no. 9
I remember writing this and remember wondering what a year later might feel like. the answer? inevitable.
from the after/hours archives: LOVE POTION. [March 18, 2022]
I think this is the last letter.
That’s not a threat, or anything; I just always thought we’d be doing this until we ran outta questions, and I got more than nine, but I conflated a few, and, well – here we are. If you like my tangents, or just wanna know what my voice sounds like, or crave a daily dose of soul, or are out there with your arms wide, allowing your heart to remember remember remember this life, maybe you’d like to stick around.
after/hours continues: on Tuesdays, right here, all complimentary.
& B O O K / C L U B debuts this Friday! (for paid subscribers, which I feel weird about, but I think I mentioned last week that I’m pretty cagey about my fave-a-laves, so it’s gonna be a basically secret, totally public bundle of inspiration, challenge, and more for your artistic, matriarchal, social, professional, or like, whatever practices.)
Q: HOW DO YOU KNOW WHEN “IT” IS GOOD ENOUGH?
In my father’s hospital room, there was a large-ish television, and a counter beneath. A slick linoleum-seeming tile covered most surfaces. Opposite the TV, his bed, and he tethered to the wall by a thousand tubes. It was Sunday before we really noticed the television and late in the afternoon before we wondered about the tablet attached. We surmised it was for streaming apps – what a swanky addition! we remarked. I played around for a bit; slim pickings. This iPad was exclusively for Zoom.
For two years, patients’ loved ones have been kept from their sickbeds, with only technology to connect them. Thank goodness for the technology.
And.
And those families.
And the families across the wide world separated by arbitrary and political borders, by metal, by drought, by famine, by ecological destruction, by war, by labor, by distrust, by orientation.
No, it’s not the same; this humanity thing is shockingly personal and distinct.
.& still, here we are, in this together.
My dad came home this afternoon.
We’ll eat dinner before a family movie, as we’ve done since the early weeks of the pandemic. My brother will tell about an article that has him particularly bothered. Pearl will tell a school story with enough holes to make it both plausible and bananas. We will be together, all of us, and in one place.
All of it will be relatable and familiar and entirely our own.
me @ inevitability
I must have another question unanswered in my notes. This can’t possibly be the last letter. We can all agree this is a postcard, at best, but let it stand as a testament to my answer this week:
I know I have more to give, and I want to be joyful and present enough to give it. I know I have more I intend to impact, and I want to be rested enough to touch it. I know I have more hopes and dreams and regrets and loves than even I can imagine.
There will always be more to do and be. I want to do so well, tenderly, and with verve. I want poetry and magic and beauty right up along the grit and despair and abject overwhelm of it all.
If I’ll never be totally satisfied, let me at least take care to remember that I am good enough + move as such.
Buds are blooming and the sun is warm and spring is teasing and I am loved and I have my people to love and pink wine calls and I hear the little voice demanding I write more more more, and I’m telling you both, for today, integrity is good enough.
me, tonight, inevitably.
Yours, in pause,
xx Adrienne