I keep having sudden urges. Happens whenever I feel stuck. Sudden urge to book a week in a hotel inside of another hotel inside of an egg and just sleep there for at least a year. Sudden urge to walk inside a little gift store and buy one totally purposeless thing. Sudden urge to listen to plink plunk music and sudden urge to take a long, long walk down a long street, sudden urge to put together a big big puzzle, sudden urge to eat a plain doughnut sudden urge to read the longest book that’s ever been written sudden urge to nap sudden urge to start a new life on the other side of the country sudden urge to find a valley and run through it sudden urge to send all my friends big tie-dyed animals sudden urge to be alone without blogging about it sudden urge to find the key to the sky, to treat myself right, be okay, get new bedding.
They have horticulture group here. (I’m still in rehab.) Plant therapy. They wheel all the patients into a room and give us a choice between planting a mum or an African violet or a warty gardenia. I was in horticulture group yesterday with an amputee and someone whose house burned down. We learned that there are certain plants that only grow on the floors of Amazonian jungles and in New York City apartments. Both places get the same type of light: indirect and spotty. We took the dirty out of these little piles and put it in the bottom of our little colored pots. There was a moment when the therapist left the room and we just stared at the grain on the artificial wood table.
And as a quick non sequitur, here’s a list of things that don’t matter: blogs, the presidential election, laundry, Y Combinator, eggs, this paragraph, fonts, what you think of this post, my shorts, back pain, floors, The Dirty Projectors, what kinds of apples to eat, matte vs. glossy, your nose pores, how much change you haven’t exchanged for cash in however many years, all the slick points you’re going to make, when that beat drop, the OS, weddings, weekend getaways, the land you bought, all lowercase, debt, binders, relationship politics, where you live, the subtext in texts from parents, unsplash, jackets, that haircut, old-fashioned Polish bagels, whether the Gchat has a clean ending or ends because it doesn’t continue, whether it happens this week or in five weeks, fusion, sodium, pictures of you on the wall, religions, Mike Pence, expiration dates, grease bubbles on the top level of soups, the price of karaoke, vacation deals, that it’s so hot in mid-October, those guys who get angry when the service at a restaurant is slow or something, consistency, newsletters, nostalgia, when people say “conceptually,” IRL meet-ups, craft beer, phone cases, goals, how much porn you look at, high school, humidity, opinions, gentrification, exceptionalism, hating your job, freelance culture, identity politics, being the most boring and marginally themed person at the themed party, wifi ubiquity, hybrid desserts, family functions, flecks of anything anywhere, GMOs, pressure, AI, most Trader Joe’s products, the “pace” of a neighborhood, rehearsal, knowing why you’re waking up in the morning, sushi rolls, chronic conditions, shitty water pressure, “fighting” when it’s used figuratively (most of the time), trills, regrets you bring up under dim lighting, the pyramids, the career of David Beckham, breathiness for effect, thickness, bands, carrots, The Japanese House, when to leave, what you’re getting, when you’re getting it, when you’re getting there.
There are only approximately five things that really matter, and one of them is covers of the song “Landslide.”
Being sick isn’t hard. Being cool with most things not mattering is harder than… I expected.