Images from around my room
I always forget about September. In August, I see the Halloween decorations lining several aisles at the store and experience a panic because I haven’t worked out a costume yet. I feel a cool breeze on a hot, sunny day and consider if and when I should get my wool trench coat dry-cleaned so I’m prepared. Although it takes me a moment, I am reminded either by myself or others, that there is, in fact, an entirely other month in between August and October; what a relief it is, to realize. Then again, what a horror.
Of course, I know September is coming; I know it subconsciously, and I can see it on the calendar beside my desk. I know it is coming when my morning commute suddenly becomes congested with bodies, backpacks, and new odor. We celebrate Emma’s birthday in September. I started college in September. Still, somehow I always miss its entrance.
Perhaps the reason I always forget about September is that it is so quiet, it creeps in with hardly a sound, barely a gesture. Maybe it’s that I despise August so much that I am ready for the year to just hurry up and quit. Ask anyone close to me; I am not always so patient. I want things when I want them, and to wait is to wait in agony. With September, I’m still learning to cope. I’m still learning to sit still and wait, to see it through. When I used to work in a coffee shop, September was the first mark of the slow season. As someone who finds her time slipping away a little too quickly, shouldn’t I relish in this momentary pause?
Around this time of year, I like to read poetry by Ada Limón. I like to read poetry around this time of year in general, but her work especially reminds me of a fall album. And while early September qualifies as late summer, the notion still stands. When I woke up this morning, I searched for the poem “Late Summer after a Panic Attack.” After a long, hot spell of anxiety and paranoia is when I tend to have the most clarity. “Late Summer” speaks to this sensation, this tiny eureka amidst weeks and weeks of frantic musings and obsessive behavior. I’ve been angry, bitter; I’ve been causing problems. Was it all a product of doing or wanting too much? Maybe.
Today, I’m in one of those rare Saturday morning moods where I want to get a lot done. I tend to waste Saturdays on frivolities, like coffee and pastries, spending money, and staring at my phone. Every once in a while, though, the tide shifts and I decide that Saturdays are perfect for getting your act together–not Sundays, because Sunday is meant for resting. To start, my bedroom could use a thorough tidying up, and it’s my turn to clean the bathroom. I have some clothes that need tailoring that I need to sort. I’d like to paint my nails. Maybe I’ll see my partner today; maybe I’ll have dinner with a friend. I still need a shower, and I should make breakfast, as long as we’re making a list.
On Tuesday, after Tom’s softball game, I’ll go home and hop on a call with my therapist and tell her how I am (still) preoccupied with the concept of time, how I (still) believe there just isn’t enough of it. This idea, that time is limited, doesn’t make moments more precious to me. It shrouds my days with such a dire urgency that I become tired and unable to think clearly. My energy destabilizes, and I resort to lying in bed, silencing calls, and watching television on the lowest possible volume where I can just barely hear it. As I’m writing this, I’m keeping track of how many hours I waste. For example, I began writing around 9:30 this morning; now, it’s just past three.
Speaking back to Ada Limón’s poem above, I’d like to start facing what a day is from now on. Sometimes a day is broccoli soup, tepid water from the night before, and a piece of toast for a snack; a fly buzzing around your room, unanswered emails, and a feeling of dread. Sometimes a day is decadence, an open window with gauzy curtains swaying with the breeze, canned tomatoes, and an expensive cup of coffee from the place up the street. Other times a day is this: hot air, an old button-down shirt, two fried eggs, and a video message from a friend.
I’ve gotten most of what I set out to do today all done. I put my clothes away and organized some books, swept the floor of my bedroom, and vacuumed up some dust bunnies along the baseboards. I cleaned the bathroom, scrubbed the grout and all. My hair is freshly washed. I haven’t painted my nails yet; I’m saving that activity for tonight. I’ve eaten breakfast, had my morning coffee, stepped onto the porch for a bit of fresh air. I’m wearing sunscreen, I don’t have any underwear on just yet. I’m content to stay in my house all day. The clouds have cleared up. It’s too hot outside. I’ll see Tom tomorrow. I stayed in last night; I’ll stay in again tonight. One whole day of moving slowly might not be enough to impart a shift in my ways. Still, to walk a mile is to simply take a series of steps.
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Next week, on September 7, I will be publishing my chapbook Shrimp in Sheep’s Clothing on Substack. Previously only in print, I’m excited to share it with you all digitally. In the meantime, read the poem I mentioned before here.