Energy, swirling and bubbling, slishing and sloshing, through our bodies. We touch something, which sends a reverberation that radiates outward, to continue its neverending run.
Tense energy, swirling, sloshing, through my body. My words touch everyone around me: cold, negative. Eyes and bodies shift, as does something inside me. My inner discomfort has overflowed, and I’ve transferred it to those around me.
Fear, tension, nerves, stress. There’s always something.
Life has showed me that there will always be something. Swirling inside my brain, there will always be some dark shadow that threatens to stands between me and my entourage. I can’t accept that.
I sit down to write. Difficult and uncomfortable at first, it soon feels like I’m scratching a deep internal itch. A soul itch. (Sitch?) The sloshing, watery shadow starts to find equilibrium. Give it some time to flow through my fingertips and transfer onto the screen, in a controlled release of creative energy.
A reminder that I shouldn’t stay away for too long.
Lying snuggled in the comforters, with double the space and pillows because F’s gone off to work. Bye sweetie, I’ll be having breakfast in bed… Sucka…
Going for a walk as the day starts warming up, basking in the best golden sunlight of the day.
Making thoughtful, well-prepared meals.
Taking that precious 3pm nap.
Tasting a fine Irish whiskey at noon if I feel like it.
Unburdened by the clock.
Deep breaths, birdsong.
Love, love, love.
Breakfast in bed on a weekday: A gloriously sloth gesture. Unabashed hedonism at its finest. Be it only a slice of toast and hot coffee, no matter. Simplicity is preferred. Makes the mundane seductive. Overindulgent.
Walking through the vineyards on my way to the train station, my carrier pigeon buddy arrives to escort me to the station. He coo-coos alongside me until we reach the threshold between nature and civilization. There, his red beady eyes wink me a “Good luck.” Thanks, pal.
Arriving in town, it’s one of those days where I want to say “Fuck my job.” What am I, some kind of language workhorse? I resent the fact that the corporate masters own my time, even if it’s just 5 hours today. That’s 5 hours off my dreaming time.
All the same, I’m in town, and at least for now, I am indebted to my corporate masters. Unseasonably cold winds tug at my coattails, and my head is pounding for an unknown reason.
I tiptoe erratically around the sidewalk, studded with trampled bits of dog shit. No way am I getting my red leather boots dirty. The cold air invades my nostrils and freezes my brain, aggravating my headache. The fragrance of the first spring cherry blossoms irritates me even more.
The area around the train station is a lot better-kept than in other cities; no seedy sex shops or vaguely-disguised titty bars to be seen, no cannabis fumes in the air; just nondescript bistros that are a bit too antiseptic for my liking. I peek into one, and a middle-aged cook eerily stares back at me, while he scrubs an already-spotless zinc countertop with a clean white towel. Even their ashtrays are immaculate. Freaky.
I approach the monolithic structure, the medieval castle, squatting in the middle of town. Just across the street from its fat, monstrous towers sits another bakery, more modern with dark hardwood floors, and an alluring glow to its sandwiches and pastries that sit on deep blue-gray ardoise slate slabs. I pick up a kouign amann, a Breton specialty: it’s a crispy, flaky, buttery sticky bun. The hammering in my head starts to subside when I take a bite of the luscious pastry.
As I chew and walk on, I’m peeking into chic restaurants, neighborhood barbershops, deserted bookshops and quiet upscale boutiques. A stylish woman walks past, and the sickly sweet cloud of her perfume chokes me as she walks past, her heels confidently stabbing the ground with each step. I catch myself feeling inadequate in her presence, and I think back to a former student of mine, who was a picture of perfection: successful, affluent, immaculately dressed and coiffed. Yet her eyes had glistened with desperation when she confided how deeply she regretted the direction in which her life had gone. I wonder what happened to her.
I drop into another favorite spot, a red-bannered bakery run by a genial bald-headed baker, who always seemed to be dusting flour off his hands and apron in a cloud of magic. His breads and pastries are some of the best in town, and I order a sandwich for lunch. He grabs one off the top of the stack with his large hands, knobby and solid from a lifetime of kneading dough.
Finally, I slide into my favorite café, a neighborhood dig that’s clean, with a good atmosphere, and proprietors that leave you alone to think. I’d like to think I’m becoming a regular, alongside the old salty Italian man who critiques the French and their politics between sips of red wine, rolling his Rs and calling everyone cons (dumbasses)…
I ease into the seat next to the door and order an espresso with water. I catch a cool draft every time the door opens, along with a few wisps of cigarette smoke that sneak in. I don’t mind. I’m surrounded by rough caw-caw guffaws. The server who’s about my age, the older couple that runs the joint, and the old-dog regulars; they laugh and gibe between bites of food, sips of wine, drags of cigarettes. Like a goddamn family sitcom. They’ve got nowhere else to be, except there, giggling and shooting the shit. Hell, neither do I.
I realize my headache has ceased.
I’m satisfied with life in this moment, and smile into my hot cup of black coffee.
Just another Thursday.
I love when sound feels good.
At an eye exam, the hair salon, the spa. Personal attention, gentle speaking right into my ear. Certain tones of music, a beautiful visual stimulus, a soothing voice may spark an ASMR experience. Otherwise known as “brain tingles,” ASMR is a feeling I’ve known and loved, but never realized that not everyone could experience it.
ASMR is Autonomous, in that everyone’s “trigger” is uniquely individual. ASMR is Sensory, referring to the fusion of 2 or more senses, or another form of synaesthesia. ASMR is Meridian, as it culminates in a peak of euphoria. ASMR is a Response triggered by a particular sound.
What does it feel like?
A fuzzy, effervescent feeling that blooms at the base of my brain and rushes down my spine. A warm euphoric sensation that tingles like goosebumps inside my body. My backbone conducts an energizing current that stimulates feelings of relaxation. It culminates in a serene, revitalized state.
Whatever it is, science has yet to fully explain. No matter. Enjoying this sensory experience is enough to put me into a good mood, and it contributes to my self-care routine. Bring on the tingles!
Sometimes, things start to feel lackluster, and one day blends unremarkably into another. I’m on auto-pilot, and the urge to complain comes about more frequently than I’d like. My head is filled with cotton, and the outside world looks bland and uninviting.
Ennui: a feeling of dissatisfaction and bored, weary listlessness due to a lack of excitement and stimulation. Also associated with cynicism, world-weariness, and self-indulgence. I’m so deep, man. I’ve got a bad case of ennui. It’s a French word, look it up.
Ugh. I’m giving myself douche chills. I can’t stand myself when I feel this way. In order to combat this feeling of stagnation and boredom, I pull out my mental list. I pare things down, take a deep breath, and try to look at myself, now. What is special about this moment? Is there something I can indulge in, to appreciate my world and bring things into color and focus?
This morning, while shaking off the remnants of a nightmare, I poured myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies. I hadn’t tasted these babies since I was a kid, and the silly monkey on the box called out to me at the grocery store earlier this week. In the gray quiet shadows of the morning, I curled up onto my couch with my bowl of sugary nostalgia, and chowed down. Something lifted in my heart, and I felt a nice warmth there. Sure, I’m shirking my healthy-living promise to myself; but sometimes, a guilty pleasure is just what you need. Every chocolatey morsel of goodness brought a new idea to mind.
I recommend everyone make themselves a list. You might be surprised at how small a gesture it takes to show yourself a little loving compassion.
For me, it could be…
The nostalgic crunch of breakfast cereal
A piece of whole-grain bread topped with a chunk of sharp English cheddar
Gliding my new gorgeous Micron pen across the smooth paper in my new notebook
Caressing the pages of a new journal, deciding what its purpose shall be
Burning a stick of incense I’ve been saving from Japan
Admiring a rare sight here: the frosted white treetops on a frigid morning
Brushing through my hair, adding oil to make it shine
Painting my nails clear in an effort to stop biting them
Pouring myself a finger of Cuban rum at the end of a 6-day work week
Wearing an outfit that makes me feel like my final form
Quenching my thirst with a large, perfectly cool glass of water
Looking up a new subject to learn about (at the moment: 18th century cooking and re-enacting)
Walking through the garden, smelling the herbs
Planning an upcoming trip or outing
I’m talking about self-care: doing things because they make you feel good, and for no other reason. I’ve made a list, and when things start to look gray and I need a pick-me-up, I refer to my list of comforts.
Now, on this gray Sunday afternoon shrouded in fog, I’m off to another one of my comforts: gathering around the table with family, and enjoying a meal. Today’s meal: pot-au-feu. Please excuse me while I run off to stuff my face as an act of self-kindness.
Self-care: Doing something just because it makes you happy, and for no other reason. Give yourself the privilege of finding joy in a simple moment. Recharge the spirit. Go for a walk, listen to a podcast. Take a hot shower and wash your hair. Wear a pair of comfy socks. Hug an animal. Write a letter to someone you love. Drink a glass of water. Enjoy a cup of coffee that’s JUST how you like it. Take a deep breath.
Me, I cook.
I love preparing fresh herbs and spices. Crushing red peppercorns for a shallot cream sauce to be served over fish. Grinding fresh nutmeg into buttery mushrooms. Grating cinnamon into an Indian-inspired simmering dish. Plucking a fresh bay leaf, snipping sprigs of thyme for a hearty chicken soup. Cutting the ends off a bunch of fresh cilantro for THE essential Puerto Rican seasoning, sofrito. Infusing annato seeds in warm oil to extract their vibrant color: the rich saffron red swirling into the yellow oil is a lovely sight. Adding a teaspoon of this rich orange-colored infusion will keep your pasteles from sticking to the parchment (or, if you’re going traditional, your banana leaf). I feel like an alchemist of flavor in my laboratory. This is my moment of bliss.
Yesterday’s act: bake cookies and share them with friends.
Gool ol’ peanut butter cookies: signature criss-cross top, crisp buttery exterior, soft inside. It’s very satisfying to stir into the smooth butter, and hear the gentle grinding of the sugar as you swirl through the complementary colors. The sound is what makes this experience so sensually authentic. Crack in an egg, and watch it resist incorporation into the gritty butter mixture. Oh, you little scamp, you… Coax it in with a sprinkle of flour. Roll bits of cookie dough around in your hands to make a small ball, the size of a king marble. Tines of a fork imprint the cookie to form a hashtag. Cookies bake until they puff slightly in the middle, and turn golden brown on the sides. 10 whole minutes of anticipation and mouthwatering. Cool until mouthburn can safely be avoided. Devour. Share. Enjoy. Repeat.