Edition #129: Seeking Permission
Plus, a pseudo gift guide, 2023 words, and signs as sandwiches
A Note From the Editor
At a small art school I attended in Central Florida, our seventh-grade science teacher used to mark our periods on his desk calendar. The entire middle school was just shy of 60 kids—about 30 in band and 30 in dance. We didn’t mix classes, so we dancers spent three long, dramatic years together. We weren’t well behaved and we were very in touch with our emotions, meaning our teachers often had a difficult time managing us—29 young girls and one boy, all ripe with pre-teen angst. As was typical in school, we needed to ask permission to use the bathroom during class. In science class, which happened to be right after lunch, we asked to use the bathroom too often according to our teacher. When he would say no, as he sometimes did, we would retort that we had our period, and did he want us to bleed all over the chairs? Eventually, he began to catch on—we couldn’t all have our period all the time—and so he would mark our initials, small and neat, on his calendar whenever we claimed to be menstruating.
The marking of our periods was wildly inappropriate, but what still strikes me about the whole fiasco was how it began; we had to get permission to use the bathroom and we might be turned down when we asked. It didn’t strike us as odd then because we had to ask permission for everything—to buy a certain shirt, to go to the movies, to enroll in an extracurricular activity, to change schools. As time went on and the hold our parents had on us splintered, some of us had to ask for permission more often and some of us less. I was the fifth of seven children, hard-headed and independent by nature. My parents weren’t strict and I was discreet about my misdeeds, getting A’s and B’s, not causing any major trouble, so I adopted the mindset of asking for forgiveness rather than permission. And for a large number of years, it worked beautifully.
I cannot say precisely when the regression began, or how it happened. I only know that through college, I didn’t ask permission to spend a summer interning in New York City, though I had zero experience and just enough money to barebones survive for 12 weeks. I didn’t ask permission to leave Florida, venturing around the country for a timeshare job that made me more money than I ever imagined I’d make with a PR degree. I didn’t ask permission to quit that job, either, when at 24 years old I was utterly burnt out, without friends or hobbies or a semblance of a life outside work. I’ve gone through most of my adult life not asking for permission; trusting myself and making it work. Perhaps the stakes were lower back then. All I had to do was lift myself up out of my situation, make money, and impress others. Once that was done, once I accomplished what turned out to be the simpler task, the digging began.
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When you begin to dig, the deeper you get the darker it gets. The dirt, stubborn and packed, becomes damp beneath the surface, then slick with wetness. You find things—slinky creatures with eight legs and four eyes, dried-up bones, tunnels that lead further down. Only then, below the layers of grit and grime, do you unearth your true desires, covered in filth. They aren’t beautiful because they’ve been living so far underground for so long. They crawl up, on hands and knees, through the hole you’ve dug, hunch-backed and ill-mannered, and they scream when they reach the surface because they’ve never seen the sunlight. They are delicate, brittle-boned, and you’ve never seen them in the sunlight so you scream, too, for they are so ugly, so intrusive that you wish to bury them once more, these gremlins of dreams.
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While I was back in New York last week I had tea with two of my smartest, most impressive friends—both lawyers who moonlight as artists. We discussed what it means to “make it” as an artist and whether it is even possible. One of my friends is at a similar crossroads to the one I found myself at a year ago when I decided to leave my full-time job to pursue freelance writing. I could hear her saying she knew what she wanted to do, what she really wanted, but that it was so far from where she was right now. It seemed too big and too improbable to pursue; also impractical. I listened to her justifications, carbon copies of the ones I’d given in the years between knowing, deep in my bones, that I wanted to be a writer and finally making serious moves towards the path—if I take this fancy job, I’ll learn this, which is a good thing to know, right? I’m not sure what I want, anyway. The money’s good. Later, maybe.
In this context I was able to mount my high horse and give what I hoped was good, inspiring advice, advice that I realized halfway through I also needed to take. I told her it was clear she knew what she wanted, that pursuing one’s artistic dreams is a worthy cause as any and that now was the time to do it. She argued we lived in the real world, a world that requires making money. I countered that plenty of people make a living as artists, perhaps we just don’t know them in our immediate circles. There are countless screenwriters, producers, directors, visual artists, editors, all of whom are doing what they care about and making a living. Maybe it’s not lawyer money but not all artists are shaking pennies in cups. The three of us have inhabited a world, to this point, that had fed us the belief that work cannot equal passion plus money. If you’re following your passion, especially as an artist, you will be broke. This was a belief I’d clung to for a number of years because it was easier to believe this than to admit that what I wanted to do required a great degree of risk; not just financially but emotionally. Call it an uninspected truth taken as fact. I had no interest, back then, in disproving this faulty truth because I relied on it to keep me safe, to insulate my bubble.
As we continued to banter I realized what my dear friend was looking for, what I’ve also been looking for in the nearly five years I’ve been writing: Permission. Someone to tell her, to tell me, that this is OK to pursue this path. We’d both been told, through words and parental and societal approval, that our corporate jobs were the right thing to do. We didn’t need permission to do them because it was implied, a given. But as you attempt to forge a new path, one no one has ever explicitly told you is a good idea or even a possible one, you regress into a childlike form. Once again you are a teenager and permission is required every step of the way. Can I go to the bathroom? Can I turn this short story into a pilot? Can I direct a play I write myself? Can I stop being a lawyer and try to be a filmmaker? Can I do something that makes me feel alive?
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What no one tells you, when you begin digging, is that once the gremlin has seen the light of day, it will never retreat back into its hole. You will attempt to bury it once again—you’ll dig with your bare hands, getting as close to the Earth’s core as possible. You’ll build it a tiny coffin out of oak and steel. You’ll nail it shut and shove it slide it back into the ground without throwing it a proper funeral; pile on the dirt and pack it tightly.
And still, each night, the goblin will hiss in your ears. It won’t let you sleep. It’ll come to you in daydreams and in the dead of night, at the witching hour. It’ll crawl behind your eyeballs and show you visions of the bitter future, of the questions that will hang in the air for the rest of your days. And so, despite its ugliness and despite your ugly fears, you will have no choice but to dig your goblin friend up once more. For you’ve seen too many times, in the sad eyes of that seventh-grade science teacher and in the disparaging tone of the family patriarch, what happens when you let the goblin rot in the coffin you built for it. It dies but something in you dies, too.
And you, my sweet, are far too vibrant to die.
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Cheers, my dears, and as always, thanks for reading. I’m making a personal vow to stop asking for permission in 2023 while using the remainder of this year as practice. Not asking for permission as it relates to my creative endeavors looks like action. Not needing to enroll in the perfect class to start writing that play, not needing an institution or an editor to tell me my work is worthy of being out there in the world, and most importantly, no longer waiting for next year, next year, next year. This is it! This is the start of the rest of our lives! There will be no written invitation to live the way we want to. And we don’t need one, anyway.
This weekend will be spent mostly in bed, reading and writing and dreaming and (hopefully) buying my first longboard. I’ve come down with a very gnarly sickness just after arriving back in Costa Rica, so I’m forcing myself to take it easy and recover. I hope you have a lovely weekend and that you spend a few moments letting yourself be inspired—by some good TV or some good art or a poem or a beautiful bowl of noodles. Dealers choice.
A quick note: I’m re-fashioning this next section as a pseudo-gift guide this week in the spirit of the holidays. Back to regularly scheduled programming next week!
Three Gift Ideas / Things I Liked This Year
Books, Books Books. Hot damn, I read so many wonderful books this year. This poetry collection by Lucille Clifton is steadily blowing my mind. I’ve never read poetry that is so precise and cutting and spirited. Lydia Millet’s newest novel is short, quiet, and human; quite lovely. This one by Miriam Toews is haunting and written in such a creative format—it has also been adapted into soon-to-be-released movie produced by Frances McDormand. This book, translated from Japanese and written by Sakaya Murata, is one of the more fucked up books I’ve read recently and I absolutely loved it. An examination of the perceived necessity of conformity in adulthood and a creative use of a child narrator. And, dear god, if you haven’t read this one by James Baldwin do yourself a favor and order it now. This book is prime for a post-read discussion.
Gifts For Your Family (Or For Yourself). This is still the best gift I’ve ever gotten for my mother, highly recommend. I got my sister this beautiful matcha set and now I want one for myself. Speaking of myself, I finally caved and got some fancy binoculars for bird-watching / creeping on everyone. Great for my fellow vision-impaired folks! My other sister made me the sweetest advent calendar and now I start every day with a few tears. This speaker has been a game changer—not sure why I’ve been listening to music on my iPhone speaker for so long. And this salt makes everything exponentially better.
Some Movies and Where To Watch Them. Because the best things in life are free—or at least they only require a streaming service password. It has been the year of the movie for me thanks to lots of hours on planes, here are a few you need to see. This chilling documentary (Showtime, free 7-day trial on Hulu or Amazon Prime), this thrilling, suspenseful film adapted from an off-Broadway show (Hulu), this Oscar-winner (also Showtime, free 7-day trial on Hulu or Amazon Prime), Daniel Kaluuya’s best performance yet (HBO), and this touching film (ALSO Showtime; just get the trial and watch all three of these at once). These are all dark and/or sad, so if you need a pick-me-up afterward and you like musicals, you should absolutely watch this heartwarming musical based on a true story (Apple TV+, free 10-day trial).
Perhaps You Should…See Your Future
This sort of reminds me of those AOL emails circa the early 2000s—send this to ten people by midnight otherwise you’ll be haunted by a bloody woman—but I’m here for it.
**Bonus Content** (Astrological Sandwiches)
Feeling weirdly seen by these signs as sandwiches.
Also, big-time mood re: pursuing your dreams, me every Sunday, a dreamy beach picnic, and so much love for this badass revolution.
A Quote From A Book You Should Read:
“There must be satisfaction gained in accurately naming the thing that torments you.”
-Women Talking by Miriam Toews
This newsletter is best served with a side of conversation, so drop your opinions, reflections, and thoughts in the comments below and let’s get to talking.
Or, share the most thought-provoking piece from today’s edition with someone you love, then call them up to discuss, debate, and percolate. As a wise woman once said, “Great minds discuss ideas.