“i am roaring d***k with the lust of life and adventure and unbearable beauty.” - everett ruess in a vagabond for beauty. i find myself rereading his letters more often than i expected, not for the adventure, but for all the subtle ways it spoke to me as a person who prefers to spend time by herself. i think my greatest dream is to disappear into some wild for awhile, alone, challenged. and if adam driver wants to check in on me from time to time, that’s cool.
When a bouquet just won’t do.
Rise and grind ☕️
If i were a cat, i would definitely be this one. we’ve got a lot in common, like how we both stare at people because we never learned appropriate eye contact. or how we’ve mastered the art of resting b***h face without even trying. we’re quiet and a little scrappy and sometimes we like to be held. what kind of cat are you? this is a serious question.
If we’re lucky enough to travel, we’re lucky enough.
When i look back at trips, most of my favorite photos are blurred and grainy and maybe there's half a fingertip in the frame. they remind me of journal entries written on beer-stained napkins: hurried attempts to save something worth remembering. even if the important words are a little out of focus, the story's there, and those feelings have a way to rush right back in. or maybe there's something wrong with my lens. i think i'll go with the former.
We get up and get dressed and get going and get paid. but we're 60 percent water, tiny tidal swings hungry for the ocean and bossed around by the moon, infinite salt and silt and sulfur.
I told a friend that if i were a comic book character, i would want to be a cowgirl assassin who wields a magical lasso, drives a vintage dodge charger with a gold snake painted on the hood, wears a rhinestone hat and leather shorts, and has a leg made out of metal and maybe a lil moon rock. then i snapped this photo of myself and i feel like i really cemented the whole idea.
My friend asked me if i’m tired of traveling. i wanted to say “yes!” and begin listing the reasons. then i thought of the airport sprints and spilled drinks and screaming babies and aching muscles and long drives and bugs splattered on windshields and new smells and broken down cars and breathless, intimate, boring, sporadic, exhausting, incredible moments that etch themselves into my wrinkles and sloping shoulders and messy hair and holy hell this is life. how could i get tired of doing it?