Overslept. Or: having lunch at 18.30
I slept until 1pm. I ran errands in a hazy shade of summer, withstanding lines at 2 markets, forgetting to get something to cook for dinner. I’m so spaced out and groggy I don’t really even want coffee. I keep coming back to coloring my hair (again), having wine and spending the night reading and writing.
I have wild boar sausage, bone marrow, some chicken, a Portabello mushroom and kale. These will probably feed me ok.
Sleeping a lot isn’t my usual jam.
This morning, I had a text around 8a, the front of my brother’s car demolished by (he said) “D’oh! a deer”.
(That caption is pure Brother.)
The last 150 miles of their trip done in the AAA tow truck. He reports they’re all OK, very very tired.
I wonder if I’m tired on his behalf. Sometimes my brother and I carry each other, so maybe I’m worn out today on that account. It’s a weird thing I don’t really relate to many people. He and I still talk in a kind of shorthand (I think of it as a grown-up version of twinspeak), though we haven’t spent much time in each other’s company since the early 90s. Maybe as long ago as 1991. (He shared an apartment with 3 other guys our last year or so of high school.) But, there’s no regrets about not seeing him. We stretch our own ways, and when we’re together, we know the other is the only person who has been around exactly as long. (ok, really, he’s exactly one minute behind me).
He and I got our college/university degrees in things similar-but-different. Also, I went to a state school and he went private.
He and I both work in tech now, in similar-but-different capacities.
He’s been married 16 yrs; I was married half my life and divorced twice before I was 37.
He and I aren’t best friends. But we’re not jealous of that. There’s no possession except that which is actually indicated: my brother.
Here’s a hard thing I don’t much talk about:
In my last marriage, I wasn’t allowed to use personal possessives: my, mine, our, ours. I said “the” a lot to avoid ascribing to my 2nd ex-husband possession of anything that wasn’t actually his.
Four and a half years out of that, I’m still twisted up about the word “my.” It’s not entirely bad, since I don’t habitually linguistically posses shit that’s not mine (such as “my project”), but if there’s any relationship I’m happy to rightfully claim, it’s my twin-hood.
I don’t know if there’s any point to this, really.
There’s nagging thoughts: a bad car accident of my own; losing my laptop and bus pass. Having only cheese to eat.
I’m advised “do not worry” about the nearness of rent due; I still field messages stating I demonstrated strength in leaving the job.
I’m not worried so much as the control freak in me wants to know what the ever loving fuck is next. I’ve stalled on getting rid of everything, selling what I can and fitting the necessities in a backpack. I’d need a backpack, for starters.
So, tonight, I’ll meditate on gratitude: my brother and his family are just exhausted and kind of sore.
Tonight I’ll weave some words together into a few new essays. Tonight, I’ll color my hair steel grey. Tonight, I’ll feast on whatever I can manage to make.
(and every night)
I have nothing to regret.
I have no use for shame.