Honey, I'm home
In the space of three weeks, I slept in my own bed a grand total of three times.
I wish the reason is that I was on a carefree, modern girl's adventure, taking lovers and cocktails with the ease of a braless 70s ingénue. Alas, etc. I did go on a week-long holiday to New Orleans with my friend, and we rented a car and drove across state lines to Alabama, where we stayed in the sweetest little B&B where we found a semi-automatic gun on the kitchen table and whose resident dogs barked at me the entire time. I'll be honest – it felt racial. I have no evidence except a strong feeling in my gut.
Upon our return from NOLA, all food tasted like ashes. But also I had to do laundry, pack, and then make my way to Cleveland for the Republican National Convention. I wish I could pack like Joan Didion. But I cannot. There are some assignments you do because you love the subject matter, and because you find them fascinating. This... was not one of those assignments. I am fascinated by the RNC, but grimly so. That week in Cleveland coincided with the highest incidence of "stranger-hand-in-hair" syndrome of my life. Everywhere I went, white people complimented me on my (admittedly great) purple twists, and then without reservation or invitation, either ran their fingers through the strands, or stroked them. There is always more time in your head than IRL to execute a Matrix-style swerve. Most of the time, i just frowned slightly, and forced a quiet "thank you" out the side of my mouth. I also fucked up my body clock, and engaged in erratic eating habits that I am trying to re-regulate right now. I saw Donald Trump in the flesh. I wrote about it. I mean. This is life in 2016.
Philly the week after was more of the same. The anti-Hillary sentiment was strong when I went looking for it, but there were also outpouring of love like I have never seen. If you want to know what true affection is, watch an auditorium full of people cheer wildly for Michelle Obama, the hope burning in their eyes. I accidentally got on television during her speech, while I was filming the audience reaction to her. I saw Barack Obama speak and I got it, I really got it. I got in so many Ubers. I thought I had run out of words, before my editor gently prodded me in the right direction to get more. Here's a solid thing I learned: writing around 1,000 words a day is a lofty ambition, and I am glad to have done it, but I don't want to do that again for a very long while. I am too lazy. I am too tired. It is too much. (But listen: you can read most of my dispatches here, if you like.)
And now I'm back home in Brooklyn, where for the last five days I have prepared nothing more complex than toast. I feel like I have forgotten how to cook, and how to eat. I have watched Stranger Things, and comprehensively fallen in love with Lucas Sinclair. I got the new Nao record, and remain in love with her. I have started reading Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi and I can already feel the tectonic plates within me shifting. My undercut is growing out, giving me an unkempt look, especially first thing in the morning. I have run out of contact lenses because I have been too lazy/busy to organise all my healthcare needs in New York. My skin is extra-dry because I am not drinking enough water. This week I am going to cook a pepper and onion stew my mum makes. I am going to call and talk to my parents for long minutes. I am getting back into the swing of being in the office, working on different projects. Tinder is still shit. Knocks Me Off My Feet still sounds like heaven. I think I need another holiday.
I'm doing OK.