Category Archives: Hell Yes

The Tidal Pool Treasures of Thailand

There is a place in Thailand that, to me, is the most magical place on Earth. I found it by accident, but I think I’d like to die there someday. I won’t say where it is, but if you ever want to go, tell me and if you’ve been kind to me over the years I will hand-draw you a map. In the mean while, I think we could all use a little magic during these tough times, so I’ll show you what I found there.

It all began when I woke up in my cliff-side bungalow the morning after I arrived, and looked out the window. By the first light of dawn, I saw something interesting outside:

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It looked like the entrance to a cave off in the distance. I’d stayed here once before but this was a new bungalow—two years ago the jungle was covering this particular view and I didn’t know the cave existed.

While eating  breakfast I chatted with an adventurous Slovakian couple. After finishing, the man hopped over a low rail partitioning off the dining area from the rocky cliff, and waved goodbye. I turned to his partner, and asked where he was going. She pointed to the rocks below. I was amazed they were going down there, because not once had the idea occurred to me last time I was there. I assumed it was too dangerous and stuck to the several sandy beaches, each offering its own slice of nature that was more than fulfilling for me. Minutes later, she finished her yogurt and prepared to walk down to find her mate. Knowing nothing about them I thought perhaps they were the rock-climbing type, and asked about the decent. “Yeah the path is kind of treacherous but it’s worth it,” she said, climbing down in flip flops.

Surely if she was wearing flip flops, I could do it in sneakers. But she wasn’t lying about it being treacherous. When I climbed down later there was barely a path through the jungle overgrowth, and I crabwalked and bouldered down most of the way. When I finally reached the bottom though, it was magnificent peaceful rocky heaven.

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Arikia On Her Phone: A Photo-essay by Gabrielle Motola

I once traveled through the Sahara desert with one of the best photographers and amazing human beings I have ever met, Gabrielle Motola. She found it funny that I was always on my phone. Here is a brief view through her lens.

Arikia Millikan on her phoneArikia Millikan on her phone, againArikia Millikan on her phone

Arikia Millikan on her phone, once more Looking forward to many adventures to come with Ms. Motola <3

Follow my adventures abroad on Beacon Reader!

Hello, friends! Today I launched a new blog on Beacon Reader. Beacon is a new publishing platform created by Nick Jackson and co which allows readers to directly fund their favorite bloggers. I had the pleasure of working with Nick on Longshot Mag Issue 2 and know that, much like most of the people who stayed awake for 48 hours straight to produce a magazine and website, he cares about the future of publishing and isn’t afraid to innovate in an industry which desperately needs it.

If you go to my blog page (http://www.beaconreader.com/arikia-millikan), you can see a video I made in iMovie cutting together clips I shot on the road. I realize I should have filmed in landscape, not portrait. SORRY, I never claimed to be a videographer. But I guess I should add that to the box of tricks this one-woman show packs. I’ll work on it.

Anyway, I’m going to write about my journey on Beacon. So far I’ve been to Canada, Iceland, England, Spain and France and have met and been hosted by some of the most amazing people I’ve ever known. This world is bursting with fascinating humanity, and I can’t believe I allowed myself to be confined on one continent for so long.

If you want to support me in my travels and innovation in the publishing industry, please subscribe to my Beacon Reader blog. It’s free to sign up and only $5 a month after that, and you get access to all the content on the network, not just my blog. I’m not generally a fan of paywalls, but 75% of your contributions will go to me, and I’m a fan of not running out of money while halfway around the world.

I want all my friends in the United States to know that I miss you very much, and I’m writing this blog for you. So I hope you read it! You know you’d happily spend $5 to buy me a shot at the Larry Lawrence while hanging out with me (as I would you), but since I can’t be there to do one with you, I’d love for you to put it towards my writing. Ultimately, I will do that shot in a foreign land and it will lead to more stories for me to write for you.

Thanks! XOXO <3

Julia Stiles is my spirit animal

Exhibit A: Running the newsroom (and attempting to find inner peace via computer)

Exhibit B: Asserting oneself in the classroom from an early age

Exhibit C: Leisurely reading

Exhibit D: Taking care of business

Exhibit E: Attempting to make deadline

Exhibit F: When I walk into the party like

Exhibit G seems to be missing from the database, but I’d imagine it would look something like this.

There’s no place like home

My mother always shunned the idea of having a home. “Home is where your stuff is,” she would often say when mocking my childish want to be rooted somewhere. I’ve internalized this idea throughout life, trying to not get too attached to one place. For this reason, I’ve always despised the question “Where are you from?” because it implies a sense of home or having had a home at one point. But after a few years of consciously peeling off all the warped layers of perception from my upbringing, I’m getting a little more comfortable answering this question. If there was a place I’d call “home” irrelevant of the presence of any personal belongings, it would be Ann Arbor, Michigan. I’m from Ann Arbor.

I’m here now, and I am content. Happy, even.

A2Upon arriving in Detroit today, I was picked up from the airport by an old college friend and promptly whisked to Ann Arbor. Matt lived across the hall from me in the dorm freshman year and burned me a Postal Service CD the first week of school. I took him to lunch to thank him before he dropped me at my residence for the next few weeks. I suggested Zingerman’s, the deli that townies are tempted to describe as “overrated” but never do because it really is that good.

While in the grocery part of the deli, I was overrun with the impulse to acquire local honey. It’s something my health-conscious friends in Brooklyn would always suggest, as I am prone to allergies and local honey is rumored to soothe them. But I never went out of my way to get it. It’s not just that I was skeptical about the medicinal claim, but the thought of consuming a biological biproduct of New York City bees made me frown. New York, I love you, but you’re pretty gross sometimes.

Being back amidst the rolling green hills of Ann Arbor felt like a bear hug, but I wanted more. I wanted it in my veins, internalized. So I bought a $15 jar of local honey, provided by the bees of Petoskey wild flower fields. Matt delivered me to my residence for the next two weeks, a townhouse of literary solitude belonging to a dear family friend who so generously offered this haven to me out of the blue. After 10 minutes of sitting and just staring out the window into the yard, watching the little sparrow that landed on the railing of the back stairs, I went into the kitchen and scooped a huge spoonful of local honey.

It hit my mouth like a silver-screen flashback:

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I was 4 years old, outside during recess at Perry Nursery School, reaching my little arms through a chain-link fence, reaching as far as I could toward the periphery of the sprawling wildflower field on the other side, trying to grasp all the purple flowers I could. There were Queen Ann’s Lace stalks and Black-Eyed Susans too, but they were prevalent on my side of the fence as well. I needed those purple ones to complete my collection, if I could only reach a little further… It was so vivid a memory for an event that occurred 22 years ago. The taste became the intoxicating smell of being there in that moment of childlike determination, totally free.

Being here in this place is exactly what I need right now. Stability, solitude, comfort before I slingshot myself around the globe. Everything is quaint. There is a vegetable garden and a footbridge over a creek in the back yard. Everything inside the house is set up for all the things I might want to do. There’s an exercise ball, and a glass desk with a touch-sensitive lamp; half a bottle of wine, and a robe hanging in the closet with a bird embroidered into the back. Every cleaning product smells of “soothing lavender” and on the bathroom counter is a towel folded and laid out just for me.

I haven’t quite wrapped my mind around the fact that this loveliness is my present life, but I am so, so grateful to be here. It feels like home.

The most perfect reflection on being single

Tonight I took a break from packing to read something that’s been open in a browser tab for days. Personally recommended for me by my friend and fellow Motherboard contributor Kelly Bourdet, the n+1 tab kept tempting my focus away from packing for a year on the road, planning the LadyBits launch party (which was AMAZING <3), and fielding the hundreds of responses that have poured in since I launched LadyBits on Medium (getting to each and every one of you, I promise!!). Five days later, I finally allowed myself to pause and consume “What Do You Desire?” by Emily Witt.

As enticing as the subject matter — which details a woman’s journey through the Kink.com armory — was the fact that it was picked for me. I love hunting through stories for the detail that makes a piece of writing subtly and especially relevant to my interests. At first I assumed Kelly had sent it because the gentleman who Kelley had asked to be on her Internet Week panel alongside me was a Kink.com pornstar. But when the author switched gears from fly-on-the-wall description to introspection, I was left feeling like the author was speaking out of my own experiences, and articulating them much more clearly than I could:

I had made no conscious decision to be single, but love is rare and it is frequently unreciprocated. Because of this, people around me continued to view love as a sort of messianic event, and my friends expressed a religious belief that it would arrive for me one day, as if love was something the universe owed to each of us, which no human could escape. I had known love, but having known love I knew how powerless I was to instigate it or ensure its duration. Whether love was going to arrive or not, I could not suspend my life in the expectation of its arrival. So, back in New York, I was single, but only very rarely would more than a few weeks pass without some kind of sexual encounter.

What even to call these relationships? Most of my friends had slept with one another and I had slept with many friends, too. Sometimes years separated sexual encounters. Things thought buried in the past would cycle around again, this time with less anxiety and greater clarity, in a fluid manner that occasionally imploded in horrible displays of pain or temporary insanity, but which for the most part functioned smoothly. We were souls flitting through limbo, piling up against one another like dried leaves, circling around, awaiting the messiah.

After a decade or so of living this way, with occasional suspensions for relationships that would first revive my belief in romantic love and its attendant structures of domesticity, and then once again fail and extinguish them, I started finding it difficult to revere the couple as the fundamental unit of society. I became a little ornery about it, to be honest: that couples paid lower taxes together, that they could afford better apartments, that there were so few structures of support to ease the raising of a child as a single person, that the divorced experience a sense of failure, that failed marriages are accompanied by so much logistical stress on top of the emotional difficulties. All this because we privilege a certain idea of love. The thought of the natural progression of couples, growing more and more insular, buying nicer and nicer furniture, shutting down the world, accruing things, relaxing into habit, scared me. As I grew older, I found it difficult to distinguish romantic love from other kinds of connections: the platonic love for the friends I did not want to have sex with, the euphoric chemical urges toward people I had sex with but did not love. Why was love between couples more exceptional? Because it attached itself to material objects, and to children? Because it ordered civilization? I probably would not have a baby without love, and buying a home seemed impossible for all kinds of reasons, but I could have sex. I had a body.

The entire piece is worth reading and losing yourself in. She goes on to seek the answers to her questions in all kinds of detail. Things I’ll probably seek to find in different ways about myself when I leave New York. Like the author, I’m tired of the cycles. This time, the past must stay buried. I’m ready for new encounters and new loves.

Thanks, Kelly =)