Hi-ho readers,
Apologies for skipping one week. Seeing you in three isn’t so bad, though. Please address complaints to my assistant (me).
I admit I skipped it for two reasons. The first is that the world, especially America, is a horrible place, and it felt challenging to write up my silly little thoughts to all 84 (at time of publication) of you.
The second is that I am going through a breakup. It was complicated. I won’t share more here out of respect, but I figured it was worth mentioning in the State of the Union. I’ll speak only for myself.
Through the indulgent attention and labor of new friends, I’ve found it extremely difficult to accept praise. I joke with people that I like validation, and that’s why I started graduate school. Still, I find myself peering through my fingers whenever I’m its subject. It is also difficult for me to ask for help and not immediately offer it. I’m “solutions-oriented” by nature. I will cut my own suffering short as quickly as I’m able. It is painful to watch people struggle through things, however trivial, especially when I know I can fix it¹. It makes me think of the saying, “your emergency is not my emergency.” Honestly, it is not even an emergency most of the time.
I embraced most of my closest and oldest friends two weekends ago at our “fifth” ² college reunion at Wheaton. I was on the fence about attending in the days prior because of general malaise, but I am delighted I went. Even with all the planned events, my favorite thing was sitting in the Dimple³ with Kate and Galina, and reading the lousy erotica in the back of BUST Magazine, just like we did back then. For the first time in years, I saw several dear friends: Amaya came from Frankfurt, Audrey came from, well, Rhode Island. Also, despite my issues with praise, I can think of nothing more life-affirming for me, personally, than being gassed up by all of my old college professors.
I wrote a poem for the first time since November 2019, which seemed earth-shaking. I sat down at my desk, and it sprung forth. I haven’t felt that way in years. It’s short and crude in both state and subject. I will send it to you if you ask nicely.
I have a choir concert this Sunday. It’s free and open to the public. It is technically a church service, but it’s meditative and requires no participation. Let me know if you’re thinking of swinging by; I’d love to see you.
In other music news, Trinity just announced Downtown Voices’ Carnegie Hall debut. We’ll be singing in a Lukas Foss centenary concert with the Buffalo Philharmonic Orchestra. I am thrilled and humbled. I even spiffed up my website and added it, like a lucky fool.
Media Diet
- This cat playing poker (@papajuiceman on Twitter)
- Filming photos from Bradley Cooper’s Leonard Bernstein biopic, Maestro, were released. He’s getting some heat for the prosthetic nose. I will eat up any and all Bernstein content, so I will be seeing it when it hits theaters.
- This dumb Twitter meme stupidly and sincerely reminds me of how I feel as someone newly unpartnered. All queer people come out repeatedly, but single people especially. Guess I have to tell one of my doctors to erase the giant “LESBIAN” I saw her scrawl in my file last year.
- IS POKEY LOW?, a website my friend Rachel made to document her cat’s reaction to local storms.
- This announcement of Our Flag Means Death’s renewal caused a genuine yelp from me. I am laid low by Taika Waititi’s wink.
- This enraging Money Diary from Refinery29 (doing the Lord’s work)
- Old Enough!: Longterm Boyfriends from Saturday Night Live⁴
- Speaking of SNL, this profile of Sarah Sherman (aka Sarah Squirm) was a delight (NYLON / Layla Halabian)
- STREETS OF THE RIGHTEOUS: The Brooklyn Streets Named for Non-Jerks (Brooklyn Paper / Ben Brachfeld). Slaveholders and other unsavory characters name many Brooklyn streets. Here are some with better origin stories
Songs in My Heart
Letters of recommendation (May 2022)
- Live performance: Into the Woods (as anticipated), Samara Joy⁷ at the Apollo Music Cafe.
- Fine art: Not in person, but I’ve been looking at Bernini sculptures online.⁸
- Poem: “At Twenty-Eight” by Amy Fleury⁹
- Food (out): a warm meal at Skovorodka in Brighton Beach with my favorite Russian speakers (Patrick and Galina)
- Activity: platonically sending nudes to your friends; sweating and dancing to a wedding band’s rendition of “Don’t You Worry ‘Bout a Thing” by Stevie Wonder while slightly stoned
- Greenspace: the Rockaways at Beach 81st, where the crowds start to thin out¹⁰
- Investment: overly expensive Reformation dresses that made me feel beautiful; silly Phillips Hue lightbulbs for my entire apartment
- Moment: Without question, last weekend: a demanding five-year-old handed me his second walkie-talkie on the 4 train and asked me questions the whole way home. When I said I was 28, he yelled. We shook hands before I disembarked.
That’s it for this issue. Including the Fleury poem below because I want you to see it. As ever, thank you for reading. And don’t forget the endnotes.
See you in two,
Emily
¹ The computer asked if I wanted to correct “it” to “them.” WOOF.
² Sixth, if you’re a stickler.
³ Wheaton’s quad, for the uninitiated.
⁴ I’ve recently been a notorious SNL hater (after a childhood of reverence), but this made me laugh. It didn’t help that I watched it with Charlotte and Patrick. Patrick becomes a non-playable character when sent to the grocery store.
⁵ The week of quartets!
⁶ I only listened to music from 2016 at our reunion, and this still hits.
⁷ Learn her name if you don’t know it. Watching her perform is like staring into the sun.
⁸ Namely The Rape of Prosperina. How did he DO THIS?
⁹ I’ve loved this poem since I was much younger. Surreal to be at the speaker’s age and share the sentiments I thought I’d never feel.
¹⁰ Technically tan space, I suppose. There was, however, a LOT of seaweed in the water. Still, the one pool where I’d happily drown, etc.
