Desk Flowers
Finally listening to Florence Given.
My friend tells me to laugh out loud more. She says that she can trick herself into feeling better about her day, even if her brain isn’t in the game. I believe her—I know her. I know it works.
Faking happiness hasn’t been something I wanted to try. Authenticity, my therapist used to say, was the rule I lived my life by, and it was a curse as well as a mantra. She said that like a perfectionist expects perfection from everyone around them, I value total and complete authenticity over everything else. Pretending to be happy wasn’t something I could do. This is why, she pointed out, my stints of behavioural therapy never worked. Changing the way I think, augmenting my reactions, it all felt so fake.
That’s not the fake part, though. The fake part is believing that life is anything other than spectacular. Authenticity doesn’t mean that I have to accept my state of mind if it isn’t serving me. Authenticity in this manner is not a shortcut to talent or wisdom. It doesn’t make me better at writing. Being sad is not my personality. Being tired is not my nature. I am not the symptoms of my invisible illnesses. So why have I spent so much time and effort defending them from the effects of a sunny day, or a favourite song?
There is an influencer and author called Florence Given who is young and pretty and has pink hair, and despite being recommended to me over and over again, I couldn’t watch her videos. Jealousy? Maybe. I couldn’t listen to her speak, I couldn’t hear what she was saying. It all seemed so mindless to me. Then I tried again last week. Like blowing a candle out, the atmosphere changed—I didn’t find her annoying, what I cringed away from was her kind and nurturing tone. What she was saying was simple—just be happy. I would normally find this offensive. If I could just be happy, Florence, I would be. But that’s just not the truth. I had forgotten over time that I although I couldn’t help my original state, I was allowing myself to worsen, under the impression that living true to myself was letting my brain get away with whatever it wanted to do.
So I followed her lead. I went into town and bought myself some flowers. I tidied my office and lit some incense. I started listening to a new playlist that made me happy, rather than the comfort music I’ve worn away like a river stone. I ate a delicious lunch. I made food for some friends. I felt good. I still feel good about it more than a week later, looking at my flowers and thinking about what I will replace the wilting blooms with, rather than considering how everything dies, everything dies, everything dies. Existentialist grief. That’s another one of my problems, apparently. Looking at overgrown gardens and seeing the endless passage of time, rather than the things that thrive in it here and now. I know that doesn’t help me. I’m working on it. I’m trying harder to see the birds. I’m trying to remember that I enjoyed my cup of coffee, rather than the fact that my cup is empty. I’m trying. It’s working.
Joy is supposed to slither through the cracks of your imperfect life,
that’s how joy works. — Donna Ashworth
Other Stuff
Fabulous, fabulous, fabulous photographs of barmaids, many with beehives, from Teeside in the 70s
A film I want to see—a documentary on Tish Murtha, a working class photographer who documented the effects of Thatcherism throughout the 1970s and 80s
You know I love my blue and white porcelain and Robert Dawson has created some truly original, modern takes on Delftware. Here’s his Spin collection, I love how it reminds me of records playing, and how I imagine the images on the plates are being played.
This week on Pellicle we published a fascinating story about Joules beer and the Coopers Tavern. The photos are just so, so beautiful.
My Stuff
I’ve just recorded a podcast for Pellicle—expect to listen at the start of December
I’m recording a podcast tonight with a bunch of lovely fellas. More info to follow.
I’ve been writing my arse off lately, expect pieces in Pellicle, Glug, Ferment and in my PROCESS series via this newsletter every Tuesday
Bouquet of Flowers — Odilon Redon
