine. Then, of course, I turn to my right, and discover the walk-in closet, with its own window, and die a little inside. And, of course, fall a bit hopelessly in love with the whole thing.

It’s arguably a sillier fantasy now than it was when I was a little girl; pretending this great empty space is something I can furnish and arrange to my liking. At the rate I’m going, I’ll die never having had the luxury of living alone, let alone owning (or even renting) any property just for myself. Even considering it seems absurd. Still, for the first time since childhood, I know at least one little corner of my mind will be laying graphing paper gridding over those rooms in my mind, imagining what I could make of that fresh, open space, in that fantasy world that will never be, where it’s mine to do with whatever I want. Is it better or worse to be dreaming a little about a space that’s not only not entirely made up, for once, but that’s just a short trip up the stairs from where you already are? I’m honestly not sure.

Same as it ever was, same as it ever was…

 

via Daily Prompt: Permit

So goodnight, dear void.

I shut this blog down some months ago, and I wasn’t sure when, or even if, I would ever revisit it. I wrote a good amount in it, for a while, but I wasn’t yet ready to confront myself fully within it. I know this because, inevitably, any time I posted anything, I was gripped eventually, if not almost immediately, by an insane desire to scrub the entirety of it, and possibly myself right along with it, from the earth. I could, and did, write honestly, but in a way that was the biggest problem. I could write these things about myself with a clear mind in the moments of initial expression, but then merely sitting back and being faced with myself as I am, once the words were down, even in bits and pieces, seemed somehow unbearable.

I’m more accepting of myself now. And I do believe I’m at least marginally less a ridiculous asshole than I was the last time I wrote here. I am at least more comfortable now with the fact that no one will likely ever read, nor care, about a single word left here but me.

Truth is: I’m the most impassioned pragmatist you’ll ever know; my fiercely guarded heart is more readily hijacked by hope than my deeply cynical ass will ever permit you to know.

Last year, that absolute bitch of a year, once it became obvious that my only really regular reader had completely disengaged, and that I was, in effect, writing to just one more empty room, I decided it was time to close up shop. It was all just a bit too on-the-nose emblematic of what the year had already cost me, and I did not need any more reminders. I’ve already got plenty of disparate Notepad documents languishing on my hard drive, full of ever-growing strands of thoughts to peck away at, if I really feel that strong an urge to loose another echo down the chamber; doing so in yet another pseudo-public space struck me as rather redundant, if not pathetic. I’m no stranger to talking to myself, after all; no true loner ever is. What use was one more anonymous, lonely space in which to do so? I had grown too disillusioned with it, by that time, to continue sincerely.

I’m not entirely sure what I’m opening this thing back up for, even now, while we’re being honest (and I suppose that would have to be the royal We; there’s no one else here left to address). It may be a decision — now that my mental health is much stronger, and I have far fewer fucks remaining to give — driven entirely by ambivalence. I do miss the community of a space, like an old (much different) blog of mine once had, but which has also since mostly died (yet is another space I seem bound to stubbornly keep alive). Who knows? Perhaps I’m just too old for blogging in this particular platform. I had hoped for more, and even had a bit, for a little while, until I didn’t.

We shall see. For now, I’ve only restored a fraction of the original content that once lived here; either pieces that actually did result in some small form of interaction at the time, or that I might have been somewhat proud of then, even if I’m not at all sure whether I can call myself proud of any of them any longer. The whole thing may disappear again, perhaps permanently, mere months from now; then again, it may not. My patience with its apparent pointlessness remains, for the time being, open, albeit limited. I’m hardly a writer, but then again, if the notion of constructing even the barest memoirs sometime in my future is ever meant to be realized, I imagine I will have to become far more accepting of the yawning futility of this space, first.