Field Notes

01 A day warm enough to satiate my hunger for the seasons to shift and oh-God-can-we-start-a-new-chapter-already. Woke with a strange and familiar itch in the pit of my stomach. For a while I was convinced it was hunger, despite a belly full of pickled anchovies and coffee. I could name the itch by early evening as I was laying on the floor in my kitchen, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for the shapes in the shadows to do something. Anything. I could name the itch for a while before that too, but opted to suck it back and swallow it down with aperol spritz and bone broth. You know how this goes. Once the thing is named you can hide from it no more. Started my computer. Made some calls. Made a decision.

02 We don't talk about these days too much. I wrote about them, sure - I did write a whole damn book about these perfect, terrible days. But for now, until my book is published, they're mine. Need to know in no particular order. Packed up my flat. Made a game of it. Told exactly four people of my decision and couldn't work out why they each took me in their hands and shook my by my shoulders. Began to realise the severity of my whims. Made a game of that too. Crashed out in my flat and drank too many aperol spritz.

03 Boarded the flight towards Nowhere. This was the easy part. This was the good part, even, the thrill of my decision still coursing through my veins and numbing my nervous system with the promise of something different. Premature shift of season, forced a new chapter, a locked door pried open with my bare hands. If it won't come to me, I'll come to it. I don't believe in all that I don't chase I attract stuff. Mom taught me to pray, but mom also taught me to run. Whether that's towards something or away from it, I've got to be going at full speed.

04 Oh God, oh God, oh God what have I done. These are the consequences of my decision. My constant need for revenge and something else than now. No I cannot define something else. No don't ask me questions. I tried to pack up my entire life and run away from here. There is nothing left for me in this damn derelict place. Until I remembered there was. Until I realised there is. Until I got in my car, drove to a field, and planted myself in the center of it like a sapling. Deep breaths. Oh, that's right. That's the whole point. This is the reason I exist. To want, to run, to feel, to become, to lay in a field, to write, and to do it all with certain grace.

05 Slept a lot. Cried a lot. Argued with myself a lot. Reverted to the age of sixteen. Dug in the dirt and was okay again. Thought to myself, I've got nowhere to be. Cried a lot when I confronted how far I'd strayed from myself, how much of myself I'd sacrificed for somewhereism in a bid for everywhereism. Reveled in the fact that this is exactly how it's meant to be. Me. Words. You know. The nowhereism of it all. The very fucking reason I exist. Reconciled with myself and my shape-shifting tendencies. I played the perfect girl so long and so well that people thought I was a damn naïve brat with daddy issues. Can you believe that? What a fall from grace. I'm a fucking aristocrat born from the dirt. I was born in nothing and nowhere, and I suppose you're wondering what that means. I believe in the plausibility of everything. I know you're not meant to say that as an atheist, but I do. Nothing was perfect and I am running because it was bad. I'm living out dreams wilder than I could have ever named. And I won't ever be back. That's a promise. I'm going to crawl away from you on all fours, screaming if I have to. I will keep running until the ghost of you, of somewhere is nothing more than a foggy memory. But first I will make it all mean something. Oh, and publish this damn book forged by the blood you made me shed.