not what i planned, an ode to my own:

today is september 30, 2020. this day last year, i was splitting a plate of ribs with my friend on her birthday, trying sakè from someone else’s ceramic cup. by the time october crept into the dark skyline, we were drunk off PBRs, giggly and waiting for the subway to take us home. 

this morning i’d all but forgotten about the subway, the sakè, the thoughtlessness. i woke up at 6:11am, in a room i had half a hand in decorating when i was 10 years old, when i really liked Vera Bradley’s Java Blue. it was still dark out when i grabbed my apron and my mask, and glanced at my freshly bleached hair. it was still dark out when i got in my car to drive to work. 

this… this life is not what i planned on at all. i did not plan on knowing that Mrs. Renee likes her iced coffee with caramel and classic and extra heavy cream. i did not plan on growing a collection of Atlantic Slipper Snail shells. i did not plan on reading a book of Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s interviews, mourning her passing, while i wait in the prescription line behind a car with a Tr*mp sticker staring me in the face. i did not plan on the bartender knowing i like the Peach Wheat beer after just one evening. i did not plan on watching America fall apart over and over on my computer screen. i did not plan on so many people and places i love getting comfortable existing in my rearview, in my phone’s speakers. i did not plan on returning to the beach i grew up on, i did not plan on… the South. 

i didn’t want any of this; i’ve continually kept weaving between the lines of disbelief and acceptance of my current reality. but tonight i saw a gathering of surfers honoring one of their own at golden hour with sunflowers, with beer, and what we once called thoughtfulness. i looked up and out at the ocean, placid and ever changing, always there. i walked back to write this, so i might try to honor my own too. 

i’ll consider this an ode of sorts, a gratitude list during a dumpster fire year. an ode to what’s mine:

• to the kind woman who spent six hours making my hair look magical again, to community that can tether you, whether you ask for it or not.

• to the seashells that surface, broken and fragmented. to the tide’s steadiness and shifts, to the endless possibilities that exist on a single shoreline.

• to the beagles that walk by as i write part of this on an iPhone note, sandy and free; leashless and loyal to their people.

• to the one-song bike ride it takes to arrive at the boardwalk i’ve always known. to my care in picking that song thoughtfully.

• to those [current] songs, and my friends and/or heroes that make them: acolyte - slaughter beach, dog. over my head - fleetwood mac. guest in your life - sinai vessel. old friends - pinegrove. rive - louis prince. this feeling - alabama shakes. moments / tides - goth babe. here comes the sun (cover) - nina simone.

• to the one birthday i can’t help but remember in the midst of my perpetual forgetfulness. to the people that’ve made me, even if i didn’t realize the extent until after we’ve moved and changed, until after we’ve become strangers.

• to the library card that no matter where i live, seems to crack the world wide open. to fighting against the notion that youth is wasted on the young.

• to the dead sunflowers still whirling about the shore on october fifth. to the way i cannot choose between a smile or a frown, so i choose both.

my first go at Zuihitsu

I first heard about Zuihitsu from my friend Mele Girma, via a piece she wrote on her website (it’s worth reading!) Zuihitsu, described in short, is “a genre of Japanese Literature consisting of loosely connected personal essays and fragmented ideas that typically respond to the author's surroundings.” It originated in the 990s (!!!) with the writing of Sei Shōnagon— The Pillow Book, published in 1002.

The format reminded me a bit of the beloved Maggie Nelson’s Bluets. Microscopic essays, poem-like, free. I decided to give it a try: here’s my small offering.

1. I wonder how many meandering voicemails I’ve left since a phone landed in my small, pale, ten-year-old hands. “Hi, I was calling to _____… but I guess I’ve missed you…anyway… I just wanted to say _____… call me back when you can…if you’ve got time. Ok. Bye. Talk to you soon.”

How many moments have I not known what to say? If the cardinal could speak words I understand, would she meander too? Would she skirt around what she means to know, or get straight to the point? Would she choose to speak at all?

2. What is considered cliché is often cliché for a reason. Flowers (handpicked, not paid for) and chocolates (with caramel filling, not coconut.) Using the word “intentional” in any sentence. Choosing “flying” or “invisibility” when asked what superpower you would have, if you could have one. I’d always choose flying and the circle of tweens at summer camp would groan. Case and point, of course I yearned to fly— away from mouths prone to scoff, into arms prone to love. Somewhere else.

3. They say it’s a tragedy to be born from a mother with dreams not lived. Is it worse to be born from a mother with no dreams at all? The airplane whirrs as its wings prepare for landing, my arm reaches forward instinctively to press into the nondescript blue back of my neighbor’s seat, so I can keep being steady, and bored.

4. A dog barks, a baby cries, heads turn, faces vary as they take in the unlikely orchestra. Can you hear the strings in the shriek, the percussion in each yip? I hear a masterpiece, or nothing at all.

5. An empty kitchen is a joy all on its own, sunlight falling across the counter, tendrils of light wrap around my fingers as I sauté the summer squash, sprinkled with garlic, lemon pepper, very coarse salt. Each move is rhythmic, even when it’s not. A sacred space for the subpar dancer to dance uninhibited.

6. What moments might you keep in your pockets, if your pockets were the size of those sewn into a schoolboy’s khaki shorts? Sitting in a swing hung from a tree, slowly soaring beneath the maple leaves as you’re pushed against gravity by your friend who hopes you might be free. Depression sheds like thin snake skin, smacking summer air, disintegrating into crumbs, into dust, into nothing.

7. Something from nothing, or from little, is a delight unlike any other. Sprouts from seed, dirt, water. Have you ever known a miracle?! Gin and orange juice is the modern day “water to wine,” Ann Patchett wrote in other words. Some words make sense forever; Tracy Chapman’s resonate and resonate and resonate but I don’t think she hoped for them to do so.

8. Thoughts that probably are not unique to me: who will read my journals after I die…and what will they think? How much are my metal straws really helping to save the planet? If I only got cast in a nationally-aired commercial I might be financially stable for once. Could I ever be capable of giving a speech to a rowdy crowd of people? If I were from a big city instead of a small town, who might I be instead? I wish I actually liked to meditate.

9. Though I wish they wouldn’t, long showers irritate me, which in turn annoys those who love to take them. After a long day, with a shower beer, with The Cardigans, Brockhampton, even Leon Bridges blaring— I can only manage seven minutes. Eight, tops.

10. I saved a kid from drowning once. I was 12, 13 maybe. The lifeguard probably had his head up his sun-kissed ass, and the adults, chit-chatting, paid no mind. Like crossing the street, I looked both ways and dove in until my small, pale, pre-teen hand gripped Alec’s arm and pulled him awkwardly to the cement, his fingers and mine morphing into prunes, mouths gulping the day into our lungs like latent relief.

2019, a reflection.

this space on the internet has ended up becoming my end-of-year shelter, a page on which to look back and realign. i suppose if that’s all i use it for, it’s still good enough for me. 2019 was a long year and every part of me feels its effects— it began with dancing, in clubs and in my kitchen. i sang karaoke for the first time, despite my deep fear. i quit one job and started another. i went to portland, maine for april fools day with two good friends and it felt like the kind of moment i always try to chase. i did a little more photo work, and a little less writing. i walked a labyrinth for the first time and felt something. i started running again and developed my own opinion on our political climate. i drove to St. Louis, MO for a day just to play in the City Museum. i got better at cooking and often had friends over for cocktails. in light of change, i also spent a lot of time alone and lost my mind for a bit.

i quit another job and spent two months in brooklyn, ny. i walked miles with and without purpose, and i wrote most of a second book like i hoped. i went to coney island alone on a whim just to eat a hot dog and see the sun go down. i flirted with bartenders, routinely stayed out late, and remembered how to make friends. i rode the sea glass carousel with a friend and took the ferry home to cap off a near-perfect day. i cried while power-walking down 6th st. listening to alexander biggs’ ‘miserable’ and strutted down Prince listening to st. vincent’s ‘cruel’. i lived in a soho hotel for a week and bid new york goodbye over both fancy pasta & prosecco and take-out thai. those months were monumental; the rest of the year has been a frustrating and aimless tumble. i decided to take a risk and left a town i used to love for where i write from now: starbucks again, in the throes of a quarter-life crisis.

2019 was mostly live music and too much tv, it was screams in the car and moments of deep let-down. it was unforeseeable change and habits i can’t shake. it was bouts of hope, cynicism, and wild fun— it was a song i didn’t know the words to and nothing i saw coming. and as of now, 2020 seems as much of a mystery, but i hope like hell it’s full of thoughtful direction, ambitious work, unwavering friendship, and deep freedom.

anyway, thanks for reading. here’s some art i loved this year:

RECORDS

TOP THREE:

1) i am easy to find - the national

2) immunity - clairo

3) basking in the glow - oso oso

OTHERS I LOVED:

roseville - roseville

nothing happens - wallows

sucker punch - sigrid 

good at falling - the japanese house 

crushing - julia jacklin 

first place - the brook & the bluff

BOCC - better oblivion community center

*i also listened to The Daily and Armchair Expert, as any basic podcast listener might do.

**i also read books, but not as many as i meant to. Just Kids by Patti Smith was my favorite one.

***i also saw a good many movies but was too forgetful to keep a running list. from recent memory, Booksmart was enjoyable. Knives Out was exhilarating. Little Women was perfect.