I'm sitting in the Windsor Terrace library tinkering with my budget, and thinking about how odd it is that I am just learning this skill in 2016, almost 30 years into my life. Because in the past, though I kept up with what I was spending and what I was making, I just wasn't including the totality of every single transaction, in and out. Which is the only way to budget successfully. This is painfully obvious upon writing. But I'm doing it! And though I failed miserably in September, my October budget is looking very much in the green with only one week to go. Savings account, I'm already very proud of you, but one day soon, if I can stick to this thing, I imagine you'll grow into quite the heartthrob.
My Mom sent me a sheet from a workbook she's been using in her grief share program. I asked her to send it to me after talking on the phone when I was trying to grapple with my fall from the structurally unsound clouds of my mental health. It contained over 100 common responses to the death of a loved one. At one point in my life, I would have looked at this list and rolled my eyes. Not everything you do can be attributed to one thing, I'd say. We have agency over more than just our movements in space, I'd say. A bit dramatic, I'd probably say, somewhat smugly. But having gone through so much processing in these past four years, my sense of explanation is a little worn down. I'm a bit fuzzy on the details of how the world works and why I should know everything. And I must admit that so many of my actions and feelings, my shortcomings and overflowings may indeed be related to the sickness and death of my father.
I have become very interested in cleaning recently. I arrived back to New York after a year of living with very modest possessions to a small bout of horror at exactly how much I owned and the state of the DAA (Department of Apartment Affairs). But most especially to how much I own that I don't care about at all, or that I have no rubric with which to measure. As I struggled with the overwhelming possibilities of modern life as it appears to play out, outside my window, my trinkets struck a ringing chorus behind me. All my peccadillos at war with the raw material of someone who collects on emotion.
And isn't this a slice of what life feels like these days? Let's try television for example. Over the weekend I had the distinct pleasure of seeing Raphael Bob-Waksberg, Maria Bamford, and Stephen Falk talk about mental health in their TV comedies (Bojack Horseman, Lady Dynamite, and You're the Worst). It was a fantastic conversation regarding two of my favorite current TV shows (and one I've heard a lot about but haven't gotten around to [YTW]). I had seen two other New Yorker Festival talks, one a conversation between Jeffrey Eugenides and Zadie Smith and another with Atul Gawande about public distrust of science. But when I shared with people the exciting talks of the weekend, I decided to lead with the one I thought people would recognize. And yet when I shared the names and shows and topic, I was met with the kind of blank stares that make you want to walk away in the middle of your own story.
I've been thinking a lot about dreams these days. Or should I say, I've been dreaming a lot? I recently went through my dream journal. Though I dream often, I only write in it whenever a dream really sticks to my ribs upon waking. Which, even when I have wonderful dreams, is seldom the case. And looking through, it was hard not to see the same handful of stories crop up. Six, in fact.
A place for product updates, inspiration, behind the scenes stuff, and in general a place for mind meandering.