Six months. 183 days of 24 hours. I chose to give them away. Knowing you would not leave – a guaranteed postponement. An awkward struggle with time. The urge to disappear, to beg, to destroy, to surrender, but to stay, unmoved. To be excited about the future and wanting to eliminate myself from it. Six months of being dead, pretending to be alive, and waiting for anything to be lifted from me. I gave them away, six months, maybe more, in order to give myself time.I left my country the day after. Like walking out of a pile of rubble, I saw myself get in cars, on a plane, trains, toward possibility and a sidewalk all mine. I traded in my language, because I was sick of each and every word. I spent a month stripped of all that made me who I am and I liked myself better. Light, reassured, new. All the dirt washed from me; it was startling, this easy rinsing, no spots left. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. A reacquaintance.
The next thing I gave up was fear. Not completely – how can you ever give up something physiologically yours – only as far as I could throw it did I kill it, push it out. Without it, other things came back. Confidence. Challenge. It made me throw away more and more – this system – and more was returned. I gave up worry; I won chance. I gave up control; I found places so dazzling I never stopped staring. I gave up shame; you found me. I gave up guilt; with each step my sneakers smashed the concrete.
My blue messenger bag, left in New York. My old couch, left to a second-hand-salesman in Sittard. My house, which is – according to my brother - the most substantial asset I ever wasted. My dog, left to a drunk bastard sleeping in his recliner and a car that was fast and hard. My best friend, left to God and his servants, so how could I ever curse the son of a bitch? Ice cream, which is better left to the kids anyway. My subscription to the newspaper, because the person who took it no longer existed. I left you behind out of necessity. I gave one day a week to whatever comes next. I gave my hair to the hairdresser and then wanted it back. I gave money to lots of people, but they all earned it, except for the kids who needed it and the IRS who demanded it. I gave money to myself and nobody thought it inappropriate but me. Red, painted on a wall.
And some small ideas. The idea that work is the most important thing. The idea that family comes first. That I’m old. That eventually everybody – even me – has to settle down. That to cook equals to be an adult. That being an adult means anything. That I prefer men. That you can only write when you’re a writer. That too much wine constitutes a habit. That being on your own means being incapable of half. That I don’t have anything to say. That I’m a rationalist and a realist. That Taco Bell is a great place to have dinner. That everything will be okay.
When the year was over and dust had settled, I remained.
