Juniper Disco | No. 33

Channeling Charlotte York Goldenblatt

I haven’t been back to Boston without a medical appointment, a federal summons, or a ticket to fly somewhere since we moved away nine years ago.

The Super Mr. gifted me a 48-hour tagalong for my birthday to do as I wished while he went off to his conference.

I spent those hours walking the cobblestone streets of the old hood, devouring smoked fish croquettes and frothy pints, tucking in to a window seat in a Newbury Street bookstore café for a morning, exploring a room of reflective disco balls and interactive light pieces, hunting down all the new winter public art of giant whales and unicorns, scouring used and independent bookstores, drinking iced pistachio lattes, indulging in Asian tapas (especially the taro and sticky rice in banana leaf and coconut cream), adding vodka to a mocktail named Goddess Melissa on my birthday, channeling Charlotte York Goldenblatt and ordering an aggressive pair of power lesbian eyeglasses, stocking up on halva and roasted nuts, visiting my favorite neighborhood flower shop, purchasing the signature lobby scent from The Lenox to take home, eating a proper slice as big as my face, spending an afternoon reading in the nooks of the Boston Public Library, curling up on the bed looking out the window of our 11th floor hotel room and watching the red line cross the Longfellow Bridge, the cars traveling up Exeter Street, and the people walking on Boylston with the Charles River and MIT in the distance.

It was quietly joyous. It fed my soul. I remembered what my life was like in the city for 20 years. I remembered what I missed. And what I didn’t.

I miss:
cab rides + snooping into the well-lit, uncurtained homes on Beacon Street at night + the third spaces + the world’s cuisine at my fingertips + people doing things other than drinking + books in the hands of people around me + how quiet it can feel when all those people noises reach the perfect tipping point into white noise + not being the only introvert in the room (that image of the loud Boston-accented sports fan is real, but this is also a city of colleges and universities and think-y enterprises and think-y people) + not being the only woman in the room + a vantage point above sea level

I don’t miss:
how young everyone is in the city + people moving at the speed of light through their lives + being accosted on the street + having to be hyper aware of my surroundings + the smell of the T (boy, is THAT distinctive) + having to carry everything I need for the day in one giant tote bag + waiting in lines + worrying about whether I have the right shoes or the right outfit

I spent some time musing over what life might look like if we returned to Boston. What would I do differently? What would I return to?

I’d get a membership to the Boston Athenaeum to use as my primary third space. I’d renew my ArtsEmerson season subscription. I’d walk everywhere. I’d eat baklava pancakes and Burmese tea salad and dosas and mooncakes. I’d join a silent reading group. I’d go to tea with my friends. I’d join the sangha at Peace House. I’d go to films at the Brattle and to every author reading I could fit in my schedule. I’d drink iced pistachio lattes every Sunday.

I’d also really miss the quiet and the birds and the beach and the dunes. I’d miss the water and the light and the ruggedness and the drag queens and the costumes. I’d miss the slow pace and the off season and the connection to the patterns of the natural world. I’d miss walking home on the beach, a tote bag slung over my shoulder filled with books from our local library. I’d miss my perfectly acceptable casual wardrobe.

I appreciate it all. What I had. What I have. So for now, I’m figuring out how to incorporate a little of my Boston life into my life here. First up, the search for a good iced pistachio latte for my Sundays.

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Spring is usually a very slow season here, leaving us in a murky limbo for months. It’s spring, but also not spring. The world is filled with the scent of wood smoke AND songbirds. The daffodils long ago broke the surface near my already deceased snowdrops. Everywhere green is greening. But the cold greyness lingers and lingers and lingers. Until BAM!, it’s sunny and 70 degrees. A shock to my delicate system that leaves me blinking into the sun while my neighbors seem to magically to do ALL their yard work and planting and mulching in 24 hours. Meanwhile, my weeds are still weeding.

Cancer has returned to my family. As did the sciatica that crippled me for a year and a half when cancer was in our life before. 24 hours of vivid recollection. The end of that pain marked by a full blown panic attack at 4:00 AM. This time I saw it all for what it was: a not so gentle nudge, a notice to pay attention to my self in all of this.

I like the idea of painting the front door a different color every year. Ours is currently red. Electric blue, grass green, a pale pink — imagine how each hue would change the aura of our home.

I participated in a virtual Tab Closing Party, where we spent an hour reading and closing our tabs in a mutually supportive environment. I closed half of the 83(!!!) tabs I had open — from an article featuring my friend and ethereal artist of place, Melanie Biehle, to a story about The Smiths at 40. (BT Dubs, there are tons of other wonderful FREE Virtual FieldTrips like the Tab Closing Party offered by Creative Mornings.)

My right eyelid now opens slower than the left. Like it’s stuck. The bodily assaults are never-ending after 50.

There is a pink vending machine in the Cape Cod Mall that dispenses locally made, frequently refreshed vegan brown sugar and salted caramel cupcakes and other vegan goodies. The. MALL.

Every morning I watch a flock of 20 or so goldfinches — just emerged from their dull winter outerfeathers — snack on the new buds on the tree outside our window. So much snacking that I’m starting to worry that the tree won’t have any leaves this year. Mingled among them are my “Russian Robins” some still in their puffed out winter coats. They flock together in the cold season and then go their separate ways in this spring-but-not-spring time.

I archived over 3,000 photos from my Instagram feed. I’ve initiated the archiving of my entire Facebook page about ten times now. Facebook not fulfilling my requests is as Facebook as it gets.

I ordered a perfectly-sized, personalized travel journal with “The Snotgreen Sea: travels in Ireland” imprinted on the front. (Warning: you will note a lot of Irishness in this newsletter. I immerse before a trip.)

One of my beige flags is repeating phrases and accents that strike me as interesting. Our last trip around the Emerald Isle was punctuated by the constant sound of me lilting and rolling the phrase “33 horses.” It is the only thing I can say that even remotely sounds Irish. (I also have two British accent phrases — “Mr. Potter” and “I hate Uncle Jamie.”)

I also booked the iceberg side of the plane — both ways — for our trip.

My month of reading short books was filled with the clashing tones of imagined future worlds (Arch-Conspirator, Veronica Roth + The Employees: A Workplace Novel of the 22nd Century, Olga Ravn) and melancholy for the past (Glaciers, Alexis M. Smith.) It was filled with lauded storytelling (Grief is the Thing with Feathers, Max Porter + Elena Knows, Claudia Piñeiro + Exteriors, Annie Ernaux), poetry (Winter Trees, Sylvia Plath), and non-traditional form writing (So Much for That Winter, Dorthe Nors.) I also curled in a few Irish touches — my first Sally Rooney (Mr. Salary) and a creative story set in the reading room of the National Library of Ireland (The Late Night Writers Club, Annie West.)

The newfangled TV we got to replace our plasma of 18 years makes everything look like a video game. The Super Mr. found the cinematic filmy quality setting that I pop into every time I watch Star Wars. One does not need to see every individual hair on Chewbacca’s head.

There has been so much rain that new ponds are forming all around us. And attracting WOOD DUCKS, which I clocked with Merlin.

Phrases that made me click:

• “Feeling disenchanted with the world?” (Duh.) + solastalgia (See previous.) + the Agatha Christie Fringe Festival + the Japanese concept of Ichigo Ichie + the wood duck corduroy Dad hat + propolis tincture + “Pop 2000 Tour with Chris Kirkpatrick of *NSYNC, O-Town, BBMak, Ryan Cabrera, and LFO” (WARNING: This may start you down a rabbit hole.)

Currently rejecting:

• processed meat, pork in any form, and red meat + male writers, apparently (last year I read 98 books, 81 of them written by women) + leaving my lair of hibernation (I don’t wanna!) + Gen Z appropriating the word “iconic” + Kit Connor’s new haircut

Things that are working for me right now:

• The Cancer-Fighting Kitchen cookbook (HIGHLY recommend this for anyone who is facing cancer in their family, especially The Magic Broth recipe) + cold brew iced green tea + Mitch McConnell stepping down (my voodoo doll finally worked) + the Infinite Pooh bot on Mastodon (@pooh@botsin.space) dappling my feed with quotes like: “‘Somebody must have taken it,’ said Eeyore. ‘How like them,’ he added, after a long silence.” + a vegan leather crossbody big enough to hold a book but still small enough to tether lightly to my side + these spicy miso beans + this year’s Eurovision songs
  
  My favorites:
  Iceland! On a Eurovision podcast I listen to, they hated this song for the exact reason I love it. They called it dated — a throwback to late 90s, early 2000s dance music. UM, YES, PLEASE!

  And Sweden, a fever dream of boy band choreography, A Night at the Roxbury, and Jamiroquai.

Also in my top five: Denmark, Australia, and UK. Mark your calendars for the semi-finals on Tuesday, May 7, and Thursday, May 9, and the finals on Saturday, May 11.

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I’ve been thinking a lot about:

• This essay, “A Woman Scorned” by Katyti Christian in her Feelings Not Aside newsletter, in which she shares an encounter at the airport check-in desk:
  “When my husband arrived with our bags, I watched the scene shift. I stood in the shadow as this exchange happened, small and enraged. The attendant decided we didn’t need to pay after all and that he would waive the fee for him, my husband, ‘this one time.’ He said it with a smile and even upgraded our seats as a courtesy for our flight troubles because, apparently, he was in a better mood now that my husband had arrived.”

• They still haven’t figured out who sang “The Most Mysterious Song on the Internet.” Every now and then I check the Reddit to see if progress has been made.

• How I’ve had to spackle the cracks of our formerly trusted information sources with highly specific newsletters, podcasts, and media feeds. Here’s a few …

  • BOOK BANS — Literary Activism. Details all the insidious actions taken across the nation each week.

  • PUBLIC HEALTH — Your Local Epidemiologist. Public health issues translated into super easy language. // Force of Infection. Infectious disease stats and the latest food recalls, of which there are MANY.

  • SCIENCE — Undark. Independent non-profit publication about science in society, funded by a foundation affiliated with MIT. // Short Wave podcast. Science for everyone, from NPR.

  • WEATHER/CLIMATE — TropicalWeather Discord channel. Includes all potentially dangerous weather, super wonky but I check religiously when a storm is headed our way or if we’re traveling. // The Eyewall. If you are on the coast, you’ll appreciate this extremely helpful information about potential storms. // Disasterology. Monthly newsletter of disaster-related news. // Currently. Recently rebooted all weather newsletter that focuses on climate impacts.

  • WORLD NEWS — Kriszta Satori (@fulelo@journa.host on Mastodon) from the BBC. My go-to when I want that immediate info we used to get on Twitter.

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Also, here’s some stuff:

• The MYSTERY LINK.

• Poppy O’Toole’s 15-hour potato.

• This poem from one of my favorite brains, Shira Erlichman: “no matter how many barbecues we throw, we’re going to die.”

• “Pens for the Particular” from Moon Lists. My pen of choice is a Sharpie S Gel, Medium Point in green. I buy them by the box.

• The Daily’s story about the suicides at WPI. My niece was an undergrad there during that time and I remember how terrifying it was. // The Who Replaced Avril Lavigne? podcast exploring the rumor that Avril died and was replaced by a look-alike. Irish comedienne Joanne McNally had me laughing all the way down route 6. // The interview with Charles Spencer on Therapy Works in which he speaks about his abuse as a child at a boarding school. Vulnerable and awful stuff.

• Line of Duty (BritBox). Cops investigating bent cops with lots of accents — especially Ted Hasting’s Northern Irish one. I shouted obscenities at least ten times each season. I can also now recite the Right to Silence caution (in a mangled accent, despite my beige flag practicing.) Hat tip to my friend, Liam, who always knows exactly what I should be watching (except Baby Reindeer … Jesus, Mary, and Joseph and their wee donkey, NO!) // Truth Be Told (AppleTV). The first season about a podcaster (Olivia Spencer) who investigates local murders is stellar. // Archie (BritBox). Jason Isaacs nails Cary Grant’s cadence and weird accent. I have no idea how they made him look exactly like him. // Somebody Feed Phil (Netflix). I would like Phil to adopt me. Big smiles and lovely locations and interesting food!

• Once Upon a Time in Northern Ireland (PBS Documentaries/free 7 day trial). We watched this five-part documentary featuring painfully honest interviews with people from all sides of the conflict. Some people are incredibly remorseful about what they had done and the choices they made. Some are certain they would double-down and do it all over again. Some are running into the men who literally blew up their lives on a regular basis. Some are still waiting for justice.

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The last word, according to Ed People, “can you teach me your favorite dance move?”:

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