unexpectedly

I’ve been struggling to write a cover letter for a job that is, in a sense, a job of writing cover letters. What is a grant proposal, really, but a cover letter for a project? Please, pick me; please, fund me – seems like a similar vocabulary, similar goal. That this process has been so difficult really sows some doubt in me, not only in my capacity to Do The Job Well, but (more notably) in the degree of my desire. What will it feel like to do this all the time

Maybe, if given the opportunity, I’ll become swift and agile in this genre; maybe I’ll enjoy the practice. There is, admittedly, something distinct about writing about myself (yourself, oneself). It is something particularly difficult. Maybe they’re not the same thing at all, a cover letter and a grant proposal, but what I do know for certain is writing is hard. Do I even like it? Ha ha I do I do I wonder I wonder

For now, anyway, my brain feels like a fried egg after a couple hours of staring at this smudged screen, typing a single sentence, then deleting it, then typing it again (one comma shifted), then deleting, then –

My mom (hello!) observed, once, my perfectionism in this regard. In my Wish, in my Fantasy, each sentence arrives fully-formed and perfect, as it ought to be. Ta-da! I have a hard time sitting with sentences I know are not right, I don’t even like to have them on a page, anywhere. I wonder about patience, if leaving things behind even when they’re absolutely awful could mean something later on. What the coming-back-to could be like. I can sometimes trick myself into writing it all out – everything, no matter what, just a mess, it can clean up later – but often this happens only when, finally, I’m feeling frayed and like I simply! cannot! Then, the good stuff.

(“good” and “awful” and “right”, whatever)

So, anyway, I’m thinking about writing.

– I can’t believe no one told me about Patricia Highsmith. Really, I can’t believe no one ever implored me to read her. I’ve just started reading The Price of Salt, inspired by this essay in the New Yorker, and I am smitten. In my group therapy, we do this Thing called present time, during which we’re allowed only to respond to, interact with, and exist in the present: what’s in the room, what we’re feeling in the moment, what comes up without any outside story. This is excruciatingly uncomfortable at first; each time, I feel like I’m completely emptied out, like I’ve been absolutely vacuumed. After a while, though, you kind of give in to this, like, what else are you to do, and you can’t help but notice the great waves of feeling and sensation that move through you, and it is a revelation. Never have I felt so expanded, so open, than during present time – it’s hard to describe, actually, but if you ever want to try it, let’s. It’s like drugs. Anyway, this reminds me, too, of what using magnetic poetry is like: in both cases, the limitations/the container (nothing but the limited and weird vocabulary in front of you to use, nothing but the hyper present to anchor into, respectively) necessitate this newness of experience, some kind of freshness, and suddenly you’re describing things as you never would have before, and this is, then, seeing/experiencing/making things anew.

Which is related to Highsmith and her language, how she describes canned peaches like little fishes sliding around on a spoon, it’s delightful and true and you feel it. I love this freshness, I can’t wait to read more and more.

Oh, I loved the eclipse and its shapes. I was surprised by the shape of the thing after the moon and sun moved apart from one another, just after 3:04pm in Atlanta yesterday. I expected a shape so different. I was sure to see an opposite crescent, mirroring the one created by the moon’s passing. Rather, a cup – like a little cup for holding a soft-boiled egg, for dipping. The moon moved “up,” not over, and I puzzled over this motion and, finally, think I understand it, but actually all I care to think about, really, is the shape and its loveliness. I wish I’d taken a picture, but I can draw it. I felt regretful for not traveling to the path of totality (the gravity, here), but this, too, passed. I loved our shapes, and I loved the glimmer of the light, and I loved the shimmering crescents reflected through the tree’s leaves, little pinhole cameras, a canopy full. I feel lucky that this eclipse happened for us in spring; have the trees in New York flushed? What were the shadows like there?

I feel so full of wonder! I feel so in love, no object in particular except for everything wonderful, I feel so glad for April. I told someone on Sunday that I’ve been feeling a little stale, like I haven’t been surprised in quite awhile, but this is actually completely untrue. That conversation itself was a surprise; seeing the little blue eyes of the grass peep open in the morning is a surprise; the crispness of the afternoon, its sharpness was a surprise; – seeing with new eyes, seeing with new eyes.