What to say when people ask how it's going

Well, you see...

Nothing is new and yet everything is. If you really want to know, the creatures in my head are going wild. Entire conversations about things that almost took place but didn’t.

My projects are so long term that the calendar date doesn’t matter except when I open the fridge. Expirations stamped on packaged foods are about all that discern what’s happened in a way that I can share versus what is happening right now in hidden spheres.

I can’t stop reading Health and Safety, Emily Witt’s memoir about drugs and raves. So far, it’s comforting. Evoking memories as specific as the day 30 people passed out on a corner in Bushwick and as general as steamy bodies tangled in the heat.

More sleep and fewer dehydrators. Each morning I wake and hope I’ve dreamt another scene. It’s wild how I thought I’d mapped the entire story but still find missing steps. How to get from here to there. And that is the story, really—the steps we take in between.

To continue answering what I’ve been up to, I suppose I’m leaning into domestic fall (in the autumnal, as opposed to the plummeting, sense). I’ve cooked dinner every night this week which, hey, is a feat. I almost bought yet another expensive sweater but didn’t—another feat, you’d think.

I’ve written poems. I’ve written pages. I’ve researched and outlined briefs. I’ve listened to hours of voicemails from clients who give me access to their often-troubled thoughts. One person in particular will hang up if I answer. So now, when I see a call from the jail he’s in, I let it ring. Give him the chance to speak into the void—it’s not like I don’t relate.

I’m chipping away at life admin, with some tasks still to go. Perhaps the next time someone asks how I’m doing I’ll tell them just that—chipping away at life admin is the ever-honest answer.

I’m trying to be more proactive about who I want to see, and when, and how. Paying attention to the quality of my body in their presence.

I think this is… contentment? Gentle joy? Listening to songs that remind me of how I hope love can feel.

Gosh, first-person narrative gets grating. Julia looks out the window and watches birch leaves twirl to rest atop her car. She thinks she should probably clean her car and sweep the porch while she’s out there, before the wood gets slimy. She recognizes she probably won’t do either of these tasks.

Julia has a lot on her mind and never knows quite how to share it. At times her thoughts flow in torrents around rare special someones. Other times, she’s mute. Trouble behind the eyes and no outlet through which to safely pass.

Read my blog, she might say, if you want to understand me better. Except she doesn’t say this, not really. She’s still not sure if that’s actually how it works. She’s in therapy again, this time with a Jungian scholar. Initial sessions bode well for long-sought change. She wonders if anyone will want her stories. It’s been years since a new one met the air.

Being right-sized entails proportionate ambition. The perks of anonymity counter a desire to be seen.

Most lawyers know how much easier it is to represent someone else’s interests than our own. Perhaps observation is similar. How it’s easier, and more enjoyable, to turn my sight outward. So much happens out there. Who am I but my namesake, a bedel, university assistant and occasional town crier. Shepherding others along their ordained paths.

I’ll leave you with some thoughts about lineage. As much as I’ve changed aspects of my life—its geography, for one—I’ve never wished to change my name. Instead, I want to inhabit this inherited legacy. Be me, despite my ancestors’ trappings and mantels. I want to do good upon my name as I define it. Stay here, in these given letters, and make them mine.

A tiny rock in the sea. Film by Jovell Rennie.

Thanks for reading this inner monologue chronicle. I suppose it’s at least a partial answer to confusingly vague questions of, how’s it going? how are you? what’s new?