Living most predominantly in my imagination. Again.

I’m sat in the
café reading a collection of essays by Zadie Smith, and I just cried. Out loud.
In public. Actual tears. Down my face.x

I hit
‘send’ on the text to Calum. I don’t know what it was, but on that day I cried
three times. I wasn’t even pre-menstrual or anything.

Hours
later he emailed me:

I gave my number
to a cute boy five minutes before you text me, and when I got your message I thought
it was him- I was all like “Hmmm, it’s great that he is mad for Zadie and reads
and stuff but crying in public at a book? And telling me about it?” I decided I
didn’t want to sleep with him anymore. And then I realised it was you and so I
changed my mind again so that is the end of my story.

And
then I was all, Calum! Hi! Remember me!
Your friend who is obviously unhinged since she cries over academic essays in
front of old men she has adopted in her imagination as her grandparents?

And
he was all, I saw a book yesterday called
The Power of Yes and laughed at what a shit title is was and wondered who would
buy a book like that. Then I thought of you and realised that you would buy it
because it is aimed at the mentally unhinged as a whole. You are not alone.

To
which I just said, THANKS, FRIEND.

The
first time I cried was in the café at Zadie. Because I’m A Mental, when I read
something about her creative practices and writing and oh I don’t know just
BEING ZADIE SMITH it is so beautiful and magical to me that I shed tears
without even wanting to, meaning to; totally helplessly I sob. I’ve done it
four times at Changing My Mind,
because I feel like she is talking directly to me, and it makes my heart do somersault-y
leaps into my throat.

That
bitch.

The
second time I cried that day was when I arrived at work. There was a package
waiting for me from home. Dad had sent me my iPod Shuffle, and slipped in a
letter. As soon as I saw it- his heavy loopy scrawl on more than a post-it-sized
piece of paper, I gasped out loud.

“Oh!”
I said, and the receptionist said, “Is it from Calum?” I didn’t reply I just
pulled it from amongst the iPod and the MaltEasters and the Chomp Bars and sat
down with my back to the door and within seconds was letting out big galumphing
sobs because DAD HAD WRITTEN ME A LETTER.

He
has only ever written to me once before, when I spent the summer in France
years ago. He did it because he really, really missed me, and I knew that
because I haven’t been home since January and that because the only time I know
he had really missed me was when he
sent the last letter, he must miss me now. So I was crying before I had even
opened the goddamn thing because I just knew
and sometimes, the one thing worse than missing somebody is knowing you are
missed because well. There is nothing you can do about that one.

After
five minutes I became aware that somebody has closed the door behind me and I
was breathing in cosmos-sized gulps of salty air and I had to go and teach a
lesson. I stuffed a Chomp in my mouth to replace the sadness, swallowed hard,
and wiped the mascara from under my eyes.

That
bastard.

Two
hours later I had a meeting with a parent. I had to explain to him that his son
is obviously very creative, very gifted, but that every week we go through the
same routine. He comes into the class, acts stupid, I ask him not to, he
ignores me, and so he sits in the corner for the next twenty minutes to think
about what respect means. Then he joins the class again, is as good as gold,
reveals his genius, and when he leaves I think, “Now he understands, next week
he’ll be like that for the entire lesson.”

And
he never is; every week we go through the same routine.

I
told his father this, and his father knew. And then he started to talk about
his son, how special he is, how he doesn’t like football but theatre, doesn’t
want to watch TV but pulls out the encyclopedia, won’t do Math but will sit for
hours writing stories.

I
thought about the letter from my own father, about how I love him and he loves
me, and about Zadie Smith and her essays on creating things, and about the kid
and his crazy way of making sense of his world, and I had to excuse myself
before the father decided I wasn’t stable enough emotionally to take care of his
kid because ISN’T LIFE BEAUTIFUL? And then I cried again.

That
evening I wrote another email to Calum: thousands of words critiquing Bathes,
and Nabokov, and Zadie Smith, and Kundra, and I did all of it just FOR FUN
because life! Emotions! Philosophy! All the things!

I
wrote a dissertation to pass a Tuesday evening because I had things to say and
I needed somebody bound to me by the laws of best-friendship to listen and who
would be forced to respond.

He asked
if I was okay. Should I be worried?

And
the answer is that yes, maybe he should be. Because I don’t have a bloody clue
what’s happening. I’m so bored and tired of being here in Rome (BLAH BLAH BLAH)
but at the same time I can’t even walk down the street without stopping and
staring at a ladybird on the wall because LOOK. IT’S JUST SO BEAUTIFUL. WHAT IF
I WERE A LADYBIRD? WHAT WOULD I BE THINKING? And basically what would I be
thinking? I don’t even know what I’m thinking now. Except that everything is so
beautiful and poetic and full of possibility that I might cry again.

Yup.
Definitely crying now.

See
how this is? Beautiful and mental. Mental and beautiful.

But
mainly mental.