Merida is a vibe.
The sun sets sideways, and I’m sleeping with a depth and solidity I haven’t been able to manage back in Michigan. It’s 57 degrees in Detroit, dropping to 24 by sunrise in six hours. When I go back on Thursday, the high is 18.
It’s still 71 degrees at 9 pm here.
There’s a clumsy, dry, fast iguana I’m stalking. There’s tiny bugs that are stinging my elbows. The Ubers are cheap and the Walmart is comforting and the buildings are bright.
Most importantly, I started the book today. It’s THE book. All the rest of them were arcs of energy that fizzled after a few days or weeks. This one is masonry. It’s blood, and bone, and gristle, and flesh. I feel like I’m about to give birth. It’s art, but more importantly it’s craft. It’s time, it’s guided effort, it’s deep breaths, it’s bare feet on the cement floor.
I’m not only writing it, but it’s writing me. I’m not going to be the same when I’m done. I’ll look the same, and sound the same, but I won’t be the same.
I love making art. You cannot vision board this into existence, this isn’t clever. This is life. You have to sit, and you have to listen. You have to stretch, and you have to trust that in the end, after you’ve brought this thing to the surface, you will still be human and you will still be loved.
If anything, you will be loved more. You have to be.
Wish me luck.
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