I come back to the peninsula over and over again. A toddler worrying at a loose tooth: no wiser than that, no older in my heart. Now I am leaving and I keep writing things about it and then deleting them because I am bored of myself talking about it and I always have more to say about it and then I am bored of myself in the middle of saying the same thing again and I go sit on the beach and look at the water and think what is the lesson I am supposed to be learning, and then usually I cry. Rinse, repeat. Circling something, over and over. The nature of the circle is that it has no beginning, no end, no resolution.
On this trip I got a massage from a woman named Savinka who told me I clench my jaw because I am keeping too many secrets and I pull my shoulders in too far because I am holding something I do not know how to release. "You cannot waste all this time being angry," she said, "because your health is more important," and I thought anger has kept me alive, but I don't know if that is true anymore or if it is a story I tell myself to justify how angry I am. How do we live with what we are? with what has been done to us? with what happens now, yesterday, tomorrow, to the people we love and the people we do not know? How is anyone not angry? I think people who are not angry are my enemies but maybe I am someone who looks too much for fights to pick.
Then again, I am still alive. And it's by counting scars that I find the people I love best.
A guy found me in the bar downtown and told me the story of his life, the way they do. I didn't tell him any stories of my own. I wouldn't have even if he'd bothered to ask. "But in the end, it's best to be honest about what you are," he said, reflecting on the foibles he'd outlined for me. "We're all polished turds." "Speak for yourself," I said, and he looked startled to realize I had a voice. "I'm diamond all the way through."
I wrote about Medea and I am writing about Medea and I am still thinking about Medea, the monster, the girl, and how the body of monster is the only body that feels large enough to hold the girl that I am and have been. Reign in blood. Out west I feel mean and tired and homesick and out east I feel fragile and tired and homesick but it's almost winter, and that's my season. And out here I look and remember there are stars, uncountable, and the tide goes in and out, and the gulls wheel around in the sky and holler at you, and the deer gaze at you with big dopey eyes before they go back to eating people's gardens.
This place we used to go to for years and years, this cliff overlooking the beach called the End of the World, fell into the sea last week. It sounds like a metaphor but it's actually just the truth. It's the end of the world as we knew it and I feel fine. I'm hanging in there and I hope you are too. xo.