Well, happy Memorial Day weekend, everyone. Believe it or not, I went into the office yesterday, and kinda liked it. On the weekend, I can work quietly, uninterrupted, at my own pace, and best of all, with my shoes off. There's a feeling of being naughty when you walk around the workplace in your bare feet.
A long weekend like this is as good a time as any to mentally shift from this odd-weathered and odd-occasioned Spring into another New York Summer.
I would like to stretch out on this rock right here, in this sunny patch, and begin molting. Shedding one's skin just feels. So. Good.
This is such a strange moment for me, because pretty much every single area of my life EXCEPT work is imploding, then exploding, and it's all of my own doing. Right now, I feel like I've been climbing out of a hole with dirt sides, and the rain has started falling -- hard. I got about halfway up, but now oh shit the sides are muddy and I'm sliding back down, just trying to grab onto some roots.
The upside is that apparently, even though the FDA has never published a peer-reviewed study on this, anecdotal evidence shows that the lardy drippings from a cracked-open heart do serve as actual nourishment, without all those pesky calories to fatten you up.
I don't have any recollection of sitting down and eating a meal last week. I had a couple of tomatoes the other night. Some oatmeal for breakfast a couple of days. A cup of yogurt last night. An awful lot of coffee and cigarettes. (Not to mention the no-calorie business travel food, of course.)
So yes, I've lost a few pounds, enough that I got into my size-smaller jeans this week without needing a Quaalude and a can of WD-40. Quick, someone get Jenny McCarthy on the horn to start touting this as the next bad-science bogus cure for -- something!
At any rate, I am trying to be all om padme mani hum Dalai Lama and shit about things, even succeeding sometimes when I remember what he said about a broken heart being an open heart. Also, I read somewhere that you need to always put love ON your heart, so that when it breaks open, the love can fall inside. I just adore that whoever said this could see the inevitability of heartbreak.
I guess what's hardest to let go of is the conversation. It was such good conversation. Dammit.
Oh, and the idea that there was a person out there in the world who was, at that moment, giving a shit about me.
You see, when you're me, you get pretty reliant on knowing that there are people who give a shit about you occasionally. The idea that there was a person who was probably giving a shit about me frequently, and at the same time that I was giving a shit about him was fairly astonishing. When I allowed myself to roll with it, those moments had a sort of zoney, stoned "wowwwww" quality to them.
We're self-sufficient, though sometimes lonely, creatures in my world.
I also had a moment of indecision about the 2,000-some emails, and whether I was tough-minded enough to make a really clean break and purge them.
Well, I can't.
Some of them are almost love letters, you see, and I think you should always keep love letters. Not for the wishing that something would come of them, but for the remembering that someone felt strongly enough about you to put pen to paper. You keep them to remind yourself that you were the person who inspired such words, that at that moment something about you was right.
I have every love letter that Matt ever wrote to me, even the ones that I tore into pieces, in a fat envelope, somewhere.
I always say, when you don't know what to do, just do the next thing. But I think I need to revise that slightly. When you don't know what to do, make a to-do list, then do the next thing.
So right now, I'm to-doing the next thing.
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