Beyond the Kettle

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Beyond the kettle, no electricity is used when I make the morning coffee. Not anymore. I French press that MF-er and I get going. It tastes better than the coffee that comes from machines you have to put a strange pseudo futuristic pod into.

Patrick Stewart died last week and it hit me like a train. The parasocial continues to be a bizarre little thing. Because I didn’t know him, yet his life affected mine so much. He’ll be missed.

There are days when I don’t feel good enough, don’t feel worthy. Insecurity lurks within me. On these days I obsess over frivolous things. I try too hard. And this trying too hard works against, not for, me. It makes me think the hue of the energy is as important as the energy itself. How it colours everything wrong when the colour is that of need, of urgency, of insecure.

The leaves crunch under foot now and the air is minty cold and I am all shoulders and neck trying to keep warm. There is a part of me that loves these months. The other parts are sleeping now until the Spring so it is only love that is currently awake.

Someone said to me recently that ‘your authenticity is your biggest commodity’ and I felt the world flip. The irony of such a thing. Authenticity as a marketing tool. And I hate when they refer to be as a brand, refer to me as a business, as a thing. Because I am a human. And I don’t want to commodify my authenticity. And I don’t want to be a personal brand. Fuck off. I am just a person.

You can tell, though, when someone is being insincere. When it is all a play to gain a following. And look, fair enough. If that’s what you want to be. It just feels hollow. And I’m trying to feel full.