I met him today for lunch.
We went to Gaylord (the
Indian restaurant in the
Embarcadero Center
with the unfortunate
name). I said it’s all too
much. But I’ll change my
life to accommodate. No
problem. Anything he
wants. Lucky me, right?
Do I turn 29 in less than a
week? Or 15? I’m asking
for real, so please don’t
laugh, because I don’t like
a lot of what I’ve been feeling
lately. This might possibly
have something to do with
birthdays, which bother me
less and less each year (birthdays
have never been the problem, un-
less you count 28 and 39, but still...).
I find that I live in a universe where
distinct and extinct are synonymous;
that I’m very tightly wound; that I find
myself dividing (slowly) into several
pieces I cannot tell apart (although I am
assured by others that each separate part
opposes each of the other partial selves,
the non-selves, which seem to be nearing ex-
tinction, but again...). To find that each of
me is a wound exploding with words at which
others either nod, give puzzled lucks, quickly
run away from, or do all three in simultaneity
means that tomorrow I will write something like:
“Actually, I’m okay today.” This will be true.
Is true. And I will even believe it as I write it
down. I do. That this thing that I am here
writing to you is something quite like truth.
writing to you is something quite like truth.
