Merry Christmas! December 25th brings us just halfway through my daunting task of writing every single day for just under two weeks and let me tell you... nothing has made this less fearful. I'm so used to journaling about my day that trying to create something worth sharing is what really makes this a chore, but I'm finding myself enjoying it more than I anticipated.
Today I want to talk about the last time I was listening to Taylor Swift when it was 30 degrees outside. Last night I ran into the rain wearing shorts and my sister's sneakers to put a bow on a present in the shed. Today it was 30 degrees even though the sun was out, everything tried to dry in the rays. I spent the day trying to shake off the sleep hanging on me like a necklace. a fake fire on my television to keep the peace between my energy and my ability to know better, 'tis the damn season from evermore echoing through my headphones while I'm back and forth between trying to write whatever this is supposed to be and taking first impression notes to send to Ali who, in November, sat in the kitchen of our Airbnb as I made chili and sang along to seven from folklore. That was the last time I listened to Taylor Swift while it was 30 degrees out and to be honest, I think these sister albums were released on the right schedule.
When I was in elementary school I was obsessed with a children's mystery book series called Cam Jansen. On my birthday I walked from the last classroom on the right side of the hall straight into the library, reaching for my favorite book from that series and bringing it to the desk where I wished for this particular book to be dedicated to my day because it was my favorite to read. To this day I couldn't tell you exactly what about the series I liked, but it pops up in my head every so often I find myself inhabiting that sort of behavior. Cam has a photographic memory and every single time she wants to remember something, in particular, she closes her eyes and says "click." For a children's book, it is an awfully visual storyboard. I tend to have the same actions, but instead of wanting to remember something specific, I have a certain feeling, almost like a nudging to remember the moment. (As if evermore and folklore weren't enough of a soundtrack, Taylor's release called "Long Live" begins "I said remember this moment....") My phone is filled with moments I've recorded in an attempt to hold the present by the neck; every single one holding me in likeness.
On a weekend in October, Ali and I found ourselves enjoying a breakaway in Hendersonville, North Carolina. A mountain town just 30 minutes from Asheville and its bustling nature and 40 minutes in another direction from Pisgah National Forest, where some of the western state's most beautiful waterfall-bearing hikes are hidden. As we waited to check into our house for the weekend, a beautiful cottage at the top of a mountain on a golf course, we spent some time walking around the Asheville Arboretum where I have one of many recordings of rushing water because this particular time I got an invisible nudge as we sat on a park bench placed just up the river bank. Aside from the rushing creek and our naturally comfortable conversation, silence swayed the trees above us and we carried ourselves along with masks in our pockets, just in case we passed other folks finding a muse in the same nature. Ali has been good company since I was 16 and unlike a lot of my other friendships, this is not a friendship that has pulled from the roots or cracked at any point of the tree. Though these getaways are few and far between, they're never overlooked as just another thing I did. The enlightenment that comes from doing something as low key as sitting in bed all day and watching Say Yes To The Dress has such a significant impact on me for no reason other than acceptance and encouragement.
I took quite a few mental and physical pictures that weekend. Sunday night was cold and breezy and even though my nose and cheeks were rosy, we still tried to light a fire as the sun went down. The view from the kitchen table was just enough to make you want to spend your entire time sitting at the windows. The chili I made wasn't spectacular but with Tostitos dipped in it, you couldn't tell the difference between good soup and something to warm your body. As I stood and chopped the vegetables we sang along to folklore, watching the leaves blow to the ground in the wind and really feeling what a generations-old story would feel like. Or a superstition. Or where a new family heirloom started. Or where a feeling of peace could truly be found and sought after long enough to drive someone mad. One of those things that feels like you could grab it off the coffee table and read it, like the journal from past guests elated to share their story, our recollection just another page.
I slept that weekend with a comforter and two blankets on top of me, going to bed shivering and waking up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, peeling my sweater off of me before falling back asleep with my left leg out from underneath the layers of the earth that covered my mattress swallowed body. Both mornings I woke up wondering how my sweater ended up on the floor, not remembering until the next round of 3 am to remember the prior 3 am exuding the same energy. All of these things I have vague pictures of in my head, different from just a memory. My memory works in funny ways, in that certain things I don't need to remember come about in an overwhelming sort of way, compared to the things I welcome as a presence that I'm able to reminisce on. In retrospect, they all fall in the category of memory, but I hold some closer than others. The downward dog I did outside the french doors was one of those things I held closer, moving between wind gusts and letting the cold air freeze my lungs. As I gathered my things I stopped and saw Ali still at the kitchen table where I had left her 20 minutes prior, sitting in the light and speaking along with Duolingo. Click.
As I'm finishing writing this, I'm also finishing my first listen of evermore and it's all cascading together, I'm sure you can tell the different songs between the sentences of what this is and from someone who, just an hour and a half ago, was battling writer's block so badly I was getting frustrated that I was even trying to pick up my computer. This is nothing short of a victory. How wonderful that weeks, months, years from now these songs will represent some sort of other memory and my first listen will only be a figment of a memory, a piece of the past so insignificant it won't even be worth going back to. There is a note on my phone where I began to speak ideas into my phone one night on the way home from work and the bullet reads "sensors connected to memory, gazebo connected to Grandma." Music is the number one connector between my present moment and my memory. For other people, it's scents, touch, certain times of the day, and I'm sure as I continue on finding adventures in my life and branching out from only what I know currently, my resonating with certain moments and certain places or things or people will transform into something virtually unimaginable at the current time. How wonderful, once again.
seven from folklore brings me back to a place of hopelessness, dread, and longing.
you to believe in by paradise fears unlocks a piece of my life that feels so gut-wrenchingly fictional.
baby blue by christian sparacio does a lot of the same things for me now what jane by good luck jane did for me in high school, like a wave of calm over the unlikely ability for me to calm down otherwise. they are both "blue" to me, in their own ways. they feel like a breath of cold air.
just imagine it by mkto makes me want to create. fills me with wisps of fall air. sunrises, long days of filming intricate storylines that came from my head. alternatively, tony oller's voice surges me back to standing in my living room at 11 years old, red carpet, a tv stand that had shelves on the sides, one side with VHS tapes and the other where a wicker basket sat with bubblegum flavored orajel for when I inevitably started getting another cavity in my teeth. then being my first myspace songs. Click.
I could absolutely keep going but because we don't have all night and I literally just talked about my desire to keep parts of myself a mystery, I will stop here and hopefully wrap this up.
This year has really taught me the importance of enjoying the moments you have, and especially the moments you realize your own presence taking the reigns of your ability to articulate what this very minute of your life holds. Ironically, my solitary moments amidst this pandemic have been some of the richest moments thus far. I suppose being a natural introvert this type of examination shouldn't be shocking, but it is something I never thought I'd find. My entire life I've been uncomfortable being alone, having it in my head that my true fulfillment won't come from walking alone. What a relieving feat that something I've romanticized in a certain way my entire life is not at all how any of this has to work out. For quite some time I've stopped feeling the nudge to record moments, to write them down, to take them at face value and not over-examine. After this, I'm looking forward to welcoming them with open arms again.
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