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The rock that I cling to
Jun. 19th, 2025 05:34 pmIt's the first truly hot day of summer. This observation is true if you discount the odd sweltering day two weeks ago, but that was two weeks ago, and things that happen such a length before now might as well not have happened at all. I'm stiff. It feels like the heat is swelling my joints and pushing all the fluid in me to the surface, expelling it. I'm bleeding (blessings of my cycle), I'm sweating, I'm sticky, but I'm holding off on the customary shower until we return from the beach. No use in rinsing just to rinse again.
Every morning I open my inbox and it tells me this country I live in will go to war. Wants go to war. As if we haven't continuously been in one, or many. The email cannot reach me through the heat today. I'm thinking about the ocean.
I think about the walk home, the experienced eclipsed in the present of my cool shaded room. Hot air likes to compound upon itself. If I stood very still the humid pressure felt almost nice. But the second I started moving its impact was immediate and unrelenting. I veered off concrete roads into grass as much as I could. I think about the turkey sitting in the grass. I veered as far from the turkey as much as I could without entering car territory. I hated the idea of startling it into movement when it looked like it needed the rest so badly. Feathers must be stifling. I don't know if that's biologically correct. The concrete must also be hot on bare feet. Talons? Turkey anatomy...Google tells me their feet are called shanks. There is a lot I don't know. I'm probably fine off without knowing that specific detail, but I feel embarrassed anyways.
Sophia told me I give off an air of stability. Like, that I look like I can answer your question or give adequate advice or something. I wonder how you sense that from someone and I wonder how on earth that is emulating from me. For one, I am full of questions right now. When did that hair grow on the backs of my fingers? Will we need to install the AC unit? How much money does an average college graduate have in savings? Does this haircut make me look stupid? Does anyone even care? Maybe I am better at answer other people's questions than I am answering my own. That is probably not good.
I'm rereading Asher's writing again, because all "writers" need someone to idolize and cannibalize. Her 2019 essay "The 50 Best Albums of the 2010s" puts me at ease because I recognize almost every album on the list. She's included many from artists that I've begun to disentangle myself from in attempts to grow more worldly in my taste and vantage. There's no need to consciously do that, I'm realizing. There's always an in, you know, and I feel better about myself and my trajectory seeing the same ins in Asher's list.
I want to write about music more. I used to feel so stupid because I could never make or express things without tying it back to a song—what's the point in repeating lyrics that aren't even mine, that don't even have to do about me. I am letting They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us prove me wrong because I want it to. I want to talk about how Oklou sounds like Enya and how I am in the wilderness and you are in the music. I want to tell you how there is a child inside you who is trying to raise a child in me and did you know that Aspartame is maybe bad for you but they haven't proven it but regardless it's also the name of a great band? What's your prerogative (mm)?
Aylin's on her way home. I guess we will be going to the beach after all! Half an hour is nothing in the maw of long summer light. I'm going to get changed and find sunscreen that hasn't succumbed to expiration dates or the intense weather. I wonder if my nipple piercing can go in the water yet. I know I will try it anyways, and I know it isn't healed. It always takes longer than I think.
Every morning I open my inbox and it tells me this country I live in will go to war. Wants go to war. As if we haven't continuously been in one, or many. The email cannot reach me through the heat today. I'm thinking about the ocean.
I think about the walk home, the experienced eclipsed in the present of my cool shaded room. Hot air likes to compound upon itself. If I stood very still the humid pressure felt almost nice. But the second I started moving its impact was immediate and unrelenting. I veered off concrete roads into grass as much as I could. I think about the turkey sitting in the grass. I veered as far from the turkey as much as I could without entering car territory. I hated the idea of startling it into movement when it looked like it needed the rest so badly. Feathers must be stifling. I don't know if that's biologically correct. The concrete must also be hot on bare feet. Talons? Turkey anatomy...Google tells me their feet are called shanks. There is a lot I don't know. I'm probably fine off without knowing that specific detail, but I feel embarrassed anyways.
Sophia told me I give off an air of stability. Like, that I look like I can answer your question or give adequate advice or something. I wonder how you sense that from someone and I wonder how on earth that is emulating from me. For one, I am full of questions right now. When did that hair grow on the backs of my fingers? Will we need to install the AC unit? How much money does an average college graduate have in savings? Does this haircut make me look stupid? Does anyone even care? Maybe I am better at answer other people's questions than I am answering my own. That is probably not good.
I'm rereading Asher's writing again, because all "writers" need someone to idolize and cannibalize. Her 2019 essay "The 50 Best Albums of the 2010s" puts me at ease because I recognize almost every album on the list. She's included many from artists that I've begun to disentangle myself from in attempts to grow more worldly in my taste and vantage. There's no need to consciously do that, I'm realizing. There's always an in, you know, and I feel better about myself and my trajectory seeing the same ins in Asher's list.
I want to write about music more. I used to feel so stupid because I could never make or express things without tying it back to a song—what's the point in repeating lyrics that aren't even mine, that don't even have to do about me. I am letting They Can't Kill Us Until They Kill Us prove me wrong because I want it to. I want to talk about how Oklou sounds like Enya and how I am in the wilderness and you are in the music. I want to tell you how there is a child inside you who is trying to raise a child in me and did you know that Aspartame is maybe bad for you but they haven't proven it but regardless it's also the name of a great band? What's your prerogative (mm)?
Aylin's on her way home. I guess we will be going to the beach after all! Half an hour is nothing in the maw of long summer light. I'm going to get changed and find sunscreen that hasn't succumbed to expiration dates or the intense weather. I wonder if my nipple piercing can go in the water yet. I know I will try it anyways, and I know it isn't healed. It always takes longer than I think.
