Let Go

You’ll never need people who bring you down. Who relentlessly judge, pry or criticize you. People who are unkind, then kind, then unkind. People who don’t respect you. People who are unsupportive. People who are jealous. People who superimpose their world beliefs onto you and judge you accordingly. People who are untrustworthy, people with big mouths, people who are manipulative, people who just want something from you.

There are a handful of people who, granted, may care for you, love you, might even be good to you, but are not good for you.

And there will be–are, present-tense–those who’ll bring you up. Who support you, are there for you, are genuinely understanding. They’re reliable. You’re there for each other when times are shitty; you’re there for each other when times are good. There’s mutual trust. Mutual respect. No drama, no petty shit-shows, just honest-to-God communication and understanding. There are people who give and take–no, not take, but accept. Each other. They meet you halfway. Initiative splits 50/50. Every conversation or hangout ends in happiness because that’s what good people are supposed bring to your life: happiness and support and positivity. I know, this is cheesy as fuck. But let me be cheesy here.

There’s no need to go on some sort of giant relationship purge. But it doesn’t hurt to take stock of the relationships in life to get a general idea of whether they bring you up or drag you down. Sometimes it’s both; it’s not always one way or another. Make wiggle room for growth and forgiveness–we’re all shitty hurting people at some point in time. But negative trends and toxicity are no-go’s. So…let go.

String of Thoughts

IMG_5514.jpg

A string of thoughts, in no particular order:

  • The mind is the strangest thing. One of my favorite books reminds me that we’re all stuck in our heads, projecting our own distorted notions of reality onto the screen of our minds. It’s all constructed, pieced together by attention, a weird believable 3D fabrication that we call reality. Like Rorshach blots. We see what we choose to see. And the things I see make me panicky. But then I’ll become aware of this, that we’re all making this shit up, and feel calmer at the thought.
  • Thoughts are what brought me here: October, February, July–have you ever felt so listless you wanted to die? Moments like that. Sprawled on some surface by a window pouring sunlight and periodic existential crises. Then I’ll just want to watch comedy shows at hotel lobbies in Florida, where I can moan about how much I hate traveling, god, just take me home.
  • Even so, I miss New York so much. I couldn’t tell you why. Everyone gets so excited when they visit New York, inundate their social media feeds in it–look, the Empire State of motherfucking dreams. For a moment I thought New York became less sparkly–it’d lost its glitz and glam, become drizzly and cold (stuffed in a cab full of chatty ambitious strangers). Evidently it hasn’t. I miss the wide streets, the energy, the movement, the noise. It’s overwhelming, but remove the source for a while and I start to miss it.
  • A stranger in the city with a giant bouquet flowers once told me that we’re all looking for somebody to listen, that strangers just want to be listened to. I believe her. Half a year later I emailed her saying hello, and she said that she sometimes looked for me in the city. Isn’t that odd? To be looked for, even if only briefly? I became so accustomed to searching in the sea of moving faces that it never occurred to me that somebody would ever look for mine.

Aflame

jan-15
January 15th, 2017

“You’re beautiful, but you’re empty. One couldn’t die for you. To be sure, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But in herself alone, she is more important than all the hundreds of roses, because it is she that I have watered; because it is she that I have sheltered behind a screen; because it is for her that I have killed the caterpillars. Because she is my rose.”

– The Little Prince

Obligatory Appreciation Post

I like blogging on WordPress because–

of you. And you, and you, and you. Imagine I’m Tyra Banks and I’ve handed out little diamond-studded containers of Vaseline and I’m screaming “you get Vaseline and you get Vaseline and you get Vaseline!”

Except instead of Vaseline it’s appreciation. And I appreciate you. And your eyeballs. For reading this.

WordPress is fun because of the community. Because I get to hear your ‘thoughts’ and word-vomit some ‘thoughts’ back. When we blog and comment it’s like we’re all sitting in a little circle and standing up to do our own tiny monologues and then offering nice feedback. Right. This is like a really encouraging theatre class.

So there’s my nugget of gratitude for you and for my favorite bloggers and, well, yeah. You know who you are. I’m really happy I joined WP this summer.

Day 19: Walk Away

I heard Nina Simone in Starbucks today; she sang this other song about walking away. It’s called “You’ve Got To Learn” and how you have to leave the table once love’s not being served. I liked the metaphor. I’ve always found dish metaphors to be interesting, like the one in Keri Hilson and Kanye West’s Knock You Down (“you see the hate they’re servin’ on a platter? So what we gon’ have: dessert or disaster?”)

Continue reading

Day 17: Early Morning

I rewind in multiples of 3 6 5, count on my fingers when it’s orangey hot outside. I’m blinded at 8, sweaty-drowning at 4, despairing at 2, and counting down to 1 (12, 11, 10–)

Think Lua, Bright Eyes, cramped attics, friendship and sleepovers. How what’s ‘so simple in the moonlight/by the morning never is’. And today when I wake up it feels like hot winter in the middle of December.

Early morning ‘s forgetting when all I can do is remember.

Day 16: Small Things

Like Jesus’s face on the painting in the kitchen, like the bird’s beak as he climb up the wires. Like the piece that falls in the stove splintered open and my face is chalky caked with make up and even though my camera’s hanging from my neck I haven’t touched her in eons. Continue reading

With Eyes Like Butterflies

img_5649

December  10th, 2013 // 12:50:00 pm

On the car ride home I detected, from the smoky poof of our deep conversation, wispy strands of respect in your eyes.

I really like people who have kind eyes. People with kind eyes are compassionate, and compassionate people have kind eyes. And kind people are beautiful and nice to talk to, and you can see it in their eyes. -trails off into a tune due to wordy redundancy-

But people can have normal eyes. People can have snarky eyes. People can have flat eyes that hover between life and lifelessness. And people can have sly eyes or suspicious eyes or cold, hard and dull eyes.

As my art teacher once cried: “Eyes are the window to the soul. Serendipity!”

I thought it was spelled “Sarahn Dipity” and wheeled around. “Who’s that?”

Sometimes I’ll miss people for their eyes. Whenever I have little moments of peering into people’s eyes, I’ll take a small creepy note of the types of eyes they have: far set, close-set, deep-creased, light-creased, blue or black or green or tan. Search for clues of their soul window decor. Like curtains of kindness or meanness or tiredness, or sadness.

Those with kind eyes are the ones who emanate the wisps of respect. Those with unkind eyes are the ones who pretend nothing ever happened.


Perused through my old Tumblr, which I tried decimating to bits 5 years ago, and found this old post from 2013. I remembered the exact moment I marinated in these thoughts. Again with the winding Texas roads and a heart full of resentment.

But less than three years later, puedo decir con confianza: all hail the force of forgiveness. They will sweep through your heart’s city and burn down houses of bitterness. For the better, ‘course, and I’m glad they did.

 

Skeletal Dust

31

On the first day I said it was like opening a closet with monsters inside. Dancing skeletal monsters with joints that’d jingle and brush against each other when you dusted them. And I was here to do just that: dust the shit off of these monsters.

“Are you tired?”

Just unresponsive.

“What’re you thinking about?”

You. Then I hoped to God you were lying. Because as I lied there I was counting skeletons instead, ghostly remnants and coats of dust that’d jump out and say “BOO”, then run away crying.


My throat itched Wednesday so I wouldn’t be there Friday, I said. Were we too close? you asked. You asked me this repeatedly. Like the game “are you nervous” we’d play at age twelve with fingers itching up plaid skirts asking repeatedly: are you nervous, are you nervous?

Were we too close?

Consciously, no. Subconsciously, maybe yes. Maybe you were hanging out with the skeletons without me and maybe you understood them better than I did myself and maybe I was afraid of that.


You can come up with a million exit strategies and still take none. So in the beautiful weather I felt like shit. In 3, 2, 1…had moseyed our way into discomfort. In the end we laughed it off with bloodshot eyes and I walked away knowing I’d done it again, done it again, done it again.