Everything in Nothing
Vol. 9
Well hello there,
Early this morning I realized the new year begins in just three weeks. Inconceivable as it may feel, there is something endlessly hopeful about beginning again – fervent possibility, a clean slate, life without limits. Although I have never been one to write or believe in New Year’s resolutions, something about this coming year is asking me to consider, to reflect, and to predict. So I’ve been writing, mainly about little moments in my life, my fears and questions of the future, and the minute things in between, but to write and just write, without any goal or purpose, has somewhat transformed very much of my daily life.
I often question the idea of knowing when I am being myself. What is real? What is fake? What is temporary? What is Me? At the current moment, I am choosing to think that the self cannot exist in isolation, that imitation, inspiration, and introspection are unstoppable forces that dictate our daily lives. So instead of trying to reject influences, I am learning to welcome them in. I have been following this woman Beth on Instagram for some time now. Her page is built mostly on creating daily outfits, but each week, she creates a new character to dress as. Whether it be a “Mix-print Mad Hatter,” a “Ranch Heiress,” or a “Cape Cod Eccentric,” her complete surrender to the ‘other’ as a source of inspiration allows her to find a new truth within herself she had yet to see. I love that. Make shit up, become someone new, let it inform you.
I spent much of my weekend in solitude. My family being scattered across the continental US provided me with more silence than I am accustomed to. At first, I tried filling much of my day with music and podcasts. I played slow classical music as I woke, listened to podcasts while making breakfast, experimental piano as I read, and classic rock while I exercised. But very soon, the noise felt too much, knowing my eagerness to fill my life with sound was in many ways a rejection of opening my mind and considering what I was thinking. So I paused the music, found my journal, and let myself think, putting words on a page with no thought of the time or my responsibilities, completely free to explore. Here is a bit of those thoughts, from 12/09…
I rose earlier than expected this morning. The faint whine of my dog at the foot of my bed thirteen minutes past six, an irritating reminder of his small bladder and empty stomach, launched me out of bed with annoyance and frustration. I sat up, searching for my glasses beneath my creased pillow and under books strewn across my duvet, only to have found them folded and placed in their rightful spot – the small silver cup gifted to me by my Godmother following my baptism as an infant. I descended to the kitchen and brewed coffee before slowly turning on the fireplace and switching on some lights, starting with the Christmas tree in the library.
Before long, I found myself lodged between several pillows on the couch facing the shimmering hearth, Patti Smith’s M Train by my side. The book, a series of essays following Smith’s distinct and caffeinated lifestyle, is a journey into writing about nothing, an attempt to explore life in its most honest form no matter how simple, repetitive, or incredible. Smith writes with such passion about coffee, and as I write, a warm cup of black coffee sits next to me alongside a slice of lemon bundt cake, leftovers from my Mother’s birthday celebration. I somehow feel Smith is near, guiding me along the path of writing openly about life or maybe just encouraging me to drink more coffee, who knows.
I fed the dogs, fed myself, called my boyfriend, used the bathroom, and then quickly remembered a dream of mine from the evening prior. In a small white room sat an ornate wooden desk with a small chair draped in white lace that brushed the floor. On the desk lay a handwritten manuscript and a soft blue typewriter. With no author etched on the manuscript’s edge or any person in sight, I eagerly sat atop the thin white lace and began transferring the written words onto typed paper. As I shuffled my feet and looked around the white room, I noticed a lit cigarette balancing on a rust red ashtray and a steaming cup of coffee to its left. I smoked, sipped, and copied ferociously, typing so quickly the meaning of what was written seemed to become a foreign language I could not understand. Writing to write I suppose, writing about nothing.
As my early morning came to a close, I researched used typewriters online, my desire to feel the cool keys under my fingers and hear the crisp metal clack of letters hitting stiff white paper growing with every website I visited. Before long, I became discouraged by the plethora of choices and hefty prices, picking up M Train once again after filling my cup with more coffee. After following Smith through the streets of Mexico City and the bedroom of Frida Kahlo, I changed clothes, snacked on sourdough pretzels, and walked the dogs through freshly fallen snow, taking pictures with a digital camera once belonging to my Mother. I now find myself here, toes dangling near the fire’s edge, in this very moment, writing about nothing in particular, perhaps writing about nothing, but writing nonetheless.
My inspiration for Patti Smith is deep and ever-growing, her book M Train, her dependence on black coffee, and her ever recognizable uniform of a watch cap with a thick braid have become my newest obsessions. Alongside M Train, I gushed over Tin Man by Sarah Winman, completing the novel in only two sittings and re-reading the final pages several times because I wasn’t yet ready to abandon the novel’s world. I listened to a lot of Fleetwood Mac, the Cranberries, and David Bowie. I spent several days wearing no jewelry, then many days with rings on every finger. I took myself to the movies to see Saltburn and brought a Diet Coke and Peanut M&Ms from home, a heavenly match that, because I snuck them in, made me feel a bit like I belonged alongside the movie’s chaotic characters. I drove several times just to drive, ordered Thai curry that made me sweat, and ate sliced apples with peanut butter almost every day. I have been wearing a lot of black and grey and have fallen madly in love with the wool top coat once belonging to my great-grandfather, gifted to me by my uncle.
That is all for now,
Until soon,
C
xx
