1. Maybe babies can’t talk when they’re born because if they could they would give away all the secrets of the Universe and the Universe cannot have that.
2. Something I find hilarious: people preoccupied with the question “what happens when we die?” as though they had “what happens when we’re born” completely under control.
3. Although I am a mother, I’m still 100% baby.
4. @unsolicited.existence
Yes, things are possible. You can go for a jog to be a healthier person and die from the impact of a car running you over because the driver had to send that text precisely the moment you got to that crosswalk. You can end up despising that perfume you’d been obsessed with for the last few years. You can experience tremendous success with a mediocre project, but with unbelievable timing and good—and expensive—PR. You can fall in love with the person you once couldn’t stand, for the same reasons you couldn’t stand them. All of these things are possible. In fact, almost all things are possible. And those possibilities, much to my regret, are mostly out of our control.
“Remember, what you can control is the point of view, Ale. Remind yourself to zoom out.” That is my tutor speaking, whom I’ve forced into becoming my therapist, too. We’re supposed to discuss the premise of my thesis, but I’ve managed to swerve the conversation into a subject far more interesting: why does it feel so strange to be alive?
It’s not like being dead feels normal. I don’t know. I don’t remember, I mean. But is it ever not overwhelming, this thing we’re all doing?
Keep reading today’s essay “Found a dog at the children’s museum” online - @unsolicited.existence
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Note n. 1: I’ve installed a lock on my studio door to keep my son from opening it. This might be a) smart, necessary, practical, or b) despicable, unmotherly, ugly.
Note n. 2: When a conversation starts steering towards AI or AI-adjacent themes, it usually means the conversation is over and everyone should be getting home soon.
More notes @unsolicited.existence
In 2011, Rihanna sang before the world: We found love in a hopeless place. I’m saying she sang that, not that she wrote that, because she didn’t. According to Genius.com, Calvin Harris singlehandedly wrote that hit. It’s interesting because I believe Rihanna could’ve written something far more interesting than we found love in a hopeless place, but if that had been the case, the hit might’ve been compromised as such. This is what I find myself thinking as I stare at my new hairbrush, a Mason Pearson hairbrush I got for Christmas. The thing costs more than all the money I had in my bank account when I traveled to Australia for an entire month in 2016.
What if she had said, “Wait, Calvin, how about we say We found hope in a loveless place?” He would’ve looked at her, across the recording studio, frustrated by the confusion that hook would arise in the public’s mind. He’d roll his eyes and ignore her, thinking, What do you mean by loveless?
If there’s someone who might know something about loveless places it’s a woman still dealing with postpartum hair loss. A woman stimulating her scalp with naturally collected boar bristles that promise to increase blood flow, thus overall hair health and growth. A woman desperately spraying her new perfume, Eau de Mohéli by Diptyque, on her wrists, behind her ears, and all around her neck. A woman believing she is hot shit because, compared to other animals, she can do things like live in the future or graciously engage in small talk. Yet, this woman heavily relies on her perfume for performance. It’s this specific perfume the one that will allow her to think of a decent sentence today. Unlike the rest of the animal kingdom, whose survival is not linked to any kind of French Maison.
unsolicitedexistence.substack.com
Day 760 of this: I’ve been taking self portraits with your baby monitor. You’re in some of them, not all. I hope that’s okay with you. Oh, and the other day I was told I can’t say you’re a baby anymore, huh.
Four days ago, I noticed the effects of the full moon -which, to be completely transparent, were somewhat intertwined with the effects of marijuana-. I felt desire, the teenage kind. I danced for forty minutes, alone in my home studio. Sweat dripping on the carpet. Panting. Reaching for something to drink without stopping the bouncing of my knees, as though I were asking the bartender for another whatever. This is the first time since getting pregnant that I’ve danced like that.
Four days ago, I turned 31 (years) (old?). Today, I published an essay on birthdays, speeds and other liquids. You can read it at @unsolicited.existence
Sound by the always genius @elguincho
26 years ago, I fell and fractured my skull. I was four -almost five-. It happened fast. All I could see was blood. A mother -mine- crying, in shock. Similar to when I gave birth to my son. Although I have no scars from that day. I pushed for fifteen minutes and then, silence. This week, something uncanny happened: My body is full of bruises. And I don’t know why. I keep having nightmares. The kind of nightmares that make you go “Oufff…” when you wake up. I just sent a voice note to my best friend: “It’s almost a good thing, I feel so relieved to be awake.” She answered with a voice note right away: “I used to have such terrifying nightmares that I despised going to sleep.” Between my bruises and my scars, I think there’s plenty of proof that I’m alive.
