˚.⋆꒰১ ໒꒱⋆.˚

I only like my writing three months after I’ve written it—that’s at a minimum. Five years ago—reading my writing I’m a genius. Today I’m pathetic. I’ll dislike whatever I write today, or at least I won’t think it’s worthwhile for anyone to read. But I’ll write it and send it anyway, ya know, just in case. And then five years from now, me right here writing this, will be a genius again. And the me reading it then, the me who will currently be writing something unworthy, will be as clueless as she’s ever been. With love.

Moving along…

I want to go to school for acupuncture, there I admit it. I say it out loud. I put it into the cosmos. That’s what’s on my mind all of the time now. I feel my time in hair at the pace I must currently keep to survive (and travel and eat out and have upwards of three coffee’s/day) is coming to some kind of end. An ending can last a long time. I’ll probably always do hair, I love hair. But I want to transition into only haircutting, no color (which means no chemicals)—or only very particular color that I will charge a very high price for. There’s only so far a body will take you in a physical career working with bleach, my body has been crying out for some time. Maybe not all of us listen to our bodies, how could we under these conditions? But mine is saying—pivot. Please pivot. And so I am considering pivoting into something that will teach me oh so much about the body. And maybe my final years on earth will be an ode to her and all bodies.

I haven’t fully made up my mind, but my choices and plans are heading that way, like I’ve passed a whirlpool that’s pulling me in. It does not even feel like I am in control. It does not even feel like I am the one who makes any decisions. It’s all whims. People want to know how I’ve done anything, at all, ever? Whims. And what are whims? I have no idea, a gravity of some sort. Maybe they are the dreams of my cells, my bacteria, my sleepy bones. They don’t come through perfectly clear, they usually cause me a great deal of stress trying to decode, in fact. But once they’re there, they’re here—and I must obey. So I begin learning the symbols of the dreams of my body parts and shoot a dart into the next galaxy over and hope for a bullseye. Seldom do I nail it in the perfect center. Usually the dart lands somewhere else I couldn’t have conceived, somewhere far more supreme and strange.

You know what/who I really wanna be? An artist. A muse unto myself. Someone who writes all of the time, and lives on a mattress on the floor of her friend’s house while she figures out her life, and who camps in her own car by herself in the woods, and who makes epic collages, and who makes a living creating and connecting with people. Oh funny, I guess I already am. Hmmm, well what else would I want to be? Maybe a dragonfly, or my lover’s tongue so I could know his favorite flavors the way only he does, or perhaps some stagnant moss on an ancient tree—a tree older than you and me and capitalism. Older than guns! Older than Jesus!

But I am me, you see. And you are you. And we are we. And here we all are, Ram Dass once said through a love beaming smile. And when I was traveling I recently came across, for the first time in my complicated life, a rosy maple moth. I’d never seen anything like it. Little strawberry feet poking out beneath its lemonade head. A little winged furball of wonder and delight just perching on the very doorway of which I needed to cross. And I thought to myself, maybe we really ought to just be ourselves, flamboyant and peculiar, imperfect and messy—whatever we are, while we get to.