the habit of being

Dear Someone,

I haven’t been writing journal entries. It’s been a long time. I had to write things called journal entries for a class, but because I had to write them, they weren’t. I’ve written a few longer pieces. I’ve finished my first semester back at school. I made A’s in all (two) of my classes. I’ve sighed in the relief that I can still do it, and maybe better than before.

I’ve gone to Florida as a scientist, and come clean about being a writer, only to have my Emminent Colleagues in the Field tell me (after a few glasses of wine) that I could still do it - I could get my Ph.D. and go off to some small college (closet) and teach and write and Be Happy. The idea made me happy. The wine made me happy. The only thing is how everyone says a graduate program done well is all-consuming, and I don’t think I could stop writing for five years now just to get a vita. And the other thing is how I don’t even have a BA, but I’ve broken so many rules already. I’m much too friendly with people I oughtn’t be, and not at all friendly with the people who ought to be my friends.

I seem to be in a terrible rush to be an adult. Many of the other students in my writing class assumed I was writing about things that had happened to me very many years ago, and were surprised to find out that I’m not older than I am. Sometimes it does feel like by writing about things that happened, I put them further into the past than they would be otherwise. Once a girl that was me is committed to the page, she is no longer happening, and I am someone new.

Sometimes I think I will always waste the same amount of time, no matter how busy I am. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I find that I look more like my parents than myself. Sometimes I feel ridiculous in the clothes I wore a year ago. A year ago, I did not pay any attention to the news. A year ago, no one ever asked me if I had kids. No one ever asked me if I were married.

I did handstands in the ocean, off of Lido Key. I never wear make-up anymore. My birthday is coming up, and I want to know my entire genealogy. I don’t just want to know about the famous relatives or the crazy relatives or the writers - I want to know about all of them. I want to cry because I never met them.

Today I bought Electrelane’s new album. Today I signed up for a pilot program the MTA has put together where they’ll email me if my subway lines are screwed up. Today I had a falafel super combo and went to a talk about computer vision and laid out a plan for a paper about peripheral reading and told my ex-boyfriend he could sleep at my place this weekend. Today I had 1 skinny latte, 1 coffee with milk and no sugar, 1 earl grey tea, and 2 English breakfast teas. Today I went to my first yoga class in five months, my first yoga class since I stopped going because of morning sickness.

I want to live in New York City until I’m 30. I want to live in New York City until I move to California or Europe.

Yesterday I got passport pictures taken and I looked like a hag. My hair was a raging frizzy mess and my eyes were different sizes and my lips were bleached out and I don’t care. I haven’t had sex in almost half a year and I don’t care.

A man came up to me while I was writing and asked me if he could draw my portrait. I asked if I could read. I read, and I sat so still my back hurt. I sat and sat until he showed it to me. My nose did not look exactly like my nose, but it was a nice drawing. He had a large gap between his teeth. He was very Black and very big. He asked me my name and I said Kat and he said meow and I said yeah. He wrote my name of the picture and said he was Ron and it was nice to meet me. I kept reading.

I’ve noticed that loaning out my favorite books feels like letting someone sleep with my lover. It makes me feel sick.

Best,
Katharine