things i will write about when i have time

a perpetual lie

• The vulnerability of taking out my contacts. Not just the loss of vision, but the loss of a protective layer. My eyes are open to the elements now, the air touching them directly. I squeeze my newly prescribed steroid/antibiotic drop into my naked eyes and it burns a little. The taste of the drop in the back of my throat once it’s absorbed. My frustration at trying to fit four times a day into my life this week, the way I wrote “I want to be free of this” in my journal, a muted angry scrawl.

• Getting used to hearing someone else breathe.

• The other morning, I was a minute too late for the bus, so I waited some extra time for the next one. When it arrived, I saw a panel next to the back door had been pulled up, flipping out and banging the snowbank. I got on the bus and sat down, and the driver climbed off to look at the damage. The older woman next to me said, “he should really tell us what’s going on, I don’t have time to waste.” And I looked at her, seeing her distress, but also - the driver had clearly just assessed the issue and was calling the office to determine what to do. Another bus, the same route pulled up as he was on the phone, and he directed all of us to get off the bus and go to the next one. Most of us did it with bemused smiles. This all happened over five minutes.

• The joy of wrapping yourself in a nice warm blanket on a cold night, with a cup of tea and a book and a cat.

• Being sad. I’m a sad person, naturally. I like depressing music and books that make me cry. I hold my sadness too close sometimes, but mostly it is thoughtful and helpful to hold some sadness in your hand, for when you’re feeling too much and need a prompt to help let it go.

• I went upstairs at work to investigate the collection - specifically the Zs (we use Library of Congress classification here, and Z is where books about libraries are shelved): I left my list of call numbers on my desk, because I had looked through the catalogue and picked out some stuff I might like to read. But I forgot them, and so I just scanned the shelves. When I got to Subject Classification in the Seventies, I abandoned my project, overwhelmed by the titles I would weed if I was in total control here, and went to go look at my subject liaison areas instead.

• Having left the hospital, the site of most of my pandemic-related trauma, I realize now what is and isn’t a common experience, and the pain of that realization is bigger than I thought.

• The first lick of an ice cream cone, after I chew the chalky lactose pills I need so I can digest my treat.

• The sharpness of being new.

• The dullness of being gone.

• I was putting on mascara the other morning and Mallow was sitting on the counter in front of me, quite keen on figuring out what I was doing. As I swiped the wand over my lashes, she stood up on her hind legs to put her face in the mirror, in front of mine, to get a better look. I couldn’t stop laughing.

• The summer between third and fourth year of my undergrad, I worked for the registrar’s office, helping first year students register for their courses. I picked up the phone to one student, who wanted to know why she couldn’t get into the biology section she wanted. There was a reason, and it was going to be staggered anyway, so seats would free up in the afternoon, it would be fine. I explained this to her, and she started crying. I was twenty, barely older than the student on the other end of the line. There was a snuffling and her mom came on the phone. She quietly explained that her husband, the student’s father, had died two days before, and they couldn’t wait for this afternoon, because they had to go to the funeral home. I registered her in the section, and I asked her to tell me all of the classes she wanted, I would register her properly and email when I was done. I wasn’t allowed to do that, really, but I did it anyway, and my boss made a note on the file after I explained, for future audits. I don’t know what happened to that student. I hope it went okay.

• Sometimes I think I should just go full list on this Substack. I’m good at writing lists, and more importantly, I love writing lists. I’ve been filling notebooks with lists since I could write. To-do lists, packing lists, lists of plans for the summer, book lists. Endless lists, trying to organize the world around me and keep myself one step ahead of my natural chaos. I really do love lists.