2 Ws & 2 Fs

In a state of percolation, partly forever, words left me. Both by mind-hand & mind-mouth. I'd say temperamental action followed completion of, "Why Be Happy When You Can Be Normal," by Jeanette Winterson; a sensational writer I came across in college & sadly only re-discovered near 10 years later, but, I like to think things find you when you need them to. See: "It isn't a hiding place. It is a finding place." See: "I know now, after fifty years, that the finding/losing, forgetting/remembering, leaving/returning, never stops. The whole life is about another chance, and while we are alive, till the very end, there is always another chance." See: "Pursuing happiness, and I did, and still do, is not at all the same as being happy - which I think is fleeting, dependent on circumstance, and a bit bovine. If the sun is shining, stand in it - yes, yes, yes. Happy times are great, but happy times pass - they have to - because time passes. The pursuit of happiness is more elusive, it is lifelong, and it is not goal-centred. What you are pursuing is meaning - a meaningful life. There's the hap-the fate, the draw that is yours, and it isn't fixed, but changing the course of the stream or dealing new cards, whatever metaphor you want to use - that's going to take a lot of energy. There are times when it will go so wrong that you will barely be alive, and times when you realize that being barely alive, on your own terms, is better than living a bloated half-life on someone else's terms." For a while there I was only reading dark lit. Not searching for, but happening upon. Or it was probably a gravitational pull. And dark podcasts. And morbidity abound. A monster fed, the last words before sleep sad steeped.

In August a dear friend got married, and it was book-like. Everything thoughtful, romantic. The only grit, the parts I love most as they are what stands one happy moment apart from another, the things that root them more deeply into memory, was the thunderstorm that delayed it, so, kept in that pre-moment, the just before, the before it all, and all of us in the cottage, beginning to rumble as the sky, and someone brings in silver platters of cheese and olives and a large group of softly pink-dressed elegantes devour the platters, hands reaching, pink fabrics adrift. That.

And, a month later my own. How do you choose just one way? I'm still surprised I stepped into the role as fluidly as I did, that day. Our trip to New Zealand brought forward so much; we fully embraced and were enamored in the campvan life. From decision fatigue in party planning to the simplicity in living within 20x7 for a month - it was a pretty damn fine way to settle the heightened vibrations of l-o-v-e on show.

When we got back it didn't feel as if I was entirely refreshed to handle work. I'm not sure it was a possible thing to achieve from the start. After 5 years of trying to change the things that provide the most stress at my place of work, which elicited an outcome of zero change, compacted by making little, I just felt really sorry for myself, a feeling that doesn't go away just because your personal life is exciting. I am fully aware that I am as little as the things that bother me. I also revere the title "Sweatpants Girl," a title I would have turned my long nose up at if you had suggested such a thing to me in high school, but now, 31-year-old me claims it with the same  kind of angst-rebellion.

When we got back I had a Ladiez Night with three dear women: my Cousin, my aunt Jenny & Karly; we meet up every other month or so for drinks & snacks & family gossip. Ladiez Night's are for alcoholism (on my cousin & I's part), and a lot of "Those Olsens..." talk. This night, was a lot of talking about how well, fun the wedding was, which meant a lot coming from them. We started out at the Swim Club (orig. favored because the first time we got top service and I thoroughly enjoyed my tecate in can with hot sauce on the rim & shot of mezcal to sip, but ever since, and this night as well, the staff are just too hip to care much). Really good service is a luxury I really want to experience, pay for and tip well for. I thoroughly dislike tipping well for bad service, and I thoroughly dislike having to think about not tipping well. Corpse revivers. We moved on, to much better, more intimate service at Galloway's, all of us squished in tight in a semi-circle leather booth, ordered cocktails and Karly ordered a hummus plate, and we're all like no, no, and then we devoured it and ordered another. I was pressed in tight between my cousin and Jenny; the warmth of them circling me, and I just remember thinking this is close, we are. At the door heading out I handed them thank you cards that took way too long for us to finish, and Jenny says, "I was wondering when this was coming!" Which confirms my fear that I am in fact awful (sass appreciated). We part. And it's the last time I'll see my aunt, feel her thigh against mine, have a night like this.

I had a private, unspoken bond with her (known only in me, likely); an understanding of mental health, the stacking of things on things, the spiral. Growing up I loathed her because I was obsessed with my cute cousin, and no time was enough and every goodbye so hard, so dramatic. I didn't feel liked, baptized a bad influence. As an adult, I understood her. But, just because you understand or sympathize, it doesn't mean you allow yourself to get close. As long as we weren't talking about hard things we could pretend, for a little while, that they were past. After all, this night was about the wedding, and sipping cocktails, and munching cucumbers. It's the last I see.

A week after she passed I raced CIM, having traveled with Red & Ber. Ber tried to protect my mind and heart with magic black beans (totally legit & legal). I ate Jimbo's and thrifted and admired the large championship field that met for pre-race instructions. But, I had no idea how emotionally available I could be when it came to racing. I wrote her name on my largest bottle, to be taken midway through the race, and I think, maybe, in being deeply sad and deeply angry and there had to have been some magic and muscle memory - I had my best day.

Post race I battled general fatigue, the slow return, sifting through memories. There were things to look forward to, but I could hardly look forward; a sort of present presence but deep into my past; memories came forward I had no idea were kept. Not a month after the race and one of my oldest friends' mother died of pancreatic cancer. Another woman who I used to loathe for the feeling I wasn't good enough for her daughter, but, who I grew fond of as I got older (thematic?); the woman who pricked her finger & placed a spot of blood on my wedding dress as she gave alterations. For a while there it seemed as if everything was sad, which was disorienting because didn't I just watch my dear friend get married? Didn't I just get married? Didn't I just live in a van in New Zealand? Wasn't I supposed to be ok?