Monday songs: Comfort, Deb Talan; I Don’t Wanna Talk About It, Indigo Girls; Mercy House, The Nields; I Love, I Love, Dar Williams; Dream Cafe, Greg Brown; Saddest Sound, Lucy Wainwright Roche.
I breached the door of my apartment for the first time in three days. (FYI, it’s super cold outside, and not just for those of us who have recently returned from the Middle East.) I’m currently learning the hard way that it’s challenging to type with gloves on. I am a public service announcement today, apparently.
The Barnes and Noble near Lincoln Center is gone. It was gone before I left for Israel, but now it’s officially a shell of its former self. It’s sad even though it was a Barnes and Noble, because it was part of a small and lovely routine I had once (buy movie ticket well before the movie, go down the street, spin through new fiction, visit old fiction, select pile of books I will never buy, sit down with them until it’s time to leave again.)
Mondays are the worst. Thursdays aren’t great, but Mondays are particular hard, because they bring with them the post weekend panic attack, which is exacerbated by my every day panic attack, leading me to realize once again that I want out of this moment in life. I’m so tired of the person that I am,which is someone in perpetual survival mode, someone incapable of or unwillingly to imagine that I’ll ever be strong or hopeful or at least not terrified again. In some ways, it’s like being in love with someone who is not in love with you, far after the point of realization or break up. There comes a moment when you are so sick of feeling the way that you feel that you just propel yourself out of it. I haven’t been in love a lot in the conventional sense, but I have been scared, and I hope the prescription is also applicable here.
Also, if you just got back from being in Israel with me and are now following this blog, welcome to my attempt to shift the paradigm.