Can't Help Myself

Tuesday, 11/19/24

I watched as one of my friends took pigment and water and turned it into a tree. The friend across from her sketched a portrait of the friend making a tree from water and pigment. My hands and mind, empty. It’s not really a matter of what am I doing but a matter of what am I being?

Wednesday, 11/20/24

Years ago, a robotic art installation called Can’t Help Myself worked arduously to obtain purpose. A large robotic arm—much like what is used to build cars, etc.—was centered in the middle of a glass enclosure, surrounded by its own hydraulic fluid—its red lifeblood. The arm reaches and scrapes, reaches and scrapes, mopping the fluid closer to its base but the fluid continues to flow outward, creating endless, Sisyphean work for the robotic arm. As it reaches and scrapes the fluid toward its base, the fluid splatters the glass of the enclosure and creates streaks across the floor. It had been said that at the beginning, the robot seemed pleased with its work and even danced. But as time wore on, arduous muscle memory replaced passion. Desperation replaced joy. Ennui replaced purpose.

Thursday, 11/21/24

I talked briefly with my father on the phone. He and his friends are going up to camp to go bear hunting this weekend.

I hope we don’t get a bear, he said.

Friday, 11/22/24

Last night, I turned on the patio light and saw snowflakes falling in the country darkness we live in. I was about to retire to the couch for the evening but I slipped on some shoes. Reluctant at first and also wanting to just cuddle on the couch for the evening, I was able to coax my dog Silas outside too. I opened the door and stepped out. He looked at me curiously but followed suit. He stood with his nose to the sky and saw the snow falling. He immediately began to sing and dance for the snow. He ran down to the yard, excited with snow glistening in his fur. He turned to me then and began to sing and dance for me.

Saturday, 11/23/24

For work, I attended a suicide survivor event where I was encouraged to light candles and create a bouquet from fresh-cut eucalyptus, roses, and other flowers. But I couldn’t stop at one bouquet. A bouquet for me, a bouquet for you, a bouquet for them, a bouquet for Brian, bouquets for my colleagues back at te office, and a bouquet for the cold countertop. I pinched off a piece of eucalyptus leaf, sniffed it, and slipped it in my pocket.

Sunday, 11/24/24

Today was one of those days where I wake up with anxious energy. I want to do everything and nothing. Sometimes I cry and I did. I couldn’t choose which task to do. And every task felt pointless. So I went to the gym and destroyed myself. I maxed out some weight machines. How am I that strong? I asked myself later when rubbing my soft belly before getting in the shower.

Monday, 11/25/24

All my muscles

sore and tender.

I stood in the psychology section of the book store, examining the shelf. A bookseller and a patron approached the same section, searching for a book. The bookseller said it is either on this shelf or the shelf on the opposite side. They stood there quietly and I moved over a little, still scanning the titles on the shelves. After more silence, I asked for the title they were looking for in case I did see it. “A-W-E” the patron said. She was tall, older, gangly, and clutching some books in her arms. I held up the book I had already chosen from the shelf shortly before their arrival. The patron—her name is Cynthia—shared my awe and delight that we wanted the same book. The bookseller immediately and wordlessly departed and I don’t know if that perturbed me because something magical just happened. Two strangers were in awe of one another over a book about the science of awe. Cynthia and I talked about love and beauty, about walking in the woods where nothing is expected of you and there is always something to learn at macro- and microcosmic levels. I handed the book over to her because she wanted to gift it to someone when I simply wanted to add it to my ever-growing to-be-read pile. She pulled a little baggy out of her pocket and pulled out a pin. On the pin was an image of “I love you” in sign language. She handed it to me. We only exchanged our awe and names. I gave her the names of other writers who have written about awe. The fact that nothing more happened—no exchanging of numbers or socials, no plans to meet or recruit or find each other in the wild—is a form of faith.