“There is not enough time in a day for self-care” I said, in a recent Instagram message thread.
“There really isn’t,” she answered. K and I had been talking, from my lockdown to hers, about everything within the nothing.
I was having a beer because I need to tune out, and tune in. IPA’s always taste great–a little sweet, a little bitter; refreshing enough when served cold on hot tropical days to make you pause and set everything aside. They help break the ice built up from all the things done and left unsaid. We got to talking with my…
A friend and I sat down at a bar one day and looked at a pile of new/old Polaroids. They might mean something, to someone, if you change the random order and tell a story. Look at these shots. “We could, we should,” we said, “write little snippets for each of them and string together [new] narratives.”
We should have started, we never did. We mostly talk on the phone, ever since I moved to Guatemala. On certain visits, I gave him, M, a slice of my time, for our regular talks at our usual spot, on the same table…
tus huellas juegan con el contorno
de la maseta con tierra fértil
que mis lágrimas humedecen
pocas son las veces
que entras y penetras
comenzaré un catálogo
una bitácora que almacene
cada cimiento de esta aventura
en junio conociste mis lunares
y me pediste mi lengua
cuando apreté tu mano
todo el océano estaba
en ese primer beso
salado y húmedo
el calor de el salvador guardado
adentro, ni señas
de tanta distancia
silencio con silencio
tenía diez años de no hacerlo
no así, no en la acera
a mis manos en tu…
I wore an old hand-me-down corduroy jacket that cost me 7 bucks at a thrift store in Berkeley before second-hand was cool. I had Janis Joplin hair and wore bell-bottoms and regurgitated my ideas on love and relationships.
My turtlenecks reminded me of the ’70s.
“I wrote a play the other day,” young dramaturg Paty said.
I would stay up all night writing and would reanimate the comings and goings of my emotions on free verses and bad poetry.
I used to think I would move to Bristol and considered Swansea, and then maybe I’d have a better chance at…
My last trip to New York was absolutely ridiculous. It was, as ever, a product of ill planning and a very weird itinerary. I had purchased everything separately and yet very oddly expected room for improvisation. San Salvador to New York, New York to Istanbul, Istanbul to Brussels; then back to Istanbul, then back to New York. By the time I was back in New York from soul wrenching family time and reliving every word of Orhan Pamuk’s Istanbul, and having had disappointing waffles at Belgium and triggering what I call Pancreas Blues one night in St. Gilles, I wanted…
Funny you asked, because Sundays are particularly lonely for the lonesome: less conversations inhabit the walls of the last day of the week. People migrate back to themselves, so those fractured convos would not be on the list of the best conversations I’ve ever had. Just the other day I had a very good one. It was Monday and we had been in and out of subjects, here and there, would you like some pasta? …
may 2015 — it was the thrill of getting out of the city, out of the country; of getting the most out of these 3 free days we had. it would start after work, on a thursday; it would end with a monday, as many things too.
the ball and our luggage remained patient in the back seat while we drove to ataco after work, screw dinner, no stops: let’s just get there. “i just want to get out of here” is my permanent state and then, at 9 pm, the lil’ hostel was expecting us. we hit up that…
it was a shift imperceptible to many and only meaningful to me. this discovery would prep my mind and body. i had never known that sleeping implied so much enjoyment. it led me to pass on sleepless nights, looks for ways to get more hours of sleep and avoid that pre-flight sleeplessness.
though to this day, it is when i have to travel or hike that getting some sleep is most difficult.
“i’ve done this before”, i tell myself.
ewa and i met in bordeaux. we met at parties. who doesn’t have fun at parties? ewa mixed english with…
i’ve never been good at sleeping. i’m not good at going to bed early or even sleeping well. my friends would hate it if we shared beds, not Paty, she hugs. and the hugging isn’t as bad as the tossing and turning, but I have a big bed and take up so little space, and it barely comes undone, when i’m by myself, my legs decompressed with no other outlet than a throw pillow i snuggle and kick. or not.
i’ve read books in bathrooms, wandered every corner of houses, listened to 4 am silence, fueled by midnight snacks and…
he didn’t introduce me to cocorosie, i said i hadn’t heard cocorosie, who are they? he played them and oh yes, true, I have [heard them], I like cocorosie
and I still do. i play “un beso” the most, i like the kick and the legs — it sounds a lot like what he described: what it was like to see them in a petit concert, at the 4 SANS, he told me about it at 4 am. we dance, in my head, to compensate for what we rarely did. …