This interview with the new Pope gives me hope that once again the Catholic Church can mature and move forward in this new age of spirituality.
Plus, he digs on feminism. You go Pope. You go.
Author: bwucinski
I think slow stories are a quickly dying art being replaced by 150 characters or less.
Somewhere Outside of New Mexico
110 degree truck stops and nights sleeping on a ground so cold you felt like your nipples would freeze off. Cities of millions to towns of barely a hundred. The coast of the pacific to the flatlands of Texas. Every mile in between filled with a sense of limbo. In between one place and never quite fully in another. Blue skies that are littered with the clouds you see from old world paintings. Empty nothingness stretching out for an endless eternity with nothing to look at but the paved road ahead. This is a road trip.
You wouldn’t think that two girls in a white convertible stuffed to the brim with anything and everything you could imagine would get a lot of looks. Well. Maybe you can. Maybe that’s why we bought tacky hats at roadside gas stations to obscure our red lipstick and blatant disregard for the standard look of a weary traveler.
We zigzagged between cities bustling with people, friends we were heading towards full throttle or strangers that would eventually meander into our journey. After a city we would nestle ourselves into the abyss of nature, huddled around a campfire that we built barely by the skin of our teeth and helluva lot of ingenuity and old business cards. In the darkness, we’d eventually come face to face with the startling fact that we were the only ones around for miles. Along the way we stopped by abandoned roadside diners that remind you how easy it is for life to come to a close. We’d screech the brakes to a halt to take a picture of a sunset, train tracks, rainbows, or a row of mailboxes so out of place that we had to document them. We would sit still in the night and look out onto the mountains or trees or oceans and just listen to the natural noise of the earth. This was our road trip.
If you want to hear the most stifling quiet on earth, stop along Route 66 in the Mojave desert around the edges of California. You won’t hear a thing. Not a bug, not a car, not a voice, not even a shriek of wind to break the unbearable silence. Just stifling quiet.
If you want to feel the enormity of nature, go to the Redwood Forest, where trees make skyscrapers seem manageable. Hundreds of years of growth, corralled in by mountains making them that much more unattainable. You look up and you realize no matter how low you ever feel, you have the memory of these trees to encourage you to keep growing up into the confident and magnificent person you were planted on this earth to be.
If you want to feel close to the edge of the earth, look down into the Grand Canyon. But don’t just look down, look out into the vast expansiveness of formation. See colors of gravel you didn’t know existed. Throw a rock down into the cavernous earth and relish in the reverberation of its noise. Drive into the campground at 1 in the morning and confuse a statue of a moose for a real, monstrous-sized elk moving into the woods. Allow yourself to wander alongside the canyon during the midnight hours and feel terror at the darkness. Allow yourself to feel bewildered. Allow yourself to feel the majestic nature of this world and feel bliss in knowing that you are witnessing it.
“If you want to see everything awesome and terrible about America, go to LA.” Stay in a house that reeks of weed with homemade art littering the walls. Lie on the ground of a bedroom that’s only decoration is an LED candle illuminating the emptiness of the room. Meet people you may never see again and reunite with those you can’t imagine never having met. Sit in traffic and still hate every waking moment of being there.
If you want to get to know someone, drive with them in a car for 9 days straight. Hear horribly pitched notes to your favorite song. Laugh uncontrollably at the most awesome rendition of Don’t Stop Believing you’ve ever seen. Feel someone looking at you with eyes that don’t judge, but rather know how your feeling without speaking a word.
But hear the same spoken words a thousand times. “Where are the jalapeño chips?” “What’s the exit? Fuck you Siri!” “I have to pee.” “Can we listen to Colors of the Wind again?” “Is your phone charged yet?” “I’ll have a latte with an extra shot.” “How many beers are left? We need another six pack.” “I have zero bars.” “Does Amaro or Lo-Fi look better?” I need to buy this.” “We should check out the Goodwill here.” “Of course we’ll make it.”
Spend hours looking at America together, listening to the same reggae CD on repeat, eating in the most unladylike way with the most grotesque food and smile because you have shared something together that will transcend a period of your life into a timeless memory of youth.
If you want these things then take a road trip. Go. Flee your life for brief moment and get perspective on what matters in life. When you return, everything will still be waiting patiently for you. See America for everything that you’ve never known it could be. Witness what the world looks like with nothing shining down on it but the moon and the stars. Escape your responsibilities and troubles, knowing that you’ll eventually have to come back and scoop up up the littered remains of your life. Feel the lightness from being in a moment so free from attachment. Realize you have nothing holding you back from such a trip but the life you yourself have created. So if you want to see creation, leave what you have manufactured to witness what the world created of itself.
30 Life Lessons For 20-Somethings With Too Many Feelings
This is such sound advice. My favorite line? “While walking a mile in another’s shoes is impossible, caressing a stranger’s paperback spine is the closest you will ever get to fully understanding another human.”
Thrifty Dating
*Disclaimer: I apologize in advance for all the selfies in this post.
Since taking my unplanned hiatus from blogging, I’ve had a lot of time to do other things. Take away a 21st century kid’s WiFi connection and she’s forced to do things like read books, interact with humans outside of Facebook, and be outside. Go figure. I’ve also had time to do a lot of thrift shopping around the Fort Worth area. In addition to finding some great jumpsuits, belts, and the occasion denim poncho, a thought occurred to me today: the way I go thrifting is similar to the way I have been viewing dating, as of late.
Allow me to further explain. When I go to a thrift store I don’t go to find the latest trends or to have some item that every other girl is wearing around town. I could have bought that shit at Forever 21 if I wanted that chevron striped blouse or neon pink mini dress.
No. I’m at a thrift store to find that one item that is buried underneath racks of clothes I would never consider. That one item that’s worn in, that’s old news, that has character, that has a history behind it’s seams, and most importantly – one of a kind in a sea of worthless crap.
My dating parameters reflect the same notion. I’ve realized that I can’t date a cookie cutter guy who loves Coors Light, goes to the gym or plays video games in his free time, works at some sort of business that involves finance or real estate, and wishes for nothing more than for the Texas Rangers or the Dallas Cowboys to get to the playoffs this year. That just isn’t right for me. Neither is the guy who wears Buddy Holly style glasses, wears plaid in the middle of the summer, rides a bike because he’s ‘saving the environment’ and can’t afford a car, and spews the same hipster bullshit I hear all the time.
There’s a guy for me somewhere who can make me smile as much as a floral printed jumpsuit. He’ll also fit me just as perfectly.
Looking over the racks of discarded clothing, I also realized how many loved things end up going back into a sea of unwanted items. How many lovers will I end up discarding over the years? Will it be comparable to the amount of unwanted plaid pant suits with shoulder pads? Maybe. But that’s life. We use and consume until something becomes undesirable to us. Whether it’s because it’s last season or because it forgets your birthday, somehow and some way, clothes and people start to become nonessential to our lives over time.
But the cliches still remain tired and true: one person’s trash is another person’s treasure. There’s plenty of fish overalls people in the sea. There’s got to be someone out there for each of us. Someone who fits into our lives as perfectly as a blazer fits into my wardrobe. Someone equally as fabulous, outrageous, original, but definitely worth more that $2.99. Someone like a shirt with a shark on it. You just have to dig to find something truly unique.
The Vicious Cycle
Here it is ladies and gentlemen. In all my artistic glory, I’ve depicted The Vicious Cycle of Dating. Although I did not draw the reverse arrows, the cycle can happen starting with the nice girl turning the nice guy into an inevitable asshole.
Either way you spin the cycle, we all start out as nice people, yet we all get hurt one way or another and it alters who we are and how we treat our next romantic endeavor.
I will admit that I was the bitch who turned a nice guy into an asshole. Sometimes it’s not intentional, it just happens. And I’ve met guys who are all assholes to women because they were hurt. People cheat. They lie. They tell you what you want to hear. They leave. They say hurtful, demeaning, and terrible things. Putting someone through that will torture a good soul, twisting it into something darker. Do I believe deep down, hiding beneath every sarcastic, dickhole comment, that they truly are nice guys who just want to love and be loved in return? Yes. But it takes finding that one nice girl that’s left somewhere in this big, beautiful and brutish world to remind them who they truly are.
Good luck and God speed to you all.
I Think They Call This a Breakthrough
At the ripe old age of 14, I was in lOvE with boys. I had my fair share of unrequited teenage crushes which resulted in a devastating amount of hours listening to Blink-182 in my bedroom decorated with collages of teen heartthrobs who I would never meet. Thinking back, I realized it’s not too far off from today. I’ve traded Blink for the Black Keys and the collages for photos of European places I ca’t return to quite yet, but ultimately I’m still pining away for the unattainable in my bedroom.
Why do we sit and wait for the right time or the right man or the right thing to magically manifest itself while we causally sit at home drinking wine? (besides the fact that wine makes everything better in general and increases the flow of time exponentially)
I think my inaction stems from a fear of getting hurt. I’m not sure if that’s the entire reason why I’m reluctant to put myself out there – but it’s definitely part of it. Just like everyone else in the world.
So that’s why I’m not having it. I’m keeping my butterflies in the cocoon. I’m ripping the buds off before they bloom. I’m humming in the drizzle instead of singing in the rain. (I’m also realizing I don’t really know many metaphors for being in love).
I’m picking men I can’t have relationships with. Foreigners who will eventually take their sexy accents back to where they came from. Or I’m the foreigner who will be taking my un-exotic self back to Texas. They have a schedule completely opposite from me. There’s construction on the way to their house. They live 20 hours away. They are too old. They are in a different place in life than me. They aren’t happy enough or they aren’t making me happy. I don’t want to be someone’s girlfriend but I don’t want to just be a piece of ass.
From one extremity to the next, I’m toeing this line between what I want and what I can get. But this the kicker – I have no idea what I want. Just like every other woman on the planet.
Realizing that is all fine and dandy but what’s there left to do? This obviously:
And afterwards? In all of the inexplicable abyss of options, I’m left with an inability to make any decision that seems right. That’s why your twenties are about doing and then learning (ah!) and I’m learning that whether I’m consciously making the choice to be with someone who is unattainable, I’m making the choice nonetheless.
Someone pass me a beer. All this personal reflection is making me thirsty.
I’ve also made the realization that I may use alcohol as a numbing agent. Whoops.
Date A Boy Who Travels
Inspiring, chill-inducing, and amazingly written. I love this post.
Since I solemnly declared yesterday, Lena Day, as the result of an overwhelming week, I urged each of you do some something that you love! I found myself in a Starbucks, inspired and whipped out this little ditty. You may have read, “You Should Date An Illiterate Girl” by Charles Warnke or the response “Date A Girl Who Reads” by Rosemarie Urquico, so I thought I’d bring you something same, same but different. Enjoy!
Date A Boy Who Travels
Date a boy who travels. Date a boy who treasures experience over toys, a hand-woven bracelet over a Rolex. Date the boy who scoffs when he hears the words, “vacation”, “all-inclusive” or “resort”. Date a boy who travels because he’s not blinded by a single goal but enlivened by many.
You might find him in an airport or at a book store browsing the travel guides – although he “only…
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The Essence of Writing
“The essence of the writer’s occupation was made clear to me. We write books because our children aren’t interested in us. We address ourselves to an anonymous world because our wives plug their ears when we speak to them. In the era of universal graphomania, the writing of books has an opposite meaning: everyone surrounded by his own words as by a wall of mirrors, which allows no voice to filter through from outside.”
The Book of Laughter and Forgetting by Milan Kundera (who I am absolutely enthralled with right now)
Expiration Dating
Dating with an end point in mind is complicated. It’s a mind fuck. Because as real as the emotions are, there is almost a sense of falsehood in every word. They’re laced with a timed anthrax that will inevitably wreck havoc on your psyche.
I mean maybe that’s a little bit of a strong metaphor, but dammit I like this boy a lot.
When I first started dating The Hillbilly (I realize the risk of using this nickname may conquer up images of men in coveralls. Which, incidentally, is partly accurate. However, he’s hot and doesn’t have a beard or gray hair, so there’s that) I was attracted to him for a number of reasons. He was funny, he was so damn cute, liked live music, and most of all was extremely laid back. So I wanted to keep things casual. We liked each other and we hung out. At some point I would leave for Austin and essentially we would shake hands and walk away.
Sometimes I think I may be constantly drunk, because even in a perfect world that would never fucking work out. Which it didn’t.
A friend recently called to my attention that despite my bro-like tendencies, I am a hopeless romantic deep down. Accurate as she may be, I hope and wish and pray that I could stop. I root for the happy endings. I want the couple to end up together or get back together. I think we should tell each other our feelings. I know there’s someone out there for everyone. Basically, like every girl in America, I overdosed on Disney movies as a kid, coming of age movies as a teen, and romantic comedies as a young woman.
Damn you media.
I’ll admit a small part of me had high hopes for the Hillbilly. But when we told me that at the end of the summer he is moving out West (I’m seriously not kidding about the country boy thing) that small part sank deeper than Jack from the Titanic.
I came face to face with the inevitable end of the relationship. No matter what I say or do within the coming months, we will shake hands and walk away. In a split second, his potential to become something more than just a memory vanished. I’m caught at a crossroads. Do I continue down this road, steadily increasing my miles per hour towards a crash I knowingly find myself hurtling towards? Or conversely, do I abruptly stop, get the fuck out of the car, and aimlessly try to hitchhike, knowing that I prematurely altered my destination.
I know this whole decision is making for some great metaphors, but in my head I’m at a loss for words.Although, I’ve had it argued to me that relationships end for a myriad of reasons and distance shouldn’t be one of them, I learned my lesson about distance last year. Distance can and does end budding romances, no matter how strong the feelings (or the accents) may be. Hell, distance ends grounded relationships too.
Timing becomes something more than the intangible, it becomes a force in your life, coming into a direct collision with your plans. It begins to decide for you, without your consent, raping you a choice in a matter you feel you should have a say in.
Was raping too strong of a word? My apologies. Timing is bitch with a sick sense of humor.
Natural Sightings of Manly Behavior
As I detailed last week, I’ve been hanging out in the country a little bit. While all the sunshine, campfires, and homemade eggs for breakfast have been incredible, I’m certainly getting something more from the experience.
Unbridled access to men and what they do every day.
Let me tell you, it’s not that interesting.
But there is definitely some merit in to this window of normally hidden male behavior. Men have these incredulous imaginations about what women do when we’re together. Naked pillow fights, wrestling in jello, telling our friends how big your dick is, etc. The ridiculousness of these fantasies is just one of the many parts of the male psyche women will never understand. Alternatively, women imagine us telling your friends about how great we are, how we seem to smell amazing and that you can’t wait for us to meet your parents.
I would rather a boy mention to his friends how awesome I am at racquetball or riding unicorns. Something along those lines. I like having a reputation to live up to.
What I’m saying here is that women and men have very different ideas of what we do when we aren’t trying to impress the opposite sex. One of the most agonizing things we go through while dating in the 21st century is waiting for a god-forsaken text message reply. I wrote a blog post last summer about what to do when you’re guy isn’t texting you, but I never explored what women think men are actually doing when they’re not texting us.
Here’s what I’ve observed 5 single men doing in their spare time. The good news is that they do most of these shirtless. So at least there’s that:
-Drinking beer. So much so that they don’t have a hand to hold their phone, or possibly the motor skills.
-Playing music: Not only are they concentrating on playing the instrument but the music drowns out any noise from a phone.
-Shooting the shit. Men sit around and talk just like women do. Although it’s mostly just bullshit jokes, they are still committed to focusing on what their conversation is revolving around. Whether it’s about how to survive a zombie apocalypse or a story about a drunken night, men give their undivided attention to a spectrum of topics.
-Mowing, hoeing, working on a car, other man stuff. Working with their hands in general.
-Holding stuff. This is self-explanatory and can range from a multitude of objects – such as sticks, cigarettes, darts, and even food.
Generally speaking, these boys are focused on their lives first. Their priorities lie within what’s right in front of them at this moment. So if you want a guy to spend time thinking about you, don’t send a witty text that references Anchorman man ever so subtly. Just invite your damn self over to enjoy the fun.
Happy Monday y’all!
Briana Wucinski 