September 01, 2009


It's been a long summer of being disconnected from writing. Writing with actual thought about it, writing that isn't about my work, my writing, my book. My life, I know, for a while, maybe an extended while, will be the care and feeding of the thing I made. To wrest away from that feels nessecary and strange. I have barely read, barely taken in, mostly just presented and talked and arranged and hustled. I am home, a little broke, medium tired, missing the entire part of the summer that is the part where you vacate and do nothing. Where you read. Look at stuff and hatch plans that are not terribly ambitious. Like "makin' a pie" or strip mining the massive pile in yr room known as "Clothes Mountain".

It's an absorbing orbit, of sorts, all the touring--it's easy to think it this other life, removed, ambitous and fast, running on a concentric track around home life, around domestic apartment life, remembering-to-call-yr-mom-back life; it is the same though. It's one big, ones not an interruption of the other. Maybe my regular life is just the thing that is riding on the back of tour life, like when the spaceshuttle gets a ride home on the back of the plane. Or vice versa.

I am 33 entire years old this weekend. I am marginally employed. I have some books now 3 months over due and taxes yet to be filed. I, currently, barely, have any clothes not in need of laundering and have not unpacked my last two suitcases and cartrunks full of trips.

Posted by jessica hopper at September 1, 2009 10:46 AM | TrackBack