And I told the old year it could roll softly now to anticlimax,
this is not a garden. I am too caught
in kinetic life, I only ever dreamt in trundles,
the train’s arch and daylight’s dead-ringers.
I think 23 is a pretty number. It’s the beginning of my current address at an apartment tucked beneath the stoop of an unmarked brownstone, where I’ve now lived the longest I have anywhere in a decade. And I loved being 23. It was a smooth, vague age with no milestones, no expectations, no real hitches in the memory of a life. It slipped past me mostly with grace. I had more time and sense to settle into what I’ve learned since I first flung myself against New York at the end of 2020.
At the start of 2023, I began an effort to log every good article, book, movie, exhibition, or performance I came into contact with. I promised myself I’d write for desire lines weekly, cycling neatly between essays and reviews and diary entries. I wanted a stickier existence, to get the most out of my world by recording everything, so I bounced around readings and openings and parties and spent all of my time on the train with a notebook cracked open on my lap. I did an OK job until I didn’t. I stopped in September. Not so much because of a drought, like I’d run out of things to say, but because of a weird shame. I hesitated when I imagined someone jeering behind my back, remained stiff in my desire to impress not only the people I know but also the abstract masses of the Internet. Silence is so safe. This winter I didn’t finish a single book and rarely left my apartment.
I can’t call myself a problem-solver. I am more of a patient wallower. But it wasn’t the first time I’d felt paralyzed. One of the reasons I began writing essays was because I’d hit the same wall with poetry—it wasn’t a conscious move of rebranding, but simply a diversion of my desire to pattern the world with language. During my Substack lull, I became so restless that I picked up an old fiction draft from 2021. Spending months with my head stuck in that private, alternate reality was a necessary escape. In the summer I’d also deliberated endlessly over whether to pursue arts journalism and failed to take several rejections in stride. I was surprised to land my first commissioned piece this month, and even more so by how much I enjoyed writing it. What I learned, I think, is that creative input and output are not consistent and nameable things. As fickle as they are, they can be cycled through different forms, worked at in new lights. I’ve found there’s a freedom in not fully knowing myself yet, just churning on without regard to any crystallized genre. It helps me to know that all modes of writing scratch the same itch. I’ve found that an asymmetrical, hybrid approach to writing ultimately deepens inquiry—different mediums inform and build on one another in unexpected ways.
And I like an odd-numbered year. It’s bittersweet to watch this one eke out its last short stretches of daylight. Heading into 2024, I think I’ll wish ‘23 goodbye with a list of loves.
BOOKS — Of the best books I read this year, this newly-translated Marguerite Duras novel on boredom and chaos earns the blue ribbon. Rebecca Solnit’s gorgeous Field Guide to Getting Lost mapped the movements of human desire better than I ever could, and I have to mention my perfect summer read, Madame Bovary.
& OTHER READS — Annie Dillard’s short story “Total Eclipse” was life-changing (thank you Maddie), I’ll never forget Aaron Timms’ takedown of current dining conditions for n+1, and I admit I’ve enjoyed almost everything I’ve read in The Drift.
MOVIES — I adored the 2022 Italian release Amanda’s clever take on Girl Friendship, and Agnes Varda’s 1988 biopic of Jane Birkin. I also haven’t stopped thinking about the masterpiece of aberrational desire that is The Piano Teacher.
ART — My favorite things I saw this year were Kevin McNamee-Tweed’s ceramic microcosms at Sonia Dutton, the first museum survey of Cecily Brown’s paintings, and Sagarika Sundaram’s monumental felt compositions at Palo Gallery. I also admittedly cried at Van Gogh’s cypresses at the Met while going through nicotine withdrawal.
THEATRE — The Brooklyn Academy of Music swept me off my feet with The Sign in Sidney Brustein’s Window and FOOD.
MUSIC — Elliot Smith, oops
NYC LOCALES — For restaurants, Place des Fetes remains unrivaled across food-atmosphere-service. Otto’s in Greenpoint was my favorite vintage store discovery, while Topos in Ridgewood wins again for used books, L’Appartement in BK Heights for croissants. Polly’s in Prospect Heights is the best UGZ coffee shop (ty Evana), and Trailer Park in Chelsea the best UGZ bar (ty Anna lol). Top 3 places to just hang out, all perfect in my eyes, are the Brooklyn Poets office, Bar Bayeux, and the Russian & Turkish baths.
BEAUTY — I will probably never release my grip on whitening eye drops, purple toothpaste, Gua sha with jade I keep in my refrigerator, hair rollers, and the only makeup product I’ll spend over $15 on.
CLOTHES — This year marked my overdue discovery of low-rise baggy Levis, which I now wear multiple times a week, Sambas, and a chic but affordable watch. Everything else I wear regularly are hand-me-downs from friends that I’ve acquired from the beautiful thing of a clothing swap.
CURES — St.John’s Wort, mushrooms, Nuun hydration tablets and/or Cherry Glacier Gatorade, Zyrtec D, and the Survivor TV franchise for all physical and psychological ailments.
WISDOM — Plath in 1950: Oh, something is there, waiting for me. Perhaps someday the revelation will burst in upon me and I will see the other side of this monumental grotesque joke. And then I’ll laugh. And then I’ll know what life is. ==
Great vibes. A lull in the flow is normal and I'd even say necessary. We all know the platitude: doesn't matter how slow you get, so long as you don't stop. Happy new year.
very beautiful!!!! happy new year!