10 | An interlude
Give me a honey dip, honey.
If you follow me on Instagram, you’ll know that things have been a bit rocky this month. It turns out I go through a bad dip in my chronic depression every year around this time - my early spring fever clashing with the last March snow certainly exacerbates things. After a few days of being off social media and avoiding everything that could dare remind me I live in a society, I felt a little better. I wrote every day, at least, and still do, which is good. The other brain things, I’m still working on. But writing every day is a very good thing.
So this means I don’t have much in the way of a writing update. But in penance, perhaps I can offer you this old bit of writing? It’s from a zine I made 22 years ago and while I can’t seem to write this way anymore, I really love it. I love the person I was then. It took me a long time to forgive her for things she couldn’t control, but I love her now.
(She once wrote an online journal entry contained entirely within a dropdown menu. What’s not to love?)
“So there’s this guy about my age trying to get the kids to stop swearing. I start all these things and get frustrated with them and just give up after a few months. That’s my problem. People walk in here saying all sorts of funny things. Once this guy swaggered in proclaiming, “Give me a patty on a bun! It’s my birthday!” and just now a woman came in and said, “Give me a honey dip, honey.” It was so funny she said it again and her laugh reminded me of a rake but I don’t know why. I never say, “give me.” I always ask, “can i have?” Maybe that’s my other problem. Maybe that’s why I’m not funny. The honey dip woman just walked in front of me and for some reason she reminded me of the hospital, the area you go to wait for people and it’s so soft and quiet and there’s something wrong with the way it feels. I don’t know why she reminded me of that. Promise me something. Promise me that if you ever see me talking to someone about the politics of the transit system for thirty minutes, you’ll punch me in the face, okay? A mother walks by with her baby in a stroller and the baby is pointing at everything and exclaiming, “a-bah!” at it. I look at the baby as she passes, trying to get her to say “a-bah” to me, but she doesn’t. She just stares at me.”
- 2001, From the second issue of my zine, Telectric.
Something about this reminds me of another bit of being-nosy-in-a-coffeeshop writing I did in 2007. I remember both of those days. They were both fun.
(Since I turned 40—three years ago, ha—I’ve been contemplating making a zine again. Back to my roots or something. And I want to talk about creating in my 40s vs creating in my 20s, but I’m still trying to find a way to not make it overly nostalgic, or whiny, or like an old dowager pining for her lost youth. Watch this space.)
PS, what I’ve been listening to:
Recently, a playlist was recommended to me on YouTube Music, called Goth Dad’s Workout Playlist. I am neither a dad nor do I especially work out, but I do love many of the bands and songs on that list (some examples that aren’t on my regular playlists: “In the Flat Field” by Bauhaus, “Worlock” by Skinny Puppy, and “Join in the Chant” by Nitzer Ebb). So I decided to use it for writing. When I write, I become a goth dad working out. It’s been serving me well so far.
I’ve also been listening to lots of Xmal Deutschland, who I’m sad to only have discovered last year!
Thanks for reading,
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