in spite of our nightmares

the awakened, lips parted, the hope, the new ships

[fleurjardin]

Karim Residence by Shatotto Architects // Dhaka, Bangladesh

[woodthrushcalling]

I think part of my obsession with Instagram centers around my fear of growing old, of growing up, of moving on. I threw a shirt I’ve had since 2010 into the trash today because what was once a white shirt now has pit stains. And I shouldn’t feel bad about it, but I do. I’m scared of discarding proof that I have lived a life up until this point. That I did not magically appear this morning or two seconds ago. 

[woodthrushcalling]

My baby got his film developed and I'm honestly so proud of him!! I gave him his first camera, a film camera this year in March and he's done so well with it

[woodthrushcalling]

I'm just happy I'm alive and floating through daily existence here in Quito and just becoming part of a larger blob of noises and colors in this city. I love it when my eyes need a break from the screen at work, I turn and look out the window and there it is, this sprawling mass of homes and schools all climbing up Pichincha the volcano, called Guagua Pichincha meaning baby volcano in Quechua. This is my first time living in the city and despite the pollution and noise I can see why people love it

[woodthrushcalling]

A friend recently complained to me about how everyone is so boy-obsessed and then she made a comment that I spend a lot of time with my bf (even though I currently live in Ecuador and he’s in the US) although she said she does appreciate the times that it’s just her and I but the comment still irritated me. Not because it isn’t true that I spend a lot of time with him but why it’s true.

With my life riding crazy fluctuations as long as I can possibly remember, I’ve sought out a way to stabilize it, by stabilizing myself. In my life, I know that I need people to support me and love me, even if it’s just a handful including myself. The people that do that for me just happen to be my brother and my significant other. Despite the years that I have known people, my issues are always met with “look on the bright side,” and “it’ll be okay.” It’s funny that these words are the ones thrown at me since it’s been decades and things are admittedly “fine” but it isn’t because circumstance has changed but because I’ve changed and I’ve realized who I can rely on.

In the end, I definitely have resentment towards the people in my life who want me to be their closest person and confidante but struggle to meet me in my life where things are messy. I don’t mind when people adore talking about their significant others or whatever they might be obsessed with. I can meet people wherever their interests lie for the most part, but I’ve also felt lonely for a long time because the people who often feel the same way that I do, we are all just struggling through it on our own, the only way we know how.

[woodthrushcalling]

Maybe I find necessity in travel because of the constant change because it forces me to miss luxuries that I often take for granted. Because it makes me miss things like playing super smash with my boy on the couch while we order waffles and ice cream to our door, him indulging me. It makes me miss things like walking home right around sunset and climbing to my tiny roof covered in succulents just to see the reds flare out across the sky. I miss the back rubs, smell of clean laundry, the spring Berkeley air, the expensive but quality pho place 20 minutes walking, the sun roasting our living room floor. I just want to go home and curl up like a cat on the notion of comfort and not leave for awhile.

[woodthrushcalling]

Ecuador is beautiful. Also, my very cranky boy on no sleep.

[woodthrushcalling]

Where last week, just a few days ago even, I felt proud of myself for confronting anxieties and pushing forward, that space has quickly filled with self-disgust again. While living in Ecuador, I don’t have access to the same convenience as I do at home. Which means self-grooming has gone out the window. In addition, my place here costs 6 times less than my place in Berkeley. Which means the flush is weak, which means my toilet clogs super fucking easily, which means I don’t even feel comfortable taking a shit in my own toilet.

There’s three of us living in my place. I love my roommates, I think they’re such cool, kind-hearted girls, but it also means 3x the mess and honestly, I don’t make the smallest mess, I’m sure. I’m so used to my place in CA where every week we deep clean, where I change my sheets a privileged amount and I’m always trying to keep my bathroom tiles white. Here, I’m just trying to keep my bed made honestly. Sometimes it’s the most that I can do. Sometimes I’m mad at myself for not paying for a more expensive apartment so that I wouldn’t get stressed over shit like the trash or my bathroom. But on the other hand, I like that I get to save some of my funding for myself, and that I’m forced to make things work. But days like today, I just want to be hairless and beautiful and living in a spotless apartment and maybe I shouldn’t hate myself for it. Sometimes we try to fill in on the cracks in ourselves with the things that matter less. I guess some Sundays, that can be ok.

[rubyvroom]

Can I watch a great film knowing the actresses in it were terrorized and mistreated the entire time? Can I watch a football game knowing that the players are getting brain injuries right before my eyes? Can I listen to my favorite albums anymore knowing that the singers were all beating their wives in between studio sessions? Can I eat at the new fancy taco place knowing when the building that used to be there got bulldozed eight families got kicked out of their homes so they could be replaced with condos and a chain restaurant? Can I wear the affordable clothes I bought downtown that were probably assembled in a sweatshop with child labor? Can I eat quinoa? Can I eat this burger? Can I drink this bottled water? Can I buy a car and drive to work because I’m sick of taking an hour each way on the subway? Whose bones do I stand on? Whose bones am I standing on right now? 

[woodthrushcalling]

sensory

A volley of impulses is why you, me - we feel touch. Sensory neurons that dust our skin and organs, little constellations of me learning you. At first, they fire, little comets in the dark. But keep the hot water running and the sunlight sifting light on these mornings, and we start to forget in our morning routine, how the sheets first felt against a winter Sunday morning. How exactly it felt the first time your skin brushed against mine and it was a celebration of opposites in matrimony. A blizzard spitting flakes between the skin and fluffy layers, melting instantly, hot and cool, a thermos of carefully prepared hot chocolate pressed up against numb lips. the light and dark. streetlights glinting off the white of the snow, your eyes on fire from the orange glow, dark hair under a velvet midnight sky. me and you and a valley of sensations between us.

And then without noticing, we are too close, we don’t end or begin but exist tangled under the shelter of each other’s skin, and the valley collapses - the phenomenon of adaptation. A mechanism built into our clocks meant to prevent our eyes from being blown out from the light. And so the light becomes a part of the tapestry, the backdrop against which we act out life. The magic we so boisterously measured out and stirred in, churns out chromatic pigment by pigment into an enduring gray.

And when you’re gone I feel that, too, a buoyant beach ball being pushed underwater just to rise again, faster. A sadness that feels fated to return, an ache that feels fated to last, perhaps not one sparked solely by you, but all losses, and as a star, you return to the night. But like everything else, that sensation, too, fades - one common sheet.

Perhaps, there is no sadness in that. We are left with an old roll of film, a memory of comets in the dark, the first and last taste. And on a day when the sun comes blistering in, painting our cheeks a raw red, we can still remember how it felt that winter, and there is an understanding that despite how fleeting these stretches of illuminated sky are, we keep them etched into our palms as we continue to expand.

[woodthrushcalling]

self advocacy

I’m reviving this for the time being because I keep starting and quitting “more professional blogs”, my journal is on its last page because I keep using it for non-personal things and I need a place to brain dump personal things and where better than my angst-driven blog that bloomed from my teen years?

Lately, I’ve been learning the importance of self-advocacy, that no one is going to advocate for you and if they do, it isn’t going to help your confidence in the long run. I’ve been pushing for projects that I want to be a part of and that I’m interested in but I’ve found it to be draining to do on a consistent basis. Likely because I am so unsure of myself. Without confidence, it feels like creating an intricate mask to wear daily or to sell objects that I have no concrete belief in. Regardless, I’m happy that I made the jump to move to Ecuador for the summer and work here. Whenever I leave for a bit, I’m able to see more clearly the issues that I have chosen to avoid. And I’m sure, by moving here I’m avoiding other issues as well, but we can’t always win.

[woodthrushcalling]

me, a perpetually tired amoeba, trying to make something out of nothing

[woodthrushcalling]

also, when are these psychologists going to call me back so I can fix my brain

[woodthrushcalling]

for me, starting grad school is basically just “wow, i didn’t realize sending an e-mail could make me so anxious”

[woodthrushcalling]

it feels like an endless wave of doubt climbing my bones, one by one

the fear of never finding a place where I am tangible, real honest flesh, a place where I am heat and light and thick wet earth, dense and firm

I just know that I know that I will live here forever, a place in the back of my throat, in the hesitation to turn corners and understand bliss

I'm alone here, a permanent martyr of fear,

unable to electrify a desire for anything else but death and imagination

[woodthrushcalling]

life is moving too quickly. All these moments, I need to collect them before they disappear. The empty dishwasher running in the middle of the night. A heating pad against my abdomen. A thick book that I cannot exchange for sleep. You beside me, asleep with your sweet, honey heart.

[waspabi]

ada limón, 2017