Observables #1

on tv, poetry and the right kind of jean shorts

Currently my show bender is New Amsterdam—not cutting edge TV I know. Just the comfort of predictable characters and storylines that might make me tear up a little. Sharp is going to be wise and giving. Lauren is going to be annoyed and her make up will always look amazing, making me consider how an ER doctor could spend that much time on her face.

The entertainment level will be consistent and I can possibly scroll the internet for a birthday gift at the same time. Also, why does it delight me to call out the extravagances and inconsistencies in a TV show? Isn’t it supposed to be made up? Why am I holding television, you know, invention, a story to total truth? Is it arrogance? A desire to be a skeptic? Being just generally hard to please? I get to point out what those damn TV writers and producers are getting all wrong? Why can’t stories be stories? Is this a hot topic I’m walking into? 

Next week: my sister and I are getting back to Lupin. We binged the first four episodes together while eating a homemade mochi cake and have been looking for a moment to binge the rest of season 1. 

The Art of Slow Writing by Louse DeSalvo, where I am learning to appreciate that changing up my writing process for each project is okay. I have wondered for a while what is wrong with me that I don’t know how exactly I work. When do I work best? For how long? DeSalvo suggests that the way we work can change with the project and your life circumstances. During the height of the pandemic with my kids home I could barely scrounge twenty minutes of concentrated time. Currently, when the kids are in summer camps, I have what feels like a whole luxurious day even if it’s just three hours. Three uninterrupted hours is LUXURY. 

A Few Thoughts On Intimacies by Kaitlyn Greenidge, where she pushes us artists toward radical emotional honesty. That’s our job. 

These lines from Mary Oliver over and over, from her beautiful book Upstream, which make me feel lighter inside:

You must not ever stop being whimsical.

And you must not, her, give anyone else the responsibility for your life. 

I’m alternating two kinds of jean shorts depending on my mood. One with the rips that I can’t help but admire. Perfectly imperfect—you know the kind. Cost me a bundle for something that is disintegrating before my eyes. And my “Mom” jean shorts. My daughter tells me they are too long but okay. The “but okay” part gives me hope. 

Checking the word count.

Drinking ALL the rosé. I know how to share.