A review of July
I start the month at LaLou having orange wine and bites with a friend. The wine is a stunning blood orange hue and I eat every last bit of the honeycomb slathered on my plate.
I visit Chinatown the next day and have my aura read, five months to the day since the last visit. I try a pork and pineapple bun and don’t like it. I guzzle honey and lemon iced tea, moving through thick throngs of people and a palpable, sticky July heat.
The restlessness I feel in June follows me into July. It’s something like pent up energy in my body; not hurrying or urgent, but like a buzzing below the surface. I feel as though I have to do something about it; my first instinct is to make it go away. As I ruminate on the feeling, I realize the itch is an indication that I’m expanding. That I’m moving beyond this particular version of myself. I realize that I’m growing beyond the current way I’m existing. The realization excites me and I make a conscious effort to lean in, to get curious about it rather than fearful.
July is hot, the air heavy and wet. It feels like a long, slow month. It hovers around 90 degrees for the majority of the month and I loath it. The city feels relentless in the summer and quite actually pulses with heat. The sunlight casts a mango-like hue and sits thick and dewy on people’s skin. I feel more aware of my body during these months than at any other time, a perpetual stickiness to my skin. And my brain seems to follow; I feel more hazy, slow, and unfocused for much of the month. I take cold showers and linger in my towel, letting the cool water dry on my skin. My neighbors put out a small pool for our dogs to cool in. I hear kids squeal from my apartment as they run through a sprinkler.
My morning walks with Joey are especially early, in efforts to beat the heat. And our evening walks are later, closer to sunset. I enjoy the evening change, being out close to dusk and watching the light change.
I spend the early days of the month writing, humming with energy for it. Something I haven’t felt in a long time. I write is a list and it is —
Rules for July
What if I wasn’t a girly who made ~hating summer~ her personality? What if I disrupted the (loud) negative thoughts and (many) complaints?
Meh.
Change my appearance. We’re! Bored!
I bought new glasses!
Do one thing at a time.
I’m improving at this all the time. As I do, my brain has less capacity for the frazzle of multitasking and it makes sticking to the change easier.
Take more selfies.
Heck yes I did.
Have my aura read (you know you write things you’ve already done simply so you can cross them of!)
Give a few less fucks.
Maybe? Ongoing.
I spend a weekend in New Haven. I take Joey to the ocean at 7:00 in the morning on a misty, foggy Saturday. It’s empty, aside from a few fishermen. It’s humid, the air thick and heavy. My hair is frizzy and I’m covered in sand. The water is clear and still. I’m giddy. I eat a whole pizza and drink beer at a nearby brewery. I sit outside at Atticus Cafe, Joey at my side being greeted by anyone and everyone. I eat a breakfast sandwich, with oozy over-easy eggs and crispy bacon on a brioche bun.
I start having lunch with a friend every Thursday afternoon. I come to look forward to it immensely. We share free food from work, pop into a speciality Japanese store for teas and treats, and sit by Madison Square Park.
I eat mangoes from the bodega down the street and fresh tomatoes from the market. I buy my favorite lemon poppy seed bread. I seem to always have a bag of cherries with me. I eat nachos a lot this month and my inner child thanks me.
I go to Daughter on a Wednesday evening to listen to jazz. I eat olives and drink orange wine. One of the owners remembers me, noting I haven’t been by in awhile. He asks my name, wanting to put it to memory. It feels like a precious thing, frequenting a place and the familiarity that comes with it.
There’s a weekend where the humidity lifts and it’s a glorious relief. I go to Prospect Park three times. The first time I return, I sit down in my favorite place, where the birds seem to flock as well. If you’ve been reading along for awhile, you know I associate cardinals with my late grandmother. I wish to see them on this particular visit, and immediately two land before me. The magic of it makes me laugh. I feel assured that I am guided and where I need to be.
I sit on the open lawn with Joey in the evening, listening to live music and eating my favorite broccoli ricotta sandwich from Lincoln Station. I lay back with my bare feet in the grass. I mosey around downtown Brooklyn popping into antique shops and home goods stores. I buy a new pair of glasses! I sip a cappuccino on a Sunday morning at Saraghina Caffe in Fort Greene.
The month ends quietly. I marvel at the supermoon, its glow bright in my bedroom throughout the night. I fill pages of my journal, grateful that the energy to write has stayed.
