It’s September, I’m Twenty-Eight and Over It.

The act of writing a personal blog is, let’s face it, a little fuckin’ weird. As a chronic under-sharer, it often feels itchy.

And yet...?

Adults suck and I want to write, so this is me committing to doing more of it this year.

Fine, some adults are cool. But a lot of us are pretty much the lamest motha f*ckas on the planet, afraid of everything from true love to our own dreams.

Kids, on the other hand, are delightful. They eat glue while you’re not looking, shamelessly pick their noses, believe you when you tell them stories about flying dogs, draw human ears on worms, and boldly insist that they haven’t shit their pants while half the room faints from the fumes. I know this about children because I was once a “teacher” and also because, for a not-insignificant stretch of time, my best friend was a toddler. After Sunday lunches, I’d crouch into her kid-sized home, “purchase” plastic groceries from her, share secrets about her imaginary friend, La Narizota, invent human professions for the family dog (Walter was both a plumber and a painter), and tell her the story of my run-in with a scolopendra as many times as she asked. We were a duo, alright.

I no longer work in primary schools, my toddler bestie is now a Kid With A Youtube Channel, and I’M IN MY LATE FUGGIN’ TWENTIES, but if you’re ever feeling down, low, and crushed by THE MAN, just spend twenty minutes with a child.

That’s all I got for today.

May you never grow old or lame,

Seo

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America, Part 6, Day 2

New York City’s immensity is never more apparent than when navigating the thousand-lane road from JFK to Philadelphia, PA on a Saturday afternoon. Twenty-eight years of knowing the Northeast and I’m still shocked to find out that this airport is not, in fact, just across the road from Newark.

“Shit is entrenched,” says Scott.

Once passed the Holland tunnel and ten minutes of marveling at man’s ambition, the road is ours.

newyork1

It’s good to be back.

At Heathrow, the Brits were on their best behavior, gifting smiles and biscuits.

At JFK, the line-master instructed:

“If ya customs form ain’t finished, get outta the line. Ya wasting peoples time.”

Any other welcome would have been a lie.

PSA and a Mantra for Malcontents

Last week the dentist refused to take the teeth out of my head.

“I could paralyze your face. Permanently.”

“Oh. That’s not great.”

The longer you put off wisdom tooth removal, as  it turns out, the more complicated the procedure will be. I’ve got roots dancing with nerves at the back of my mouth so for now, it seems, I’ma have to stay wise. Take note, teenagers of the world.

Anyway, in six years of life in Spain, I have never experienced a June that did not make me want to peel my own skin off. At the same time, June tends to be a time for reflection; I usually do that naked, spooning with a bag of ice, while marveling at the many places from which sweat can spring. This one is different. I’ve still got a comforter on my bed and I don’t feel like I’m burning. I can’t say I’m angry about the weather, but I’m worried about the earth–and myself.

What am I doing? What’s next? Where do I go? How do I find a patron to support the art of my life?

Last year I became obsessed with the idea of “running through the pain.”

I read Murakami’s What I Talk About When I Talk About Running and remembered nothing but this mantra: “Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.”

I began saying it to myself, sometimes while running but more often as I prepared dinner or walked home from a night out. The sweaty strangers of the disco scene often sent me on a downward spiral, though hindsight highlights the role of gin.

After a long, frenetic, gorgeous, and totally mental winter, this mantra just isn’t doing it for me anymore. Here’s what I think: suffering is not optional,  l0sers. The longer you refuse to acknowledge anguish, vulnerability, and sadness, the deeper their roots will grow. Next thing you know, you’ll find them bursting out of you in public health clinics, at cafés, and on unsuspecting waitresses.

What comes before gratitude is a lot of snot, tears, and unabashed drama.

As for mantras, I’ve been using this one:

I ain’t fuckin’ sorry.

Love,

Seo

When All Else Fails, Write Shit

I sat alone on Sunday afternoon and tried to work the words “cieno,” (mud/mire) “guadaña,” (scythe) and “amago” (feint or tricky gesture or can someone please come up with a better translation?) into a “poem.” My greatest regret in life is having thrown out the tiny camo notebook I used to hide under my pillow in grade school. In its pages I wrote poems dramatically lacking in depth and technique–in other words, not much has changed. I’m writing in Spanish lately not because I am trying to improve, but because I find comfort in my ignorance: I sense that the writing is trash but I don’t know that I’ll ever be entirely sure why.

The park in the photo above is in Suanzes. I suppose it’s the sort of neighborhood you move to after having children but, as with most things, I actually have no idea. Incidentally, it is a great place to go when you feel that you cannot physically endure one more gulp of city exhaust. I presume that much has been written about the price of metropolitan life and that many a human within Madrid’s gates has  begged for some gaddamn peace and quiet. I never thought that I would count myself among their number, but lo and behold…

What Can I Offer Your Company? All Of The Answers.

It’s that time of the year again. The time when “Make a LinkedIn” ends up on my to-do list twelve times a month.

“Hey Seo, your cards are fucked up.”

Tarot cards, when not in use, are to be wrapped in silk (outside energy contaminates them). Sam gifted me a deck on Halloween to complement my “costume:” purple hair, dress, and nose-ring. I have not once wrapped these cards and countless are the times I have re-dealt them until their message pleased me. This story, for example, is always acceptable:

“In the past, you spent a lot of time alone; this time was very beneficial for you and forms the foundation of your current happiness. Now you are going to get involved in a lot of projects and create a bunch of stuff. If you can own your emotions and your desires, you will be really successful.”

Any mention of disappointment or deception is promptly dismissed. I believe in divination the way I believe in socializing on Sundays: cuando conviene.

If you’re looking for answers, though, allow me to read your leaves.

Sometime during the next eight to twelve months:

  • You will look back and be surprised by the person you have been at some point during the last decade.
  • You will feel embarrassed by at least one of the choices you’ve made, artistic or otherwise.
  • You will feel desperate between one and three times and one of those times may feel like the first and worst time it has ever happened to anyone.
  • You will feel that you are not up-to-task at a new job and then later discover that you are and it’s fine and you should really just calm the eff down.
  • You will stub a toe.
  • You will eat a quesadilla.
  • You will throw a dirty look at a stranger on the subway and won’t feel bad about it.
  • You will evaluate and re-evaluate your plans between one and one million times.
  • You will have an upsetting interaction with a medical professional.
  • You will learn something about yourself at precisely the moment when you are comfortable enough to believe that there are no surprises left.

That being said… if you remain open to the absurdity of your existence, there will also be nights and entire weeks when you will feel like shouting love-songs at your own exquisite web of mistakes.

Neva forget it,

Seo