Edition #174: Downloads From the In-Between

Hello from a season of chaos. Plus, my new favorite podcast, a solid piece of dating advice, and lots of novel recs.

A Note From the Editor

To say life’s pace has been chaotic lately would be a comical understatement; as evidenced by the fact that this is only my section edition of the month. I have been without a dedicated home base since August, roving from here to there, shouldering the burdens and blessings of New York all the while. I've dog-sat in a four-story brownstone in Park Slope just a few blocks from where my mother grew up, in a small apartment in Prospect Heights, and in an idyllic home upstate. I’ve slept in the beds of strangers, their warm companions nestled at my feet, and in the beds of friends, as they explore the world I tend to their sensitive houseplants.

I’ve stuffed, shoved, and reshuffled my belongings, scrutinizing each item with a new set of eyes. Did I really need to save all those matching hangers? Will I ever wear that puff-sleeved coral crop top again, or has its time passed? I’ve unlocked and sifted through the clothing in my storage unit, changing out shoes and shirts and succumbing, as wholly as possible, to the reality of life at present which is transitionary. I am on my way out, but for now, I am here. 

During this period of chaos, despite the constant movement, a few crucial insights have made their way in. I find it interesting that most of these insights came via others—during a casual conversation, after a heated encounter. An important reminder that sitting alone with yourself isn’t the only way to go deep.

A sexual revelation; the need to show both sides of myself.

At the start of this year, I discovered a piece of very obvious information: my love language is touch. I always said it was quality time, which felt like a more acceptable answer, but one night, lying in bed next to the person I was seeing, I had a dream they told me they didn’t like me and never had. The dream spurred from the lack of physical contact we had had that night—it was stiflingly hot, too hot for two bodies to touch. It was only then I acknowledged that if I’m not being touched I do not feel loved, and when I’m being touched I feel adored. Not just in a romantic setting, but by friends and family, too.

If that realization was phase one, phase two came in the latter half of the year when I came to terms with the fact that I am, by nature, a sexual person. I have been since I was a child. I also happened to be raised Catholic. Because I was the fifth child of seven, I was afforded a lot of freedom and wasn’t brought up under a strict hand—the only thing that was off limits, shameful to do or discuss, was sex.

During a period of celibacy this year, I was asked what spurred my decision to refrain from sex. It was the first time I’d been asked this point blank, and during my monologue of a response, I heard what I was not plainly saying: that my desire to feel loved and seen was at odds with my desire to be touched and pleased. In romantic entanglements past, I found myself either the delicate, virtuous flower who deserves to be cared for or, if I let the other side show, the sex demon who needed to be kissed and felt. One unconsciously negated the other; not just because of my upbringing, but because of the way certain men would react when I demonstrated a sexual appetite. I would feel like the other half of me dissolved; I was now only seen as an unfeeling object who had faked being a sweet girl who wanted her hand held.

The cumulation of this learned shame and my past experience led me to believe those two sides could never be fully present within the container of one relationship. It seems obvious to me now; I need a relationship where I can feel safe enough to fully inhabit both sides of myself, the sweet and the sultry, for they are not separate but crucially intertwined. There is no segmenting myself up to suit the needs of whomever I stand before. I will be seen and accepted in my totality or not at all.

The move to freelancing wasn’t primarily about career.

I was catching up with a friend I hadn’t seen in a while. We were updating one another on our lives when she said something along the lines of, “Now you’re doing your life’s work. It’s exactly what you wanted, right?” It didn’t feel entirely accurate to say yes, in part because I am always and will always be striving for more—more purpose, more challenge, more satisfaction in my work. To this question of whether I was/am doing my life’s work, my typical response, “Not really,” would lead down a well-worn path of self-belittlement. I should be writing a script, I should be writing a novel, I should be working on my second short film.

This time, my response was different. I didn’t know it was true until the words came out of my mouth, pouring from some other source I had not yet tuned into. “No. I’m not doing my life’s work yet, but I don’t think going freelance was ever really about that.” The decision to leave the full-time, 9 to 5 career world was, in theory, about freeing up more time to write and produce some marvelous thing that would define the next phase of my career. This is the framework I had always operated from, so I knew no different: a major life decision must be justified by furthering your career, fueled by raw ambition.

It is only now, just under three years into working for myself, that I see this decision was always about opening up a portal to a different kind of life. The opportunity for me to exit the Matrix, to realize my childhood dream of seeing the world while still being able to support myself, to encounter people who would open up my mind and challenge my ways of being.

The landscape of my life is entirely different today than it was all those years ago when I decided to try being my own employer. In a few weeks, I’ll be moving to another country for a year. I’ve spent time in corners of the world I used to dream about, and not just on week-long stopovers but in slow, lingering ways that reveal the true nature of a place. Though I have not yet written a feature film, I have built the fundamental base of a life from which my creativity can thrive. And better still, I’ve done it in a way that is entirely true to who I am.

Measuring days, relationships, and scenarios by how they make you feel.

I’m still workshopping this one. It came to me on a walk, after a grueling few days spent glued to my laptop screen, doing intensive research and writing. I thought about how certain work leaves you energized and other work leaves you depleted. Relationships are that way, too. There are people whose company always leaves me feeling warm and satiated, buzzed on life, while others leave me feeling exhausted and self-conscious like I need to lie down. The same goes for places. Every work assignment, person, or place you interface leaves you with a feeling; an impression. Those impressions are worth noting. They conceal patterns that offer a roadmap to something deeper.

Rather than striving for an external-facing end result—getting published in XYZ magazine, accumulating a cool circle of friends in XYZ location, etc.—I am instead attempting to evaluate my days based upon how I feel after each encounter, each task, the aim being to cultivate those scenarios that leave me energized and minimize those that leave me depleted. I have a feeling this approach makes for a more satisfied life. If a project that isn’t glamorous on the surface makes me feel amped up, that is a good piece of data to have. If a city that seems perfect on paper makes me feel like a pizza box flattened by a dump truck, that is a good piece of data to have.

It is all too easy to relentlessly pursue the things you think you want without stopping to check in, feeling, and recalibrating. Feelings and reactions are not arbitrary; they are subtle indicators attempting to point you in the right direction for you. Not for your ego, not for what other people want for your life, but for you. If you’re listening to yourself each day, paying attention to the messages those persistent feelings and reactions are trying to send, you’ll get closer to whatever it is that lights you up. Your life might not end up looking like what you once envisioned, and what a beautiful thing that is. Proof of personal evolution.

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Cheers my dears, and as always, thanks for reading. I’m coming up on my final few weeks in New York, so trying to soak it all in while running between my 800 doctor's appointments. A dear friend from Costa Rica is coming to visit this weekend. Lucky for me, she mostly wants to try different workout classes and eat carbs, so we’ll be doing a lot of that.

Have a beautiful weekend! Pick up a pumpkin-flavored snack from the grocery store, listen to some Billy Joel outside with a glass of good red wine, sleep for nine full hours at night.

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Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming

1. Sally Rooney Thinks Career Growth is Overrated. Listening to this podcast episode felt like the first time I grasped the power of the medium to get a different scope on a story (or in this case, on an interview). Rooney is known for being elusive in interviews, but listening to her speak gave more context. She clearly isn’t interested in leading a super public-facing life, which I especially respect in the world of desperate thirst for personal celebrity. She also thinks carefully about her words, which comes through in her articulate, measured answers—she isn’t giving bullshit non-answers, either. I appreciate that she thinks very carefully about what she says. Another rarity these days.

2. My #1 Dating Rule. Less cliche than it sounds: the best things in life are the simplest. Simple outfits; a good pair of baggy dark wash jeans and a crisp white tee, simple recipes; roasted salmon, jasmine rice, and pickled cucumbers, simple evenings; a walk in the park followed by a glass of wine with a good friend. And in the case of this sweet article, simple advice given by the author's mother about dating, but also about communicating at large. It’s advice that I was to transmute into my standard way of communicating. I wrote it down in my notebook for a more constant reminder.

3. The Death of the Minivan. My first ever car, purchased generously by my parents, was a 1996 Plymouth Voyager. When My mom showed me the clunky monstrosity—forest green paint peeling from its hood, grey headliner torn and hanging by a thread—it took every ounce of willpower I had not to cry on the spot. The van in question, which I named Bruce, was the butt of many jokes throughout late high school and early college; proof minivans were never cool. I like this piece for the conclusion it draws about how Americans perceive family life and how those perceptions manifest in material ways.

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Perhaps You Should… Revisit this Tiny Desk

I’d never seen this Tiny Desk before but, man, Mac Miller was a legend. I’ve had this song stuck in my head for days, and I’m now adding this to my growing collection of baseball hats.

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**Bonus Content** (It’s Book Season, Baby)

thedanrosen

A post shared by @thedanrosen

The accuracy of this made me cackle. Sad girl books through and through!

On the topic of books, there are so many good ones on my radar right now. I just started the second novel of the Neapolitan Quartet. If you haven’t read the first, run, don’t walk. I love a verbose Irish author, so I just picked this Booker Prize winner up from a local bookstore last night. Speaking of Irish authors, I can’t wait to dig in to what will likely be the biggest novel of the season. And I already know this new psychological thriller will be juicy—Rumaan Alam writes about the contours of class like no other.

Also, the crazy talented director of Parasite, Bong Joon Ho, has a new movie coming out. The trailer feels very Lanthimos—I wonder if that’s a new trailer-editing style now? I almost didn’t recognize Robert Pattison with that accent! I want to see this movie in theaters. The return of Demi Moore, hallelujah, and the perfect horror film subject for our times.

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A Quote From A Book You Should Read:

"In those middle school years many things changed right before our eyes, but day by day, so that they didn't seem to be real changes."

-My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante

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