Vol. 45: You Can Go Your Own Way
On superstitions, Victorian social practices, matinee movies, and cake for breakfast.
Rabbit, rabbit. If you hang around me long enough, I’m sure to spout the superstition that the first words out of your mouth each month should be “rabbit, rabbit” or else you’ll have bad luck. I swear I didn’t make that one up. You can thank my middle school life sciences teacher for that nugget—also for the information that it’s not a trash bin, because “trash” is a woman of questionable morals. That one’s burned into my brain, for better or worse.
I’ve been up for a while now, sitting on the porch of the Maine house and watching the way the light hits the cobwebs that crisscross the untouched lawn. I like the way that mornings sound here: the birds, the breeze pushing through the woods. It always sounds like a rainstorm, even when you can feel the sun on your face.
I know there are things to do today. I know if I sit here much longer, the coffee will go cold. But even on the first of August, the summer seems not long for this world. So I will sit a little longer and listen to the woods.
If you’ve noticed things look a little different around here, it’s because for the time being I am absolutely not allowed to rearrange the furniture again so we’re doing it virtually instead. I’ve been catching up HBO’s The Gilded Age, which if you know me is a time period of history I’ve always been fascinated with [once asked if I there was a historical moment I think I could be a part of, I said I think I would make a pretty good Singer Sargent portrait subject]. This naturally reignited my longstanding interest in the cultural practice of having and leaving calling cards during “receiving hours”—the time of day in which women of society were at home to invite in, or reject, visitors.
While my third tattoo was *technically* picked on a whim off of a flash sheet while some other friends were getting tattoos (if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em), I was drawn to it because the motif of a hand holding flowers is a motif seen in later variations calling cards (earlier fads dictated very minimalist and engraved versions). It makes me think of the Hop Along lyric in Sister Cities (which was included in last month’s playlist and is great for yelling in a car, if you’re into that sort of thing) “neither one of you knows what the flowers in your hand are supposed to mean.” I’m not up on my flower language on what everything means, but regardless, it is an offering. Something to say I was here and I am here.
This is a roundabout way of saying that incorporating calling card imagery into the branding of this newsletter just makes sense to me. I’m just stopping by and letting you know I’m here. Besides, even though the last redesign had a lot of shelf life to it (a photo of a rainy Maine summer shot out of train window), I thought maybe it was time for something a little less, well, forlorn.
One of the unique pleasures in life—that remains a pleasure despite it all—is going to an early movie by yourself. Normally that’s an activity reserved for a weekend where I have nothing to do (on purpose), but during the summer, it’s also the perfect outing for a summer Friday. It has a lot of benefits: 1) enjoy someone else’s air conditioning, 2) you can still be back home and in bed at a reasonable hour, 3) great excuse to put your phone on Do Not Disturb in the middle of the afternoon, 4) it’s usually just me and a bunch of retirees (when is it not though?). I’m on a roll with my selections too: The Phoenician Scheme, Materialists, the 25th anniversary rerelease of In the Mood for Love…
This practice brings me so much enjoyment, that its hard to think that there was a time where going to the movies alone filled me with anxiety. Granted, doing anything alone filled me with anxiety. Pre-pandemic, I was dating a chef who worked Friday and Saturday nights, and while all of my friends were out for date nights, I would be at home wondering what the hell I was supposed to be doing with myself. So I started walking the 20 minutes up to The Logan Theatre and picking whatever movie caught my eye.
It was a remedy for my nerves and a cultural balm. After I got into the habit, I started going to plays alone and developed a love of sitting solo at the bar for a nice dinner—activities that have risen to the top of my interests list in time (so much so that sometimes I struggle trying to work out how to incorporate others into these hobbies).
I’ve been thinking about this practice a lot as I work to develop my other practices, particularly my writing practice. Anxiety is something holds me back more than I would care to admit, and even being six years into therapy and having made so much progress in a lot of ways, I find myself still limited by my own brain. I have so many ideas bouncing around that I try not to let be curbed by fear. What if I can’t execute on the vision I have in my head? What if no one likes it? What if the work simply isn’t good enough? What I’m not interesting enough to warrant writing about my life? Still, I feel called to try. After today, I will have submitted to my first creative nonfiction contest. I feel like in writing it here and putting that out into the world, I now have to follow through. Sorry to the tonight version of me.
I think one of the scariest parts of all of this is taking yourself seriously. Something I see on dating apps pretty often is people looking for a partner “who doesn’t take themselves too seriously.” Where is the line? What is too seriously? What if I actually like taking myself seriously, what then?
When I started plotting out the next essay I want to work on, I found myself thinking “this might require a trip to Salem for research.” The impulse felt so hotly embarrassing for just a moment—I mean, what am I even writing these essays for anyways—but why not? A walk up the road to the movie theater or 30 minutes on the train to my hometown, it all has the potential to get me somewhere new.
This month’s theme is “taking the Amtrak Downeaster to Portland.” It’s ideal for sitting in a window seat, praying you get the whole row to yourself, and pretending you’re the main character in a coming-of-age film.
Things scratching ~the itch~ at the moment:
The way Tyler Childers says “have you ever got to hold and blow a thousand fucking dollars?” in Eatin’ Big Time
Mayor Wu dominating Josh Kraft in the polls
Erin’s rambling voice notes (or any voice notes—y’all can send me them anytime)
Cole’s coconut and raspberry birthday cake for breakfast
Stella sitting on my feet when she wants attention
The Samia Tiny Desk concert
The third cup of coffee that I probably don’t need, but hey, I’m on “vacation”
If you haven't read it already, you might enjoy "Journal of a Solitude," by May Sarton. As I'm reading it, I'm reminded of the topics/challenges you've written about in recent months/years.