Things that Depress

A dimly lit cafeteria.

Fumbling in one’s purse.

Staring at a map.

A pedestrian waiting at a red light.

Walking by a couple.

Most of public transit.

An old waterbottle.

Any bruised banana.

Rain in June.

An hour spent writing.

Two Things at Once, No More

I leave this as a permanent note to myself to remember that I can never be perfect, but I can stop being so imperfect: Two Things at Once, No More. I will never give any one thing my fullest attention, but I shouldn’t try and give my attention to everything. I right now have nine windows open and two real windows open. If I only left the real window and this one open, I would be able to focus: I am writing a blog post, and I am listening to the world.

I am not a multitasker, I am  a bi-tasker. Doing two things at once lets me battle the feeling of insecurity that comes from only doing one task: I am aware at all times that the task I am doing is not the only thing there is, that failure in one domain might just mean more success in another.

 

I like taking two roads through life, like one isn’t enough. I like the idea of alternate universes, or different threads in time , because these notions require you to imagine the choice you took as the most important of many. I like that today I went to not one but two restaurants for dinner; I liked that I met a writer and that I also didn’t meet him. Not having met him, not having eaten that, makes all the things that did happen so much more potent, important because of the way they emerged out of the possible.

 

 

(from houstondoorsandwindows.com)

I do two things at once because I like remembering I have the option. I like running toward every possibility, doors shutting on me as I slide one foot into each realm. I like writing when I shouldn’t be because it reminds me that writing is a choice I make every time I do it. Will this writing I’m doing affect the way I’m doing my other thing, the thing that is sometimes more important? I think it will, and I think that’s why I do it.

 

For all intents and purposes, let it be known that the other task I was doing while writing this blog post was not listening to the world outside my window. It was listening to The Bachelorette.

Being Cool Alone

 

I always thought it would be neat to be someone who is cool alone. It’s maybe why I write. It’s why I bought I neat glasses. I remember the first meal I ate out alone: it was at lunchtime at a Thai restaurant and I read a newspaper. It was not a big deal, but the start of a learning curve: what does it take to live alone?

It takes a lot of guts. It means going out your door even when you know you might find nothing. It means never telling anyone the full contents of your day. It means making a lot of decisions and then turning back on them. It means getting used to being lonely.

I don’t know why I think living in Paris alone would be easier. It would be so hard, surrounded by such beauty and energy but still feeling on the outskirts of it. I think it’s because I know that Parisians are so cool alone. Do you have to be cold, to be alone?

Being alone is a very careful place: the moment you fall into a circle of friends you are no longer doing it. Life becomes easy, swimmable. Being lonely is edgy. It’s being at the brink of having it all, but choosing to stay outside of it, looking in, being comfortable in your selfishness.

I am lonely when I travel; it’s the only real chance I have at trying to live alone. At home I have a family, I have friends. I could never really do it – I know I would always give up. This is the second time I have sent myself somewhere alone. Both times I have given myself fail-safes: a roommate, an aunt and uncle. But sleeping in a room alone in a new city is something. And though right now I’m in my same country, though I speak the language, it’s hard to penetrate, to not be alone.

A lot of the time that I’m with people I’m thinking of the next moment I will be alone: what will I read? What will I write? I don’t know why it drives me, these words flowing in and out, but somehow it’s a big part of what I live for. I fuel up with energy and life from my relationships with others so I can come back to myself and do this writing thing. So loneliness, it has its pay offs and its draw backs. I get to write, yes, I get to write a lot. But what am I writing about?