I’ve never been a summer woman, and whenever I hear “hot girl summer”, which is such a weirdly evocative string of words for me, it does nothing but elicit repressed feelings of inferiority, though those days feel like such an eternity ago however permanent in my bones. As much as I generally like (and some days, love, with all my heart) the sentiment behind the eye-rollingly cheesy terms for the empowered woman (no offence to those who may identify as queens, girlbosses and hot summer girls…), I am patiently waiting for the celebration of the imperfect woman, whether she’s desperate, meek, obsessive, mediocre, just an ugly flailing mess…without finding a way to glamorize or apologise for it. But, nevermind. What I’m really trying to say is, it’s now the season for when I am the most comfortable, when things are turning in, when I have an excuse to be still, reflective, internal. And this time, everyone is on board. We are all collectively burrowing inside ourselves as the days grow dark.
I’m not entirely sure how I want to format this newsletter except that I’d like it to be something intimate and an unapologetic reminder of beauty. It’ll be mostly poetry, I think. Food? Sex? Music? Literature? Desire. Pleasure. Pleasure. A reminder of beautiful things. I want glamour in my mundane…and mundanity occupies the throne in all our adult lives. Don’t let anyone fool you otherwise, whether the deceit is in the scrolling mess of social media or the bright-eyed and carefree embrace of acquaintances. And I wouldn’t argue the fact that I often fall prey to escapism. Of drifting away or falling asleep like a child in the warm lap of decadence. Let me be a cautionary tale. Or some kind of scream.
So today I want to share a very relevant, wonderfully rich and also claustrophobic John Updike poem that I found while attempting to organise an old man’s research papers, sat cross-legged on the floor of the apartment. It was given a full page in a January 1985 copy of The Atlantic. I miss magazines. I miss newspapers. I am planning on changing my lack of subscription to physical media (if it is affordable and I can find space to give it a home) because I truly love holding things in my hands. But it has to be worth it. I am quick to admire the texture and weight of paper, embossing (and debossing) if I’m lucky, the concentration of ink, the smell when prying open tightly bound pages - it’s a sensory experience that I feel attached to in the way people with my temperament perhaps all share. One of the top tier activities on my joyful-things-to-do list is to visit as many (preferably) independent stationary shops in Brooklyn (I do not turn my nose up at local newsagents’ birthday cards and floppy AirMail envelopes or the Papyruses, Mujis and Paper Sources of the world, just saying), and I think my current favourite shop on this side of the city is the wonderful Yoseka Stationary, which was a source of quiet cheer for me when I found myself feeling unanchored and profoundly shaken by my move back to the States after spending much of my adult life in the UK - my memory of life and culture in America (outside of the frivolities and extremities and general weirdness on the internet) are frozen in, maybe, 2005? Maybe I’d even make the rare trip to the City in search of the perfect notebook or a truly great pen. It might become a post someday. Which reminds me…I have promised letters and I must write them.
I hope anyone who stumbles across this enjoys this poem. Let us celebrate autumn as we descend further into its depths! Let rot proclaim its revolution.