Threads for Plucking

Threads (i.e. musings/scraps) from a somewhat insecure quasi-adult/in-theory writer

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“Homer was a womanizer...his frank appreciation of female horseflesh jibed with his loud, nasal upper-class New York accent

- The first installment of Part II of my series, “Quotes from Nascent Manuscripts I Read at my Internship”

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When I look at you, I see

the man I didn’t kiss but really wanted to at the bar in Bordeaux,

the toe ring from six summers ago,

my father’s Christmas tie,

a Frank O’Hara poem, his best, whatever it’s called,

a grassy hill for rolling down while someone barbecues nearby,

every fireplace I’ve read a book in front of,

an early Rodin plaster.

I hear the stream closest to the top of Mt. Marcy

I feel wet sand glomming between my fingers

I taste starlight,

honeysuckle,

beloved, burnt candlewick.

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Erstwhile

The other day I told someone “erstwhile” could be used as an adjective to characterize longing/nostalgia/wistfulness (because I somehow believed it was true, not because I’m an asshole). 

But now I’m really digging my made-up meaning & would like for it to catch on, so please, join me, join the movement, let’s "make erstwhile happen”

(plz msg me if you would like to further discuss the specifics of “erstwhile, the feeling” / the merits of granting that feeling a name)

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You: [engaging in normal conversation]

Me: [imagining, in great detail, exactly what it would be like to spoon with you]

[FYI, I feel very safe, and I like that thing you do with your fingertips. I hope I don't crush your arm.]

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Please. Nobody 'tortured' has ever worn that much J. Crew.

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On Voice(s)

Describe the sound of your Head Voice. All of the conversations you’ve ever had inside your mind -- in the shower, in the car, in the subway, in those last waking moments before sleep. Those arguments, all those ardent confessions, the responses to all those others’ ardent confessions. Even (or perhaps especially) those recitations: you should hire me because; the Franco-Prussian War began in 1870; I have nothing to declare.

What does that actually *sound* like? Does it match your speaking voice? I only ask because I’ve just recently noticed that mine definitely does not.

This realization came by way of writing in volumes. Not prose (ah, you have too much faith in me, dear reader!), but via Instagram captions. That probably tells you everything you need to know about how good of a job I’ve been doing with my whole “writing every day” thing.

But anyway: I aim for a certain #InstaGame in my captions. Careful use/misuse of punctuation, creating an air of detachment and gruff sentimentality. Gruff -- I guess I’d say that my “InstaVoice,” which aims for a certain annoying “cool” factor, can be a little gruff. Even brash. Masculine, honestly. Dry, low, a splash bitter. It sounds the way a gin & tonic tastes.

This is not what you would hear if I read my captions aloud to you. I guess it’s hard to really know what your own voice sounds like (which is SO weird, right, because it’s the only constant in any conversation you’ve ever had). But let’s say I don’t get a lot of compliments on the sound of my voice -- nasally’s not quite the word for it, but I feel like it’s a touch nerdy. It is certainly not the least bit sexy. I feel like sometimes it sounds detached not in the way my Instagram captions do, but as though I’m talking from a great distance; it goes over the same refrains, ends up hollow. Worse: I’m rarely shushed. I can’t yell. It’s often hard to get the attention of servers in restaurants, or in a large group or party.

That is not the voice I want conveyed in my writing. I write to escape from that voice. I write so that I can sound husky or gruff or male or passionate and, above all, LOUD. I may not be able to shout at you or approach you in public, but I’ll holler from the page.

Does that make my written voice less genuine? Am I putting on airs? I want to be authentic. Writing is supposed to convey real feelings in a real way. Is it empowering, or hollow, to have such dissonance between my speaking and my writing?

I’m thinking of writers I like. Do I hear their voice when I read their work?

Do you?

So, once again, tell me about the sound of your Head Voice. And, just a reminder: when these words go through your eyes and hit some receptor connected to your ear drum, know that it is with the hope that you’re reminded of a springtime gin & tonic.

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Haiku for a hangover at 3pm

Bra: Impossible. All begins to smell just a bit less like vomit.

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My new aesthetic: passive aggressive Facebook quotes from older family members.

This is particularly awesome when it’s a random photo of one of your distant FB friends that’s really an acquaintance...it’s almost like watching KUWTK

For instance, this is an actual caption that I just saw on a lovely family photo in some European vineyard.

“Finally the family is all together. Had to travel a long way to make it happen”

Careful lack of punctuation, “finally” ... I see you! All hail Mrs. Meyer, the new queen of shade!

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(...) the little garret where he and Vera incinerated their virginity together

A nascent manuscript I’m reading at my summer internship

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Although Oprah is unique in many ways, her weight problems are all too common

You guessed it: another yet-to-be-published manuscript from the internship

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It would be heartless to tell your wife you're leaving her right before Christmas. Not even Stan Gold would do that, and he was a Jew!

Yet another nascent manuscript from the internship

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Massachusetts is spiteful in that way."

A nascent manuscript I’m reading at my summer internship

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Lives I Fashion with Strange Men in Subway Cars: 1

Regardless of any romance in my “real life,” which, ugh, who needs it anyway, I’ve had countless relationships, of varying degrees of seriousness, take place in my head. They’re always creepy and vivid (I blame an overactive imagination), but mostly harmless. The majority are fleeting -- give me a few minutes and I’ve been through the entire honeymoon phase, discovered the stranger’s fatal flaw (or he’s discovered mine), and we’ve broken up forever. But a few have been crippling, months-long, elementary-school-style crushes on personalities that I’ve completely invented and then projected onto the unsuspecting, real-life bodies of my peers. It’s awkward.

But, anyway: there’s no better place for my imagination to run amok than in a subway car, where for several minutes all these strangers (who are sometimes nice-looking men) are forced to occupy the same space as I, and all without cell service to distract us. It’s like a science fiction novel -- hurtling under the surface of the earth in a space-ship-esque vehicle, potentially tasked with rescuing mankind if aliens attack above ground while we’re down there ....

So, with all that said, I present to you the first installment of “Lives I Fashion with Strange Men in Subway Cars.” I call this one:

“The Baby Face on the 5 Train.”

He’s the one standing next to the doors, clutching a Jansport, his face some cozy quilt of blue eyes and molded bone structure and round cheeks.

For someone with little to no maternal instinct, I really do have a thing for baby faces. Safe to say I’d rather not consult Freud on the matter.

Anyway..I bet he’s a really cute drunk. He’s all soft and fresh-looking, like he’d get really flushed and smiley. And I bet, when he’s drunk, he sweats a lot, but he’s of that rare breed where it’s endearing. You know what I mean. He’s the kid who tied his necktie around his forehead at prom and it should have been annoying but it was just so *fun.*

We could get sloppy together. We could go to dive bars. I mean, I kindof hate beer, but I’ll figure something out. We’ll try to dance but we’ll both be bad at it, and it will devolve into stomping our feet, singing/screaming along to Bon Jovi.

Afterwards he won’t care when I drunk order approx. 4 slices of deep dish, and I won’t care when he burps approx. 7 times.

Maybe he’s Catholic. He looks Irish. I bet, when he laughs, it sounds like leprechauns. What do leprechauns sound like? I don’t know. Anyway it’s probably like a baby-giggle, and it gets him out of a lot of trouble. I bet he has an older brother and an older sister and at least five nieces and nephews.

I can be the lame aunt who gives them all books for Christmas. I’m ready. I can do that.

Aw, he looks so jostled by all the new passengers when we stop at 59th! I’m listening to that really sappy One Direction song (yep, it’s on my offline Spotify, what of it) and, let me just say, things are going really, really well between BabyFace and me.

But wait: are those ... are those actual holes in the chest of his t-shirt? And speaking of the shirt, is he ... yeah, he’s definitely wearing it backwards. It’s 9:15am on a Tuesday, but I guess he’s not going to work? He may have the face of a cherubic Adonis, but he’s actually probably like 25.

None of this fazes me.

You know how they say women always want to "fix” the bad boys? Yeah, not me. Why am I instead kindof turned on by vague incompetence? It’s not like I have my shit together. I slept on top of my dirty laundry last night.

Maybe it’s a relative thing. Do guys like this make me feel more like a competent adult? Or do I just feel unworthy of a competent adult?

Eh, whatever, probably not important. Anyway, in the end, he’d probably fuck up our beautiful life and make out with some other college student at Le Bain... totally unoriginal.