Chinese Herb, White Boots, and Willie Bobo

Last night, I had this strange feeling that I wouldn’t be able to get out of bed in the morning—

and, well, I was right. Waking up felt almost impossible.

Maybe I caught a cold. Why is the mascara under the pillow?

I gulp down some Chinese herbal medicine with a cold glass of water,

and go through my usual makeup routine in the same familiar order:

lotion,
sunscreen,
lighting a cigarette,
blusher,
eyeliner,
powder,
mascara,
lip gloss,
and finally putting out the cigarette.

I’ve tried changing the order before, but on mornings when I don’t even have time to brew a cup of coffee,

sticking to the familiar routine feels most efficient—not just for me, but for my coworkers,

and for every stranger I’ll meet on the train. I get cranky when I have to rush. A tiny, personal act of public good.

My whole body feels sore and heavy, but I don’t forget perfume. I spray it three times:
wrist,
shoulder,
and along my side.
J’s gift—the warm cardamom note curling around me like smoke.

I pull on the white vintage ankle boots I adore, the ones someone found in Spain,
and loop a blue wool scarf around my neck.
Beautiful boots, once sugar-dusted, now leaning toward green,
as if slowly oxidizing with each step. Did I walk in the rain too much?

Though I still prefer sugar-dust over green, I like objects that move on their own terms.

Ah—Saturday.
A day that pretends to be light.
Compared to last Saturday, today feels like wringing myself dry
just to stand upright, squeezing out the very last drop of strength.

On the train, I listened to Willie Bobo. Good music really does make everything better.
Percussion is such a beautiful instrument.

Strings are my first love, but percussion—
its quick, crystalline brightness—slips under your ribs,
shards of sound like glass tucked into a warm, dusty newspaper,
or a cup of espresso with a faint squeeze of lemon,
or a stamp clinging to a postcard mailed from Colombia.

The charm of lightness is in how it makes you lighter.
There are days when the only way to move
is to let yourself be light.

Percussion jazz is a Chinese herb for self-indulgence.

By the time I dragged my body all the way over, I was already at the gallery.

And of all days—today is the day I allow myself to go to my favorite café after work, to read, or not read at all.

I just hope my body doesn’t turn against me before the day is over.

The cardamom scent has already faded. How long has it even been?
Tomorrow, I’ll spray four times:
wrist,
shoulder,
along my sides,
and—my boots!