I'm happy

I woke up this morning after a period of self-loathing. Slow motion. A not-getting-out-of-bed kind of day. Perspective now new. These reasons, to prove my appreciation. Gratitude. The ability to bounce back. When I am where I am, I am happy. Helping deter future yesterdays, there is this poem. I enjoy redundancy.

I'm happy because I got out of bed this morning,
and that I have the courage to speak my mind.
for deep thinking and poignant words,
for intuition,
imagination,
I'm happy to be heard.
Sipping coffee in cafes
and the ability to cope.
For beautiful simplicity
and dreams that make me hope.

So happy for this city, 
where movies equal time alone. 
For rain without umbrellas
and cars that have no horns.
I am happy for
healthiness. without which
life
would
have
been
so
hard,
like love and masturbation.
For sexuality without insecurity
I'm happy for men.

For holding hands,
and never losing grip,
never growing old,
never letting go.
I'm happy for the days that are cold.
For physical touch.
To touch oneself. 
For self-discovery.

For books that practically read themselves
and individuality.
The need to be inspired by other people's creativity.
The emotional push towards physical activity. 

For photos that capture moments I would never have seen.

I'm happy to be myself because no one else is.

my happy place: Grandma and Grandpa Lampkin's house in Fort Hunter, NY

Paris, je t'aime. Tu me rends heureuse. 

I saw my old friend

yesterday, bright as ever and beautifully entwined in spirit, with an open mind, a feeling of free. I remember the conversation we had when she returned from abroad. Argentina. Us, sitting in Washington Square Park. Me, defenses up; her, not so very like herself. It always felt unfinished. Never understanding the loss. In silence, there is no closure.

And so now, after having met again — Ost Cafe on Grand Street. A strange part of the city, where I had never been. On the streets elderly asian couples licking ice cream, holding hands, speaking softly in Chinese or not at all. Backs hunched like that guy from Notre Dame. Old men reading newspapers, and women wheeling metal carts that look like cages for sad animals. Cages for groceries, laundry, and filth. And the cafe? hip. so surprising, so out of place. And two girls inside it (her + me) work to remember, in consideration of new perspectives. (Everyone can hear us, do they listen? Are we even listening to each other? I am listening to the voice inside my head. I hear loudly my emotions.) We explore the past, finding ways to make sense of the what and the how, feeling happy in each other's happiness. Me, comforted by the fact that the damage was not deep from my ways of self-destruction. Lack of self-care. Lack of self — I feel lighter. 

tuesdays are

for feeling French. Maison du Macaron. Marie Antoinette on the wall. My kindred spirit. Yes, I like cake. Leather chairs and cappuccinos. Foam on my nose. Movies with Romain Duris. Tonight I will watch them over and over again. I will wear my striped shirt, and paint my lips red. Les mardis, je les aime.

@clarevivier

Mile high
in millefeuille,
feeling flimsy in my hand.
He has cream on his chin
and foam on his
upper lip.
I want to lick it off.
I want to
slip
my
hand
right
down
his
pants.
Today I'm not myself.

@darling

in the metro à Paris

Vanessa Paradis, L'Arnecoeur

I saw
un beau mec à Paris
who was reading on the train,
Metro en fait, ce qu'on dit.
He looked at me
and moi lui
reading
un livre
of a feminist nature
I couldn't
see le titre
Mais, je le vois
avec une sourire
And he
Looked at me la même.

NYU Paris

have you ever met

someone who inspires nostalgia?

my mom's side of the family. top left: my gram, my gramps, my aunt michele. bottom left: uncle mark, my mom, uncle bruce. corn fields, old cars and dresses made from scratch.

Yesterday I did. At a coffee shop, Grey Dog, in the West Village. It was a first date (met online). Embarrassing, yet not so very vogue. In this city lined with loneliness, it is most necessary, the willingness to try.

Hello, all-American boy, sitting at the table with your yellow-covered book. I see you in your collared shirt. You look like you might play golf. You look like you could throw a football. You look like you'd be great in bed. 

'Can I give you a hug,' I said, craving human contact. 'I am drinking a cappuccino,' he said. He laughed a lot. I smiled a lot. I wanted to be charming. I wanted to be charming even in the silence. I like the silent parts the best. To tell him about my past, that was easy. High school highs and lows, senior superlatives, first pets, and movies with my mom. Avoiding the present. The future undefined. 

Two hours full. Looking at the clock only once. Pictures of his golden retrievers. I do not volunteer. 'I am too self-serving,' I said, too self-absorbed. I am not the best person I know. But I'll get you some water. So much to drink, and me, afraid to use the bathroom. 

left: Grandma and Grandpa Schmidt; right: Chick Randall and girl

I woke up

feeling sad that I had not yet accomplished all of my dreams, or even taken the steps. Then I thought of an old friend from college who inspired creativity. She was a free spirit. Had an eye for bright colors and bright faces. Seeing sparks in backgrounds of city streets. Washington Square Park. She introduced me to music and flamenco dancing. She was free for love with a spontaneous sexuality. Mixing images, words, art, and the sun.

I am not so wild. I am not so free. I have lost focus, caught in self-doubt and insecurities. Chocolate nights of lonely waiting and looking through the past, thinking too much towards the future. Disappointment. I have set myself up for underachieving. That part was simple.

But now, I am awake to the feelings I am feeling. I want wonder within this reality. I want to create a collage of inspirations. that encourage me to dream, to accept each feeling that arises, to appreciate the person I am in this moment. To grow into someone I will love. Independence of spirit. To be beautifully myself.  

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Art washes from the soul the dust of every day life.

-Pablo Picasso

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puppies sleep happy sleeps, like bugs in rugs and other little snugs