Sunset: 4:27pm. Last night I watched C. paint, and she moved so quick and loose, belonging entirely to the moment as she swirled her ink across a massive canvas. Meanwhile, I was hunched over my notebook like a troll, frowning over the placement of a comma and wondering whether I had anything to say, any words to offer, and if I did, worrying I might be misunderstood.
Is it possible to write the way she paints? How can I become less stilted on the page and maybe really let loose and get wild? Perhaps this journal could degrade into abstract bursts and garbled impressions, which does feel like the headspace of being alive in the 2020s. But oh god, I do not want to start writing poetry.
One week left in New York, and all I want is a decent snowstorm so I can listen to The Coldest Season while walking through the city one last time.
