but time is a trip actually

i’ve lived a lot and feel good about it (mostly) (or at least feel good about where i’ve landed?) (or rather good, and lucky) but then if i really think about it all, i’m like, oh my GOD, time is fucked up, how can it be 25 years since i lived in san francisco (the first time)? or how can it be FIFTY YEARS since [whatever]? how can i have known all these people — and also lost touch with so many of them? and remembering sometimes when i was brave and sometimes when i wasn’t and when i was cool and when i was not. times infinity. it’s a lot to hold.

unrelated, i saw this little bit about harriet the spy, which was a formative book for me (i once carried a cooler, full of detective tools, around the neighborhood in my quest to be like harriet). i had forgotten that she ate tomato sandwiches and cake (every day!). she really was my spirit guide.