There is a set of amazing, new-to-me photographs on view at the Met right now. This William Eggleston fellow, do you know his work? Because his photographs stopped me in my tracks. His tones are remarkably vibrant, saturated, and crisp. His subjects are muted, but not as reserved as you'd think; they are not so intense as they are real. His images capture so much of what I associate with America, its people, its places, its iconic materials. How is that possible? According to the plate next to this print, he took this the year I was born, but far away in another part of the country entirely. Louisiana was no Pennsylvania, I'm sure. And yet, the table caddy branded with the familiar red Winston logo brought me right back to the days I slunk away at my parents' Germantown dry cleaners.
I'd frequently be sent around the corner to fetch my dad his cigarettes. One day, even though the lady recognized me, she sent me back to get a signed note from my father giving permission to let his daughter make the purchase on his behalf. The handwritten paper slips worked for a while, but turned useless once the law forbade sales of cancer sticks to minors. My lazy pops had a hard time registering this turn of events when I came back empty-handed one day. But it worked out in the end because when he went, he'd sometimes stop by the Gold's Gym next door where they had a freezer full of real-fruit frozen treats. On those days, he'd return with a strawberry for me and coconut for him.
I took this just moments before an elderly couple arrived at the bus stop today. They were probably in their seventies. The woman was aggressive, a little too loud, a bit wild even, when she asked if they could get to 39th Street on this bus. He, however, he was calm and took his time getting around. He seemed so fragile. The two of them worked well together. He quietly listened and did as she instructed. Sit here while I check the bus schedule. Take your blood pressure. Do you want some water? This man, this white-haired old man, he was so willing to be led by this woman. He smiled pleasantly and thanked me when I told him that the bus was approaching. As he slowly got up and made his way to the boarding area, his wife was halfway up the block asking even more strangers for confirmation that this was the right bus. I watched as she whipped around to head back toward us. Jimmy, this is our bus! This is our bus! Jimmy!
The sudden dip in temp left me reaching for a wool coat today. Ducking in and out of shops all afternoon, I got caught in enough cold rain that my coat is still quite damp, hours after I got back in. This is the first Memorial Day weekend since I moved here that it hasn't been t-shirt weather warm. It feels strange. It's hard to believe that I took this just two weeks ago. Sunday the 12th felt like the way May's supposed to feel.
Don't mean to scare you with the deathlike selfie, but um, hello. Are you well? I hope so. We all deserve to be well.
I might appear pissed in this photo, but rest assured that it's only because I'm freaking tired as hell all the time. This is a shit time.
When I saw this shot of myself, taken at 11:11 pm last Friday night, I immediately thought, goodness, Julia, get your shit together, woman! For starters, how about a little girl grooming? There are, ahem, areas, that require your attention. My eyebrows have been left to their own surly ways for um, gosh, nearly six months. My locks haven't seen a blade in over a year. I don't remember the last time I put on some blush or eyeliner or even the most non-committal of all make-up products: tinted lip gloss.
The thing is, as long as I'm clean and don't have a booger hanging out of my nose, I'm usually just dainty. It's enough for me. That being said, I know how good it can feel when your hair's did and your nails did, too. But day in and day out, I feel ready for the day with just my ponytail and facial moisturizer; the fact that I'm thinking of ways to look better in hopes of feeling better signals that I'm pretty beat. I guess it's time to pay a visit to the lady who can shape my eyebrows again. She'll probably tell me to take better care of myself, like she did last time. You gotta love women who weren't raised in America. They tell it like it is, without any filter whatsoever.
Are you looking forward to the long weekend? Because I sure am. I'm usually meh about long weekends, but damn, am I hungry for this one. I need it. I'm going to turn everything off, light some candles, and soak in a hot bath. Every night. That's my idea of living it up. Hopefully it'll be the beginning of getting rid of this death look. As you can see, it's very unbecoming.
