Autocorrect makes no mistakes in my daily conversations. Didion I have a good birthday? I Didion indeed.
Today is where your book begins.
Today I turn 29 years old. You would most likely be not at all surprised to know that my outfit choice for the day is quite similar to the above style I deemed ideal for constructing towers out of VHS tapes in 1989.
While exploring old hard drives I found my final ideology critique exploring the power dynamics of Mean Girls complete with a photo timeline of Cady’s transition into “Girl World.” So really, nothing has changed except now I could have just submitted everything in GIF form.
While on AIM we try to make up for distance by making our relationship more important than it really is. He asks me my favorite word. Petrichor, I tell him. The smell of rain on dry earth. Because while I’ve never said it out loud, or used it in a sentence, had it arrive, top of mind, that is what I want it to be.
I’m tempted to top off having over a foot of my digestive system removed by enrolling in a Dengue vaccine study all in one month but I think my adventures in extreme health care are hopefully over. Sorry, Group Health.
My big gay family was featured on KPLU this morning. You can listen to us here.
We were talking about the great things
that have happened in our lifetimes;
and I said, “Oh, I suppose the moon landing
was the greatest thing that has happened
in my time.” But, of course, we were all lying.
The truth is the moon landing didn’t mean
one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963
when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been
the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince
(our kitchen had been a clothes closet, I’m sure),
on a street where by now nobody lived
who could afford to live anywhere else.
That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me,
woke up at half-past four in the morning
and ate cinnamon toast together.
“Is that all?” I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness
and, under our windows, the street-cleaners
were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and
everything was strange without being threatening,
even the tea-kettle whistled differently
than in the daytime: it was like the feeling
you get sometimes in a country you’ve never visited
before, when the bread doesn’t taste quite the same,
the butter is a small adventure, and they put
paprika on the table instead of pepper,
except that there was nobody in this country
except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder
of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.
- Alden Nowlan
Notes On Healing, So Far