Welcome To My Bed

Steam hiss.

Twenty pages on indelible inks in historical manuscripts and their preservation.

A book about the life and times of my life and times.

I worry that I procrastinate, I put off worrying to make more time for nothing.

I have begun the slow process of moving. I have been doing this for a month slowly but surely. We talk about mattresses on the floor, about a wall of books and records.

We went vinyl shopping yesterday afternoon and I bought my first two records, Traffic and Carole King. My father and my mother. I smiled listening to them later on, thinking about how we reinterpret where we come from and make it our own.

My New Jersey accent only comes out very rarely. I am in a place without colloquial speech, a college town that absorbs the dreams of the bright and ambitious and spits them back out with a focus. We come here to learn who we are, and some people lose sight of that along the way. But it's a lot less glamorous than that. Mostly we just make sex jokes in the aisles of supermarkets and cash in our quarters. We miss knowing where it is we want to be. We write papers we would never want to read, we write papers that don't matter to us one way or the other, we write papers on things that won't be relevant twenty years from now, at least not to anyone but our remembered selves. And no one will read them after we're gone from this place, unless our children find them in the attic on a rainy afternoon when there's little else to serve as entertainment.

I've gotten much better at living the now. I've been trained to worry about the next. And that shell is cracking like the skin on the heel of a runner who's gone one too many miles. I think less about what it is that may change what I love and more about how many things are going right for me. Impossible not to think about the past, I am more than guilty of dancing with skeletons in basement closets. But better to be in the room, with bodies that have yet to die.