Yknow, something I haven't thought about recently is how writing makes me feel.
I haven't done much with myself by the way of writing in about a decade, but in fairness things life has a tendency to demand your full attention. I found him, I got a paper, adopted a pet, had The Experience, cleaned my wounds, discovered ikigai, had the Other Experience, we let her go, I sat down, had a crisis of faith, created a reason, got another paper, got the big girl job, left home, then again, lived quietly, made a pact, and another, which leaves me here: in my mother's house, biding my time until I'm off again to a strange new place that is my next big challenge.
Mum was exactly my age when she decided to do her big move, and soon after that I suddenly was here too. It makes me wonder if these sorts of patterns are written in our DNA or if my cards have been dealt in a funny way, but my own big move promises adventure and I don't mind walking in my mother's shoes. It feels right to remember that when I think about how much a person can keep in their lifetime. My pattern-recognition skills warn me though of the importance of the next sequence. The air is sweet blowing in from the window of opportunity, but the frame is heavy and slips down the jamb as the day goes on. Maybe a city girl like me would be able to start a family out there but the idea gives me pause. The idea of losing more parts of my rinky-dink mismatched collection of cultural traditions and values, or not being able to pass down our language because mama won't be there to impatiently correct my pronounciation is something that will require my attention sooner than later. I feel the gravity of the crossroads I stand at - one street ensures that I may never leave it once I enter the freeway, the other is vague with promises about exit ramps and interchanges and the blacktop wears a shroud of fog.
The place we're going to live in has a "town plaza" and people say they're going to "the tavern" when they go out at night. They have a lot of big farm dudes wearing Akubras at "the shops", and there's always somewhere to park. I am hit with culture shock when at the local cafe they say they don't do Apple Pay, but they do have a First-Place-at-the-Sydney-Royal-Easter-Show-2007, Apple Pie. I wonder what it's like to bear fruit in the mountains. The world is smaller, sure, but at least out there people look you in the eye and wait for you to speak when they ask you how your day was. We could always leave to escape to the city when the time comes, but it's perhaps not giving the right energy to
think about making plans to leave a town you're not due to arrive in for
6 months. For now, we've decided to just float.
Coming back home now is like walking through a time loop. There is a frilly toilet roll holder in the bathroom and plastic around the TV remote. There are more plates than people who have ever been in this house, and there is the ever-present sound of OPM tracks crackling from the fat, silver 3-in-1 Radio CD Casette player in its designated spot on the bookshelf. The way mum runs
this ship makes me think I must be a teenage Filipino sleeper
agent. Tonight I'm roused from my bed by the smell of onion and garlic frying at 10pm, the TV is on too loud and
with the words "anak did you eat yet?" -ACTIVATED. SYSTEMS ENGAGE- my mission floods back, I'm wearing someone else's slippers in the kitchen, and for a second I'm young and I'm ready and responsive. I sit down without hesitation, and I eat. It is automatic when the third scoop of rice hits my plate. I chew and do not listen to my body. Some time passes and I awaken belly full, I wander back down to my temporary lodgings - my younger brother's old room. Friends let me tell you now: I have learned that I could definitely
help you pass your end-of-lease inspection because I have absolutely punished
this room in the name of sanitisation. I see my reflection in the floorboards. Did you know that walls can
smell fresh? In this space I have an old fashioned 90s computer desk
(also sanitised) that I can set up my world at. My monitor is comically large for the intended space and here it really is just me and this desk, a little wardrobe, a cat tree and a single bed in this room. My stomach groans in digestive effort and I decide that I kind of like not being the head of the household right now. I like that there's always milk in the fridge.
I take a deep breath and meet eyes with the Kernel Blue interface. In all this time and all this change I haven't written much at all, and have not had much to say. When I used to post here, I worked to channel it all into prose and poetry (albeit clumsily, and with unearned confidence). I ponder the value of awkward catharsis, considering my position at the time. Truly I have a lot of love and compassion for the teenage version of myself who would say literally anything on E2, but one can only drink so much whine before it gets a little silly. A teenage girl is a she-beast who writes down her rules in permanent marker, and many of you here told me tales from the other side. I may sheepishly smile about being let in on the joke now but when a cooler version of me starts to mock my girl too much, these days I find myself standing in front of her like an older sister called to the Maccas carpark, ready to take my earrings off.
Being here in this room away from him, I think about why we chose to do this. I think about the losses and gains, and I take stock of the unexpected gifts that arrive on my doorstep. I think about how maybe it's weird that I say "I used to write a lot" like it was a game that I quit eventually, getting stuck on a particular boss. I believe now that it's important that I remember that these little passages I write are beacons in time, dotted together in my own constellation. Or they're like big shiny buoys bouncing on the waves of my vast ocean, marking the boundary of the charted seas. I understand (some days better than others) that it really doesn't mean a thing in the end. We don't get to keep anything, any of this. Even if I grow large enough to engulf the planet, I will still decompose and evaporate like water when I exit the mortal coil. I will be forgotten, and I will return to whatever I was doing before I got here. So I figured, why bother customising a rental? Even if I spend my life learning to soften my grip, to lay my palms skyward and set it free, when it all ends I return to the same place as the man who had his fists forced open and sobbed as it was snatched away. Truly, knowing this gives you silence. I love silence so much because it's so clean. It is flawless. It holds everything inside it and will endure, dutifully, for eternity. If I know how the game ends, the side missions feel futile. After all my endless talking all I wanted for the longest time was quiet. I love being the observer. I love observing the observer. I love watching it all happen and I don't flinch at the layer of unforgiving atoms that separate us even when I squeeze you to my chest.
But can I be real? Waking up is great, and my vibe hits different and it's sexy to be me now and all, but I don't have any crumbs to follow to see how I even hit the summit of cringe mountain. I have to be here right? You live or you don't live. Pick one. I don't always feel great and it's been more than hard to show up in my life at times, but what choice do I have but to live? Honestly what is the point of going through all of this, the pain and mundanity, the ecstacy, rage, love? I am not immune to this experience. If I choose not to talk about it or write about it, or sing or dance about it I can save my face and always be safe and cool. I know why we are like this, and it gives me immense compassion for all my brothers and sisters navigating their own experience. I understand it. But I want to be connected with people, I want to be intimate with life again. I'm not even that good at it yet, but I want to be brave enough to rip up the thread from the ground and follow the line. So I have recently started this practice by telling my closest friends what exactly it is I love about them. I am showing them how it feels to me, and I use the words I want to use and don't shy away from what I think is weird. Do you know what your friends are holding themselves back from saying to you? My cup is overflowing because I dared to mention my thirst. People quake in the face of honesty, but it took me a while to realise we must live on love and connection. This is why we do it.
If the gift for getting to this point in my growth is giving myself permission to speak and forgiving the limitations of my view, I will happily take that and run.
So I open yet another tab, and make myself comfortable in the drafts section. I teach myself how to softlink again. Why? Because it's fun! Because I want to share this with you.
It feels good.
P.S. today H.D. is 13! Happy birthday to me <3 <3 <3