Give it a push

Miscellanea #48: On moving and hope, a special find in the proverbial record crate, and more

Olga St, New Orleans

A mini-memoir and public farewell to an apartment I called home for only two years is melodramatic. But I am melodramatic.

In January 2018, I moved to Olga Street unusually unsure of myself and my ability to sustain a healthy relationship, jumpstart my work life, or move on from parts of myself I did not like — much less pay full rent on a 1-bedroom in the city. Admittedly, when I moved into apartment #3, my hope was waning.

But it happens that my grandma grew up two doors down from my new place, my mom told me. Hmm. Not much for divine intervention, and too romantic for mere coincidence, I chalked it up to purpose. In my lonely and stumbling pursuit of hope, my grandma’s ghost had just joined the search party. We’d soon be accompanied by a beautiful stained-glass window and sunny mornings when the walls adjacent took on lapping waves of orange and green and blue. Then there was Bayou St. John and the gospel of long afternoon walks. And Mary and Maggie moved to town. Together we were on hope’s heels; I remembered a sensation of wholeness.

Insecure as I was, I made a bet on myself — that I could do the things I doubted I could do. Turns out that when I moved to Olga, I was taking the first step towards moving on. Hope works best if you give it a push.

Goodbye, Olga.

P.S. We’re moving around the corner from where my granddad grew up, my mom told me.

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RIP Kobe Bryant, Gigi, and others

Sadness. There are no words, but here are some from a couple newsletters I subscribe to:

Times like these remind us that nothing is promised, and our time could be up at any moment. An urgent call to live with love, gratitude, and excellence.

Digging it up

Music discovery is not what it used to be. I’m not old enough to have fond memories of digging through record crates — and roaming Circuit City’s music aisles didn’t exactly hold that charm, nostalgic it may be. My generation, we were left to burning CDs, Myspace, LimeWire, and music blogs — a fragmented, albeit fun, process. Now we stream. And while it lacks in charm and disrupts industry standards, it’s actually an effective tool for discovering music, old and new. This week’s discovery: Judee Sill’s Heart Food (1973) — a wonderful twangy fusion of genres she called “country-cult-baroque”. Hear these shades of S. Carey and Enya:

Judee battled drug addictions and passed away from an overdose in ‘79.

Think about it

How 17 Outsize Portraits Rattled a Small Southern Town. Muahaha — I Quit Friendships, Regularly. The Atlantic Selects is a showcase of cinematic short documentary films — I was intrigued by In Rising Seas, a Girl Learns to Swim and The Many Faces of the Occult. Shared by my girlfriend and to my own embarrassment: Women Aren’t Nags — We’re Just Fed Up. Netflix’s Our Planet is a captivating and beautiful warning. Does hurting make us human? And just for kicks, here’s a recipe for my favorite cocktail, the Sidecar.