I've never been comfortable conversing or writing or talking here as if I had some kind of audience (because really, lets be honest, I love all six of you but this isn't a sock puppet show. Additionally, I figure you all have fairly involved, riveting lives that haven't been too disrupted by my recent absence) here. I had intended and hoped only to carve out some kind of space to exfoliate the dead patches without making myself raw. Maybe--vaguely, unintentionally--I hoped to find a handful of other people, flung far across these small distances who were something kind of the same. And I have. And I'm grateful. And I love it.
I'm not sure why I haven't been writing lately. I can't quite verbalize what's changed or shifted. My brain still works the same, functioning to formulate thoughts as if they were words on a page; my daily chronology categorized in squares of words and paragraphs. I still have the compulsion to write and always. But I haven't. I have not read, I have not written. Perhaps because everything might come out a little bit like this: I hate New York City I hate New York City I hate New York City I miss Santa Cruz when do we get to move already holy fucking christ I'm about to graduate I'm not ready I don't know anything I'm going to be a terrible PA all I want to do is plant roses.
Which is only mildly interesting. And that's assuming you're on your third gallon of whiskey.
