Journal Entries
Adapted from Highly Illogical Volume 2, Issue 2, sent on January 9, 2017
Good evening you gorgeous, dynamic, loved creature.
I write in a journal on the bus, almost every day. It's important to me to keep writing. The problem is no one ever reads it. Everything I write stays in my journal and gets gummed up in editing and perfectionism and nonsense. And, just me being a chicken. So here are some unedited passages from my journal. I chose them, but haven't messed with them. This is hard for me, but I'm doing it.
Sometimes I wonder if I actually enjoy drinking my coffee black for the flavor or simply because I enjoy being a Person Who Drinks Black Coffee (tm), our expressions hard and glinting, our stomachs acidic, our colons clean.
So I am here, back on the bus. It is kind of more crowded than usual, but not as swamped as yesterday. CONTINUE READING FOR HOT BUS SCHEDULE ACTION.
It's like someone opened a high-suction drain at the bottom of my skull and my brain is just being slurped down into it and the only thing that can save it is putting pen to paper. Author's note: this was the first sentence, I only wrote one more sentence. I talk a big game sometimes.
It's a good rule of thumb to avoid writing pages and pages about a guy you kinda like, kinda like is not love, kinda like is not enough to spend a lot of ink on, kinda like shouldn't lead to too much obsessing, unless it develops a more definitive shape.
A man on the bus has the phases of the moon tattooed on his knuckles, a month passing before his eyes every time he holds something in his hands or clenches his fists.
On self deprecation/likability: Are we so caught up in the narratives that others present that we need reassurance they aren't real? Do we need everyone to be relatable? Why can't we just be in awe of each other, celebrate the wonder of our difference without interrupting with our own experience. I'm not articulating this the way I want to. I think people paint themselves into corners, make themselves small, in the pursuit of being relatable. They hire PR teams and modify what they want to say. It seems like a waste.
The morning was foggy, and leaving the windows open all night meant that everything inside had the slight swollen dampness that is usually reserved for buildings by the sea. It's difficult to get used to the moisture that seeps into everything, the heavy air that clings. All very Bronte.
I'm still adjusting to living in a city, to being around so many people and being confronted with their suffering with regularity. Sometimes I feel like I am just swallowing all of the pain on the street, all of the sorrow, all of the loneliness. And then, when someone reaches out for me, asking for help, I cannot pull away from them fast enough. Sometimes I don't even look at them. What does that say about the state of my soul?
It's funny how I overcompensate for my lack of womanly wiles by dressing like a pin up girl. Can a full skirt and red lips pair with my foul mouth and boyish walk? Can they make me feel sexy or just feel like I am wearing a costume? Will I always feel like a gangly teen boy with boobs while I'm interacting with men?
Do you ever play detective in your own apartment? Like, walk in and squint at your cupboards and shampoo bottles and clothes and make hard-boiled statements like "A bottle brunette, eh?" "Haven't cooked any vegetables lately, have we?" or "Young. 20 something. Size 16. Menstruated . . . Last week. There's Old Spice on her desk, but judging by the one pillow on the bed and the contents of the bottom drawer here, I'd say single."
I wonder if I know what is actually important about myself.
I'm a liar. It's raining.
I've been considering making a spreadsheet of details of my friend's lives so I can remember what to ask them about the next time I see them. Is that an android move?
So, there you have it, dear reader. I know it doesn't seem like much, but I don't want to only share the shiniest, most polished parts of myself with you. It's more important to me that I give you part of myself, that I keep reaching for you, that I keep stretching my arms as far as I can to touch you - this is what I have to offer right now. Make of it what you will.
Please, take care of yourself. Please, do something you're scared to do. Please, know you are loved.
xo,
Sammi
P.S. you can interact with me by responding to this email, or tweet at me @spockgrrl. I'd love to hear from you.