You would think I tried to erase myself.
But we’ll come back to that. I am supposed to tell you about the blog, and we have to chat about the weather first. Because really, there have only been two days of storms. Most of the time, the air just feels ready to rain, like it could burst and spill at any moment.
I understood immediately, though, the way the northwestern sky swallows you. The meteorologists here have come up with a million different ways to say cloudy, and still none of them can capture the way you feel. In the middle of the afternoon on a desaturated day, it seems quite possible that things have always been this way, and there were never mountains, and sunflowers have always been grey, and the clock and everyone who watches it may just stand still forever in a dizzy, misty haze until the end of time.
But the pines offer reassurance, with their optimistic branches taller and stronger than us, that time is something we fucking made up. And there was a yesterday as sure as there will be a tomorrow, only labeled in our minds and not counted by the savage black crows who wake me up every morning and watch me, from the trees beyond the deck, sipping my hipster spice coffee that was on sale today but won’t be next week because we sketched the seasons into a calendar and wrote a bunch of rules that crows don’t give a fuck about. They make me nervous. Their cries echo so eerily across the field, carrying down the firs and hills and bouncing off my spine. The children found one dead while they were playing in the field behind the house, and now the three year old keeps saying ‘die’ over and over. I don’t trust them to swoop down for my eyes like sparkly green marbles, leaving me blind and bleeding. Which is irrational, yes, but keeps me suspicious nonetheless.
So these are the things I think in the morning, and also how I am jealous of the gardeners. To be honest, it might not even be a garden. I can only see silhouettes, of a man and a woman, backlit by the sunrise, and sometimes in colorful clothes if they had Saturday off and decided to spend it outside. Tiny dots, way up high where the hills meet the clouds, weaving in and out of things green and growing wild around them. I am jealous of their commitment to the mediocre, and I imagine they do not have chaos in their cells like the air and the crows and me. But maybe they do, and they plant their thoughts in the earth and trust them to bloom and trust them to never catch fire.
It has to be different this time though. Nothing is as fucked up as you think it is. Sometimes playful hearts become mischievous in restless souls, and they play tricks, like the light that splashes through the branches and across your gorgeous face. I get a glimpse of that flame inside, only for a moment. Ready, desperate even. What if I burst and spill? What if I put my thoughts here? Can I trust you?
The pursuit of perfection is a disease, and I need a cure as much as I crave sleep, or saltwater in the pitch black places where my lungs should be. Curtains drawn until we heal, I bid my time and tell myself it is all temporary. The leaves will fall and October will come, and then it will go, and we will still be breathing, picturesque and timely autumn nonsense or not. We are not supposed to be capable of ceasing to exist, for when we feel burnt out, our star cells shine brighter in the hearts of those who can carry us. But you have to trust the sun to rise, and the moon when she sings you to sleep, and that shit will make sense again one day soon and you will be okay and you are exactly where you need to be. And where we all need you to be.
So it will be a mess, yes, but sometimes we can find the most spectacular things in the most unexpected syllables, like the sweet release of all the uncomfortably worked up rain clouds, if only they have permission to fall from your nibbled on lips. And you can rest easy under the tapping of the tin roof, and turn that music up until you can hear it again, for I have learned a thing or two about the importance of saying please.
And thank you.
Thank you for understanding that I can only offer what I am, so if we’re gonna do this, it will have to be enough. Ready, set, spill, and the rest is just a delicate dance around some unspoken rules.
🎧 Modern Baseball, Manchester Orchestra