Sundays north of the desert.

Sundays north of the desert.

This was yesterday. My hairstylist was right. I have the best bed head now.

This was June.

This is the time of year the golden hour seems to drift on for an endless period, washing the city in pastel pinks and blues and yellows. The sky brilliant with an explosion of dust, the paint you used in college, smeared under an eye when you had an itch. It lingers and lingers like the day will never end. I drive in it and walk in it and bike in it. It’s all about being inside of yourself in this loudly quiet time. Somehow alone, making you smaller and less and more and a tiny speck of dust in a tiny speck of time in all there is, wholly insignificant and yet important. Maybe important to nobody’s timeline except your own but nonetheless, this is not a time to be picking at threads. Stare at the sky until you go blind. Be alone. Be inside yourself. This will not last forever no matter how much you want anything to.

Get home from work, eat a piece of aged cheese while walking around with a sports bra and yoga leggings on. Pick up the cats one at a time, hug them and stand at the kitchen window asking them about their day. Did you go to Paris in a hot air balloon today, I ask. And when you were there, were the locals confused by you saying wee wee wee needing to go potty but they just keeping saying Yes? back to you in English. A long loud meow in protest. I want down, I want out, I want more. Girl, I feel you, I gently murmur as I set them down on the tile floor. My days are mostly alone now. Alone with my thoughts and alone in spirit and alone in physical-ness. It’s very quiet outside and inside, of which I suppose is a positive thing.

The lavender under your nose and misted on your pillow will not make your dreams any less strange. Or violent. Or sad. It will not wake you up ready to conquer the world. And some mornings you’ll be so tired while making your tea you accidentally use a chamomile bag instead of the chai. You will learn to sit up straight through the exhaustion and grit your teeth like a pro. It’s about stamina and it’s about letting it all go. It’s about making it as quiet as possible. Becoming the wallflower you were as a young adult but in a totally different way. I’m still learning to be kind enough to myself to ask myself in the morning, Where did you go in your dreams? To Paris in a hot air balloon saying wee wee wee?

I miss dancing with you. Obviously
I miss sex but really I miss this public form of sex with you. A thousand words on the subject and it comes down to this.

'Merica.

'Merica.

Obligatory photos in a ten minute period of the first haboob dust storm of the summer.

Before and after. Apples picked at 5a and two evenings later, eight of them baked into one Russian apple cake, dusted with cinnamon.

1. You hang onto your pain like it means something. I heard that tonight, not directed at me but I heard it. Letting go is so fucking hard. You can work on it and open up every joint in your body to release the shit and speak your truth and live your practice and yet it lingers there next to your hand in case you ever need the blankie for comfort.

2. Yesterday was a day of the kindness of strangers. The woman at the grocery store who reached higher than I could on the top shop for not one but three bottles of water as I stood contemplating a safe way to retrieve them. The policeman who watched over me as a stranger unprompted did team effort to pull the stubborn air hose out to fill my car tires. The woman who shouldn’t be a stranger, who told me how adorable I am with all my glasses. I didn’t recognize her but I will try in the future.

3. I can no longer wear one of my favorite dresses. Even though my stomach has grown flatter and my waist smaller, my butt has gotten bigger and the dress strains over the spot of the curve. Yoga has ruined my body with strength. What a problem to have.

4. Every day I understand something I didn’t before. It is heartbreaking how little we know and how much we have to unknow in order to fit new knows inside and then relearn the old knows when it is relevant again.

5. I think my eyes have gotten more blue but the only person who could confirm for me barely acts as if I am a person.

6. I have been jealous of people younger than me because they have their whole lives in front of them. As if I don’t have my whole life ahead of me.

7. The way this world will test you. The way I can be the lightbulb in the night and the moths are drawn to me. The way I to listen to their sorrows of dropping a package off at the post office and by the end of the conversation am told, You don’t have to be such a bitch, after I sigh and say, Please I have nothing to offer you clearly if you’re not able to help yourself. The way to get rid of these people the rest of the day is to keep your phone headset on one ear and a headphone listening to whatever World Cup happens to be on in the other and anytime they come to your desk, make an announcement how you are just getting on a call. This can be 2:11 or 3:59 or anytime, it doesn’t have to be logical.

8. Is loving yourself a trap?

Creature comforts, a follow-up for the tough days.

This was the month of vertical photographs. May.

I have felt your energy most strongly in the past two days than I have in six months. You were with me in yoga, in acupuncture. In the shower. While I touched myself. Running errands. In a very intense dream, one of those kinds that makes you question which reality is the real one. And maybe that’s all just me. Maybe it’s me being lonely. Maybe it’s me working through some shit. I’m on the verge of breaking through some very intense and very deep baggage I have been carrying with me for probably my entire life except the first two years. Stuff that has absolutely nothing to do with you. Except it has everything to do with you. It has to do with why I chose you, why I loved you, how I loved you, how I accepted the love you did and purposely did not give me. I’m right on the edge of understanding it, of not trying to understand it anymore and letting it just be, of letting it go, of no longer assigning an emotion to an experience that may have helped shaped me but does not define me. But then I get scared and wonder what it means to be me without the association of all this pain. And then I get bored with the whole, bored thinking about it, bored by this pain, bored by the humanness of everybody around me. How they fail to be decent people. How they fail to be what I need or want them to be. How I fail them. How love fails itself. How nobody ever loves each other the way the other ever imagined. And I really want to get to the place where I am pleased with what is in front of me, what is inside me, what I do with the things thrown at me. But right now I’m still bored and hurt and really tired and looking for comfort I know doesn’t exist in you. So I pretend the energy in the room is you thinking of me in some other place because it’s sometimes easier to think like that than to acknowledge the truth you aren’t thinking of me at all.

I don’t know. I don’t know I don’t know Idon’tknowIdon’tknowidontttt. Some days I want to shoot myself in the face. It feels I will never break through this wall. I’ll carry this stupid fucking feeling around my entire life and die miserable and alone and I’m just too old to feel this way. I’m too old to be so stupidly scared. I’m too old to not know how to live in the moment and stop letting every dumb experience I’ve ever had trip me up the stairs. I’m tired of giving out weird vibes and I’m tired of accepting them from other people and I’m tired of knowing the answer and being terrified the answer means I am too much a pragmatist to do anything good in this life. That nothing matters and nobody cares and good things happen to bad people and bad things happen to good people and there’s no score because nobody wins in the end. I don’t know. I would like to wake up to a generous world and maybe what I really want is to wake up to a generous world inside of me, a wealth, a comfort. But no matter how much I need or want that today, it isn’t gifted to anybody. It is worked at, it is opened up through lots of hard work. But the truth is, I’m so tired of pulling the intercostal muscles in my back ribs, making them so inflamed tears stream down my cheeks without warning when I breath too deeply. I’m tired of talking to the acupuncturist how we seem to have matching braids, how my acute pain is, how I have to talk about my sleeping or lack thereof. I’m tired of talking to yoga teachers about opening and expanding and my heart. I’m tired of talking and not talking to myself. Getting so stupidly fucking stuck on the same things. Let it go. Be here now. Accept love. Give space. The words are starting to not have any meaning because they all have so much meaning but I can’t live up to them so they become pointless, worthless… less. Empty.

I’m sorry I keep thinking this is your energy. I’m sorry I’ve sent some toxic cosmic energy out that maybe reached you. I’m sorry for thinking you thought of me. You know who you are, you’re reading this now or whenever the now is that you read it, however far into the future. I’ll try to forgive myself, I’ll try to let it go, I’ll stop with the assigning of emotions.

I hope you’re well, you. I still feel fondly for you.

It is 2014 and this is what the sky lit up with fireworks looked like and this was my face with a Heidi braid crown and this is what it looks like when I successfully hang my bike up on the lightrail all by myself and this is the summer bed with only a blanket at my feet. This is what my weekend looked like on the last days of May and the first day of June in the year of 2014.

In 36 hours my thumb has become something necrotic nightmares are made of.

In 36 hours my thumb has become something necrotic nightmares are made of.

Life lesson. If your chef knife is unbelievably sharp, you will barely feel it as you nearly chop the tip of your left thumb off. Day five progress of healing, the first time I really could look directly at it.

Life lesson. If your chef knife is unbelievably sharp, you will barely feel it as you nearly chop the tip of your left thumb off. Day five progress of healing, the first time I really could look directly at it.