July, you have been many things, but boring is not one of them. You, like the remainder of your 2020 brethren, have been filled with twists and turns, ebbs and flows, adventure and adversity.
I’ve begun carrying around a little portable notebook with me, the front decorated with the typewritten words, “Sometimes it’s not about the happy ending. Maybe it’s about the story.” I scribble into it whatever I need to remember, artistically. It is the holder of stories yet untold, whether it be an unwritten novel, an unrecorded podcast, an underscored poem. Some days, it is the reminder that I’m good enough to do this, that my brain is smart enough, holds enough, to make it through the undulating cacophony of days. It is proof that I could be nothing but an artist. My brain doesn’t work any other way. The scribbles inside, some barely legible due to my hand not keeping up with my gunpowder mind, are a love poem to thoughts, to story. Names of people who truly existed, their lives deserving of the cinematic page. Bullet points of articles to be researched. Genealogical trees drawn. Inklings of podcast episodes, reminiscent of ‘40s radio shows but perhaps better. Dreams of plays and letters and video games and art. Sometimes, I think those scribbles are a book of love to humanity. They remind me to love myself, too. And don’t you worry: I’m working on all of them. They all deserve to live.
July, you have brought me Sweetbitter and Supernatural. Hamilton and holding hands. Grief and goddesses. Chaos and catharsis. You are supposedly the hottest month of the year, and, by god, you brought the heat. You reminded me of how ignorant people can be; you soothed that by illustrating how beauty is exemplified right back at it. You gave me ulcers by telling me I couldn’t fly back out to deal with my apartment; you medicated that by the revealing of wonderful friendships (though I’ll still be anxiety-ridden until I get my stuff back, shout out to Sam and Maria for clearing out a whole apartment for me – god, I love you guys). You, July, wielded the fist of fragility and strength.
I am reminded daily of how grateful I am for the good that surrounds me. For the people who love me. For good friends. For creating art. For making something beautiful out of a blank page. For an internship that solidified exactly where I want to go from here. For daydreams about the future that some days feel not that far-fetched. I am grateful, so very, very grateful. But some days, it’s hard to see that. It’s so easy to feel as if the world is spinning too fast, and everyone else is too good, and I’m too…well, nothing. It’s so easy to feel as if I’m running out of time, a thought that I’ve fought as long as I’ve known the existence of time as a concept. Some days, my pulse feels like the chant of the White Rabbit: “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.” But what am I late for? Perhaps I’m right on time, here, with all of you, with all of me. I try to remind myself of that, on the days when each minute feels like the screeching wind of a gothic moor, too fast, too harsh. I am reminded of how grateful I am.
July, you made me snappish for a while there. You played with my panic more than I can say, and I doubt August will stop that rhythm. I’m working on finding the sword for that: maybe it’ll be a really nice pen. That’s how the saying goes, isn’t it? ;) You reignited my artistry. I rediscovered my love for putting words on the page, for endless research and study, for crafting stories that maybe haven’t been told yet. (Yes, every story has been told once, but not by you. Not by me. Come on now.) You brought back inspiration, and, even on the days when I’m beating myself up for something or another, I can remember that.
You brought me time with my favorite people. Even the silence is something I relish, a comfortable silence that feels equal parts whole and enticing. Just sitting in it, feeling the ambient proximity of my loved ones, is a joy, making the mundane extraordinary. I am reminded of that. Reminded of how we must do that—find the spectacular in the seemingly prosaic—in order to be content. A smile. A flower. The scent of cookies baking. How one patch of grass grows faster than another. An embarrassed chuckle from someone telling a past story. A mother feeding her baby. The bubbling of a tea kettle. The black lines of calligraphy. A new journal. A new baseball glove. Dancing around the kitchen to ‘80s music. It’s all beautiful. It’s the stuff stories are made of.
We are the stuff stories are made of.
See you on the flip side, July.
Welcome, August.
Oh my god, I’m almost 22.
Jeepers, gang.
~Rhiannon~
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