I’ve been thinking about change a lot lately, and I tried to write a(nother) blog post about it, but it was shit, so I didn’t post it. Then I remembered that I had a whole brainfart about change in the “novel” I wrote for my MA. So… I’m posting that little extract instead. Context free.
I’m thinking about the world and about everything: big thoughts, like my mind is this giant, pulsating creeper plant, sending out runners, curling through the soil and through the sky, trying to touch everything and wind itself around everything. Trying to absorb everything. I can’t seem to reign it in. My fingers fiddle with my necklace. I made it myself. It’s a chipped blue and green glass bead on a thin wax cord.
Change is the weirdest thing for me because suddenly everything becomes meaningful. Earlier today, I ran my fingers over the oily marks on my bedroom wall from the Prestick that used to hold up my map of the world. It was there so long that the paint that was underneath it is slightly darker, slightly cleaner than the paint around it. A rectangular void with an oily spot in each corner; evidence that I was there. Fingerprints on the window panes, scuff marks on the kitchen floor, the crusty wax stain on the carpet from an unwatched candle melting over, years and years ago. When we first moved into the house, I found a few girly stickers inside the door of my built-in closet; a fairy and a butterfly and a ladybug on a daisy. I remember scratching them off and getting my mother to clean away the sticky marks with a strong detergent. It was my room and I didn’t want someone else’s memories lurking in it. I scrubbed that girl out as best I could and the room became mine.
Perhaps the next inhabitant would paint over my Prestick marks, change the carpet. Perhaps the room would be a study and nobody would dream in there or wake up looking at the notches in the wooden ceiling and seeing the notches look back at them with a hundred faces. Perhaps there would be another fire and the house wouldn’t be saved again and all the notch-faces on the ceiling would turn to ash and the paint would peel off the walls and the carpet would burn away completely…
“What are you thinking about?” Jason asks.
“Everything,” I say. “Change is weird. Don’t you think?”
“Everything is weird, actually,” he says, and I know exactly what he means.