whipstitch (007)
poetry edition + a breathing theater, velveteen illusions, sex as a hobby, and the meaning of pure fun
In the past year since I’ve last written a whipstitch column, I’ve been flipping the switch on my favorite on-and-off-again relationship: it seems poetry and I have gotten back together again. I haven’t been very kind to her in the past few years, seeing as she’s a bit dumpy, unreliable, short on cash, and an acquired taste for most people…
I wrote about my relationship with poetry in another post, where I briefly referenced a conversation with my undergrad creative writing professor in which I was explicitly told that I’d never get accepted into an MFA program. For a long time, I had no interest in continuing my education in such a dumb, pointless medium. I later found myself very insecure over my sudden interest in doing so with that fate already sealed. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever feel “ready.” I missed school, but I had no illusions about an MFA program propelling me in any particular direction.
I started a year-long mentorship program in January, thinking it would help me decide whether I wanted to attempt an MFA. I’d already fucked around and made my first round of applications to Mostly Fucking Around programs in December, seeing that it’s a good idea to try your luck a few times in a row. I got waitlisted for a competitiveish funded program and felt relieved by the “good sign” of that. Then I was accepted off the waitlist after I’d already done a lot of research and reverie on other programs outside of the city. No writing poetry in a bucolic low-cost-of-living setting for me, I guess! But the surprise was ultimately thrilling. Sometimes you get slapped in the face by chance and you just take it. Today is my first day of class.
It’s helped me to remember that poetry is not a logical pursuit. It’s a hedonistic one. In Louise Glück’s essay “Education of the Poet,” she writes: It is a life, dignified, by yearning, not made serene by sensations of achievement...'Poet' must be used cautiously; it names an aspiration, not an occupation. Now that I’m back into the habit of reading it, writing it, and talking shop with other poets, I’ve rediscovered the senseless pleasure of it all. I feel immensely lucky to have the opportunity to take part in that for another two years. And, of course, to one day rub it in that professor’s face. Hater…
In that spirit, some of the recommendations here lean toward poetry, but aren’t exclusive to what I’ve been inspired by recently. Read on for a screening of two recently unearthed Zoë Lund films, a tour of Arlene Sechet’s site-specific steel sculptures, my favorite summer beverage, and a taste of the surprise I’ll be releasing next week.
NO LACERATING WISH
Stay, Illusion, Lucie Brock-Broido
No feeding on wisteria. No pitch-burner traipsing In the nettled woods. No milk in metal cylinders, no Buttering. No making small contusions on the page But saying nothing no one has not said before. No milkweed blown across your pony-coat, no burrs. No scent of juniper on your Jacobean mouth. No crush Of ink or injury, no lacerating wish. Extinguish me from this. I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost And flickering in unison with all the other fireflies in Appalachia, Blinking in the swarm of it, and all at once, above And on a bare branch in a shepherd's sky. No Dove. There is no thou to speak of.“How the fuck does she come up with this shit!?” Will, a poet friend, and I screamed at each other while discussing Lucie Brock-Broido’s 2013 collection the other night. The poet faintly resembles my maternal grandmother, except if my maternal grandmother was some kind of gothic royal with hair down to her hips. This was the first full collection of hers I read after being introduced to “Extreme Wisteria” and “Father, In Drawer” via the mentorship program, and I’m not sure if my own writing will ever be the same. I adore the way LBB’s poems appear on the page, with their long monostichs and elegant indentations to balance blockier stanzas. There’s an abundance of hyperspecific details, often delivered in end-stopped fragments—gargoyle stores, escutcheons, wren-boys, ash-homes, abandonariums—crushed together, they do remind me of a condensed, perfumed attar, glimmering with splinters of chimerical scenes. Although there’s a certain opacity in LBB’s coded references, I was struck by how often I caught glimpses of myself. Especially the above-quoted poem, “A Girl Ago,” balanced on a transfigurative hinge: I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost / And flickering with all the other fireflies in Appalachia.
THAT WHICH IS NOT YET, BUT OUGHT TO BE
Zoë Lund, Anthology Film Archive
Anna & I fanned ourselves in a short standby line for this screening of “Hot Ticket” and “Story of an Ordinary Man” at East Village’s Anthology Film Archive. I’d never heard of the actor-writer-musician-model Zoë Lund before, but was drawn by the opportunity to hear novelist Stephanie LaCava and artist Diamond Stingily read some of her posthumously-published poems. Along with Dasha Nekrasova, it was an odd line-up, but I found the trio’s brief and faltering readings downright charming: recalling ZL’s defiant tone within that New York 90s scene, prophesizing the rise of heroin-chic, pleading with her future readers: Do you think I’m pretty? Robert Lund, her widower, subsequently offered an insightful introduction to ZL’s directorial work, including the story of how the lost originals of these films were found and restored ahead of AFA’s retrospective.
“Hot Ticket” screened first—a one-and-a-half-minute film that ZL wrote, directed, and starred in over the course of three days during the 1993 Rotterdam Film Festival. Full of eerie exits and entries, a full syringe exchanged for one cinema ticket leads ZL outside to a dark, shimmering city street. That which is not yet, but ought to be, is more real than that which merely is echoes in a voiceover, and she melts off into the camera’s vanishing point. Then, the theater went silent “Story of an Ordinary Man,” a 40-minute reel of original footage by Edouard de Laurot, Lund’s partner and collaborator in the early 80s. Edited solely by ZL, it featured production footage from incomplete films shot in the 60s and 70s, including military scenes, cityscapes, painted dancers, and writhing orgies. It was a somewhat godly experience to sit in a dark, humid room for the duration of the silent film, just listening to it breathe.
POEM AS NONSITE
That’s how it was, sometimes, living with another poet. Like we could both put on headsets and wave the controllers — arms outstretched and triggers depressed — but for me alone nothing happened. People say that poets love the moon, but I got into poetry because I liked words and small things and lacked the imagination for fiction. There’s a book my dad would read us about a princess who falls ill and won’t be well until they bring the moon, it’s hopeless! But then someone asks what she thinks the moon might be: a disc of gold, no bigger than her thumbnail. So, then, quite achievable.Rachel Mannheimer’s 2022 debut collection was recommended to me by a classmate via a WhatsApp photo of the opening poem, “The Moon,” which is about RM’s uncomfortable experience at a museum’s VR installation. Being so different from Brock-Broido’s book, Earth Room was the perfect contemporary sidecar, with its sparse, meditative voice and clear narrative structure. RM draws us into her peripatetic life, anchoring each poem’s title to a specific place as we move coast to coast, sea to sea, earth to outer space. We overhear her conversations, glimpse landscapes in passing, watch lovers’ faces emote before her eyes. These poems come across as a live record, riveted to this particular cultural moment, even as they continually reference the lives of famous artists including Arnulf Rainer, Walter De Maria, Isamu Noguchi, and Pina Bausch. RM also nods towards Robert Smithson’s concept of nonsites, and like the sculptor, draws material from multiple locales to embed and transform on the page. I loved this collection for both its art historical excavations and its somewhat diaristic format (the latter of which was aptly compared by Glück to the work of Maggie Nelson and Claudia Rankine).
GENERATIVE SEEDS
Arlene Shechet: Girl Group, Storm King
Earlier this month, two friends and I caught the Metro North to Beacon and hitched a rather serendipitous ride on a golf cart across Storm King’s grassy hills to make it to a tour of Arlene Shechet’s Girl Group. Rounded up by associate curator Eric Booker, my girl group began indoors with a collection of ceramic and wood compositions created by AS during the pandemic. In photos and at some distance, the ceramic pieces appear soft and malleable—or like fleshy forms covered in velvet pile fabric—a result of AS’s unique (and apparently secret) glazing technique. Their minute surface irregularities are on full display with custom stands that invite us to see every side, including the bottoms, not a single one of which is flat. These ceramics serve as the first step in AS’s elaborate process, “generative seeds” of sorts that were later replicated in digital modeling software, then replicated as paper models, and ultimately translated into the towering steel counterparts on display outside. The outdoor sculptures were created with “old-fashioned” welding and bolting techniques. They hold faint traces of the originals in certain lines and volumes, but have been tweaked with playful, shifting pastel palettes shaped by the surrounding landscape. They’re a refreshing foil to many of the harsh, monochromatic metal sculptures dotting Storm King’s acreage. Buoyed by the gorgeous weather, I was particularly touched by the patience and consistency inherent to AS’s practice. Here, we had the opportunity to glimpse her work in multiple states of matter.
SHOUTS
⌿ The Rejection of Closure by Lyn Hejinian, which I first read in her seminal book of poetics titled “The Language of Inquiry.” I’m a whore for craft essays, but I think this one might follow me around for the rest of my days as a poet. Nothing has helped strengthen my slippery grip on “form” more than her notion of it as an activity, rather than a fixture.
⌿ Is Sex Fun? by Lillian Fishman for The Point’s advice column, which I instantly devoured due to my current obsession with a certain topic you’ll read about at the bottom of this newsletter, and because I’m on an advice column kick right now (drop your recs). I think this is one of the most clear-eyed and engaging pieces of writing I’ve ever read about sex to date. Strange for me to admit that I think I might be more of a hobbyist than a mystic.
⌿ Going Postal by Max Read for BookForum, an early-pandemic-era review of Richard Seymour’s “The Twittering Machine.” As someone who grew up on the Internet, I’m often amused by millennial thinkpieces written on the impact of social media with all their repetitive doomsday paranoia, but this one is just brilliant. I want more writing that captures the everyday experience of using Twitter while also being able to say something intelligent about it…
& OTHER MURMURS
⌿ Blowing off steam. I’m not a self-optimizer, you know. On principle, I don’t think I’ll ever become someone with a regimented exercise routine before the age of 30. But I love going on aimless runs when I’m feeling emotionally violent. Music is key—pairs well with the song 104 Degrees by Slaughter Beach, Dog or anything from Cherry Glazerr’s Stuffed & Ready album.
⌿ Chatgpt for everyday aphasia. I believe this haute tool has many limits, but I’ve found it to be an instant cure for the terrible feeling I get when I’m groping around for a word I can’t remember. The bot doesn’t seem to mind whatever nonsense follows “what is it called when…” Same goes for trying to source a quote that’s floating around in the soup of my brain or any other delirious last minute fact-checking needs. Is this crutch going to make me lazier and stupider à la spellcheck? Who’s to say…
⌿ Co-ops. I don’t necessarily think that paying to enter a grocery store and laboring for free for a small discount is worth it at my local co-op, especially given that a lot of the produce there is often picked-over or in stages of rot, but I will say that my 60-day free trial there has been a good match for my grocery shopping anxiety. In New York, it’s a luxury to enter a grocery store that is small and tranquil, with a cereal section isn’t going to induce decision paralysis and egg prices sans jump scares.
⌿ Facebook marketplace. I mean, duh. We know this. But I’ve been living without a microwave in my home for the past two and a half years, and the incredibly chic Smeg-esque one I picked up for $40 in the UWS has changed my life. Same goes for the $20 printer I now use to print and hand-edit my poems. Pairs well with the encouraging cheers you get from strangers when hauling small household appliances the length of Manhattan in 80 degree weather.
⌿ “Gritty” TV. I’ll preface this by saying that I’ve never been much of a television-watcher until my boyfriend began trying to convert me to the drug of laying on the couch for hours on end. I’m still extremely picky with what I watch. I’ve recently been feeling more averse to shows that feel Clean, Bright, and Smooth, or ones that force you to live vicariously through rich people. I need actors without makeup, without blowouts, without perfect white veneers navigating the cringe horrors of real life. Satisfying examples thus far include my rewatches of Shameless and (sorry) Orange is the New Black.
⌿ Letting go of HBC. Maybe this deserves a longer essay, but I’m only a month out and I can’t say if my experience has been wholly positive or negative since getting my IUD removed. But I don’t regret trying out a lifestyle that doesn’t involve hormone interference…other folks who have been on birth control since 16, I’m looking at you. Pairs well with a lot of Reddit research for mitigating expectations and (if you choose to remove) this bible + DIM supplements.
⌿ Long journeys. In comparison to last year’s, this summer has been particularly empty, isolatory, and haunted for me. I couldn’t tell you a single thing I did in May or June, but the past few weeks have felt frenetic enough to compensate for my earlier lack of direction. Those days have often resulted in taking very complicated and exhausting “journeys” (to Jacob Riis to sit in high wind for 2 hours, to the swarming crowds of Hell’s Kitchen to see fireworks, to Beacon for upstate art weekend, to the northernmost edge of Queens to see another exhibition, etc). For whatever momentary discomfort they make of blisters and sweat and train anxiety, it feels satisfying to physically strive towards something. Pairs well with good company.
⌿ Mint juleps. I fell in love with mint juleps during my brief tenure at Maison Premiere (how’s that for an oxymoronic slant rhyme?), and made an enormous batch for a belated Derby party I hosted at my home last month. It’s the perfect summer bev—you just need crushed ice (via blender is fine), loads of fresh mint, cheap bourbon, and some kind of sugar. To mimic the gorgeous frost of a classic julep cup for cheap, I recommend stocking up on these.
⌿ These pants. The only reason I walked into a Banana Republic Factory and bought these khakish pants was for a catering job uniform, but now I wear them every single day I can get away with it. I haven’t gone clothes shopping in ages, so it feels nice to stumble across an item that I wouldn’t have bought otherwise but fits so perfectly into a cool, chic summer wardrobe. Pairs well with an untucked pleated button-down and brown pointy-toed flats for a sort of undone, Kinsey scale Beige Mom look.
⌿ Trader Joe’s facial sunscreen. Fifteen bucks for a feather-light, completely invisible, pore-smoothing gel that’s water resistant and SPF 40. One day I’m going to steal this recipe and sell it for a massive mark-up…unless Supergoop already did that? It’s also a great primer and pairs well with makeup. Shoutout to Megan for this heavenly rec.
DESIRE OF THE WEEK: PURE FUN
Speaking of senseless pleasures, “having fun” sounds like the paramount thing one should be doing while living in New York in their 20s. I’ll confess that I’m not so sure whether I am.
While trawling some of Haley Nahman’s old recommendations, I found this Vox article about the demise of fun during the pandemic, and was struck by Rachel Sugar’s endeavor to define actual fun. I began to consider what fun, real fun, means to me. Not just simply enjoying oneself, but joyous abandon. Not just everyday pleasure, but rush, thrill, exhilaration. What a horror to recall how frequently I use the word “fun” without meaning any of that. “I had a blast,” I often text, after a lowkey round of drinks with a friend whose opinion of me I’m nervously beginning to question, or any time I leave my apartment to spend time with another human being and end up doing something expected, pedestrian, or otherwise forgettable. Even the handful of nights I’ve been flash-photographed at parties, performing the young-NYC-transplant-fun-girl formula, after drinking in excess or doing drugs like I’m supposed to—was any of that ever fun?
Fun, at its purest, is an elusive thing. It needs freedom, trustworthy company, spontaneity, looseness—rare ingredients in the current context of my life. I worry that my truest definition of fun lacks a certain sophistication or coolness that I feel constantly pressured to emulate. Did anyone at my Derby party, with its makeshift beer pong table and shoddy country playlist, have fun? Is it possible to remain genuinely playful while trying to act like a “well-cultured” adult, accruing whatever social capital seems to come from bragging about doing ketamine at clubs? I’m skeptical. I can recognize a plausible gap between fun on the surface and fun at depth.
I want to have more fun, and it’s not something I can force or stage. I’m at least more aware in the moments when I’m experiencing it, trying to become more attuned to its specific texture. I’ve also been asking everyone I know (who I can rely on to answer honestly) what pure fun is to them, which inspired me to feverishly test out Substack’s podcast feature for the first time with my very own twin brother. I’ll be posting our (highly informal, and therefore…fun?) conversation next week. ==
All illustrations are courtesy of Anna Lustberg—see more of her work on her website and Instagram!
So happy whipstitch is back. Loved the features and recommendations in this one :). Can't wait for your upcoming post!