Daybook, v.05
Last week’s dispatches, August 02-08
02 August
Sunday. Wrote a new poem. It has been a while, and it feels so good to be back at it. Time rarely presents itself in generous, uninterrupted stretches, and I mostly have to find a small pocket of it and climb inside before anyone notices. When I do, I throw myself in wholeheartedly. My coffee is warm, my feet are bare. The poet is briefly restored to factory settings.
03 August
Monday. Been up since four and am running almost entirely on fumes. Staying with Cheri tonight while the parentals are away, and we have decided to make a night of it. Tevin forecasts we will be bonding over makeup and boys. Ha. We talked instead about outgrowing friends, dragons, kimchi, our parents growing older, and the burden of being the family’s permanent tech support. Makeup and boys never stood a chance.
04 August
Tuesday. As if the universe said I needed to be in more accidents, I slipped and fell in the rain. Landed hard on my left side and now hurt everywhere from shoulder to ankle. Three heavy bags tumbled around me and three men came to my rescue. Nothing humbles a person quite like being hauled upright by strangers while your dress is dripping wet, my poise merely a figment of my imagination. Still I am safe and did not crack my head like an egg on the pavement. Excellent news. I can cry in the shower later.
05 August
Wednesday. Call with abeo put me right back in my spirit. Reading poems aloud to a friend is such a sweet endeavour even if I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. My right knee hasn’t fully recovered yet. Must I hobble forever? At this rate, I shall need a handsome walking stick and a more mysterious backstory.
06 August
Thursday. Rain and more rain. On one hand, yes. On the other, the wind howling outside my window feels like end of times. I would romanticise the rain, and admittedly I have, many times. But we also go by an average of twenty or so typhoons in a year. When you’ve walked through a city waist-deep in flood, all you can think about is whether everyone you love is safe and dry.
07 August
Friday. Are all breakfasts destined to disappoint me? Dear universe, let me never again be troubled by dry shredded chicken first thing in the morning. I have suffered enough. I can eat a pear. I swear I can.
08 August
Saturday. Feel myself slipping again, farther away from myself. Did I take my meds? Is my period announcing its arrival two weeks early, with all the restraint of a marching band? I’m sad and tired and craving for champorado. Also feel moderately jealous of other people’s travel plans. Would quite like a holiday from my own brain, thank you very much.
I adore reading about your life and its comedy of errors and triumphs; it makes me feel less depressed and desperate about mine. If you ever wonder--each word you share is so worth it; thank you.