Long time no see. It’s been a hell of a two months–Substack reminded me via email that I hadn’t posted in that long and I thought, I’ll wait til something strikes me. Inspiration sometimes likes a kick in the ass, I guess, because days later I finally have something to say. On a long walk back from the Tibetan gift store (where I picked up decor for the movie I’m working on next week and learned that Judaism and Buddhism are sister religions), I recalled that format of poetry from elementary school where you put words to sensation. So I did it.
I see
green, brown, black, and blue as I scan down the blocks toward home, considering going downhill before I reach my street. I notoriously dislike zigzagging home, so the thought is fleeting–but long enough to appreciate the way the setting sun hits rows of brownstones to the West. They glow reddish in the light, and their decorative black dentures bear a glossy sheen. The sky remains cloudless, as it was all afternoon, despite the muggy air. I pass Puppetworks, and note that they have shows on Saturdays. Then there’s stuff for kids on the street: books, toys, clothes, tiny hiking boots. Sign after sign on 6th Avenue advertises that preschool Beansprouts is accepting applications for the 2022-23 school year. On my block there’s half an apple that’s been rotting for days. Every time I walk by I’m tempted to step on it, just to see if it would disintegrate before me, but I’m too afraid a million ants would climb out.
I smell
the lingering musk of my perfume, part of the tester set I got for my birthday. I like the way it mixes with my sweat; I can only catch a whiff if I stop to focus on it, or lift my wrist (but that makes me look kinda dumb, exposing my inexperience). I lost interest in perfume when, in middle school, my mom refused to get me some. She rarely wore it, unless it was a very special occasion I think. I remember so clearly and fondly hugging her as she and my dad left for a wedding or bar mitzvah, smelling notes I couldn’t describe before returning to my dinner (Bond No. 5 and Kraft mac n’ cheese are a winning combo I guess). It frustrated me that she had access to perfume, which I strongly connected to femininity, and I didn’t. Yet all through high school and college I didn’t bother with buying it for myself. Discovering Old Spice deodorant at Target was a real breakthrough sophomore year at Wesleyan, though.
I taste
a hint of very diluted basil lemonade from the coffee shop where I started my day. I refilled the cup at the olive oil shop water cooler half a dozen times, but in those plastic cups you can’t really finish the last drop of lemonade. By the time I’m home it’s unrecognizable, replaced with a mucusy burn. Need more water. Plain water.
I touch
canvas as my shoulder slumps with the weight of a full tote bag. With me I carry a laptop, my charger, a copy of A Streetcar Named Desire (I’m re-reading), a notebook, my favorite pencil case (it says “hands off my doodads,” it was a gift), PKW, and a medium bottle of olive oil. Sticking out on top is the painting I just bought from the kind man at the Tibetan gift shop twisted into a tight scroll. Every few blocks I adjust it in the bag, taking care not to bend it or let it fall out. It’s on rice paper. The soft wrinkles remind me of something I would rub between my fingers to fall asleep as a baby. The sun hits me once I turn onto my street. I’ve never sweat so much and so many days in a row. It is so hot all the time and it’s only so often your skin actually gets to drink it up. Commuting from Long Island for internships doesn’t teach you this. I’m photosynthesizing.
I hear
a collection of favorite songs, coincidentally kinda bound by a nature theme. I’m indulging myself in an algorithm-generated “On Repeat” playlist. I love when shuffle gets it right.
Sylvan Esso, “Your Reality” (2022)
I wrote about this song the day it came out for my new job at BrooklynVegan. It’s a reminder to be curious and playful, which I need at the ripe age of 23.
The Mamas & The Papas, “Snowqueen of Texas” (1971)
So fun, so easy to listen to. It’s a banner example of how a distinctly 70s sound has become timeless in my mind. I wonder if you hear that too.
Art Garfunkel, “Waters of March” (1975)
I’ve been meaning to revisit a script that features this song. It struck a chord really strongly when I first read it a year ago, and I can’t forget the way this song is used. “Waters of March” couldn’t be more cinematic, and if you don’t believe me watch The Worst Person in the World. Hell, watch it even if you do believe me.
Buck Meek, “Second Sight” (2021)
Big Thief stalwart Buck Meek exists in my mind as the gap-toothed friend who bears a mystical Southern wisdom, and he dispenses it in “Second Sight.”
Simon & Garfunkel, “Leaves That Are Green” (1966)
Nothing like the passing of time to remind you that nothing matters–in a good way!
Joe Bataan, “Aftershower Funk” (1973)
I heard this song almost four years ago on a car ride back to college with an older friend driving and her two very hot friends in the back seat. One of them was on aux and I went to great lengths to show how much I liked this song. Good thing I actually do, and still listen to it every summer.
The Free Design, “Love You” (1970)
Mmmmmm I love when the power of acapella is used for good…
Mazzy Star, “Into Dust” (1993)
It’s high time I dug into Mazzy Star’s catalog, and “Into Dust” is a cool place to start. I heard it covered by Ashtar Command on The O.C. (a small screen masterpiece) a few weeks ago and though I can’t find the cover anywhere the original makes a quiet, dark statement of its own.