Say When.

Tonight, I got out of my bath. I didn’t even towel off; I just started fidgeting with my hair and putting things away. I sat on my bed to slow down my dizziness and picked out something to watch. I somehow landed on a movie, Laggies. Never heard of it before. I searched for “Kiera Knightley.” Someone told me my mouth reminded them of hers. I guess I was thinking about that. It looked like an irreverent indie drama, and while I can’t remember the last time I willed myself to watch an actual movie by myself, I turned this one on.

My Bluetooth speaker was still on when I pressed play. I hurried into the bathroom and was enveloped in The Postal Service’s Such Great Heights. I removed my speaker from the towel hook it dangled on, and carried it back into the bedroom. As I turned off the speaker, I heard its Aussie lady voice say “powuh awf” but I also heard the song still playing.

What?

Such Great Heights, the song I had just paused, was now continuing to play in the background of the opening scene of the movie I had just turned on.

What does it all mean?

“You can’t keep putting aside what you want for some imaginary future. You’ve gotta suck it up and go with your gut.”

“I’m sure it does seem kind of stupid to make some sort of rigid plan for the future. But… It’s stupider not to start paying attention to who you are and what makes you happy. Otherwise, you just float.”

“What could I possibly tell her? That I thought I’d be the really cool mom that took her to concerts, and she’d want to borrow my boots? But then one day I realized there’s no such thing as a cool mom. That the… cool mom is really just the bad mom or the mom who has become a joke.”

“I never anticipated still having to find a place where I’d fit in by the time I was an adult either. I thought you automatically got one once you had a job and a family. But it’s just you, alone.”

“I’m a snake. I’m a snake that’s been dragging my old skin around with me for way too long. I’m a snake.”

Turns out Ben Gibbard wrote the whole movie score, too. Sam Rockwell does it for me in this movie.

Five out of five Buddha nipple twists. (It’s a whole thing.)

Goals Update: March 2022.

Feb. 21, 2022

I scrapped my goal for having my book manuscript. Changed it to being healed. I’ve had the book on my goals list for so long. I asked myself why. I think the chief suspects are a lack of confidence, structure, and discipline. Ha. That sounds like a funny holy trinity some TikTok bro is about to advocate as the new church. Confidence, structure, and discipline. CSD. That’s my drug of choice.

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It’s never too late…

There are many other things my mind would like me to be doing right now but my heart politely asked me to write.

“Treat the moment I’m in as if I chose it.” My constant partner has been this mantra over the last year. Ever since I read that dumb Power of Now book. I re-read that part five times. I was reading in a foreign language. Nick said he could see how hard it was for me to get through the book. Thankfully, I read it with Shannon. Accountability matters. I will do things for those I love that I would not do for myself. I’ve never taken better care of my body than when I was knocked up. I digress.

Acting as if I chose each moment I find myself in is an act of least resistance. The power of surrender. The power in surrender. I can’t explain it. Not right now, at least. When giving birth, I was instructed to keep the rest of my body as relaxed as possible, so my uterus could have all the energy. No death gripping anyone’s hand, no jaw clenching, no screaming bloody murder. Ride the waves. How did this get back to procreation?

For too long, I have been aghast at premise of my circumstances and then I refuse to participate, as if my incredulity would be of assistance in any way. Rarely do my circumstances only knock once, wait two minutes, and walk away forever. More often they circle. Sometimes my circumstances start off as one peril but gather others along the way. Impromptu parade. If twerking were shirking, I would be on WorldStar.

Before too long, my resilience caught me before my chin hits the stretched canvas. It’s back for the belt.

I can almost see it.

I can almost see it, my life past these woods. The structure, the ease, the clarity. My tomato plants blew over and I choked on sobs. They probably be just fine. Alice Coltrane’s Ashram was lost in a wildfire. She left before the Woolsey, though. Missed it by seven (lucky) years. One of death’s opportunity costs is no longer having to suffer the loss of that or those which are so loved.

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June 9, heh, good one.

It ain’t bad until it’s really bad. My life is like the top of this desk. Scattered onto more scraps than I can count. My thoughts, scrawled, barely legible, if at all. Dates are rare. Context, a luxury. Most things hardly realized. Does any of this make sense to you? 

I find these notes for myself, often scribbled into the margins of college-ruled paper from the time-period in my life of its namesake. I use the surplus for taking notes during all of these Zoom calls. Waste not. I’ve moved these blank sheets from college to my folks’ place, from there to Barb’s, from there to a duplex in Lakewood, from there to a high-rise condo in Lakewood, from there to a higher-rise condo in Lakewood, from there to Nashville, and from Nashville to here. I have no business carrying around all of that undergrad energy with me from place to place. And yet.

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Dear Fridge: She’s lost it, folks.

Dear Refrigerator,

In yoga class tonight, during the cool down, in the seated forward fold, I instructed those in attendance to imagine a kitty cat pawing slowly up their back, all the way to the base of their skulls. I assured them the kitty cat was hypoallergenic. I barely had a filter on my inane cheesiness and cheerfulness before being locked away from the world for a year. There’s no hope for anyone now. I’ve always wanted to know what it would be like to be mysterious or cool-demeanored. Some things are not meant for me and any longing only results in painful, poisoning baggage. Like a beautiful skirt that even when it fits, does not fit me. I will never be able to find the right top or shoes. Knowing full well that I will never feel comfortable in this skirt, I keep it still. Fashion and reserved emotions cannot be forced.

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A dirty soul.

My Dirty Soul.

Let them see me.
Crack open my carefully constructed opal casing.
So what?
Did you find a shriveled nothing?
That’s what I always thought was there.
Pronouncing “dahlias” intimidates me more than growing them.
A tryhard who tried hard.

“I’ve got a dirty soul,” I tell the man behind the counter.
“You can wash it or wear it,” he replies.
I hem and haw over my choice.
It’s not that dirty, I think. I smell the armpits.
I could have sworn I had washed it last week.
The nervous stench is undeniable.
The acrid smell of fury-sweat.
It clings like the smell of cigarettes on a smoker on a bitter-cold day, who works in a small, stale, windowless room, with three others.

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Flowers are reincarnation: Nothing else looks so soul-like.

Being outside now feels like rediscovering a world I once loved and had forgotten. I am finding so much peace in yardwork. I love when the cold air is tempered by a bright sun. My favorite flowers, daffodils, are more broadly known as narcissus. I learned this today from my preferred florist’s Instagram story today. I was surprised to not know this, though I’m not sure why. I’ve never researched daffodils before.

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2021 Goals: High Hopes.

Goals and growth give each day of mine direction, vague guidance for how to adjust the sails. They fill that space between things when I might otherwise wonder what on earth I am doing here. The desires are self-imposed hero’s journeys, the mountains we insist on climbing. Our souls say so. I don’t make them, I’m just listening to mine. 

But what are these mysterious goals of mine? 

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3. The weirdo with a pizza face.

My fifth-grade teacher, Mr. Schultz, taught us math and science, but also handshakes and hygiene. He was not a man who minced words. He called worksheets dittos. To this day I flinch when someone says “ditto!” They mean “I concur!” but I am lost, my mind retreated and ducking for cover from memory of hundreds of multiplication table exercises. Or perhaps it is more from the memory of my mom begging me to do them. Who would even want to grade all of that? I was lucky to have picked up on math from an early age, thanks to my grandfather. Science was interesting. It was the hygiene portion of Mr. Schultz’s curriculum that would turn out to be the most treacherous for me, personally. 

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