I think this is one of those "diary" entries. I packed my actual diary in my backpack to take with me to New York, where I will be again for the week, visiting my sister. It felt strange packing the diary, like a remnant from the past. I thought, Yes, I will be alone this week, so I will write in it. In truth, I haven't written in the diary because I have been working on the book. Plus Durham has not been a good city in which to diary in. For the most part I do not diary at home, I must be out alone in the world, and that has not happened here. It is 98 degrees here today. So I will stay inside the air-conditioning and do that thing I do, where I rock forth that seashell, assume the fetal. It is my necessary self-protective shell before I go on trips. I wonder at this aspect of myself, that I both desire adventure and methodically and insistently need stability and constancy in order to stay sane. I suppose the thing is that I still force myself out there—to change, to be unsettled. I have started traveling only with a carry-on backpack, so everything will be light, so I can come and go more easily. For however I have bitched and moaned about moving across the country a couple times now I think I like to assume this almost constant pose of the foreigner. I like to be in transit. I like that I have an Ohio phone number and North Carolina plates and an Illinois drivers' license. But there is a schizophrenia to it all.
This month, June, I will be in New York a week, Scandinavia for two and Los Angeles potentially for a weekend. This is the most I think I have traveled in maybe 7 years. It is too much. And it is so strange when I have been so still for so long working on this book. I wonder whether this is destructive towards the project, and hence, self-destructive, as it's due the end of the summer, although I finished a second draft of Heroines this Sunday. It is far too long - it is hilariously too long - I will have to rewrite it. But I am hoping - I am hoping - the bones are there, the structure's in place. This Sunday I wrote the furious crescendo, the end, a manifesto to a certain sort of writing and living and being. I don't know. I'm starting to realize stuff about myself as reflected in my personality as a writer. Like as a writer I hate to edit, I hate to examine what I have written so intensely, yet I have had to force myself to be methodical, to be more circumspect. I am afraid today to open it up, to read it. I think because I am getting on a plane tonight I won't have to. I don't know. And then I am planning on getting work done this week, in a more unfamiliar space, in a different city. Perhaps I am hoping myself in a new place will allow me to look at the manuscript with new eyes.
I feel I have been the essayist-me for so long. I crave to be the id again, I think that is how I feel in the beginning of everything, where it's all joyful notetaking and inventing. I long to go back to the novel. This weekend I made notes for a couple of performance/installation pieces I hope to do in the next year. I am ready to move on. Yet I need to for a few more months - concentrate, be constant - while never standing still.