The Stars, They All Stand for Themselves

 Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia. Ottoman situation, same. My Christmas tree is up and decorated. My darling friend flew from Vermont to see me intentionally right after my divorce became final. She loves Christmas. I never did. So we had brunch at my favorite local place and then drove up to the fancy outlets for some Christmas shopping. We came home and I dragged the giant ass tree bag and the ornament box out of the basement and into the formal sitting room that has only ever contained formal guitars and briefly a couple hundred vinyl records in the stand I made for my turntable.  I don't think my shoulder is happy about that slip in my judgement. But, I'm the one. So I do what I have to.

We put the tree up and decorated it with the peach and minty ornaments I chose last year. I love them just the same as I did then. I popped some proper popcorn and we watched Elf. The 2th Anniversary edition. Because I am old. Candice was up early this morning because she went to bed early last night. I did not. I stayed out too late having good conversations over marginally decent beers and a great chicken wrap.

The weather has  been...Scottish at best. Foggy, misty rain, a little cool. My hair has also been apparently rather Scottish. I had two people today tell me that I look just like Merida. Our server at the place I love recognized me from when she served us for my birthday, in May. The hair. I never thought my hair would become the most memorable thing about me. The most notable. But maybe that's just the thing people look at and remember. It just got larger and frizzier and less defined and more wild as the day wore on. The hem of my jeans got wet in the puddles. Puddles of mist. Rain so faint that it sort of drifts in the air, like snowflakes that just didn't ever get quite cold enough. I think I'm one of those raindrops.

I've spent two days waiting. I suppose I'll get over that in a day or two. I hate being resilient. I like the way it makes me feel when it's over. The going through is never as good as the having done when it's the shitty parts of life. The good news is that I think this round of resiliency is wrapping up. Maybe. I don't know. I feel a little bit better with some of my favorite people in the world close by, in person or in my phone. I've begun to miss the ones who mostly live in my computer. And maybe that being through will fade when I'm more  alone. In this moment, I am not lonely because I am not alone. My heart is not alone. Missing someone maybe, but not alone.

I'm alone right now. Everyone else is upstairs, sleeping or otherwise shut away from me. And I am doing the thing that keeps me alive. The second thing in life, I think. I always said that words were my first true love, but the thing that really is true love is likely much less passionate and much more ever-present. I never knew I loved music. I guess that’s because it was like the air around me. I breathed it and I loved it and I needed it, but I never really even knew it was there.

That sort of came to me on the phone the other night. In a crisis of confidence on all levels. Funny how the right person can crash against you so hard that it hurts you and at the same time makes you stand up and push back. Real love is a riptide, it will either kill you or it will make you feel almost dead, almost wish you were dead, and then make you so grateful that you are alive to feel the burn of salt water in your eyes and your lungs and hear it calling out to the salt in your blood.

My girl has gone up to bed, my child is in his room, and my ex-husband either went out or is upstairs in his space. All tucked away except me, sitting with my hands on the keyboard, with my head nodding. But I had to write. Writing to me is more music. It's air to me. It's sleep. It's water, briny or otherwise. I never stopped to think about whether I was any good at it because it never mattered. You can't stop breathing just because you think you aren't good at it. You're meant to do it, so you do. And you can't stop or you'll die. Writing and music, parts of me that I can't extricate even when it hurts so much it feels like it's tearing me apart. And to think that there are people who don't feel that way about anything makes me sad for them. We all deserve something that makes us burn. Something that makes us feel ill it's so right. Something to scare you sometimes. It's awful and it's perfect at the same time. It's just that part of you that is you.

Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia, after this day I spent noticing the details in everything and completely losing large, important parts of everyday life. Today was not like everyday life, but I still managed to almost leave my wallet on a table and to almost walk into a door. Thank goodness for someone to help me along the way today while I was noticing the weight of raindrops and daydreaming about the vast oceans and tide pools no bigger than a nickel where those drops will flow one day.

I'm grateful for the help, but I am also grateful for the noticing. Because noticing is what a writer does. It is what we are meant to do. I hope I never stop getting lost in the way the sand touches the water and the line of a mouth that reminds me of one I haven't seen in fifteen years. The few freshly-trimmed blond hairs that fell out of place with a hand through it and the urge that comes with it to push them back where they belong. I hope that I notice everything. And that it cuts me until I have to bleed words. And that it never stops. Some nights are like this when your mind and your heart are full. Some nights are like this in Suwanee, Georgia.