unsent postcards
on the eve of the death of my college email address, i wonder what hastily stored information my future self will actually refer back to, how much of reverence is confirmation bias. on tuesday, i went to a “book party” at the wilson center. they served wine and cheese as the shelves were emptied and offices pillaged. even the decorative NATO license plate and framed photos of amazonian flora were up for grabs. more than one congressional staffer complained how they couldn’t fit more books into their panera catering tote.
a few rows ahead of me at the friends meeting today, there was a boy wearing a collared shirt. green, with small flowers. when he sat up as tall as he could, the edge of a pale yellow sweater peaked out from behind the bench as well. right before the room went silent, he turned to his dad, and asked a small question i couldn’t hear, and i was struck by how delicate his face was — something he can only grow out of.
madison looks at me over her two mugs. “i’m a big believer in the three-drink rule,” she says. “one for hydration, one for caffeination, and one for entertainment.”
all songs considered released another “songs that hit you hard” episode recently. celeste asks about full circles that never really close, and lake street dive wonders what stories our future selves will tell of current lives. each song is accompanied by explanatory voicemails that remind you that everyone everywhere is going through everything.
the other day, becca stevens performed at pie shop, my new favorite live music venue in DC. in between songs, she described how one lyric began with a phrase her mother, who had dementia, spoke while holding becca’s newborn daughter: “are you a little piece of god come down for me to hold? tell me where you come from, cause you came from where I’m going…”
“bro,” mj tells me, dead serious, t-1 days to food poisoning. “just look at the world through the hole in this digestive.”
it says “strategic care” in my notebook — in my handwriting, though i don’t remember writing it. the jfk library has a couple of sheets of incomprehensible notes on display, too. it seems like kennedy scribbled keywords in security briefings; no lists, no sentences, no context. it’ll be like “vietnam” and the word “missile” three times with the last instance circled. (also, check out picasso’s notebook pages)
will you tell me more about yourself? i’m a bit alarmed at how completely friend-smitten i am. on so little evidence! and you have no clue the extent! ridiculous.
i had a thought the other day: maybe our 20s are the morning, where we stretch awkwardly in between brushing teeth and putting on clothes, voice gravelly and untested. before we learn and nourish ourselves and the vectors accelerate. terrifyingly. breathlessly.
have you heard of javier senosiain? you have to search up his casa organica. you’d love it. and jon klassen’s picture books. have i told you about that yet??
75 minutes before sunrise at lake zurich, there are trams and umbrellas and the occasional bike or small truck. there are cormorants, crows sitting on the masts of small fishing boats, and ducks bobbing faster than the oblong buoy nearby.
at 7:10, the first swan wakes up. there are seven more under the bridge and three floating further out into the harbor, all with necks nestled in their backs like half-hearted question marks. that first swan starts calling out, with increasing insistence, but when it goes to probe the others, they look up, assess the situation, and promptly go right back to sleep. i think about black swans and false alarms and make myself laugh.
close to where i’m living in dupont circle, there is an inscription written on a sewer cover: “time is running out… you should make a move.”
almost all the leaves have fallen now. the gingkos on corcoran are still holding on for a bit. but they’ll come around.
how was your weekend? “not long enough!”
the average person lives some 4,000 weeks.
at the white house christmas tour, i overhear a little kid ask, “but where is he moving to?” and his dad shakes his head: “no, it’s like i told you last time. he’s getting replaced.”
“hello, my fellow happy person!” samuel tells me. nonye asks me if i’ve met my goals. on weekends, i hear karaoke coming up through the radiators. we sing lumineers songs in the great hall, making our way around the E string that’s perpetually out of tune.
anyways, miss you—
julie 💌