Good Beekeeping

There’s this old Chinese hippie lesbian lady who I work with and last night I dreamed I was in a shadowy apartment with her, sitting across from her in an overstuffed chair, drinking miso soup from a cup while she convinced me I was dead. She led me around like the Ghost of Christmas Future through similarly evening-soaked apartments that belonged to people I didn’t know. Being dead felt tingly and lonely. I was hyper self-aware, embarrassed to be dead, convinced that even though I was invisible, people were still grossed out by my presence. 

That’s all I really remember. I know there was more but I start making things up when I try to recount it. Eventually I ran into some family member (my dad? grandmother?) and they told me I wasn’t dead, the lady from work was just twisted and evil, and I felt stupid. 

I remember waking up and being totally amazed by my subconscious, like it was the first weird dream I’d ever had, and wondered if I used to dream like this all time before I started to drink. Now I only ever dream like that when I go to sleep stone-cold sober. It’s kinda more exciting than a night out, sometimes.

GOOD! Things, for the first time in years, are GOOD! and ALRIGHT! and FINE! and in order and relatively healthy and it could be because I’m eating well or because my friends are so smart and so helpful or because I haven’t done drugs in a long time or because I broke my longest ever streak of staying away from home or because I’ve kept my room clean for a month. Who knows, it’s whatever, but happy is happy and I forgot how nice and easy life can be if you take care of yourself. 

Yesterday I rang up Jake Gyllenhaal’s groceries and I must say, I’m still blushing.

Things have been relatively uncomplicated and busy and hyper-social. There are a lot of new friends and lots of time spent with old ones and then a sort of boyfriend (but then wait, why waste my limited supply of compassion on overlooking your arrested development when I could use it to forgive myself for only ever eating bougie cheeses and piss cheap wine?) and also I work full time. So basically, there hasn’t been any time or impetus for me to write. Everything’s been making sense and has been more or less enjoyable. Falling into routines is comforting. I get all optimistic and feel like I have a grasp on “what it is that I do with my life now.” But now the falling part is over and the routine’s tracks have been laid right down the center of my life and I’m starting to sigh at arthritic old women who always pay with exact change and I don’t care about your kid’s allergic reaction to that kale and guys let’s just stay on the Oakland porch couch tonight the city will be there next weekend and if I’m late for work and stuck behind an army of Stroller Valley moms who are hotter than I am one more time this week, I might just turn around and get back into bed.

So, maybe I’ll start blogging again.

I recently read a long NY Mag article about our generation that I really enjoyed. I wasn’t fully onboard with everything she’s talking about, but I can’t think about anything that’s happening now without remembering this part:

“It’s not just the bearded dudes in flannel; some of our angry-sounding musicians, it turns out, are just seeking affirmation. On the song ‘Radicals,’ rapper Tyler, the Creator snarls, ‘I’m not saying just to go out and do some stupid shit, commit crimes. What I’m trying to tell you is, do what the fuck you want, stand for what the fuck you believe in and don’t let nobody tell you you can’t do what the fuck you want.’ Then the kicker: ‘I’m a fucking unicorn, and fuck anybody who say I’m not.’ Today’s fucking unicorn is yesterday’s ‘Fuck tha Police.’”