my future husband better propose with a pun
got the whole place to myself-ie
reminded of these sirens today. just the prettiest song, prettiest sentiment, prettiest version.
summer, you come home to a just warm enough house and someone’s making you dinner, in the kitchen wiping their hands on their thighs, getting you a beer or taking the time to make a two-part drink and the windows are open and for a change there are people out in the street, people walking the block with limping dogs. the lights are on in your bedroom, the sheets will still be drawn back from where you scrabbled out in the morning. if it’s a woman that you love she’ll touch your chest at the part where the collar is unbuttoned and if it’s a man he’ll come away from the sink and put a wet hand on the back of your neck to cool you, press his damp forehead against yours and say something that’s more of a sigh than a fully formed word, it’s alright
oh, oh go see Obvious Child, tonight, this weekend, see it in the theater and laugh loud and hard because Jenny Slate is hilarious and the story is necessary, and your friends’ laughter next to you will make you laugh even harder, longer, it will make tears stream down your cheeks. when the song comes into the film (because obviously), you’ll remember your love for Paul Simon, you’ll remember your love for dancing around apartments in your underwear. I’m so grateful someone made this film.
The first time it happened I was in high school, in my mom’s CR-V, parked at the bottom of our gravel driveway.
A few minutes earlier, Gabe had called to say that she received her acceptance package in the mail that day. I realized no one had stopped on the way home to pick up the mail, so I drove down immediately to check, and there it was, folded over in the mailbox, a big white envelope from California State Summer School for the Arts.
I sat in the driver’s seat with the door open, cabin light on, reading through the envelope’s contents. I didn’t drive back up to the house for at least twenty minutes, sat there instead discovering this feeling, soaking it up.
The most cliché description is butterflies, I guess. Or feeling so full of …something that you could burst. Excitement, mostly, but also nervousness, but relief, but the all-around feeling that this is the right thing, or that you are headed in the direction of the right thing, at least.
Sometimes the thing is an escape. CSSSA, the month-long summer writing program I attended after my junior year in high school, certainly was. The next time was the day I bought my plane ticket to Costa Rica, and then again the day my flight left, the July after I graduated from college, sitting on a plane next to the stranger I would spend the next six months with. When my first piece got accepted for publishing by This Recording, and then again for my first piece on The Rumpus. Again when the Washington Post ran the Mallory story on their blog.
Sometimes it’s accomplishment. Sometimes, the anticipation of knowing you’re not only about to do this thing that life so far been preparing you for, but a thing that will prepare you for where you want the rest of your life to go.
This November, over the Thanksgiving holiday, I’ll be spending a week at the You Do You writing and yoga retreat in Guatemala, hosted by one of my writing heroes, Ann Friedman, and her close friend Gracy Obuchowicz, and attended by another writer I admire, Kelton Wright, along with a group of other mystical talented strangers I can’t wait to meet.
When it happens, you become acutely aware of your blood. You notice it reaching into each fingertip, moving under the thin skin of your knees, pulsing inside each tiny vein.
This feeling, you can find it elsewhere, the seconds after an orgasm or a good first kiss, of course. The moment on a road trip when that song comes on, the windows are down and there’s your arm out one of them and the ocean out the other, and you look across the car at your best friend, your chest tightens, and you know you wouldn’t trade the moment for anything in the world.
But this particular feeling is slightly different than those, because it’s all so internal. You could be sitting at a computer screen, surrounded by coworkers clicking keyboards and spitting marketing jargon into their phones, and it becomes your secret. A golden, glowing orb in the pit of your stomach. You could be home alone or you could be in a car inhaling tire-spun dust at the bottom of a driveway, and you go somewhere else completely. When it first happens, it isn’t shared, which is part of what makes it so special. It’s all you, in you.
for when work is busy, or when you’re feeling inspired, or both (if you’re one of those lucky few), or any other time you just really need to stay focused and push through it. most Odesza, but this playlist especially, is IT for think fast, type faster music.