Hello, it’s me. Your friendly neighborhood part time writer (ish?) and full time human being. At least I am pretty sure that’s the case, in terms of the human being part. Life does seem to be trying to convince us that we are all characters in some truly dramatic (and poorly written) fiction right now.
Currently, the apocalypse is occurring outside my window… Both in the COVID-19 way the world is experiencing but also in the torrential rain and thunder that reverberates down your spine way. I LOVE a good thunderstorm, though the current rain does seem like a cosmic joke when getting out for fresh air is the only means of escape we have from our homes at the moment.
Hello friends, and greetings from the Philadelphia airport.
It’s been six months since I last wrote.
Six whole months.
Half a year…
You may not have missed me (*sniff* I understand), but I have. I can’t explain it other than to say that my soul has felt void of verbal potential. I’ve had trouble filling a page in a DIARY. And the more I put off trying, the harder it’s become. So I am hoping this post will be some sort of proverbial band aid rip. Painful but necessary.
Words can be tricky. Sometimes I feel them expertly packed inside of me. Perfectly stacked and sorted, accessible at any time and for any purpose. And then there are times when I feel as though I can grasp words as well as I can grasp a wisp of smoke or a sunbeam. Beautiful, but fleeting verbiage. These past few months, though, have had a different quality. They have seen a series of difficult mental health days. With those, my carefully stacked edifices of words collapse and leave behind them a ruin which I am ever more tired of rebuilding. I’ve felt lost in toppled towers of unfinished thoughts and weathered facades of fuzzy notions.
At best, my writing style, here at least, can be described as meandering so a sense of lost-ness does not necessarily lend itself to a coherent dialogue by any means…
I love nighttime. I love feeling like I am the only one awake and reveling in the quiet passage of time. I love pulling sheets up to my shoulders in a cool room and telling myself stories as I fall asleep. I love to reach out my hand toward Hammie, who is inevitably snuggling with me, and feel him twitch and snore through his tiny kitten dreams. I love the potential of the dark and quiet to bring the day back to life and offer the opportunity to reflect. Continue reading “Circles and Squares”→
* I am just going to go ahead and put this p.s. at the beginning for all you lovely people. A pre, rather than post, script, as it were. One year ago, as of this past Monday, I started this blog and it has found its meandering way into my routine as an important outlet. Thank you for taking this emotionally intense trip with me. One year, man… That’s a big deal to me. I am being facetiously dramatic by saying that I’ve recently gone through a crisis of blog faith and I would like to thank a few lovely women who assured me that it’s not JUST self important aggrandizing (ha)… It can sometimes help others in terms of offering the scope they need in their own lives. I am honored to provide whatever assistance I can by sharing my experience; as others have done for me (maybe in a more justified and eloquent capacity but I do what I can). For all intents and purposes it really is my aim to Hamlet the hell out of life (the actual play, and not just my cat, in this instance) and “hold, as ’twere, the mirror up to nature.” But I digress.
This is an image of my favorite wall in Fishtown. It’s at the corner of Hancock St. and Cecil B. Moore Ave. Whenever I have one of my lovely couch surfing evenings with my Fishtown friends, I make a habit of parking nearby so that I can watch and appreciate the artistic changes over time. I am a close follower of Philly street artists. Unlike murals (as much as I love those too), wheatpaste posters, plaster installations, and stickers are more at the mercy of the elements. These art pieces are readily subject to destruction and are therefore, largely, temporary. For that I appreciate them all the more. Not only do I appreciate them for their short-lived nature, but I also admire how they subtly beautify and funkify the ordinary into something worth noting. Something extraordinary. Mail boxes, defunct telephone booths, crumbling walls, chain link fences, bus stops, etc. They all benefit from these little accents created by artists who are truly talented and enthusiastic about their craft.
I am scared. Contrary to what it seems with my penchant to travel alone; jump out of airplanes; and voice my life’s trials, tribulations, experiences, and beautiful embarrassments in this very public space… I really exist in an anxious and largely scared state of mind. Maybe I am like the Bruce Banner of anxiety… Maybe it’s my superhero burden to bear (wow, self important much, Liz? Though, green is my favorite color…) Continue reading “I Can Change”→
*I should have posted this earlier, but since this is my birth-month I hope you kind people will allow me a pass. It’s been a busy week in the most spectacular way possible.
Ladies and gents, I am now 28 years old. As of Monday, 3/19/18, I have entered my 29th year of life. My dudes, I am getting old. But, as they say, age is just a number right? Just an arbitrary counting system to assign a numerical value and therefore more coherent concept to the passage of time and, outside of the body’s obvious physical trek, upon each human’s progress through existence. “Growing old is mandatory and growing up is optional” as they say but there has to be some sort of comfortable balance I can reach, right? Somewhere between young/feckless and old/immovable.
Can we talk for a second about the spectacular power of Aretha Franklin and Annie Lennox on one stage? Chills.
My darling dears, I wish you the happiest and most empowering International Women’s Day you can imagine. I’d also call out that International Men’s Day is November 19, mark your calendars for that as well.
Anyway, I am here today to discuss adulting and feminism. Buckle up and enjoy. At the ripe old age of 28 I have decided that I need to be better informed so, during the 2+ hour commute I have every day I have been listening to NPR in an active attempt to be an adult and understand some of the acronyms bandied about on the regular, not to mention be in the ever more depressed “know” about the latest global strife (seriously, can’t we just get along?). These listening sessions have run the gambit from inspiring irrational anger to thoughtful introspection and everywhere in between.
My mom has gifted me a desk. This simple sentence brings me more joy than I can possibly express. I have not had a real desk for the better part of a decade and even then it was that piece of my college furniture that served more as a resting place for books, sweatshirts, and sundry nonsense than it did as a useful writing surface. I already love this small wood structure an unreasonable amount and have great plans for its physical improvement (someone did this beautiful piece the disservice of “up-cycling” and painting its ornate solid oak surface a “shabby chic” distressed and dusty baby blue with seashell motif knobs – not exactly my style but there is a lot of scope for the imagination when it comes to putting it all to rights again). A writer needs a desk, and this one, with its current imperfections, is a reflection of the writer in question; a work in progress, as it were. Continue reading “Head Full of Doubt/Road Full of Promise”→