It’s okay. We don’t have to talk. It’s been a rough week, and it’s only almost Thursday. I feel a little eaten up by the world this week, by my little corner of the city, by my new computer that will only intermittently turn on, by kids growing out of shoes faster than I can get new ones, by the thermostat that eats money, by the ideas that run roughshod over my consciousness and responsibilities that leave me no chance to write them down. It feels like I’m careening through life, like a rogue asteroid in search of an orbit.
I get mad at my pre-mom self. I always felt, then, as though I had no time to write. I didn’t like going to bed late, waking up early, writing for those hours when I could have just as easily been out with friends, or sleeping. Mostly what I didn’t like was going to work, working at a job that is a job and not a passion, feeling responsible to someone else’s schedule, to their expectations. Lift so often seems to be about that, about how to maintain your own expectations in the face of everyone else’s, about how to compromise just enough to reap the benefits of decent society without giving into all of its merry constraints.
When I lived on the Lower East Side I took the F train to work every day. Every day I took the F train and thought “I’ll take it to the end, I’ll get off, I’ll ride the Cyclone, I’ll take stock of my life.” I never once did it. I felt bound to the daily schedule, to the rules, to the rewards, to the fear of the potential consequences. It’s never the big picture, but the minor details that get me down, the life admin stuff that makes me queasy. It’s the admin part of it that can beat the life out of a person, paper cut by paper cut.
I think about feeling from everything, but running is not quite my style. I prefer preparation, careful consideration, facing the assault of cascading file folders head on.
I hold tight to the responsibilities that hold tight to me.