I woke up this morning feeling annoyed that my life is not easier. Simpler. As in, why do humans need to eat so regularly that there is constantly food to be bought and prepared and then dishes to clean and put away, all just to be brought down and dirtied up just a few hours later?
20 years ago the weather was very similar to how it is today. Maybe not quite as breezy, but very bright, blue, and sunny. It was beautiful. It was a Tuesday, and I was in Mrs. Robb’s 10th grade Biology class waiting for the bell to ring to dismiss us when one of my classmates’ younger brothers knocked on the door to tell us that school was being let out early.
I won’t pretend to know the intricacies and nuances as to what is going on in Afghanistan and how the past decades contribute to the reality on the ground right now. I can’t possibly begin to know the complexities of the religious, political, and tribal influences at play in a place I am not a part of, in a culture I know nothing of firsthand.
Today was the first day of school for the kids. I had to be at work early, so I couldn’t see them off on the bus, but I will get the chance tomorrow. I’ve decided that the three afternoons a week that the kids are practicing at the same time, I will claim those hours as my writing hours. They are mine. I will try to remember my outdoor chair that I use to watch their games, but when I don’t have that, I will sit in the grass or against fences or in my car if the weather is appropriate, which is not the case right now. It is soupy and the air is heavy and thick. A good rainstorm will clear it out.
I’m closing in on three weeks of being off of work. It’s been glorious but also the same holds true for me now as it did in high school--when I am busier, I am more productive. Whenever I was in season for any one of my sports, I always did better in school. The constraints were actually good for me. They forced me to get done what I needed to get done because I knew that I wouldn’t have a chance to do it later because of practice or a game.
I pick up a bag of kale in the fridge to check the sell-by date, it said June 9. I couldn’t remember if we were ahead of that date or behind. I genuinely asked myself if we were still in May? June 9th feels surreal, not possible, yet it was 5 days ago.
I began writing this piece on Election Day 2020. I’ve always enjoyed the communal aspect and buzzing energy of Election Day, and this past one was no different. What was different was my anxiety and existential dread of the possibility that the sitting president would stay in office. Still, I was excited. And maybe even a little bit hopeful. Maybe we could course correct, or, what I really feel like saying: maybe we wouldn’t fuck this up again.
I am sitting at Theo’s soccer game when I hear a mother’s voice. It says: “There’s no such thing as girl toys or boy toys. You just like what you like.” She was talking to her young daughter, a spirited little girl with blonde hair. Her name is Ruby. Ruby’s mother’s words have stayed with me.
Over the last few years, space travel movies have become an unexpected favorite of mine. Ad Astra. Gravity. Interstellar, especially. I just heard that there are plans to send Tom Cruise up there, literally, to film the first movie in outer space.
I once bought a large, cheap print of a yellow elephant and her baby. This was when I lived in Vancouver, a time and a place that holds a painful, beautiful time in my mind and my heart. It is not anything particularly stunning, but I liked the whimsical simplicity of it. Since then, the picture has taken on new meaning.
