I might have said this already, but I think I’ve said most things already. Sometimes, on June 25th, I celebrate Marcia Daley-Ward as though she’s a person standing here, not someone who transitioned to the next realm, having left some of her cells in my body. I give her her birthday. On June 25th, I try to treat myself like I’d treat a lover. Or a parent.
I’m about to have my own birthday at the weekend, though - something I feel more ambivalent about. I wish it would wait, hang back a little - perhaps a month or so until I am more ready to receive myself as I am. But time doesn’t wait for man - and how lucky; we’d all be pausing and freezing our lives. Waiting to Be. Feel. Know better. Oh, what does it all mean, anyway? I like to combat The Great Unknown with something surer.
So…
it’s time to get even higher on life. Time to listen to our bodies, to tune in. It’s time to get serious about getting that ten minutes of light every morning when I come to. Time to weigh out the greens and veggies a little more - to do all my health checks and stop living on the hop. It is time to understand that my brain and gut health are worthy of serious attention. It’s what everything hangs toward or away from. I’m getting to the age where you question everything and still know nothing. Nothing! I thought there would be more stability by now.
Here is a re-frame - it is liberating. I am surprised at the fact.
Yesterday morning, I left the house in a sprint because I needed to get the weather out of my body and back into the atmosphere, where it belongs. I felt trapped inside the apartment - worry thundered between my ribs. This wouldn’t do. The outdoors bellowed. The sun hummed, invisible. I ran through the high-walled estate down the road, down the ramp, down the concrete steps into the park’s green. I was the only one around for a cool minute or two until I crossed into the central park opening, where dog walkers, joggers and couples emerged. Once there, I breathed a sigh of ancient relief. Do we carry our ancestors with us every second of the day? Are the family ghosts acting up and living through us? Is everything I am feeling only mine? Sometimes, during a quiet meltdown - when I am fighting for my life, I get an odd sense of calm, even delight. Sometimes, when writing, I wonder who is sitting above me in the clouds, making this whole thing up. Sometimes, when I’m moving in a frenzy to music, I wonder whose stuff I’m letting go of.
I finished the sprint and stretched out a little by the trees. Someone was talking to me a little way up the path. “Say that again?” I said, turning down the noise in my headphones. “I said, are you a dancer?” he asked me, clearly believing this was the way into some larger conversation. “Yeah,” I told him, reasoning that it wasn’t a lie, not really.
Time to move. I ran back in the direction I came, noting that when I am breathless and alive, I don’t need Google Maps. I can sense that I know where I’m going, that everything is or at least will be fine. The so-called life of the represented artist is set up ass backwards. Inside it, we are led to believe we work for agents and brands and managers and social media networks and that they need to be wrangled, impressed, courted, got, when, in truth, it is the other way around - these systems and companies only live and breathe off our works, our ideas and ideals and deadlines and dreams. I am always running - I think - toward more autonomy - to feed myself with these words of my body and do less time negotiating - less time shaving parts of myself off, making myself prettier, more and more acceptable. It’s the reason for this newsletter and all the truths. I want something else, god knows. I want to travel, meet people one-on-one and in groups, talk, and read more books for nothing but fun. I want poetry not to be a ‘business’ but a lifetime, a lifestyle. I want to turn off the autopilot and see more of everyone out in the world. That’s the dream. See you outside.
see you outside. 💚🌿
Goddamn 😮💨 😅 phew. Amazing