Throwback Edition: A Quinquennial of Deconstruction

Plus, life's a celebration not a race, how disgust explains everything, and better names for foods

Dearest Readers,

I write to you from the desk in my bedroom, which is perfectly bright and cool at the moment. After this. I’m going to give into a craving that has lingered since I arrived back in New York a few weeks ago, and then I’ll spend the rest of the day writing, reading, strolling, and meeting with some friends to discuss an article that I haven’t quite finished yet.

Yesterday, at dinner with my oldest and dearest friend, I realized we’d been in New York City for six years. I remembered the dinner we had the year prior when it had been five years, which was just a few weeks before I decided I’d spend the month in a random little town in Costa Rica—a seemingly insignificant decision that would vastly alter the course of my life in the coming year, though I didn’t know it yet.

I love thinking about how swiftly things can change; how frequently they do. When I wrote this essay last March I felt light years away from my last long-term relationship, which ended during COVID. I felt entirely over it, certain I wouldn’t think much about it again. But more recently, a series of strange and realistic dreams drummed up a whole duststorm of reflections and questions about the relationship. At first, I worried I might suddenly have renewed feelings for this person two and a half years later, but I eventually realized that I was merely processing facets of the relationship on a delayed timeline. Life’s funny like that; memories sneaking back up on us when we least expect them, the elements that make up a life constantly in motion, changing shape like a Tetris board.

I, for one, am glad about the never-ending shifts—it keeps life interesting and keeps me on my toes. I’ll never tire of the perpetual state of discovery, never stop playing in its sandbox

Until next time,

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A Note From the Editor

Somehow and without fully realizing it, I recently started a pro-bono pet-sitting business. By that I mean, I’ve spent the majority of this past month watching my friend’s animals as they traverse the globe. First, it was a full week with the fluffiest, most cuddly Bernedoodle, immediately followed by a week with a strange little half-shaved grumpy cat who is like a creature from another planet.

The latter half of my pet sitting happened in Brooklyn, a short jaunt across the bridge from my apartment in Manhattan. I was excited about the mini staycation in a different space, but a large part of me felt uneasy about spending so much time in Williamsburg, the neighborhood that held a treasure trove of memories from my last long-term relationship. I had managed to mostly avoid the neighborhood up until this point, and whenever I did end up there I couldn’t walk through the streets without grimacing, my reaction bordering on physical pain every time I strolled past my former partner’s apartment—unsure whether he still lived there, whether I might run into him or his brother, whether I might spot him on a date with someone else at our old favorite dumpling shop.

I thought of the days we spent crammed on the couch in that little apartment, working from home while naively thinking the pandemic would be over in a month or two. I remember waking up early one morning and forcing myself out of bed to go on a run, my body stiff and bloated after so many weeks spent stagnant. I remember the judgemental, righteous feeling when I returned home to him still asleep, promising myself I would become brand new, despite what he chose to do. Then, the resentment laced panic I felt towards myself when I registered, somewhere in the depths of my brain, that this relationship would have to end. I don’t remember whether I knew it would be the last time, that final time I left his apartment. I don’t think I did. But I do remember thinking I would never be able to walk those streets again, his turf, without looking over my shoulder.

But after being here for a few days, something loosened in me; I was fine. I spent the weekend walking around the neighborhood, noticing new pieces of street art among old haunts without being haunted by my past. I looked people—so many hot people!—directly in the eyes without a somersault in my stomach. I worked from a well-lit coffee shop all day and wrote this in my journal: “Walking around Williamsburg no longer hurts the way I thought it always would—proof that even the ripest pains will, in time, dull.”

A second moment of enlightenment arrived a few days later when, en route to grab dinner from a popular birria truck, I glanced down and saw a dead rat. It was enormous, the size of two adult hands fingertip-to-fingertip, curled on its side as if it were taking a little nap. “That’s a big ass rat,” I said aloud, and then I continued walking. It took a few more steps to register what had just happened, and when I did, I stopped walking and laughed and laughed because rats used to send me screaming. I couldn't even glance at them crawling around their turf on the subway tracks without getting teary-eyed, and now I was staring at an infant-sized dead rat and feeling no emotion. That’s when it dawned on me: I’ve been in New York for five years as of this month.

Five years. A quinquennial, half a decade. The wooden jubilee. Five winters, five summers, five sets of shoulder seasons getting shorter and shorter until they hardly happen at all. I was 24 years old when I moved here, now I’m on the cusp of 30. I had never considered therapy, I had never considered that I might want to be a writer, or that I was already a writer. I couldn’t wrap my head around the simple grid layout of the place, Never Eat Soggy Waffles. I thought the Upper East Side was a cool neighborhood. I didn’t know the difference between local and express trains. I didn’t know what this place would do to me, how it would imprint on my being, making me more of who I always was.

Five years might be a normal amount of time anywhere else, but in New York, it’s a feat. A lifetime. The city that promises only to chew you up and spit you out. If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere, start spreading the news, I’m in a New York state of mind. Where we live on top of each other in tiny spaces, where we flock to public parks and rooftops and subway platforms, where we oscillate between ignoring and empathizing with such great dexterity that it’s impossible to comprehend, as a visitor. You’ll want to pin us down, to characterize us—New Yorkers are so rude, how can they stand it, I could never live there—but our skin is thick as worn leather. And anyway, we could never imagine the alternative, retreating to the safety of the suburbs or in the quiet of the woods or anywhere else. The chaos sustains us.

As I reflect on the last 1,825 days in New York, I can think of only one word: Deconstruction. New York has deconstructed my sense of self. It stripped down who I thought I was, the values I held, and the ways I presented to the world, and it made space for who I am. This city has forced me to look outside myself constantly, to question the things I believed and perpetuated, the things I learned and didn’t learn. It’s impossible to stay small when you are immersed in such heterogeneity—different people, different cultures. Socioeconomic structures, power structures. You can’t live here for any significant amount of time and pretend you don’t know better. You can’t pretend rats don’t exist or that they haven’t been here long before you were. You can’t be in denial about the harsh realities of the world when you’re exposed to the pits and the pinnacles of it on a daily basis. That’s what makes New York unlike any other place in the world.

Another thing that makes New York unique is the way it holds memories in physical places. Walking past a street corner can be enough to ignite a memory as sharp as catching a whiff of the old perfume you used to wear in high school; it transports you. The city is full of portals of memory. The bridge you walked every day during COVID, the bike path you rode on a summer day with the first person who made you feel excited in years, the restaurant where your best friend suggested you try writing more often, just to see how it might feel, the bodega you frequented at 3 am, the park you brought your lovers to, on the mornings after. There are ghosts of you all around the city and sometimes you can see them, you can feel them and they feel so real that you wonder if you’ll ever be able to process a particular place outside of the realm of your past.

And then five years pass and you finally feel like a real New Yorker, no longer a visitor. You learn that old memories do, in fact, fade, that you’ll one day be able to walk around Williamsburg and new memories will overwrite the old ones. Every five years, or however often as necessary, New York will allow you to reinvent yourself, to see it and yourself in a new light with new lovers and new friends and old ones. Perhaps it is this reinvention, the possibility of it all, that keeps you here for another five. 

Cheers, my dears, and as always, thanks for reading.

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Three Pieces of Content Worth Consuming

1. Sha'Carri Richardson Tackles Time in "Sub-Elevent Seconds” There are a few reasons this short documentary (under 30 minutes) is worth watching. It was produced by the late Virgil Abloh, and it portrays a beautifully artistic, heartfelt account of Sha'Carri Richardson, the all-star track runner who was disqualified for the Tokyo Olympic games after failing a drug test—for marijuana, in a state where marijuana was legal, after finding out her mother passed away. What drew me into this film was the duality of Richardon's persona, from a confident, brazen woman on the track, the way most of America saw her during the Olympic qualifiers, to a young, sensitive woman behind the scenes, carrying the weight of loss and grief and still pursuing her dreams.

2. Life’s Not a Race, It’s a Party. The timing at which I stumbled upon this essay/list was so perfect it's almost humorous. My best friend and I were talking about timing the other day and it wasn't a happy conversation. I said I'd felt mounting pressure to reach milestones nearing 30, milestones that I might not even be interested in. She said she's been feeling the same way, we both wondered when things stop becoming fun, why this pressure to exceed at certain ages feels so real when, in reality, everything (including time and mile markers of success) is all made up. I highly suggest giving this a read if you need a reminder that everyone is on their own path, timing be damned.

3. How Disgust Explains Everything. Molly Young is a quirky, interesting, smart writer girl whom I love to follow on Instagram, and this piece was entertaining and cringy. The photos alone in the essay alone are worth looking at. Disgust, one of the six basic human emotions, is the basis for practically everything in our culture, Young argues. I also learned a new phrase that describes many of my behaviors, that are unique to humans: benign masochism.

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Perhaps You Should… Get a Pep Talk From Kindergartners

The world is a scary place and it wouldn’t be crazy if you needed a pep talk today (or every day). If that is the case, call this hotline and get a pep talk from a kindergartner. Guaranteed to make you giggle, at the very least.

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**Bonus Content** (Better Names for Food)

nathanwpylestrangeplanet

A post shared by Strange Planet (@nathanwpylestrangeplanet)

Four slides of genius creativity. Don’t skip the last one, my personal favorite.

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A Quote From A Book You Should Read:

“Today was a Monday. I was born on a Monday. It was a good day to arrive in New York City. No one expected me. Everything awaited me.”

-Just Kids by Patti Smith

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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.”