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Mundane Happenings 4...
If I’m honest it hasn’t felt mundane at all. So much has been happening. Regardless, the warm ups are back.
Any number of things from any number of yesterdays. That appear ugly or troubling but upon closer inspection are perhaps beautiful.
The kind of exhaustion that renders the body unable to fight off sickness. The way the headache struck swiftly as I exited a date. The process of succumbing instead of going out for drinks (yes I double book sometimes) with someone else. The process of succumbing instead of rallying for the MOPOP so as not to be “the flaky friend” in this flaky city. Ibuprofen, magnesium, vitamin c, d, b, throat lozenges and tea. More sleep than I have gotten in weeks. 14 hours to be exact. Waking up dazed, slightly confused but without the headache.
Family members who are going through a rough patch. Complicated but beloved. A midnight text message before a massive work event that I am coordinating. Sitting in the helplessness of being. 2748 miles from the hospital. Sitting in the helplessness of not knowing how. From such a great distance. Waiting but not being sure the updates will come because after all it’s complicated. Rising before the sun. 10 miles it turns out is not enough… but 30 degree mornings do shock into temporary homeostasis.
The rug moves like water beneath me. I stare into its ripples, watch the patterns burst and dance across. A pink box on the floor, something about losing weight. My confusion. My closed eyes. Laying my body down. The sound of friends giggling close enough that I do not feel alone.
A writing deadline. My own critical self talk. Big questions and too much complexity. Bomb ass enchiladas and mezcal shots. Honorary Mexican if you can pass the test. Laughter. Sounds of tenderness as I write. A preface for wanting.
Gripping, jaw clenched on the phone, holding onto the one brain cell that I hope is not too high to be having this particular conversation. Writing more and then giving up. Sometimes making the deadline is enough.
Two white men clamor for a chance to speak. One of them wants to know exactly what the book was referencing in November 2016. I lived on QA at the time in a tiny shoebox studio on Galer. I remember walking through the neighborhood on that day. I remember exactly the energy in the air. The way a so-called liberal city stopped laughing to hold its collective breath. Not “all” white women but 60%. The beauty of delusions ripped asunder. The intake of breath when the truth is too much to bear. And the way the sun still rose.
I watched the faces of the not “all” white women in the room. One who clutched imaginary pearls and shielded her face. So many truths we will not forget.
HOLY Fuck that book. An insufferably unreliable narrator. The white man we all know but wish- we didn’t. call a friend, ex, lover, boss. The ones we closed our eyes for and pretended to believe. Not know. Unsee. Lying as culture. as virtue- signaling. Roleplaying more goodness than has ever been real in this country. Delusions ripped asunder by the violence of it all. An absurdity that demands laughter. Fresh hells on every page. Me cooking while reading. Walking while reading. On an emotional journey through a neighborhood I used to live in. In a culture I have known my whole life. The terror of it all and then the slightest glimmer of hope. The author offers mercy. Mercy is a black character named Essence, because who better. (shout out to Jodi-Ann for receiving all the giphs, videos, and voice memos I sent while reading. A real one) and Sonora Jha is brilliant.
When you are no longer into fighting.
When you have fought with enough people to know who you do not want to be.
And the only beautiful thing is the clarity that comes from explicitly asking for what you need and being aggressively refused.
Anxious days spent mostly not eating. ½ a protein bar here, a few blackberries there. And then, at last, rosemary truffle fries.