[Free People tulle skirt + Sigerson Morrison booties + silk nightgown + Anthropologie fuzzy cardigan, sized up + layered Vanessa Mooney necklaces… Mooney on Mooney. I’ll get over it someday.]
Think hard on one of your favorite songs. The words, the melody, the familiarity of it.
Then, send it to someone you care about—for a reason. Either because you want to spread the love, or with the hopes they’ll hear it like you do, plucking out the message you’re sending somewhere in there.
You’ll probably go back, then, and listen to the whole thing all over again, in the hopes of hearing it the way they will—someone hearing it for the first time. It’s like rereading an email you’ve just sent. Or seeing your town all over again through the eyes of a visitor you’re showing around. Or reexamining your cat’s girth through the wide eyes of his new vet. Noting negligible stains on a shirt you were just about to eBay.
I wish I had a phrase for this, but it’s something akin to pulling the wool from your eyes. Too little of this, and you’re in a rut of an existence. Too much, and there’s too much anxiety, not enough placidity and comfort that are, to me, the root of a happy existence. But to strike a balance would be nice.
My parents recently overhauled my grandparents’ house after the death of my grandmother, in June. An arduous task that was fraught with despair and probably (I wasn’t there to help) the overwhelming sense it’d never get finished. All of a sudden, through the prism of preparing it for sale—for new people to live in it—there were numerous flaws, weak spots in the floor, stains from lizard poop on the wall, cracks in the foundation, sticky drawers and stained grout.
I’ve been in that house a hundred times, running my hands along familiar surfaces and smelling familiar things. But I never knew it was, fundamentally, a mess.
Like this photo below. It seemed normal at first, but now, publicly in this post, it looks a little Stoops McGoops. (Rob’s genius phraseology for silly.)
You wonder how some people ‘let themselves go’ or hoarders come to get comfortable padding around on cat excrement looking for an old purse with the tags still on. A bit of a forward flail into the far end of the spectrum, but you get what I’m saying.
It’s more than fresh perspectives. It’s perspective with a purpose.
This coming year, I’m going to start playing it for someone else.