Tuesday, November 29, 2011

An analogy is like a writing desk

I have my reasons for the wall. Some people have gotten inside it simply because I opened the gate, and they strolled on in like it was an open house, kicking stuff over and knocking things around and generally fucking shit up and never paying for the damage. Some people have tried to pry their way in, removing brick by brick by brick, only to find I’m adding more bricks as they take them away. And some are in the entryway, standing somewhat awkwardly with their coat in their hands, wondering if they should get comfortable or just put their coat back on and leave. Some people talked to me from across the moat, listened to me, shared things with me, maybe they swam across once or twice just to hear me better, and eventually were invited inside. Sure, maybe they accidently knocked over a lamp once or twice, but I can get over a lamp. I can’t remember how some people have gotten inside because it seems like they’ve always been there, giggling and whispering and playing and crying with me since before I can remember.
I have my reasons for the wall. But I wish I didn’t have to have it in the first place. I wish I never built it. I wish you never built yours, either.
We all have our reasons for being guarded, some more than others. And it’s not a terrible idea to have some alarm systems in place. But I’m tired of keeping it up, of worrying about it. Bored, even. I don’t know what it means to not have those walls up; how to do that. But people aren’t paying attention to each other, anyway. We’re all walling ourselves away so that—what?—we just end up alone in a room by ourselves.

I’m tired of feeling delicate.
I’m tired of pretending I’m not.
I’m tired of being treated like I’m not.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Your Assistant girl

Remember when I had that brilliant idea to start that one work-related blog and I was all excited about it, and then promptly forgot about it? Me, neither.

Friday, November 18, 2011


I'm a worrier.

You've heard of us before. Your mother or father is probably one, maybe your weird aunt cindy who collects cow figurines--but you know who we are. We're the ones who fidget in our seats, crossing and uncrossing our legs; the ones who do that annoying clicky thing with our fingernails when we're anxious; the ones who ask you a million questions? about when it's going to be done? who's taking care of it? if you have everything you need? is there anything i can do?

We can't help it. I can't help it. Half the time I think I'm not actually worried or anxious, I'm just so habitually inclined to demonstrate the mannerisms. (Which is to say, I'm probably deluding myself into thinking I'm more laid-back than I really am, or I'm severely misunderstood, and most people are not, so ergo, I'm delusional.)

I don't know when it happened, or where it started. I don't know where to pinpoint the dawn of my obsessive tendencies. Are we born high-strung or do we just end up that way? And that's what it is, too--worry is just obsession. And both (or "it," if we can agree they're the same thing) are tiring. Tiptoeing is exhausting. Framing your questions the right way, wording your email just so, making every move with determined hesitation because Don't Fuck This Up runs on repeat on a banner across your brain like a stock ticker or a digital display in Times Square.

At some point you fuck up anyway. That's normal, it's natural and it's unavoidable. But for you, the worrier, it's not. Because other people fuck up. But you're careful. You're detailed. You're good at multitasking. And you worked goddamn hard to cultivate your precision, your craft.

But what's the point? If it's inevitable that your perfection can't last (and was never there to begin with), why bother? The stress you hold in your back and neck and shoulders isn't benefitting anyone, certainly not you. Your carefulness can just as easily be maintained. So you know what, go ahead, let's grant ourselves permission:
We can chill the fuck out.


The desert was our playground.
We ran, we jumped, we climbed, we hid, we wandered away and back and crawled through crevices and scaled boulders.
We dug our fingers into the dirt and watched giant beetles crawl into our hands.
We left our bodies behind. We left our worries, our anxieties, our apprehensions and our deadlines.
We played make-believe. We played hide-and-seek. We hopped from rock to rock and on your mark, get set, go, we raced across the sand to see who was the fastest. We walked with our arms at our sides like penguins and we sprawled out on the ground to soak up the sun.
We got lost and we got found. We came back alive. And we ate kebabs.