Yesterday I was in a funk and I couldn’t figure out why.
Then it dawned on me: It’s a holiday!
Even though Labor Day is one of those holidays that, sadly, had little impact on me growing up other than it meant a day off from school, it still sent me into an aimless walkabout the house, thinking about things I strategically avoid thinking about.
The older I get the more holidays bum me out.
Maybe if I had children I would feel differently?
Maybe if my partner believed in holidays they would be much more fun?
I spent most of the day wistfully thinking back to when I was a child, which lead me to thinking about where all the time has gone, which lead me to thinking about all those who came before us whose memories have faded away, which lead me to thinking about the long stretches of time that goes in between seeing my family, which lead me to thinking about the wrinkles and age spots I see on my parent’s skin, which lead me to thinking about my own gray hairs and spiderweb
I wrote this last month while visiting home. It was a difficult one to write. Did a lot of reflecting…
As the plane descended over the familiar lush landscape that is my hometown, several emotions reacquainted themselves with me. Feelings of joy, sadness, fear and optimism alternated dance steps in my brain.
“Where has all the time gone?”
“What will the future hold?”
“What happened to all the people I loved who have passed?”
“How can I keep moving forward?”
These are questions I don’t ask myself anymore. They’re only questions raised when provoked by the sight of my past, which is something that happens irregularly since I moved away from my home and family eight years ago.
In our attempt to live a fulfilling adult life, it’s often easy to get caught up in the minutia and forget what you’re thinking, feeling. To forget where you came from.
This last trip home wouldn’t let me walk past the flowers without perking my senses.
I was picked up by my beautiful
I secretly love reading self-help articles written by people who have no formal training in telling you how to live your life.
In my scavenging for these articles on such sites like Huffington Post, The Frisky and any bubbly-logo’d site aimed towards my demographic, I occasionally come across posts condemning the act of longing. “Longing prevents us from fulfilling our dreams and moving forward in life,” they say. If we’re stuck in the past and long for people, places and things that are realistically unattainable, then we will never truly enjoy our lives.
These articles often hit home for me, because I realize that I’m a person that does indeed live in the past and not “in the now.” I long for my childhood, places I’ve lived, places I’ve never been to, my family, my friends, people that I miss. I’m constantly suspended in a perpetual state of romanticism. I also realize that all of these factors play an intricate part in my writing. They are daily inspiration and reoccurring
During the holidays, we drove through West Texas and New Mexico. A trip I’ve done before and a journey I never tire of.
It had all the makings of a romantic anecdote.
Four of us were nestled in the body off an all-terrain truck. We listened to country music from the 1950s. We marveled at the thousands of wind turbines, the out-of-commission gas stations, the dead deer and the pink skyline. I drifted in and out of sleep comforted by the fact that I had slipped back into time.
Driving through West Texas and New Mexico makes you feel like you’re cool as shit. That you’re the only person brave enough to step foot into this frontier. For the duration of the drive, you entertain moving to a town called Milagro or Truth or Consequences and you know that you could be happy there. You’d grow your hair long, make art out of found desert objects and create a shrine to Georgia O’Keefe.
As we made our way into Santa Fe, I took note of the sand colored pueblo-style houses with splashes
This stretch of road never changes, only I do. Every twist and turn and is the same and will be for hundreds of years. Only I will go away.
All the times I made this drive, I never could have guessed
Watching Drive and writing that post today really got to me. The LA in Drive is the LA in so many movies and was the LA in my head when I lived there, though it’s not the LA that
Moms are awesome!
Want to know why?
Because they send you an Easter day care package four weeks later with stuff like this in it:
A 2001 Engagement calendar.
Me: “Mom, why did you send me a calendar from ten years ago?”
Mom: “Because it’s a very special year. The year you graduated high school.”
Me: “I know, Ma. But what am I going to do with this?”
Mom: “It’s pretty.”
The script to the very questionable female rendition of 12 Angry Men we interpreted in high school. The play where I was offered the role of Juror #4 or as I like to call it- The Character With the Second to Least Amount of Lines Because I Can’t Act My Way Out of a Paper Bag.
A CD booklet to a Stevie Nicks box set I no longer have.
Just the booklet. No CDs.
As I flipped through the pages scratching my head as to why my mother sent me liner notes, I became more and more intrigued by the lyrics and pictures and decided that this was the best thing she put in the box.
An audio tape of David Sedaris’ Me Talk Pretty One Day. I’m not sure the last time I’ve seen a tape player. I also know that I have three copies of this book. Maybe I can make the tapes into coasters.
A novella adaptation of the movie The Jerk. I didn’t even know that I had this or that something like this existed. I’m not sure why it exists.
Smushed Easter candy that’s been crammed into a box full of odds and ends from my most awkward years of living because my mother no longer wants this shit sitting around her house but she knows that if she tries to sell it in a garage sale that her daughter will be super pissed and not let her live it down for a very long time.