Angela Natividad's Live & Uncensored!

24 November 2023

A shortlist of gratitudes

  • Marvis Matcha Green Tea toothpaste. It's delightful.
  • Caitlin, who talked me into getting a tongue scraper. I worry less about bad breath.
  • A sensual, lovely pregnancy with no swollen limbs, in which all my senses are attuned to beauty.
  • A partner who takes showing up seriously, who takes our thriving—individually, and together—even more seriously, and who makes me laugh nonstop. Even remembering the rare times we've fought makes me laugh.
  • My sweet and nurturing apartment.
  • Our shared home in Italy, and the in-laws across the garden who always have a kiss and a hot plate ready. Or just eggs. We always need eggs.
  • Being pregnant, and matrescing generally, in the French system. Sometimes it is overbearing and drives me crazy, but the attention to care, and the rigour, are legit. I feel so safe.
  • My friends, who have coalesced into family, closing ranks as I grow larger and more vulnerable. They show up with food or baby stuff, give me their arms when we go for walks, lift me literally to my feet. They have flown in from different countries, or rolled up from the 'burbs or the other side of Paris. They have loved me with delicacy and humour.
  • My actual family—my cousin who encourages me like a boxing coach, my sisters who gossip with me, my parents whose anticipation for this child borders on the frightening.
  • Pierre Hermé and Alain Ducasse.
  • Persimmons. I live in terror of running out of persimmons. They also remind me of my lola. Ancestors—what we inherit, what we owe to the future—is heavy on my mind.
  • The restaurant that makes perfect pie.
  • My community. After 15 years in this city, I'm finally in a 'hood where I feel installed, an acknowledged part of the fauna.
  • The stories strangers tell about their children, births, pregnancies, breastfeeding woes. People are always giving me stories, but pregnancy makes cups overflow with memories from these particular initiatory gates. This is probably the closest thing we have to being washed and fed by your kin, your neighbours, your people, before traversing said gates yourself. It is an intimate ritual we can't shake off. We don't even know we are doing it, and I am glad it is stronger than our belief in "progress."
  • Seasons.
  • Paris. Paris every day. Paris in the rain, Paris when it's grey, I don't care. This city is my mother. She called me once and I have never regretted answering. I will love her until I die.
  • My new gym ball. I can't wait to drape my arms over it, breathe into my lower back, and feel the pain slide off me like raindrops.
  • Maté, and the man who sells it to me.
  • Bright, vivid colours. It took me so long to love colour. I'm glad I finally got here.

04 November 2023

A thought

 People gamble what they can afford. We are in no place to dictate to others what they can afford.

02 November 2023

A spell for LinkedIn

I appreciate the people here looking to educate, share resources and decolonise minds—not only around imperialist, racist, and patriarchal structures, but around the belief that economic growth is the primary metric by which we should value ourselves, others and "progress".

I also get that many people are just trying to get by. They want to promote their businesses, cheer on successes, humblebrag, thought-lead, boost morale. That's what this platform is for. If I want something else, I can go to another platform and look at humblebrags of kids and vacations instead. If I'm sick of that, maybe I'll read a book, talk to actual humans or take a nap, instead of getting mad about how social media doesn't reward full-spectrum humanity. It's here to make money, not fulfill me.

With that said—the emotional gotchas, the rage-baiting, the "us vs. them", the zero-sum self-righteous judgment flowing through here now? They're not helping anyone. They're not paving the way to enlightenment. It's fast-acting venom that's making us sick. I don't know what the long-term effects will be, but they won't be good. The nausea I feel after a cursory scroll feels like radiation poisoning.

Stories are powerful. Words are powerful. Our energy is powerful, and it bleeds through screens. When I say "powerful" I don't just mean mentally. What impacts the body—our organs and cells, our guts and blood—starts in the mind and senses. We can heal and harm in the most literal sense without ever physically touching one another.

We can make each other ill for years, or try healing ourselves and those within proximity. We're responsible for wielding our powers mindfully.

It's important to understand this: Stories and words aren't just "technology," or vessels devoid of purpose. They live. They bite and suck and squeeze. They kill and maim. They can also restore, rejuvenate, and create fertile vivid possibility in concrete corsets over scorched earth. They can plant wild runaway gardens inside us and others.

May we use them kindly, judiciously and well. May we not poison just to poison, or curse others and ourselves. May we heal. I wish this for all of you and I wish this for me.