when life sucks, do something different.
a short journal/story, sort of... there's a point here.
Dear Reader,
You are getting this newsletter late because I had a lot to stew on after the nourishment of last weekend. It was the kind of event strung together that I will try my best to emulate many more times to come in the future, and it’ll be no use because this weekend was one of a kind. God and the audacity He gave me to start my day the way I did.
But, let me share with you what that was…
…brace yourself. Stick with it. There’s something at the end you can definitely take away from this, outside of living vicariously through my life.
Promise.
8:30ish AM — It started Saturday morning. Tossed around in bed till about 8:30 am, laid awake listening to the birds and moving cars pass by outside while contemplating how I’d like the day to go. I worked from home Friday and didn’t leave the house. I can’t remember if I showered, honestly. Hair was a mess, but the work got done and the rest of the night was spent with a lot of reprieve, so it felt like Saturday needed a little more purpose. The first thing on the agenda WAS a shower, where I meditated a little more on what I wanted to do. I strive to pay attention to the first thought that comes to mind before I begin to think too hard, and what responded to me was “Coffee and a book.” There’s a cafe two blocks from me that I frequent, with a cold brew + oat milk concoction I always order, a barista named Caitlyn I always say hi to, and a bench outside the shop that I always sit at when I want to people watch/read. So, after my shower and skin care, I brushed my hair, put on my cozy comfy outfit that looks like I live close by and not a ten minute car ride away (there IS a difference. You know it), spritzed my favorite perfume across my clavicle, packed my tote with a book, two highlighters, and my wallet… then headed out the door.
10:30ish AM — Outside, this cafe doesn’t seem like much, precisely because of the brick-and-mortar company it keeps. It’s at the corner of a mini shopping mall (LA is saturated with them. Two floors of back-to-back shops and a parking lot with valet service out the ass), isn’t on the cleanest block, and is never absent of a few weirdos. But somehow, the shop in itself is kind. It’s beautiful inside, industrial style with tall plants, plenty of seating, really good music, conversational baristas, and excellent coffee. I got my usual, sat at my spot, and pulled out my book. I’m switching between three reads right now: Claudia Tate’s “Black Women Writers At Work,” (which I chose to read for the occasion), Toni Cade Bambara’s “The Salt Eaters,” and Stanley Tucci’s “Taste: My Life Through Food.” I’ve gotten into the habit of highlighting within any book I read now. I like my pages gradually rugged from wear and scribbled in because I’m never not researching or doing homework or coming away with gems to share with others later on. In Tate’s archive of prolific Black women writers she interviews, they discuss their justifications of the art form and their routine in it, and for my reading, I finished Nikki Giovanni’s section. I… love her, lol. There’s so much to love. She speaks so candidly about the state of things (mind you, this interview was done in the 70s), the climate for an expressive woman such as herself, the distraction that both race and gender wars play to interrupt the work, and the importance of growth. How ‘The Box’ (or as I like to call it, ‘The Rite of Passage’) sets us up to remain stagnant in our opinions and not fluid.
There are several things she says that I highlight (as shown above), but one thing I needed to hear/see was:
“We writers would all be better off if we didn’t deceive ourselves so frequently by thinking everything we create is important or good. It’s not.”
and:
“The more you reread your prose, the more likely you’re going to try to justify what you’ve said.”
I’m so guilty of both. The pressure to create and create WELL. Inspire! Uplift! I loved that in this section, as I begin to grow consistent in my writing practices/publishing, is that Ms. Giovanni reminds me to just be real, be eager to grow, and be ready to conquer in surrender. I’ll dig deeper into the tiers of this book in a post or two (maybe a series…?) later down the line, but for now, let’s focus.
I also came away feeling so thankful that I loved reading, and that a lot of why I love writing is because of that. I never forget, but I always remember (if this makes sense). I wrote a few tweets advising people that if they’re having trouble writing, then visiting words from a book, essay, poem, article, spiritual text, etc. would always be an amazing cure. And it’s true. When I get in my creative ruts, it’s the moments I choose to read my words back to me that revigorate the thirst to drum up some prose again. The tweets went viral (a gift I will soon be moving a lot more intentionally with), and a conversation around reading/writing happened. I sat there, tweeting with folks on the internet, on my favorite bench with my now watered-down cold brew, about one of my favorite things.
11:45-ish AM — I’m hungry. All I had was coffee, water, and words to eat and I know that if I do not eat something now, I’ll begin to feel weak. My low iron will begin to cut up, and the rest of the day cannot be seized. I make my favorite: a fried egg, pan-fried honey turkey, and a sprinkle of salt, pepper, and red chilli flakes over a toasted slice of cinnamon raisin bread. For me? It’s the sweet / salty combo. I’ll never forget being in college back in Brooklyn, at the corner store on Flatbush, asking for a baconeggandcheese, them being out of my favorite bagel, and me sufficing for cinnamon raisin. And how MIND BLOWN I was when the shit slapped. 12 years later, I haven’t put the combination down.
The sun is beaming through my living room, my plants by both edges of the television look lively, and I decided that after eating, I’ll probably go to the museum. That will be my next major excursion. But, before I do, it’s time to watch something with my breakfast. I land on something that I won’t have to commit to, and the choice is “Because I Said So,” with Diane Keaton and Mandy Moore. I’m 20 minutes in, and it’s fine. Does enough to not change the movie, but doesn’t do enough to hold my attention. So when my friend/lover calls me in that moment, I’m not swayed to not pick up. As we talk about any and everything, I’m scrolling Twitter and find out that Ruth E. Carter (costume designer for almost all of Spike Lee’s films, B.A.P.S., and the two Black Panther films) was doing a book signing + Q&A at the Academy Museum of Motion Picture at 7pm later on. To my dismay, the tickets are sold out. My friend goes, “Tweet it out. See if someone has an extra ticket. And in the meantime, go get ready to see some art.” Takes some convincing (I’m very leisurely, to my benefit and detriment), but I finally do as I’m instructed: shoot a tweet out for potential tickets, get ready to go to the museum, and—
3:30-ish PM (I know. Mad long…) — I’m out the door, on the bus line that speeds down my nearby city street. In a matter of 20 minutes, thanks to a deserted street that, on a regular day, would be rote with traffic, I get there swiftly.
I make it to LACMA, a museum I hate to admit I judged before I stepped foot inside a long while ago, but was ultimately taken aback by how abundant it was with art. It was the art, as well as the structure of each exhibition, the thoughtfulness in the layout, and the way each floor had a personality in its curation.
I climb the steps to its highest floor in pursuit of starting from the top and working my way down when I am in awe of the view of Los Angeles (press play of a video I captured in awe below).
I took a breath. A singular moment to feel very grateful for visions of a clear blue-skied heaven decorated by palm trees acting like guards to get through before you reach, even though they’re not that high up. Being West Indian and having moments where I crave the humidity, greenery, and brush of the sea belonging to an island, a palm tree always does something to my heart. When I moved to New Orleans, it was these charismatic inspirations of nature that I’d sit under some nights on my porch when the house was a little too air-conditioned, when I needed fresh air and to say hi to the neighborhood cat. I love the shuffling sound you hear when the wind gets caught in between the leaves and they brush against each other. To this day, I feel very indebted to palm trees. I appreciate them so much.
As I put my phone away after filming the video, I approach a family that’s murmuring about a jazz show. “Sorry, I overheard you talking about a performance happening today?” I ask.
The mother of the group said yes, that at 5 o’clock (in one hour), there was going to be a band playing in LACMA’s backyard. I instantly made a mental note to attend.
4-ish PM — I’m standing on the third floor that houses German Expressionist Studies, American/Decorative Arts and Design, and Latin American art, as well as rooms of Modern Art pieces and select paintings from Pablo Picasso and Alberto Giacometti. I’ll admit that for a long while, I’ve primarily viewed works by Black artists and have gotten so used to our vision, that there was something very delightful about regarding works again that were not reflections of me. I needed the discomfort. Most importantly, I wanted to chart the times and worlds of these people. I embarked on the challenge and took out a little notebook I’d had for a long time that I used for sketching. It had been abandoned for a minute, I’m afraid. But before I left the house, I aimed for my museum visit to be purposeful. I thought, “How fun would it be to document my findings?” Interrogate a piece, write down my thoughts, read the artist’s label/tombstone that details the inspirations, and compare what I saw to the “truth” of the work.
My mind, at first, wanted to gravitate towards the art that felt familiar, or more interpretable to my eyes. But instantly, I reminded myself that this was a moment to embrace the discomfort of reading an art piece for what you feel, even if the results don’t match its truth. So, I jotted my notes down. And with each piece, I felt my words, which started out as one-worded sentences to be abrupt, becoming more colorful, more weighted, and more intrigued with what it is I wanted to say.
Eventually, someone came up to me mid-scribble, watching me write, and did her best not to interrupt me. She eventually asked, “Are you writing a paper?”
“Oh! No. But I am a writer.”
“Gotcha. What are you writing, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Uhhh…” I was deciding if I should let her in on my little adventure through words, as if it was something that I didn’t know would be received well, but eventually caved. “I’m using this as a writing exercise. I’m tasked to describe to myself what I see, and then read the tombstone to find out if that was the path of the artist.”
Her eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s fucking cool. I love that. Have you been right?”
I flip through my notes. “Honestly…? Sort of. Yeah, some of the words I jotted down resonated with the feel. Like this one? I wrote ‘A chaos of dark matter in a colonial village. A stormy sky, a heap of soldiers or policemen running about, a place that’s quiet but maybe knows no peace. Populated by deep blues, blacks, and greys, with splotches of color belonging to homes and grass, there is no order here. Just fear. False safety.’ Only to find out the painting was made a year before World War I and acts like a sort of premonition to what the war would bring.”
She nods her head, I’m assuming impressed. “…wow. That’s cool. I think I’m gonna steal this idea.” And we laugh, but I definitely encourage her to go right ahead. I was learning so much about my own ability to dissect and read and feel a thing, that I felt a strange power being tapped into that accelerated my need to visit more unfamiliar pieces and discover what I know.
We all deserve to feel that.
5-ish PM — I haul ass down the stairs to head over for the live music happening somewhere on the grounds. I got very lost in the art exercise and completely forgot the time. I make it downstairs but don’t see a crowd. So I go to the front desk. “Good evening. Is there supposed to be a jazz show happening?”
“That’s on Fridays. We have free Jazz performances every week for the public to enjoy. You’d have to come back next week for that.”
I was confused, disappointed, and felt cheated. I had already prepared my spirit for music. “Okay, got it. But, I overheard something about music happening right now? At 5pm?”
He clonked his head playfully. “OH! You’re talking about Latin Sounds night! Yes, that’s happening right now, in the back. Just follow those people and you’ll see.”
LATIN SOUNDS? Whatever that was, even better. I speed walk across the grounds, where, as I get closer to where I’m supposed to be, I begin to hear a heavy dose of activity. I turn the corner and follow a path behind a building and there before me was a large park blanketed with people of all types picnicking in front of a concrete stage open to the public. Instruments lined across it, and the announcer stood at the mic, bringing attention to him so he could announce the band.
I rush over to the front of the park where an assortment of chairs are lined up for those not picnicking, and take a seat next to a Mexican family to my right, and an old white lady hunched over with her heading bobbing from dosing off to my left.
The announcer introduces the band, whose name I miss, but they hail from Cuba and have been a major success in their country, as well as paving major waves in the Latin music space for years. Comprising of multi-generations of men, they walk onto the stage, take their seats at their instruments, and after a count-off, begin to play in unison. This amalgamation of richness swoops me up, romantic and fiery at first, and begins to pick up steam to encourage dancing.
I look around me and am amazed. I watch as husbands grab their wives by the hand and guide them to the dance floor. White, Black, Mexican, Cuban, Asian… most of them are older, breaking 50 years old, and it’s only a small flurry of them that are around my age. But the medley is so endearing. The salsa dancing everyone moves in is either wonderfully rhythmic or imperfect and, for some, freestyled. For that, it IS perfect. Song after song, more and more couples feel encouraged to dance without reservation and let their partners guide them.
Some people switch partners. Folks who I assumed came with each other didn’t, passing someone off for the next song having never met them in their life. It was EVERYTHING I needed to see. I’ve been wishing for a chance to dance with my hips for a long time at a function where I can meet many kindred souls as eager to find this as I am. To so suddenly find it in the backyard of the museum on the day I’m having the most artistic adventure brought me so much joy.
After watching for about a half hour, I put my purse down somewhere safe, and rush onto the dancefloor to salsa dance. I meet two older women, one from Israel and the other from Cuba, who take turns dancing with me, showing me a few moves. They call me beautiful. They ask me where I’m from. They express the gratitude they feel for having found this place. And we dance till our clothes cling to our backs from the sweat we conjure from all this freedom.
It is the most fun I’ve ever had with a bunch of people I’d never know LA was hiding, and I am in bliss.
6:45ish PM — I realize there’s still so much I haven’t seen at the museum yet that got interrupted, so I rush out of the park and to one of the other buildings that house the more eccentric, worldly views of art. This part of the museum is unlike the 3rd floor that I occupied. The mood is warm and intimate, though the open conception of this floor is massive. Only having ten minutes, my eyes carry themselves across walls, taking in this fresh new exhibition that showcases art by women artists of the Middle East.
And baby… whew. Talk about outside of my comfort. The women chosen to display their work share their voices so firmly, the art begs me to look at it. A suspension of what I thought I knew and an introduction from voices that are not mine that are saying what they need to say very loudly, with so much HEART. That's the best way to put it. Islamic women holding nothing back, rebelling against the oppression of their voice and standing firm in their eccentricity. I walked through that exhibit wishing I didn’t only have 3 more minutes left to take it all in. Gosh, I wanted to sit on the floor and take ALL the notes. Get lost in THIS.
…but before I knew it, the security guard was asking me to make my exit, and I obeyed. But not without vowing to come back very soon.
7:00-ish PM — So… remember the Ruth E. Carter talk? Forgot to mention that at certain moments throughout my museum visit, I’d check Twitter to see if anyone replied to my tweet with possible tickets. Granted, people replied saying they hope someone replies to me with free tix, but, to my dismay… NADA. No tix.
The museum is closing, right? I step out and turn to my left, looking for the best exit to catch an Uber, when I realized the Academy Museum for Motion Pictures is next door, and remember that the talk is about to start. I don’t know what I was expecting, but my feet started moving and next thing you know, I was jetting inside for a miracle. I walk in and ask the desk girl if the talk has started.
“Nope! But it’s about to. Go check in with the people behind me, and make your way downstairs.”
Readers… I did NOT check in with the people behind her, because what was there to check? I knew my name wasn’t on the list; tickets were sold out. So, what did I do…? I walked straight downstairs. And at the foot of the stairs to the auditorium where Ruth was speaking were three workers of the Academy Museum, trying to check in three other Black women here before me. I get nosy. I see they’re holding those little card/Apple Pay machines in their hand, and I instantly wonder if I can buy tickets right now.
I ask, and one of them goes, “Yeah, you can purchase a ticket. But, for some reason, it seems these machines keep cutting out.” Me and the Black women there keep looking at each other, telepathically communicating, “We gettin’ in this bitch. Through hell or high water, they gonna let us in.”
The workers talk amongst themselves, fiddling with the machines, asking if theirs is working, and getting told no… eventually, one of the women says, “Can we pay you via cash app? Or purchase when we come outside once it’s over?” One of the works says, “…let’s try and make these work first.” We wait for another 2 minutes, until I say, “Look, we were more than ready to purchase the tickets. Let’s just pay you when we get out?”
One of the dudes looks at us, considers it, looks at his watch, and goes, “You know what? It’s already 7pm. The talk’s about to start. We’ll comp your tickets. Let them in, guys.”
BABY…? Baby. The excitement I felt was unmatched. This couldn’t be happening. I remember tweeting that if I could get into this event it would have been the cherry on top to an amazing day, and look. Just look.
We raced down those steps and I took the closest seat that I could see. And after she was announced, I sat back and watched Ruth’s work come across the screen in a beautifully crafted compilation showing the films she’s costumed, and being reminded just how integral her eye was to bringing these worlds to life. How much story is in clothes and fashion. And how much innovation Ms. E. Carter brought to the world of costume design in general. Goosebumps, deep breaths, elation… I felt all of it.
As a filmmaker, I think so much about the story. I forget how many components have to come together to make a film that feels lived in. And when she finally came out to discuss her book, which gives immense details with all of the sketches and pictures inside for almost every project she’s worked on, one of the key things she mentioned was that film is one of the most difficult mediums of art there is, and it’s because there are so many layers and titles to the art of the picture that has to come together. People and partnerships in creating this thing. Research. Consistent communication. Sharing ideas. Building, scrapping, and starting all over. It’s a laborious art, but Ms. E. Carter is a storyteller first, and a costume designer after. And if there is one thing she will dedicate herself to is the story through the cloth.
Ms. Carter has an air about her that’s confident and relaxed. Reminds me a little of Toni Morrison. She doesn’t answer questions like it’s an interview. She talks to you in a familiarity that, while you maintain major respect for her, you’d feel no intimidation going up to her to share some words.
She talked to us about so much, and I came away from the talk feeling high and so eager to get her book for my coffee table. I felt so much joy to the way the day went, that I went to the connected restaurant that sat by the lobby of the museum and decided to get dinner. I bought a fettuccini seafood pasta with prawns garlic butter sauce, and a glass of Sauvignon Blanc. And, my gosh, that was one of the best seafood pastas I’ve ever had. The wine! The wine was so great. The decor of the restaurant was classic and dim, practically empty, apart from the people who came from the talk as I did, and the food was absolutely delicious.
When it was all done, I knew the night had come to a close. A contended, overwhelmed in gratitude close. I sat outside by the valet people, waiting for my Uber and letting the cool temperatures of LA’s summer nights wind me down.
10-ish PM — I’m home. My shoes are off. My clothes are sprawled across the floor. My hair is free. I lay naked, apart from my underwear, on my couch, listening to the activity happening outside. A car passing, nightlife goers walking past my building to head to the bar down the block. My neighbor above me walking across their living room.
…and I fall asleep.
Reader,
To be frank, I don’t know boredom anymore. Seriously, it feels foreign sometimes. I don’t visit it often, and if I feel it’s coming close, I know that what’s being asked of me is to LIVE. It means that there’s stagnancy and comfort I’ve been leaning on too heavily, and it’s time for action. And not the kind that shocks you momentarily. I’m talking about the kind of action that revitalizes a part of you that you haven’t exercised in a long time or at all but speaks to the person you are so deeply before autopilot set in.
I know a lot of people who reside in a loop of familiarity that barely challenges them. They revisit the same places, read the same books, watch the same movies, eat the same food, abandon and pick up the same habits, and ask themselves why, after a few weeks of the repetitiveness, do they not feel motivated.
…it’s because you’re not shocked. You’re not taken aback by something that is seeking you, and you, it. You don’t listen to your needs and you think going to the same things will bring you new answers, and I have to be very frank with you when I say… What sense does that make? Why would you return to something you already know has not moved you since you received what you needed from it a long time ago, and in which your spirit is so desperately seeking something else?
I am a firm believer in doing something different. Using senses you don’t use, eating foods you don’t eat, and attending things that show you people you normally wouldn’t see or gravitate towards. Challenge yourself. Live a LOT. But also, even in the newness, be cognisant of knowing what you NEED from it. Let it be nourishing.
Example: for two months prior to this artful weekend, I had been going out more, meeting new people, and tasting new foods. But, the places I went didn’t really move me, the people I was with were cool but didn’t talk about things that ignited intrigue nor shared energy that felt enticing to be around, and the food I tasted was fine, but just that.
TWO MONTHS. Two months of spending money and energy, thinking I was really doing something, only to come home feeling just… alright. And then, I go on this self-date and return to something that feels good but still approach it with plenty of newness and surprise, and my brain got to work itself differently. The people I sat with didn’t only look like me but looked so different than me. They danced, they roamed the exhibits as I did, the art was unlike anything I imagined, the energy was tasty, and the world felt ALIVE.
You have to know when it’s time to approach your life differently. You have to do better than mope in indecision. You have to follow an impulse sometimes, or just say yes to a thing before your subconscious gives you all the excuses to be stagnant.
Different is unfamiliar, and we are conditioned to dislike surprises. But, isn’t it time to feel again? To be? To LIVE?
If this post triggers something in you, then I’d say, yes. It’s time to be surprised.
stumbled on your newsletter, then stumbled onto this post, and so so glad i did. this was beautiful and inspiring and gave me all the feels that i want to feel for myself. thank you for sharing your beautiful self-date with us 🤍
Oh this was lovely to read! I have definitely been stuck but have not felt drawn to anything in ages. Probably years.
I lost my job last month and have been languishing as I unsuccessfully look for work, but ultimately unsure of next steps. I feel really out of sorts, and while I have been seeing lots of art (theatre, cinema, books), very little of it touches me.
I want something new but am also very tired, like I am running on empty. I dont have energy for anything, and the heat wave isnt helping.
I really appreciated this post.
Hopefully something will improve for me soon because I am ready for a new beginning but also having no idea what that looks like. I presently dont feel much of anything :3