Back to Transparency

Artemidorus warned Julius Caesar to be careful, for while the Ides of March had come, they had not yet ended: "Ay, Caesar; but not gone." Social media is our modern pitcher of hubris, infusing all who succumb with the most dangerous toxin: perfection. We scroll the instagram and Facebook feeds and Pinterest boards, commenting and liking until achieving a drowsy haze of deceptive sociability. I feel social, I was social, therefore I am. Amanda Macmillan must have been Bird Box blind for writing this Time Magazine piece Why Instagram Is The Worst Social Media For Mental Health. 

I. . . think?

Back to the blindness of the soothsayer, but none of his vision. Back to "Et tu, Brute? Then fall, Caesar!" Because we share the perfection: our homes, our children, our pets, our jobs, our outfits. We whirl and swirl in a narcissistic, hopeful, anxiety-infused hashtag wonderland of #ootd and #me and #ilovemylife while hiding the things which create the true connections. Back to look at the finished product, this is me:



And then. . . back to A and the inescapable proclivity to see a piece of furniture and read WAY TOO MUCH into the symbolism. I love acrylic coffee tables for their ability to tie together the old and the new, the pieces from apartments and homes which are now only a memory, with the optimistic, exciting indulgences of a new home. The old school, the modern. . . the Jonathan Adler lamps with the auction house mirrors. The online Joss & Main velvet sofas and One Kings Lane pillows and florals, the Ralph Lauren drapes, the Safavieh rug.

Back to me, look at me, I have it all together. I'll never show you how it began. . .

Back to true transparency. Because moving is hard. And messy. Full of unglamorous monotony, frustration, exhaustive cleaning, and endless mistakes. Drowning in puddles of messes, googling "hoarding" and convinced A is one dismal shade away from becoming one of those psychos who feel physical pain when they have to throw anything away.

Back to casting them as psychos, but understanding deep down the difficulty of parting with pieces from the past. Back to watching Netflix specials and being torn between idolizing and wanting to punch that KonMari and her irritating method. . .back to never being a chick who is going to pray to her home and go about anything with any semblance of Japanese zen.

Back to being real.

Life, and especially the bonds we create with our homes, and the people we bring into our homes, is only as real as the transparency we allow. Back to admitting I can be a hells bell MESS of a human being, but always striving for that vision of beauty.

Back to transparency, because while I will always love looking at the finished product, or basking in the complacency of a goal finally achieved, the truest connections I have made in my life have been rooted in the imperfect, vulnerable perfection of transparency.

Back to I'm interested in your real story.