Summer was a waste. Not in the usual ways, not because the long days flowed strangely and consumed more of me than I’d imagined. But because I sat idly by and let it be wasted. Me in my ill-fitting bathing suit reading the first chapters of a thousand books on my porch swing. Me under the same strange corrugated roof browsing magazines and listening to podcasts, naming birds and watching smoke under the assumption that I’d not forgotten how to be productive. Summer was a waste and I welcomed it, the same as pouring a bottle of liquor down the drain. Sure it could have numbed me some but that’s no reason to make an ass of myself.
I am a shaky doubtful thing with a mind like a megaphone and a knack for saying and feeling the precise wrong thing.
I’ve ran off heroes, friends and enemies. I’ve ignored the most virulent of detractors, always able to make myself disappear. I can only imagine people look at me and say, “Hey, it’s just not worth it.”
I echo them: (Nothing to see here.) Zero eye contact, hands in pockets. A book appears from a bag. “She’s gone,” they think and I am.
It’s a habit. It’s been thirty-two years of “I’m not good enough,” “I don’t feel human,” “Forget I said a thing.” It’s been thirty-two years of hiding and staying hidden and leaning on the shortness of memory when recording unimportant things.
I will tell myself I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothingly.
I will tear a motherfucker down and build it again. I’m shit at maintenance but I can build a thing or two. These hands, fingers like twigs, silent palms with nothing lines, these hands can be mighty.
Nothing to see here. I’m the least important of them all. Soft voice, soothing, soothing.
I will try again. I think. For the love of it. I will cut short this season of self-doubt and demolition because while I’m tearing it down I can’t help but think of the ways I would build it back up again.
After years of having my own website and trying to squeeze in time to tinker with the finicky details of a layout, I’ve moved my portfolio onto WordPress hosting.
It kind of feels like I’m moving all of my belongings into a temporary storage unit while I wander. I don’t want the responsibility of a permanent home and so everything is here — compact, but searchable.