In the Northwest, you have to be careful this time of year. We combat the darkness, which is hard work. It wears you down. Your face grows pale.
On the weekend, there is a real danger of starting the day out fine, sleeping in and eating a lunch of hot spinach toast, finishing a sewing project and feeling very fucking accomplished — and then POW, you plummet face first into a chasm of winter blues. It happened to me, and it can happen to you. What I did was act immediately. I got on my bike and rode speedily through the cold streets while my fingers froze, and then I huffed and puffed up to the summit of Mt. Tabor. The fun kicked in. The endorphins dripped. The views replenished. Sadness is just another kind of restlessness, and that is why when I get sad, I go outside into the winter world and exercise myself til exhaustion. It’s all I’ve ever known how to do.
Sunday night, I watched the new rock doc about Joan Jett. While I’ve long supposed Kim Gordon to be my punk-rock hero, now I’m not so sure. Perhaps it’s Joan — who rocks out with a raw power, who drips cool and never gives any shits, who defies living life according to expectations of a larger society.