I bought a pair of new house slippers. Had to as these things look like a grown-up version of the confetti birthday cake or perhaps something similar to my jawbreaker-licking analogy. A little faded and not so bright, but the color is still there. The version that experienced life and knows it can be a huge letdown but still has some hope under the surface of a boring yet reliable cream. I also bought them 3 sizes too big. It was that or three sizes too small. Apparently, lots of people had their eyes on my idea of happiness. So now I am shuffling around the house with great effort. It is like learning to walk again. Shuffling doesn’t describe it, it’s loud and I have to tell my ankles to lift my foot and raise my toes, to be uncomfortable and strain themselves into creased machines, otherwise, my foot does not move forward as this sad confetti shoe is too big. It really is apropos. Making an effort to do something that should come naturally. Why do we do the things that do not? That my friend is a question. A question with many alternate answers, none of which are usually pleasing. Again, faded fucking confetti slippers. I guess I should not have bought them when I knew they did not fit, to begin with. They are sitting next to me now. In the backseat of Bossy with no makeup on, last night’s curled hair unbrushed, oversized sweat pants, and a long-sleeved soft shirt with thumbholes for added comfort and security. I came into the garage with a pillow and a Christmas-printed blanket. Bossy has backseats that recline just the right amount. I have my back pressed up against the rear passenger door, my bare feet rest just past my sore legs from wearing high heels last evening. Bossy also has a pull-down middle seat divider, one that suffices perfectly for a desktop. It conveniently falls at a perfect distance for my arms to reach and at a height that does cause strain and aching to my wrists. I appreciate any alleviation to my joints at the moment. My ankles are bearing enough. The garage is so dark and quiet. My face can be seen the instant anyone opens the door of the house. I keep lowering the light on my laptop to try and secure a safe place. Somewhere I can breathe and hear the clicking of the keyboard in the dark. Sometimes when I write, I like to close my eyes and just let my fingers keep moving. They have a very confident connection to my heart and mind. I trust in them and what comes from them. I can tell the bond they share when my tears fall in response. To be so connected. To trust so much. To have confidence in letting them lead the way of my life. To not question or reflect, but rather to know, to be thankful, to live. I recently have shared thoughts outside of this Open Journal. Thoughts and feelings I knew were honest and I was not afraid there either. Consequences come in the greatest forms with honesty. Provoking thought with questions and waiting for answers I already knew would never change the truth that came with the clicking of the keyboard. The keyboard is merely a tangible device doing its best to portray what is divine and within me. The sound brings me comfort as the noise in my head and heart can be so loud that it has become difficult to exist in the life twirling around me. Last night was no exception. I went dress shopping on Wednesday evening and picked a dress that represents this twirl. When I move, it sways just a few inches above my bruised knees. It covers my arms to my wrists and it climbs my throat without suffocating. I needed to breathe, I needed it to say “I am sorry” but I also wanted it to feel alive, for we were celebrating someone who is living the other side of life now, the one we all have questions for. The one if we knew was coming tomorrow, we would make different choices today. The one people say “everything would be off of the table for” when it comes, while simultaneously using their gifted next breath to insult and risk that it is not coming today.

Now I close my eyes and imagine what I would do differently as I let my fingers lead the way. I would not say things differently, I would however say them elsewhere. I would reserve thoughts and time and my heart for places that meet me. I would not respond to seekers who are not looking to be sought. I would relish knowing I have preserved the deepest parts of me and my desires for the ones who fall within the grey stone walls that encircle me. I would not reach across oceans and believe they would reach back. I would not create whimsical notes of fairytale hair and fill with joy that was not mine. I would not believe in something to be true, certain, and found if I knew it belonged to something that was never lost. My XL slippers, too big for my feet, remind me to stay grounded. Remind me to not overlook the things we do without thinking. Remind me when I look down at them and see faded multi-colored dots that they are outnumbered by the solid cream…life is the solid cream, and truth consumed another colored spot. I would always rather have truth and certainty than a life of questioning and sacrifice. Therefore I seek both and at the cost of pain. So perhaps I should toss these fucking slippers out and get back to being sure-footed. No question mark there. I playfully write and joke and have discussed these entries with many people who read them. I get very similar feedback and it brings me joy, oooo look at that, a new colored dot appeared! But I also open the conversation up to a two-way dialogue…is that not what a conversation is? That is a question and it is meant for me. Things are complete between people when one has nothing more to say and the other one keeps on yapping. You have to respect when their last words were heard and you have to do the heavy lifting of your feet to take the next step forward. Yes, I am back to the fucking house slipper analogy. Don’t worry, I will toss them soon and replace them with a pair that fits and adds comfort to my life, not a dutiful commitment to remind myself how to move forward and accept the cream in denial and fear while only being a faded-colored spot on someone else’s foot. I think I like the jawbreaker imagery best. I don’t want to be licked away on someone’s white ball. Phew. Much better. Lightens the mood a bit. Though the mood is heavy in the backseat of this wagon. Oh, Bossy. My diehard and solid wagon. Thank you for the comfort and respite you offer me this day. How did you spend your Friday evening, Ms. Valadez? Well, I took to the backseat of my car in my garage while in pjs and questioned living in it forever because the silence was deafening and my mind was released in the darkness. How about you? Seeeeee I know how a conversation works…My writing has always been a bit heavy and dark, grammatically correct and philosophical. I do not show that here because this is my place for freeform writing to allow more creativity and it kills me a little because I have much more to say and in ways maybe some would not understand. I can pick up something I wrote when I was ten (yes, I have kept it all) and it will instantly strike me with emotions as if I am there all over again. I remember the details, the color of the clothing, the smell in the air, the sounds around me and I am transported back. Sometimes I stick my head in the freezer/ice maker and just take deep breaths. This always numbs me out for a moment. It clears my head, reminds me I am alive, and that I can feel something other than what I am feeling at the moment. I love the smell of an ice maker, and I also love the smell of milk and butter on the stovetop, though this one does not bring me back to a moment, but rather brings me into a new one of comfort and longing to be soft again. The deep freeze in the garage is glowing outside the driver’s window. It is the only thing I can see outside of this car right now. A bright green “3*F.” Is it beckoning for me? Nope, not a question. Of course it is, there are no coincidences in my opinion. We encounter things in life as we are supposed to, it is what we choose to see and how we choose to see them that makes the difference. In that vein, I will silently open the door to Bossy, crawl across her seats with tangled hair tickling my nose in laughter, place one veiny (had to) foot at a time on the concrete floor of this garage, and mosey my way in the darkness over to the freezer to take a moment to refresh before finishing my thoughts. I never do well when rushed in closure. 

Well, that was fucking amazing. My nose tingles as if I live in a place that experiences a true winter. That in and of itself is a gift. It instantly reminded me of going to the corner store when I was young and diving to the bottom of the deep freeze on my tiptoes to get a strawberry shortcake ice cream. The one my mom purchased for me when she picked me up from private school and was informed I received a demerit for adding water to the empty bottle of soap in the bathroom. I guess they were teaching me true cleanliness in some ways, but I was also trying to teach them how important it is to just make shit work sometimes. To improvise and survive when no one can help you. I guess they would not be proud of how I have applied these skills all these years later because believe me be, Mrs. Principal…I have certainly done more than add water to a soap bottle and for much less than a demerit followed by a strawberry shortcake ice cream. The freezer break was nice and Bossy of course lit the way for me after I opened the door, she is so thoughtful. I left my slippers in the car and it felt pretty good to walk again. I do not know why I have tortured myself and now contemplate just leaving them in the backseat until I find someone who can use them while I am out driving around. Imagine me pulling up, trying to help a homeless person out, and them saying something along the lines of “Aren’t you that crazy bitch I see driving up and down here screaming ‘fuck you’ out of your sunroof and listening to Y.A.S.? You ok?”…” Well sir/ma’am, as a matter of fact, yes I am, and yes I am ok, why don’t you ask faded purple paisley man, and do you want these fucking slippers or not?” By the end of it all I would have them in Bossy taking them through my Spotify listening to “Wings” by Birdy and “I Envy The Wind” by Amos Lee (only because I cannot pick between his remake or Lucinda’s) to show them my softer side since I blew past them a few days ago screaming “Zombie” and then asking them their whole life story, how they got to where they are and what makes them feel alive. I then would cry and remember them forever and be upset they migrate so often because what if we never cross paths again? There was a homeless man downtown who I used to see at lunch and was just drawn to. I asked him if he would like to have lunch with me one day and we made it a weekly regular thing. We talked about everything under the sun. We would grab food and take it to the park and just sit. In the beginning, he looked at me and used a tone in his voice like I intended to harm him one day, make a mockery of him, or deny him if he said hello when I was walking by with coworkers. I never would, and with time his eyes and his voice changed to represent he knew this, and so did our hearts. No Brad, I didn’t fuck him, but he probably would be a more loving meaningful lay than you in your fancy car and home. I did however unknowingly yet passionately kiss a homeless man in Austin one time. Fucking John Mayer was playing and it got the best of me. People are so often underestimated… or over! Looks, what they have, where they live, what they present to you or are able to with great effort or with little. Situations can also be the same. Downplayed and minimized, excused and forgotten, overlooked and denied. In my experience the most beautiful people are right in front of us, all around us, just waiting to be seen and heard, felt and understood. The people who boast these lives most envy are the ones who I believe are nothing more than what you see. I am interested in the ones who have a sea of multicolored dots under the surface, a surface that just needs to be tended to and loved and scratched ever so slightly to reveal pure joy and happiness through trust and instinctual love, not the love that causes caution and requirement for “intent and reflection.” The one that does not have to fit your feet for it teaches you to fly…and you don’t need house slippers to do so. Alright, looks like I am back to keeping the fucking house shoes after all.