It’s such a strange place to be, free of the indignance (which so is a word, WordPress, you asshole) and irreverence of my every day. I spend so much time being bemusedly outraged or in bimbo-like frustration, simply to entertain myself.
And fuck, I never woulda thunk it’d be so hard to be snarky, when you sit down to try to be.
I’m very good at judging, people. I do judgmental very well.
sincerity requires black-&-white closeups... that are apparently too small.
But it’s the new year, and there are crazy things abrewin’, family coming to town, others celebrating freedom, living in limbo with plans just out of reach.
Apparently the forming of the matzah balls brings a girl some nostalgia.
I made my soup the goishe way; I didn’t start yesterday.
Tossed some chicken thighs into a pan to start the sear.
Chopped carrots, onions, celery and parsnip.
Picked out just the right bay leaf.
Snipped parsley fresh from the garden.
I’ve been in a fight with God for years. After a lifetime of questioning and belief, spurred, actually, within myself and not from family or other pressures, it became too hard to believe.
With this new year come new opportunities, new chances to fuck up, new reasons to be kind or cruel, new people to meet, new men to fuck, new books to read, new words to write.
The temperature cools, and despite my best efforts, I talk to God. I try to think of praise or questions, to avoid those pleas within me. After all, I can’t ask if I won’t believe, right?
But of course I ask. What else is God for?
Of course, as well, it will always be easy for my hands to knead dough, to chop vegetables, to unconsciously mutter prayers.
And I’ve been mostly successful in ignoring it all, just giving up practice.
Yet now I’ve got this lens on, ever seeking that moment I’ll write about, imbue with meaning or recraft, hiiiilariously, in prose.
Which, frankly, makes avoiding introspection a huge pain in the ass.
I believe in people, just as I believe in the power of butter.
I believe in love, as I know cream & flour join to start the best sausage gravy.
I know I’ll see holiness in the actions of others, the way orange juice makes balsamic so sweet.
I trust there’s evil, just as I know, once out of every 10 or so times, I’ll overblanch the potatoes.
And I believe so strongly in these things, from toes to eyebrows to elbows to those little lines that have just recently appeared around my mouth.
I know, I know, I’m just boozily describing my naivete in florid detail. You’re welcome.
What’s really striking to me, though, is how much I believe in you, this community, with usually made-up names and craftily cropped avatars.
We present so much artifice, so many masks, and yet for some, are more honest in this life than in the ones where we actually see other people.
And fuck, I’m earnest, but I’m so glad for you.
Today, interestingly, I ask that this status quo continue. No matter how frustrating nor how angsty we all know I am. No matter how impatient I find myself, unable to write anything but the sincere. and, well, boozy.
Happy new year, my friends.
I need another drink.