Sara Tremblay

It's February 6th and outside it's about 67 degrees, and thunderstorming.

I'm quite tired ... I was up until 2 am yesterday, playing online scrabble with a friend I wish lived closer.

I just finished a fun, orange page in my journal. It includes a drawing of the worry doll my parents brought back from New Mexico. I named her Matilda and she has a perplexingly scoffing face. I know it's only a few stitches of thread but she manages to make me feel as if all of my potential worries are but silly fancies concocted by an overwrought mind.

My fingers are cold.

I'm trying to get the chorus from "Mistaken for Strangers" by The National out of my head by listening to Cat Power.

I've been spending entirely too much time on the internet.

There is a spider somewhere near my feet. This unsettles me.

From Fernando Pessoa's Book of Disquiet

Men and objects share a common abstract destiny: to be of equally insignificant value in the algebra of life's mystery.

At the end of this day there remains what remained yesterday and what will remain tomorrow: the insatiable, unquantifiable longing to be both the same and other.

To know nothing about oneself is to live. To know a little about oneself is to think. To know oneself precipitately, as I did in that moment of pure enlightenment, is suddenly to grasp Leibniz's notion of the dominant monad, the magic password to the soul. It strips us naked even of our selves.

I have spent myself in chance events, in interstices, and now that the cool of the day and the cooling sun are one, the dark reeds by the shore sleep their cold sleep in the sunset I see but do not possess.

He writes of tedium, of the difficulties of living as a self, as a personality, as a being. He feels nausea when he thinks of existence. He wonders if life is not "a metaphysical mistake on the part of matter." He makes me feel a wrenching disquiet in my marrow. I read a lot, especially because of the tedium of my day job. I spend all day in front of a computer, looking busy by reading blogs, webcomics, forums, and articles. I spend a lot of time reading the thoughts, worries, and joys of artists and people who are trying to live their lives thoughtfully. And this both inspires me and sends me into upheaval. The business of life just seems so frenetic! It's so uncertain, messy, discordant, and random. I feel shivers in my scalp when I think of this.

I spend so much time looking ahead to the next chapter that I have still not learned to live in a moment. I've had some fortunate days, my days of absorption, when I was able to let things go and feel myself spread out a bit into my surroundings. But they're too few and lately too distant. And it's because I'm afraid of the business of life. Afraid to be hurt and to be judged. I shy away from the messiness and try to curate and edit the substance of being. I plan for some course ahead, wherein I will accumulate degrees and perhaps some accolades, then moving on to a career [?] of teaching in small, earnest liberal arts colleges; perhaps I'll write, perhaps I'll publish, perhaps I'll just hibernate. But those things don't seem to be the fabric of a life. They aren't the substance I think. What constitutes the warp and the woof? How does the weaving and creating of a life happen? Does it require conscious effort or does it take care of itself?

When does it all feel most real? Are there ever any answers?

[Well you wouldn't want an angel watching over,
Surprise, surprise they wouldn't wanna watch
Another uninnocent, elegant fall into the unmagnificent lives of adults]