And I could’ve fallen asleep right there under the blue, comfortable enough to drift, but knowing that even a blink would be an expense worth too much. The romance in the air begs for my attention, and I take note. It goes down smooth, swallowing without challenge, without a prick. It’s easy, and it’s warm, like the palm of my hand lying flat against the grass. I’m at a picnic, and I think I’m feeling something correct.
In front of me are faces, each painted open, ready for a laugh or a sweet kind of shock. I drink from a bottle of wine I picked up on the walk over and tell the group, “I feel like I’ve died and I’m in heaven.” They take it as a joke, even though I mean it. I don’t care. The laughs I know are joining in collage, making something new and better, encouraging the gestures I’ve mimicked during times of anecdote. If they want to laugh at me, I’ll always encourage it, especially if this is the result.
I really mean it. When I look at them, I feel heaven. When I look at them, I feel like I’ve done it right. I look at them, and I feel unconfused love—a love that doesn’t require the bending I’ve become accustomed to. A love that is defined, and not to be reached for. A love that doesn’t find me squeezing my all into new, embarrassing geometry, but instead takes me for my favorite shape—a heart.
And I know we’re being obnoxious, because we’re hitting our usual, but this time in the open air. We’re loud and Internet. “Let’s finna clock a gag”. “Sucking dick and cock?”. “Bitch, you were born moving like a 35-year-old”. “Show me, show me, show me how you do that trick”. There’s a ring around us that’s kinda obvious; nobody else wants to sit too close, and on any other day that would’ve bothered me, I would’ve shushed, but today I’m decidedly selfish.
And the colors are a secret neon. The type I’ve only seen so small, when pressed up against TVs that only exist now as something to remember. Those reds, blues, purples, and greens that I reached for on my tiptoes, that gave my lashes a lift with static, are now wide and open to be received without a squint.
I think, “How lucky am I”
I think, “How foolish am I to label anything other than this as love”
I think, “This moment must be a new type of funeral”
Goodbye. Goodbye. Goodbye.
Goodbye to every version of myself that isn’t this; Myself in plain, receiving love without overgiving. Coming as I am, and happy to feel sorry for the former versions of me.
And though I’m the most awake I’ve probably ever been, I think of sleeping. I think of putting my head on the blanket. My friends’ obscenities lulling me deeper into a calm; it’s an ambient I don’t think I’ve ever heard before, and it probably wouldn’t have the same effect on anyone else.
I’m not tired, but my body feels the beginnings of a long rest, because what else am I supposed to do when I finally arrive at the thing I’ve been wanting for my entire life?
Here are my notes from July:
No surprises, but I got sick again. This time with a staph infection in my throat, which I suspect was from a vape I hit in the name of improvisation while trying to charm a room of men in their 30s into giving me a role in a movie. I didn’t get the part, but I did end up paying out of pocket for my antibiotics a couple of days later, which felt like some type of self-karma for trying to use charm as a weapon for a selfish pursuit (though I do it all the time). Strange way to be reminded to renew your insurance. Originally, my doctor put me on the wrong pills; they thought I had strep until my labs came back. Googling “staph” only leads to dramatic results that made me feel more disgusting about myself than I usually do. The antibiotics were crap; they worked, but kept me up all night. I think there is something to be said about the media that’s found on your phone on nights when your sleep is out of your control— I’d love to make up a word for it, but I need a little more time.
I was on an errand trying to find a hula hoop in a bit of a time crunch. It was harder than it needed to be, but I thought, “It’s summer; every store should be carrying hula hoops,” but I guess that’s not the case anymore. Obviously, I thought about children and tech in the crotchety sense, but before I could throw my arms up in the air in some act of “oh how times have changed”, I found one in the corner of a dollar store. I was happy to find one, but noticed I was a little upset because my atonement was cut short. I love to atone, especially if it’s a side effect of something a little small; I like the thoughts, but maybe the weight of the emotion is too much for all days.
Attended a meet-up for the new social media app Posting 2 (x), something that has become a bit of an obsession since Taryn (x) told me about it while we were sitting on our couch a few months ago. The concept is simple: a more boundaried internet with the aesthetics of old Instagram. A quick scroll through your timeline reveals real people—no companies, just strangers and friends. The nostalgia at work here feels both clever and necessary. Getting people on the app has become my party trick; it’s like we forgot social media could be stripped back. People gaffaw at their phones. Though it was a little awkward at first, the meet-up I attended felt kind of beautiful—early internet and strange. I went with Vivi (x) and Taryn. There were fewer than ten of us there, but it felt very special. I think apps like Instagram promise community; there is truth to that. But the lining has, in more recent years, become corporate and clouty. I think apps like Posting 2 might actually deliver on that promise in full. (Also, the app is fairly new, so it’s still easy to get a great username. I’m “worldpeace.”)
Though my health has been awful this year, the moments in between have been spent wisely—working or with friends. Time spent well wields miracles that stick. My days have been occupied with good things, and I see the proof each time my phone rings; I don’t think I’ve ever been more loved in my whole life. Around this time last year, I thought something similar, but it was projected crookedly onto a boy I briefly dated. I was convinced I was beneath him and had to do so much to convince him to stay. Enough time has passed that I’ve just begun to laugh about that, because I know the truth is quite the opposite. I also know this isn’t the first time in modern history that a young woman with promise thought she saw the balconies of the world through a pothead’s eyes. I digress. I know the love that’s reaching me now is the good stuff, the stuff that stays, changes you for the better, and gives you no headaches.
Addicted to referring to good things as “super spreader events for joy”.
Had to kill time in Soho and loitered at the MoMA Design Store. Usually if I’m stuck in that part of town I prefer to go to Brandy Melville, and visit the stack of cups outside, which will always be my favorite piece of public art in the city. I love eavesdropping at Brandy; I keep my earbuds in but mute my music as a means to spy. Sometimes I hear something so funny I have to turn in the other direction before laughing in the face of some well-meaning high schooler as she explains the politics of her situationship for the uptenth time to a friend. But on this day, the line at Brandy was longer than usual, so I thought I’d walk further and apply the same logic to another place. MoMA Design. Cause it is a sterile tourist trap selling fakey high culture to tourists, I wasn’t expecting much, but gosh. If you ever want to hear parents discuss the cost of living to tired children overcome by the power of “cool stuff”, I recommend it deeply.
I think you become an adult when you identify all the ways in which you are sick, but you only enter adulthood when you begin to fix them.
I used to find joy in being sick, I actually told my ex-manager on the phone, “no, being sick is great; I have time to slow down and work”, but now my ailments come so frequently that I’ve done every sedentary task I put off for a later time, written thousands of words, and watched every Netflix dating show about people in varying states of brokenness. I guess to some this could be viewed as a tilted paradise, but living half my life waiting for a Postmates order behind a closed door with a stuffy nose is becoming depressing. Besides phone calls from friends, the only newish thing that has really passed my hours has been the YouTube game show Joe Box (x). Joe Box is extremely special, something that I thought I would never say about another fellow Emerson alumnus’s project, but it is free-based joy. I went to college with Joe but never knew him, he’s a character that has always been a circle away from me. I actually don’t think Joe likes me very much, but I don’t blame him because I was a devil in college. But I recently felt brave and approached Joe at a screening of my friend Edy’s new comedy special (x) and told him how much I loved the show, and immediately I noticed that my presence made him a little uneasy,— but it’s whatever; I love putting on an episode and taking a NyQuil and laughing myself to sleep. It’s granted me the ability to feel a part of something while I’m forced to resign from the world. I usually don’t laugh much when I watch things with myself, but my relationship with this is different. Thank you, Joe.
No matter where I am, if Ruby McCollister is doing a Q&A on Instagram, I’m unmuting my phone at full volume (x).
Had to fly to London for a job. It was brief, but moments of it felt glamorous. I didn’t pay for my flights, so my seat was actually nice this time. I don’t think I’ve ever flown business class before. The job was only 4 days with a lot of downtime; I purposely made plans with absolutely nobody so I could be alone with myself. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to walk for hours alone; in New York I’m always running into people or fearing that an acquaintance might see me at an inappropriate time. Walking around, I mostly listened to Korea (x) by Kim Petras, a song that snagged me the first time I heard it, but I tucked it away for a silent time like this. I made sure I gifted myself tiny moments of choreography whenever I was granted an empty street— I fear I’m so much better to myself when I’m completely detached.
Finally, it seems that I’ve come into a reasonable amount of money. Enough money to really allow me space to fix a couple of defects and buy whatever I want. When it hit my account, I bought 5 iPhone 12s off of eBay and a massive dinner for myself almost immediately. The iPhones are absurd, and I understand that, but buying the dinner felt harder. Buying dinner is always hard, especially when it’s a meal meant for me to enjoy alone. The temporariness of it always gets me. Sweeping guilt always. The thoughts of money make me completely uninterested in whatever is in front of me. Most meals are viewed as a cash-suck annoyance that takes me away from my work. I know this behavior is wrong, but there is no bartering with myself when my pockets are close to empty— I can make any excuse not to eat sound rational in the confines of my own mind. Because of this, I’ve been starving for most of my 20’s, and honestly it’s a miracle that I’ve managed to be as productive as I am running on empty. Eating that first meal guilt-free took some bartering, but it felt really good. I got hot pot and overordered, and ate until I was full. It’s funny— I can purchase 5 iPhones so easily, but when come to laying my card down to do something that is crucial to my survival, I become repulsed. Working on it.
This month ends on the street. I’m soaking wet and waiting for my sandwich. I feel bad that the blog entries have been so short. I know I’ve alluded to it, but I don’t think I’ve really said it in plain: I’m getting really busy. I started I WILL DO WHATEVER I WANT as an output while stuck in a weird years-long relationship that was draining me creatively; making me feel unfree often and helicopter-parented when it came to most things I did, but especially my creative endeavors. Since I’m alone now, and not devoting my life to complaining via text to the person I’m sharing a bed with, I’ve had so much time and brain space to be creatively free. Because of the work I’ve made this year, I’ve gained so much access to other avenues of creativity, and that’s been very dreamy. I’m not stopping the blog; I just want you to know that my capacity will waver. I have the means and skills to truly do whatever I want, and it would be the ultimate betrayal not to chase down my whims; sometimes that will mean writing an article for a publication, and sometimes it will mean playing with five iPhones. I want to feel limitless. Be happy for me.
Always, my other work can be found on Instagram (x)
Also - Taryn just put out a photography zine called Snow In July that is absolutely fabulous. It has been a honor getting to watch her put this together. I’m beyond proud of her, obviously. Order link here <3
Love you all deeply, truly xoxoxo
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.