I spent the past weekend with my family, celebrating one of my cousin’s birthdays. It’s Leo season, so naturally we hosted barbecues for two days in a row. The man of the hour arrived late to the second one. The trip home provided a much-needed and welcomed change of pace after the last few weeks. I think it’s unwise for anyone to move to the city without a designated escape. It could be anything from an old haunt to a new hobby, but it should be something meaningful enough to pull you out of the manic monotony of the city.
Our faults are not our enemies. They are our key to understanding how to be a better friend to ourselves.
According to several of my trusted reports, there was very little astrological movement last week. The main event was that the sun is still in Cancer, my twelfth house of self-reflection. This correlated with a rather life-changing transformation of thought, facilitated by both self-reflection and inspiration from role models. Is there another word for binge-listening to podcasts?
If you can think of one, let me know. But in the meantime, let’s dig in!
On Sunday, I read a review of HBO’s most recent acquisition, a web-series from Chicago-based Sam Bailey and Fatimah Asghar. I eagerly went over to browngirlswebseries.com to get a glimpse of the next obsession the media giant would bring to screen. Having been in podcast mode all week, I scrolled down to the bottom of the page thinking I had found the first episode of the story.
This was a dramatic mistake. But I’m glad it happened.
Last weekend, American gymnast Simone Biles shared a photo at the beach on her personal Instagram account. The post offers a glimpse into the personal life of a public figure, and shows a light-hearted side that her fans are lucky to see:
HOWEVER, someone had the nerve to criticize her for being a real person! One Instagram user commented with an unnecessary observation about how Biles spends her time. After being called “trash” and a “sucky ass role model,” the Olympic gold medalist replied with an epic response. She later posted the exchange on Twitter, along with the offending commenter’s username…
Yesterday I moved into a new apartment and started writing in a new notebook. Both beginnings were equally unnerving. Each rent check, each pen stroke, each gesture toward planting roots feels so direly permanent. And, like all humans, I am prone to mistakes. So how do I know if this move will be the right one? How do I know the words on this page will ever become meaningful enough to warrant the ink spent on them?
When I was young, the 4th of July meant sunblock, bug spray, and fireworks. It marked the day of our annual pilgrimage from the center of town to the city limits, spending miles on a county road and watching the homes go from houses to estates.
That commute was a holiday tradition: something that could only be associated with the warmth of one’s favorite days of the year. The spectacle of the 4th, the generosity of Christmas, the sense of accomplishment that comes with completing another trip around the sun.
Point being, the 4th was something to look forward to. The food, the fireworks, the feat of diving into a body of water and getting used to how it felt. That was when you could be sure that it’d be a good night: after you’d lowered your defenses, shed your fear like a sundress, let yourself plummet and become as cold as your surroundings. The fun began as soon as you could declare that you couldn’t feel a thing.
I spent this past week visiting my mother in Michisconsin, a term that I use out of love and not because I can’t tell the difference between the two. Together, we drove to Minnesota and spent 3 days visiting the Mall of America and the downtown Minneapolis area.