Like most things about me, it started as a joke that I took too seriously, my obsession with the number 69. It’s a blessing and a curse, the way that I am anything but casual. Maybe it’s my astrology, maybe it’s my eldest sister energy, maybe it’s just that I have a stick up my ass, but if you give this girl a bit to commit to, gosh by golly she’ll go all the way in.
The way they curve into each other, like cats tumbled together, warm laundry of fur and extra skin and whiskers and no bones, at rest, meant to be, tucked in for bed, the six and the nine.
Speaking of astrology, I reached the kind of lonely in the last couple weeks where I did that gay thing where I google searched “romantic compatibility with Capricorns” which is funny on its own, but when I realized everyone I’m attracted to are signs that by astrology AI summary rules are least compatible with my wiring, I laughed again.
One of the signs that I’m apparently compatible with is Cancer. And boy oh boy was I delighted to realize the symbol of Cancer, the feely feelers, is… drum roll.. 69 on its side. Meant to be the claws of a crab or some comforting breasts, I like the idea that I’m attracted to the number merely because I’m compatible with it.
I have so many mothers in my life, number one the one who birthed me. She feeds into my obsession with the number 69, laughing when I find 69’s in the wild, taking blurry pictures as I’m driving past billboards and roadside motels with a nightly price of 69.99. Get you a mom who will laugh at your 69 jokes. I also find mom’s in my friends, in any time I feel humbled and taught, in a warm breeze, in a good night’s sleep. Comfort, mom, comfort. A cup of tea, a loving meditation.
Yesterday, as I sat on the rug tucked under the end of my bed with my face directed towards the afternoon light seeping in through the bedroom windows, I listened to a guided meditation on love and it knocked me off my little seated meditation feet:
“Imagining that this breath is your soulmate, like you’re taking your beloved in. And it meets you, it’s beloved, and then you release your love, your energy, your appreciation as you exhale. Imagine your breath is your soulmate.”
What are we if not regular reminders that we are our own life time love? What are we if not strung together moments of trying to defy every piece of this simple truth?
I checked the weather after the meditation and laughed. It was going to be a long night.
I stayed up until 1 AM messaging people on dating apps that I accidentally matched with in other cities before I totally understood how dating apps work about tubs and swimming and water and water and water.
69 follows me everywhere, its fluidity, an infinity symbol turned apart. When I search “69” in my photos app, 151 search results populate.
And these are just from the last week. An airport gate, a two factor authentication code, a water bill, a total at the plant store.
I was at the plant store to survive. My ex gave me a plant when I celebrated 100 days sober. Recently my path with drinking has been tested in new ways, and I passed over what would have been my 1000th day sober. I didn’t know what to do besides take the plant to get repotted, give it more room and space and grace to grow (give me more room and space and grace to grow). The queer helping me find a pot that was the right size wiggled the plant from its now too small shell and brushed the dirt from the tangled roots, winding and reaching, longer than I could have ever imagined would be curled into that space.
“You see all this?” they said looking me right in the eyes, “You made this happen. Good job.”
Everyday is a new opportunity to nurture and tend, to get heartbroken, to fall in love, to stay sober, and to find your soulmate inside your breath (and maybe in a number as perfect as 69).
This Lucy Dacus album is fucked, yall. What a testament to all flavors of love, unrequited type and eternal type.
“It’s almost spring and I can’t wait and I can’t think. The sidewalks paved with petals like a wedding aisle. I wonder how long it would take to walk 800 miles to say I do, I did, I will, I would. I’m not sorry, not certain, not perfect, not good.”
The sun is out and people are living on their front porches on my street. We’re watching the magnolias rain from the sky. We’re waiting the bulbs push up out the earth. We’re watching for each other.
I haven’t been reading. Maybe soon.
I love yall, I do.
Want to come to a self managed abortion training in April or May? Join me:
April 23 Registration Link: https://bit.ly/april23infoshare
May 21 Registration Link: https://bit.ly/may21infoshare
This is like me but with the time 11:34 (which is always haunting me in a very annoying way!)