Things that are difficult and not difficult
I’m staring at a photo of a lemur eating some leaves. This isn’t anything new for me. I’m remembering myself in early grade school on one of my frequent visits to the school counselor. I remember telling her, “I wish I was a penguin or some kind of animal—then I wouldn’t have to deal with all of this.” She wasn’t having it. I wonder what her credentials were tbh.
I’m thinking about what my day might be like as a lemur—eating leaves and making little noises? Maybe nothing new for me. I imagine it’s quite scary and stressful, being endangered and on the verge of having your habitat collapse. I imagine life, regardless of who or what you are, is hard. And if people and things go on living in spite of its unimaginable difficulties and horrors, perhaps there’s something to life that is the opposite of difficult. Maybe there is sustained grace and joy and ease and leaves.
I am thinking a lot about what is not difficult. I have witnessed seven months of a genocide on my little screens—the same screens that tell me I owe $2100 in taxes, the same taxes that fund the genocide. It is not difficult to see this is wrong, this is bad, this is avoidable. My body hurts. I wonder what lemurs do when their bodies hurt. Newsletters?
I will turn 36 soon. I’m remembering a statistic that was going around recently—“over a third of LGBTQ youth don’t think they’ll make it to 35.” I don’t want kids, but something like maternalism makes me want to protect the wee ones, the wee sissy pansy ones. Maybe it’s just basic human decency. It is not difficult.
I am moving in two weeks, two blocks away. A giant dracaena that was gifted to me, one I moved from two blocks away a year or two ago, is going back to that same space once again. I will live there now. I am excited, I am feeling joy. I recently got a promotion—exciting. I have a new home—wow. And meanwhile, those I love are losing jobs and leaving town. And meanwhile, a genocide and extreme police brutality and censorship is happening while evil legislation and fear abound. It’s enough to make one’s body hurt—and hatchacha, mine sure does. It’s impressive how many conflicting feelings a person can feel. Sometimes I just want to eat some fucking leaves. Sometimes I am glad I can feel this much.
I got a mean email that was followed by a nicer email from someone else. Balance is everywhere. The other day I left my WFH pod and got some water. I pet the little cat who is not my cat but who is my friend. He purrs and it is nice. Petting a cat and having him purr is objectively nice. It is not difficult to see we both need this—all living things do, apparently. Connection, even in its smallest forms, feels precious right now.
I went out with some friends to celebrate a lease signing and mourn everything else. I managed to help clear a backyard by talking incessantly about Ratatouille (where does the human begin and the rat end? Well?). A few days later I sat through about 10 different Maroon 5 songs at a different bar with a different friend. We could find laughter and connection despite the terrifying atmosphere. “Maroon 5 will be oldies sooner than later.” Everything is fine. Everything is fine.
I’m home sick. Taylor Swift has released a monstrosity befitting of these uncertain times. Cleaning out my closet I found some old notes and cards. For my birthday in 2020, my mom shared a book of recipes left from my late grandma—still in her handwriting. In the accompanying birthday card, my mom references these “uncertain times.” I have been crying a lot, in bursts. I am running on fumes. I am invincible. I am a baby, a tiny little baby.
I met an OOMFy IRL recently. He asked what I have coming up, creatively. I don’t know. There are things coming up, there are always things coming up. But I don’t know. I don’t know what I want to be coming up (law school? A house in the woods? To open a bar, a performance space? To sit down for a little bit? To perform more again? To send little emails all day every day forever?). So I say that. It is not difficult.
I am still staring at my little screens. I have paid my taxes. I am wondering what the bank accounts of artists with shiny things coming up look like, what their parents’ bank accounts looked like when they were growing up. I am not bitter anymore. Everything is fine. The wealthy and the connected are in Venice. The bank accounts of the Zionists who try to silence the artists who are against the war crimes being committed with American tax dollars seem to be doing fine. Despite it all, I am hopeful—something has to shift, things always shift. I hope the young ones who make it to 35 after me (and they will!) have something to inherit.
The little cat who is not mine but who is my friend lost his meow for a few days after some oral surgery. He could still purr. So I put him in my lap and I drank some tea and I looked at my little screens. I thought too hard about what metaphors lie in this. A temporary loss of meow cannot dampen the purr? Anyway, I pet him and he purred and it felt nice. And right now, I will take all the moments of peace I can find.
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I hope you’re paying attention to what’s happening at Columbia University right now. You can follow @sjp.columbia for updates. You can Venmo @bcabolitioncollective to help with jail support.