I’m making a list of my all time favorite albums. I tried to keep it at ten but that’s impossible. Also what about all the songs I love but maybe not the album it is on?
But I’ll persevere because that’s what the world needs.
I miss my mom. We weren’t ever Lorelei and Rory Gilmore in fact we kind of hated each other but not really. I just want her not to be dead. It makes me angry she’s gone.
When I think about her and all she gave up… for us. It just fucking wrecks me. Because I could never be that selfless. And I was a rotten horrible awful child. And now I know better and I want to tell her this but I can’t because she’s dead. She is dead and I cannot tell her and I don’t have a daughter to make up for it and it just breaks me.
I may have had a drink or two tonight. Imagine trying to get through this life without drugs or alcohol?!
A few days ago I finally read that vulture article with Fiona Apple, the one where she talks about each song on the new album. In it, she says, “I exist whether or not you see me. These things about me are true whether or not you acknowledge them.”
And it has stayed with me. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it. It feels entwined with me and this moment in my life, touching on my desire to achieve some clarity or higher level of spirituality or connection with myself and the world around me.
I am deeply deeply flawed. Selfish, superficial, shallow, vain. I admit to these things, and so much more. There are things I won’t admit to anyone else ever, not even here, not even now, cause some secrets a girl has to keep.
But I still exist.
So I think about the things I’ve let go. The people. The places. The moments. The feelings. And I think about all that I haven’t let go. (You, for one. I really really need to let you go. You burrow into me and I just cannot find an escape.)
Then there are all the things I’ve forgotten (but not really). The things I don’t remember (but not really). The things I like to forget. The things I just won’t think about. They all exist even if I don’t see them anymore.
There are the things that stay with me, no matter what. like the drain. You know the one. The drain in middle of the bathroom floor at a surprisingly clean rest stop somewhere off the turnpike, the road taking you to your future, a future you won’t ever get to. That drain is there because it is someone’s job to come hose off the turnpike grime and send it down the drain. So just focus on that drain because that’s where it will all come clean, where it will all wash away.
Or how about that feeling when you lost the thing you didn’t really want, THANK GOD you lost it, you can be glad. You can be grateful. It was all wrong. only don’t say ‘it’ okay? say her. You lost her and it’s alright, love, because you were a mess and maybe in the movies something beautiful can come from something ugly, but not for you, not in this life. so it was good and you can hold that awful terrible heartbreak in a tiny little box and keep it forever, tight between your fingers, in your sweaty cramping palm, and that feeling can be relief if you want, or something else entirely. just be gentle about it, whatever it is.
All these things about me that are true whether I acknowledge them or not.
All the therapy I’ve tried, to get there. All the meds. The drugs. The sex. So many lies. Chasing. Surrendering. Searching. Hiding. Giving up. Giving in.
But writing in general and, more specifically, writing on this site, has always been a way for me to acknowledge my existence. When I started writing here again in earnest, I said, “loafe was tapping into something heady and deep, thrumming beneath my feet, vibrating in my bones. A direct line into the pulsing aching blue. And sharing it with someone else, even for just a blink of an eye? it was magnificent. I lost that pulse. I forgot the path. but I would so love to feel that hum again, the beating inside.”
And here is what Fiona said (talking about “I want you to love me”):
The pulse I was talking about was the connection to other people, the recognition of that. My pulse and her pulse are the same, the acknowledgment of our existence and, as I see it now, our death. All of us are born and all of us will die and that undeniable inevitable current is beneath us all and when we tap into it, it does feel like home. A belonging.
I don’t know if anyone else is reading this. It’s probably just Russian bots sucking up my digital detritus and I’m alone here in this cavern. I wouldn’t even know though. I don’t allow comments. Years ago, I turned on the setting to keep search engines from indexing my site. I don’t seek out readers as I once did. It would be hard for anyone to find me.
But it doesn’t matter. Because I exist and no matter what, this is home.
In bed. Windows open. Listening to a cold, early-summer rain. It’s soft. Steady. There aren’t enough of these nights. Not here anyway. Never enough rain. Never enough water.
(water makes me feel better. I always forget that, until I remember.)
the rain is nice. But I am tired. In the metaphorical “we are all tired, so tired” way. But also TIRED. Like, actual sleepytime eyes wide open tired.
put your hand on my skin, feel how tired I am. the nerves underneath your fingers vibrating with wired exhaustion. The tiredness leaking out my pores and staining the air.
“I can’t sleep.” The insomniac’s life story.
But see, I can sleep. I sleep two or three or five hours. Sometimes I even sleep for seven or eight. But it’s so disjointed. No normal cycling through the stages. It’s all zig-zaggy. never really asleep, never really awake. I get enough sleep to be alive. But I’m just an echo, an echo of someone real.
I want sleep. But more than sleep, I want rest. So if an insomniac is someone who can’t sleep, what is someone who can’t rest?
I cannot get over fetch the bolt cutters. It’s magic. Not music. Magic. The whole thing just melts into me like lotion. I take time smoothing it all over my skin, rubbing it into every single inch, slow, generous, my skin thirsty, drinking it in, absorbing it. It’s her voice, her words, curling and seeping in.
then it drops into my bloodstream. Rising and rushing and running through me.
The album is us. And it belongs to us. Not you. It belongs to us, belongs in our cells. It’s there, in the blink of my eyes and the pulse in my wrist. it’s in my lips as I lick them, my fingertips as I touch air.
Every time you listen to it, you become a new person.
So yes. I love it. It’s a great album. I will never be the same again. Five stars ten out of ten A+ etc etc.
