An entry from the 2019 blogalong came up on my FB memories today and I wanted to add to it.
Back Story: Across the lane from my apartment there is an old house that is cut into suites. There is a tiny attic suite with a little Romeo & Juliet balcony and I am OBSESSED WITH IT. (I have a fantasy about living in an attic suite) I can see it from my bed and one of the residents a few years ago was a woman who seemed to be my age. She lived alone and I could see plants through the window but no candles or twinkle lights. She would sit outside on the little balcony drinking wine and smoking and scrolling her phone and I felt such a kindred with her that I bought a neon flamingo and put it in the window as my own way of saying I see you and I feel you and you are not alone. (read the original here)
If I had two tin cans and a string I would ask the woman across the lane about her life and how she ended up living there.
Did anything happen?
Did someone leave or pass on?
Did she decide that there was more to what she was doing and that meant she needed to make changes?
Was she the one who left? The partner, the job, the family, the life?
Finally. After all that time what was enough?
What did it?
How did she end up in an adorable attic suite alone?
Would she tell me that story?
If she did I know I would have questions. And stories of my own.
I would ask her if she was single and if the people who wanted to date her shamed her for living in a wee apartment.
I would tell her when I started dating after That Guy left, and I was living in my tiny studio, that men tried to shame me because my place was small and I didn't own it. I was - god forbid - a RENTER.
I would tell her they would mention that they couldn't live in a space that small. Like I had already given them a key and was picking save the date cards.
I would tell her they would mention it in a condescending voice intended to wound me and then passive aggressively try to soothe it with a veiled promise that if I behaved like they wanted, then I could move in with them and my life would be so much better.
Like their houses out in deep suburbia were a consolation prize for my bad choices and somehow made them better than me.
And maybe if I was REALLY good I could help pay their mortgage in a house their ex picked out and decorated but really it was THEM doing ME a favour.
I would tell her all the things I discovered about myself as I confronted the shame put on me for living in a city that doctors and lawyers and rocket scientists can't afford to buy homes in then how the fuck can a woman who chose vintage over corporate so her soul wasn't sucked dry and made that choice hoping that just MAYBE that would leave energy to build a wee business for herself and keep the lights on but in no way meant I could afford to buy a home?
I would tell her that I know now Vancouver is not where I would buy anyway because my bones crave heat and I need the sun and this cost of living is not sustainable forever.
I would tell her that the choice of vintage over corporate resulted in enough bandwidth to make that wee business a reality and that it is ethical and magical and contains a body of work I am really fucking proud of.
I would tell her that the people that made the rules didn't have us in mind when they made them and that's ok.
I would ask her why men who are supposed to be wooing me wanted to shame me and what the fuck is that about anyway.
I would tell her that people who try to date us need to stay on the flirting train until they have our permission to get off it and vomit their shit all over us.
I would tell her that I am not a receptacle for men’s rage, entitlement, problems, or sperm and they need to act accordingly.
If I had 2 tin cans and a string I would tell her I discovered that sometimes the best life is clear direct communication, friendships that you can count on, allowing for more, sunlight and moonlight and a wee familiar to keep you company and plants that need love and attention.
I would tell that a big bed with soft thrifted linens and a laptop and a bodum and strong coffee from the Italian grocery store 3 blocks away might be the cure.
I would tell her that yards are nice but fire escapes and balconies are lovely too and you can still plant a pot of lavender and have all the magic you need.
I would tell her that giant pink vintage wine goblets with gold 8 point stars and 9 dollar wine is delicious and for 30 bucks you can have Netflix and Crave and have all the escape you want or need because there are stories to get lost in and characters to fall in love with.
If I had two tin cans and a string I would ask why she kept what she did to make that wee place her home.
I would ask her what is it about the stuff we love that is so special we keep it, when there is no room anymore for the stuff we had, and how did she decide what stays and what goes and was purging it hard?
I would tell her what I kept and how life is now and is actually so much better now because it’s clean and pure and enchanting and real in both the dark and the light and the loss and the celebration.
I would tell her about that photo of Bardot from the vintage Penthouse I got for 10 bucks on the street sale that we walked by before a pandemic kept us all in our homes and that photo hangs in my bathroom and keeps me company as I sip my coffee to the soundtrack of Lola’s screaming while I search for my eyelashes every morning wearing a black slip and a kimono that is 3 inches too long for me but embroidered with cherry blossoms and I wonder if she will relate?
I would tell her that healing looks different than you thought it might and to honour your grief and men lie but that is not a reflection on us and adopting special needs senior cats might be a sweet spot even if it brings more loss and Zoom visits don’t replace in real life ones but they sure do help and one day the world will open up and we can all go for breakfast and blackboard walls are life giving and muses are everywhere and to never stop wanting more even if you have enough because it is revolutionary for women to want.
I would tell her when she sees the pink flamingo light in my window it is a secret message from all of the woman who said no to a misogynistic, patriarchal society to say yes to themselves.
If I had two tin cans and a string I would tell her about all the people that love her little place every time I tell them about her and I would tell her that life ain't so bad. It ain’t so bad at all.
But I suspect she probably already knows that.
NOTE: she moved on a while back. I donated the flamingo light because I had no connection to the new people that moved in. I still think about her and how I would look over from my bed to see her outside and how somehow I knew she was important to me but needed her space and how I was so sure we were silently sharing the same experience.
(day 4 of Effy Wild’s blogalong)