No Losing
A Diary
February 2
Why is it that when I was young, when the potential for and frequency of embarrassing mistakes were much greater, I valued privacy so little? Why did I feel compelled then to broadcast crudely formed opinions, to share such delicate intimacies? Now I value restraint and discretion. A sign of maturity? An acceptance of my own insignificance? A symptom of cumulative shame? A weakening of moral certitude?
February 4
Today I realized that the things that I think I should be able to write about but can’t are actually the things that I most want to discuss with friends, but what is there to say?
February 5
Every year around this time my neck and shoulders begin to ache. I am tired of winter vegetables. I am tired of the low-hanging sky. I am tired of all the dog shit—mustard brown, charcoal black, tawny green—left to rot on the sidewalk. As the snow melts, the shit merges with leaves and pine needles and trash. The sight of other people’s dogs’ shit inspires enough rage to rouse me momentarily from my tiredness.
But what about all the shit that isn’t there, says the sonorous self-help voice in my head. Ohh. What about all the shit that you will never know existed because it was plucked up, bagged, contained, and disposed of properly? Just think about that. Just focus on all the shit that isn’t there, stop complaining, be happy.
February 8
Today I met P. for lunch. It was nice to be with him, to trade gossip, but I worry he’s beginning to be affected by his own success. There were moments in our conversation where it seemed like he was looking past me to address an unseen audience of followers. Like he was dictating a post. But I’m happy for him. I paid for our tacos. I didn’t want him to feel weird, now that he makes much more money than I do.
February 11
From time to time I dream of people I’ve only seen on the internet. Last night I dreamt of a woman about whom I know little: she has published two bestselling cookbooks, she has a twin sister, she is married to a successful artist, she has two sons and two daughters, she rides horses, she makes her own cheese, and she lives in the Berkshires.
And then, on my subway ride to work this morning, I found myself sitting across from the woman’s sister, who, I assume, was commuting to her job as the director of a small yet prominent museum. The sister wore a gray tweed suit over a shirt and tie in matching shades of amber. Her black down jacket folded neatly in her lap. A sturdy leather purse beside her. Three silver hoops in one ear and five in the other. A wedding ring, a thin silver bracelet set with a single pearl. An infinity symbol tattooed on the inside of her left wrist. She was reading a paperback copy of a Natalia Ginzburg novel.
In my dream, the woman and I were seated at a long table in a beautiful old library. I had brought a loaf of homemade bread for us to share. She didn’t want to eat my bread. She told me, quite peaceably, that it smelled rancid. I was humiliated. I ate the entire loaf by myself.
February 13
Today I had my hair cut. I cherish my hairdresser. Alas, he is a man. I tried explaining how my hairline has changed since giving birth again. I told him that the way the hair grew in after postpartum hair loss means I can’t set my part as I used to, the way it falls is different—but I could see we weren’t understanding each other. It was almost like he didn’t believe me.
February 14
A curious passage from It Happens in the Month of February by Ellen Jackson, illustrated by Robin and Pat DeWitt: “Because the weather in February can be unpleasant, people who are unhappy are sometimes said to have a ‘February face.’ Symbols of Valentine’s Day—lacy hearts, ribbons, and candy—are displayed in shop windows. Cupid, a winged child who is full of mischief, is also a Valentine’s Day symbol. He is said to shoot arrows at his victims, causing them to fall in love.”
February 15
Michael Silverblatt died. He is quoted in the Los Angeles Times as having said, “The books I love the most made it harder for me to live.”
February 16
Crushing headache. Another argument with F. We seem to be diverging more and more; all of our conflicts that begin with professional disagreements end up bitterly personal. She considers her opinions to be irrefutable, still somehow she accuses me of obstinance. I fantasize about quitting. It’s like fantasizing about suicide, about using one’s own life or death as a punishment directed at others, which of course never works as intended.
February 17
Today marks two years since I began running. I run three or four miles every other day. I have not discovered some long-hidden athletic acumen. I have discovered, though, that I can run in sunshine, in rain, in snow, in heat, in freezing cold. I can run when I feel anxious or overwhelmed or bored. I can run on poor sleep. I can run alongside others and I can run alone. I can do something that requires effort and dedication without full cathexis. I can keep going.
February 20
Agonizing cramps and a dark mood. No appetite. Dry crackers, raw almonds, herbal tea, water. Thankfully I’m able to work from home, and L. and H. are with the sitter. Starlings cackling in the linden.
February 21
Today marks five years since I stopped drinking alcohol.
February 24
I am contemplating what Olympic figure skater Alysa Liu told a reporter after placing third in the women’s single short program: “I’m really confident in myself. I mean, even if I mess up and fall, that’s totally okay, too. I don’t know—I’m fine with any outcome, as long as I’m out there, and I am, so nothing—there’s nothin’ to lose.” Two days later, Alysa won the gold. “That’s what I’m fuckin’ talkin’ about,” she shouted as she exited the rink.
I am contemplating what director Guillermo del Toro said in an interview with New York Times Book Review editor Gilbert Cruz: “Grace and hope in ignorance have no value. But grace and hope with the knowledge of the world and how it is, is radical.”
I am contemplating what Emma Bovary, facing financial ruin and the collapse of an affair, thinks to herself: “Let whatever happens, happen!”
I am contemplating a line in Agnes Martin’s “The Untroubled Mind”: We seem to be winning and losing, but in reality there is no losing.
February 26
Today I went to the grocer and bumped into a former colleague. She introduced me to her wife. We marveled at how long it had been since we had seen one another—six years? Seven? When I started at that job, my colleague had been the age that I am now. Her hair has gone completely white. I asked after other coworkers and she asked me a few questions about my life—two kids, okay, wow! she exclaimed, as though that were a bit excessive. After several minutes I could see they were eager to get to their shopping. It was impossible not to pass by one another as we shuffled around the store; whenever we did we averted our eyes and kept moving.
February 27
Early this morning I listened to a male cardinal sing from his perch on a bare branch of a European beech.
Lately I’ve been feeling unproductive. Then I reassure myself: productivity is a capitalist construct—you’re enough! But what if the desire to be productive predates capitalism? What if the need to contribute is essential to human nature? What if it has been manipulated and exploited for the purposes of capitalism yet, crucially, does not belong to it?
February 28
Today the sky is high and vivid, and the snow, abundant days ago, is disappearing. Should it not snow again this winter, this will be the last snow some of us will ever see. The sun is gaining strength, the earth is plumping up, the birds are returning, the rivers are running. Nothing created, nothing destroyed. Even from within the tense brace and clamor of the city I can sense the inevitability of all that is larger than me, which is everything.
Reading Recommendation: Loitering by Charles D’Ambrosio