A HAWK IS OFTEN A WARNING
Today I looked out of my hotel window just as a hawk alighted on a tall, bare tree. I have been here in my undisclosed location in Minneapolis for eight days. I have seen no other people I know for the last five. It’s getting weird. I’m here trying to work on writing a book. I’ve been living in my childhood which has been a bit rough. It’s one thing to remember things in little pieces, and quite another to try to barf it out like a milelong loaf of bread dough in a straight line. It’s hard on the intestines. I forget to eat. My stomach hurts a bit. Sometimes I cry a little.
Lake-effect snow swirls about like a beautiful living postcard. The temperature is hovering around freezing. I get out a couple times a day to breathe it and remember that I am part of the world. Sometimes I go to the bookstore to remember how unimportant writing a book will ultimately be. There are SO many already and that brings me great comfort.
I visit some of my favorite authors like old friends. I re-purchase books I’ve bought many times before. They are buddies to keep me company, and I can’t bear to see them used, alone, and unloved on a shelf. I’m a weirdo. I keep wondering if they will make me write better. I sleep with them on the side of the bed where ManFriendJeff and the dogs and cats usually are. Not on purpose, I just get so wrapped up in them.
What will I feel like when I finish this book? Will that be it? It’s over? I can’t lie. I’m afraid. A hawk is often a warning.
Night before last I had the most lovely and hilarious dream and you were in it. Weird coincidence/similarity to this post, I ran into you in the middle of nowhere on a green lush snow capped mountain. You showed me what “they” were feeding you. Bits of broccoli and watery egg noodles, that you threw with your toes like a chimp. I told you I was on my way to Trader Joe’s and would bring you back whatever you wanted.
I once finished a painting and had someone over to my studio to see it. Somehow they asked about my parents, and I said I wasn't close with them, that my mom was mentally ill, and my dad just wasn't a very nice person. They stopped talking and I felt a little lonely. And then I listened to an interview with you and you said something very similar, and I felt so much less alone.
I'm glad you're writing, and as difficult as making art is from a toxic soup of stuff, it is so meaningful for those of us who have holes in the same shape as your words, and need to read them.
Also, if you need to take your writing brain for a walk and see art, I have a 2-person exhibition up in Minneapolis at David Petersen Gallery, with my good friend Nyeema Morgan. It is open today and tomorrow (and up through mid-December) and we would be so thrilled and honored if you saw it!
https://davidpetersengallery.com/exhibitions/between-friends/
x Mary