Where do you start when there is no beginning?
I had nestled into a beanbag with a book when I felt restless. I was overcome by the urge to write exactly as I was appeasing the urge to read. I felt torn, I wanted to try and capture the moment, but I was scared of what might happen if I put down the book. Momentum is fleeting, and I was caught between an unstoppable force and an immovable object that threatened to move elsewhere.
I got up, and I reached for my poncho. It's an old poncho that I'm rather fond of, it smells like winter and old houses. I put it on because I needed to feel warm, warmer, but I wasn't cold.
I struggled to make a simple decision, to read or to write? What if in trying, I lose both? It was terrifying, and I felt very weak. I made it to the sink, and then I made it here. Now that I'm here, trying to pour my soul and find my voice in what feels like the first session of introspection I've had in years; I judge my writing. My form is weak, I've been whoring my pen out for far too long, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm here.
I had a moment today. Well, I had a few, but I don't want to force it. This quick brown fox might jump over the lazy dog then run off into a distant foxhole and I wouldn't be able to write again for years.
This week, I spent 700 EGP on self-care products. The name irks me, it makes them sound like we have to buy them for our own good, when in fact, they were useless. A perfumed body lotion from Victoria Secret that smells like exotic mangoes and promises glittery evenings with shiny-torsoed men. A strawberry body splash that reminds me of an older, much younger, me. A spherical lip balm that tastes like crap but looks good when you apply it in the middle of a restaurant. Some fancy hand gel for nasty car rides and nastier public bathrooms.
I spent 1290 EGP on books; an extravagant collection of philosophy, sci-fi, poli-sci and contemporary angst, the synopsis of which can be compiled into one paragraph that others might post on Twitter as a subdued cry for help.
I splurged on a grilled shrimp meal for brunch one day, hoping it would make me feel full. I had Ludwig vaccinated for 600 EGP at the best vet in town, because I didn't want him to feel suffering. Or perhaps, because I didn't want him to feel suffering at my behest.
It's been years since I've spent that kind of money on myself. I spend many frustrating evenings, toiling away at a gig or other to make that kind of money. I file it away to my bank account and hope it keeps coming. Perhaps if I make it to the next digit, I might sleep better at night.
I look back on my weekly expenditures, and I run my fingers through them trying to track my feelings. It is a modern practice; seeking self-awareness through consumerist outbursts. Perhaps I should spend more, I tell myself. Perhaps I should spend less, I tell myself. I don't know which is true. Either way, I still don't know how I feel.
I had a conversation with a child today. She was bright, she liked writing and comic books, and wanted to be a bag designer when she grew up. I tried to share with her two of my favorite websites growing up; Neopets and Orisinal. She struggled to understand how a game could be a website and not an app, and didn't know what I meant when I explained that one of them made flash games. She didn't know what they were. Both websites were down, I felt very old.
It was a welcome change, because talking to her was absolutely terrifying. The weight of her soul was crushing; I couldn't bear her innocence and limited capacity for understanding, her openness, passion and awe. The responsibility scared the living shit out of me. I don't think I ever tread that carefully around a conversation, and I quickly realized that I didn't really know how to talk to a child.
When she said she didn't understand why some of the book sections at her school library were closed off to her until next year; I advised her not to read Russian literature before she was 30. She stared blankly at me and her mother laughed, I felt very stupid when I considered how meaningless and strange that sentence must have sounded to her.
When she asked me how to get better at writing, I spent 20 minutes explaining what writing prompts were and introducing her to Nanowrimo. She said they didn't take that in school. I said it's a new practice. She said she didn't practise any sports.
She said she took part in Spelling Bees. I asked her what the hardest word she had was. She said it was 'encore' and spelled it wrong. I told her it was a French word so it doesn't really count. Besides, word will spell for her anyway. She stared at me. I asked her if she knew what word was. She said she knew many. I asked her to spell oesophagus. She spelled it wrong. I said I didn't know how to spell it either.
Meanwhile, I struggled with my own vocabulary. I replaced each fuck and shit with bad. When it came to concepts, I didn't know what to replace, and what to replace them with. I tried to remember what it was like to be her age, and I couldn't remember being aware of school libraries, spelling bees and fashion apps. She was very calm and possessed. I am 27 years old, and I am still not.
I walked home from the bookstore, and my mind wandered as I dodged near-death on the newly-installed highways. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have a child, more so now that I've talked to one. I thought of my friend, her mom, and I tried to put myself in her place. My mind exploded with scenarios and immediately shut down. I shuddered and thought instead of the road and my impending death by a swiveling car. That, I could deal with.
I jumped over the sandy underbelly of the loch ness bridge that now sprawls over my home. I was grateful for my Timberlands; the same ones every one made fun of when I purchased. "When are you going to stop buying boy shoes?"
The issue of how I look has taken over my thoughts lately. I was aware of a gigantic chasm between how people my age dressed, how people my age dressed everywhere, and how I dressed. At this point, experimenting with my bursting femininity through changing style would be met with ridicule. She is desperate, they would conclude. I would feel uncomfortable, even more so than I do now with my horrible fashion choices and outfits that are somehow always wrong for any given occasion. I should have done it years ago, back when I still could and get lost in the crowd. Now I'm stuck, and it is ironic, because unlike back then; I am not comfortable in my current style anymore.
It is baffling that I am at an age where I care for style. I hate it here, mid-twenties I mean. Everything holds meaning, status and context. Everything is a test. Everyone is always watching, and they are never kind. I barely know what's going on half the time. The other half, I'm positive I don't know what's happening, and have accepted the fact that I have no way of knowing.
Today, I had another moment. I have spent too long reaching out to others, trying to find a point of similarity or common ground. Perhaps there is none, and perhaps I should stop trying.
Perhaps I should be honest to my experience and try to give it voice, again. After all, there is nothing else I could possibly do about anything. Perhaps, I might even enjoy it.
If I don't, at least I'll be self-possessed.
I had nestled into a beanbag with a book when I felt restless. I was overcome by the urge to write exactly as I was appeasing the urge to read. I felt torn, I wanted to try and capture the moment, but I was scared of what might happen if I put down the book. Momentum is fleeting, and I was caught between an unstoppable force and an immovable object that threatened to move elsewhere.
I got up, and I reached for my poncho. It's an old poncho that I'm rather fond of, it smells like winter and old houses. I put it on because I needed to feel warm, warmer, but I wasn't cold.
I struggled to make a simple decision, to read or to write? What if in trying, I lose both? It was terrifying, and I felt very weak. I made it to the sink, and then I made it here. Now that I'm here, trying to pour my soul and find my voice in what feels like the first session of introspection I've had in years; I judge my writing. My form is weak, I've been whoring my pen out for far too long, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that I'm here.
I had a moment today. Well, I had a few, but I don't want to force it. This quick brown fox might jump over the lazy dog then run off into a distant foxhole and I wouldn't be able to write again for years.
This week, I spent 700 EGP on self-care products. The name irks me, it makes them sound like we have to buy them for our own good, when in fact, they were useless. A perfumed body lotion from Victoria Secret that smells like exotic mangoes and promises glittery evenings with shiny-torsoed men. A strawberry body splash that reminds me of an older, much younger, me. A spherical lip balm that tastes like crap but looks good when you apply it in the middle of a restaurant. Some fancy hand gel for nasty car rides and nastier public bathrooms.
I spent 1290 EGP on books; an extravagant collection of philosophy, sci-fi, poli-sci and contemporary angst, the synopsis of which can be compiled into one paragraph that others might post on Twitter as a subdued cry for help.
I splurged on a grilled shrimp meal for brunch one day, hoping it would make me feel full. I had Ludwig vaccinated for 600 EGP at the best vet in town, because I didn't want him to feel suffering. Or perhaps, because I didn't want him to feel suffering at my behest.
It's been years since I've spent that kind of money on myself. I spend many frustrating evenings, toiling away at a gig or other to make that kind of money. I file it away to my bank account and hope it keeps coming. Perhaps if I make it to the next digit, I might sleep better at night.
I look back on my weekly expenditures, and I run my fingers through them trying to track my feelings. It is a modern practice; seeking self-awareness through consumerist outbursts. Perhaps I should spend more, I tell myself. Perhaps I should spend less, I tell myself. I don't know which is true. Either way, I still don't know how I feel.
I had a conversation with a child today. She was bright, she liked writing and comic books, and wanted to be a bag designer when she grew up. I tried to share with her two of my favorite websites growing up; Neopets and Orisinal. She struggled to understand how a game could be a website and not an app, and didn't know what I meant when I explained that one of them made flash games. She didn't know what they were. Both websites were down, I felt very old.
It was a welcome change, because talking to her was absolutely terrifying. The weight of her soul was crushing; I couldn't bear her innocence and limited capacity for understanding, her openness, passion and awe. The responsibility scared the living shit out of me. I don't think I ever tread that carefully around a conversation, and I quickly realized that I didn't really know how to talk to a child.
When she said she didn't understand why some of the book sections at her school library were closed off to her until next year; I advised her not to read Russian literature before she was 30. She stared blankly at me and her mother laughed, I felt very stupid when I considered how meaningless and strange that sentence must have sounded to her.
When she asked me how to get better at writing, I spent 20 minutes explaining what writing prompts were and introducing her to Nanowrimo. She said they didn't take that in school. I said it's a new practice. She said she didn't practise any sports.
She said she took part in Spelling Bees. I asked her what the hardest word she had was. She said it was 'encore' and spelled it wrong. I told her it was a French word so it doesn't really count. Besides, word will spell for her anyway. She stared at me. I asked her if she knew what word was. She said she knew many. I asked her to spell oesophagus. She spelled it wrong. I said I didn't know how to spell it either.
Meanwhile, I struggled with my own vocabulary. I replaced each fuck and shit with bad. When it came to concepts, I didn't know what to replace, and what to replace them with. I tried to remember what it was like to be her age, and I couldn't remember being aware of school libraries, spelling bees and fashion apps. She was very calm and possessed. I am 27 years old, and I am still not.
I walked home from the bookstore, and my mind wandered as I dodged near-death on the newly-installed highways. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have a child, more so now that I've talked to one. I thought of my friend, her mom, and I tried to put myself in her place. My mind exploded with scenarios and immediately shut down. I shuddered and thought instead of the road and my impending death by a swiveling car. That, I could deal with.
I jumped over the sandy underbelly of the loch ness bridge that now sprawls over my home. I was grateful for my Timberlands; the same ones every one made fun of when I purchased. "When are you going to stop buying boy shoes?"
The issue of how I look has taken over my thoughts lately. I was aware of a gigantic chasm between how people my age dressed, how people my age dressed everywhere, and how I dressed. At this point, experimenting with my bursting femininity through changing style would be met with ridicule. She is desperate, they would conclude. I would feel uncomfortable, even more so than I do now with my horrible fashion choices and outfits that are somehow always wrong for any given occasion. I should have done it years ago, back when I still could and get lost in the crowd. Now I'm stuck, and it is ironic, because unlike back then; I am not comfortable in my current style anymore.
It is baffling that I am at an age where I care for style. I hate it here, mid-twenties I mean. Everything holds meaning, status and context. Everything is a test. Everyone is always watching, and they are never kind. I barely know what's going on half the time. The other half, I'm positive I don't know what's happening, and have accepted the fact that I have no way of knowing.
Today, I had another moment. I have spent too long reaching out to others, trying to find a point of similarity or common ground. Perhaps there is none, and perhaps I should stop trying.
Perhaps I should be honest to my experience and try to give it voice, again. After all, there is nothing else I could possibly do about anything. Perhaps, I might even enjoy it.
If I don't, at least I'll be self-possessed.
