Tag Archives: winter

End of February 2023: I Let the Minutes and Hours Slip by Easy

It’s the end of the shortest month of the year. There is something sinister in the air I said to a friend in a letter recently. But maybe that’s just me. I think winter is just tough on the psyche (and tough on the bones). And sometimes—in this season—examining myself for too long is not the best idea. It causes me to dissociate, for better or for worse!

Do you agree? Do you like dissociation as much as I do? It feels strange to say because it involves a weird conflict of interests. I want time to move faster and I want discomfort to be subdued. But I also want to be as self-aware as possible. I want to live in the moment and I want to live in every moment. I want to feel it!

From the perspective of a writer and/or artist, it seems better to feel everything deeply and truly. Even the depths of sadness can be informative and can help me create something that feels more authentic and relatable. But this is such a weird way to go through life! And it feels like such a weird thing to justify… the pain? I’m still working through these thoughts. I guess what I’m trying to do at the end of the day is feel content to just exist. To just be.

So… my recommendation for the coming weeks is to slow down in an intentional way. This recommendation (as is this entire blog) is mostly for me, so take this with a grain of salt. But being slow and deliberate and enjoying the process has been my saving grace on some especially tough days. Like, I will stop my work to edit an old poem. Or I will write a letter to J in New York or Z in Palo Alto and then walk to the mailbox and drop it in. Or I will vacuum and zone out. Or I will drink a bottle of Gatorade slowly and really try to pin down what “Icy Blue” is, as a flavor. Or I will tape some ticket stubs into my notebook. Or I will write this blog post.

Cheers to feeling content and happy and healthy and good in the coming month! Goodbye for now and see you at the end of March.

End of January 2023: On the Interior

So it’s another year of end-of-month posts! I am choosing to break from my pattern of titling each monthly post with a gerund, so maybe these posts will make even less sense. There are no rules this year. Who knows what will happen!?

Right now I am thinking about the future and watching the squirrels run across the power line outside my north-facing window. Usually there are two of them, chasing each other up and down the big tree. Sometimes I stare out the window until they show up. I wonder if they can see me.

January was a long month for me. I am reading Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse again. It’s one of my favorite books and feels especially appropriate this time of year. Maybe it’s something about the coldness of the prose or the way that time moves throughout the book. Woolf also knows exactly how to write about introspection and the interior lives of people. That really resonates with me. I think she is such a genius. Few books make me think as hard about the human condition as that one.

What else? Here is a list for you: I have been saying yes to doing things with friends. I have been watching a bunch of movies. I have been drinking a bunch of orange juice. I have been writing letters. I have been trying to observe the moon. I have been walking a lot. I have been sleeping strangely and logging my dreams. I have been drinking two cups of coffee a day. I have been stressed. I have been hopeful! I have been.

For the best of times
For the worst of times

Things to Love

Dear world. To save myself from finals-related spiraling and from listening to way too much Lana Del Rey, here is a blog post slash poem slash meditation slash prayer.

Lately, my days are not very dynamic. I am severely vitamin D deficient and I feel like my body is hibernating while my mind works too much. So I have been compiling a list of things that are life-affirming to me. I am inspired by a poem called “Love” written by Alex Dimitrov, who is one of my favorite poets (and also my former professor). Every line of his poem starts with “I love” and it continues indefinitely on Twitter, one line a day. Anyways, as an exercise in gratitude and poetry, here are some things that I love. They make me feel more real. Here is the (non-exhaustive) list now while I am feeling earnest. Thank you for reading and I hope all is well with you!

THINGS TO LOVE:

* A good night of sleep
* Orange juice
* Friendships that last years
* Sunlight and how it streams in through the window unapologetically 
* Laughter that hurts the ribs
* The color red
* Hearing people talk about what they love
* Preparedness, until it doesn't make sense
* Sweaters and my favorite jeans
* Doing nothing because I can't help but think about everything
* Being alive because it is so hard sometimes
* My pothos plant 
* Music that people put their entire souls into
* Seasons and what they represent to people
* Calendars
* Cinnamon rolls 
* Aestheticism, beauty, things that exist for no practical purpose
* The solemnity of mornings 
* The solitude of nights
* The squirrels that run across the power lines outside my window and chase each other 
* Impractical clothing
* Birthdays (not mine)
* Dusk
* Writing letters to friends, of course
* This poem by Eileen Myles, called "At a Waterfall, Reykjavik":

	I still feel like
	the world
	is a piece of bread
	
	I'm holding 
	out half
	to you.
	
* Brutality (only in theory)
* Bone broth 
* The feeling that I am becoming my own person 
* Movies with stunning combinations of sound and color 
* Looking forward to other things
* Dvorak's New World Symphony
* Flowers as gifts
* Clarity 
* And bravery (may we all have it!)

Dayward

  
 Pulled my face down in the mirror
 and felt a shift. Pulled the cord to close the blinds
 harder, no blue wash on the floor tonight. 
  
 The next room over feels ten degrees colder
 and the heat is past stolen, past steps. The walk
 down the hall is the slow take back of breath.
  
 The slow take of waking, like realizing you're sorry.
 It's the wrong time of year but it's all anatomy,
 your hair and your eyelids, buckwheat and hulls.