I went digging through my email drafts last night, and found one from February 17th, which I remember writing while sitting at the front desk of my office trying not to cry. The first line says:
Truthful, loving, independent, considerate, kind, appreciative, honorable.
Six months ago this past Sunday, May and I broke up. Six months? Where did that time go? What lengthy portion of my life has been parceled off to deal with that event, and is it possible that I can begin to speak of “having dealt with” instead of “dealing?” I would very much like that to be so, to begin to say “we” only in past tense and to say “I” in present.
I have been through hell and ruination from my instinct to put words on paper no matter what, no matter the subject or difficulty or intimacy. And now, for the first time, I don’t want to write about my life. Not even the good parts of my life, the wide swaths of cozy days in sunlight, my new blue bedroom with white trim like a sailboat painted in watercolors.
In order to speak about where I’m going, I feel I should speak about where I’ve been, these past six months and the years that came before them. But I cannot think of any ways to describe where I was that are helpful.
Maybe I can skip all that. Maybe I can simply say that things were bad, and now they’re better. I was unhappy, and now I am happy. I was bitter, and now I am ever-so-slightly more sweet. Do stories work that way?
Truthful, loving, independent, considerate, kind, appreciative, honorable.
Even then, putting aside the past that I no longer wish to speak on openly, I find I still don’t want to write here. Everything I think is interesting about my life seems inappropriate. Writing about work is inappropriate. Writing about the people in my life is inappropriate. Posting my fiction just makes it that much harder to get it published later on. Writing about sex and activism is a minefield that I only expect to blow up in my face again.
I am left blogging without a purpose, blogging as a kind of record-keeping, an update on where I’ve been (all over the East Coast), what I’m eating (lots of salad), whether I sleep enough at night (I don’t). How hellishly boring.
Privacy is a choice. Over the past few months I have deliberately played things much more close to the vest. But privacy is also a habit; to continue as I am may mean inadvertently walling off what I would rather share. I would simply like to see a clear path again, something I can speak about with confidence and ease.
Life is good. I continue on my current quest to live in a way that is truthful, loving, independent, considerate, kind, appreciative, and honorable. I have many new projects, much new affection for the world and the people in it.
And hopefully soon I will think of something to write about again.
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