The Interlude

It’s been a minute, again.

Yeah, yeah…let’s invoke cliches as much as we do curses ‘round here…but, indeed, the guilt builds when I don’t write.

One example of constancy in an otherwise drastically different life.

How are you today? What instagram ads were you shown today that took a bite out of you? What flavor is the self-loathing you don’t take off for your shower today?

In my case, I am ailing a little from the after-visit syndrome. The first solo step out of the apartment, the first emptying of my most dutiful dishwasher…always…feels “raw”— like your forgetful fingertips after a nail clipping when every texture feels briefly, yet reliably, too much.

The mundane interlude between the December Holidays marches onward in utter indifference of man’s ego. The brief vacuum of consumption that exists between Thanksgiving and Christmas, when all has been purchased but no estimated delivery date has been prophesied is the loudest time of the year. In my own echo chamber, novel reverberations accompany the usual ruminations. My casual relationship with writing used to feel what the music of Debussy sounds like: coquettish, vague and fleeting. For about a year, however, I have noticed the soundtrack shifting. To imagine a life where writing is not well incorporated into all the stages to come, now, fills my chest with a clammy, stale sensation of loss. It’s as if Judy Kuhn herself was asking my future self what’s around the riverbend with bated breath, and I look on as future self replies with only a loud burp.