Nevergirl's

It’s 4:45 in the morning, and I just finished doing this:

Yes, my maturity astounds.

But, it’s not all fear and scheming inside the refrigerator. Proof? This hombre and this ninja.

These two are such badasses I wouldn’t be surprised if somebody uses their yolk to make testosterone supplements. These two are proof it’s possible to keep your cool in the face of doom—or an impending date with the stove. They’re also proof  it is NEVER a good idea to have a Sharpie handy at dawn when you should be catching precious ZZZZs instead of performing random acts of violence on your foodstock.

I desperately want to write about happy things because these past two months have been really terrible, but the more I want to write about what’s making me happy, the more I can’t seem to get my sadness out of the way. It sneaks up to me in the oddest of times—while making out the expiration date on a can or googling Hart Dynamics electronic drums, for instance.

Sometimes, I get so sad I draw faces on eggs and talk to them, pretending they’re all the people that I miss. Sounds certifiable, I know, but as rough as things may get at some point, I know this early I’ll never turn into that whackaloon who buys a gun and makes short work of half the town.

So, where am I at, happiness-wise?

Well, things aren’t exactly coming up roses, but life’s returning to some semblance of normalcy. And, though the road’s been mostly uphill, potholed all over, and filled with more ups and downs than is good for the life expectancy, I have high hopes for the future. I am not okay yet, but I will be. In the meantime, I shall work on being in love with this life, with chances, with possibility. I shall draw up long and indulgent lists of everything I want to happen in this life, and grow the balls needed to make them all come true.

To quote The Postal Service, “I want so badly to believe that there is truth and love is real and I want life in every word to the extent that it’s absurd.”

I think I’ll make out alright.

I don’t know why writing is such a struggle these days. Before I left for Europe, I always thought the problem was geography: I was stuck in a place where writing was impossible because nothing out of the ordinary ever happened to me. Dinners and deaths happened with such unrelenting regularity, I could almost always guess the time right down to the very minute just by listening to the clatter of dishes in the kitchen.

And then, I went to Europe. I went during what locals have taken to calling the harshest winter in recent memory. I learned to do without rice (okay, that’s a lie; I had rice at least twice a day), read maps (admittedly, this is an exaggeration, too; I mostly got around by following crowds and asking for directions at every block or two), and get to places without somebody driving me there—and this killed me because I am more sedentary than your couch. I’m that person who’d rather wait 10 minutes for the elevator than take the stairs to get to the next floor. People walk or bike a’plenty in Europe because cabs are frightfully expensive while the metro is usually very reliable. In my case, I walked because I was broke and because I didn’t want to get majorly lost. If I walk, I’d miss my destination two blocks at the most–there’s only so much ground my feet can cover in a day, after all. With transport, I might end up in another town or worse, country!

So, there I was every morning, putting on at least four layers of socks before trudging out the door. By nighttime, I’d crawl to bed with feet so tired I can barely feel them. You’d think all this suffering would be good for my writing but no, I did little writing, if at all. Then, I lost my grandmother; and then I lost my job; and this loss was followed by so many more losses I’m surprised I didn’t lose my mind. Did heartbreak get me writing? No. Did the cold? Did grief? Did loneliness? No.

I’ve long since said goodbye to Europe and the cold; traded winter boots for Alpinestars Tech 10 Boots; and still, it’s a struggle to write. I’ve resolved not to stop trying, though, because more than anything else, writing forces me to sit still, to remember, to think. I value this retrospection because it anchors me, reminding me of the choices I’ve made and why I make them, and how ultimately, my choices turned me into the person I am.

 “This Photograph is my proof. There was that afternoon, when things were still good between us, and she embraced me, and we were so happy. It did happen. She did love me. Look see for yourself!”

This Is My Proof, Duane Michals 1974

In many ways, my writing’s my proof that everything that happened–the good and the bad, the happy and the sad—was real, and that even after all that, I came through. Though not always better off or made whole by the experience, I came through. That’s when it gets easier to move forward and move on.

I’m cocooned in bed, nursing a bad case of flu on top of asthma and muscle pains. I should be asleep; instead I’m googling how to buy gold at Golden Eagle. Have I told you how I ended up poisoning myself last night? No?

Yesterday, I went to the grocery with L and H. They went to check out the seafood; we ended up buying fruits and mushrooms. H said of all the ways to cook mushroom, deep frying it in olive oil is best. I thought this too good to be true. What kind of dish doesn’t require seasoning at least?

But H said all she does is wash the mushroom before dunking it into a tub of olive oil—and I was so elated at finding healthy food I can cook myself that I got not one but four packs of mushroom.

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