I have just returned from a nine day retreat and weeklong total digital detox in Northern California and have emerged with a strong desire to connect and share. That’s probably not a surprise to you, given the way that sentence began. It sure was to me, though! I sort of thought I’d come out of this wanting to throw all of my devices off a cliff and move to the woods. (I don’t not want to do that, by the way.) But I had this one afternoon last week where I was sitting on top of this very tall hill trying to sketch a view that I couldn’t take a picture of, or identify, because I’ve outsourced so much of my brain to that little fiendish pocket device none of us can resist tickling or tapping every minute, and it occurred to me that my favorite part of writing for any publication has always been the last part, the part after my part, when someone reads something I wrote and connects with it. So I thought: why not cut out the middle man and just connect with you myself? Why don’t I just make something without worrying about how well it will or won’t do or trying to monetize or maximize it? If one person who did not conceive or raise or otherwise feel genetically obligated to support me enjoys this, hey. I consider that a success. (If you are one of my relatives, I love you and appreciate you and please keep reading!) One happy reader, it’s the same success rate as a letter! Who doesn’t love letters? Also, this way I don’t have to buy stamps.
A funny thing that happened last week: I sent an essay I wrote for Vogue back in 2016 about love and other addictions to some new friends and then re-read it myself. It was different than I remembered the first time around. When I wrote it back then I felt like it was some big mission statement for the rest of my life: I was claiming control! I was not my bad habits! I could change, progress, grow up, get a move on! When I read it now all I see are the ways I was definitely not in control, not at all. Looking at yourself five years ago: an experience I recommend! Though not for the faint of heart, or the short on self-compassion.
Growth! We love to see it.
Okay! So I feel like a good way to start out is to let you know what I’ve especially enjoyed, lately.
The book I’ve recommended the most, recently: Shmutz by Felicia Berliner. It’s about a young Hasidic woman who is addicted to online porn. Does that sound like it’s not for you? I bet it actually is. I read it a few months ago, and in the little notes app tab where I keep track of what I’ve been reading (a practice I recommend, btw), I wrote that it was: “sexy, urgent, endearing.” I stand by that! And as far as memorable covers go, A+.
A book that arrived right on time: Last Summer in the City by Giancarlo Calligarich. Tragic, ruminative, sweet, like gelato brain freeze when you’re jet lagged. Set in 1970s Rome, could be today. Recommended to me by a friend with excellent taste, arrived perfectly timed pre-dropping off the grid for a week.
An old, soul-affirming essay about what it means to love a dog, by Ann Patchett. Rarely have I ever felt as seen as when I first read this essay in Vogue in 2003. ("‘You were always my most normal friend,’ my friend Elizabeth told me, ‘until you got this dog.’”) I miss this kind of magazine writing, a lot. And here’s a not totally unrelated Fragonard painting to look at after.
What I’ve been listening to: Post-digital detox I’m enjoying the mental quiet, versus wanting lots of voices all around, but before I left I was mainlining Normal Gossip, which traffics in “juicy, strange, and utterly banal gossip about people you’ll never meet.” If you, like me, know that analyzing the bizarre behavior of people you don’t know that well is a top tier kind of conversation when you’re on a long walk or folding your laundry or otherwise seeking some zero-effort entertainment, well! Come sit by me.
Something good to watch: Catherine Called Birdy. Okay. I loved Karen Cushman’s 1994 Newbery Medal-winning children’s novel when I was growing up. LOVED it. Was a little annoyed when I heard it was being turned into a movie, if I’m honest. But my brilliant sister told me to give it a shot (with the stipulation that it should maybe only be reviewed by 4th grade girls, which is my kind of endorsement). Very glad I did. Just when I thought Andrew Scott (yes, Fleabag’s hot priest, yes, The Pursuit of Love’s Lord Merlin, yes, our new Tom Ripley) couldn’t get any more delightful! (Also I want everything he wears in this movie, which, yes, is set in 1291. Great time for silks, apparently. Less so for hygiene.) Billie Piper, too, is seemingly good in everything, including this. It’s really an excellent, charming, light lift that’s deep on heart.
Something to watch when you really don’t want to think: Speaking of nostalgia (when aren’t we), when is the last time you watched Entourage? It’s such a funny little time capsule, seasons and seasons of under-30-minute snaps of a world that feels like it was both 50 years and 5 minutes ago. It does not pass the Bechdel test. Or, really, many tests. But the cameos and references and fashion, oh my god the hideous fashion, are hilarious (especially for me, who now lives in LA). The casting, the music cues, the Wahlbergs as the inspiration, the meta-quality of Adrian Grenier playing a star with the kind of career he would never actually have, the fact that they drive around in that yellow Hummer. It’s so spot on, while also being like the TV equivalent of a bag of Bugles. If you have Covid, which it appears 50% of everyone I know does, and your brain feels like its melting out of your ears, it’s an excellent way to pass some quaran-time while you wait out your negative PCR.
A treat: As a potato chip connoisseur, I can comfortably say that these are among the top I’ve ever tried. The right weight, heft, crunch, salt level, oiliness (that’d be: light, thin, crisp, just enough, not very). Buy at least two buckets, which are the size of bathroom trash cans (someone on Instagram told me her friend uses an empty one as a bathroom trash can, which is a behavior I both endorse and may copy), bring one to a party, watch as everyone falls about your feet with love and praise of your good taste. Keep the other bucket at home for emergencies (like last minute aperitivo hours, and Mondays).
A few more small, perfect delights: these glorious cakes! The good deeds of The Street Vet. (I’m not crying, you’re crying.) This Marsden Hartley painting (‘Ivy and Fruits, 1928’), which a friend showed me last weekend. Hugo (duh). He actually has hooked his paw around my ankle right now while I’m writing/ he's sleeping. I like to think we’re holding hands (/ feet).
Okay. That’s it for this first round. Let me know if there are other things you’d like to hear about. Thanks for being here. I love you.
The header image is "Jonah and the Whale", Folio from a Jami al-Tavarikh (Compendium of Chronicles), 1400. I love it not least for the inscription in Persian, on the arms of Jonah: “The sun's disk went into darkness, Jonah went into the mouth of the fish.”