Dearest reader,
thank you for being here! 🌻
The heat in Vienna is ongoing and yesterday, when it finally rained, it poured. In the north of the city, 110 liters of rain/m² came down, most of it within just one hour. Building management sent out an e-mail in the early morning hours that the basement was flooded, again. Good thing I never had the energy to move anything back down there. (I wrote about the first flooding in May.)
With the additional health challenges thanks to the heat, I’ve also been struggling to write. Pretty much anything. I suck at correspondence right now; I keep forgetting to write even the easiest of messages that I note on my to-do list that I usually misplace; I have a hard time communicating with anyone outside my family.
So I’ve asked people to be patient, and I’ve tried to show myself grace. Tons of ideas on what to write float around in my mind, but the moment I attempt to catch them, they slip through my fingers.
My solution for now? Return to something I’ve already written. In anticipation of the one-year anniversary of the publication of my first (non-academic) book - the origin of this Substack and its name - Write What Remains, I’m sending you the poem “how I want to live”. The poem is one attempt to understand my life with chronic illness, the good and the challenging.
"how I want to live" Forced deceleration can also lead to getting off the roller coaster of neo-liberal late capitalism. Sooner or later. [Pause] When the body demands a standstill due to chronic illness, outside observation with wondering eyes: speed and discomfort of others. A glimpse behind the unquestioned curtain. [Pause] Working; consuming; brief moments of escape through: Alcohol, fast food, social media, city trips, drugs, sex; sleeping; going to the bathroom; eating breakfast [in a hurry and on the way to work]; working, working, working; consuming; escaping reality. Without moments to decide: Is this how we want to live? [Pause] How do I want to live? [Pause] A question dangling in the air on a delicate spider thread, at once blown away by a breeze. How do I want to live? When body and mind set rigid boundaries. [Pause] On bad days, I feel transported back to the time of the pandemic. Did I ever escape? My universe is limited to 40 m2, with balcony and cat. I remain in constant lockdown and visit places that maintain the system, masked. Disdainful looks. [Pause] Breakfast, tea, a book, my curious cat, entertainment provided by the neighborhood. Visiting raven. Prepare coffee slowly; drink it even slower. Hello nausea. Learn Swedish, just for the fun of it (jag älskar det). Maybe music. Preparing seasonal food in my little white kitchen under critical eyes. Write what remains. That’s all I can do. [A daily necessary nap after lunch with meditation in my ear and cat by my side] Taking care of plants, cleaning a bit, going for a short (not too long, it’s too exhausting!) walk and enjoying the proximity to the Danube. Even if my head feels like it’s filled with quicksand and never-ending dizziness. Maybe conversations with family. Or friends. That’s all I can ever do. [Pause] Always stay in decelerated state, that’s the only way there’s a chance of [Pause] More is not possible, not ever. I dedicate my time, my non-renewable energy to my lived utopia. When I turn my back on the amusement park (nöjesfält), toxic expectations fall away. How I want to live remains.
Thank you to everyone who’s already purchased & read my book 💙 For those interested, it’s available online through Thalia (only in Austria & Germany at the moment).
Words that remain
I listened to Sandra Cisneros’ poem “When in Doubt” on the Poetry Unbound podcast today. These are the last few lines.
