There was an interview with Sinead O’Connor in the New York Times today. She’s living on a mountaintop. She has friends: other single women. Neighbors. Sinead is the patron saint of abused girls everywhere. She just is. To me. A Joan of Arc-like figure, splendid and unbroken. It’s summer and in the summer I like to be quiet. I like to live in the now. To walk around. To drive and sing. To watch dogs swim. Pet cats. To speak to whoever crosses my path, and walk away, unfettered, with a smile slowly fading. I remember when my parents tried to push me at other girls. They told me to make friends. But friendship isn’t like that: just picking someone and pairing off. Nothing’s like that. They thought it was strange I just walked around all day. Watching and listening. Staring at the ocean. Listening to songs. Writing letters to friends back home. Collecting every part of me, every part of everything, while I could…while I can. While there’s time.
