face time
I wrote the first draft of this Tinyletter something like a month ago, when the reopening seemed to be going better. In retrospect, it should have been obvious that it wouldn't last-- I suspected it wouldn't, even. But also I ignored that suspicion, because I was tired of suspicion, and of not seeing my friends, and of feeling off-kilter and insane every time I tried to make semi-distant future plans. (Buying a plane ticket for July in April, for instance, felt so daring and risky that I struggled to talk about it, because I was that embarrassed by what felt like my unaccountable foolish optimism.)
Anyway, now here we are. I don't want to talk about it anymore but what else is there to talk about? Here, at least, is what I was thinking about in the slightly better very recent past:
The phrase has been occurring to me, naturally, as I've been coming out of isolation, seeing more and more friends off screens and in real life. What a gift! Panim el panim! My five year old goddaughter, upon my arrival in Seattle, torpedoing herself against my legs, exclaiming "tía Zan I missed you." S and I had a housewarming party after we moved into our house in May, and early in the day I was surrounded by friends, a bouquet of peonies in my arms and probably slightly too much champagne in my stomach, and you know I cried in the kitchen, overwhelmed by being able to reach out and touch my people once again.
A few weeks ago I got another tattoo, my fourth, a little bougainvillea branch on my arm. A reminder of the flowers that kept me company on my endless stupid little fucking walks; something growing, blooming, to hang out with me through whatever happens next.
Early in the session, a song came on in the shop, a classic of those tromps around the neighborhood, Troye Sivan's Take Yourself Home. (I'm tired of the city / scream if you're with me.) It felt appropriate during a ritual undertaken in part to separate my body from the months it spent surviving, to encourage it to unfurl. The music was not a portal but more like a window through which I could see myself, teeth clenched in determination, holding onto health (mostly mental) with my fingertips. The transition between me and her was so gradual that it's easy, sometimes, to forget exactly how fiercely I longed for everything I have now within easy reach."
It's drifting out of reach again, some of it. On the plane back from Boston, I listened to people coughing and thought I don't want to do this again anytime soon. I'm not canceling plans but I'm not making them either. What is there to say except, I'm still lucky? What is there to say except, I'm still sad?
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Another study in contrasts: I interviewed Emily Adrian about her delightful new novel, The Second Season, for Shondaland, and I wrote about trying to confront fire season grief with books for The LA Times.