Notes from a day in May

"I sit down before a letter or my journal with a desire for honest, but perhaps in the end I am the biggest liar of them all... because of the semblance of sincerity." -Anais Nin, Henry and June

Why is that all the pretty girls work in non-profit? I mean, of course, there are pretty girls working in other fields - waitresses, librarians, scientific researchers, and the girls in corporate offices appear fashionably gorgeous - but something about the girls in non-profit... These are the girls with the modest nose-rings, colorful scarves, and cozy and hip-looking outfits; clothes they may have thrown together in the morning, but which were carefully planned the night before while she peeled off that day's funky outfit. These are the girls I wouldn't feel uncomfortable meeting, but would be later dazzled to know.

I'm writing because I miss wonder and romance. I'm reading two books (I'm actually reading something more like 5 books) with incredible depths of emotion, with an almost detached wonder at life. The innocent self-awareness that plagues me makes me want to write but I don't know where to begin.

My cheeks are warm. Three glasses of wine, a spicy bowl of soup, and coffee. And conversation. I miss conversation. It's been six months since I've had a GOOD conversation. There's something very sad and lonely in me right now.

I was listening to the radio recently, to a broadcast about "the death of print." Supposedly, pundits have been predicting the death of books for centuries. And for a minute, I thought "how horrible." But I, and whoever was being interviewed, believe that books are eternal. Because, while news media may benefit from the immediacy of digital updating (Wikipedia, online news websites, etc), there's something not only physically beneficial to a "pulp-product page," but psychologically therapeutic as well. I know I process thoughts much more thoroughly with pen and paper than on a screen, and lengthy digitally-displayed texts are so distressing that I always print them to read them. (In fact, I wrote all this in my notebook before typing it.)

No death to paper! I will write if I have to chew bark and use my spit to make paper and track down all the world's pens like treasure!

My mom is moving to St. Louis in a month, and I miss her already. When she is far away, it hurts to know that there are things going on in her life that I can't know. Does that sound micromanaging? I only mean that a lack of a firm grasp on her life makes me feel a lack of a firm grasp on mine. And when she's away, I can't do little nice things for her, I can't ally myself with her against the world; I can't run to her with my medical emergencies that turn out to be bug bites or heartburn or bad gas. But I know she needs this. After 25 years, she must be tired. And my tokens - even though I've tried my entire life with these - can never fulfill her because she has to make herself happy. And one day that won't make me so sad.

I don't know that my long-term goals are fully formed yet. I don't know that anyone my age has; with less than a quarter century behind me, life is still seen through the back end of a telescope. Long-term to me is short-term. A couple years still seem like forever. I want to spend my life making intersections between my interests. I want to make a living out of anti-racism, art, writing, gender relations, coffee, food, business, social justice. How does anyone my age get more specific than that?