Can you believe it’s May 1st already? This time of the year always flies at rapid speed. First, it’s the crocuses emerging, then the trees blossoming, until we get to my yearly ritual of taking a picture of my motherwort plant towering me in early May.
This year, I can’t spend as much time in the garden because my work is busy, I have writing deadlines and my body is in pain. I have been going to physical therapy three times a week to heal a bad bout of plantar fasciitis that prevents me from standing or walking for too long. So, there won’t be any crouching along the garden beds for me this year. No digging, pulling, planting.
As always, I look for the metaphor to make sense of a very painful moment. Johnny keeps joking that if I let my mind run like it does there might a braided essay there: plantar fasciitis…plants…fascism. In reality, the metaphor is a little less facetious and I keep it closer to my heart for now. No need to share.
Speaking of sharing, I keep wondering, how much I should tell you about my life, how much is enough to create intimacy between us without making me feel exposed. Where my boundaries lie, what isn’t mine to tell. It’s complicated by the multitude of yous that I am addressing: friends, acquaintances, benevolent strangers, people who wish me harm.
It’s the tension of writing, especially writing nonfiction: the desire to tell a story and be seen, while opening ourselves to the unkind gaze of strangers, the possibility of being consumed. I believe in the power of telling stories, no matter how cliché this sentiment is. But for me there’s a small complication: several people I am estranged from continue keeping tabs on me. Over the years, they’ve learned where I live which has made me fear for my own safety. They monitor my internet presence, using burner accounts and that has forced me to retreat for many years.
I have always held strong walls around myself. To be fair, I have never enjoyed attention, and I am weary of the holograms that social media has created. I struggle with parasocial relationships – they make me feel hunted. I understand sharing about myself as a practice of intimacy, that requires an exchange of energy.
Yet, writing forces me into the brave space of expanding worlds, of saying “see me” even when I don’t want to be seen. Of releasing my words into the ether, without being able to control who reads them. Of releasing fear.
What I have been reading: Just read Before and After the Book Deal by Courtney Maum and am excited to finally have time to read Sea Change by Gina Chung (I ordered a copy a while ago but it’s been sitting on my TBR pile). Little bit of self promo, but I also am reading the last issue of Foglifter, that contains a piece I wrote (order a copy, it’s full of brilliant queer writing).
What I have been listening to: Just deep cleaned the house to sound of Stevie Wonder and Bruce Springsteen and Raulin Rodriguez. Like everybody out here, I am singing Peso Pluma to myself.
What I have been watching: Nothing worth noting, but I am going to try real hard to go see Joyland in the movie theater in the next week. If you’re in Philly, Batikh Batikh is bringing it to the Ritz Bourse.