I have many thoughts about Beyonce’s new visual album. She released it as a one hour journey through song, video and spoken word.
The first words out of her mouth on the very first track are
You can taste the dishonesty, it’s all over your breath.
I was not prepared.
So much of this album wasn’t written for me, sung for me, or performed for me. It’s steeped in rich black culture, flooded with strong black women, I recognize that and I step back from that. (if you’d like to know more, this is a fantastic read)
The most disrespected person in America is the Black woman, the most unprotected person in America is the Black woman. The most neglected person in America is the Black woman.
That first line, however, began to uncoil something for me. Those song lyrics interspersed with poetry by Warsan Shire.
Something don’t feel right
Because it ain’t right
Especially comin’ up after midnight
I smell your secret, and I’m not too perfect
To ever feel this worthless…
Lookin’ jealous or crazy? Jealous or crazy?
What a wicked way to treat the girl that loves you…
I’ve been a big fan of the internet for more almost two decades now. Ever since I can remember I’ve been absolutely blown away by the sheer volume of information it contains – even in its earliest days.
I was an early adopter of blogs, too – I had a GeoCities page back in the day, complete with sparkling jellybean background and gif overloads. Over the years I transitioned first to Blogger, then Tumblr, then WordPress, then the self-hosted site you’re reading now. I enthusiastically embraced Facebook and Twitter and Instagram as they emerged onto the scene.
Although I’m quite social and outgoing, too much social interaction drains me. I need to recharge by retreating and having a few days to myself. As I grew up and realized this about myself, online interaction became a way to continue communicating and interacting during these down times without getting that overwhelmed “too much” feeling. It also became an amazing tool for a fledgling writer who desperately craved an outlet (and an audience) for all her dramatic prose and overwrought poetry.
The poetry has gone (thank god) but the blogging has remained, and since September I’ve been fortunate enough to share my words on a larger platform via my column at The Guardian.
My younger sister, Lizzie, is getting married this summer and for the past month or so we’ve been wedding dress shopping.
Anyone who’s done this will know that it’s a uniquely frustrating experience, trying on dresses that wear you, dealing with bewilderingly unhelpful sales people, and wading into the strange and terrible world of wedding dress manufacturing where apparently it’s normal to spend $2000 on something you’ll wear for eight hours, and it’s also apparently normal to have to order a dress six months in advance at the latest, presumably because it’s being hand sewed by tiny free range mice in a magical cottage in remote Siberia.
For more than five years now I’ve been really conscious about what I buy. I rarely go shopping, and when I do, I try to shop secondhand as much as possible. I no longer buy something just because it’s cute or on sale, I have to love it and how it was made.
The end result of this campaign of austerity is that I don’t own much, but what I do own, I love.
Hooponopono 02 by Duealberi on Etsy
Come, sit down next to me and let me complain about my life.
Internet, the last week or so has been just balls. (That’s the technical term, I believe. I’m a writer so I know these things)
Without going into detail, it was just a bunch of total bullshit topped off by a killer migraine – I haven’t had any for a few months now and I’d been hopefully hoping with all my everythings crossed that maybe they had disappeared for good, but I think that there’s some intersection between pressure changes with the spring weather we’ve been having lately, and me having chronically low magnesium levels. One feeds the other, then when you add stress into the mix you’ve got a perfect recipe for migraines.