Intuative Integration I
This was over due… How did I end up here?
Here: back in my hometown living in an apartment, working with my dad, and studying Ayurvedic Wellness…
Was it the 18 hour work days as a private chef at Justin Bieber’s old house? The $15K loss: investment from a Food Truck endeavor? The sex work I was taking up to battle the loss? How about the small trip to Peru for a week long ayahuasca retreat?
It started last February… The demolition of my entire existence. Whatever the cause, I’m here. Unscaved / surprisingly.
This is a 3 part blog to release my own stored memories of last year’s existence, written intentionally so I can let it out into the wild and never call it mineagain. Starting with how I left London.
I had everything I thought I wanted. A flat of my own sitting pretty on the East side of London, my then dream job, a solid social life, and a financial freedom that stroked my ego in the sexiest way possible. What felt like the 100th lockdown crept around like the unexpected yet expected UTI. I had two options: stay in my new empty flat all by myself in grey London while my restaurant got on it’s feet again, or move into my aubelo’s comforting&warm house-safely nestled in the basque area of Spain. The answer seemed quite obvious to me. Who would turn down the opportunity to live on a farm with an undeclared holistic witch and a mafia wizard?!? (That’s pretty much the only way I can define my aubuelos). I bought my ticket..
Somehow, I managed to sneak onto a plane from London to Valencia. I say somehow because one was not allowed to board the plane without some sort of verification of homeownership or citizenship. I got through security with a negative PCR test and I pretended I didn’t speak english as I flashed my Italian passport to the attendant.
Here we go again Taylure. Why am I like this?
Yeah, obviously… I got denied entry to Valencia. Was rudely turned around with a oneway ticket back to London. So what did this bitch do? She ate mushrooms, stayed up all night dancing, and hopped on the first flight to France. A family friend was scheduled to find me at the airport and smuggle me across the France-Spain border. Contraband
My abuelo: knight in shining Lacrosse.
When was the last time I kissed your balding head and rubbed your overly heathy solid belly? Must have been when I got blacked out drunk at my cousins wedding battling that functioning alcohol problem 9 years ago. I’m different now? I think. Thanks for loving me. MmmmMM, family. You haven’t aged at all? Is it the snail secretion you rub all over your skin or the garlic and olive oil you massage onto your feet?
My memory had always painted my aubelos land, as this magical fairytale farm surrounded by green hills, roaming geese, wild blackberries, and a lingering indescribable green witch energy. As we drove up the hill that led to my mythical memory, the pages of my fairytale were burnt down. Modern houses were sprouting like like parasitic weeds. The garden that used to swallow me whole was sold because of a bad investment on *not going to name who’s* behalf. I felt anger brewing as I saw my innocence shatter before my eye. Am I an adult now?
My mom didn’t hug me growing up (tells enough) so I knew I was in for an uncomfortable treat trying to get acclimated to the intensity of the sort of love my grandma was about to give me. Challenge accepted. I was greeted by a little light fairy, a biscotto (orange breakfast pound cake-secret family recipe, fuck off), a warm herbal tea, and a healing kiss on the forehead. I could talk about my aubela for an entire year. I have probably met my aubela a total of 22 times, yet some how that woman shaped my entire being. I feel her in my blood, in my womb.
I never really got to know my aubelos. I still don’t, but I know them enough to recognize my genes make my ass look fat. I am grateful for that. Every morning we sat by the fire and had light conversations about people, places, and things while wiping out the eye boogers, sucking on fresh fruit, and cracking walnuts. Conversations got more aggressive as the day went on. For lunch, my aubelo would try and get me a little drunk to try and discuss politics or the severity of the pandemic. He is a pessimistic stubborn man, but what mafia wizard isn’t.
News played in the background like lethal mosquitos waiting to probe their prey. First in Spanish, then in French , then in Italian. I tuned out the fear but every now and then I got bit. Every night for dinner we ate chestnuts and vegetable puree and were asleep by 11 pm.
My days were pretty consistent. Wake up, walk in the garden, go run on the beach, eat lunch, get a little buzz on, apply for random jobs, dip my toes in a marijuana education, interrogate my aubela, eat dinner, manifest stability, masturbate, and go to bed. Looking back on it I juggled depression and shock fairly well.
1 month passed. I knew my restaurant wasn’t opening back up and my anxious nature of “not doing” started to soil my mind. I had a little phone call from my soul sister back in Los Angeles. She was working in a mansion in Beverly Hills, they needed a chef. Divine intervention? The train would leave me if I waited one day to long. So I packed the four outfits I had originally brought, bought a new set of knives, and praised my grandparents for the night as I reflected on my ride. Everything I owned was living in my abandoned flat in London, all I knew was I had to get to Beverly Hills
My time in Spain was like a freshly baked biscotto. Fulfilling yet taken for granted.