near the graffiti wall
A photograph of my life would reveal bursts of frenetic energy, rest like death, and too few spaces for nothing more troubling than reading the newest issue of Nylon, checking out the new prints from Missoni, ferreting out the perfect Diane von Furstenberg wrap-dress at the thrift stores, hitting the gym with the old vim and vigour, and learning how to cook the way I always wanted to (no recipes and a pinch here and there of this and that). Time is my enemy, my forbidden lover. I am continually wanting more of it, and scheming to have my way with it. I would not discard time the next morning in a haze of smeared lipstick, whiskey-breath, and rumpled sheets. I’d at least offer it a cottage on my property, a chance to be my mistress. If things worked out, time could be my number one.
“No time, no time, no time,” is the chant I cry when I race through the streets on the way to one job or leaving the next. I hurry through the laundry, dishes, bed-making, and all the other mundanities that keep life balanced. My feet are a fright of pain. On the bedside table is a stack of books that I got at used bookstores that I desperately want to read. My showers consist of running soap across my body as quickly as I can and shaking the water from my hair. I attain no small pleasure in that humid little chamber, not with the knowledge of greeting the day clean or of the warmth on my skin like a lingering hand. This is the busy time, where I pay off the bills of my past and become responsible. It won’t last forever-this being busy all the time-but it will be worth it. I tell myself that every morning when I rise, too exhausted to muster much enthusiasm. I remind myself of this when I am sitting in traffic or riding the bus, surrounded by people with the film of apathy over their eyes. I won’t be one of them. I won’t!
After it all, Shaun tucks me into bed, exhausted, and clawing at my pillow from sheer fatigue. Some days, I manage four to six hours of sleep; other days, I am lucky enough for eight to ten. The lack of a regular schedule keeps me out of balance. Arizona saw me rising with the sun (around five to six in the morning) and taking my sleep once the sun had set (tenish, unless it was a drinking German Riesling and howling at the moon kind of night). I loved connecting to the natural world by nature’s cycles. In the city, no one cares about when the sun rises or moon sets. No one talks about how precious being rained on and walking in it is. In the desert, rain is like a gift from the heavens. You could watch a thunderstorm roll in for miles, hoping it would reach you because the air was turning your skin to dry scales. Sometimes, the storm would swerve and you’d miss it by a few miles. Other days, the magical, lush desert days, the storm would barrel straight into you, and you’d have fifteen minutes of wet glory.
Then, you’d talk about the music the sky makes with your friends, while remembering desert-magic.
That’s not to say the city doesn’t have its own magic. I’ve fallen in love with the old cemeteries with their ancient Irish crosses, the pierogi joints everywhere, the fashionably dressed scenesters strutting their stuff in Rittenhouse Square, the ability to have a drink or food at any time of the day or night, my favourite radio station ever, the growling busses that take me wherever I need to go, my little windowsill garden, and the promise of going to the best farmer’s market on the Eastern Seaboard. I love the chance of discovery, how near everything is, how many people there are to watch, and public transportation. I hate commutes, lack of time, and how I am not creating art every day. I am capable of so much more. Poems are unfurling around my wrists and arms like tattoo vines. I scribble a few notes and remind myself to return, all while longing for the artistic freedom I once had.
So I burn my Caribbean Therapy candle and wrap myself in the scent of bay leaf, lime, vetiver, and amyris, and remind myself that I am doing the right thing. My bills are being paid, I am making a future, and more importantly, I’ve broken free of whatever cage and bonds that once held me. I go to sleep every night and awaken every morning knowing that I have no regrets. Not a one. Even as I sleep deeply and desperately, I am not filled with dream-turmoil about the paths I could have taken. I did everything the way I should have.
Talullah Jewel
P.S. As a way to test myself, every day for the next month, I am going to post something, whether big or small, just to see what it’s like. There’s so much I want to say, like the hilarious, amazing trip to DC and all I’ve been learning, and of course, the ladies that come into Aveda and teach me as I lay my hands on them and heal, soothe, and listen to their fears and hopes. I am damn grateful for the chance to do it all. Tomorrow, I am making a batch of vegan muffins and regular-type brownies to bring into the store as a way of thanking the ladies who come in for being mothers and for having them. The power of creation is the strength upon which the world was built.
“No time, no time, no time,” is the chant I cry when I race through the streets on the way to one job or leaving the next. I hurry through the laundry, dishes, bed-making, and all the other mundanities that keep life balanced. My feet are a fright of pain. On the bedside table is a stack of books that I got at used bookstores that I desperately want to read. My showers consist of running soap across my body as quickly as I can and shaking the water from my hair. I attain no small pleasure in that humid little chamber, not with the knowledge of greeting the day clean or of the warmth on my skin like a lingering hand. This is the busy time, where I pay off the bills of my past and become responsible. It won’t last forever-this being busy all the time-but it will be worth it. I tell myself that every morning when I rise, too exhausted to muster much enthusiasm. I remind myself of this when I am sitting in traffic or riding the bus, surrounded by people with the film of apathy over their eyes. I won’t be one of them. I won’t!
After it all, Shaun tucks me into bed, exhausted, and clawing at my pillow from sheer fatigue. Some days, I manage four to six hours of sleep; other days, I am lucky enough for eight to ten. The lack of a regular schedule keeps me out of balance. Arizona saw me rising with the sun (around five to six in the morning) and taking my sleep once the sun had set (tenish, unless it was a drinking German Riesling and howling at the moon kind of night). I loved connecting to the natural world by nature’s cycles. In the city, no one cares about when the sun rises or moon sets. No one talks about how precious being rained on and walking in it is. In the desert, rain is like a gift from the heavens. You could watch a thunderstorm roll in for miles, hoping it would reach you because the air was turning your skin to dry scales. Sometimes, the storm would swerve and you’d miss it by a few miles. Other days, the magical, lush desert days, the storm would barrel straight into you, and you’d have fifteen minutes of wet glory.
Then, you’d talk about the music the sky makes with your friends, while remembering desert-magic.
That’s not to say the city doesn’t have its own magic. I’ve fallen in love with the old cemeteries with their ancient Irish crosses, the pierogi joints everywhere, the fashionably dressed scenesters strutting their stuff in Rittenhouse Square, the ability to have a drink or food at any time of the day or night, my favourite radio station ever, the growling busses that take me wherever I need to go, my little windowsill garden, and the promise of going to the best farmer’s market on the Eastern Seaboard. I love the chance of discovery, how near everything is, how many people there are to watch, and public transportation. I hate commutes, lack of time, and how I am not creating art every day. I am capable of so much more. Poems are unfurling around my wrists and arms like tattoo vines. I scribble a few notes and remind myself to return, all while longing for the artistic freedom I once had.
So I burn my Caribbean Therapy candle and wrap myself in the scent of bay leaf, lime, vetiver, and amyris, and remind myself that I am doing the right thing. My bills are being paid, I am making a future, and more importantly, I’ve broken free of whatever cage and bonds that once held me. I go to sleep every night and awaken every morning knowing that I have no regrets. Not a one. Even as I sleep deeply and desperately, I am not filled with dream-turmoil about the paths I could have taken. I did everything the way I should have.
Talullah Jewel
P.S. As a way to test myself, every day for the next month, I am going to post something, whether big or small, just to see what it’s like. There’s so much I want to say, like the hilarious, amazing trip to DC and all I’ve been learning, and of course, the ladies that come into Aveda and teach me as I lay my hands on them and heal, soothe, and listen to their fears and hopes. I am damn grateful for the chance to do it all. Tomorrow, I am making a batch of vegan muffins and regular-type brownies to bring into the store as a way of thanking the ladies who come in for being mothers and for having them. The power of creation is the strength upon which the world was built.