The General Strike began seven minutes ago, supposedly. Or, at least, the rally at Sproul plaza, if not the strike. It is 11:07 am. I woke up around 10 am and found it so difficult to get out of bed, everything in me was pushed horizontal, pulled down, how could I move? (Is it starting again? The exhaustion that lasts for days? Weeks?)
This is when, as a younger person, I would get out of bed for the four seconds it would take to get into my parent’s bed. Their bed was always comfier and their sheets cooler than my bed. It would hold me like a refreshing cloud. I could watch my mom get dressed, or she would leave the door open to her bathroom so I could watch her blowdry and makeup. Or I would make eye contact with myself in the mirror sliding doors of their closet, until I felt ready, or someone coddled me into getting up.
This morning I just wanted to fall back asleep. Mishka jumped all over me, humphing and gruntpurs and meows. She was ready to go in the backyard, or eat breakfast, enough of this foodless bedroom and fleas. I pushed myself up finally. Let Mishka outside while I heated up her food. Breakfast for me, Jack showed me how to make his amazing oatmeal (heat margarine, toast the flakes, add soymilk. I used quinoa flakes and almond milk), Gigie made us coffee, and now I’m sitting here. Eating, writing. 11:12 am. I wonder what’s happening on campus, but I’m afraid to go.
Crowds are so intimidating when you already feel low energy. And they are marching, and I don’t have time to march. I don’t like marches, but even if I did, could I just blow off Polish Literature (a class of 10 people) when I accidentally didn’t go on Friday because I was tired and forgot (another day like today, my tummy hurt, I didn’t know why)? Well, I could skip it, I didn’t do the reading anyway. But I also have this writing, and one more response that I should have sent last night, and then this workshop. And Bharati wrote back she wants these printed out. Okay.
I feel like I’m standing on a rocking stool, grasping at people’s shoulders to help me balance, and I can’t see their faces, they keep walking away, they want to do different things. Kind of like in my dream last night, I didn’t have any friends, and people were chasing me. There were some magical parts…I could fly at certain times. But I also had to hide. I hid underwater in a pool. I joined a game of kickball. I was in danger, but I wasn’t scared, each action flowed into the next. It felt like I was watching myself from outside of myself.
Where am I, really? Am I even in this chair in my bedroom? Am I in the clouds? Am I underground? How do I do everything I’m supposed to do? Am I supposed to do these things?
It is 11:20. Tyler is at the rally, I found out from Jack. Jack doesn’t want to go. I have no idea what to do with this sense of obligation to join in, and my tired, and my classwork, and just wanting to make artwork with groups of people. I might just get back in bed. I might go for a walk around the block, try to wake up. I’ll probably start crying if something doesn’t shake off soon. I want to apologize. I want to fly. Maybe I’ll just go smoke pot in the attic and wait. No, I need to write a response to Kelly’s piece, and read a novel before 2 pm, and read an essay before 3 pm, and march, and meditate, and draw, and cry, and gather power, and spread love, and, and, and
I am afraid I’m not making any sense.
I ended up trying to sleep, eating more food, going for a walk, then trying to read for Polish Lit. The book was all about this guy trying to kill himself. I decided not to keep reading, not to go to class. I picked up a new book called The Spiral Dance, describing modern witchcraft. I created an energy circle around the room and asked it to protect me. Immediately, the room felt safer, like it was holding me. I started to go through love letters I’ve written to Woody that he keeps in a little folder I made him. Eventually I stood up and went to campus to print this out, and it didn’t work, so I got a chance to write this part.
Coming home from workshop, I saw Woody, Gigie, and Jack in the backyard. Woody held me and I think this made Gigie and Jack feel weird, so they went inside. Woody and I went in our bedroom and I was clearly sad, and Woody tried to cheer me up. “You’re great” he said. Ugh.
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Yes you do.”
“No, I really don’t.” I could tell this made Woody feel sad, he didn’t know how to talk to me anymore, so I thought really hard about what I meant. Why did him saying I am great suck so much? I thought of how my old boyfriend used to say that to me online, and how I didn’t know what it meant that. I thought about how it treats me like I’m something separate. Like I’m this great thing that is separate and different from him.
I don’t want to be separate. I don’t see myself as separate. This is why it is weird to be called great by the person you love. Or by anyone. It is being told how you are, as a separate being from that person. I don’t want to know how I am, separate from you. I want to know what I reveal to you about yourself. I want to know what we are together. What we can be together. What it is that is already changing.