If you want to know the reason why I don’t update my blog very often, it is because I am afraid I won’t be able to write anything good enough to be worth reading. I am laying like a slug in my sweetheart’s bed as I write this, sick. My contributions towards my potential growth and success today are subtle: little things like opening up this entry with a sentence, which I am pretty sure is grammatically incorrect, and just not looking back.
There is a Christmas tree across the room, and through my snuffles I can smell it.
There are white lights on the tree, and I want to write a great sentence about the way that the lights on the tree play with the lights in the office buildings of Portland’s skyline, which I can see through the window here, but it keeps coming out all awkward and intentional and stupid sounding, and I am leaving it anyway.
You can’t expect to make it the best fucking thing every single time. Lots of people spend their entire careers making nothing that way.
I am really bored, laying here. I have been home from my tour to Australia now for over a week.
Australia was proceeded by one week at home,
which was proceeded by New York,
which was proceeded by a tour through the Southwest,
which was proceeded by two weeks at home,
which was proceeded by another tour through the Southwest,
which was proceeded by five weeks of wild preparations,
which was proceeded by eastern Canada,
which was proceeded by I don’t remember what,
and none of this is probably holds much interest to anyone else, but for me this trajectory is a duffelbag full of medium sized gravel that I have been slinging along as I hurl myself from one place to the next. As a manner of surviving, at each location I am required to pack more samples into the bag and just keep on heaving. When do I get to stop and unpack the gravels? I guess I get to stop once the cold that has been swirling around town manages to get inside of me and tackle me down onto the bed.
Here I am, pinned, and bored! I find myself too restless and bratty to be interested in sorting through everything I’ve gathered in the last months. Maybe tomorrow I will wake up with the right kind of mindstate for really healing myself. It’s a special kind of mood where you resign myself to your fatigue (give up on making phone calls and surfing the internet), and let the invisible parts of you do all the work, a team of gnomes sorting and filing and making little notes, like,
“Khaela travelled through a total of seven different time zones in the last five months, and one of them was only a half hour earlier than the one next to it! Fifteen and one half hours ahead of Pacific Coast time!”
These invisible workers stitch a person back together, after too much living in too many timezones. They aid with the cohesion.
Until that happens, I can’t form sentences about much of anything else.
Alternately distracting myself, and clinging to the right now smell of the Christmas tree.
Photographic relics, above:
1. Trees made by Isobel Knowles
2. Hanging Rock
3. Trees made by Victoria, Australia
4. Dominic Maricich