Well, let’s argue this out, Mr Blank. You, who represent Society, have the right to pay me four hundred francs a month. That’s my market value, for I am an inefficient member of Society, slow in the uptake, uncertain, slightly damaged in the fray, there’s no denying it. So you have the right to pay me four hundred francs a month, to lodge me in a small, dark room, to clothe me shabbily, to harass me with worry and monotony and unsatisfied longings till you get me to the point when I blush at a look, cry at a word. We can’t all be happy, we can’t all be rich, we can’t all be lucky – and it would be so much less fun if we were. Isn’t it so, Mr Blank? There must be the dark background to show up the bright colours. Some must cry so that the others may be able to laugh the more heartily.
Jean Rhys – Good Morning, Midnight
I’ve barely left the house all weekend. Yesterday’s funk has spilled into today – the end of summer hits hard. I feel inefficient, slow in the uptake, uncertain… I mean, I’ve managed to feed myself, exercise, shower, and do a few chores. Beyond that, I’m not terribly motivated to do the hard work. I have two early-morning meetings I have to lead this week and I’m dreading the performance. I can’t seem to commit to finishing a poem or editing any… I’m tired of reading, or maybe it’s the noise of thinking I’ve grown tired of – the sound of my own voice narrating long days and longer nights. Maybe I’m in the mood to let someone else drive for a while – anywhere and anytime – I’m not terribly concerned about the destination.
I was playing with this idea a bit yesterday – how having someone add to the decision making process (or take over the decision making process) might be nice once in a while – at work, in life, on a weekend near the lazy close of summer. Generally speaking, I bristle over being overly-committed, but there’s something to be said for kicking back and being along for the ride. At least if I had a shitty time, I might have someone else to blame for it… I was playing with the idea of the small failures we might share with each other – a sort of call to action: let’s make a series of mistakes that will only bring us closer – forgetting to buy milk, running over a curb, or just blowing off responsibility… how forgiveness softens the blows of the mind-numbing busyness of life or being a co-conspirator in playful neglect (spending the day at an orchard instead of doing laundry) might make this thing a little fun.
Add it to the pile – thoughts and play-dates that never fully materialize.
I’ve never been diagnosed with depression, so I’m hesitant to use that word as I plumb this late-August malaise… but there is this heaviness that I can’t quite explain, pinpoint, or shake. It seems to lend itself to leaning in doorways and thinking about personal ghosts and all of life’s possibilities just beyond reach or, as the poet James Tate wrote, “Even the bed seems far away / and I am on it.” It results in lines like “I still have the plates we bought when we got married and the sheets I bought after the divorce. Sometimes utility outlives nostalgia.” Lines that, if I’m lucky, I might remember some other time when I’m trying to piece something together.
A writer who has a book of poems with the word “home” in the title asked people on twitter to define home – the winner gets a free copy. Given the mood I’ve been in, I wrote, “so many things, but sometimes, home is a sad irony where we might shrink back, swaddled in its comforts, and reflect on how every love and every object is a citizen of its own absence.” The response I got was,”Oof, my heart.” I don’t necessarily mean to be dour, but I had been thinking about the boxes in the basement again, the moving, and how writing is, by necessity, a solitary and sometimes lonely act… something I both appreciate and lament… something I suppose an ex knew well, but that I could only learn on my own. Here I am with years of catching up to do – inching closer to autumn, inching closer to something maybe knowable and almost certainly temporary, inching closer to some type of understanding of what got damaged in the fray – at least that’s how it looks from here, leaning in this empty doorway.