I believe any activity done with love and presence is a spiritual practice. I believe Love and Connectedness is the God of my world. I believe in hand-rolled cigarettes for espresso shot emergencies. I believe in the Body remembering, immersed in the funk ridden Ross Barnett, suicidal pull of The Atlantic, The Gulf and its flashing cha-ching, the Hartfield neighborhood pool that’s smelling like dank, inky black Lake Cavalier at night naked. I believe in meditation and the power of perspective. I believe in jumping, not dipping toes. I believe in warming up leftovers and tea water on the stove. I got 99 problems and Prozac fixed most of them; I still don’t know what happens when I die, but now I don’t care. They say acceptance is a small quiet room. Like your dad carrying you to bed after falling asleep in the living room. Like anesthesia before surgery. I believe in manifestos. I believe in people over profit. I believe in trees and oceans and beautiful fish and birds over people. I believe in ROMO: Relief Of Missing Out. I
believe in dining alone at bars in French restaurants where I can only afford a six ounce House Red and Bread Service. I believe in my lifelong anthropology study; mistakes make good stories. I believe in nuances. I believe in the teachings of Thích Nhất Hạnh, Fiona Apple, Roland Barthes, Anthony Bourdain, Ram Dass, David Lynch, and Jesus Christ. I believe the siren that is New Orleans calls to me when I sleep. I can picture her. I believe in ice plunging myself to sanity. I believe one dozen oysters is an entree. I believe yearning is a goddamn sport. I owe my
life and art to Harmony Korine, Gregg Araki, Terrence Malik, and Sofia Coppola. I owe my words to Plath, Bukowski, Nabokov, Rachel Rabbit White, my high school rapist, my high school boyfriend, my dad’s male employees that called me an old soul, my need for pain, for punishment. I believe in Black hair dye, and whatever years of use has done to my beautiful brain cells. I believe in cooking from scratch, I believe in gas station ribs. I believe in dark underbellies. I believe in suicidal artists. I believe I might forgive myself when I give birth. I believe in the fluidity of life and love. I believe I dont have to be perfect, so I can be good. I
believe nothing violent is eternal. I believe in jazz, and bleeding, and guzzling vodka til I feel God, drop to my knees and start praying to my bookshelves. I believe in rejection letters, and pulling them up while I do the Stairmaster. I believe true wealth is putting clothes on hangers in my room when the weather’s nice and the window is open. There’s also tea. There’s always tea. I will learn to let go someday; I will bask in life. I will have an emergency cigarette and a bottled Abita root beer and I will float down the Strong River and I will cry because this is my life and maybe my book is on the way. Maybe I am meeting my mom for lunch later once all my brothers are moved out and she has just had a manicure. Maybe, no, I believe, the cicadas will sing outside. I believe in the loss of soul to automation. I believe in Thoreau, and I believe I will make it. I don’t care if it’s in a tent. Keep New York. Keep public transport. I will walk. I believe in Mississippi, Alabama, Tennessee, Kentucky, Louisiana. I believe in Freedom Summer and
tomatoes. I believe in the Bentonia Blues Festival. I believe I’ll live and die on the haunted Mississippi dirt walking barefoot to a Dollar General. Back in the pulse. Like a dirty blues riff.
Grace Ann Elinski is a graduate student, writer, and photographer from Jackson, Mississippi. Her work has been featured in The Southern Quill, PRODUCT Magazine, and Across the Margin.