hummingbee-lievable - Tumblr blog

[hummingbee-lievable]

I keep catching glimpses of myself as I imagine myself to be

in those coming days

when I've lost everything

and found it again

only this time

I wear rumpled warm colours that

fold around the wayward lost

and when the camera zooms out

someone will see me

for the warmth I bring

and I'll bike home each day and the air will blow through my hair-

sometimes it's nature-long

or freedom-bob

or weighted-but-strong pixie-

all I know is that

I come home to a house that is colder

and cleaner

and it is mine

and all of my books cover one wall

and my favourite poems another

and there are photos-

compilations that organise my history into something tangible

and somehow out of reach but under my fingertips,

something whose tendrils

if allowed to escape

would crumple me into the arms of the right listener-

and on the last there are letters

and I have my neat kitchen with the teas and spices and the sweet little ceramic pieces that I have made next to the mismatched dishware of my past for those random and unexpected hostings of people as lost as I am-

we'll have warmth for a moment in my patchwork-

and I have my group therapy on Thursday evenings

and my children learn art and stories in the daytime

and when I make food

it has all the answers and my body

tingles in fulfilment in each

weary bone and twisted ligament that is

unspooled at night when

it is most quiet and it is only then

that I wonder if the life I have created is truly one of joy and happiness or if it is

the space bar between one world moving to another

and I have the friendliness that the neighbours see

and we love our little chats

but they don't know me

and I don't know them

until

I get to the sweeping love story-

you know,

the kind we write about,

where I finally get what I have always wanted

but only because I'll finally allow myself to

and because

their eyes

see me

exactly as I dreamed of

and the person in front of me goes from two-dimensional into

three-dimensional and somehow

doesn't lose the internal beauty to their shape

and there's just enough of a story where there's

buildup and tension and oddities and maybe a little fire and

one seeing the other from across the room and

suddenly I'm brininging my neighbours questions and cookies and

I'll have one of those stories I tell my children about where

I hadn't realised it but the lips

I imaginined each night

hovering over my own

were finally home.

I spend all this time picturing

what I'm going to be

as though I've lost everything I have now,

as though I'm finally free from "chains",

as though I am somehow capable of creating a better future out of

broken glass

than I am out of

coming home to a dog and terrible jokes and plants and game nights and chores and gangly arms that want to hold me more than I can handle sometimes and I

call my grandmother to hear about her latest health epidemic or book club book and my

grandfather where we will talk about everything from

loss to

pickle ball and the newest wine

and I paint this scene as though I have

ripped out of the canvas and

killed it white as though

I could ever find something as good as being allowed

to be sick when I get home and knowing

I'll be taken care of of I lose myself.

In my mind my life will somehow be better when I am not weakened by this love

(though every logic and story has taught me otherwise).

I know this.

And yet

why do I not stop picturing it?

I fear the future I invite for myself.

[hummingbee-lievable]

I want to

t

i

l

t

Until I have

reached the

little

s p a c e

where I am

home.

[hummingbee-lievable]

A child reaching for a hand

that teaches only

burning

will still lean in

for the promise of warmth.

Sometimes, abuse can feel like love. A starving man would eat anything.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Anything I've ever tried to

score onto my skin

left tendrils of

torment and lace

and I thought

what a gift.

Marie Howe, from “Watching Television”, What the Living Do

[hummingbee-lievable]

IF WE ARE HANDED THE TASTE OF FRESH RASPBERRIES WHY DOES THE PROMISE OF THEM TURN SOUR ON THE TONGUE

When I was born I did not cry, but was peacefully sucking on my thumb until they put me on the cold scale;

I have not stopped crying since.

They said I was angry but I think I just wanted to hold

the bird's eggs in my hand without them breaking.

Instead I am seated in the plastic red chair with yolk running down my hair as punishment and

it is one of those moments that is so much that it can only be funny

and I've forgotten how the shell looked without

the cracks running down the sides.

I do not believe in heaven

but I imagine this is as close as I could get

with the warmth of a hand reaching for mine

and the hollow cool after it lets go.

I cannot imagine joy without knowing the depth that comes behind it;

if I had not been beaten I would not be able to recognise a gentle touch for the luxury that it is.

I keep telling myself that I am here, and I am.

How much more can I ask for

than the sick-sweet taste of fresh fruit dribbling down my chin?

if life is as short as our ancestors insist it is, why isn’t everything i want already at my feet by Hanif Abdurraqib

[hummingbee-lievable]

I have lost track of my nerves and they have decided that

dancing in wild fractures is

the only way.

I remember the texture of your lips

but I don't remember the colour of your eyes

or the way your breath smelled in the morning

(even though I know it was a scent I enjoyed, to my surprise).

I remember that when the sun went down you would

pause everything to sip your tea (two sugars, no milk)

and stand on the balcony (and I wasn't to say one. single. word.)

and that you hated how meticulous I was with washing dishes

(just put them in the dishwasher, for goodness' sake!)

(you would never say 'god', you didn't want to lean into a concept you refused to entertain, even peripherally)

but I've forgotten the way your shirts lined the closet and which direction you put your shoes at the door.

I've forgotten the way your arms felt around me when I was at my most tired

when I was nothing but weary feet and a queasy stomach and you let me sink into you.

I've forgotten how that feels and only know that it is a betrayal that I have.

Sometimes when it's dark enough and quiet enough, I think I hear the clink of a bottle being surreptitiously put back under the washroom cabinet

as though I would not know.

My favourite memory of you, the one run I run over my tongue when every other taste is curdled milk and shadows

is of you waiting.

It never mattered what you were waiting for, or how long you had to sit in a hard-backed bench in the dreary cold or at what godless (I think 'god' has long stopped meaning the way it was once held, I think now it is just a scream) time of day you had to wake up in order to make the train (always fifteen minutes to spare, at least)

you were so good at waiting. You would simply sit, and settle in, and for that time, the world was your home. I have never seen that peaceful anywhere else, not even in your casket

but I suppose you were done waiting, by then.

I won't pretend I was good for you.

But I think we destroyed each other nicely.

After the police left, I didn't move for 3 days. (You would think I might have been found. You would be wrong.)

The only thing that roused me was that the sun coming in through the god-damned blinds (you always did forget to pull them closed at night- you said the room was better with starlight and even as I tossed and turned, I had to agree).

It was 3 months later, standing in the grocery store with a handful of radishes and a candy bar that I heard the Mountain Goats' 'Woke Up New':

'The first time I made coffee for just myself I made too much of it But I drank it all just 'cause you hate it when I let things go to waste'

and I realised I was still living with you.

Even now, I keep thinking that you're in every flick of my needle (mocking a stray stitch)

at every corner (waiting to surprise me with another awful dinner)

behind every door (and had you remembered to turn on the lights this time)

(and every other cliché we can foist into this cavalcade)

and I think I've decided:

I'm okay with you.

When my cousin's ex-girlfriend died

(I still think about how once she promised to kiss me goodnight and I laid awake, excited, because I really thought she might; I wonder if my knack for naïve hope in ridiculous situations serves me now, but I can't imagine it matters either way; I think you would still be here regardless)

I asked him how he wanted it to feel, when he looked back on this pain.

He said: 'I want it to always feel profound'.

It shocked me then; it seemed almost weak to want to cling to what could only hurt.

But that was then.

And I like the stories that don't end well, the ones that leave you with this bittersweet tang-

(because aren't we just pendulums swinging back around to where we started? And wasn't our beginning nothing?)

and I like knowing that when I go to sleep, you will once have slept next to me

and that if someday that spot ever morphs to someone else's impression, you will still have been there.

And I like that I didn't win (that I use the dishwasher now- they say it uses less water, after all)

that you didn't triumph over every affront (that the blinds are drawn now)

that the story didn't resolve into sugar-sweet (lips on lips on lips on lips)

and that we broke against each other (glass or bones, you choose).

I like that we were real.

'It didn't change anything. It didn't save anyone...

but it still matters that the love was there.'

@starpeace, thank you for your words.

*

words by @starpeace

[hummingbee-lievable]

'Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green,

And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself'

-Walt Whitman, 'I Saw in Louisiana A Live-Oak Growing'

How is it that

we give so much to

a being that just

Is

and yet cannot look at ourselves

and peel away the layers into just

Am.

How is it that

a moon must be beckoning

and tears must be pouring forth from

cracks inescapable

and a tree is 'rude, unbending, lusty'

and our faces are scathing and wrecked and beguiling

when all

Are?

Why cannot everything just

Be?

But no.

We must turn

Being into

Meaning.

How else would we walk if

flowers could not be beautiful and

trees could not feel like home.

I treasure knowing that there is

possibility.

For things to not have to mean anything.

But how much shading it gives,

knowing we see things as we do.

We are.

And there must be more to that

but it doesn't have to be.

[hummingbee-lievable]

yes I'm now on the other side of top surgery and I'm allowed to lift things again 💪 You might have already seen this one on my substack -- did u know you can subscribe to my substack for early access to comics like this?! Sent directly to your email inbox??? FOR FREE????? (there is also an optional paid tier for exclusive bonus content for five bucks a month but like 80% of my posts will be free and publicly available) ty ily♥

[hummingbee-lievable]

A fun etymology for you fellow word nerds: the word 'meticulous' comes from the Greek 'metus'. Any guesses as to what that means?

Fear.

The act of being meticulous is literally fear-based. This blew my mind because it made me look at things I obsessively do, and wonder what fear I was attempting to ameliorate with my actions (fear of failure, fear of reprimand, fear of punishment, fear of things unfolding out of my control, I'm sure you've got your own list).

Mostly, I just liked having a reminder to check myself. It's nice to know where something is coming from, even if I'm not always in a mental place to change it.

Attaching this amazing slam poem about OCD, as well.

Greetings bugs and worms!

This comic is a little different than what I usually do but I worked real hard on it—Maybe I'll make more infographic stuff in the future this ended up being fun. Hope you learned something new :)

If you are still curious and want to learn more about OCD, you can visit the International OCD Foundation's website. I also recommend this amazing TED ED video "Starving The Monster", which was my first introduction to the disorder and this video by John Green about his own experience with OCD.

The IOCDF's website can also help you find support groups, therapy, and has lots of online guides and resources as well if you or a loved one is struggling with the disorder. It is very comprehensive!

Reblog to teach your followers about OCD

(But also not reblogging doesn't make you evil, silly goose)

[hummingbee-lievable]

Hi!

Eggs: eggsellent

Steak: high

Milk: for all its worth

Alcohol: you later

Hot drink: yeah you are!

Hehe. Sorry. Couldn't resist.

Uhmmm I don't have a lot of peeps on here! But @smalls-guacker and @thevalleysbelow, @ofgeography and @crowleys-hips? Tell me all your food weirdness!

[hummingbee-lievable]

I still dream

of the faerie world.

Of the way that

trees part

one on each side that

beckons

and I am in a world

that has always been here

and finally welcomes me in.

[hummingbee-lievable]

May I propose this sultry alternative?

'My slugger in crime.'

Pros:

Not religious

Not connotative of a specific gender

Implies that you may do crime together

References slugs because why should we not refer to our dear relatives

I am very tired of people using “my brother in christ” i didn’t vote for him. Has allah not shown you better carpenters? Has tumblr not given you greater metaphors? My neighbors-in-peace my matadors-in-the-comments, my humanitarians-in-humility, i beg of you, can we not find a way to call out to one another, soul-to-soul, without involving Josh?

[hummingbee-lievable]

I wanted it to be death

that sweet twist of flesh fleeting into firelight and

tourists cleaning empty hallways

because when the wild nights are over, they don't warn you about the

inevitable hollow

and sometimes the only thing that helps

is scrubbing scrubbing cleaning breaking fingernails scouring tearing

rebuilding.

I like that capital letters

fall short and still rise that

they show up at the front of words you don't remember typing

and sometimes they're safety catches, keeping everything from falling out the sidE.

You're a pattern I could

trace with my fingertips and the

concept of wanting something especially because it's hard

keeps asking to be asked again and again

and I get to watch you.

And by the time I've gotten home

I'd like for the only thing that could separate us

to be death.

And for the quiet halls we're reborn into to

burst into firelight.

[hummingbee-lievable]

The first day the world cracked, his chains broke. He laid there, in dazed confusion, until the shadow of the eagle blackened the sky.

Then, he was running. He was running and screaming and laughing and crying and his legs were alien to him but they transported him anyway.

The shadow did not follow.

He found a cave and stumbled in, gasping and heaving, his not-fully formed liver aching in a new and delicious way. Collapsing, it took him hours to start to wonder. Wonder why he had been freed. Wonder why the eagle had not followed.

The first day, he cursed at the eagle, berating it until it the ire turned to screams and the eagle was gone. As the days proceeded, the insults and weaponised words began to quiet, until he was weeping for his release, at first to the eagle, then to Zeus himself. It took several years before he began to stop speaking at all. And when he stopped speaking, he began to notice that the eagle's talons were sharp, but they were also quick. That they held him in place while the hazardous beak ripped his flesh from him in one sharp movement. And once he stopped fighting, the creature that had been assigned to his torture didn't even bother to land. It just ducked in, grabbed what it came for and seemed to almost be running, given the speed at which it flew away.

About 300 years into the eternal punishment, he noticed something else: as the eagle flew away, it dropped something in the distance. It circled for a moment, and if he had thought such a creature capable, he would have said it seemed almost anxious. And then it was gone.

After that, he noticed that it dropped the liver every time. It was always in a different spot, at a different distance, but it was unmistakable. Each time, the eagle would make a weak attempt to dive after it before flying away.

The waylaid Titan decided he was bored enough, broken enough, and curious enough. When the eagle dove down the next day, he waited until the deed was done and then, gasping through the pain, he said 'Wait.'

The eagle halted midair, and turned around, its eyes wide with panic.

'Don't be afraid', he uttered, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this seemed. 'I just want to talk.'

The eagle's eyes widened. It lingered briefly, and then flew away, faster than he had ever seen it.

But he saw now, that it could not only understand him, but that it had more going on its head that 'attack, eat, repeat'. So he began to talk to it. At first it was jokingly, things like 'ahhh, my regular! So good to see you. And what'll you be having today?' or 'You ever get tired of liver? I could offer you some spleen today, maybe even a good lung. I hear those are fun to play with; you can blow them up like balloons!' As time progressed, he began talking about other things, too. He would tell stories of his ventures, or talk about the gossip he'd heard (and warned him never to tell anyone about Aphrodite's deformed left toe- high heels are deadly, you know). He would sometimes talk, too, about his woes. He told the eagle why he was chained to his rock (might as well be his, after all of this, right?), and be would talk about the things he missed: the smells of the foods the clever humans made, the excitement and joy of invention and the firelight in their eyes and accompanied it, and truly, he just missed knowing what was going on. He was endlessly bored and curious of the world that continued without him. Often, when he talked about the bond he had read, that was when the eagle would linger the longest.

It always seemed to find little ways to extend the process when he talked, landing instead of flying away, circling him as though he could then justify to any passing god: 'just finding the best angle at which to eat him today, hahaha'. The eagle once, caught up in a story about a bull and some prudent decisions regarding its internal organs, took longer that usual cutting him open. The added suffering was worth it. He took great effort not to show it; he had already observed that the eagle seemed to recoil when the expressions of pain escaped his lips, and would do its job faster and fly away faster. He began to realise that, in a strange way, the eagle was almost gentle in its attacks (in the ways that it was possible, that is).

About 786 years (but who's counting) into the setup, the eagle landed clumsily, whining and whimpering. Immediately, the Titan was at attention. 'What happened?' The eagle curled its head under its wing, trying to hide the pitiful sounds it was making. Looking carefully, he saw that the creature's leg was indented with bite marks, and its wings were scored with scratches from deadly claws. 'Listen to me.' He spoke softly. 'Go to the Wildwoods, the ones where the nymphai still reside. Find the Poramêïdes, the river-dwellers. Ask them for their oregano balm. Tell them that I sent you.' The eagle did not move, shuddering under its wings. He grew frustrated. 'Listen! You're going to get a nasty infection if you don't do something about this, and I'm not interested in lying around waiting to meet the next winged nightmare who's been assigned to me! Get yourself together and get out of here! I want you back here, tearing out my liver tomorrow by sundown! And take my liver when you go! Don't drop it this time, eat it. You'll need the sustenance. Now, go!' The eagle's head had lifted, its eyes wide in awe and confusion. At his final command, it ducked its head, grabbed its dinner and flew away, leaving him with the familiar pain and a newer, tighter one sinking in.

The next day, when the winged shadow darkened the sky, his body sagged in relief. This time, it hovered above him, not yet landing on the wrapped talon, bearing something in its beak. He did not recognise it, but it was hot and it tasted like Heaven. Not from Olympus, but like he had died and been freed from his eternal torture. It was filled with legumes and steamed vegetables and garlic and chillies and both of them ignored the tears streaming from his face as the eagle held the food up to his mouth.

Each day after that, the eagle came with little gifts. Sometimes just wildflowers, other times little morsels of food. One time, it brought a news paper, and help it up with its beak as he read it aloud. He exclaimed in such joy, talking to the eagle about the little things it mentioned, asking questions aloud about other things, and the creature seemed just as invested and excited as he was. After that it brought the news papers every day, along with books, propping them against stacked rocks in such a way that it could turn the pages while he read to them.

Once, on a rainy day, the eagle had stayed overnight, its wings protecting the collected papers and pages. During that time, he asked it if it wanted to learn how to communicate, to which it nodded. And in the ways of his old habits, he began to teach. He taught it to recognise the letters, then the words, then the sentences. He taught him how to carve letters into the rocks. One day, the eagle bore a large tore a feather from its wing and used the blood of his liver to write its letters. In this way, they began truly, to learn about each other. He learned that the eagle did not enjoy his task, but had been assigned it as the weakest in his brood. He learned its quirks and habits as well as he knew himself. It was in this way, that they proceeded: a steady and blooming friendship, spanning centuries.

He ran as fast as he could, as far as he could, until he reached the nearest town, and then could only watch as the flames swallowed the buildings, as mothers threw their children into the river- in vain hope that their inability to swim would be forgiven and forgotten- as the godless took and took and took, as the animals yowled and hid, as the books pages curled away into ash. This, he thought. This is the gift I have given them.

His first thought was to try and help, but as soon as he entered the town, the people converged on him, chanting. 'No more gods! No more gods! No more gods!' As he fled, he realised: there were no more gods. It was the people that had kept them alive, and with their renouncement, their power was gone. The humans would have only themselves, now, and when the failed, they might create new gods for themselves, but he was obsolete. (He himself had been obsolete for eons now, but the fierceness of their final rejection was still sharp. How long he had suffered for them!)

He stayed at the edge of the town, rooted, until it was nothing. He stayed longer than that. Long enough to watch the world fight back. He stayed there long enough to watch new huts form, for the children that survived to become parents, for new books to be written, for new gods to be born. He waited long enough for the fear of eternal chains wrapping around him again to fade into dread, then to trepidation, then to concern. He waited long enough to think that perhaps his friend had not followed because it had thought itself not wanted. Upon this realisation, he stopped waiting. And a town that had never realised its statuesque mascot had been one of the old gods lost another piece of the mythology that had created them.

The eagle was still there, lying at the base of the rock, its wings shrouding their collection of books. On seeing it, resting with its eyes closed, he feared that he had waited too long and, running, he collapsed, burying his face in the soft down and murmuring endearments shrouded in grief.

It took several moments for him to notice the wings that gathered around him and several more to look up into wild eyes.

'Hello old friend', he whispered. 'Been waiting long?'

If eagles could laugh (and this one could), it might barrel out at such force that it becomes tears. If a Titan and the eagle assigned to his torment could become a saving grace to each other, those tears might mingle. If rebirth is possible for the broken, two lost souls might create a new world for themselves outside of dictation. If such love is possible (and it is), a pair of mismatched and perfectly entangled souls might encounter them on vibrant nights, one reading aloud to another by moonlight, scars protected by wings and head resting against feathers. If anything is possible, their eternity sings it.

[hummingbee-lievable]

Song of the Day #27:

'Angels on the Moon' by Thriving Ivory (released 2003).

And this is to one last day in the shadows

And to know a brother's love

This is to New York City angels

And the rivers of our blood

This is to all of us

To all of us

Track 2 on 'Thriving Ivory'.

Fun fact: This San Francisco-based band got their name by: 'put[ting] names down on paper. "Thriving" was in one corner and "Ivory" was in the other, and [they] just liked how it sounded.'*

Personal blurb: incidentally, that fun fact made me think of '1984' which is a horrific book; well worth reading as a result. The thing that I took away from the book the most wasn't even the story, but at the end, Orwell walks us through how he and 'Big Brother' came up with the controlling language, and one of the things that did was ensured that the words flowed out of the mouth as smoothly as possible, to guarantee that the speaker would have as little time as possible to really think about the words coming out of their mouth. For example, if you say 'communist party' you might start to think about the word as it emerges, right? But if you say 'compom', it's out before you can blink. This can be equated to modern mechanisms, can't it? I noticed that I said 'understandable, have a great day' (which I say all the time as a means to validate someone else's thoughts and be positively supportive even if I don't have their approach myself) automatically in response to something and then realised that that wasn't appropriate, it was just automatic. I'm trying to be more careful about it now, but it's so easy to lose hold, isn't it?

Anyway, that is just a massive tangent, I apologise. I love this song and I really enjoy this band. When I first heard this song, I played it on repeat, and I listened to all of their music (I also really loved 'Kiss The Rain' and 'Love Alone', if you need some introductory recommendations). I rediscovered them yesterday and I'm realising that while they don't fit my musical tastes the same way now, I appreciate the impact they had.

It's nice to discover the ways I've changed and still appreciate what I was. I'd be curious to hear if you have any songs like that.

P.S. In an attempt to let artists know they've positively influenced me, I'm trying to tag the ones that I can, so, hello @thrivingivory-blog-blog! I know this is probably an inoperative account considering you are no longer together, but know that you're fabulous and I'm glad you had your time the way that you did.

P.S. #2 Hiiii Guacker. What do you call it when two letters run away to get married?

Reference:

[hummingbee-lievable]

'An Exercise in Love' by Diane De Prima.

For Benjamin.

My friend laughs the way cartoons enchant children

with the kind of fullness that only comes from being engulfed

He gives me angles & questions

And sometimes we get to talk eons

in late hours accompanied by the nipping of gnats and yellow street lights

Somedays we share a stuffed yeti

and some days we trade crushed eggshells and wounded tirades

good food and a clean kitchen

and cold air for a warm blanket

But often we simply walk together

revelling in the shades put on offer

My friend holds broken in his hands

Burnt offerings that can only be cherished

And each time we break

we find where we can be

okay

[hummingbee-lievable]

Song of the Day #26:

'There Is A Light That Never Goes Out' by The Smiths (released 1986).

Take me out tonight

Because I want to see people

And I want to see life

Track #9 on 'The Queen is Dead'.

Fun fact: This is one of those bands, like The Commitments, that are associated with quite a bit of drama, all of which can lead you down a rabbit hole of chaos, so I'll leave that to you and Alice, and instead tell you about a little fun fact regarding another song on their album: 'Bigmouth Strikes Again':

In this song are some lovely harmonies, attributed to 'Ann Coates'. In fact, the band used Morrissey's voice, altered to a higher pitch! 'Ann Coates' is a reference to the Manchester district 'Ancoats', one of the city's 'most bustling areas during Industrial Revolution'.*

Personal blurb: My brother-in-law (ish) walked in this morning as I was on the way to work and asked the formidable question: 'Do you like The Smiths?', to which I had a very restrained and calm response.°

Their music feels somewhat intoxicating, to me; I could not tell you why, but I know I'm not the only one (hey, Sam Smith and I can both have ideas independent of each other and reach the same finish line). The song itself is actually a bit... disturbing to me, for lack of a better word. The lyrics are essentially 'take me away and make me a life because I don't have one'.

I chose the lyrics above because I love and relate to the sentiment of wanting to escape to the music, laughter, and light. I get so trapped in myself and sometimes being surrounded by humanity without having to be a part of it is just what I need to remind me of all there is and all that's possible.

There's a stanza in the song that I don't fully understand (though I have my own interpretation). How do you interpret this line?

And in the darkened underpass

I thought "Oh God, my chance has come at last"

But then a strange fear gripped me and I just couldn't ask

Was it that he was facing the concept of this death he had almost been asking for? In my mind, I almost think he was going to ask this significant person to die with him. (Like the line in the Joan Baez song that she wrote about Bob Dylan: 'Speaking strictly from me, we both could have died then and there' in 'Diamonds and Rust'.) It's more likely that he was going to ask what he's been asking all throughout the song: to go for a drive, to be taken away, to be given a home. But the idea of it being under a darkened underpass lends a strange tone to the scene.

I am reminded of the movie 'Lost in Translation'. There's a scene at the end of the movie where Bill Murray whispers something into Scarlett Johansson's ear as they're parting ways, after a clear kind of love had developed between them that for many reasons, they never acted on and never would. And we never know what he says. (The movie is amazing. Little spoiler but more something to admire and note if you ever watch it: the lights are all red in the scenes in which they interact, until they finally part ways, like time was paused for them. A harbour in the midst of life.) My ex said that in his mind, the line was 'I wanted one more perfect moment with you'. At the time, I resonated with his perspective because we were parting ways not out of choice but out of circumstance, like the movie. But now? Now I imagine he whispered 'thank you for everything you are'.

Sometimes I wonder if I am screaming love with every interaction I have. It feels as though every time I say 'thank you' or give a particularly enthusiastic parting phrase or greeting (especially 'whatup, nerd!!' for some reason), the words 'I love you' or 'I think you're wonderful and you make my world better by being in it' get trapped in my throat.

Maybe we'll never know what The Smiths were trying to ask. But we make our own context, don't we? And that's all we need.

°Launching into a full-blown Ted Talk (Ralph Rant, if you will (that's my name)) and ramming my favourite songs down his throat is very restrained, right? Right??

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