Always returning

Dear you,

It's 2:59am and in three days I'm making the single piece of art I've been working on for the last eight years, give or take. It will take four days to film. It will be twenty minutes long. So why did it take so long?

I've asked that a lot over the years. 'What's wrong with me?' and 'Who even cares anymore?' filled my thoughts for the better part of a decade. Given, it was an unusual eight years. The story I wanted to make came to me at a very strange time in my life, I think. A time I could see farther than I could reach.

I've done some hiking since then. Up hills, down roads. I'm twenty-seven now. The sky looks different than it did eight years ago, as does the world under it. And I know now, what I should have known then: it simply wasn't time. 

I can reach out and touch the trees now. The grass, too. I can see the next valley, and I can go. There's a wind to my back and plenty of daylight left. When I look over my shoulder, I smile.

It's been more than a year since I've visited this place, this blog. More than a year since I've stared at the pink bird on the background. Hope really is the thing with feathers.

I don't know what's next, exactly. But I have a faith of sorts; a trust in the wind. Just like pain 'demands to be felt', art demands to be made. This adversarial relationship - it's a part of this world, just like me.

I can hear the music, I can sing the melody. We're singing it together now. And that's the key, I think.

Until then,

Solstice Everston

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