last night

Yesterday was unseasonably warm and today too and tomorrow it's supposed to snow, and I have to get up earlier than a person should in order to collect cupcakes for a party at my day job and transport them across two avenue blocks and ten regular blocks of sleet and misery.

It is hard to think about anything other than broken hearts and a broken world after the last couple of days, but I'm trying. I don't drink as much as I used to because when you are a person—let us say, euphemistically, of a melancholic disposition, who is not getting any younger—drinking too much is usually a proposition that ends in soul-crushing disaster and a night that is too dark and too long and too full of questions about all the times you fucked up previously and all the times you will doubtless fuck up again, but sometimes you are meeting new friends for the first time and everything seems again, suddenly, as though it might be full of possibility despite the crash and burn of the world you love and live in, and you come home tipsy and put on doom metal and the cat hides in a closet while you think about how maybe really the decisions you made were good ones because they got you to the place that you are. The best kind of tipsy, the kind of tipsy that is rare and full of quiet joy that lasts through until the morning. Deep breath, back straight: the necessary labor of helping to carry a bright torch in a darkening world.

In the middle of a bleak place without hope it's been a day of small triumphs, and I will have good things to share with you soon, and there are exciting things coming up for Guillotine that I can tell you about soon too, and the cat will get over the doom metal, and now I'm going to eat some ramen and go to bed early so I can get up early to carry the cupcakes through the snow. I got the final pass pages back for About A Girl and I have been reading through it and realizing, to my surprise, that it is a book of which I am quite proud. Last night I went to see A Girl Walks Home Alone At Night and it was exactly what I wanted it to be, lovely and funny and sly and sad, and filled with moments of a beauty so perfectly rendered it left me stunned, and when I came out of the theater I gave myself the luxury of not checking the news for a moment so that I could spend a little longer in its world before this world descended on me, before I cried on the train on the way home because—well, you know why. I don’t have anything worth saying about that but Roxane does and you should read her instead.

But I remembered again, tonight, for the thousandth time, that love is all we have left to carry us, and love is what I have to give. And it doesn't seem like ordinary things ought to keep going but they do and sometimes the movement of ordinary things is the only thing keeping us going and so it does. I don’t celebrate Thanksgiving for reasons that I hope are obvious and so I will spend this weekend working instead, and thinking about love, the kind of love that is a choice to demand a better world to house it. A love that insists on seeing, on not looking away. A love of making work and the work of loving against the odds and the work of holding some kind of faith that a future is a place we want to get to, that a future can be something other than the thing we are looking at now. That all the pieces of our shattered hearts knit together can make a thing that is almost whole. Living for the fight, as they say, since it’s all that we’ve got.