The supreme whateverness of upward moving depths

December roundup

It’s Friday and I haven’t been sleeping. I stay up late, revising a novel in my head and reading beautiful, sad books about abuse and addiction and generational trauma by Native writers that make me wonder how long the tail of genocide can stretch. The more I read, the more it becomes an ouroboros—a snake eating its own tail in perpetuity.

I was in a bar once in Tucson and met a Yaqui guy with the same last name as my mother. I joked that we might be cousins but because I look very white he didn’t understand what I was saying. I kept talking but I’m a mongrel and tan like an aspirin and sound like a girl from Clueless. My mom worked with the Yaquis but she’s not Yaqui. She’s Mexican and Indigenous but we’re not enrolled tribal members and yada yada assimilation, colonialism, passing, and why do I bother when I could just say I’m white and move the fuck on. Especially to some rando in a bar.

But it matters. Some days it matters more than others.

The year is almost over. I wrote 3.75 novel…