I want to write to you about the Uber rides I take between Somerville and Boston, all through Cambridge, right before the Charles River appears as a navy blue ribbon against the sky, both river and sky in a close race to determine who will bring the night quicker. I, either hungry or drunk on these rides, watch as running people navigate through the crosswalks, the bridges, the grass by the Esplanade. Long, slender legs illuminate against the sky and river as geese guard the perimeter. The clouds disappear and against my thighs, through the car windows, a puppet show of tunnel lights. Sometimes I think about my existence against this environment, how I ended up here, various apartments and jobs, and friends and I, always on a car ride to and from Boston, think it has always made sense.
Do you feel this way too? When the grey of the sky against the browning of the trees and the orange leaves on the sidewalks marks the passing of time, not unlike the thick droplets and streams of leftover wax melted on wine bottles from the night before? At the bar where I work, I tell a guest; the paneling all comes from the same tree — look, you can see it in the matching knots of wood throughout the length of the space — and if you were to fold us up into this room, press us up against each other, fold us vertically the branches and leaves would extend and grow back, all of us melded together back into the tree, the same burls, the same bark, left alone in a wooden place, to be turned into a long bar many years later. Do you feel this way too? Like we all could explode into one?
Is it true, then, what they say about the fingernails of the deceased? I don’t want to look it up. They say that after death, a human’s hair and fingernails still grow, and dug-up bodies are swallowed by all the hair and nails produced after death when found. But then, I heard it different — it’s not that the dead follicles keep growing, it’s that the body shrinks. So the amount of hair and nails I’ll have in death is what I’ll have forever — or at least in this body. So I think then, about all the hair and nails I left in the bodies previous to mine right now, littering the fungus and dirt of the earth, perhaps even mixed with the fungus and dirt underneath my fingernails right now, as I fold all the laundry, make the bed, wash the dishes.
But I don’t think you want to think about this much as I do, on the Uber ride watching the sky — laying in bed watching the peonies bloom, walking the grey pavement from my house to the coffee shop, the bookstore, the bank. Unfurling the landscape, my landscape, evolving from how my days are spent. Instead, I’ll record for you this: The rotting apple smell. The pollen captured by the honey bees Nora and I pet the last days of summer. The misty cloud shapes are drawn on the asphalt. The wool of the scarves and hats making their way out of the closet. The new blooms on my orchid. The mew of the hungry street cats. Tomato sauce on my white shirt. An oracle card telling me to fill this peace of mind.
The title of today’s piece is inspired by the recurring lyrics in Tennis’ 2023 album, Pollen.
Apologies for the delay this week in releasing this issue (43! Wow). Honestly, I had a bad case of writer’s block. I hope I am partially healed now. I’m exhausted by how much I have been working lately, so I hope to spend the last weeks of the year establishing a routine that better suits my life. Like always, thank you for reading along.
✿ This week, I watched Beetlejuice in full for the first time. It was so fun and campy. I forgot how much I like Tim Burton’s work — particularly his practical visual effects. Vincent, his 1982 short film about a young boy obsessed with the morbid, is one of my favorite works by him.
✿ Via Pinterest, I got into Marie Jacotey’s comics and drawings — they’re dark and erotic yet somehow have an element of innocence within them — perhaps because they’re mostly drawn with colored pencils.
✿ I’ve been listening to Leon Bridges’ new self-titled album. I love Ain’t Got Nothing on You, Panther City, and Can’t Have It All. At first, I wasn’t super into it and felt it sounded rushed, but on a couple of re-listens, it’s a beautifully produced album. The lyrics sound like they’re out of his journal in the very best way.
Here are some snippets of my photo reel these past few weeks! Lately, I’m not invested in Instagram, so I’ll leave them for you here.
So much love from me to you —
-gabo <3