“Spend your days in wonder; spend your days in love with your weird town and your weird self. Spend your days listening to songs that make you feel kind.”
If you haven’t taken a Vitamin D supplement lately, just read these instead.
…the things you love don’t owe you anything – not success, not plaudits, not a decent night’s sleep, nothing. You give them your effort and devotion because they deserve it, because their presence turns a light on in your dim little life and there will never be enough ways to say thank you.
The first assignment in my writing class this week was to make a list of objects from a place where we feel a story unfolded. I chose the apartment I lived in during my junior year of college. Lord knows enough happened there. 1724 W. Kilbourn. Items that made the list include:
books we didn’t read
furniture we didn’t buy
all twin beds (maybe one full bed?)
a bowl of candy corn from Valentine’s Day that lasted well into March
crutches a guy lent me when I hurt my meniscus
ripped-out pages from an art book taped to the walls
a ceiling fan I was afraid to turn on
no clocks — anywhere
Practical Magic soundtrack
That place is still crisp as a dollar bill in my memory, which it probably should be, as it was only five years ago. It was a three-story walk-up that, in hindsight, left much to be desired. We thought it was Taj Mahal, though. And the one thing it really had going for it was its back porch. That was its saving grace. We relished that porch.
This picture was taken on that beamed blessing. It was one of the first real spring days after a weird, drab winter. I’m wearing a men’s flannel shirt from Goodwill, laughing at a joke I don’t remember. Moments after that picture was taken, I borrowed my roommate’s Buick, picked up friends and drove to a vegan Southern tavern on the south side. We played Devendra Banhart’s “Lover.” We played it loud. We ate hushpuppies in a pleather booth. We drove back on the Hoan Bridge, and I still remember how much the city — from that angle — looks precisely like home.
If you don’t believe in fate, my tattoo artist agreed, when I told him about you, you better believe in something.
Oh, I told him, I do.
What? He asked.
People, I said, and he shook his head and smiled, like everyone always does. But I’ve never been wrong, grown man that I am. Not once.
[SELF-MADE MAN #28: THE LION, THE LAMB, AND THE GROWN MAN by Thomas Page McBee via The Rumpus]
— F. Scott Fitzgerald
I read The Great Gatsby in high school, but years later, I still think of this sentence. Especially when I meet certain people or read certain news stories. It’s the perfect description for so much.