In these last days of August, I feel myself dissolving as usual. Less and less of me exists. [Insert Chekhov quote here, the one about work setting us free and stuff.] My nails, suddenly too long, click hard on the keyboard and make me feel like someone else.
My first professional haircut in three years took place in a garden and was actual therapy complete with the realization that I didn’t fail at becoming a ballet dancer, that the real truth was that I made a hard turn down from the mountains I said I’d never leave and drove due south for big change. Cut all my hair off in San Diego. Drove and rode and drove and rode — in a tan minivan with a girl named Nadia — called my parents every night as promised, until we reached Indiana where I was dropped off in the same driveway I watched my daughter learn to ride a bike last summer.
I have layers now.
I drink a whiskey and water and wonder if it’s possible to imagine past the next week or so. What are plans?
On that drive from Seattle to Indiana, we stopped in St. Louis. Some friend of hers, at Wash U, sweet nice whatwashisname set up a bed for us on a screened-in porch, high treetops moving slow all night long. The perfect temperature.
*I am considering moving this situation over to Substack — more of a newsletter format with a bit of structure. Consider joining me there if you’d like. I’ll promise to keep you posted.