i could write about how beautiful winter is here
that right now the rain is dripping over the green and flowering
back garden and tree-hidden houses behind my building.
i could write about how i feel stuck on this writing/
self-inventory i’m supposed to be doing, and haven’t been able
to work on because we’re not doing it the way
it was designed, and i feel lost and unsupported
and conflicted about telling the person I’m working
with because i have before and things haven’t
changed, and I don’t know if it’s just me being
stubborn or avoidant or if this is really just
too precarious to attempt by myself, when
the work was designed to be done in person
with another person.
i could write about how i cancelled my audition
in san jose last night because a) i didn’t realize
how far san jose was, and b) i think i might get
the role I auditioned for on wednesday in Marin
and the plays run concurrently.
i could write about coming home last night, instead,
and “resting,” actually lying on the couch after cutting
up some beets and turnips and putting them in the oven
and putting a blanket over me and my heating pad and
shutting my eyes. and just letting myself and my eyes,
rest while the vegetables roasted. how luxurious it felt
to simply do nothing – not nothing, aka watch netflix,
not nothing aka clean my house, just nothing, and not
nothing aka meditate, which could be similar but wasn’t
as my mind wandered and i let it, and i let it get a little
and out of focus as my cat balled up in my lap to rest, too.
i could write about my friend texting me his friend’s dad is
about to die from cancer, and texting him my sympathy, but
that i wasn’t available to process around grief of that
I could tell you, it’s because it’s too activating for me
it reminds me that my cancer is only a year past, that last
at this time i was preparing for my fifth and final round of
and hearing about someone else’s cancer just reminds me how
close i am to mine.
that’s not why i didn’t want to hear
about it. i don’t want to hear about your friend’s cancer because i
don’t care. because i realized when i got his text that i am
so viciously angry about what happened that i don’t have
to be compassionate, really. because i only have room to
about my own cancer, and to especially not think about it.
not touch into the feelings I still have about it.
and then we’re back
to the work that i’m not writing about right now that’s
exorcise and alchemize resentment and trauma and pain.
i could tell you that i don’t give a shit that other people
and you’re having feelings of finality and loss and grief,
i sat in the sodden, rotten trench of it for a year, and i’m
right now that i hadn’t. that i hadn’t had to think about
every single day. that the finality of life wasn’t consistently licking
at my ear, whispering about carpe diem and fatal rules about forgiveness
as health. and boo-fucking-hoo that any of you now are called to
process such things with such naive surprise as if none of this existed
before it happened to someone you have a glancing acquaintance with.
i could tell you i looked into the woman who’s profession is
helping others heal from trauma. and that my tax return
toward sessions with her, or someone she recommends in the
i could tell you that my eyes hurt from looking at computers
all the time
and that i’m also grateful that my job doesn’t include
in the rain or food service or pest removal or any other thing unpleasant.
i could write about any of these things. but
i guess i just did.