Having valued nouns before verbs

It feels weirdly fitting that I lost my 250 or so words, about feeling like I have to joke, by going in with a parody of The Sound of Silence to open my thoughts on thoughts being too loud. That I write in a way that is a duplicate, a stream of consciousness, instead of conscientious. I avoid engaging with my mind by spiraling on the topic of my mind, avoiding being present by thinking so much about presence.

I say want a lot. I want the verb, not the noun, I want to be engaged and here. I want to feel doing.

My new medication has helped with that. Discouragement, like losing my writing and reverent thoughts about the power of The Cranberries and my grandmother, pulls me away. I could write more. I floated past that currant on the waves of music, which does enough to interrupt the noisy thoughts to allow me to stay with one stream of thought. If I slip away, begin to slide, I can hear the voice of a singer, swing with the swells of it and disappear into feelings enough to break free and return to thinking again. I can only hear myself when I’m listening to something else, other media that can blend into me, like a pastel that allows a gradient and fluidity, that doesn’t fight the way I smear and swerve but embraces it.

I took a floating holiday today which has been fantastic. I’ve had a lot of sunshine and good time to think about Jason. It’s our wedding anniversary. Seven whole years. What has life been since then? A rollercoaster, one that we finally disembarked after some twists and detours, so the ride can get maintenance, and we’re waiting with ice cream cones in Gowanus, people watching and becoming our sexiest, strongest, best selves. We’re only getting better. I love that, and I love watching him.

I’m getting better at watching myself too (see, I came back, I didn’t float all the way off from self reflection). I’m drafting thoughts for a short comic to submit to Electric Literature later this month. I drew on the subway this morning, after going in to my old job at Book Club to pick up some books that should kick me into a writerly place. I ran an errand for Jason. I’m lurking in a coworking space that I got to after I drew on the subway. I need to draw here but I keep moving back to the admin of this Squarespace.

I’m a good admin. I was good at stamping out my creativity for a decade.

The subway. I don’t take it very often these days. I like staying in Brooklyn, walking distance Brooklyn for the most part, bikeable Brooklyn. That’s my bb. I miss the beauty of the train, what I can see from behind steamed up glasses. I did three drawings on the train today: an askew empty seat and two passengers on the R, a fourth doodle back at Book Club that I left as a letter for my friend Liv. I call things doodles to be dismissive because my quality has dropped and I can see it. My critical voice is still loud enough to slow my practice.

But not today. I have a woman whose legs are lost in the tumult of a cheetah print skirt, a pattern I can remember but I can’t discern in the drawing. Her hair and features are delicate, caught. She and her partner caught me despite my shyness and distance down the car one bench. I have a hard time and wish I had the confidence of someone who draws passengers unabashedly. I also wish that I’d respected someone’s right to be in a public space without getting assessed, captured.

I usually freeze and recognize that there are two roads that diverge, and I do not take. But today I broke left, and the knees and Birkenstocks of the elderly woman who sat down directly across from me are beautiful, so I wanted to celebrate that. Her neck is goose-like, elongated to compensate for poor proportions. I do not care. I did something.

I am doing something. Right now as I write. I choose the verb.