Make Room
Hi, there.
On New Years Day I woke up on my couch having dreamed of storage containers. “Woke up” is too kind a notion; I resurfaced from the bottomless puddle of drunkenness. I was with friends and surrounded by kindness, but I drank because I felt out of place. This certain negativity I hadn’t felt since my Big Trip on mushrooms in June had set up camp in my heart. And it’s no one’s fault, and I am (very slowly) weaning off my SSRI-buddy of nearly seven years, Lexapro. There are a lot of different reasons why I would be down in the dumps, this cold dark winter we’re in, but this was a Dark Night of the Soul for Kay Kay.
Without much of a decision, I decided to spend the next few days largely alone and largely in my own home. I have slept in my bed for about 11 hours a night the past two, but I also rearranged my sewing room, vacuumed, and made wholesome food, and sat with my face in front of the gorgeous steamer mom got me for Christmas, nourishing my skin and sinuses. I remembered something my aunt wrote in her book Mindfulness for Emerging Adults nearly ten years ago, and I paraphrase: sometimes we need to look at the past three days and clock our sleep, our eating, our movement, and our drinking. Then we can be less “why me?” about it all. The past (*^% weeks have been hectic and strange, if beautiful. And I just need a minute. The older I get, the more recharge I need. And that’s fine, brother.
I mis-wrote last week, THIS is your 51st missive from Kay Kay. Next week will be one whole year, and I need to decide if I want to carry on or write something new for you fine people. Maybe both. Take it to the bridge:
Writing (What’s up with my projects? What’s up with my community and writerly friends’ projects?)
World (A quick-hit on the news and the hopelessness of it / how I plan to be of service lest utterly breakdown).
WooWoo (Witchy shit, astro, tarot, etc.)
Words (A little poem or excerpt I’ve written recently, usually with the above-mentioned writing community)
Wonder (An inquiry: a question for you, dear reader, to consider or comment on in the post).
It’s all…
Writing It occurred to me yesterday morning, again, after a truly teenage amount of sleep, that I have been stalled this past year not only on my old novel, but on all truly immersed and creative writing. So: I finally finished what I’m calling “The Letter Stage” of “final” revisions on the book. Jeremy wrote me a good long letter about my book, and I’ve now considered it all, pasting his notions into my Scrivener file and changing the name to “Salt Moon 2026.” The last one was “Salt Moon 2024.” Next, to make a little habit out of working on her, daily. Perhaps in the tragic hour of 4-5pm, when it’s getting dark and I start to lose the will. Maybe mornings, if I ever meet them again.
World Start here, I think. I had a flash of a notion that if Trump tried to go to his third term I would protest the shit out of that. Head to DC, scream. But then I looked at me and mine and saw all the work to do right here. There’s suffering, addiction, violence, assertion of dominance in every scene, but also compassion, patience, and a willingness to try and understand. It’s a new year, Gregorianly, but I prefer to believe the true new year comes later--more on that below--and I’m observing more and more. The writer’s default setting.
WooWoo The Astrological New Year begins in Aries--wee Spring--late March. Forget Gregory and get lunar. Last night’s Cancer full moon really came for me, I don’t know about you. There was conflict and then a deep nesting. I knew my home was precious and I dedicated time to cleaning and culling, making way. If I make room now, Aries will show me what the new, Springy me would like to try next.
Words Here’s a little dream scene from MY NOVEL, DAMN IT
It’s like a hand in a leather glove on his arm. Max is dreaming a winter scene, that he’s driving in the snow with his father and AJ, and they can’t see a thing. Alex is wearing black driving gloves, something he’d never do, and the radio is off—another thing that would never happen. His parents are music people. The Saab smells clean, smokeless. It’s bumping along Mayfly Drive towards town, and his father is clutching the wheel tight. Max is in the passenger seat, AJ in the back. He doesn’t know why they are driving, when they could just stay safe at home, but then AJ starts asking questions.
“Why would he hit you? Why would he kick us out? We’re his family.”
“Because he’s a bad man, son,” Alex says, wincing when the car hits a slick and slides toward the woods to their right. “Your grandfather is a drunk and a bad man.”
Max braces his hand on the middle console and the car corrects into the center of the lane again. He doesn’t know much about his grandfather, but knows they live in his house, and that he’s been dead for a long time. None of the boys have ever met him, but Moira once told Max that he has his grey eyes. “That’s the rarest color, you know,” she told him, stroking his black hair in the sun, “and the only beautiful thing about that old man. You’re lucky.”
The ride goes quiet. Deathly silent, in that way snow hushes all the world when it comes down like this. Even though Max knows the answer, he wants to break the silence with the question, “What color are Papa’s eyes?” But then he doesn’t have to, for they bumble around a curve, and a black bear appears in the road. It’s this giant dark hole in all the white, and if Max could make out its eyes, they’d be wide with fear. Alex hits the brakes, too hard, and the Saab slides and skids. The bear runs heavily toward the woods. AJ gasps, Alex yells shit, and Max feels his father’s leather-gloved hand grab his forearm.
Wonder Yeah, Spring Cleaning is a thing we invented, but what can you donate away now, to make room?
Kay