I took my coffee in the bath this morning, and it was glorious. After some morning, snow-day sex, I went to shower myself clean but on second thought, a bath seemed much more appealing. Much better for soaking all the nooks and crannies and warming you up from head to toe before slipping into your winter thermals. My sweet partner had already made us coffee so I decided to take my time with the cleansing and enjoy my coffee hot & steaming. I guess this is what qualifies as ‘self-care’, although cleansing ones’ body has long been a component of taking care of ones’ self, irrespective of the hype. But add a coffee, and the indulgent enjoyment of doing both simultaneously, and you’ve got a grammable situation. When outside is a sea of shiny, white chaos in a blizzard they’re calling the historic “bomb-cyclone”, I’ll take my snow-day indulgence. I came back from France two days prior just for this after all…

And indulgent it is, but an indulgence that lends itself to gratitude. Gratitude that I can wake up to a warm apartment, knowing that even if it’s way below freezing outside, my ancient radiator will still be pumping out heat; that my landlord will be outside shoveling snow so that our sidewalk doesn’t become a deathtrap tomorrow; that I get to wake up and have delicious morning sex with my favorite person, or really just to wake up together, sex or not. And, that I can then consider taking my morning coffee in the bath, as a routine. Because I had the day off anyways, and I’m grateful for that assurance when they gave warnings of the storm to come, and my industry requires me most when it’s for the leisure & revelry of others.

I find this hard at times though: to reconcile gratitude with striving for more. I find myself in a quicksand of self-loathing more often than not, but I’m ready to dig myself out.
And 2018 is the year
I figure
It’s the year I learn to make home a more productive place, or to find out if it’s simply just not, and that coffee shops & libraries are still the true cave of my heart/mind/spirits’ flourishing.
It’s the year that I miraculously change my body clock, going to bed and getting up earlier. (Holding on to this time change, jet lag magic to jump-start that process!!)
It’s the year I make the most of a day, in whatever form that ‘most’ takes, but minimizing my time spent on my small, blue-lit smart box.
It’s the year I see what this country has to offer by traveling its depth with my partner in life and love.
It’s the year I spend more time with my family.
It’s the year I talk to people- ask them questions, ask myself questions, and demand answers of myself.
It’s the year I reverse all other years of self-learning in denying expectations, by setting goals and making plans and letting myself revel in the joy and excitement of doing so.
It’s the year myself and my partner start eating like grownups, with normal meal times and healthy food and a fridge stocked with more than just condiments and eggs.
It’s the year I start baking again- for a marathon Christmas cookie session reminded me how much I enjoy it and how much it truly puts me in my body and focuses my mind unlike anything else these days.

And again for the fourth year in a row since satisfying my dream of moving to this insane city, it’s the year I write more, and say yes as often as possible.

Finally, 2018 is the year I’m not afraid to call these declarations, but resolutions.


nonsense #1

It’s Wednesday. Hump Day, as some people say, but no good humps for you today; only the metaphorical shitty ones. You cried in the shower today. You waited till you were under the water: got undressed, waited for the water to heat up, and then, you let yourself cry. And you couldn’t stop. But then you did seem to feel a bit better afterwards, having let it all out.

You couldn’t seem to leave the house today, not until the shower and the cry, after you’d been out of bed for 4 hours and done nothing but dick around, not being able to focus on anything but the endless feeds of pretty, meaningless bullshit on your phone. You had plans to get up at a “reasonable” hour, go to the gym, go to a coffee shop, make yourself write, but you and your husband got in an argument last night and you still felt pretty shitty about it. After he’d left for his kitchen training, and you’d gotten so fed up with the guilt of doing jack-shit, you convinced yourself that a hot shower would do you good, and you did go to the gym yesterday so clean and warm are preferable to dirty when the eventuality of a workout is yet to be determined.

You walk outside, heading to the laundromat, and although it’s freezing and windy as hell, the sun is shining bright and strong and you feel better just like that. And you remind yourself that you should get outside more often. It seems that, for you, home does not lend itself to productivity. But shouldn’t it? Or maybe it’s that a tiny studio-ish apartment with the only doors in the place being the ones you close to shit, and open to leave&enter. Maybe. Or maybe your powers of avoidance are enhanced in PJ’s and comfy couches with a husband who makes the coffee and brings you a cup in the morning. Although he won’t bring it to you in bed. Enticing you to get the fuck up, he leaves it on the coffee table. Himself an easy, early riser, he subtly, kindly hates your simple ongoing patterns of snoozing; not charmed by your ability to pass in and out of sleep with 5 stages of 9 minute snooze alarms. Why pretend? Why set the alarm for 9 when you know you’re not going to drag your ass out of bed before 10 at the earliest. But hey, goals.

A response to the query that every mid 20’s, semi-adult habitually avoids

He told me, if I was an artist,
you’d be my muse.
I smiled, blushed, and said thank you.
Later he asked me:
“What are you doing here?” I answered: “I like the city,
so I came.”
Then he asked, “What’s your dream? If you could do anything,
what would it be?”
And I confessed, I don’t know.

The question what do you want
still evades me. Because the answer, for me
has no concrete object.
It has lines & shapes, colors and images…
Details, but no whole.
I know
that I like words, and toying with their construction.
I like poetry
because of the way poems inhabit the space of a moment, freeing that moment
from its temporal boundaries.
But I can’t say whether I dream of publishing a novel that rocks people’s worlds,
because my mind can’t yet fathom a space that grand.

I can feel the textures of my future life,
but the thoroughfares of their manifestation elude me.
I believe in meaningful, passionate work, and direction, and I want to seize all of that
but right now
I’m finding meaning in an hourly wage, hospitality job where I know well my role and that my role is a valued, important part of a whole; a whole full of inspiring colors and characters.
I relish my detours and diversions, small moments & random joys
I surrender to the uncertainties and ambiguities –
their sum the most exquisite aggregate.