I was talking art with this girl from Buenos Aires. Well not really. I’ve never met her. But we’re Facebook friends. Honestly, I’ve just seen her photos.
My style is shaking, weak at the knees. Hesitant, second-guessing. Trivial things like what t-shirt that goes with my black Adidas pants? Red or grey? I’m comparing myself to other blogs. I’m not focusing. Do you, I remind myself. Write what you feel, see. Don’t second-guess.
We may not move to Guatemala. Kate’s rationalizing. Which is good. No job to support us. Though Lake Atitlan is gorgeous, like aloe to infection. It’s not Guat or bust. It’s a spectrum. We’ll find a shack in the woods somewhere.
Comparing is toxic, for me. Maybe that’s why I don’t read much. Contamination. It’s so hard to believe in myself. Just sink teeth in, I tell myself. Confess! If I confess, the writing writes itself. Comes to life. Like a cadaver on the coroner’s table. Flickers his fingers, unshuts eyelids.
I’m listening to the audiobook of The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck. I recommend it. Seven out of ten.
I’ve turned up my yoga practice. Just a hair. Started doing these online classes. Can almost stick big toe pose. Neither leg is straight, but I’m close. Could be coincidence, but I feel like the fever of depression’s gone down too.
You only have so many fucks to give, the audiobook narrator says. I keep trying to figure out what people want to read. Kate says she doesn’t like ginger in her apple pie. I can bend on the pie. But the diary’s got to be raw garlic and pickled carrot. All me, muscle and bone, top to toe, not giving a fuck.