Drifts
I am reading Drifts by Kate Zambreno and felt compelled to write. Such a boringly obvious response to reading someone else’s brilliant narrative but also the best anecdote to wondering if I can still punch out words.
I’m sitting at my desk only because I cleaned off the excess last night- anticipating the full moon. My door is slightly open and I can sense that my roommate is perceiving this change as he washes his dishes at the sink. “I don’t care”, a mantra repeated by a six year old in distress at my job. I don’t care for the hostile silence in my apartment. The drawing out that I must engage in, the depression that is familiar but not my own drawing breaths in the next room. Exhausted by another’s inaction. A low voice sounding out from the hallway “no, no, no”. The cat is at it again and I feel satisfied to hear that he reprimands her, even if it is not in a language that she can understand. Discipline- a united front of action. A necessary element of care. I roll my eyes often because it’s so disjointed here in this space we share-- the three of us. How I get embarrassed when guests have their feet pounced upon shows that I do care, how I recoil when my roommate makes suggestions for how to deal with the aggression rather than produce an apology. I wonder now how to bring up this issue with him without receiving a speech about the history of fascism. To talk in feelings and solutions rather than wind through the channels of logic. It’s destiny when I think of how we see the world ending. Him: armed insurrection and inevitability. Me: embracing others and holding on to hope.
