I could hold the phone to my ear and maybe you would listen. There’s always the pause, the silent surrender, before the conversation begins. An awkward greeting, maybe less awkward for the feigned resilience of the fact that you are there, and I am here, and you are, in fact, finally listening.
I could tell you that July was for being with the band, and I will never love people any less. (I also have a mountain of picks if anyone needs a spare).
I could tell you that August Is For Saying Goodbye, but luckily there were (and as I’m learning, usually always are) enough hellos to make it bearable, to the point of More Than Worthwhile. And all those sweaty mosquito nights spent talking out to the universe, swatting at legs and skin balmy with soupy Houston humidity where, for once, I was scared in the deepest way, feeling the wholeness of things.
And of course, September, September. Dates to remember, and everyone got a little wiser, or just a little older. It is also safe to say that the crowning jewel of the past three months was the Lord Huron + Alt-J show I attended at the Bayou Music Center with my brother and his girlfriend, which was about a week ago. Let me tell you something: you have not lived until you’ve danced with some friendly rogue Aussies to a soul-splitting, ear-gasming rendition of Fitzpleasure while wearing an oddly crafted but weirdly amazing sheer galactic print top with a deep-v back and flowing gypsy train situation.
To be fair, there was that stargazing night in Galveston, where the sand gritted in our teeth as we laughed into the wind, flying home to Broadripple and Contact on repeat like cosmic entities of infinity. Tallies for every plane that roared overhead, and a raw yawning awe for sunsets, snapping cameras, strength found in owning our stories, and respect in the ways we've allowed them to shape us. I vigilante bushwhacked through a suburban forest in sandals and forgot to take photos, but brought home chiggers and still have six small scars on my stomach as a souvenir (though, because they lasted so long, the consensus on whether or not they were ACTUALLY chigger bites was never confirmed). There’s also something to be said about eating salad from a giant plastic KFC cup, though I’m not exactly sure what it is, other than it happens, apparently. I ALSO don’t recommend owning a weak immune system that may lead to the next Tonsillectomy Scare of 2013 (which, thankfully, never leveled up to Jessica Goes Under The Knife: 2013 Version).
There was, of course, a disposable camera involved somewhere in all of this, and way too many books read (though one can never read too many books, ever). Mostly I’ve stumbled upon fictional works exploring addiction and mother-daughter relationships, and mostly as they present themselves as co-occuring conditions. I couldn’t really tell you why, except that it’s hard to say no to a ten cent paperback at the resale shop with a semi-promising synopsis (as long as it’s not romance. When it comes to novels, I have the emotional maturity of an eight year old—someone give me a cootie shot). Maybe I’m using some of these works to better examine the relationships in my own life, though I don’t know how that even begins to compare, but anyway. (Ok, it probably compares. It’s probably really relevant. We’ll call it an accidental anthropological study).
Basically I ate a lot of words, watched some good movies, hung out with some beautiful people, communed with nature, learned so much about myself and others to the point of excruciating realness, and found my new favorite (LOCAL!) record store that’s been sitting under my nose this whole time (!!!)
I’ve missed you guys.
October, you’re going to happen one way or the other. I’d prefer things to be easier, but if there is no struggle, there is no progress (according to a recent Sevenly campaign slogan—great mantra by the way), and progress is the thing, so beat the crap out of me. I’m (mostly) ready for it, because this won’t be the worst thing that happens. And that’s something I can bet my life on.
I hope you dearhearts are enjoying the changing of seasons; our first coldfront dropped around midnight last night. After a bummy week of humid rain, skies are beautiful and clear, the wind is cool, but the sun is still beamin' down. That's the South for ya, and I wouldn't have it any other way.