the sads are heavier on my spirit today, so will dance/play with words another time
a conversation I have with myself often is to not wait for the ideal conditions to do something. sometimes it happens several times a day. like this zine I was sooo excited to get the other day. then since it got here, I’ve been waiting for an evening when there’s nothing else going on and I can get all cosy to read it slowly, you know, savour every sentence with a warm cup of (most likely) cinammon-flavoured drinking chocolate in my hands, wrapped up in the softer of my 2 kikois. it’s a beautiful image in my mind, the conditions for reading this zine. because it feels like something that shouldn’t be squashed in between other life things and read in a hurry. but it hasn’t happened yet. the reality is more like, I’m up and about in the evening and by the time I get home, all I want to do is sleep, or I have a lot to prepare for the next day, or am just too tired to concentrate on reading so I watch something light or listen to something instead or the sads have found me and I can’t do much else or or or…there’s always something that makes the evening feel like less of an ideal one, and so I postpone it. then today I had the conversation with myself again in the morning. and moved it from the to-read pile and to my bag, so I could read it during commute time. well, my mind was all over the place and I kind of forgot that it was there, so I didn’t even start. but I guess it’s a step? in any case, what, even are ideal conditions? life is always happening in between… everything. I’m curious – what’s this fantastical place my mind imagines exists, while reality marches on, unrelenting, all messy, sometimes according to plan but all the time feels like improv. so why, then, does this place exist in my mind? is it the buffer against all the chaos? escapism? fear dressed as perfectionism maybe. fear of messing up, making me not start on many many things. or the fear being a justification after I have decided against doing the thing because facing up to myself through the work feels overwhelming because of stuff I might have to change or uncomfortable things I have to confront, so my brain goes like, let’s dive here into the fear pool. wheeeeeee.I’m sleepy and almost drifting off so I don’t know if this will make sense the next time I see these words. this started with thoughts on a zine and now I feel like I accidentally kicked a ball of wool (that was under my feet all along) and it’s unfurling and rolling away faster than I can keep up
I tell you mine and you tell me yours
you say how late you slept
I stack up mine next to yours – I slept even later
then you say how much there’s still left to do
I say me too, there’s so much so much
I can’t wait for all this to end
we’re right in the thick of what we dreamt of
dying to be done
can I be present for the miracle of life?
the miracle of my life?
even when my heart and brain hurt from all the pending stuff, all the heavy things that weave in and out of moments in a day, and when there’s so much pain in my body that I almost can’t recognise it as my own
to stay present even when it feels like I’m just nodding along to comments on amazing paintings at a gallery, and how, oh look what the light does to this composition, when my eyes zoomed out and made a weird, abstract shape of a work that’s evidently beautiful to everyone else. not disinterested, just, distracted. a state that whisks me away often without warning
to be present for
moments when my voice finds its way out in a form I recognise
for when I’ve learnt all the steps of the dance and forget some but improvise… convincingly
to touch the water in the stream –
past,present and future in one moment
what’s the colour of the dreams I’m yet to live out?
feeling unwell/out of sorts and the body screameth for rest,
so, 22 is for rest
thinking about imagination today
Ursula le Guin said it beautifully:
“Home isn’t Mom and Dad and Sis and Bud. Home isn’t where they have to let you in. It’s not a place at all. Home is imaginary.
Home, imagined, comes to be.”
from “The Operating Instructions”, a talk she gave in 2002, at Oregon Literary Arts
grateful for when there are beautiful words such as these to soak in when mine are a bit far off and bouncing around in patterns I cannot follow properly.
“Home, imagined, comes to be.”
how beautiful is that. since I am still very much in Hawkins, I’m thinking of how beautiful it is that those children (and most children, before they’re socialised out of it, I suppose) take their imagination seriously. powerful even. for the ways their imagination saves their lives. and is often an everyday lifeline. I don’t see a big distinction between the real and imaginary, because the latter often informs how we perceive the former. is often instrumental in moulding the reality we want. existing somewhere in between those not-so-distinctly-different planes is where the magic is, methinks. anyways, sleep calleth and I hope to have an easier dance with words tomorrow,but will also stay open to however it plays out
how to get to the “heart of the matter” when one heart is clouded by fear, fear of asking the wrong thing that pushes the other further away, and the other heart,is obscured by un-nameables, because the two just don’t have a language for these things…
thinking how you can have been around someone for a while, known each other casually, or maybe entirely in social settings, never really going beyond the hellos and light talk.
then one day you have the conversation that changes everything™️ you realise, ah, they’re a fellow pun-head. or wow I didn’t know you like avocados too. and the dynamic between the two of you shifts and the connection is that much deeper. a peek into their universe, and they yours. just from one conversation. I’ve had quite a few instances like this and marvel at how much more magic lies ahead.
all life is improv and being present seems to be the best preparation for… anything.
about 2 hours ago, I was lying in bed watching a video a friend had sent me and the story was really beautiful – a moment in time extrapolated, so this lady talking about a photo where she’s feeding her grandma cake during her 2nd birthday. it cracked me up – the suspicious look on her cûcû’s face. like, what’s that thing and why is it flashing in my face. and now as I write this, I remember something I found refreshing some time back, while randomly looking at photos of my grandparents and mum and her siblings and friends when they were younger. they were every day photos with none of the pasted-on smiles that feel like a requirement in photos today. cûcû in the shamba. the wind blowing the scarf in one direction and she just is. in the photo. same with guka. even the studio ones feel real (?) like,they’re not putting on performances. whatever they felt in that moment is what was captured. where was I going with this? I don’t know,but when I started this post, I was going to say how it’s so interesting how I can be fully immersed in one thing and then at the same time, there’s this other thing happening, with just as great intensity. like an incessant knock on the door but you’re, idk, pooping, so it’s like, ok, ok, I’ll get to you soon, lemme finish this first. so while I’m watching the video, I realise that incessant knocking is – my ankles are cold. I’m wearing ankle socks because before, my jeans covered my ankles and I was fine. but now I’ve changed, except for the socks and there’s that little strip of cold that won’t let me forget that it’s not been attended to. and I don’t want to pause this video because she’s telling this story so eloquently and I’m going to the places she’s taking me, thinking about my own cûcû, but then those cold ankles. aaaahhhhh
watching how the sunset was reflected off a building as I walked past it today,I thought about how things are reflected & how that fascinates me, and how I’d like to see more colourful buildings and what the light does with/to them
the half moon on the water on the balcony floor
the gibbous moon in the orange juice + gin in my glass on the balcony
the gorgeous full moon rising above the ocean, the light shimmering on the water in delightful strips
trees reflected on the windows of a building, life pasting itself outside the windows, occasionally dancing with the wind, most of the day, a silent observer to life on the other side of the window
the street light on chicken slaughter avenue where I stay, yellow reflected on a puddle of water from a car washed there a while ago
the sky reflected on my phone as I walk
my reflection off a building as I walk across town, a quick check-in moment – yeah, everything’s still intact. I probably do something random with my teeth and move along
her dreams reflected back at her, as shiny as she sent them forth
her dreams mixed up in the muddied water they fell in, the muddied water they were received, the surface of the water disturbed by those dreams. no reflection here. more like an infraction.
smiles reflected on sunglasses
light bouncing off the sunglasses and away from the eyes that feel safe(r) behind them
shower thoughts + can’t-wait-to-eat-and-call-it-a-day-thoughts
it’s the way, when you make room for it, the universe, the possibilities for life, the rooms your spirit can be contained,the tangents a conversation can take, expand. when June started, actually, on the last day of May, I made a voice note about how I’d wish for the coming days in June to have lots of moments where my heart expands, where I live & love bigly, and – I said to myself – to get the candle from under my bed, a la the biblical candle that’s hidden away from the world. all the ways I am used to shrinking, clipping away myself, I was curious what it would be like to step a little bit out of that. as always, when such declarations of spirit find me, I don’t exactly know how it’ll happen but it does, somehow. maybe that’s what these sketches are about. perhaps a moment like this, (whatever it was that inspired me to make that voice note, and actually remember to listen back some days into June – whatever chain of events led to that. I may have intended to write it but was too tired, can’t remember) is a decluttering of sorts, like how you sift through beans and the dirt moves to the sides of the uteo. like a revelation of what was already swirling within, perhaps drowned out by the cacophony of every day things? however it came to be, I know this month has already had many fascinating/heart-full/beautifully unexpected/even chaotic moments that I’m not sure would have happened otherwise. who knows. or maybe they wouldn’t have stood out. like how I started watching Stranger things this week and then, I’m seeing memes and little quips and tweets that my friends, I suppose, would have shared otherwise, but that wouldn’t have stood out at all to me. but now that I’m immersed in that universe, it’s like, yoo, I know what you mean about Joyce Byers! a whole world that exists, but wouldn’t be available to me. life is interesting like that, eh? we really can just make shit up, frame and reframe things, change things around to whatever story we want it to be. to more experiments! oof. too hungry to go on😂