This is a newsletter about home: the unexpected places we find it, the areas that we wish we could, and the spaces we can always depend on it being. How does this multifaceted relationship complicate how we live within it?
To Do Everything That Is Nothing
Today was a day for rest. To exchange one pair of pajamas for another. For disconnecting from the overly familiar and reconnecting to that which is hard to remember. For sweeping the dust away while holding a mini bagel in between your teeth before they have the chance to expire. It's a time to do everything that is nothing. To practice accents and listen to the beats and echo of laughter. To stare at a wall. To count the tiles. To repaint your nails. And then recount the tiles. Then after, while sitting on your bed matching socks together you’ll finally finish that bottle of cold brew. And all of this and its lack of expectations may seem overly simple and unimportant, but trust me, to do nothing but live, is beyond difficult. The hardest part about the day is letting today simply be today.
Events From a Sunday
The weatherman said today would be rainy, but when the prepared passersby of the park saw the girls sunbathing, they could do all but not envy as their unused umbrellas bumped against their legs, reminding them with each tap of their unluckiness. For these three girls, drunk on womanhood - marked by youth and freshly cut grass - possessed all the world's good fortune this Sunday. They laid, side by side, and in between their napping, watched the parkgoers enjoying the day. Two boys were seen kicking a ball back and forth. A dad held his son’s hand on the playground. A man was flushed in the face from running around playing fetch with his dog. Two friends laughingly threw a frisbee to each other. A girl kindly lifted her dog so that it could reach the water fountain. Someone was even writing poetry for any price you’d pay. It felt like a movie: like the beginning scenes when everything is perfect, and the bubbling feeling in your gut that something is about to go wrong hasn't made itself known. And it never would. After the girls grew tired from their diligent observing through the glaring sun, two of them walked to a nearby corner store. They returned in their hands popsicles and a freshly made baguette, to the girl who stayed behind to watch over their haven of a blanket. The group easily agreed the stranger not far off deserved the last popsicle which after doing so, handed it from the box of four. With luck overflowing, the girls were eager to share it. Their generosity was reassured, hearing through the girl's grinning smile, as she updated her friend over the phone of her new melting treasure. These girls and everyone else that shared in this Sunday did exactly what they were meant to do this day: they were living. They were living in completeness.
In Conversation
This week in conversation “I’m going home” became “I’m visiting my mom’s.” I'm not sure when this phrase was officially revised, but its architect sure had their turn with poignancy.
When I think of those moving away, I always imagine them on their flight, cramped in between the rows and drinking their ginger ale. And no matter what, I always come to the conclusion that whatever the flight time, any length and amount of turbulence, it must feel too short for such a turning point. At one moment you're flying in the clouds, and at the next, you're landing in a new town of maturing.
I'm sitting alone in this coffee shop and the voices I hear I don’t recognize. But nonetheless, I keep my music low enough in the unlikely chance I hear you call my name.
There’s Something Poetic About: Hardwood Floors
I would become the floors beneath your calloused feet that once trampled me just for the chance to pull the rug out from under you.
I lay on the hardwood floor sun drunk and blissful, and as the sun begins to lower, I simultaneously fall deeper into the grooves of its grain. When the ground grows cold beneath me, I’ll curl myself tightly by the vent. The heat from it will dry out my skin and chap my lips, but in its inflicting contrast, it seems like healing. Like the serenity that a cold-blooded creature finds laying upon the rocks of a scorching desert, we can both sit with no thoughts plaguing our minds and just feel the environment around us. But the sun can’t stay forever, it has places to be and other little girls’ faces to warm.
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Wait A Second includes work that reflects on personal events I’ve witness or feelings I’ve felt, but also imaginary scenarios in which I project ideas onto.
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