We’re going to Angel Island today. But before that we’ll wait for the ferry that arrives at 9:20. And before that, we’ll get empanadas for breakfast. I need to put myself together. I am putting myself together. I am getting empanadas for breakfast. I am waiting for the ferry that arrives at 9:20.
We walk the perimeter of Angel Island together. Talking about nothing, something, everything. We detour, find a secluded beach full of crustaceans and sea snails. It’s been a long time since I’ve paid attention to tiny things.
At home, I find comfort applying makeup in the morning. I watch myself without judgment while I dot color correcting green concealer on my acne scars. I look for the faint groove along the side of my face, where I carve a line of bronzer. Doing so brushes away the concealer, and the scars on my cheeks come back into view. I pull my brows upwards with a spoolie. The hairs stand up briefly before falling back down again. The point is not to cover but to brush and touch and feel a sense of self that is neither critical nor celebratory. I just want to see myself as I am, even though the process is always covering, obscuring, or smoothing out the harsh parts of my body.
I wake up in the morning with so much urgency. My teeth are clenched. The side of my head hurts. Some primordial part of me can’t help but try. Can’t help but understand survival as a tough and brutal thing. A fight.
I am angry. I am nostalgic. Terribly nostalgic. These are new feelings, spurred by the sudden desire to revive everything I ever loved. I am looking for things to love so that each day feels worthy, sustainable, lasting. I comb through the past with incisive intensity. I bring the artifacts of past lives back into the present, like gathering stones. I pull my golf clubs out of the closet. I bring home a box of acrylic paint and brushes. I hold these heavy things in my hands and wonder how they could be so cold. I hold them until they become warm again, as warm as my body. These things used to be part of my body. I don’t like being this light.
At the same time, I am scared of becoming so oriented by loss that I become cruel and bitter and mean. I don’t know how to turn a tide except to forget that it’s happening. I look away and find myself inches away from a rock overgrown with crustaceans and sea snails. I find myself staring at the clouds, rushing through the sky. I can only imagine the intensity of the wind up there, propelled by an ocean I cannot see. When I return to myself, I am different. Contextualized. I, too, am conceived by this world that is boiling, pumping, rushing against itself. This world that is also quiet, so quiet that sometimes I cannot feel it. I forget that I am breathing. I forget that my ears are open and listening. I forget that I am working for my own survival because there are long stretches of time when it doesn’t feel difficult at all. I forget and forget and forget. And then I remember. I am always surprised.