i put out a song last week called ‘train to the next world”. it’s a reference to a book of poetry, “map to the next world” by joy harjo. the title poem is about how we currently live in a world where humans struggle and kill for power because we have separated ourselves from nature, and that leaving this world behind will be an uncertain journey but also an opportunity for us to create something new and better
Nostalgia is a feeling that I’ve always found inspiration in (i.e. to remember the past kindly and recognize the emotional complexity of passing time), but I recently finished an amazing book whose final paragraph stated that nostalgia limits the “expansive visioning that needs to happen” when building a new world. It felt wrong the first time I read it, but I’ve been trying out remembrance without nostalgia. Unfortunately, I feel like it’s possible to be nostalgic about literally anything - the blue sky, the ocean, my bicycle, my dentist. This week I saw the dentist I’ve been seeing since I was little and when I showed him pictures of my sister’s newborn, he said that my 34-year-old sister and I will always be little girls in his mind, which made me tear up
1. I see the future in a shopping cart
2. Plant fiber from the inside of a seed pod
3. No place left on earth unpoliced by humans
4. Birds that looked like little Loch Ness monsters
5. We learn
6. Babies and elders are the same thing
My relationship to the outdoors changed when I went from wondering things like, “Where do bees go when it rains?” to wondering, “Where do people go when it rains?” I live near where a freeway intersects a nature reserve, and for the past couple months, the county has been pushing people who have slept near the freeway for years farther out of sight and thus deeper into the wildness of the reserve. This past weekend, ahead of forecasted rainstorms, three girls who met in a mutual aid group try to find where these people are staying for the week, and it accidentally turns into bushwacking. One group of people is found to have settled in a ditch concealed by trees and shrubs because it’s safer from harassment. However, this little ditch will turn into a river when it rains because the surrounding city is covered in impervious concrete, acting as funnels for water to gush into the reserve. That’s where people go when it rains
Double-crested cormorant, common around the waters where I live. They rest with their wings open like this to dry their feathers. I remember when I witnessed this for the first time I thought it was so cute and inspiring. Like, yes, bare your little heart to the sea!!! Bestie is visiting town, and I feel empowered and optimistic despite a vile terrible world because she teaches me that both grief and love pour in when you open your heart outward
I feel like in LA it’s common for people to try something once and never again because there’s too many other options, but there are about seven people who have been consistently showing up to a small mutual aid operation on Sundays, six of whom are Los Angeles born and raised. The seventh person is only in LA for one year for a fixed-contract job. I don’t think they really like LA, and they do plan on going home to the midwest after the contract ends, and they kinda just get down to business then leave when everything’s done, but they go so above and beyond in their duties and their care for the community that you would think that they plan to stay forever. I know their absence will leave a logistical hole. I’ve been thinking about how I love the shift in the air during holiday season, when lots of people leave LA and lots of others come home to it. Everyone is a traveler to somewhere but if the world were full of people like the seventh person, treating every stop like their forever home, that would make me happy
“ruckenfigur” is an art term for when you depict both a figure from behind and also whatever they’re looking at. it’s one of my favorite things ever because i love second-hand experiencing others’ awe. sometimes you need someone else to remind you that you’re looking at, and constantly surrounded by, wonder
i pretend like im thinking deep thoughts all the time but actually i prefer to just look at things, without words, noticing the colors and the light
(p.s. i LOVE the first picture, feels like a painting. look at the bird)
the turn of October is one of my favorite times of year because we transition out of the dreamlike, lighthearted, almost naive quality of summer, and enter the season of embracing horror & truth. i am easily spooked and hate scary movies, but horror is inescapable – it’s all around, on sidewalks, in our phones, in unmarked vehicles, and it’s become such a part of the everyday that we stop seeing it. on my walk this morning i passed the private security cars that my neighborhood hires to scare ppl who live outside, which made me wonder who is allowed to experience horror. horror is based on an expectation of safety, and there are people/circumstances/entire countries that we automatically associate with violence, so we start believing that horrifying things are normal. today marks two years of acute gnocide, and i notice how quiet my phone is now compared to then
