My bathtub has a leak.
My fucking bathtub, has a leak.
I had a story posted on a site last week and in the story I talk all about how I am going to go home and run a bath. And so I go home and run a bath and all the water comes out from the bottom of the tub which is supposed to be sealed to the floor but obviously isn’t and now it is leaking and I cannot take a bath with my rosemary and my thyme and my rose petals and incense. Also, it will be outrageously expensive to fix.
The last few months I toed the line of keeping this blog going and what it would become and be and mean because I am evolving, which means my writing must as well. I’m doing less wandering these days, and perhaps a bit more digging at my soul. It is so sad and dark and fragile there in certain places, where all the sharp and hurting bits become exposed.
For a long while I could not write amidst a wrestle with my insobriety. You’d be amazed how dumbed down a brain becomes with liquor and one night I sat before my keyboard and I sobbed because I did not understand the words that I had written six months since. It is incredible, and Hemingway was full of shit. Of course, brain cells do not come back and I have burned through much of my allotment I am sure but now I want to expose the sad and broken bits and not keep them locked inside the liquor cabinet. Even though they looked so pretty there–all the jars and bottles with the chunks of hair and skin and pigments of the eye.
After my uncle killed himself, my writing changed. Again, it changed, as habits do when lives become upturned and shaken out and emptied on the ground then gathered back up again thrown back into the purse in different order. Things I cared to write about before I simply do not any longer. That’s okay. Our species is meant to evolve. Stagnancy is death.
After I was raped I wrote the story of it forty five times over and watched it grow less angry every time. That was fucking beautiful, man. To watch spite evolve into a certain peace with processing and time. Took forever, though. Still, that healing has become my greatest masterpiece.
This blog will become less about travel, and more about the vulnerable and ugly moments that define the truth of humanity. That define our weakness, and the shocking compositions of our stories. I am trying to work within the confines of compassion here. I have an obligation to use the words for something good and greater, for healing.
That does not mean gentle.
But sometimes we must be firm in our demands for empathy.