Two years later...?
I have half a dozen posts that I've written in the past two years that I haven't had the time or the energy to finish editing and actually go ahead and post for the world to see.
I am continually attempting to rid myself of the idea that everything I post online, or do in public needs to be perfect.
If it's not perfect, it just shows that I'm not perfect. Which I've never claimed to be.
I update my journal not even remotely enough. I'll go a month or two without writing, but the thoughts swirling around in my head could spin volumes.
On of my somewhat recent entries in my journal [which I'm slowly realizing could be an autobiography someday], begins as so:
March 7th, 2017
And once again, the uncertainty sets into my mind with full force. That obnoxious still small voice that tries to bring reason to the table, but apparently I'm not hungry. It seems as if the table is already too cluttered to make room for any other dishes.
[*editors note: This post waxes and wanes between where I should invest my time, my continued struggle with finances, the lack of love I've felt from myself, and from a couple of people by which I was surrounded. Granted, this was back in March, and my life is remarkably different now. I won't write the whole post, since it seems even more rambling than some of the things I've posted years ago on this very blog. Also, the beginning to that particular entry keeps reminding me of how big a part food plays in my life. I could go on for paragraphs about how food is the way all of my friendships have been founded, or the way food can nourish us, but also conversely be the most unhealthy thing in our lives, much like relationships, but I'm determined to have some sort of cohesive flow to this post, so I digress.]
Later on in that particular entry, I get caught up on how I was told just over exactly two years ago that I was told I was "universally disliked" by a very specific group of people, and how that has almost become a compliment for me. Then I put in a quote I found online somewhere, I'm sure on Pinterest or tumblr, or something like that, that goes something along the lines as "You used to be my cup of tea, but now I prefer whiskey".
Things change. People change. Circumstances change people. Life happens. Grow through it. Grow better because of it.
We have some plants on our front porch.
Oh, yeah. I moved just about two months ago. We had a house-warming party this past Sunday. It was lit. So was I. I had such an amazing day. My introvert side keeps reminding me that I can't be as extroverted as I'd like to be, all the time. I was being so social, and being the typical jovial host, then I took a break [twice] and escaped to the neighbors [our friends] porch steps and just sat and recharged. It was exactly what I needed. That, and a nap, but my house was full of people, so I couldn't take a nap, obviously.
ANYways.
The plants on our new porch are a great reminder for me. There are succulents, ferns, and some almost dead flowers. The succulents are my favorites. I just love the tones of green and grey intertwined with purple, awkward sprouts that will be new plants. They remind me that beauty is only achieved through struggle. Even the plants grow through dirt and sometimes literal shit, but when they sprout up, look out.
In other news, today marks exactly two years since I've moved to Atlanta. Surprisingly I don't find it hard to believe that it's been two whole years. So much has happened in the two years I've been here, in the city.
Some good things, some not so great. All of it is shaping me. Which is kind of cool. Seeing myself grow and change.
Last week I had a random day where I did a bunch of lawn work. It reminded me of my childhood and working those summers with my dad out in the Florida heat. Landscaping, laying down sod, planting flowers, digging up old plants and trees. This past Tuesday, raking all the leaves that had been left to rot, was a therapeutic release. I got some pent up aggression out of my system. Throwing those bags full of leaves around the yard, tossing logs into a neat and orderly pile. Seeing the physical difference in the back yard, from it being covered in leaves that had started to decompose, to a bit more kept and clean. There's something calming and beautiful to me about restoring something that's been neglected. Bringing it back to it's natural state. Or, even improving upon what was. Making something new. It was a beautiful thing to witness, and I immensely enjoyed it.
I like things like that. I haven't always enjoyed getting my hands dirty.
Thankfully, I've grown up. Something about seeing the change that you're causing with your hands, I find very healthy. Whether that's putting up pictures, or posters on my bedroom walls, or cleaning the kitchen for the eighteenth time this week, I keep doing it. Not that I'm a neat freak, or anything. My room is constantly littered with dirty clothes, or shoes in the wrong places, but I still love the feel of a clean space.
Maybe that's mostly due to my love of being in a clean kitchen, or something like that. But then you make some sort of feast and it's a mess all over again. But then you have food? I don't know if this analogy is working, or if it ever will.
I find beauty in clean things.
Mainly because I'm a mess.
But I'm working on it, okay?
Anyways.
I said I wouldn't get derailed, but I think we all knew that wasn't going to happen.
So, two years in Atlanta. Whew. Here's to a couple more? Who knows where the next two years will take me? Not me, that's for sure. I would never ave imagined I'd be as at home in this city. Or, at least in a few select corners of the city. At home in a big city? Who would've thought this small town kid, would grow into a big city boy.
I find myself so much more comfortable with who I am as a person, than I did two years ago. I am authentically myself, and that is a liberating realization. I'm still growing, too. Hopefully physically taller, but I'm not holding my breath on that one. I'd love to be a couple inches taller, but I had my first and possibly last growth spurt at 21 so, I'm good with it. At least I have a good beard. Albeit almost ginger in the fall. I don't mind it.
So, I'm reading through this book called The Book Thief, and it's beautiful. It is told from the perspective of Death as if he/she were a person. I can't put it down. Except for taking breaks to do things like, I don't know, work like a crazy person. It's amazing. I was reading it last night and it was so beautifully written I almost cried. Okay, I did cry. But it was perfect when paired with a glass of wine, and music that complimented said book, and a quiet night in after an insane weekend.
So, I moved just about two months ago. Still getting settled in. Still unpacking. Still waiting for the paychecks so I can get more things I need for the house, and more importantly my room. Like a small table, or bench I can put stuff on, or a chair so I can have a reading corner with a lamp because I'm a nerd, or a record player because they're neat af and I've wanted one for years.
We have a front porch that is currently everything to me. It overlooks the street, but our house is kind of on a small hill, so we're higher up. It gives me the feeling that we are in a high-rise or something. I mean, it's by no means even remotely as high as an apartment complex, but it's slightly higher than a few other houses on the block. One of my favorite things to do is just sit out there with a book, or an article, or some good music, or a podcast, and just be. Just sit and relax. Let my mind rest, along with my body. Something I've had to force myself to do. I'm all too accustomed to working non-stop, and I find myself trying to make time just to spend by myself. I think that's my old introverted self popping up and saying, "Hey. Remember me? I need to be taken care of, too. Get some rest. You'll thank me later". And you know what? I do.
I truly enjoy my calm nights. Maybe that makes me boring. But I can't say no to a night where I've got good music, a good book, and maybe a bottle of wine. Or a case of La Croix. Not that I've ever drank three cases of La Croix within a week. That would be ridiculous. What kind of a maniac would do such a thing?
Well, I suppose this post is coming to a close. I think I'll get lost in a book again. So it goes.
Who knows how long it'll be until I write again? Hopefully less than two years, but I can't make any promises.
I guess, just like the rest of life, time will tell.
I am continually attempting to rid myself of the idea that everything I post online, or do in public needs to be perfect.
If it's not perfect, it just shows that I'm not perfect. Which I've never claimed to be.
I update my journal not even remotely enough. I'll go a month or two without writing, but the thoughts swirling around in my head could spin volumes.
On of my somewhat recent entries in my journal [which I'm slowly realizing could be an autobiography someday], begins as so:
March 7th, 2017
And once again, the uncertainty sets into my mind with full force. That obnoxious still small voice that tries to bring reason to the table, but apparently I'm not hungry. It seems as if the table is already too cluttered to make room for any other dishes.
[*editors note: This post waxes and wanes between where I should invest my time, my continued struggle with finances, the lack of love I've felt from myself, and from a couple of people by which I was surrounded. Granted, this was back in March, and my life is remarkably different now. I won't write the whole post, since it seems even more rambling than some of the things I've posted years ago on this very blog. Also, the beginning to that particular entry keeps reminding me of how big a part food plays in my life. I could go on for paragraphs about how food is the way all of my friendships have been founded, or the way food can nourish us, but also conversely be the most unhealthy thing in our lives, much like relationships, but I'm determined to have some sort of cohesive flow to this post, so I digress.]
Later on in that particular entry, I get caught up on how I was told just over exactly two years ago that I was told I was "universally disliked" by a very specific group of people, and how that has almost become a compliment for me. Then I put in a quote I found online somewhere, I'm sure on Pinterest or tumblr, or something like that, that goes something along the lines as "You used to be my cup of tea, but now I prefer whiskey".
Things change. People change. Circumstances change people. Life happens. Grow through it. Grow better because of it.
We have some plants on our front porch.
Oh, yeah. I moved just about two months ago. We had a house-warming party this past Sunday. It was lit. So was I. I had such an amazing day. My introvert side keeps reminding me that I can't be as extroverted as I'd like to be, all the time. I was being so social, and being the typical jovial host, then I took a break [twice] and escaped to the neighbors [our friends] porch steps and just sat and recharged. It was exactly what I needed. That, and a nap, but my house was full of people, so I couldn't take a nap, obviously.
ANYways.
The plants on our new porch are a great reminder for me. There are succulents, ferns, and some almost dead flowers. The succulents are my favorites. I just love the tones of green and grey intertwined with purple, awkward sprouts that will be new plants. They remind me that beauty is only achieved through struggle. Even the plants grow through dirt and sometimes literal shit, but when they sprout up, look out.
In other news, today marks exactly two years since I've moved to Atlanta. Surprisingly I don't find it hard to believe that it's been two whole years. So much has happened in the two years I've been here, in the city.
Some good things, some not so great. All of it is shaping me. Which is kind of cool. Seeing myself grow and change.
Last week I had a random day where I did a bunch of lawn work. It reminded me of my childhood and working those summers with my dad out in the Florida heat. Landscaping, laying down sod, planting flowers, digging up old plants and trees. This past Tuesday, raking all the leaves that had been left to rot, was a therapeutic release. I got some pent up aggression out of my system. Throwing those bags full of leaves around the yard, tossing logs into a neat and orderly pile. Seeing the physical difference in the back yard, from it being covered in leaves that had started to decompose, to a bit more kept and clean. There's something calming and beautiful to me about restoring something that's been neglected. Bringing it back to it's natural state. Or, even improving upon what was. Making something new. It was a beautiful thing to witness, and I immensely enjoyed it.
I like things like that. I haven't always enjoyed getting my hands dirty.
Thankfully, I've grown up. Something about seeing the change that you're causing with your hands, I find very healthy. Whether that's putting up pictures, or posters on my bedroom walls, or cleaning the kitchen for the eighteenth time this week, I keep doing it. Not that I'm a neat freak, or anything. My room is constantly littered with dirty clothes, or shoes in the wrong places, but I still love the feel of a clean space.
Maybe that's mostly due to my love of being in a clean kitchen, or something like that. But then you make some sort of feast and it's a mess all over again. But then you have food? I don't know if this analogy is working, or if it ever will.
I find beauty in clean things.
Mainly because I'm a mess.
But I'm working on it, okay?
Anyways.
I said I wouldn't get derailed, but I think we all knew that wasn't going to happen.
So, two years in Atlanta. Whew. Here's to a couple more? Who knows where the next two years will take me? Not me, that's for sure. I would never ave imagined I'd be as at home in this city. Or, at least in a few select corners of the city. At home in a big city? Who would've thought this small town kid, would grow into a big city boy.
I find myself so much more comfortable with who I am as a person, than I did two years ago. I am authentically myself, and that is a liberating realization. I'm still growing, too. Hopefully physically taller, but I'm not holding my breath on that one. I'd love to be a couple inches taller, but I had my first and possibly last growth spurt at 21 so, I'm good with it. At least I have a good beard. Albeit almost ginger in the fall. I don't mind it.
So, I'm reading through this book called The Book Thief, and it's beautiful. It is told from the perspective of Death as if he/she were a person. I can't put it down. Except for taking breaks to do things like, I don't know, work like a crazy person. It's amazing. I was reading it last night and it was so beautifully written I almost cried. Okay, I did cry. But it was perfect when paired with a glass of wine, and music that complimented said book, and a quiet night in after an insane weekend.
So, I moved just about two months ago. Still getting settled in. Still unpacking. Still waiting for the paychecks so I can get more things I need for the house, and more importantly my room. Like a small table, or bench I can put stuff on, or a chair so I can have a reading corner with a lamp because I'm a nerd, or a record player because they're neat af and I've wanted one for years.
We have a front porch that is currently everything to me. It overlooks the street, but our house is kind of on a small hill, so we're higher up. It gives me the feeling that we are in a high-rise or something. I mean, it's by no means even remotely as high as an apartment complex, but it's slightly higher than a few other houses on the block. One of my favorite things to do is just sit out there with a book, or an article, or some good music, or a podcast, and just be. Just sit and relax. Let my mind rest, along with my body. Something I've had to force myself to do. I'm all too accustomed to working non-stop, and I find myself trying to make time just to spend by myself. I think that's my old introverted self popping up and saying, "Hey. Remember me? I need to be taken care of, too. Get some rest. You'll thank me later". And you know what? I do.
I truly enjoy my calm nights. Maybe that makes me boring. But I can't say no to a night where I've got good music, a good book, and maybe a bottle of wine. Or a case of La Croix. Not that I've ever drank three cases of La Croix within a week. That would be ridiculous. What kind of a maniac would do such a thing?
Well, I suppose this post is coming to a close. I think I'll get lost in a book again. So it goes.
Who knows how long it'll be until I write again? Hopefully less than two years, but I can't make any promises.
I guess, just like the rest of life, time will tell.
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