Houston, In My Own Words, Lifestyle, On the Town

Musings in a Storm; Hurricane Beryl

RaeAnna

One Week Later…

On Sunday, July 7, 2024, I started taking pictures as the bands of Hurricane Beryl started to sweep over Houston. Alone in my house, I went to bed wondering what condition my world would be in when I woke. The power went out while I was on the phone with my fiancée (who lives in Australia) at seven in the morning on Monday, July 8, 2024. She went to bed for the night, and my weather watch began. Two hours later, I lost cell reception and internet. As an avid read, writer, picture taker with literally nothing to do, I decided to document the storm. I’ve been through my fair share of hurricanes, storms, tornados, and derechos at this point in my life. But, for the first time, I was bored during it.

I spent Sunday night and Monday taking pictures. The following pieces I wrote over three days in a notebook; then transcribed on my tablet in a note that I, later, turned into a .doc, which is now my first post in months. Each piece stands alone; though there are likely themes to be found. Some bring levity, and some are quite dark. They’re all very much me. The photos separate piece from piece. So, enjoy.

Open front door of Pearl Bar onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
Pearl Bar’s front door opens onto Washington Avenue as the bands of Hurricane Beryl begin.
  • Laying, clothed in very little, with the windows open: I’m hot. The kind of hot that feels like it’ll never get better. The kind of hot that makes air heavy in the lungs. If this isn’t nostalgic, it would be misery.
  • Laying on a sheet-covered couch—because cotton is cooler than brushed velvet—my underwear and bra stick to me. I’m glistening with sweat. I’ve read three-quarters of one of the best novels I’ve ever consumed. I realize: I’d be working if it weren’t for Hurricane Beryl shutting down the fourth largest city in the United States. A category one. No internet. No power. No communication with the outside world. It took a natural disaster for me to have my first real day off since the day after I put my dog to sleep… three months ago. There’s literally nothing to be done but pick up sticks and read. And I’m not about to go pick up sticks.
  • Laying on the couch, the only breeze I can feel is the hot breath from the dogs who love me so much they can’t find another spot to lay except my lap in all 3,000 square feet of this damn house. My day was spent reading and writing, the old-fashioned way. I love days like these. Ones where I lay by an open window, reading, drinking tea, and listening to nature. Today, doing just that, Instead of the birds, beach, breeze, city, leaves, I’d normally find lulling, I’m currently being serenaded by my much too nice neighbors’ generator. I hate them. But they’re too nice to hate, even in this heat.
A friend walking her dog as the storm started to roll in Sunday, July 7, 2024.

I have so many unanswered questions. | Does my mother believe in heaven? | What is the worst lie I’ve ever told? | Why do fascia confuse scientists so much? | Does Beau resent me for rescuing Tessa and the Puppies? | Why didn’t he protect me? | What will I regret when I lay dying? | Will she still think I’m beautiful in 50 years when she walks into our room after brushing her teeth to find me reading on the same side of the bed I’ve slept in for the majority of our lives? | Why did that question make me cry? | How did performing on stage go from being my whole life to a place I haven’t been in a decade? | Does he know he’s the villain in my story? | Why do I like Peach Rings but peaches not so much? | Do my dogs know how much I love them? | There are happy-sad people and sad-happy people and sad-sad people, but are there happy-happy people? | What’s even the point? | Why do I think I’m interesting enough to be a writer? | Can she remember the smell of the space between my shoulder blades the way I remember her? | When we leave the house, do our pets think we’re going for pupcups and dog walks and pet stores and beach adventures because that’s all they do with us? | Do they feel abandoned? | Am I capable of writing a book? | When does it get better?

Beau and Bear anxious over the thunder.

As I drive through my neighborhood, there is a ton of damage. Trees felled. Roofs in streets. Families raking yards. Neighbors calling on each other. Hands being lended. Bayous overflowing.

The general post-natural disaster mahem and comradery.

Beau’s head hangs out the passenger window. Soaking up the breeze as much as the sun. She’s always loved a car ride. I drive slowly as much out of safety as curiosity.

As we slowly creep down the street, the decimation of homes, trees, and fences allows us a public viewing into private moments. On the main road, a backyard fence lays half across the sidewalk, half across the street. A multi-generational Asian family sits around a table on their back patio. Mom, dad, and grandma stare with a mixture of defeat and exhaustion. Martini in every hand. All the while, their ten[ish?] year-old son flits around the backyard with the joy of a kid in a world devoid of technology.

Using the dictionaries I loved so much in college to look up the gender of a noun. #old #nerd

Sometimes, I feel like Pyoter, my robot vacuum—named because a) I like men who clean b) I can yell at a man when it fucks up c) I speak Russian d) it just felt right—who is currently sat, wheels run-up a dog toy, in the corner where the hearth meets the wall.

Pyotr does a great job. A real go-getter. He’s aged, but his battery isn’t suffering. With the right care, he does as well as he ever did. His years show in the collection of dust and scuffs. He’s reliable and beloved. But he’s stuck. He’s not out of battery. He’s not full either. Nor is he empty. He’s kind of in the middle phase of vaccing the floors: where enough progress has been made, it seems like things could be done. Nowhere near perfect, but definitely above the expectation people have when I tell them, “I have five dogs.” Pyotr has the capability to do a great job, not just the average state my floors exist in now.

But he’s stuck.

I’m sitting on the couch engrossed in a book about a rich, lesbian writer who’s suffering from severe depression, childhood trauma, depersonalization, derealization, some delusions, and can’t finish her novel—that’s actually a memoir—which has put her in a trust funded [see what I did there] psychiatrists’ office not to feel and do better but to write again. Same. But I’m too poor for a psychiatrist to help me finish my damn book. Also the protagonist(antagonist?) is younger and further in her book than me. Fuck her. Now, I’m realizing, I am genuinely jealous of a genuinely ill and equally fictional woman. Then, again, I’m also (mostly undiagnosed) mentally ill. I mentioned I’m too poor for a psychiatrist? yes. This tracks.

Anyway.

I promise these two are related as to why, sometimes, I feel like Pyotr.

He’s stuck.

I’m stuck.

He needs me to get up, move him, push the button so he can be unstoppable. The problem therein lies: I won’t get up.

My brain is home to: CPTSD, childhood trauma, rape, violence, audhd, stripping, and more. At 33, like my floors, I’m doing better than you’d assume. To the outside world, I’m doing great. But I have so much energy. My mind is only getting more interesting. I know there’s potential. Somewhere. What’s been done is good enough; it really is.

It’s not good enough for me.

I’m wheels up on my own metaphorical dog toy. Therefore, I have no—completely devoid of metaphor here—no ability to stand up and press Pyotr’s button so he can go do great things for my mental health through dog glitter confiscation.

Which is a symptom of my own being stuck.

I need a me to come in and unstick me, so I can unstick Pyotr. So, he can finish the floors. So, I can finish my bestselling book. So, I can afford my wife’s dream job of being a rockstar. Then, I’ll be unstoppable. And maybe, but probably not, have a little more money. (I plan on my wife’s first tour eating up the $37 advance I get from that “bestseller.”)

But, I’m going to go back to reading.

MOM! It’s wet!

I know I dated men for so, so, so many reasons. It’s something I’ve written about loads. Thought about far more. Why did I spend a whole lot of years dating a gender I have literally zero attraction to? There’s a bit to it I hate and don’t admit to often. But it’s also true and part of it.

Dating men is inherently traumatic. (For all women, yes. They are our natural predators. I’d choose the bear, but no one is asking me.) But for me. As a gay woman with years of sexual Trauma with a capital t. Sex, every single consensual time, was traumatic. Some more. Some less. I was walking a tightrope above a flowing lava river of memories I am deeply afraid of and equally curious about. I have an entire lived-life that I don’t really remember so well. It’s there. But not. I know I can. But do I want to?

With the right circumstances, those memories come back. Do I want them? Nope. Do I need them? Healing is a long, painful journey. I quickly realized… The easiest way to remember the memories living in my body and not so much my mind was sex with men. With the force of a freight train going down a hill with no brakes or conductor, every new rememberance would chug right over my mental health. 

To be clear, this was all done consensually and unconsciously. It took me a long time to figure out what I was doing. Eventually, sex with men didn’t bring back memories. I think I’d collected all the Trauma I could the old fashioned way. 

I took all the puzzle pieces and put them together. My puzzle was definitely found at a rummage sale because pieces are missing. I have enough of them to have a really clear understanding of who I am and where I come from. Then I took the time to heal. Like really heal. I’m not healed. Clearly. But I’m better.

Then I came out. Not because I hadn’t known I was gay before. But I needed to reTraumatize myself over and over and over again to uncover the hardest truths I needed to know so I could get to a place where I wasn’t so actively trying to die.

Too many years into an already full life. I’m out, I’m proud, I’m a functional calamity. At 33, I’m really fucking happily engaged to the most incredible woman. And I think… deep down, I might actively want to live.

The anxious ones were kept in their safe spaces.

With generators and chainsaws and bugs and children and dogs and sirens and storms, the world has never seemed louder. More intrusive. More in my space. 

So, I put in earplugs to drown out the noise. I try to find sleep laying on the couch with all the windows open in a breezeless night in July. There’s still a ringing. A haunting that won’t go away. It’s louder in my brain than any of the aforementioned noises could ever be loud in real life.

I wish this were just tinnitus. But no. 

Not new, but particularly jarring tonight. As a little girl, I used to think of it as an alarm sounding. That voice my mom told me about. It told me when I was doing something wrong. When I was being bad. It didn’t take me long to learn: that alarm never relented.

So, it didn’t take long to know: I was just bad. Most of the time, I still believe it. That I deserved it all. Every malintent, violence, shame. 

But some days, more than there used to be, I think: maybe it’s all the alarms I didn’t listen to, warning me of all the people I believed.

Sometimes, it hurts being alone in my own head.

So, I take the earplugs out. Letting the sound of crickets and generators drown out the alarms I didn’t know how to listen to.

A lot of sniffing and following me around the house.

Stuck in a house with no electricity, no air conditioning, no reception, no internet, and no help at the height of southern Texas summer is a lot like camping. Except terrible. 

If I tell you it was a first. I’m probably lying to you. 

When I think about the unedited version of my whole life. The one common thread has been lying. Changing the narrative of my history. Sometimes, as it’s happening.

I tell firsts as if they’re not really seconds or thirds of fiftieths because they are more palatable. Cleaner. Easy. 

Because, the thing is, the first time… well, that’s the first time I’ll write about. 

But 

To friends who know me, there’s the first time I talk about like it was a passing thing because looking at the threads that wove my Trauma, it hardly even feels like it matters. 

Then 

There’s the first time that felt like the first time. Only three people have seen that pain. 

However

There’s the first time that was the real first time. I’ve never spoken it out loud. To even think of it pulls all the air that ever was from my lungs. Even writing—admitting to it here—scares me so much. I want to run. I want to hide. There is pain I so instinctively don’t want to be true that if I never speak it, never share it, maybe it’s not. But lately, in traffic, on walks, alone, in the moments where my mind wanders… I keep being led there. I’ve had to stop writing three times so my eyes could see the spelling errors I’ll edit out through tears sometime between me writing and you reading this. If you’re reading this, it means I didn’t edit this one out. This is hard. This is brave. This feels like dying.

Telling firsts which weren’t actually firsts, I’m lying to you. I’m not lying to myself. I was there. I know the truth. I always have. I just wish I didn’t. So I tell the firsts I’m comfortable with. Because I’m better. But I’m not fucking healed.

A lot of naps.

My love for you is a very well tended garden.

It’s an allegory I like because I like gardens. Not a perfect one since I don’t like gardening. In this figurative garden, I have no problems being a figurative gardener. Although, my darling dearest, the literal garden is your literal responsibility. 

When a garden is planted, watered, tended, weeded, watered, tended, weeded, planted, so on and so forth, it will grow and thrive. New things will come. Some things will wither. Sometimes, it doesn’t *seem* to be doing so well because of winter or drought or too much rain or not enough sun, but a very well tended garden always survives, coming back stronger and more beautiful each time because the soil keeps getting richer. It is always growing and changing because it was never not well tended.

My love for you is that. A bit simplistic, but you get the idea. 

An Observer

Ludicrous! Not the rapper. The idea!!!!

The idea! at one point in time… a very, much too long point in time in my life, I thought it was important to carry a small suitcase on my shoulder everywhere I went.

They’re known as purses.

Highly helpful for the ladyfolk in a world where the ladyfolk are legally not allowed functional pockets [if pockets at all—depending on your state and county legislation]. Not really, but that’s how it feels shopping.

Anyway. I carried a large purse because I deemed it necessary to carry every single item anyone could need in events ranging from a wedding to a natural disaster. True fact. The pouch-thing I carried inside my purse was so well stocked with all sorts of odds and ends, it really did come in handy at both weddings (two friends) and a natural disaster (hurricane Florence). It was hefty! Lifting the damn thing, which sits utterly-and-quite-suddenly-forsaken, dusty, and on the top shelf in my entryway, put down never to be picked up again until… now, when it feels like something between training for an Iron Man and giving up completely.

I had purses—yes plural—big enough to carry the well-stocked pouch-thing, wallet, phone, a tiny tripod, book, pen, tablet, all my friends’ things, and a brush every single time I left the house.

It is baffling to me.

I don’t even brush my hair anymore. 

I was very lucky.

I don’t like my body.

I don’t think I see what other people see.

All I see is endurance. Not the long-distance running kind. The servived kind.

I look at my body and see every flaw. Every dimple. Every stretch mark. Every varicose vein. Every lump. Every wrinkle. Every sag. Every scar. I’m vain. Sure. But…

I see pain. I see a body I didn’t think belonged to me, had control over, a right to. I see a body that I think of as not me. What happens and happened to this body… that’s not me. It’s just a body. Because if they did that to my body and I am my body, they did that to me. And they knew me. And they still did it. Then looked me in the eye and called it love.

I don’t want to look at my body and see that.

I don’t.

But, I take beautiful pictures of my body in beautiful places. They call the place beautiful. They call the body beautiful. But I just want to keep a record. I want proof. I want to know that I was there. I did it. This body did enough to get to those places.

But also…

I hope one day I look back on all the pictures I’ve taken in beautiful clothes in beautiful places with beautiful people and think, maybe, ‘I was beautiful once.’ I guess, that’s how I’ve always—well, not always—known to not give up yet. That’s hope, an emotion I’m rarely accused of. I haven’t lost it. So, maybe, one day, I will look back at all the art I made with eyes that somehow found enough self-love (it hurt me far more to write than for you to read) to think: ‘As much as I hated it every singe time, I deserved to be called beautiful.’

But I guess that’s healing from being treated like an ugly thing for so very long.

The water was high.

Life is an exhausting to do list. 

Books, Fiction

Complexities of Being an Artist in We Play Ourselves

RaeAnna

Read Yes
Length 326
Overall Feels Solid
Gay Vibes 10/10
Drink Pairing Cheap Vodka and Sprite with a Pineapple Slice
⭐⭐⭐⭐

Writing about the inner life of a writer is a difficult feat.

Writing about the inner life of a writer who’s making questionable—sometimes just bad—decisions while she’s in the midst of a scandal and manages to get caught up in the chaos of other artists’ lives is exactly what Jen Silverman does in We Play Ourselves.

Cass leaves her beloved New York in disgrace for Los Angeles after an incident with another playwright. Staying with friends, her neighbor is a talentedly eccentric film maker, following a group of teenage girls to document their reimagination of Fight Club. Along the way, Cass runs into her NYC nemesis on her meandering and often dead-ended path towards happiness and success as a queer woman in her thirties. 

Silverman creates a fully formed human in the character of Cass. She is simultaneously unlikeable, relatable, and completely captivating. An artist at heart, she reacts [poorly] to criticism. And don’t we all, at times. History is full of disgruntled artists retaliating. What unfolds is Cass’s interactions with a diverse cast of characters with hearts of artists and critics. Each one is human in surprising and predictable ways. There is a complexity and fullness to even the minorest of players. Life is full of chaos, humor, and big feelings. Silverman tackles that throughout the novel without ever looking away from the [dark] comedy of searching for meaning and motivation: “Unrelated to sex. Ambition is all desire, all the time. So is success. I’d take success over sex.” Even in the smallest observations, there is an approachableness. Everyone, on some level, can understand the pull of sex and success as well as their fleeting nature. Silverman’s humor is in their affecting and realistic take on everything. Because as humans, we understand what they’re saying even if the thought hasn’t occurred to us personally. It’s ridiculously easy to empathize with the choice of success over sex because one has a tendency to last longer with a bigger dopamine hit. 

The writing really is superb. Not only is the narrative searing, funny, and insightful, Silverman organizes their novel to keep their readers thumbing the pages. The question: “What happened?” is never far from mind. Silverman gives just enough without giving much at all. In a mastery of making us care about Cass while she makes a plethora of poor choices, there is still a looming knowledge of finding out an even bigger poor choice. We Play Ourselves is smoke and mirrors before you even start reading. The back cover will lead you to believe you’re embarking on a story going in one direction, but that’s not the leading plot but a compelling subplot. 

Throughout, Silverman is constantly making poignant observations on the human condition and the gray area people live in. Each of the characters in We Play Ourselves is ultimately doing their best for the greater good, yet the greater good is all dependent on their perspective. It is both the normalization and vilification of emotional manipulation for perceived positive change. Thematically, the novel [and life] can best be summed up, “Because doing your best isn’t necessarily an excuse for doing damage. | Sometimes you do an awful lot of damage. | And that doesn’t mean you’re a bad person.” Do your best, but, sometimes, it’s just not good enough. I get it, Silverman. I’ve been saying the same for forever. You just said it better and more entertainingly than I ever have.

As a queer, thirty-something writer, Cass feels like a more successful and publicly disastrous version of my internal self. The absolute most resonating and insightful moment in the entire book for me is taken from an observation made during a conversation between Cass and her father: “Sixty-five, and he hadn’t even finished leading all the lives he was going to lead.” I love it. It is hope that something different if not better lies ahead. Who we were doesn’t have to be who we are or who we will become.

We Play Ourselves is an exploration of failing, striving, and the diversity one life can be.

Jen Silverman is an exceptional storyteller.  

Memorable Quotes
“I watched my parents give up on understanding. But lack of understanding is not a lack of love. Not always.”
“”And it’s not not you. But it’s a version. And the more time passes, the more people only know the version. And the more time you spend as the version. And then it’s like: Well, which one is the version and which one is real?””
“Joy is a tricky proposition. I would rather invest in granite countertops.

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Buy on Amazon

Title: We Play Ourselves
Author: Jen Silverman
Publisher: Random House
Copyright: 2021
ISBN: 9780399591549

11..., Lifestyle

11… Moments of New Self-Awareness After Getting Engaged

RaeAnna

Starting out as one of the silliest listicles I’ve ever written—it still includes truths I’m embarrassed to admit—this turned into something a little less silly because it’s hard not to be a bit sentimental when talking about the woman I’m going to marry. You should listen to me because as a woman, I leveled up and am now worth more in society’s eyes because I’m engaged… but to a woman so does that mean I’m worth less? Either way, I’ve been engaged for 56 days and am, therefore, an expert at being successfully and happily engaged.

We stopped in Austin for an afternoon on our way back from Fredericksburg.

Kate, my fiancée, proposed on Christmas morning in the most perfect-to-us way possible. Looking back, I still would not change a single thing; I’m as certain as I can be, I’ll feel the same in thirty years. I’d thought I would be the one to propose. Kate knows me—better than I like sometimes—and, in her typical decisive nature, beat me to it, which was best for me and her and us. 

I managed to fly to Australia for her favorite holiday, and she flew to the US for mine. Christmas has always been, and, definitely now, always will be my favorite holiday. 

Less than 24 hours after her arrival, on Christmas morning, we opened presents in front of my bedroom’s Christmas tree in our matching jammies, socks, and Santa hats, surrounded by my dogs. (I’ll tell you the middle part of this story in the listicle.) When I turned around, she was down on one knee. I tackled her. The ring’s existence registered, but I couldn’t stop saying “yes” and looking at her. The absolute rush of emotions and deep love and admiration I had for her as I saw the love pouring out of her for me to receive and reciprocate was like nothing I’ve ever experienced. I was kind enough to eventually let her actually ask me to marry her, and I said “yes” for the seventy-nine millionth time. 

We took a trip to Australia’s Sapphire Coast in November. The hiking and views were phenomenal.

1. I really want to marry Kate. This seems obvious considering we’re engaged. Marriage was not exactly something I was chasing down when we met—or ever throughout my life. Meeting her, I knew intrinsically I wanted to marry her. When that thought surprised me as the reality of her kneeling in front of me, I’ve never known the answer to a question with such certainty before. I knew it would be a yes. It was a yes. It’s always going to be a yes. The absolute certainty I needed her to feel when I said yes was overwhelming. The answer wasn’t even a thought. I didn’t think because I didn’t have to. I have known since our first date that I would fall in love with her like this. I’m just lucky enough she fell, too.  

2. I like diamonds. Anytime rings came up, I’ve been very adamant about not wanting a diamond. Diamonds are included in the basic engagement package. I didn’t want a ring that everyone had. This has been such a thing, that most people know my aversion to diamonds. Except my fiancée didn’t until she did… After she bought the ring. It came up in conversation. The day after she bought my ring. I said what I said. I didn’t know! How could I have known. I still feel bad. I especially feel bad because I love my ring. Diamonds are sparkly. I’m in my girl era. So, I take back what I said, I like my diamond more than the sapphire I thought I wanted. Again… She knows me really well.

3. No one is surprised by my ridiculous antics. I say this because not only did I make the poor woman question the perfect ring she designed by telling her I don’t like diamonds. I made my engagement more memorable with a classic RaeAnna. A few weeks before Christmas, I was antiquing. I decided to buy the worst thing I could find under $5 because I thought it would be funny to see her reaction. As if by magic, the most horrible little figurine appeared in my hands for $1.25—I paid too much. This thing (pictured below) was not supposed to be a lasting memory but an ephemeral, minor funny. So, Kate and I were chatting the week before she came. She mentioned gifts, and I couldn’t contain the news I had a reaction present for her. She, oddly enough, had done the same. We turned it into a competition because, of course, we did. Whoever earned the best reaction would win a nice lunch at the other’s expense. (Jokes on her, it’s our money now.) “How will we know who wins?” I asked, knowing I could not possibly lose. “Oh, we’ll know” she responded with, I thought, far too much smugness for the optical atrocity coming her way. So I gave her this thing. She reacted very minorly. I was butthurt, she didn’t find me as funny as I found me. She told me to close my eyes, and I took her to a very nice lunch on our engagement-moon.

I am stuck with this decision for the rest of my life. She proposed AFTER I gave it to her.

4. Quiet. Private. Intentional. Romantic. Our engagement story is amazing and funny and us, and it was nothing Instagram or the media tells us we should want or give our partner, and yet it was exactly right. I functioned under the assumption I would propose, so I knew how I would do it. I had never thought of how I wanted to be proposed to. For as much as I open my past and life up to the world, when it comes down to it, I prefer the secluded intimacy of our peaceful moments at home. It turns out, per usual, she already knew me. Private and quiet is truly what my heart wants… but

5. I want to tell everyone everywhere the most amazing woman I have ever met wants to marry me. Like… What? I need people to know. I am very excited. This is very exciting. Who have I become??? Seriously, though. Have I mentioned Kate and I are engaged? We’re very excited. 

6. People don’t ask about my ring enough. I’m kidding. Not really. I’m obsessed with it. This was going to be short and shallow, but I can’t stop at “Not really,” which is the objectively funniest point to stop. Instead… Kate picked this ring out for me, and as we’ve discussed, I love it. Obviously, I want to show it off. Rings are symbols of commitment, yada yada yada. Yes. For me, there’s more symbolism. Though we knew marriage was in our future, she didn’t know if I would say ‘yes’ because we hadn’t talked about getting engaged. The dating era of our relationship was short lived. She proposed, overcoming a history of not committing and the reality we had not been together long. Either of those things are scary in their own right, but I guess she loves me enough to conquer the anxiety and uncertainty. So my ring, whenever I look at it, is a testament to a) Her bravery/dedication; I could not have done what she did. b) How much she loves me because I remember the way she looked at me as she asked every time I see it. c) She knows me and well enough to get it so utterly right (I’m really picky about the jewelry I wear). d) I will never question if she wants this as much as I do. 

Our rings, hers is a place holder until I propose, right before she boarded a plane back to Australia.

7. Calling her my fiancée is new. With all new things there’s an adjustment. I love that she’s my fiancée, but referring to her as my fiancée is new. The word tastes different in my mouth because it’s never lived there in this way before. ‘Girlfriend’ was an easy to use word because that word has lived near my name before. Fiancée has never lived near my name as an adjective or a noun. It’s never been used to describe me nor my partner. It’s a word I can feel every time I say it because it’s new and lovely and full of excitement, love, and joy. I genuinely think every utterance helps me overcome the imposter syndrome I’m having. 

8. Being a “chill bride” is relative to experience, expectation, and personality. I’ve been in more than 20 weddings. There was one August where I went to seven. I’ve been to LOADS. I also work in the wedding industry as a floral designer. My wedding knowledge is pretty massive. My fiancée has been to one wedding. We both want a small, private wedding, which means drastically different things to us. We’ll figure it out. Or we’ll elope. 

9. I will cry if someone tries to take away cake. Kate didn’t know I wanted cake at the wedding. And I thought that was the second most obvious thing after “I do.” I’m fine with a grocery store cake that could even be a cupcake. I just want to eat cake next to my wife between dances. Keep in mind, I frequently buy entire cakes just for myself, which I felt to be a logical indicator of my matrimonial dessert desires. To be clear, I was very much on my period, and she is the sweetest human in the world. But life is copy and long story short: I cried when I thought I wouldn’t get to have cake at our wedding. At one point, I heard my voice saying, “You can have a meatloaf for all I care, but I’m having cake.”

10. New level of intimacy… I hate saying this because it feels stupid. I thought it was stupid before, I think it’s stupid now. Because nothing has changed. Not really. We planned on marrying each other before; it’s still the plan, now I’m just crying over cake. We’re still long distance. We’re still dating and visiting and planning and calling all the time. Yet, there’s a closeness that I didn’t know existed previously. The very act of her thinking and deciding enough to buy a ring and then ask the question is huge. It’s not a small task to do, and the emotional rollercoaster I know she was on as she asked is much bigger. I feel closer to her. There’s more peace and security. It’s pretty great getting to love someone, being wildly honest all the time, just for her to say, ‘Yeah, cool, so let’s do this for forever.’ Then we just dive deeper into it all the more!

11. I’ve never in my entire life been so motivated towards a non-career-centered goal.

In My Own Words, Lifestyle

Sappho to Shakespeare to Sparks; We Write of Love

RaeAnna

The interesting thing about writing on love is everyone does it. 

Sitting and contemplating if I’m going to be a great writer or not.

From Sappho to Steel, Shakespeare to Sparks. 

Love comes in as many forms as people. My love differs intensely from person to person because how can I love one person as they are in the same way I love an entirely different person as they are? It’s one of the most fascinating aspects. It’s not one size fits all but tailored like haute couture. Which is likely the reason us artists are so very obsessed with it. 

My words are love letters to lovers and friends and family and even those who hurt me. Love is expansive and difficult to pin down. Putting that feeling into a tangible for public consumption is the greatest challenge an artist faces. How do I show every intricacy and depth of love I have for my fiancée? How do I tell the vastness and unconditionality of love I have for my best friend? How do I adequately portray the shame of still loving the man who hurt me violently? How do I illustrate the grief of loving parents I cannot include in my life but will always include in my heart? I could spend a lifetime writing about the love I feel for a singular person, but I don’t just love one person, so how do I choose what stories to tell? I can’t. I write the best I can. 

We’re all trying to figure it out and create some art along the way and just maybe immortalize ourselves with just how much we love someone. At the end of the day, very few of us are Emily Dickinson… We kind of like the idea of our names being known for eternity, and even better if we can give our love an eternity we aren’t lucky enough to possess as mortals. Although, Emily found her way into everlasting fame without even trying. I wonder what it’s like to be so unrelentingly talented? 

Writing about something so profoundly personal without sounding clichéed or falling into trope is hard. Like, really hard. I want to do it well. I want to say what I feel without sounding cloyingly obnoxious. I’m just trying to figure out how to infuse a love-soaked anything with the giggles of smiling into an intimate moment. Because love is joyful and fun. It doesn’t and shouldn’t be all yearning and pining and devastating. The best sex is the kind you dip your head into her hip bone with giggles because it’s fun and funny, yet never losing momentum or passion. The best friendships are the ones where sadness and grief and anger and all those big feelings we turn to them with can be validated yet poked fun at enough to give perspective and levity. Those moments are not prevalently portrayed in art. The simplicity of existing in love with others.

Beaches are romantic. I might be a romantic… shhhhh, that comes later.

Some storytellers’ love lasts the test of time and so many disappear within mere years. What makes it good? Who is our generation’s Austen and Tolstoy? So often, books and art about love and loving feel redundant. The same thing over and over with varying details. Lovers whisper the words of Neruda. We binge watch yet decry Hallmark movies as cringey. Whether it’s critically acclaimed or a guilty pleasure, we consume love stories with a veracity large enough to sustain a multi-billion dollar industry—romance novels alone made $1.44 billion in 2021, and it’s only a growing market. 

I want to write about love well. I want to explain all love is meaningful and has its place. Not all love is happily ever after. Most of us have loves before “I do.” Some have love after “I do.” Some friendships last the test of time. I have best friends I don’t talk to anymore but could write about the love I have for them for the rest of my life. Sometimes the happiest ending is a break up. And not all breakups are romantic. Not all love stories are forever, but that doesn’t mean they’re not just as important. Love is vast. 

Sometimes, I write things I like but then immediately hope are not the most uncomfortable thing in the world. Like, “Not being able to wake up, tuck my head into the space between your neck and shoulder, breathe you in, and feel you snuggle into me is the greatest displeasure of my life.” I cringe a little reading that, but I think I would love it if someone felt that about me, and I also mean it like crazy. I know why I wrote that. But the context of it changes the meaning and varietal of love so drastically. This love could be so many kinds of love. Love that is grief of knowing you’ll never have that moment again with a death. Love that is yearning for someone after a breakup, which is an entirely different kind of grief. Love that is desire in a long distance relationship. Love that is parenthood. Love that is wanting the dog on the floor to be snuggled in bed instead… because ‘I feed you dammit!’ I love putting love in context. But also, you’ll read that and you’ll be the narrator with someone in mind. Or you’ll want to be the one being missed. 

That’s the most fun about writing on love… We feel it in our bodies because it’s something we have experience with and chase and romanticize and hate. Writing about love is fun because it’s hard and yet the most relatable thing in the world. It spans culture and color and socio-economic background and religion and sexual orientation. It is universal. Love connects us. 

Romantic is a label I have fought and, for years, easily avoided. I am not known as a sentimental woman. As a woman who writes from a feminist lens in a world beholden to the patriarchy, writing about love feels prescriptive. Expected. I want to be a serious writer, and serious writers don’t write about silly things like love. I’m sure Dante has something to say on that. But he was a man not burdened by the weight of provoking a society actively keeping women’s things in the women’s thing area. Love is often spoken of as if it’s a silly thing women titter over in our beribboned alcoves to diminish it by making it a target of women’s admiration. No one is forcing men to propose. Though not all marriages are love matches, I have a sneaking suspicion, a whole lot of those very serious, down-to-business men are pretty excited to bend the knee. We’re all fools in love. But also, writing about love is always equated to romantic love, and that’s just not true. I write about how much I love my dogs all the time.  

This bath house at Brighton Beach felt really lesbian, and my favorite love stories are queer.

I have written about so many topics throughout the eras of my life thus far. From international business to social justice to tech to weed to natural disasters to coffee. I have always written about love. I cannot figure that bitch out. Going through my writing, love is the motivating undercurrent in every piece. Love for country, love for humanity, love for family, love for justice, love for people. Through my work as a lens of introspection, it’s hard to not think of myself as a massive romantic. Instead of turning from that, I’ll carry it like a banner. It’s my challenge to write about love and do it well. 

So, will I be a Brontë?

Books, Fiction

Lesbian Love, Affair of Poisons, and Abuse in The Disenchantment by Celia Bell

RaeAnna

Read Yes
Length 368
Overall Feels I wanted more gay.
Gay Vibes 8/10
Drink Pairing A slightly watered down, iced oat milk latte.
⭐⭐

A girl reading The Disenchantment by Celia Bell in a candlelit and petal filled bath and drinking a cup of tea.
I wish all my baths looked like this.

I am disenchanted with The Disenchantment.

I firmly believe the world needs more queer literature, so I’m glad this book exists to help create more visibility. Especially as it tackles queerness for women in history. Depicting one of the many ways that has played out throughout history. I wanted to love this one, but I don’t love it. The overall book feels like it is being pulled in two directions and neither are particularly well portrayed: being a lesbian in a society and time that does not condone or allow it and surviving an abusive marriage in a society and time that condones and allows it. Basically, as a woman, you’re fucked if you do, fucked if you don’t. The main character in The Disenchantment is fucked all around except in the most literal way.

As both a lesbian and survivor of domestic violence at the hands of men… I could not connect with this book, and I really should have. Marie Catherine is a Baroness in Paris during the Affair of Poisons. She’s married to a physically and emotionally abusive older man with whom she has two young children. She is having an affair with another noblewoman. There’s storytelling and an artist who gets caught up in the whole thing. There was so much potential in this not-so-little novel, but my attention was not kept. I think I read four books in the time it took me to get through this one. 

Cover of The Disenchantment by Celia Bell in a candlelit and petal filled bath.
I had more fun taking these pictures than reading this book.

The plot is muddy, while the narrative is meandering. Bell is tackling too many massive topics in one debut novel. If she would have focused on a singular theme, the book would have benefited and had a larger impact. 

I desperately wanted to love this because it is all about the lady-gay, female empowerment, overcoming obstacles, and surviving abuse. Unfortunately, I just could not get on board with it. I expect great things from Celia Bell, but this was not it.

Memorable Quotes
“So Marie Catherine had quietly believed for years that she had been made with something lacking, and any spark of inclination that she might feel for a man in company was a short-lived thing that fizzled out after the first imaginary movement of love. Then she had met Victoire de Conti.” … “She didn’t love as some women did.”
“”I forgive you.” She said it as if she were a priest who had the power to offer absolution. And, for a moment, she felt that she did, as if the words had lit a candle flame inside her mouth that burned with the light of her love. She did not, would never, believe that flame was the flame of hell. Not if every confessor in France lined up to tell her that she was damned.” 

bisous und обьятий,
RaeAnna

Buy on Amazon

Title: The Disenchantment
Author: Celia Bell
Publisher: Pantheon
Copyright: 2023
ISBN: 9780593317174

11..., Lifestyle

11… Unexpected Joys I Found in 2023

RaeAnna

Oh, wow. 2023. What a year. 

I am aware we’re well into the second month of 2024, but I’m still processing 2023. I need some time. I wanted it to be the year that everything changed. I had a very specific vision for what that change would be. I was right but wrong. 2023 was one of the most eventful and biggest years of my life, but in none of the ways I planned. I’m 93% really, super excited about everything and 7% ‘what the fuck?’ about it.

Woman dressed up and smiling in the middle of white balloons and sequins.
Give me a reason for a photoshoot… You don’t have to. I will make up my own.
  1. I made some of the most incredible friends. For whatever reason, 2023 was the year of friends. I had intended on expanding my friend horizons, figuring I would pick up the kind of friends you call to hang out with on a weekend night or something. Instead, I filled my life with the friends I co-work, travel, grocery shop, cry, vent, deep dive, cook, dance, sing, bar hop, vegetate with and more. They’re the most amazing group of women. 
  2. Reading took up less space in my life. I basically majored in reading real good in three languages in college; I’m currently sitting in my office surrounded by a whole lot of books; most people think of me and books synonymously; so the fact I only read 18 books last year is shocking. I stepped back from the stories of others and kept myself busy as I lived, worked, socialized more. Though this is a good thing, I have a pile of books to read and review. I’m slowly making some headway.
  3. Once upon a time in 2018, I made a best friend. This best friend is a floral designer. This best friend is charismatic, vivacious, and persuasive. This best friend played the long game and conned me into becoming a floral designer myself between 2020 and now. In 2023, I started taking on my responsibilities in her business, and now, flowering has become a significant portion of my life. To the point, I’m freelancing for other Houston florists. Couldn’t have seen that coming.  
  4. My birthday was the most fun I’ve ever had clothed. Amanda planned an out of this world party for me the weekend before my birthday, and on the day of, my best friends made it the most exceptional day of my entire life up until that point. I didn’t think that day (for that matter that month) would ever be topped. The year was exceptional in more ways than one, and it still counts as the second best day ever.
  5. In 2021, one of my closest friends told me to start saving, we would be going to the FIFA Women’s World Cup in Australia in 2023. I, never one to turn down a trip, said “fuck yes.” At the time, I had no interest in soccer. Now, I love it very much. So much… I saw the Women’s Final in Sydney last August. It was an incredible thing to experience, and I can’t wait for 2027. The world finds out where we’re going in May.  
  6. Somehow, I made it to two new continents in the span of a few days. In the middle of my Australia trip, I took a ten day detour to Asia. As an addendum to this, I thought I would only visit Australia once, but I have technically been to Australia three times in 2023—although, I really only count the first two times as one time because it was a part of the same trip. 
  7. Cambodia was the number one thing on my travel bucket list for over 21 years. I never actively planned or planned on planning a trip to Cambodia, but it was a spur of the moment decision to add it into my Australia trip. I’m so glad I did because it ended up being my last single girl trip, and I couldn’t have picked a better destination to really enjoy being a happy, single, free 30 something. 
  8. Getting tattooed on three continents in one week was never something I thought of or dreamed I would be able to say, and yet… I can. Tattoos are an important part of my self and image at this point in time. I like them and use them to document who I am in an external way. Last minute, I decided to get a tattoo within 12 hours of leaving Cambodia. I had appointments for later in the week in Australia and US. It was unintentional, and I love this fun fact about myself.
  9. Decided to change all of my plans, and I’m really happy about it. I had a very definitive path forward. Then I went on a trip that changed everything. I decided to change all of my plans to follow my heart. I’m young. I have as few responsibilities as I’m ever going to have. So, fuck it. I’m doing the damn thing.
  10. Kangaroos are more rampant than bunnies and squirrels and deer combined in Australia. This was a massive surprise. I don’t know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting what the reality of living in Australia with kangaroos actually is. I did not really have any expectations for kangaroos, but driving through Australia, I’m realizing I know nothing and I have all the questions.  
  11. Kate proposed. Not only did I get myself a British/Australian girlfriend on the other side of the world. I got myself a British/Australian fiancée on the other side of the world. I still can’t hardly believe I’m typing this with a ring on my hand and a wedding date in my calendar. 

2023! What a year of surprises. Life is hard. I’ve been through a whole entire lot in the last 32.5 years, but 2023 was the most exceptional year of my life, and I have a feeling things are only going to keep getting more exciting and fun.