29. I don't read self help books because I don't want help.

(I want to escape) // motion, storage unit farewell & a tiny venus retrograde playlist

My bestie’s three-month-old cries when the car stops at a red light or stop sign and calms when it starts moving again. I’ve been thinking recently about Shauna Barbosa’s incredible poem, “The Cure for Grief is Motion” and the ways we “measure the misfortune of time.”

I loosen my aging acrylic nails one by one like they’re baby teeth. My hands present themselves in various configurations across the span of a couple of weeks as I travel to Washington and then Colorado. Certain fingers stand out like dead piano keys. 

At one point, my left hand looks like a narwhal—only the acrylic in my middle finger remains. My friend jokes that it looks like an evolutionary adaptation. 

My bare nails seemingly sensitive to everything including the air. 

my final form

Eventually, I paint them with a pearlescent opal polish I retrieve from my soot covered storage unit (longtime readers of this newsletter may remember my account of the storage unit surviving the Marshall fire).

One of the big reasons for my travel this past month was finally dealing with the things I left behind. What remained from my escape or expatriation or, or, whatever we can call a desire to root elsewhere. A treasure trove of a whimsical past life—one devoted to burlesque and poetry. During my spelunking, I only vortexed a few times (like when I opened old journals, searching for a note I thought I wrote to my future self). I didn’t cry once— an incredible feat considering the present astrology. 

I thought about what brought me to Colorado in the first place: I followed a blurb on the back of a poetry book. I discovered a community of writers I wanted to be a part of—along with mountains, synchronicity, a different kind of air. Desire led me to that place, kept me there. And, desire stirred and pulled me away from it too.

I went into my 5 x 10 unit with the determination of a diver. Ruthless in my focus to the point of cruelty towards mugs I once lovingly sipped from, books I annotated, clothing I wore, loved in, cried in, ran around the city in. 

Artifacts of your old life held with nostalgia and nail glue. Sometimes you have to rip yourself from what you’re affixed to.

Storage unit rental fees are a great lesson in the cost of holding on.

saying goodbye to this orange chair was the most difficult. My first piece of furniture I acquired when I moved to Colorado that lasted through multiple moves. I wrote my book in this chair!

I got my books, a few small treasures, and signed a form relinquishing all ownership of the contents of the unit. It will go to auction eventually.

I gave a printer to my friend, gave a side table and many sequined bras to another friend.

I love knowing that they will live a different life now.

Can we memorialize our past selves? Create an altar to the person who was? As I closed the unit for the final time, I paused to murmur a thank you. To these trappings of a former domesticity and the person who was drawn to them.

Hand on my chest, I sprinkled some rosemary oil at the lip of the unit.

My beautiful creaking organism of a space, contents of a time capsule that survived a fire. Even when we are still, we’re in motion. It’s us, it’s us, moving all along … the sun and the moon only appear to rise and fall because we never, ever stop moving.

a sonic triptych for Venus moving backwards in a burning world:

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Unhealthy (feat. Shania Twain) — Anne-Marie

A defiant celebration of the parts in us that long for the roller coaster trap of unhealthy connections? Featuring Shania Twain?? One million times yes. Listening to this bop > texting your ex.

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Possession of a Weapon — Ashnikko

Lyrical moments like “Eyes in the sky, crying geysers/ how dare I have private desires” and “it’s just flesh, it’s just flesh/ I can be grotesque, move my body like chess” hit that spiteful, dark girl-rot flavor center perfectly.

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Talk to Me Nice- Tinashe

A reminder of the alchemical escape from the mundane that good love offers—a refuge, a private island, the nectar of sweet words uttered in secret.

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Upcoming event:

If you are in New Hampshire, I will be doing a reading at Toadstool Books this Friday, August 4th at 6:00 pm! My last reading in the U.S. for a while.

~

thank you for spending a slice of your day with me and my musings! It means the world. As always, this newsletter is a free monthly offering. If you would like to further support my writing practice, you can subscribe to my paid tier or send a contribution via Venmo (duffylala). <3 <3 <3