language, regimes, potential
the week
The jet lag that caused me to rise at 4:30am lasted two days, the third day I woke at 6:04am to the sun beginning its ascent. The silhouettes of the palm trees against the rising yellow and orange felt like a little gift.
The first day back I was afflicted with an all-day headache that caused me to rot on the couch, eating spicy popcorn and watching La Casa De Papel all day until I gave up and went to sleep at 7pm. The next day, I awoke headache-free, consumed two cups of coffee, journaled, went to pilates, the gym, then came home, got my homework for class done, transferred money from my savings into my checking (which didn’t feel great but it had to happen), paid two credit card bills, and made a giant tofu scramble with avocado. One thing about me is I’ll bounce back.
Taxes were done, with much cursing.
Driving to the mall, I listened to the Wuthering Heights score, picturing the moorlands and imagining the wind sweeping through me and clearing my brain fog. Period induced lethargy threatened to engulf me completely but I beat it back with caffeine and a great conversation with a friend at a trendy cafe. We spoke excitedly of the projects we’re working on and shared in one another’s fervency for our art. We walked around the farmer’s market afterwards, passing pickle stands and boba shops, buzzing from the inspiration we’d created.
This week’s cinema expedition was to see The Secret Agent. A Brazilian film about life under a dictatorship. Having lived in a tinpot dictatorship when I was 18, and living in a larger, newer fascism (at least overtly) at the moment, this film got it absolutely correct. Beginning with the opening scene of encountering casual death, followed quickly by the main character getting harassed by overly cocksure law enforcement. The unsettling undertow of fear drifted throughout the film like another character, growing and developing in each scene. A detail I found precise was simply the many portraits of the dictator mounted on public walls. His name was never mentioned, but his presence was there, a silent overseer to his terrified kingdom. There is a scene near the end when a group of characters speak about the persecution they are facing and admit that there are hits out on their lives. After these confessions, they cheers to the someday end of the regime and a better Brazil for their children. That part was the most realistic to life, in my experience. The hope that refuses to die. The resilience born because it has no choice. When I lived in a Central American dictatorship, one that is still in power to this day, I learned essential lessons of optimistic grit. And that was the element this film captured so beautifully.
Despite the fact that evil governments cannot help but rise from the hellfires of capitalism, all tyrants eventually die and all empires eventually fall.
Stumblingly, I started playing piano again. I can feel the muscle memory being activated every time I touch the keys. People often compare reading music to math. But it feels more like language to me. A language I learned and used a long time ago that still lives in me. It takes time to call it forth again but it gets easier with use. It reminds me of my Spanish.
I’d speak only that beautiful tongue for days and days on end, the sole gringa living in a barrio a few countries above the equator. I’d dream in the language, words effortlessly called forth in my brain whilst sleeping. There is a part of fluency that, ironically, evades words. It feels more in the realm of magic. As if a language settles into your entire body. The part you learn in a classroom or in dictionaries is just the surface of what your being comes to understand when fluency gets woven in. And when one “forgets” a language, it is almost as if a part of oneself gets buried. Until it is reactivated. I do this strange trick sometimes when I need to call forth my Spanish. I try to relax my body and brain and allow the words I’m hearing to flow into me, rather than thinking about them. To create a sort of internal river where the words can drift in and out as they, themselves, need to, rather than try to consciously to control them. Almost like surrendering to their power. It feels more alchemical than psychological. And it works for me.
On Wednesday a friend and I ordered cookies, made popcorn, and watched all eight episodes of the new Bridgerton season. It was divine. Benedict was always my favorite and his season did not disappoint. I think romance stories that incorporate class consciousness awakenings are masterful. It is one of the reasons I love Lady Chatterley’s Lover so much. I have a piece on this particular subject that I began writing a couple years ago but it remains unfinished in my drafts. Maybe I’ll revisit it.
After the day of television, my eyes were feeling a bit strung out so I brought myself to the roof to look at the sky for a bit. The moon was full, yellow, and so bright it caused shadows. I thought about love, creativity, how I’ve been wanting to get back to work.
Or rather, the pull between the desire to get back to work and my simultaneous revulsion of many of the things it requires. I wish I could do sex work without all the administrative hours that goes into finding clients. Without chatting with them over text, keeping my photos and ads updated, fighting to keep my patience in the face of dumb and horny questions. In person, the experience is usually fine. Even if a client is an idiot at least I’m getting paid to deal with him. But beforehand, it’s all free. It’s all in anticipation of getting paid. And often they fall through. Which means I’ve put in time, effort, and patience unduly and purposelessly. It’s just part of it. The part I detest the most, honestly. So though I do want to get back to work, for the fun and money of it, I know the sludge I have to drag my feet through to get there.
A friend of mine is in a dating era and I’m loving hearing the stories. Men popping into her work to say hello, taking her out for fun conversation and cocktails, evening promenades around the lake. Part of me desires to get back into dating regularly again. I’ve gone on a few the past couple months but my attention has mostly been elsewhere. There is a part of me that is hesitant to split my attention again because dating does require somewhat of a mindset shift. Time and effort and going to bed late and I’m kind of just so focused on the things I’m doing that I’m unsure if I want the distraction. But I do kind of miss it as well. I miss the fun of potential. Of getting excited to see someone again after a good first date. Of debriefing with friends over breakfast. Of getting excited at a text from a crush.
But I’m also having fun with my own potential. And focusing on that, instead of a man who may or may not fulfill his own, feels like what I need to be doing. Perhaps I’ll sprinkle in a date or two soon, but I vow to myself to not lose sight of the ahead where I’m looking.
