I had moved home for the summer. In all honesty, I had moved home indefinitely. It had been four years of university – five years of living away from home. My room had become a very specific museum of childhood paraphernalia pertaining to only me. I spent two days ruthlessly sorting through the sentimentality, destroying the useless mementos. I got rid of anything that I didn’t want published in the biography they would write about me after I died – in 70 years or so. I was in search of more closet space, I was in search of my rug, I was in search of my dignity. I had just come to terms with being the adult-child in the basement when I received the email – I was wanted back in academia. They wanted me back – for two months. I was to go back to the university and claim the noble role of being a TA for a 100-level summer session university English course.
I had applied for the position a couple weeks before my grand move home. I had applied because that’s what I was supposed to do. I believe in leaving no stone unturned, as they say. I’d gone in and told them the truth: I was not going to grad school in the following year (but maybe I would in the future?), and I was not a flagrant grammarian (but I believed in the spirit of it?). I was certain the job would not be mine for the taking, so I moved home.
But then it was. And I accepted. And the whole course of [half of] my summer changed.
— Kurt Vonnegut
Let’s laugh like we did when we were teenagers. Let’s grab our sleeping bags and find a field and a night sky. Let’s tell secrets like we used to, knowing that we were the only ears to hear them and the only hearts that could understand.
Woke up to this beaut today. Feeling inspired, but also tired. Instired. Hopefully writing goes better today than that word combo did.
Herta Müller, in 2009. “I wasn’t trying to write literature, I just put it down on paper to gain a foothold, to get a grip on my life.”
I’m sorry if what I am writing is about you.
I’m sorry if you recognize yourself.
I’m sorry if you feel exposed.
If it makes you feel better,
I think our flaws are only embarrassing to ourselves.
I wasn’t embarrassed by your flaws. I wanted to see more of them.
Are you worried that my written words are the edge of my anger?
My words are my forgiveness.
Writing down the words is the ritual that makes me clean inside,
and makes you faultless again. Flawless again.
I have to write about life to know it.
Let me write about you. Let me know you.
"No, you’re not."
"No. I’m not."
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