2020, a reflection.

the first moments of 2020 were mostly laughable— i was surrounded by strangers in a charleston apartment, flecks of glitter stuck to my clothes from those flimsy, cardboard glasses. and then i was piled in the booth at a restaurant i never knew the name of, watching a half-serious fight break out while an unopened bottle of yuengling somehow spilled out into my bag of chinese take-out. driving home on january first, i chalked it up to a night i’d laugh about. or maybe one i’d even forget about, as living a life in new york felt like it was finally in reach. i guess instead, that night became some sort of omen for the year at hand: unusual chaos, collapsing plans, and the semi-sweet discomfort of becoming reacquainted with south carolina.

though nothing about this year has been foreseen or consistent, i knew i’d still inevitably dust off this space i take up on the internet to look back on how i spent 2020; and that in itself feels like enough of a victory. it’s been a year in three parts, distinguished by c*vid, by disposition and locale.

part 1 found me at the height of determinism, sitting in my hometown starbucks every morning, eyes glazing over at the massive spreadsheet of jobs i’d applied for in new york. i sent emails, fumbled through interviews, wrote an ungodly amount of cover letters. i started writing for a music publication and reading multiple books a week. i listened to the news every morning, ran every evening at the park down the street, watched a movie every night with my parents. i went to new york for a few days and flitted from bars, to shows, to parties with my friends— not knowing our glory days would be so short-lived.

in march i bought a plane ticket to california, and a few days later i cancelled it— so began part 2. i spent most evenings walking around our dead-end suburban neighborhood, on the phone with one friend or another. not having seen a friend in months, i really didn’t mind this new pesudo-reality at first. i exited out of my massive spreadsheet and re-opened the draft of my second book; by april, it was finished and printed. i baked bread and poptarts, perfected crispy zucchini and the NYT brown butter lemon pasta. i made a new cocktail recipe every night, which accidentally turned into my third self-published book. the week i sent it to print, the country plunged into unrest— and i sunk into an unshakeable state of frustration and apathy.

i got myself out of it the only way i knew how—making a move on a whim. enter, part 3. until june, i hadn’t been to litchfield since i was 18, but in july i applied for a barista job and drove down with a carry-on suitcase and very few expectations. yet, these months have held a barrage of reacquaintance: with the strip of beach i’ve always known, with family i haven’t seen in years, with versions of who i’ve been. most days i’ve biked to the beach, walked to the end and back with a beer, continually amassing a collection of shells i’m proud of. i’ve become a regular at my favorite restaurants and i’ve made friends. i’ve seen a blue moon, and more sunrises and sunsets than i can count. i’ve watched the tide change again and again, and over time, i fell into a rhythm that somehow, for now, feels right.

as this confusing question mark of a year comes to a close, i can’t help but feel grateful in the face of all the misplaced hope, lonely days, and re-routed plans…i wouldn’t be who i am now without it.

---

2020 BEST OF: ALBUMS, SONGS, BOOKS

FAVORITE ALBUMS:

Saint Cloud - Waxahatchee — my quarantine companion that somehow made southern suburbia sound beautiful.

Moveys - Slow Pulp — the definition of what it means to adapt, the echoes of my past lives in cities i’ve loved.

The Baby - Samia — an instant alone-time favorite, every track a piece of poetry.

Down Through - Gleemer — the emo small town soundtrack i’ve always wanted.

FAVORITE SONGS:

How Many Years? - Brother Moses — i never knew it was possible to pack so much heart into just 6 minutes.

Oxbow - Waxahatchee — one of the greatest track 1s in existence. “i want it all, all.”

Guest In Your Life - Sinai Vessel — this one will forever remind me of my one-song bike rides to the beach.

peace - Taylor Swift — the sound of an east coast sunrise, the sound of how it feels to be tethered to your life.

FAVORITE BOOKS:

during 2020, I set a goal to read 40 books—i ended up reading 61. which is WILD, yet a goal i’m really proud to have stuck to and exceeded. choosing favorites was nearly impossible, but here are 6 that changed me:

Book of Delights - Ross Gay — a practice of gratitude via essayettes. simple, human, observant; beautiful in the most rare and real way.

Swing Time - Zadie Smith — a novel about rhythm, about race, about friendship and love. there’s this quote that struck me deeply: “sometimes i wonder if people don’t want freedom a much as they want meaning.”

Find Me - Andre Aciman — i don’t think anyone has ever written dialogue and subtle banter more beautifully.

Where the Crawdads Sing - Delia Owens — a book that truly lived up to the hype; so many small moments of beauty and an ending i won’t forget. “…because people forget about creatures who live in shells.”

Trick Mirror - Jia Tolentino — the essay collection that made me think the most this year; there’s no critical thinker/writer i admire more than Jia Tolentino.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn - Betty Smith — a book about nothing and everything all at once— in the best way.

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.