Remnants of revelations

You have to write. You have to ignore the dirty dishes and the pile of laundry you dragged out onto the floor and the stack of strange hobbies you’ve picked up over the years: women’s clothing catalogs, spanish language, dull pencils, drawing paper, lists of things to do and places to go, scraps of trinkets and memories.

I remind you to embrace the sentimentality, those fleeting moments when you mythologize your life. Even those moments you chose to forget about the second they were passing. Remember that time you kissed me on the swing? I forget who was the initiator, I forget if it was good or bad or tingly, I forget what was said before or after. I remember that it was dark, that we had come from the bar, that I was wearing shorts. I remember the motion of the swing. I remember the smell of the metal swing chains. Do I? Or is that just a memory I’ve formed from other experiences?

I don’t know when the story will come. I don’t know when the story will form. I don’t know what the story will be or who it will feature or what it will look like. What color it will be. I only know that the story is there. It pushes against my ribs. It lies beneath the surface of my fingertips. It’s embedded in my skin–in the yellow bruise on my forearm, in the skin lesion on my chest my doctor wants to remove, in the wiry hairs over my eyes. It’s brewing. It’s coming. I step forward and back. I draw a circle in the dirt with my toes. I can wait or I can write, pulling the words out in bits and chunks, in fragments and not quite there sentences.

You should come over. You should come over and we should make the yellow light of my main room mean something. We should make memories at the table I picked out, after careful consideration. That I knew to look for. The table I grease and polish and don’t use quite enough. You should come over so that when my apartment is bare and stripped of me, I can look around and feel you there. I can say I made the most of it. I can say I enjoyed living here and I made it my home.

I try to substitute you, to supplement your absence from my life.

“You have no idea what you’re getting into.”

“So how do you make transformational decisions? You have to ask the right questions, Paul argues. Don’t ask, Will I like parenting? You can’t know. Instead, acknowledge that you, like all people, are born with an intense desire to know. Ask, Do I have a profound desire to discover what it would be like to be this new me, to experience this new mode of living?

As she puts it, “The best response to this situation is to choose based on whether we want to discover who we’ll become.”

Live life as a series of revelations.”


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