In the first part of this month, there was a pleasant dump of snow, forgetfulness, deep daytime fatigue, misspelled words, sunny days like windows of opportunity. At a toddler’s birthday party, I watched a small child eat ice cream like a dog—all mouth, no hands. All two and a half hours of the documentary about the East Bay punk scene. So much Tim Armstrong but punk still feels infectious; I stayed up too late with excitement and a sense of estrangement from my adult life. Lip-syncing “Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now” by the Smiths, my melodramatic theme song about job-hunting. Making fun of Morrissey in the kitchen. Shrubs and trees budding in the backyard and beyond.
Then I hit the wall, health-wise, and began an abrupt, unexpected medical leave from my job: suddenly having to say no, suddenly catching up with what my body’s been telling me. The sudden boiling point of chronic symptoms and the relief of tipping the pot over, pouring them out. Headache, slight nausea, vertigo, exhaustion, insomnia, joint pain, the near impossibility of certain tasks. I dragged myself through filling out the proper forms, complained a little about the nested doll of the government’s website—being directed through four different places to do one thing—but mostly felt incredibly, deeply grateful for the legally-protected perimeter of time and space to be sick and to get well, which is where I find myself.
Now I am learning to convalesce my head and other parts of my body. I do feel on the mend—less afflicted and more connected. I sleep in, drink Lemon Verbena tea, got a musical number from the stop-motion Wind in the Willows tv show stuck in my head. I’m trying to practice under-doing things—or at least some things, because I’m also thinking about how much my physical ailments feel like energy and motivation that’s compacted inside my body and wanting a way out. Wondering about what I’ll find if I stepped more fully into a loose role or identity that afforded for the chaos—the beautiful kinetic force of objectless motivation—I feel in myself so much of the time. What is a version of punk adulthood that is mature and responsible and somehow still channels chaotic creativity? Not having everything organized, not masking ADHD, not trying to reign in my style and mode of being—while also, I guess, trying to reign things in a little bit. How to put less energy into things that don’t need such a flood of it while accounting for the flood of energy within. A question.
This is sort of related, sort of not. In the summer of 2024, I put together a workshop about creative and (neuro)divergent organization for a small DIY conference hosted by Sundae Theory, a friends’ collective. I wanted to explore ADHD-friendly frameworks that applied to creative writing as well as to daily life. Fittingly, I had rushed to the public library to photocopy a zine I’d put together to accompany my workshop, already an hour later than when I’d planned to hit the road. Despite this chaotic mad dash, it had felt really good to gather up some of my ideas on this topic. (I wrote about my experiences at Sundae School—the cute name for this conference/gathering—in this newsletter.)
Since then I’ve wanted to buff this scrappy little zine—called FLEXIBLE MEANS—into something more robust and less specific to the Sundae School event. But in the meantime, I finally digitized the foldy I passed out at Sundae School. You can find it here if you’d like a glimpse into my gestating thoughts about creating a functional framework for living that isn’t so prescriptive or messianic. That’s my problem with so many of the resources I’ve consulted about organization (often desperately).
I could say more about everything but I’m trying to practice leaving off in what feels like mid-sentence, learning how to finish things that can’t be finished, at least for now. And whenever I do get a fancier version together of this zine together, you’ll be the first to know…
Sincerely yours,
Siloh
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