There’s this essay by Le Guin called “old body not writing” in which she says that, when she was in between books, all there was to do was wait. She could force the writing but really what’s the point if it doesn’t come naturally? So she would wait and get frustrated at the waiting and then wait some more, “listening for a voice” until new words came to her. In her case, until a new voice showed up. One she could listen to and whose story she could write. Now, I don’t write fiction and I’m not brilliant enough to do anything with the voices in my head. But I know the waiting. Words didn’t come to me for the longest time. I kept forcing it for a while. I wrote some bits & pieces here & there but none of that belonged to me. There was a strangeness to those words — I recognized them but not myself in them. Was I hiding? Probably, yes. Am I scared to come back here? Oh definitely. But today I felt like writing again after all these months.
I moved to Brussels recently and you may think oh boy again with the move?? And yes, I’m afraid my mind revolves exclusively around it these days. I moved and I’m alright. I like it here. There’s cheap books everywhere and I’m learning French (which I’m absolutely romanticizing) and the food is not so great but the people really are. So voilà! I’m even making friends. But it took a while. Not that long really, but still. When I first got here my house was bare. Like painfully bare. Like bleak and cold and uncomfortable. And you know, I’m not very experienced with moving. I moved out of mum’s a few years ago to move in with my boyfriend but that was smooth. Friction-less. Friction-free. Easy. This time, though, I noticed I didn’t really know how to make a home. And for a couple of weeks I tried my best and still it didn’t feel right. Until my boyfriend came to visit for the first time. Now that boy knows how to make a home. He moved some stuff around and brought me some of my books and did something with the curtains and suddenly the house-that-wasn’t-a-home was no more. The mismatched dishes went from sad to funny and we put a plant in every lonely corner. Everything was better. Everything is better. He says that he likes to leave a place better than he found it. And you know what? He really does. It doesn’t really matter how long he’ll stay, he always leaves a place better than he found it. It’s a beautiful thing.
I don’t have this skill. I can’t make a home. I can maintain a home — sort of — but not make one from scratch. I can’t turn bleak into warm. I guess I got other things going for me like, I don’t know, I’m creative and funny. Wait scratch that. I AM creative and funny and stating it is not arrogant just because I’m a woman. I actually am these things (on my good days at least). And also I share a lot. I don’t really mean material things; I mean thoughts and ideas.
I haven’t been in a new context for a while. Life was pretty balanced for the past few years and even with the world turned upside down, I was lucky enough to keep my constants. So in a way, there was this part of my()self as an adult that I hadn’t run into very much — this immense joy I get from sharing and bonding. From not hiding. From replying honestly when someone asks if I like karaoke or films and what are you reading or do you like guacamole. No, I actually don’t like it that much. And since we’re at it, I don’t like seafood either. It probably feels foolish, but the fact is I’m used to accommodating people, making them feel comfortable with their opinions even if it means keeping quiet about my own. Especially if it means keeping quiet about my own. But there’s no freedom in that. Now I’m discovering this huge gratification in sharing my real thoughts and having someone ask me for book recommendations afterwards, or what film is worth seeing right now or is my gym any good.
So what does this all mean? What am I trying to say? Well, first of all, that gatekeeping is a no go — it’s 2023, grow up. But mostly, that there’s an element of inspiration and kindness in shaping someone else’s experiences and opening up enough to let them shape mine. It’s a beautiful play on humble/humbling. So no, I can’t warm up an empty room. I don’t have it in me. But perhaps I do it with people. Perhaps I make the space around me better. That’s a lovely thought, ain’t it?
Lately:
I’ll keep it short & limited to ones I think are worth reading/seeing:
Books: Space Crone (!) / Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep? / A Wild Sheep Chase / The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath
Films: Jeanne Dielman, 23, quai du commerce, 1080 Bruxelles / Aftersun / The Fabelmans (weirdly)
bye now!
I’ll be seeing you again soon. xx