whoever ever reads this, i swear i'm not one-note! i just forget it's here until i want to talk about things that strike me. that thing, today, is amber tamblyn's eloquent discussion of her history in hollywood. it's funny how corrosive silence about this type of thing can be; a person feels the effects constantly, they never go away, anniversaries come and go, etc, while you feel stuck reliving things you'd rather not. but without putting too fine a point on it, silence is strategic: a self-protective stance. to make yourself small and quiet is to make yourself uninteresting. careers, opportunities, friendships, access, communities, it keeps going on, they might all pass you by, but none of it is more important than not being/becoming/re-becoming a target. and in the moments you're alone with your thoughts in your new-and-good but ever-increasingly-isolated life, all you can think about is how crazy you feel and how this is all your fault. for obvious reasons i need to write around the clarifying details, but i get it, amber. what i love is her readiness to fit what happened (uh, the title of a book that everyone claims no one wants to read yet is flying off the shelves - even my most progressive - female! - friends vocally want hillary clinton to shut up and go away and die) into a larger framework of oppression and injustice. if we consider that being loud within this framework exposes us to a certain kind of risk, what kind of risk does silence entail? i just finished the latest season of "bojack horseman", which made me cry more than once - in particular jane krakowski's fucking great performance as bojack's grandmother, honey. which, okay, spoiler, this season is very committed to the idea of intergenerational harm and inherited wounds; watching honey be lobotomized by her very mild-mannered and well-meaning husband as a treatment for grief was a gut punch. knowing it happened while she was still raising bea, who was a little girl, puts a lot of pieces into place. we all struggle so much to hold the burdens we've been handed; these are the things we can't or won't speak about.
oh gosh, did i think it was may day when i started up this thing? a lot of past concerns seem very precious now, but i do find it helpful to meditate on things like fear and security. things like nation and culture and home, places we thought we were safe and knew ourselves, where institutions would protect us. to this end, Internet, the personal is so political. when we write about our struggles to keep ourselves safe inside a culture that views us as vessels for the gratification of superior beings, it is resistance. so read helen dewitt's longform piece, "on being stalked." it will make you feel not-crazy. it will make you remember how the micro is macro. and it will seem like, when you read it, telling the truth is hard but not pointless, even if the only people who ever hear you are the ones who've been through the exact same stupid thing. which is reason enough all by itself.
hi, friends. it's may day, and people at target are going berserk because there are no longer gloves or hand warmers on the shelves. i have a website now. we'll see what this is like for you, me, us, everybody. emily dickinson wrote the poem that gave the site its title: to make a prairie, it takes one clover, and one bee. one clover, one bee, and revery. the revery alone will do, if bees are few. so we could say that bees are few, and i've always focused on that half of the if/then statement. i will keep reminding myself that revery alone will do.