I am not used to the crowds anymore. Living a year on my own in a relatively small town, now thrown into the throng of San Francisco's hustle and bustle.
Don't get me wrong; I like it. Things shout out to me as I pass by on the freeway: RUSSIAN GOSPEL CHOIR. Avacado green house. The hills dark, crusty wedges of dirt pressed down over the horizon. Thriving small businesses--coffee shops, art stores, random wares, corner grocers--they all sell flowers and organic food, kites flying by the Palace of Fine Arts, Rainbow Grocery.
The west coast sky is so different, a Chinese water color painting, one still moment of grey-blue clouds after another (supposedly a unique quality of light due to the atmosphere in the area), and I miss the dark sparkling sea against tall cliffsides. Stretch of tall redwood trees that envelope me in one of my most favorite hugs. But as much as I'm in love with where I was born, it isn't home anymore.
Nor is Savannah.
Either I have no place to call home, now, or the whole world is going to have to make one large makeshift bed. I've spent this past month utterly fascinated by my hands, my brain, my heart. Not how extraordinary they are--because they aren't--but the intricacies and inner workings, the uniqueness of their make-up that differentiates my idiosyncracies from everyone else's.
I've been taking a long bath every day and listening to my headphones, and simply admiring these sum of parts that equal life, equal me. And this being the most obvious part of my experiences. There is so much out there that I don't know. I don't even completely know my body, but I'm working on it.
I'm trying to swallow the whole world, but though my appetite is large enough, my stomach is not.
My grandmother's arteries are clogging up. In her cranial area especially. This means she is more susceptible to suffering a stroke. I suppose it's pretty impressive that she's held up for so long, being 89, but...she's my fucking grandmother. She's supposed to be. Invincible.
The melancholy of winter.
My Christmas was wonderful. Low-key, and aside from a couple of bucks and scarf (and the fare of my sister), no presents. I dug it that way. I find myself wanting and needing less with each passing year. I just want to pay my rent and do my art. (Oh, and this guy.) And maybe, at some point, especially before I leave, procure a car so I can carry my shit by myself.
But that's about it. The simpler, the better.
Don't get me wrong; I like it. Things shout out to me as I pass by on the freeway: RUSSIAN GOSPEL CHOIR. Avacado green house. The hills dark, crusty wedges of dirt pressed down over the horizon. Thriving small businesses--coffee shops, art stores, random wares, corner grocers--they all sell flowers and organic food, kites flying by the Palace of Fine Arts, Rainbow Grocery.
The west coast sky is so different, a Chinese water color painting, one still moment of grey-blue clouds after another (supposedly a unique quality of light due to the atmosphere in the area), and I miss the dark sparkling sea against tall cliffsides. Stretch of tall redwood trees that envelope me in one of my most favorite hugs. But as much as I'm in love with where I was born, it isn't home anymore.
Nor is Savannah.
Either I have no place to call home, now, or the whole world is going to have to make one large makeshift bed. I've spent this past month utterly fascinated by my hands, my brain, my heart. Not how extraordinary they are--because they aren't--but the intricacies and inner workings, the uniqueness of their make-up that differentiates my idiosyncracies from everyone else's.
I've been taking a long bath every day and listening to my headphones, and simply admiring these sum of parts that equal life, equal me. And this being the most obvious part of my experiences. There is so much out there that I don't know. I don't even completely know my body, but I'm working on it.
I'm trying to swallow the whole world, but though my appetite is large enough, my stomach is not.
My grandmother's arteries are clogging up. In her cranial area especially. This means she is more susceptible to suffering a stroke. I suppose it's pretty impressive that she's held up for so long, being 89, but...she's my fucking grandmother. She's supposed to be. Invincible.
The melancholy of winter.
My Christmas was wonderful. Low-key, and aside from a couple of bucks and scarf (and the fare of my sister), no presents. I dug it that way. I find myself wanting and needing less with each passing year. I just want to pay my rent and do my art. (Oh, and this guy.) And maybe, at some point, especially before I leave, procure a car so I can carry my shit by myself.
But that's about it. The simpler, the better.
VIEW 17 of 17 COMMENTS
uncaringmachine:
Post NYE. Tell me all about it! I wanna go there.
silverrevolver:
Nice, so I cooked your Entree. 
I'm glad that you enjoyed it.
I'm glad that you enjoyed it.