Codes

 Yesterday you put your hands over your face and said 

'this is going to sound corny, but...'

'You make all the love songs finally make sense.'

Girl, let me write you a poem

One about the 'L' word (not 'lesbain', honey)

I told myself to wait three months before admitting it,

That maybe I was just crazy, or infatuated

I tried my best not to 'UHaul' 

But queer time works differently,

And I can't help loving you 

I made it 79 days before cracking like an egg

I feel like I'm sixteen, not twenty-six

You gave me a piggyback ride down the street in public

And I felt crazy

I tasted you

And I felt crazy

You pressed me against the wall and told me I was your dream girl

And I felt crazy

I know you feel it too, and I know we can't help ourselves

Hands off the stick

Let the wind take us 

Maybe this plane will crash, maybe it will burn

But the resulting fire

Will be warm

Want//Need//Will

Dear you,

It's November now. I'm moved into my new place. I've run out of things to fix and work is slow (for some reason, nobody wants to make movies in the winter.) This is the first week the season has really started to sink into my bones. Today I woke up, got ready and promptly wrapped myself in blankets before staring at a wall for thirty-five literal minutes. So, yeah. It's one of those days. One of those seasons.

I want to feel better, I need to feel better, I will feel better. That's what I told myself this morning. Perhaps it should become my mantra. Maybe every morning I should wake up, look in the mirror and say it:

I want to feel better, I need to feel better, I will feel better. 

It's a prayer, in a way. Not like the prayers I grew up with, and not to anyone in particular. But a prayer nonetheless. A fact, even.

It nearly feels selfish to be in such a sour mood this time of year. I look out my bedroom window and see the city covered in tens of thousands of bright yellow leaves. It is nothing short of stunning. Ironically, it makes me feel even more guilty.

I want to stop it, I need to stop it, I will stop it.

I think my space heater is going to break. It's started rattling constantly. Every now and then I whack it and the horrible scraping noise stops for a few minutes' time. I should take it apart, oil some junk, see if that helps. I should fix it before it breaks.

I want to fix it, I need to fix it, I will fix it.

Last week I saw a clip of some mildly famous man saying the only difference between those who 'make it' and those who don't is down to whether or not they give up. That might be true. That might be bullshit hustle culture. It's probably both. It also depends on what 'making it' really means. I just want to make my films. Whatever comes after that, it's in the wind.

I want to keep trying, I need to keep trying, I will keep trying.

I turned twenty-six in September, and I think I might be in the best shape of my life. So, that's weird. I never thought I'd be an avid rock climber. What's surprised me the most is how much it's improved my relationship with my body. I used to be afraid of being strong, of being capable. I used to fear it would make me less of a woman somehow. But in reality, I just look hot. So, at least that's not a problem.

I want to cherish this, I need to cherish this, I will cherish this.

The script I've been working on just feels... wrong. It's not bad or anything. It's just not me. It's missing something. I was finally able to put my finger on it last night. It's missing the yearning, it's missing the longing, the reaching for something more. It may be one note - but it's my note - and I intend to play the hell out of it.

I want to reach out, I need to reach out, I will reach out.

I have plants now. Because, I have windows now. They get real, actual sunlight and sometimes I just watch the beams of light crawl along the floor. I hope I can keep these plants alive. I can't help but look at them and think they're some sort of not-so-subtle proxy for my wellbeing. Keep the plants green, I tell myself. Take care of them, and they'll take care of you. A lot of things are like that, actually.

I want to care, I need to care, I will care.

Earlier this week I saw a picture of a classroom at my old high school, and I had a shockingly visceral reaction. I know I'm a nostalgic person who regularly thinks about the past, often to my own detriment, but this was different. I saw the photo, and and a thought came into my mind, sharper and clearer than ever before. I almost died. I wept a confusing mix of gratitude and trauma. I was a kid, and I almost died.

I've consciously understood this for the better part of a decade, but the concept felt distant and abstract. Today, with the beams of light crawling across the floor and the plants green, I feel I finally understand.

I want to live, I need to live, I will live.

I'm not always at peace. Especially in the winter. I know I'll sleep in until my head fills with mold, I'll stop cleaning, and I'll stop reaching out. I will have low points. But it will be warm again, and I'll water my plants. I'll write what I can, when I can. I'll love as much as I can.

I want to love, I need to love, I will love.

With love,

Solstice Everston

Andromeda & You

Dear you,

We're on the cusp on Fall now. Days getting shorter. Brown leaves ahead. A long, hard cold after that. I surprised myself today by craving it, the long nights and the blue moons. I usually don't do that.

This is the time of year when I make plans I won't keep, start writing again, and spend too much money on telescopes. I've been getting better at making campfires lately, and I wear too much flannel. I stand straighter than I used to, and last week I took a razor to my eyebrow and cut out a chunk of hair for some godforsaken reason. (Worst part is, I think it looks hot.)

Twenty-six years in and I know my patterns now. I know in November I'll be making plans for January, and in January I'll move those plans to February, and in February I'll cancel those plans. I know one night in April I'll crawl out of bed and do everything I meant to do in November, except that I'll only remember half of it. I know this will be good enough.

We, as people, are not particularly efficient. We think too much, or too little. We eat too much, or too little. We burn hours upon hours growing food we won't eat and spending money we don't have. On the small scale, we're a disaster. But on the macro - we're about as efficient as it gets. Our batting average really isn't too bad, compared to everything else.

I have a confidence in us, as a species, that brings me a great amount of comfort. Some might say it's naïve, that people are more bad than good, that society itself is an experiment destined to fail and that we'll all be underwater by the time we solve climate change. I might even believe it, if I thought it would help.

But it doesn't help. It hurts. 

I don't just believe everything will be all right, I know it will be. I know winter will pass and I know I'll be here again next year. I know it. I know you will be here, too.

Listen - it's late, and it's getting later. Writer her. Move. Create. Laugh. Cry. Just go on. It's all there is to do. It's all we can do.

I'll see you next Summer. I'll take you stargazing. I'll show you Andromeda and tell you how long of a journey that light made to fall into your eyes. It's on its way to us right now, and we'll meet it.

With love,

Solstice Everston