i disappear in music. i disappear in dance. i disappear into books. i disappear into colorful paintings. i disappear in sex. i submerge myself in some relationships, trying to disappear. when i write, i can’t disappear. when i write, i have to show up and tell the truth, which is why i sometimes avoid writing altogether.
what is the truth you are afraid to tell?
what lies do you disappear between?
i’m afraid to tell you how little i accomplish each day, how little i write, how little i feel sometimes.
i disappear between the lies that what i do matters or doesn’t matter. i alternately overestimate and diminish the value of what i do and who i am.
i spend an inordinate amount of time tweezing. i spend too much time wandering into the kitchen, staring into the fridge or pantry, trying to decide if i am hungry. i spend many hours in bed, not sleeping. i spend not enough time stretching.
i’m not exaggerating when i tell you that i listen to a single song on repeat for hours, for days, for weeks. the song of the month is sarah jaffe’s “clementine.” last month it was the jane austen’s argument “bad wine and lemon cake.” i listen to a single song on repeat for hours while i write. it is the background noise that is more beautiful than anything i put on the page. the lyrics are more precise, concise, perfect than what i write.
sometimes i leave town only to feel like i’ve done something that week. i pack a bag, get on a plane, rent a car, stay a few nights in a hotel, and return home. otherwise, the weeks at home pass without any way for me to mark them in my mind. a new location gives me a plot to post a flag indicating that “i was here” because when i’m at home, i disappear in music, dance, books, painting, and sex without being anywhere and not writing.