long, your hair looks nice underwater; short, it dries quickly
I made the conscious decision to be happy and it has worked. I realized that part of this only-believing-in-these-cells-getting-to-live-this-life once thing is that there's really no point to breathing unless I can find contentment and beauty, since this is all I got. Without a bright repository for your conscious self after death, why live if you don't get something out of living? With these cells I have to and want to do many other things beyond creating my happiness, but my own contentment (see: clear mind, not luxury) is the most important. And I have the capacity to be happy. So I am happy. I am happy when I breathe deeply and smile at passers-by and focus on all that makes warmth grow in my bones. I wake up happy, I go to sleep happy, and I'm still awkward and unsure sometimes and I pine sometimes but even in pining I'm happy. So there's that. And I am now making the conscious decision to be comfortable with the decisions I have made and the person that I think myself to be. See how that goes.
This afternoon and evening I harvested sweet peas, sat in the sun that makes my Scottish skin rosy, climbed the old climbing tree on the other side of the lake, wore black corduroys that made me miserable in the heat and talked to an old friend who seems to be much more sure of all of his decisions than I am. It gives me hope for myself that I can feel strong divisions between me and another and love them still.
I care about being healthy. I care about making sure that other people are healthy and helping them get there in little ways, if I can. I care about people having good food in their bellies and peace in their hearts. I care about my mother. I care about my father. I care about the bees we keep. I care about living the life I dream about, turning it from dream to daily life. I care about the friends I don't think of nearly enough. I care about watching and tasting and learning and stretching and dancing slow dances and dancing fast dances and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and the loud songs you can scream in a basement and the boys and girls I know with dirt on their faces and dirt in their nails and notebooks crammed in the jeans they've worn for years and the kindest wild in their eyes and words to help you get by and working my childhood into words that make it make more sense and trying to let you in always trying to let you in and breathing deep and deeper still and the bats my papa says brushed his hair outside and looking up at the stars on warm nights and feeling like nothing needs a conclusion, like anything could happen and it will all be okay and it will all be enough
because how could it not be, it is, it is, it is
like you are, you are, you are
of course
and I know that it is what I do with this caring that is important.
by angelhead on flickr
ghosts & lovers - marissa nadler
station grey - jesse sykes & the sweet hereafter
I went to see L'heure d'été with my mother and my grandmother for the latter's eighty-ninth birthday. I thought I might not care for it, since I thought it was just a story about wealthy people and their stuff and their privilege-smacked problems, but I thought it was absolutely beautiful... I keep thinking about it. It's gotten me dwelling even more on the concept of family myths and cyclical structures. Some of the shots have stuck with me and keep playing in my mind. I haven't seen a movie with an ending that perfect in an awful long time...
The soundtrack was a dream.
little cloud - the incredible string band
My grandmother's name is Loeta Mae Goodnight. My grandmother raised me. She was born in 1920 on a little farm in Idaho. My grandmother has hurt me, but lately I have thought that if I ever have a daughter I might call her Loeta. It would heal things.
Always the full circle.
Loeta rhymes with Lolita, if you say it the way that most people do and not the way Nabokov intended. First time I've noticed that. How terribly ironic.
I was going to go a lavender festival on the peninsula this weekend, but I think I'm going to go to the strawberry festival on Vashon Island instead. I want to bring a friend, and dance in the street at night with everyone else. Perhaps I will see my old Latin teacher.
I am kinetic and I am calm. I wish the same for you.
This afternoon and evening I harvested sweet peas, sat in the sun that makes my Scottish skin rosy, climbed the old climbing tree on the other side of the lake, wore black corduroys that made me miserable in the heat and talked to an old friend who seems to be much more sure of all of his decisions than I am. It gives me hope for myself that I can feel strong divisions between me and another and love them still.
I care about being healthy. I care about making sure that other people are healthy and helping them get there in little ways, if I can. I care about people having good food in their bellies and peace in their hearts. I care about my mother. I care about my father. I care about the bees we keep. I care about living the life I dream about, turning it from dream to daily life. I care about the friends I don't think of nearly enough. I care about watching and tasting and learning and stretching and dancing slow dances and dancing fast dances and Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and the loud songs you can scream in a basement and the boys and girls I know with dirt on their faces and dirt in their nails and notebooks crammed in the jeans they've worn for years and the kindest wild in their eyes and words to help you get by and working my childhood into words that make it make more sense and trying to let you in always trying to let you in and breathing deep and deeper still and the bats my papa says brushed his hair outside and looking up at the stars on warm nights and feeling like nothing needs a conclusion, like anything could happen and it will all be okay and it will all be enough
because how could it not be, it is, it is, it is
like you are, you are, you are
of course
and I know that it is what I do with this caring that is important.
by angelhead on flickr
Click to viewghosts & lovers - marissa nadler
station grey - jesse sykes & the sweet hereafter
I went to see L'heure d'été with my mother and my grandmother for the latter's eighty-ninth birthday. I thought I might not care for it, since I thought it was just a story about wealthy people and their stuff and their privilege-smacked problems, but I thought it was absolutely beautiful... I keep thinking about it. It's gotten me dwelling even more on the concept of family myths and cyclical structures. Some of the shots have stuck with me and keep playing in my mind. I haven't seen a movie with an ending that perfect in an awful long time...
The soundtrack was a dream.
little cloud - the incredible string band
My grandmother's name is Loeta Mae Goodnight. My grandmother raised me. She was born in 1920 on a little farm in Idaho. My grandmother has hurt me, but lately I have thought that if I ever have a daughter I might call her Loeta. It would heal things.
Always the full circle.
Loeta rhymes with Lolita, if you say it the way that most people do and not the way Nabokov intended. First time I've noticed that. How terribly ironic.
I was going to go a lavender festival on the peninsula this weekend, but I think I'm going to go to the strawberry festival on Vashon Island instead. I want to bring a friend, and dance in the street at night with everyone else. Perhaps I will see my old Latin teacher.
I am kinetic and I am calm. I wish the same for you.