Elsewhere: Volume Four

By Meghan McDonnell

Elsewhere is the fourth installment of the personal journals in which, for almost 30 years, writer Meghan McDonnell has chronicled her life beginning at age eight through present day. With searing candor and tenderness, her musings on daily life and observations of family, social and romantic relationships coalesce in a commentary on challenges, facing down passion and fear, and American life in the 21st century. Wide in scope and vivid in detail, her journals are her confessional love letter to the world. Join her on a fearless, vulnerable, sometimes painful and quixotic, but always honest journey, also known as the human experience. Readers who love Cheryl Strayed or Karl Ove Knausgaard will enjoy this author.
In volume four of this addictive and vicarious series, McDonnell visits New York and London, walks away from her first love, begins her foray into acting, wades through family friction, and goes back to college.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Meghan McDonnell
• Release date: Jun 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310068270

Meghan McDonnell

Meghan McDonnell lives in Walla Walla with the man she loves. When she’s not writing or reading, she spends time outdoors, solves crossword puzzles, and pretends to garden.

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Elsewhere: The Journals of Meghan McDonnell

Volume Four

Meghan McDonnell

Copyright 2016 Meghan K. McDonnell

Discover other Titles by Meghan McDonnell:

Minor: Volume One

Novice: Volume Two

Limbo: Volume Three

Elsewhere: Volume Four

Faithful: Volume Five

Vespers: Volume Six

Onward: Volume Seven

Sojourn: Volume Eight

Ingress: Volume Nine

Contents

Introduction

April 2000

May 2000

June 2000

July 2000

August 2000

September 2000

October 2000

November 2000

December 2000

Playlist

Introduction

Another volume down. My fiancé asked me if wandering through the corridors of my past so intensely is cathartic. It is. He asked if it’s damaging. I don’t know if it’s damaging so much as it feels like emotional Olympics. I go through the gamut: joy, laughing, anger, irritation, axes I thought I’d buried but that rear their heads and make me wonder if it’s possible to erase emotional memory.

Sixteen years after the events, going back over them, I found that I was upset with my sister Elizabeth for old grievances. She thought this unfair. She wonders if keeping journals and revisiting them weighs me down, keeps me steeped in the past in a way that inhibits living in the present. This helped me realize a foundational reason for why I write about my experiences: to release them so that they don’t weigh me down. I don’t have to carry as much luggage inside me because I put it on paper.

Does the catharsis outweigh the anguish? Not always. The only place I can work out my history is in present tense. I used to pride myself on having a good memory. Somewhere through the pages, I stopped needing a good memory because I learned to record as a placeholder for memory. Elizabeth asked me if I would remember our interactions all those years ago if I hadn’t written about them. No, I wouldn’t. My body would remember. Something housed in the ancient file cabinets of my mind and a gossamer quilt of feelings that I’ve been adding patches to my whole life would store it. But is this remembering? I’m not sure. That’s why I wrote it down.

As with the previous volumes, all names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty. I have solely recorded my interpretations and opinions of all events. Certain place names have been changed. Aside from minor edits, all else is as I wrote it at the time.

While I worked on this volume, like its title, I was elsewhere. I felt like a crazy lady. I was moody. I didn’t know how to be normal. My fiancé was on a 10-day work trip to California. I had just been laid off and had my first jobless Monday the day after he left. I was in exile; thrilled by time and freedom to work on this chapter of my life, terrified at the temporary erasure of structure, commitments, and touchstones. I felt vaguely autistic, swaddled in a padding of my past, my pain, and what bearing they have on my present.

I felt like myself, stripped of associated identities. For ten days, I wasn’t a future wife, employee, daughter, friend, or sister. It was me and my words; an unabashed sojourn into me. Me is a strange place. Me is a grumpy, cantankerous old man in faded flannel Lee jeans and slippers. Me is a nubile 20-year-old girl laughing sadistically over jokes that only she and her closest friends get. Me is maudlin, tears coming to eyes during a bout of humor that yields into nearly unbearable tenderness and recognition. Me is responsible but preoccupied while carrying out most basic functions (grocery store trips, job interviews, take the garbage and recycle bins to the curb on Thursday night; don’t forget to eat or sleep or shower or drink water). I felt a psychotic humor, a terror in my own delight. I was often cranky; but more often, I felt a white-knuckled glee.

Onward ho.

April 2000

Tuesday, April 4, 2000

I got in to New York at 10:30 last night and took a cab to Stella’s. The driver didn’t know where he was going and we went the wrong way. Stella and I puffed and talked when I got there. I am grateful for her kindness and letting me stay at her pad. I couldn’t sleep last night so I put on Roman’s tape. He put a beautiful Slint song on it. I sat in the window and watched the rain, looking at a tree and bricks of the neighboring building. It was comforting. I miss Roman.

I took a subway going the wrong way this morning and ended up on the other side of Brooklyn. I asked a girl who told me to take the Broadway-Lafayette stop from the next subway. I bought a 7-day pass so I can mob the system. When I emerged from the subway tunnel, I walked upstairs and the wind was blowing. A feeling came over me and I knew I was in New York – the one I’ve imagined and been curious about. I’ve been walking through the streets and I love it. The streets are narrow and the buildings loom. It offers everything in the way of art and fashion. I can’t get a general beat on the people.

I told Stella it’s strange because I haven’t been anywhere on the East Coast so this is my first exposure not only to NYC but to this whole part of the country. I’m on my way to meet Stella at Tisch.

I feel more vulnerable here than I have felt in a long time. I’m not sure of anything. I’m waiting to feel amped. I have to get my bearings. People here look like they’re walking out of magazines. Claire will love it and do well for herself here. I need to dedicate myself to discovering what I want to do and how to bring in money to support my lifestyle.

Love, Meghan

Wednesday, April 5, 2000

I’ve started my love affair with this city. One minute I’m elated and in disbelief with possibility, the next I feel tossed around and confused. I got obscenely lost on the subway last night. I tried to meet Stella at Tisch but her class had ended a half hour before I got there. It took me two and half hours to get back to Brooklyn. I bought a map and subway guide to eliminate that. When I got to Stella’s neighborhood, I stopped at a minimart for food, cigs, and beer and a kind Indian woman let me use the phone.

When I got back to Stella’s, we went through old photographs, looking for the ones she gave Lucas copies of from when he and I were in Idyllwild – ones I haven’t seen that he told me about.

I started reading White Noise by Don DeLillo. A Hare Krishna recommended it to me in Seattle a few months ago. I found it on Stella’s shelf and she said it’s worth it. I’m already engrossed in it. I overslept this morning and then decided to conquer the subway system since it’s been conquering me. I messed up a couple times but not nearly as bad as yesterday.

I found a café that Stella recommended, Gigi’s on 9th. It’s in the East Village and fulfilled what I was after. I had breakfast and wanted to write but a woman sat down next to me and we talked about writing, writers, traveling, and New York. She helped me orient myself and recommended places to go. She said this is the best part of town and she’s not fond of the West Village. I read somewhere that these two villages are their own worlds and they stick to themselves. From what I gather, the east is more down-to-earth, older, and more classic; the west is newer, younger, hipper, and shallower. Geographically, this makes sense and mimics this entire country.

I can barely think about Seattle. I’m lucky that way: when I go somewhere, I’m there body, mind, and spirit. I do miss Roman. All the people here are beautiful and unique. Stella and the woman I met earlier both said it takes a long time to adjust to this city. I feel awkward and out of sync but like nobody cares. Who’s even watching? Nobody. I’d live here for a year if I could find a decent-paying job, affordable housing, and a purpose (i.e. acting and writing). I want to jump into life but I don’t know where to begin. Stella told me she’s a recluse here and that she doesn’t go out much; not necessarily what I expected but different strokes for different folks.

I’m a lone ranger here, which is nice in its own right. The Village Voice has Real Astrology and Savage Love like The Stranger. I checked my email earlier and no one has written. I feel shafted. But then I haven’t written anyone either. I need to buy calling cards so I can talk to my parents and Roman.

It’s cold as hell today and I didn’t dress accordingly. I want to go to the MoMA and the Met. "Coxcomb Red is on and I haven’t listened to this mix in a while. It was my daily fix for months. I can’t handle it when he sings The world is so pale next to you …every love is your best love. I wish I had a mate to play cards with or walk with or go out with or to have someone next to me. That’s natural. Being alone gives me time to think and pushes me to write more because I don’t have the release of talking and receiving other perspectives. Girls here check each other out and look one another up and down in an approval/disapproval way. What the deal? I think of Ani DiFranco’s lyric, Some kind of competition to see who can be the rudest. Roman made me an awesome tape before I left. I’m listening to The Lioness" and it is gorgeous. Jason Molina’s voice breaks my heart every time I hear it.

Love, Meghan

(later on) White Noise is affecting me profoundly and making me think. It’s brilliant. The random words on the previous page are minor epiphanies (too strong a word) I’ve had on the subway. White noise refers to the vacuum created by electronics and conveniences but the only reason we have so many of them (electronics and conveniences) is because we’re trying to fill a vacuum/void. So what we use to fill it creates it. This is reminiscent of a conversation I had with Nate O’Rourke about smoking. It also reminds me of a children’s story about a boy who gets a tree for his birthday and he’s pissed because he wants toys and fun things, not a dumb old tree. He has a dream that night of a filthy, ruined earth. He flies over a factory that produces waste that gives him an itchy throat and a runny nose. When he asks his dream guide what the factory makes, they reply that it’s for making medicine that allays itchy throats and runny noses. Another example of using something that creates what we want to alleviate/avoid.

White in the title describes the noise and what contributes to it but it also pertains to race. The main character, a professor, created his own courses about Hitler. He and one of his colleagues get into a tete-a-tete in front of students about Hitler and Elvis, their backgrounds and relationships with their mothers. The main character refers to masses of people going to hear Hitler speak and someone referred to it as sex murder. This made me think of Orwell’s 1984 and the idea that having a belief, a group, a leader, and something to pour your energy and spirit into suppresses or removes your sexual drive. It’s arguable and I don’t know if I adhere to it.

I was at a loss for words or couldn’t find the words I wanted to convey what I meant for the past few months. That’s been reversed and it’s all coming out and flowing. I miss school.

I’m meeting Jeremy tomorrow. I talked to Mom and called Roman earlier. They told me I sound well. It’s comforting to hear that because I don’t know how I feel.

In another passage of White Noise, the main character is watching his wife and son walk to their car. His son is a toddler and had been crying for the last six hours and they’re taking him to a doctor. The prof describes how they look, walking together. His wife looks helpless and sympathetic. He describes them in endearing terms and I love the way he observes his wife throughout the book so far.

I can’t wait to be a mother and still be writing because I will be able to track my children’s lives and development. I’ll have a written record of the first several years of their lives. Whether I have happy children or depressed children, I’ll be able to go through old journals and tell them stories that give them insight into who they become. Maybe one of their crying jags or dreams will determine how they are as adults.

In White Noise, Jack hears his son’s crying and he can’t believe how anguish-filled and soulful it is, like the kid is mourning. And maybe he is. Maybe he senses things deeply and is unable to express them except through this long bout of tears.

Love, Meghan

Thursday, April 6, 2000

On page 83 of White Noise, a man insults Jack while he’s with his family. He gets a desire to go shopping: I kept seeing myself unexpectedly in some reflecting surface. All the mirrors and shiny surfaces in department stores. All the vanity. All the greed and superficiality. And then he sees himself and remembers he’s being shallow and consuming in response to the insult.

A paragraph on page 98 brings me to an idea that all we are (life, earth, humans, etc.) are dreams of the dead. Jack says maybe they dream us up. DeLillo writes: May the days be aimless. Let the seasons drift. Do not advance the action according to a plan. This is the essence of why I left Seattle. Yet I don’t want to be aimless.

On page 123, the book takes a major turn with the airborne toxic event. Jack’s son Heinrich is sitting in the backseat of the car, talking like he’s strategizing for war. Heinrich echoes Hitler. This book is insane. It’s been a long time since a book has made me think and inspired me to write. What an opportune time and place for it. I love this city.

Stella and I got up at 10 and made coffee. She walked me to the subway station and I took it to 53rd. I went to the Museum of Modern Art. Nothing jumped out and bit me except for one photograph of a war prisoner on the street during or shortly after WW II. He’s pointing and looking directly at a Nazi officer (who isn’t giving eye contact to anyone; he’s ashamed and shameful). The officer was responsible for beating and killing war prisoners and the prisoner on the street recognized and pointed him out to let him know he knew who he was.

Maybe I don’t like modernism. I want to go to the Whitney, the museum Jeremy recommended. I’m at Lulu’s on St. Mark’s. It was raining but now it’s beautiful out. I’ve seen pretty people while walking the city. I’m meeting Jeremy on Stuyvesant later. I’m in New York and life is good.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I sat with a group of foreigners at McSorley’s Old Ale House. I want to be anonymous, alone; to observe and find my own meaning and perspective; to sink into writer’s role as solo unit- a traveler and wanderer. But earlier, I didn’t feel comfortable slipping into a café or pub to write and observe. Sometimes I want the comfort of having someone around. I forgot how lonely traveling can be.

Stella told me Manhattan creates its own weather because of all the concrete in one small space. In White Noise, DeLillo writes about how influenced by and dependent upon the weather we are.

On Tuesday, my first day here, it was muggy and overcast. Stella told me it was a strange day, weather-wise, to be introduced to New York. Yesterday was windy and cold. Today has been sunny and warm. Stella is at a ballroom dancing show at Radio City Music Hall. Jeremy is in class until 10 tonight and then his friend has a photography exhibit. I don’t want to wander aimlessly and then try to get back to Brooklyn on the subway alone. After Lulu’s, I got coffee with Jeremy at NYU. We talked about Lucas and it made me miss him, but in a nostalgic way. I left lotion I like at a café earlier and I’m bummed but how soon I’ll forget about it. No need to be sentimental. People matter, not material objects or leftovers or reminders.

On my last night in Seattle, Roman came up to my car window and cried. He said he’s bad at goodbyes. I said it didn’t matter and he asked why not. I said goodbyes don’t matter; it’s all the months we spent together that matter. I said you have to say goodbye as a final closure, as a time to give your respect and propers to all the time you spent up until the goodbye.

Love, Meghan

Saturday, April 8, 2000

I got a hold of Jeremy on Thursday night and we met up at his friend’s apartment. We drank 40s and went to a bar. I took a cab home. I don’t enjoy getting drunk. Yesterday Stella and I took the subway to her architecture class. We sat through the lecture and then went to a beautiful cathedral with her class. It was gothic and haunting and gorgeous with arches and sharp points. It was Episcopalian and one of the most diverse and welcoming churches I’ve ever been in. After that, we went to Columbia University and architecturally analyzed their library. Stella and I ducked out and walked away southward through Central Park until we got to the Met to meet her photography class. We went through a Walker Evans exhibit. I split off from the group to look at Impressionist paintings before subway-ing to the West Village. I met Stella on 29th St. to see her friend’s dress rehearsal for a play at a small theatre. Stella and I took the subway back to Brooklyn and grocery shopped before coming home for a late dinner.

This morning we met her friend Abby and Abby’s boyfriend Tim. Abby and I went shoe shopping on 8th and got coffee. I’m having more coffee in the West Village. I got an I Heart NY shirt. I’ve been good about not spending too much money on unnecessary things. I’ve felt the need to write but now that I’m sitting here, nothing comes. Some days are like that.

Love, Meghan

Sunday, April 9, 2000

Stella woke me at 11 this morning and told me to look outside. Snow. It was coming down hard and had been all morning. I talked to Skyler and then racked my brains for clothes to wear in the snow. I packed for spring and summer, not snow. I took the subway to 8th St. and I’m back at Alt coffee shop on Avenue A. I wrote Margo a wicked long email. Terrence might be moving to Southern California before Margo gets back from Australia. I told her not to be insanely consumed by his decisions and I asked her if she thinks going back to Western when she gets home is a good idea.

Yesterday, I helped Abby get ready for a party she’s throwing. She and I took a cab to 29th St. and I waited outside for half an hour until someone from the theatre let me in from the cold. Once Stella’s friends wrapped up rehearsal, we took a subway to a place near campus to eat and drink beer. Stella and I went home and had a beer and talked before falling asleep.

When Mom and I talk on the phone she tells me I sound good and that she’s proud of me. I’ve talked to Roman but he doesn’t have much to say. I get homesick for him when I listen to his tapes. My headphones broke the other day. Stella fixed them but I think I need new ones.

I can’t believe I’m on my way to London. I love New York but I’ll be ready to move on tomorrow night. I hope it’s easier to meet people in London. In New York, it seems there’s an emphasized awareness that you’re in New York. Everyone looks at each other with their defenses up and an I’m-a-badass-who-the-fuck-are-you attitude but it reveals insecurity. I don’t feel beautiful, smart, talented, or unique like I usually do. I feel lost in the shuffle.

I’ve been walking through the East Village for the past several days and I wonder how all the boutiques and cafes survive. I wonder how business is and how the owners can afford to live here. I saw a help wanted sign at a café earlier and realized I could make it here if I wanted to. I could get a job, find a flat with roommates … but the question is do I want to? At this point, no. This city is great. Stella and all her friends are rad. There’s a lot to do. But I have a tendency, when in a big city with so much around me and all I could want in the way of clothes, food, drinks, museums, cafes, clubs, art … I get an Is that all there is? feeling. Even when you have everything you could want materially, there’s still a space that can’t be filled by surface attractions. I would have to find an occupation here, an outlet to absorb me. The general attitudes of this city have gotten me down; a lack of authenticity and kindness. That could be in my head. I’ve been closed off, defensive, and hurried while I’ve been here.

I’m looking for copies of A Season in Hell and Illuminations by Arthur Rimbaud. I must find a passage that Aidan read to me by Rimbaud about the poet being a seer and reaching the unknown. Abby showed me a 7-feet tall painting she made of a woman. It blew me away. I wonder when my work will be published. I wonder if, when I am dead and long-gone, people will post signs in coffee shops all over the world: Meghan McDonnell wrote here. If you spend enough time with certain thoughts consciously and unconsciously, they begin to take form in reality. You can’t sit on your ass, though, with these thoughts and ideas and wait for things to materialize. You must be aware of them, nurture them, do something with them.

I like "Leave Me Alone by Chappaquiddick Skyline. I’m still in love with Feel So Different" but the recording I have is messed up.

My tax return showed up and Mom is sending the $400 to me. I hope I can get a job in London. I’m curious about Teddy. Does he have a girlfriend? Will we just be friends? Will we feel something for each other in our initial meeting? No expectations, just curiosity.

The snow has melted but I imagine it’s still cold outside. I’ve been in this coffee shop for so long. I can’t remember being this comfortable: a cozy chair, coffee, cigs, words that keep pouring out from an unknown source. It’s like running. After the initial apprehension and seeming hassle, it feels like I could write and run forever. I get content and the feeling that everything is alright, in its place, even beautiful, after writing with headphones on. Now if only I had a partner to play cards with.

Love, Meghan

(later on) I’m at Stella’s neighborhood bar, Freddy’s. It’s not as sketchy inside as I had supposed. New York is funny and classic in certain ways. There’s a bumper sticker on the wall in here that reads The Brooklyn Fuckin’ Philharmonic.

I came back to Brooklyn after walking for hours today. I cleaned Stella’s kitchen, ate, listened to music, and watched Heathers. This city makes me feel like consuming: eating, drinking, smoking, watching TV, checking email: distractions, distractions, distractions. I haven’t slipped into London state of mind yet, which makes sense since I’m still in New York.

I called Lucas earlier and we talked for over an hour before I hung up on him. We had a good talk, overlooking moments of yelling and me getting frustrated. I read to him. He thanked me and he told me he took it for granted when I used to read my stuff to him. He said he still thinks I’m the one, he just fucked up. Every time we talk like that, I end up consumed by him and feeling like love is impossible.

After we got off the phone, I realized