This is the sweet spot. This is where I meditate. Not everyday, I’m not that disciplined, but definitely today. The San Francisco skyline makes a pretty nice altar. It’s quiet in the sweet spot, except for the constant arrythmic thrum of tires over rumble strips on the Bay Bridge. It never stops. And while I’m in the sweet spot at least, I never stop paying attention. A river of people between A and B all funnelling into the skyline. Sometimes when I sit here, I can’t help but think about all of them. They remind me how tiny we all are. This might seem like a limiting thing: I’m so tiny so what impact could I possibly have? Or: I’m so tiny, why would I not risk?
My book comes out in about a month. It’s mostly a memoir about finding my place in the world, but that happened while I was growing pot, which is federally illegal, which makes me lose sleep at night. There’s a few weeks left before it’s out. This is also the sweet spot, a tightrope time where there’s no failure or success yet, only possibility.
I’ve wanted to write books since I was a little girl. When I opened the box with my books inside and they actually smelled like books, I cried. Making long-held dreams come true is a dangerous proposition, no matter what they involve. Dreams happen in your head, and so they’re perfect and intimate and sealed up and yours, and so they are engines of faith. Out in the world, solid in the the open air, they get touched and tarnished. The shape is always a little off, not quite the dreamed ideal. Dreams are always in motion. The words in my book aren’t moving anymore and the covers are hard and it’s everything I wanted and so what next? Every interview so far closes with that. What next? Um, can I please enjoy this for a second? Wait–since when do I ask for permission? Yes, I can enjoy this. Yes, I will. Enjoy this. No shit yet on the fan. The spot is sweet for shortness.
Please join me again next week, when I’ll be feeling less pensive.