Through the center of everything, absolute chaos. And throughout I am expected to keep still. I am being absolutely literal here, at least, I think I am. Currently I am sitting in bed because, well, I am recovering from minor-major abdominal surgery and that is what one is supposed to do at Day #8 or something. And yet a complete tornado through everything, everything upheaved and strewn, as we are moving in like three days to a cottage nearer to John's work, in Carrboro, which I guess I would describe as faded hippie, in my front yard there will be massive pines upon which I will eventually fix bird feeders, and I will have an actual office with a window. But I am not technically supposed to be lifting anything, although I often amble out of bed, make a pot of lentil-millet-collard soup, freak out, try to pack a suitcase, strain something, and then go nap for an hour. Or watch things on my computer. God, I am watching things on my computer like I have a career in it. TV and BBC costume dramas. And yet my Internet is glacial - glacial - and next week I don't think our Internet will even be installed yet, so I am also preparing myself that this is the end of something. It must be the end of something, for things cannot continue as they are, and in my life, they never can, and I am aware that there are many, many, most, who continue as they are, yet I think for me the only way to make any progress is to continually upheave and agitate and shed skin every year or so.
Even though I'm in some sort of enforced surgical bell jar which is very close to feeling depressed I am making some thought-progress. I am thinking, mostly, I hate everything dealing with the Internet, and I just wrote a book dealing with the Internet, and celebrating a community here, which I do still celebrate, but basically it doesn't feed me and if anything is like a bad, bad boyfriend who I am stalking. Like Mr. Rochester. I watched the new Jane Eyre last night, which was basically comatose Bronte. But, god, Mr. Rochester is such a psychotic asshole fuck-me lover. Does he ever toy with poor Jane, yet he gets away with it because he's male and wealthy and Jane's got such a humble boner for him.
Anyway. I go on Facebook all day - and just scroll - and read about people's minituia (did I spell that right? no) and then realize I hate basically everything about it and it makes me miserable and god, I wish I could quit it. We all just slump around and stalk each other. Or I do. God, I need to seriously get a life. Also the past month I've been feeling poorly because another writer was not nice to me, and said, I don't want to be friends with you anymore, which made me feel like an entire community eshewed me, I guess I could say, and I was all mopey about it, and lately as I've been feeling like the jaws of life are tearing me asunder I've thought to myself, Kate Zambreno - You Need to Get a Fucking Life. Seriously. Everything for me has been so small - and I need to enlarge and think bigger, grander, not just write a book and then camp out at my screen wondering what people have said about me. Like Jane Eyre at the window, wanting a bigger life. That is what I want. I am thinking this year after I finish Shadow and make it as honest-wrenching as can be coupled with my greatest wish, to be weirdo-pervy, I will try to write plays. I will try to fucking write plays and get a fucking life.