selcouth
“I wonder if there’s a secret current that connects people who have lost something. Not in the way that everyone loses something, but in the way that undoes your life, undoes yourself.”
I’d rather a few close friends to many acquaintances. Few know the cascading rhythm of my heart—those who do have certainly felt the illumination of my soaring spirit understand. Its unwavering loyalty. My upending fluctuations always score a point to land. I am a spiralling pinwheel in the sky. Unravelling quickly: am I coming undone, or are the circles moving inwards? My aim is high. I burst at random. I fall, scattering like a flock of birds in springtime.
Friendship is the yolk that binds the elements with the action. I am because of my will to thrive in the world of objects and thanks to the community of strong and supportive people who’ve left their distinct impressions like footprints in wet sand. The waves and wind may rinse the tread, yet the feeling remains. Memories live on in the cellular body regardless of the visual or verbal notations that help us remember who we once were and all we love.
Photographs are a subtle reminder of where we once were. I want to appear as a bold slash! Help the painter whip their tools against the high ceilinged walls with splashes and spots. When you look at me, I don’t want you to see my face. I want you to feel a sense of belonging. I want you to remember the ache you’ve buried inside of yourself. I want you to wield your sword to open the small box and recover what you never lost, merely misplaced. When you look at me, I want you to see the history of the moments I’ve lived. The scars and broken flower stems. I want you to feel the ripples of ecstatic joy rushing from my veins with each beat of hope that pumps from the heart. The organ of the unstruck.
I want you to see in me, what needs to break within you. I want the rupture: I demand blood. Like those prickly pears gathered for their juice, I want you to see past the thorny edges and flash of colour. Break the thing to see its contents tumble. You will fall. You will rise. And the wonder will be magnificent!
I write my romance with the world as the infant who sucks in its first breath. Learning to take in life is the greatest pain I’ve ever experienced. Kinship—spiritual companions—are the extension of what feels familiar. I bond most deeply with those who share my penchant for art. Aesthetes. Bibliophiles. Seekers. Individuals who observe and yet do not cling to the details. Those who celebrate the mundane and reconcile their longing with solitude. People who offer more than they take. Communities that are driven upwards and onwards by Love, Truth, Beauty, Preservation, and Hope.
We are the collection of stories we create together. My tribe is far-flung, yet the depth of our bond transcends the limitations of our environment, the constructs of manufactured time. This living is not linear.
Seeing Macey in real life is like watching a sourdough starter spring to life. It takes time, precise temperature, and the correct tools to nurture the loaf from dough to bread. I arrive in Flagstaff after two years of weekly Zoom calls where we met to read, edit, reflect and write. Our manuscripts are a map in progress. Our friendship is that loaf of freshly baked bread, puffed-up and perfect. Waiting to be tasted. The idea is not as comforting as the embodied impression.
Meeting Macey (In Person)
A hug that feels like a big sister the first time, a little sister the second time, and we are torn from the same blue cloth by bedtime.
The red flower earrings I’ve seen many times speak to the slow burst of pigment in a modest home.
A blue house. A purple Persian rug. Neon green post-its on the wall keeping track of her manuscript. A black and white calendar with a couple leaping from a cliff. Embroidery of tiny green cacti against a dark sunset. A golden yellow chair. White walls with high ceilings and an assortment of items hung out for display: a bicycle, photographs, white lights, itemized lists, notes from fellow travellers, posters of Flagstaff festivals, turquoise blue wallpaper with golden butterflies, Buddhist prayer flags.
She is taller than I expected and smells like coconut cream. Her hair is wet and her eyes warm as we embrace. She easily lifts my purple duffle and sets it atop the wooden frame in Monster, the truck she drove across the country. She left her hometown with her truck loaded with hiking gear and a simple wish: to drive to Alaska. This is her story. This is why we met in the US Berkeley Creative Writing Program.
Macey is one of four women with whom I bonded. She is outspoken and direct. Sensitive and observant of the innocuous details most miss upon many glances. Attune to her environment; she is one of those people who write notes and leaves them taped to appropriate locations for guests. WiFi passwords, shop lists, the doors not to be locked and the doors to be bolted, along with house particulars recorded on a calendar. Macey has a bucket list with little boxes to check off once completed. This list is private, carefully jotted in cursive in a small notebook decorated in sepia-toned wrapping paper with black butterflies.
Macey likes butterflies.
The fridge is full of sauces, dairy-free creamers, and Tupperware of sauteed veggies, dips, and soups. She drinks decaf coffee and has a large water bottle with her at all times. Stay Hydrated. A typical Taurus, her brashness has no bite. Loving, judicious, careful, and caring, my room welcomes me with a long wooden desk and a tall chair—a place to write. Macey has placed a journal, notecards to write to friends, stickers from a yoga studio she thinks I’ll like, and a note with a two-page list of activities in Flagstaff that I will enjoy.
FLG Things Stephanie Will Like:
Macey’s Coffee.
Bright Side Books.
Trails Behind Storp Park, Observatory Mesa.
Sunrise.
Flagslam.
Northern Arizona Yoga Center.
The wildflowers in spring.
Weed, actually.
To meet someone of such undeviating tenderness brings me to tears.
Photo, source.
