cracked

I’ve been kind of without a home, but now I have one. At the same time a is going to spain for 2 months, and she’s become something of a home. Goodbye lovely! I almost went with her, but I decided to get on top of my credit card bill. 

My new apartment is the most beautiful place I’ve ever lived. The floors tilt in every direction. There are checkered tiles in the bathroom. There’s a crack in one of the windows. Classical music flows through. We have a big mirror, 2 chairs, and a stereo on top of a tv tray. I can see the whole city from my bus stop. 

I feel like I can finally breathe. I can read again. Maybe I can write again. We are testing this out.

The last few months have been day-to-day. I scraped by. The skin of my teeth wore thin. It was grim. A dungeon with a fluorescent light around which moths swarmed. When I started to stay with a, life started to brighten., glowing things seemed to fall around me in slow motion, and they drifted in a way that felt right, and I didn’t worry because I knew that when they landed, they’d land safely and fit together. I started sleeping hard and heavy. My dreams were deep and warm. 

I’ve been in many such situations, that deform your nerves and shave years off your life, but I tend to remember them fondly. In dire straights, you’re cracked wide open. You're dramatically present. You bleed. And the wonderful come along to patch and infuse you with all sorts of light. I’ve experienced quite a bit of that recently. I am lucky

confession

Yesterday I talked to d, the guy who always has brunch with Someone Famous on Sundays. I remember the first time I talked to him: It was brunch, about a year ago. Death had come up somehow, and I mentioned death doulas. I had volunteered for Sundance a few months ago, where I’d watched a documentary about one. This I wanted them to know. The death doula was Jewish and a woman, a type the pair seemed to have some experience with. Before d went on about the subject, he raised his eye at me, precautionarily—You’re not Jewish, are you?

d likes to mention how old he is. Someone Famous does not. Someone Famous looks like he listens to Andrew Huberman and has regular chemical peels. d looks like a writer who’s lived in Brattleboro 40 years. I told him about the four months I lived there when I was 19. He told me about the friends he has who pathologically lie and live more or less on the street. His substack subscribers love them. I told him about the walks f and I took at night after probably two bottles of wine, during which we took a stray cat home and once coaxed a guy off his proverbial edge. He was down by the train tracks and his girlfriend had just thrown him out. He was drunk in a can’t-talk-straight, slurring-his-steps kind of way. We talked to him for awhile and f did most of the comforting—I’m not so good at that sort of thing, and I used to be worse. I probably said something like yeah, she seems like the worst. Eventually he agreed to sleep it off in his truck, and we kept walking. 

I told d about my blog and lied about how often I post. Lied, or rounded up. I wrote my email on a piece of receipt paper and gave it to him before he left. Hi, d. Sorry I lied.

Margarine

Fiction drop: https://www.hobartpulp.com/web_features/margarine

suckers

Five or so weeks ago I left my room in Bushwick. 

For three weeks I drank, worked, and cried a lot.

Two weeks ago I went to New York for a job interview and stayed at Alausi’s place in soho. We all had dinner on the floor and drank beer. I saw an apartment in Chinatown the next morning. The landlady asked me if I was single. I said yes, and she offered me the apartment.

A week ago I worked easter brunch and moved into the Chinatown apartment. Now I live with sometimes up to five other people. Three of us have rooms. My landlady made me lunch while it rained. I’m so happy to be back.

This past week my landlady went to China. Her husband went to North Carolina. I became gravely ill and took the train home. I melted honey in hot water and squeezed lemon into it. I bought a pink nightgown.

These elixirs are healing me, that and advil. 

Today I feel a little better. My throat feels less full of fiber glass. I finished a story.

Tomorrow I will start house sitting again.

The next day we’ll drive up north to see the eclipse.

The day after that I will answer phones at a glass shop.

In a few weeks Ellie will go see the horses race in Kentucky. I want her to wear my hat because it was made for such an occasion. Then I’ll find another subletter. Move somewhere else. I’ll intern, help Ellie move to London, go to Vienna or Portugal. And then what?

I’m such an ends justify the means person that I forget the means are all my life is made of. I always think the future will be better, which is sweet of me. But then I make myself suffer in the meantime because historically it pays off? that’s what the stories told me. Pay your dues. If I accepted my life as is, I think I would be a happier person. Life neutrality. But that’s for suckers.

baby brain

I'm so young I'm just like a baby. Just past a year old screaming and crying hurt so bad cus I don’t like to lay that way ouch. A baby brain inside a grown woman. I have her impulses. Abandon! Investigate! Revel! Nothing can hurt me. I will skate along on the charm of my big bug eyes. If I were to go missing, they would go on the flier: The girl with eyes that bulge! Thank God for these eyes of mine, because surely they’d be missed. I can also see from miles away. Only in front, though. That’s the issue. You hear all these things about hindsight, but I never look back. That 20/20 is different from mine. I see very clearly, but seeing is different than knowing. I don’t actually believe hindsight is 20/20. I very rarely make sense of things. The past is so dreary. Visual delights gone by are nulled by bitterness. I am so focused on focusing on the road ahead. Rumor has it I can pave with thoughts alone. 

Rumor has it there’s a solar eclipse. I fear I won’t be able to help looking it straight in the eyes, and it will be the last thing I see. Would that be so bad? How lovely it would be to possess such big eyes that can’t see a thing. Facial ornaments. We have other organs that don’t function, but they aren’t beautiful or at eye-level. I would need someone to dress them up for me. Hang ornaments from lashes. Rub smelly creams underneath. Smudge pastels on lids. I want them so beautiful no one could ever imagine them being of use. Trouble is I would never get to see.

Bella

Everything on the internet is liable to be fiction. Keep this in mind. 

I’ve been feeling quite awful. My husband, from whom I am separated, served me divorce papers on our anniversary that doubled as the Fourth of July. This wounded me because though I didn’t want to be married, I didn’t want to be divorced. I thought he felt the same. My estranged sister came back into my life and sobbed on my shoulder. I found her annoying and told her we are better off estranged. 

No bookstore in all of Manhattan will hire me. This is fair because I give them no reason to besides a flaccid interest. I am abandoning my family, 3 older and 3 younger brothers, because something in our home is making me sick—I suspect it's mercury poisoning. They keep tuna stocked in the cupboards and I can’t help myself.

I will return when I’m stronger. This will probably be after two months of wallowing because I can’t eat tuna. Some of them still don’t know. I have put it off because it hurts my pride, plus conversations make things pompous. I’d like to return as if only one night has passed. 

I fell in love once and its failure left a gaping hole. I find most experiences are like this. Ecstasy is the feeling of being pierced. Sometimes moments scrape the sides but most of the time they flail in a cavity. Often the whole is never filled again. I’m not describing addiction, but I might as well be. Nothing will ever be as good as my first can of tuna in oil. My problem is after experiencing ecstasy, I fear I never will again. This is not true. It’s proven time and time again. Other holes are pierced. I am a junky, I am, I am, I am. My name is Bella and I’m a junky. I promise new holes will be pierced. I promise. I am right.

grizzly

        I'm surprised by how afraid I am. I’ve never thought of myself as afraid, I think because I’m confident-reckless. I make a lot of last-minute decisions that often lead to good things and then admire myself for them afterward. I can see a few steps ahead so I don’t think these decisions are reckless. they're just decisions. You can consider quite a lot in a minute.

I made a bad decision and I knew it was bad before I made it. I told w that I was about to make a bad decision and he said okay because I told him I had no other choice. I’m now suffering because of this decision and trying to get out of it. It’s working so far, but I’m dreading taking responsibility, dreading so much that I could puke. I don’t blame myself for making it because I had to but I’m disappointed that I'm so afraid to make it right. Rise, rise! The matter is more complicated than this.

I’ve just been bad lately. bad at my job, bad at being good, bad in my executions, bad at pretty much everything. Just bumbling away (I have no reason not to...). It’s because I’m disdainful. because I’m suffering from this bad decision I made. But I had no other choice! If I had someone right next to me I wouldn’t mind taking responsibility, but these things you have to do alone, or over text. Once I’m good it’ll be good. 

Peace feels so far away. Come back! I’ll be back for you. So soon. My body's too hostile a place for you now. All I can do with every part of me is get out of this decision.