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horizontal with lila

horizontal does nebraska, south dakota, and montana!

in missives on 06/11/17

horizontal with elephant at pranam yoga shala in Omaha, Nebraska


It was almost mid-October. Chicago, IL to Omaha, Nebraska. Seven and a half hours.

I arrive in the home of my college friend Thom, and it is filled with babies. I manage. Two of the three babies leave after an hour or two, and only Thom’s toddler remains. (Remember how I said that this trip was rife with two year-olds?) I hadn’t seen Thom in about five years and now he has a wife a and a toddler and a house and a woodshop and a whole different life. Just as it was when I witnessed my high school friend Joe dadding, it felt like seeing what should be, finally having come to pass. Thom was meant to be a Dad. Just like Joe. He has spent most of his life without one. It’s as though he is righting the course of his ancestry — that’s the nearest I can come to describing the feeling I have when I witness him fathering.

In Omaha, I tried to record a quickie with Thom. Since I’ve known Thom, he has always been an expressive, talented actor, full of dangerous ideas and deviant tales. But when we got horizontal, and he was telling a story of his own rather than interpreting the story of another mind, he turned into an overly careful storyteller, protective, generalized. He wound up spinning a swiss cheese sort of story, one with most of the guts holed out. He felt that his stories, because they involved others, weren’t his to fully tell. I understand his perspective, respect the care for other people that was evident behind his reticence, and also, for myself, disagree.

I come back to Anne Lamott’s words like a touchstone, “You own everything that happened to you.” She went on to write, “If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”

horizontal with Thom in Omaha, Nebraska


In this case, Thom wasn’t particularly concerned about exposing someone’s ugliness, but about exposing them in general, without permission. And I get it. Yet still.

I want to be able to tell all my stories. They happened to me. They belong to me. They will never be an unbiased perspective. They cannot be. It isn’t possible. I am not an omniscient narrator. I am authoring in the first person. My stories can only ever be told by me through my lens. Colored by the way that I’ve made meaning of my experience. They can only be narrated by me, as the subject of my own life. And the way that I tell them will change over time, as I forget certain things and my vantage point shifts. But other people exist in my stories, of course, when their trajectories overlap with mine. When I tell about them, it may be sticky. The thing is that we talk about the people in our lives all the time, privately. And if these stories weren’t private, I think they would contribute to a society with much less shame and stigma. And much less loneliness. That is what I want. I want to inoculate myself and others against loneliness and shame. More than almost anything.

I suppose I should warn you now. If we have a history or a future, you may be part of the story I tell.

Then I got to record with Kennedy, Thom’s young wife. At first, Kennedy seemed reserved around me and I wasn’t sure if she was open to my warmth or friendship. Maybe she didn’t like me. I sometimes feel this way around very pretty women. Now I realize that she may have had a similar concern about me, because of the reaction of many of Thom’s friends to their marriage. I imagine she was worried that I, too,  might not take to her, might not be kind to her. (This mutual wariness probably happens far more often than I even realize, and stymies so much potential care and regard.)

horizontal with Kennedy in Omaha, Nebraska


By the time we got horizontal together, she was no longer reserved, however.

She spoke candidly, intelligently, and vulnerably about big subjects that I’d never broached on the podcast before: marrying a much older man, the process of childbirth, young motherhood, motherhood before self-actualization, sexual harassment, and #metoo (the American social media campaign to raise awareness of the staggering number of female-identifying people who have been sexually harassed and assaulted).

The people I’ve recorded with who have been least in the public eye have shared in the most inspiringly brave way. (Like in my most recent episodes, 15a and 15b, with my housemate Zed.) These recordings embody what I aim for this podcast to be — an opportunity for listeners to eavesdrop on a private conversation, to bear aural witness to genuine intimacy.

Omaha, NB to Rapid City, SD. Eight hours.

I thought I would be in Portland by October 16th, my birthday, but I very much wasn’t.

I woke up in South Dakota, where, by the grace of my friend’s mother, I had a couch to sleep on. I couldn’t shake this fixed idea though. I was supposed to be in Portland on my 35th birthday, taking myself out on the best date ever. I was not supposed to be in South Dakota. I didn’t want to be in South Dakota. Poor South Dakota.

I could have done nearly everything I had planned to do on this date with myself, in South Dakota. Right there in Rapid City! I could have taken a yoga class, gotten a massage, outlandishly dressed up and taken myself to see Professor Marston and the Wonder Women (I later saw the film – twice!), gone for a lovely meal, poked around shops, bought myself something pretty to commemorate the day, etc. etc. I could have done other things, too. I could have driven up to Spearfish Canyon and felt the capacious awe of Nature! Checked out a roadside attraction! Explored a cavern!

Instead, I was so annoyed at myself for miscalculating my itinerary and not being in Portland as I intended, that I made the whole day about rejecting what is in favor of what I thought it should be.

Hot damn, I really thought I had learned that lesson by now.

The terrible, no good, very bad 35th birthday:

I woke up and decided that if I couldn’t be in Portland, I at the very least wanted to be in Montana. Then I’d get to see Big Sky Country on my birthday. I’d never been to Montana. Completely missed it on my last cross-country trip. By the grace of a friend of the lover of my former housemate of mine (say that three times fast), I had a place to stay in Billings, Montana, five and a half hours away.

I wouldn’t let myself leave yet though, because it was a Monday and I was committed to releasing the episodes on Mondays and I hadn’t finished editing this one and I’d managed to get an episode out every Monday since I launched and I wanted to be consistent and if I didn’t edit it right then, there was zero chance that Owen would be able to mix and master it in time. But if I did finish it, there was a 50/50 chance, even though it was past our mutually agreed-upon deadline.

So I spent five more hours editing the episode. I tried to send it to Owen. WeTransfer wasn’t working. I thought it was the internet at my friend’s mother’s house, so I went to the lovely cafe in town and tried to send it again. No go. Frustrate.

At least the intense-eyed barista gave me my kombucha cider for free.

“It’s your birthday,” he said. “I’ve got to buy you a drink, right?”

This was the highlight of my day.

During the highlight of my 35th birthday, I sat inside this VW bus inside Harriet & Oak in Rapid City, SD, and drank an adult beverage.


SEND. FILE. Come ON!

No go.

“Fuck it,” I thought. “I’m getting on the road.”
It was already mid-afternoon. I asked the non intense-eyed barista what the most beautiful place on my route was, and he said Spearfish Canyon. Ok then.
I started up the mountain (hill?) toward Spearfish. Then I realized that I was almost out of gas. I didn’t know if there were gas stations up there. I thought it was probably not worth the gamble. (For future reference, there are, but they charge more.) So I went back down to Rapid City for gas. Realized I hadn’t eaten lunch. Went hunting for safe snacks at the health food store. Came up with a bag of chips. At this point, I’d be arriving in Spearfish at sunset. Which would have been beautiful. But as I was driving up the mountain (hill?) I got hungry. Borderline hangry. Ruh-roh.

I knew I had at least five more hours of driving ahead. I know that Driving While Hangry is dangerous for Lila. I saw signs for Deadwood and, in the hopes that it will look like the TV show that I loved so well, I decide to stop for dinner.

I hate to break it to you.

It’s a sparsely populated strip of mostly casinos. I asked a not entirely friendly shop proprietor where I could get a decent dinner and she pointed me to the Deadwood Social Club, (though she warned me that it was spendy) which is housed above a casino in an old brothel. I am so excited. Eating dinner in an old brothel in Deadwood, now that sounds like a proper birthday experience to me! I’m hoping for brassy corseted characters, loquacious bartenders, immersive theatre, fainting couches, and a boudoir.

There is nothing remotely brothel-y about this joint. Nor social. Nor theatrical. It’s just a downtrodden restaurant. It’s so poorly furnished that they have PAINTED striped curtains on the walls. Think about that for a moment. Not curtains with paint on them. A wall. Painted — entirely inexpertly — with a motif of striped curtains. The food is expensive and my dietary restrictions make it a rather boring repast.

A Romanian waitress at the Deadwood Social Club is also celebrating her birthday. Her 22nd birthday. She’s working in this joint. She comes over to tell me this. She’s so sweet and friendly. She is tickled that we share the same birthday. She invites me to Romania. She wants to bring me a slice of cake, buy me a drink. But I can’t eat the cake, and I’m driving. She settles for hugging me again. No one has touched me all day. This is the second highlight of my day.

By the time I left Deadwood it was dark, and I could not actually see Spearfish Canyon when I passed it. Poor planning, I think to myself. Poor show, Lila. I’m getting tired. Really tired. I lost cell phone service for four hours. At one point, the “highway” became a dirt road and at these speeds, it’s pretty much a dust storm. I slowed way down. At another point, it seemed that I was to be forced off the main road by construction on a roundabout, so I turned left and drove a few blocks into reservation territory. It was flat and desolate and dark. A ghost town. Even the gas station was closed. I see no creatures, except … two young men who were roaming the streets at an ambling pace. Are the doors locked? The gas station is closed. It was closed the last time you looked. No other soul around. There’s a truck with beer in it, I think, but no driver.

I looked at Google Maps and it informed me that there are no other remotely large roads anywhere nearby. Or at least, that’s what the piece of the map that has loaded onto my phone is showing me. I feel contracted and taut. I don’t want to spend the night in the car here, without my bearings. I don’t know what those two guys are getting into. I went back to the roundabout and learned from a construction worker, to my relief, that I could actually continue on the highway all along. I just had to go round the roundabout.

A couple more hours of driving and I was starting to get droopy. I heard Billy’s voice in my head again, saying, “Don’t drive drowsy!”

There seemed to be nothing on either side of the highway. Open land. Empty space. There was hardly a shoulder. It didn’t seem safe at all safe to pull over onto it. So I kept driving. Turned the air conditioner on my face, which has the same effect on me as spritzing a cat with a spray bottle. Stretch my mouth out. Blubber my lips. Make some noise. Stay awake. Finally, finally, I see a gas station! Next to a motel! I’m so tired that I am willing to stay in this motel by the side of the road somewhere in North Dakota, but there’s no night attendant.

The only person around was a middle-aged guy parked by the gas pump, fiddling with his truck. I pulled into the parking lot and waited for him to leave. He didn’t leave. I waited ten minutes and then pulled around to another spot, where he couldn’t see me but I could see him. He then appeared to be pumping gas. Oh good, I thought. But then he didn’t leave. I can’t sleep if he’s here, dammit. It’s like that Tom Waits song that goes, “What is he doing in there?” Maybe he was spooked by me too, but I didn’t consider that at the time. So I moved on, cursing him and my tiredness and the night and my fixed idea.

After another hour, I saw lights. Finally, a place where I felt safe enough to pull over! It was a casino parking lot. There were enough cars there and enough light and enough activity for me to feel secure enough to sleep, so I pulled over, reclined the driver’s seat, burrowed under my mini blanket and napped — for 30 minutes on my left side and 30 minutes on my right side. Glory in the highest! Praise be! Sleep, delicious sleep!

I made it to Billings, Montana right around 2am. My cell service didn’t kick in until I was right inside the city borders and I’m  just lucky that my host was a night owl who plays video games for a living and didn’t mind that I showed up on his doorstep in the middle of the night. He was worried about me, though. He’s a fuzzy one.

Knowing that it was my birthday and that I couldn’t eat gluten or dairy, he put candles in a cabbage and presented it to me, saying gruffly, “I don’t know what the fuck you eat so I got you a birthday cabbage,” and a hairy pink birthday card that sang to me and a copy of The Tao of Pooh. I was so moved, I cried a little. Not sure if he noticed. That might have embarrassed him a little, the big ol’ bear.

Then, mercifully, I slept.

The next morning I drove into Missoula, without knowing a soul or having a place to stay. But that’s a much happier story…

I could say that it was one of the worst birthdays I’ve ever had. I could say that. Except, now I have this. In the future, when a fixed idea is getting in my way of enjoying the reality of the given moment, I can say to myself, “Self. Don’t make this like your 35th birthday!”

I hope you won’t, either.

Big Love,
Lila
P.S. In my next missive — Missoula, Lindsey Doe of Sexplanations, Stevie Boebi, making it to Portland, recording with world-class sex educators Reid Mihalko and Allison Moon, and mending a few relationships.


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Lila Donnolo

Lila Donnolo is an Intimacy Specialist. Tell Me More…

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horizontalwithlila

Actress. Writer. Podcaster. Lover. Intimacy Specialist … 70+ exclusive podcast episodes for you on Patreon!

Lila
Dear One, I hope this makes you laugh as much as Dear One,

I hope this makes you laugh as much as it made me laugh. 

Laughter in the midst of grief is so good. As good as tears. Different sides of the same emotional release.

My dear friend & brilliant psychiatrist-writer, writer-psychiatrist Dr. Owen Muir, called to check in on me. We joked about my plan to write a scathing critique of this looks-so-nice-from-the-outside, for-profit Assisted Living facility my mom had been living in for a year. (This is not a joke.) 

Owen suggested I write a scathing critique of everything, and then used the phrase “the terrible consumer experience that is death.” 

He said I should write it. I said he should write it. 

So he called me and we recorded it. Together.
Because this is what we do. 

Big Love,
Lila

To listen to the 7 minute recording, tap the Substack link in my bio, or type this link into your browser: horizontalwithlila.substack.com
My new friend @latonya.sunshine78 , a visual artis My new friend @latonya.sunshine78 , a visual artist and educator whose work I *deeply* admire, gave an Artist’s Talk on Friday at the conclusion of her @floridarama.art exhibition, and I got the chance to see it, and hear her speak passionately, eloquently, humorously, lovingly, about her art and the process of making these large-scale mixed media collage works that, for lack of a better art-world term, I personally think of as Very Mixed Media.

If you swipe through to the last slide, you will see the very first time I caught glimpse of her work, long before I know who the artist was, weeks before the exhibition opening, when it had likely just been hung up, and I brought @mrghyseye to experience the immersive exhibit at FloridaRAMA and we both fell in love with the respective pieces behind us. We thought we matched the pieces so well, in both vibe & style, that we had best selfie with them!

And since I follow FloridaRAMA so closely here on IG, when I saw that the official exhibition opening was happening, I made it my business to get there, on my @radpowerbikes @stpeteradpowerbikes ebike, in my ball gown skirt. I brought two Toastmasters friends, Lena & Steve, along.

You can see from the second photo that I was so moved by Latonya’s work and beautiful energy, that I spontaneously Kissed Her Hands (!!!) Later I was a tid bit embarrassed, like ‘really Lila? She does not know you!’

But she does now. And I can tell you that Latonya is a source of unending inspiration, just by being who she is, and working the way she works.

I was deeply moved by the way she weaves objects, and memory, into a visual tapestry, and the way she listens to the objects until they Tell her how they want to be incorporated, so moved, in fact, that I brought her something back from my father’s funeral, and from his dilapidated house. I will be honored if those memories make their way into a tapestry of hers.

Recently I heard this quote. (Do you know who said it?) 

“Use your suffering. Don’t waste it.

I promise I will use it. I promise not to waste it. It will make its way into all of my art, of every medium. And maybe, it will make its way into the art of others, as well.

❤️‍🩹
I’m recovering from a speech heartbreak. I gave I’m recovering from a speech heartbreak. I gave the most beautiful speech of my life last week. It was about my parents, my father’s sudden death, my love, the love of my life. And it is gone because I forgot to turn on my microphone! 

It’s not completely gone. I did find an app transcription service that can read lips. So I have the transcript, but I am devastated to not have the video as I thought it was going to be something I would send to the @ted curators to follow up on my finalist win in 2021. I was going to send it to X, Y, Z… ( And @imranamed )

And the ephemerality of this is really with me. Sometimes creativity, even visionary creativity is a mandala. 

If you’ve ever seen the monks with the sand, pouring a mandala, they put such meticulous precision, such effort, such focus into it. And when they are finished, they gaze upon it… and they sweep it away. Somebody said that my speech last week was a mandala, and I was like, “Yes! I know!” 

Many people have said, “If you can do it once, you can do it again. And I know that this is true. 

As a person who has been creative my entire life, I know that this is true.

{To WATCH the whole speech or READ the full transcript, go to: 

horizontalwithlila dot substack dot com

Or click the link in my bio, bb}

And then go out and make some art.
“Fashion” I think I’m gonna need to add a B “Fashion”

I think I’m gonna need to add a Bowie album or two to my burgeoning collection… 

Which ones are your favorite? Let a girl know in the comments.

Art by @mollymcclureart 
Leggings by @l.o.m_design 
Vampira lipstick by @thekatvond 
Sneaks by @adidas 
Photo by @samia.mounts
Here’s how it starts: Dear Young Man I Dated in Here’s how it starts:

Dear Young Man I Dated in 2016,

I have something very important to say to you, and it isn’t ‘I told you so.’

It is this:

Politics are about people and the planet.

Every single political issue is about people, or the planet. 

Politics do not equal some ideological, intangible thing. “Politics” are real things with real consequences to real people. Probably people that you know. Probably people that you love.

When you say, “I’m not political,” what I hear is, “I do not actually care about people other than (a handful of) the ones I know personally.”

To read the whole letter, tap my Substack link in bio.
Brought my mom to @floridarama.art for the first t Brought my mom to @floridarama.art for the first time so she could experience something different than the view from her couch, and she “didn’t like it”? It was “esquisito”?

#okboomer 

BeforeI went up to NY for the funeral, I did wind up telling her that my father died. I was worried she would be devastated and she would develop what they call “increased mental state,” but that wasn’t the case. Mostly she was just sad for me. 

I’m not sure if she now remembers that it happened.

To be honest, sometimes I don’t exactly remember that it happened. I have his wedding ring and his glasses and the prayer card on my nightstand but still it’s sometimes unreal.

I don’t want to bring it up all the time, but I do like having physical reminders. 

And though I don’t want to wear all black all the time for months on end to show that I’m in mourning, it feels good to put on my morning armband… even, and maybe especially, because it’s just a little bit too tight. So I really know it’s there.

Because the grief is always there even when I’ve forgotten about it.

So is joy.

Hold your people close and tell them, 
if you love them, 
tell them.

#mourning #arttherapy #floridarama
A poem of grief and wonder-ing that I wrote years A poem of grief and wonder-ing that I wrote years ago, and could have written yesterday.

You can read the whole piece on my Substack (with proper syntax). 

Substack is where I put my tenderest thoughts and deepest writing. If you want to, you can become my patron there. This would move me very much.

Link in my bio.

#grief #griefislove
Went to my father’s funeral, but couldn’t wear Went to my father’s funeral, but couldn’t wear black *all* weekend.

Dreamy roses are red @selkie tournure skirt giving me life. Fascinator by @babeyond_official
Are you a member of the Dead Dads Club? Only two Are you a member of the Dead Dads Club?

Only two criteria for membership!

Any Dad will do. Stepdads, Granddads, Poor Dads, Rich Dads, Fun Dads, Un-Dads.

But for real.

I thought for sure my Mom would go first. I mean, I moved to Florida because she has dementia and she is dying.

“Plot twist,” somebody said.

That’s funny.

I actually mean that. I’m just too tired to laugh today. It takes too many muscles.

My mom is in an assisted living facility, on Hospice Care, can no longer stand up from a seated position on her own, and is worried about the stuffed cats we gave her possibly being dead because they ‘have a soul and they used to meow and now they stopped.’

The staff has been putting down food and water for them and every time I drop by the stuffed cats — and the food — are in a different place in the apartment. So that’s good. They’re still alive, you know. And the facility is still keeping her. Alive, you know. And putting down real food for her stuffed cats.

“What’s the harm?” they said. 

No harm, I say. She wasn’t going to eat that, anyway.

To read the entire essay, to subscribe, or to become s paid subscriber and be part of my art, follow the Substack link in my bio 

horizontalwithlila dot substack dot com

#deaddadsclub #deaddad #grieving #sickmom
Try not to forget, okay? Belt @l.o.m_design Bow Try not to forget, okay?

Belt @l.o.m_design 
Bow @riskgalleryboutique 
Earrings @artpoolgallery 
Top @forloveandlemons 
Photo @samia.mounts 
Art @verticalventures
I never wanted a child. So the universe gave me I never wanted a child. 

So the universe gave me an 84 year-old one. 

We are the playthings of the gods.

I have cleaned up her urine. I have cleaned up her shit. I have changed her soiled diaper. I have used a q-tip to put medicine in tender places that I never wished to see, because there was no one else to do it.

What’s that they call it in the Bible? Smiting? God smote him? Smited him? Smit him? In my bitterer moments, it does feel as though I’ve been smote. In my better moments, it’s simply the part of my story where Timon & Pumbaa sing the “CIRRRRCLE of LIIIIIIFE.”

{You can read the rest of the essay on my Substack. Link in my bio. Thank you for being a witness.}
I’ve just learned that today is International Me I’ve just learned that today is International Mermaid Day!

Thanks @jujubumble 

📸 @wildartistryphotography 
💄 @mrghyseye 
✨ Me
📖 Gift from @kristianndances 

#internationalmermaidday
My Mom is dying. Fasc!sm is on the rise. A small g My Mom is dying. Fasc!sm is on the rise. A small group of evil corporate overlords is trying to Handmaid’s Tale us. My brilliant, funny friend @synchlayer died of bladder cancer at age 49.

I’m out here buying pretty things on the internet. 

I have no regerts.

This will be an essay mostly in photos. I am very, very tired. 

February was: 

setting up temporary-house in FL

gathering 95% of my possessions from 4 places in NY (thanks Kenneth, Deniz, Marghe, Owen!) and two places in Los Angeles (Thanks Adam M. & Samia!) 

driving a 12-foot box truck from NY to Baltimore to Savannah to FL (mostly with Jon! thanks Jon!)

shortly thereafter, flying to L.A. and, while packing up, the remaining 17% of my possessions, managing to see as many people I love as humanly possible (for someone who is slightly manic and rather time-optimistic) — which is, honestly, rather a lot of people, if I do pat myself on the back… myself— and then rushing back to St. Pete (thank you friend for flying me home; you know who you are) because mom went into the hospital again…

FOR THE REST OF THE ESSAY, TAP THE SUBSTACK LINK IN MY BIO, bb. 💋 💋
Proud to Protest today.
Falling more in 🩷🧡💛🩵💙 with St. Pete!

Happy International Women’s Day. 

May each of us born to a woman, 
raised by a woman, 
nurtured by a woman, &
 f*cked by a woman 

CHOOSE to SHOW WOMEN the RESPECT and CARE that we deserve.

#internationalwomensday2025 #stpete #resist
“What a year January has been. 

My dear friend’s sister died by su!c!de. My dear friend lost his home in Altadena and had to evacuate the fire with his family, including his 92 year-old grandmother. My dear friend is dying of cancer in New York. (In his 40s.) The br*ligarchy rears, fasc!sm festers, and every tr@ns person, woman, and human with even mildly uncertain imm!gration status in the United States is, rightly, terrified. 

Here in Florida, my mom fell on her face right in front of me at church last week, on the threshold of the ladies room (busting her upper lip) and had to go to the E.R. where her CAT scan and her hand xrays came back negative but it turns out she has…..”

You can read the whole piece on my Substack- link in my bio!
In March, 2019, my friend @stevenmdean (remember h In March, 2019, my friend @stevenmdean (remember him from horizontal with lila episodes 82. 200 dating profiles, & 83. you do not have voting rights in this startup relationship?) teamed up with an experience designer to create an event they dubbed The Love Immersive, a “10-hour exploratorium-style foray into the 5 love languages.”

In Steve’s words: 

“I teamed up to architect a choose-your-own-adventure interactive journey through the languages of love. 
Spanning every floor of a sprawling 6-story arthouse in the heart of New York City, and co-produced by the creative arts group Moontribe, Love Immersive attracted over 450 attendees who came to explore love through the nuanced dimensions of touch, words, service, quality time, gifts, and more. 

We invited over 50 volunteers and practitioners of different love languages to showcase their creative capabilities in an evening of self-discovery, secret missions, hidden rooms, wandering wizards, art installations, and live music.“

I was one of the 50. 
They gave me a closet. 
A closet.
This is not lost on me.

That was all the space they had left, apparently. And I was determined to make good use of it. I turned it into a cozy nesting pod with blankets and pillows and two sets of listening devices, and I recorded this 11-minute meditation for anyone who stopped in, so that they could take a break from the glorious menagerie for a few minutes. And reset.

In the closet.

#immersiveexperience 

LISTEN ON SUBSTACK! Link in my bio!
Busy? Low on bandwidth? No time to read the whole Busy? Low on bandwidth? No time to read the whole piece?

TL,DR: Don’t ask. OFFER.

Don’t ask. Offer.

Honestly though, the whole piece is worth reading, and, of you’re grieving, sharing with those who ask you if there’s ‘anything’ they can do.

Link to my Substack in my bio.

I love you.
I grieve with you.
I love you.
Think of this as a candy conversation heart that s Think of this as a candy conversation heart that says “READ ME”.

“Annie Lalla, the love coach I would trust with my love life, who explains the unexplainable in ways that break open my head and my heart, once told me of smuggling love. Some people do not demonstrate love in ways that we at first recognize as love. She spoke of becoming a Detective on the Case of Love, noticing where a partner might be smuggling morsels of it. Refilling your water glass while you’re busy writing, perhaps. Going out to the car early to defrost it before you get in. Things like that, and things far less legible.

When I first courted her for a couple of episodes of horizontal with lila, I asked, “How do I smuggle love?” She replied immediately that I don’t seem to smuggle at all; I just come right out with it. Make like confetti. Festoon a person. She said loads of people are more reserved than I am because they believe compliments, effusiveness, and praise, once offered, lower their social status. She said I don’t care much about that, because it’s more important to me to let the person know.

Let the people know.

We are all going to die. And it seems like most of the time, it will be a surprise when. What does status matter, really? Really really.

The fact that I will express my love with a freeness is a thing I love about myself even when I don’t love myself.

So sure, I don’t need a holiday to express my love — which is one of the main annoyances I hear bandied about near February 14th — “I don’t need a holiday to tell me to tell my wife I love her!”

Okay. But setting aside a day for a thing can certainly help, right?

Atonement.

Independence.

Rights.

Holocaust remembrance.

If anything, Valentine’s offers us that cultural pause in the middle of an unfavorite month, a will-we-make-it-through-the-winter, hope-our-stores-last, do-we-have-enough firewood, dear-God-don’t-let-me-freeze-to-death month that says, in candy-colored suspended animation:

Think about love, will you?

What kind do you have?

What kind do you want?

And:

Now what do you want to do about that, sweetheart?”

Read the whole piece on my Substack, darling. Link in my bio.

P.S. I love you.
Read this if you love me: “february, the month Read this if you love me: 

“february, the month you’re supposed to be in love”

https://open.substack.com/pub/horizontalwithlila/p/february-the-month-youre-supposed?r=m6nsi&utm_medium=ios
“This has been a terrible no good very bad super “This has been a terrible no good very bad super sucky year. For moi. (You too?) 

Would not recommend. 
Would not wish on anyone.

Back in Florida. Mother descending into dementia and decrepitude. 

Don’t want to do the things. I am the only person to do the things.

Almost the entirety of 2024 has been an adulting montage. Or rather, for accuracy’s sake, the first three-quarters of the year was a months-long ordeal which Joseph Campbell of The Hero’s Journey might dub the REFUSAL OF THE CALL.

I am firmly in the montage now, though, for sure. How long will it last? Who knows. Montages are interminable for the person living them. That’s why we speed them up in the movies.

So I juuuust entered the montage 2 months ago. Basically when I got out of bed. There was a lot of bed. See: Refusal of the Call.

This is sort of a MVE, a Minimum Viable Essay. I haven’t written in 10 months. A list is the first thing I’ve mustered, and I’m very glad I’ve mustered it because it means I’m back. English is so confusing, isn’t it? Mustered. Mustard. Tomato. Tomato.

Anyhoodle! Without further ado, I present you with an exhaustive yet incomplete list of Things I Learned (in 2024) that I Really Never Wanted to Learn and Didn’t Really Want to Know:

[Go to the Substack link in bio to read about the 24 things!]
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