Rambles

SPIRALIZED

A spiralizer is one of those crank-by-hand devices that turns vegetables—your zucchini, your squash—into “spaghetti”-like noodles. It’s for people who are “healthy” or “hate themselves.” No one well-adjusted uses a spiralizer. Because the concept is bizarre: you take something awful but benign and spiral the shit out of it and turn it into a facsimile of something else, a bizarre perversion of what you thought you once knew. Spiralizers are the funhouse mirrors of the culinary instrument world.

Why, you ask in a soft, concerned voice (to not startle me), would you begin this (very late) blog post with a polemical diatribe about spiralizers? What did Giada de Laurentiis ever do to you?

She did nothing, but I feel like I put my life into a spiralizer today.

It takes a special kind of crazy to turn a nothing-something into a something-something, and for everything to spiral mildly out of control. Mildly, because I caught my crazy in the bear-trap of my rationale, which has its own peaks and valleys.

I’m not going to talk about it because I realize now—peak—that it is something that I might regret later—valley—so ISN’T THAT FUN??

Things that have been happening in my life in No Particular Order:

1). I finished the Gilmore Girls revival and I HATE IT.

2). I’ve been listening to rap music a lot lately, to ~pump myself up~ at the gym. And by “rap music” I no longer mean the rapping part of “Satisfied” from Hamilton. I mean real rap. God I’m so woke.

3). I’m excited for the holigay season. I love Christmas, and eating cookies, and drinking hot cocoa and burning my tongue and L.I.V.I.N.G. in sweaters.

4). I’ve been watching a lot of comedian Netflix specials. They just make me stressed while laughing.

5). WESTWORLD EPISODE 9.

Literally nothing else is going on. I thought I had something funny to say, but I’m mostly just in a bad mood and I want to throw a brick through a stained glass window—THE ONLY KIND (I think) OF WINDOW YOU CAN’T JUST REPLACE—and call it a day.

BYE. BYE. BYE.

I’m going to put in a YouTube clip to make you think that this blog post is longer than it actually is. 

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pop culture, Things Happening RN

THINGS HAPPENING RN: WESTWORLD, INA GARTEN & ANARCHY

It’s 6:55, I just ate orange chicken from Trader Joe’s, and the only thing I’ve done to prepare for this blog in any way is screenshot and alter this photo from the new Ina Garten Facebook page I joined recently. The level of intensity is something I can relate to.

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Source: Danny McCarthy via Facebook

So when I have no ideas, I really like to do this rambling, sexy, elusive, elegant Human Centipede of a blog post—ew—called “Things Happening RN”. It’s a quick and easy way to disappoint and lower expectations when you’re in a time crunch.

1). Westworld

I’m watching HBO’s Westworld and I’m so obsessed with it that I sometimes just scroll through Reddit and look up words like “simulacrum.” I’ve brought it up in conversation with at least two different people, and I badger the girl in my class who told me about it constantly. I’m beginning to think that she probably feels like Dr. Faustus or Dorian Grey—you thought the thing you did was a good idea and now all you want to do is die but you’ve you’re your soul to the Devil (me). I haven’t been hooked on a show-show in a long time, especially a thriller. Between KUWTK and the entire Real Housewives franchise, I’m a very busy TV watcher, but there’s not a lot of substance in the stuff I consume.

Westworld is sci-fi and Western and has this really hot old guy, and thrills and twists and turns. It’s so good; I might do a “recap” or “review” for the finale, BECAUSE THERE’S ONLY TWO EPISODES LEFT, POTENTIALLY UNTIL 2018. I’m gonna start looking into cryogenic freezing a la Walt Disney so that I can go to “sleep” and wake up in 2018, having skipped over the strenuous process of “finding a job” and “figuring out my life.” Such a drag—I’d rather be a frozen carcass for two years. What was I saying again? I’ve lost my train of thought.

2). Kylie Jenner is a grandmother

On Sunday, I was in a coffeehouse with Shelby and she mentioned that Kylie Jenner’s dogs—Norman and Bambi—had babies. At the time, I didn’t believe her, and pretty rudely told her she was a liar and a phony and a fraud. I said this because no news source was covering it, and I could see no baby bump in any of Bambi’s Instagram photos (I don’t follow @normieandbambijenner on Instagram, but obviously I know the name). However, later I discovered that Shelby was—for once—correct about something and that the two dogs had procreated and brought forth two new miniature Italian greyhounds into the world.

There are two things I find unbelievable about this story. Number 1: that Kylie didn’t have her dogs neutered. If you have dogs of opposite sexes, GET THEM NEUTERED. And if you have dogs of the same sex, also get them neutered because otherwise, they’ll fall in love, get married, and adopt the squirrel from the neighbor’s yard. Either way, get your dogs neutered and spayed. Number 2: that Kylie is now a grandmother! She looks amazing, her skin is amazing, and I can’t believe that she’s old enough to have grandbabies. God, time really does fly.

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Source: Danny McCarthy// I’m big enough to admit when (rarely) I’ve been wrong.

3). Ina Garten

I joined an Ina Garten Facebook page because the Real Housewives fanpage of the Real Housewives Fan Podcast page that I was following has been deleted. It was deleted for good reason, because within the course of five months, it had turned into a self-hating, anarchistic hellscape, and had already splintered off into warring secret faction groups. I literally wish I were kidding. I’m not. Anyway, hopefully the childless gays and middle-aged women in the group can be my new Facebook fodder. Judging from the aforementioned screenshot, I would safely bet that I’m in pretty good hands.

4). Thanksgiving

Let’s celebrate the colonists giving smallpox to the Native Americans by overeating undercooked turkey and liquid-y mashed potatoes. Or as I call them “mashed potitties” or “mashed potatas”. Just kidding. I love Thanskgiving. I love eating (watching people eat), I think I’m going to a “football game” with my high school friends (I’ll dress cute and spend the entire time trying to find good lighting despite the early morning gloom), and my family is obsessed with me (they tolerate me). But most of all, I’m excited for the Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life revival. There is literally, and I say this with no hyperbole, no more important thing in my life than this revival. I would let civilizations burn to the ground just to see the revival a few days earlier.

It’s 7:13 and I really don’t think that I can write anymore or get even darker than I already have. I’ve discussed pop culture, television, anarchy, and arson. What else is there to discuss, when you actually think about it? NOTHING. THERE IS NOTHING LEFT. I’ll probably post something on Thanksgiving, but in the meantime—send me some cash on Venmo. I could use it.

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Source: Twitter// I love this meme.

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Rambles

I HAVE, LIKE, A LOT OF LIKES

I use Tinder, because obviously I’m alone. I say “obviously” because I talk about Ina Garten too much to be in a stable relationship. The most stable relationship I have are with Trader Joe’s cashiers. Those bonds are for life.

Tinder shows you commonalities with each person that you’re swiping through in a drunken frenzy because you’ve just seen an Instagram of someone who’s not as hot as you but is in a relationship. Those commonalities are divided up into “friends” and “likes.” And because I’ve had my Facebook since I was 12—my mom had no idea, i.e. I’m a bad boi—I’ve liked a lot of strange things. And it’s creepy when you see that a lot of the things you liked as a tween pop up as a mutual commonality between you and a potential “beau.”

So the other day, to weed out the crazies, I cleaned up my Facebook likes. And if you’ve never done it. I highly encourage it. It’s bizarre and you almost have to wonder, “Did I ever like these pages?”

I’ve included some choice screenshots of things that I’ve liked over the years. They’re aged, and they’re dated, and what the fuck was I thinking?

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I wish I could go back to that simpler time.

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Still.

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Why.

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This is a fucking lie.

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THIS IS HOW LONG I’VE HAD MY FACEBOOK. IMing.

(All screenshots are courtesy of moi).

I really didn’t do much this week. I slept a lot. I took a week off from the gym, so I’ve been starting to go back to that. I made gnocchi last night—so bomb, you guys—and honestly I think I found God. In the gnocchi. Is that sacrilegious? Or is that sacridelicious???

There’s really nothing I could ever add to this. Nothing much has been happening. I haven’t been doing too much, and I’ll never have an original idea ever again probably, or at least for the next few days.

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Source: Giphy// I used this gif in a school email to a professor

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music, Review

THINKPIECE: LADY GAGA’S METHODOLOGY

There’s something oddly alien about the stripped-down façade of Lady Gaga in promotional shoots for her latest album Joanne. Without the elaborate wigs and geometric makeup, her architectural cheekbones sweep along her face like foreign objects. Her full lips and sharp nose have a heavy, hawkish feeling. It’s jarring, because everything we’ve known of Gaga was the theatrics. And we have to wonder: have we ever known what she actually looked like?

In comparison to her peers, Gaga’s motives in her musical choices have been inscrutable. It’s hard to predict what she’ll do next. This difficulty in analysis is in part due to how we analyze her. Her fans and critics take her discography as fact, as a timeline. We do this because that’s what’s always been done. As artists age, their albums reflect that.

We analyzed her like this because that’s the framework we’re given. It’s worked for other pop artists, like Beyoncé and Adele. It’s possible to track the change from I Am…Sasha Fierce to Lemonade as Beyoncé became more confident and solid in the duality of femininity and power. 25 makes cohesive sense when in collaboration with 21 as Adele grappled with her rapid rise to stardom.

But Gaga’s choices don’t make that same sort of sense. And if you use the sequential model to analyze her discography, her discography makes even less sense. Because she’s not like other artists. She doesn’t work sequentially, she works laterally.

For Joanne, Lady Gaga’s fifth studio album, she took an earthier, cigarette smoke-wreathed image. She’s wearing white t-shirts and mom jeans, her blonde hair pulled back tightly into a bun or capped underneath a wide-brimmed pink hat. The music shifts from rock to a country twang easily. It’s partially a reflection of the Americana genre, but Gaga feels more grounded in this album.

Joanne centers around the theme of familial ties. “Joanne” is Gaga’s real middle name, but it is also the name of her father’s deceased sister. And so while this is another experimentation on the part of Lady Gaga, the themes—more personal than on her previous albums—makes Joanne her most deeply revealing album yet.

The sound of Joanne was a direct response to 2013’s ARTPOP, her previous solo studio album. In the wake of ARTPOP’s, Gaga took a more stripped-down tone, relying on her powerful voice rather than theatrics. It’s evident in her 2014 jazz album Cheek to Cheek; it’s present in her performance of songs from The Sound of Music at the 2015 Oscars.

Gaga said that she was inspired and influenced by country music. But Joanne is not a country album. And Lady Gaga knows that. It’s apparent particularly in “John Wayne.”

The song begins with a click of a needle hitting the record on the player and the slightly garbled, nouveau “cops and robbers” vibe starts crackling, all underneath Gaga’s voice. “It’s like, I just want a cowboy,” she says, and you can imagine it’s directed at a friend as they sit in a dim, mahogany bar, dirty gin bottles clinking against the lips of dirty glasses. “I know it’s bad but, like, can I just hang off the back of your horse and can you go a little bit faster,” her voice squeals as, we imagine, the horse takes off and Gaga is whisked away into the fantasy of a cowboy romance.

Gaga sets the scene. You imagine that it’s her fingers that put the needle onto the record, and it’s her listening to “John Wayne.” She’s listening, but we’re listening too. Gaga knows that we could never believe she authentically arrived at a country album. But by indulging us, and proving that she’s aware that this is a musical experiment, she stitches us into the narrative. We, like her, begin to experience the country influence. We, like her, want a cowboy. We immerse ourselves in the country genre with Lady Gaga as our vehicle.

“Come to Mama” feels particularly apt for the political climate. “So why do we gotta fight over ideas?” asked Gaga. “We’re talking the same ole shit after all of these years.”

A boozy, raucous throwback, with a bold “free love” ‘70s kind of vibe, the refrain says it all. “Come to mama/ tell me who hurt ya/ There’s gonna be no future/ If we don’t figure this out.” It’s a reference to Gaga’s role in her fandom as “Mother Monster” but tailored to her current image. She’s not the mother of a ravenous fandom. She’s a big, boisterous mother; she takes no shit, she’s tough love, but she ultimately wants everyone to be together.

“Come to Mama” is hopeful and loud and rousing. It’s probably the folksiest Gaga gets on her album, and digs into the dive bar-loud instrumentals aspect of performing. The music is as important as her lyrics and her harmonizing over the saxophones and snares.

A lot of the same ideas appear in Joanne as in her previous albums. “Dancin’ In Circles” details masturbation and female sexuality. “Perfect Illusion” talks about botched loves with men. But so much of the album resides under the framework structure of “family.” “Joanne” laments the death of Gaga’s aunt, who died before Gaga was born, but whose spirit lingered in the family mythology. “Sinner’s Prayer” pleads for understanding and forgiveness for a blinded-by-love sister.

Gaga is known for being chameleonic in her discography, each album grappling with different issues, built on the core of her identity. Her debut album The Fame was a foray into the positive aspects of celebrity, the initial sweetness of fame. Her follow-up reissue, The Fame Monster, was celebrity’s bitter aftertaste. She characterized it as her interest in the ‘decay of celebrity.’

The Fame and The Fame Monster illustrate that, even in the nascence of her career, Lady Gaga knew the pop machine.

In the music video for “Paparazzi” off The Fame Monster, Gaga is thrown off a balcony by her boyfriend. As she lies paralyzed on the rocks below, paparazzi crowd her and newspaper headlines fly across the screen. “Lady Gaga Hits Rock Bottom.” “Lady Gaga is Over.”  The video moves on, Gaga starts in a wheelchair and slowly recovers. Eventually, Lady Gaga manages to kill her boyfriend. And as she is carted off to jail—after confessing to the crime—newspapers begin to flash across the screen. “She’s Back!!!” “We Love Her Again.”

The message of the song criticizes celebrity culture. She exists for them to devour her and then build her back up. She is an object to them, as immobile as someone in a wheelchair. And she will exist in that way until she can, effectively, kill celebrity culture. She knows how the culture works, and thus operates outside of that.

She touches upon that in “Angel Down.” “I confess, I am lost, in the age of the social,” she sings as the opening line. The song functions as her break-up with celebrity culture. In indulging it in, we lose touch with humanity. Rather than let it consume her, she would rather seek out people, ergo save an “angel down.”

Her third album, Born This Way, was arguably her most successful and cohesive body of work. It was her first album to reach number-one on the Billboard 200 chart, selling over one million copies in one week. The songs touched upon feminism, individualism, and religion. This was peak-Gaga.

Her fourth album, ARTPOP, was—according to her—a Warholian experiment to bring art culture into pop culture. Warhol is famously an inspiration of Gaga’s, and his attempts to bring popular culture into the art world had a decided impact on her artistry. ARTPOP brought in influences from the fashion world—“Donatella” lauded Versace—classical art—“Venus” invoked Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus—and film—“Applause” emulated Black Swan in its music video.

ARTPOP is also Gaga’s biggest miscalculation. The songs felt at some points unfinished, and the music videos weren’t cohesive. Even for “G.U.Y.”—a personal favorite—the portrayal of the reality television celebrities from the network Bravo as a pseudo-Greek chorus and television host and personality Andy Cohen as a god and an almost Bladerunner-esque vibe felt trite rather than revolutionary. Something wasn’t landing for Gaga; maybe it was too big of a reach too soon. Maybe it was just a few years too early.

Gaga’s process of making music wasn’t revealed to us at this point. ARTPOP seemed like the mad manifesto of someone addled by celebrity. If you follow the trajectory of her discography, it’s a series of peaks and valleys. The Fame covered the adoration of fame, followed closely by the negative aspects of it—The Fame Monster. Born This Way was the resurgence and affirmation of individuality. And the descent into entirely incomprehensible “genius” is ARTPOP.

In 2014, Gaga released Cheek to Cheek, a jazz album, in collaboration with Tony Bennett. In 2015, she wrote and sang the song “Til It Happens to You” for the documentary The Hunting Ground, exploring sexual assault on college campuses. And in 2016, Gaga released Joanne, discarding the last vestiges of her crazy assembles and opting for something more dirt-road country.

And it takes being in 2016, looking at the full scope of her work to realize that Gaga is not working sequentially. Her discography is not reflective per se of a journey. It’s not trackable, like Beyoncé or Adele. Each album is a distinct and separate artistic endeavor, but work laterally to form an image of Gaga.

Lady Gaga is driven by a deep love for music. On making Cheek to Cheek, Gaga said she was inspired to preserve jazz standards for the next generation. That small remark, preserving music and celebrating music, echoes through her entire opus. In that light, each album could be seen as honoring different styles of music. The Fame and The Fame Monster celebrated dance-and-synth pop. Born This Way evoked rock and roll, heavy metal and disco. Cheek to Cheek was jazz. Joanne is Americana soft rock. Whereas some artists have a gradual shift from genre to genre—Taylor Swift’s evolution from country to pop—Gaga made a concentrated effort to constantly subvert genre expectations.

Lady Gaga doesn’t work sequentially. She doesn’t tell the story of her life like other artists. But each album reveals another layer of Gaga. Her avid adoration with celebrity. Her quick disgust with it. Her desire to leave its clinging embrace. Her sexuality. Religion. Her devotion to her family. They don’t work sequentially because they work laterally. Taken as contemporaneous pieces of the puzzle, they make much more sense; they paint the picture of a musically intelligent, passionate artist who, like many people, has a lot of different sides to her at any given time.

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college, Things Happening RN

TWEENS TERRIFY ME: PLEASE TROYE AGAIN LATER

Written after posting a stupid fucking Instagram, but I’ve been posting a toxic amount of photos of myself lately, so I did a photo of my Starbucks. But it’s cool cuz it’s iced tea. And I did a Kanye West lyric as a caption because I’m trying that formula of “dumb photo + wholly unrelated rap lyric = tons of likes” because it’s worked for every insufferable fake-hipster I go to school with. Is that tea piping hot? Can’t be my tea, cuz mine is iced. BOOM.

On Saturday, I worked a concert. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to say what it is, so I’ll just make up a name. It was a Schroye Tevan concert. You’ll never be able to decode that.

Aside from a handful of older gays (older=older than me=65+ because I’m 60; just kidding I’m 12), the audience was basically teenagers. Everyone was glittery and gay, even when they weren’t, and it was a balm to my sore heart after a rough week. It was, however, trying to be in the same room as 6,000 hormonal tweenagers because they have ABSOLUTELY no chill. Like, I have very little chill, but these kids need to be frozen Walt Disney-style. They need major chill.

After the opener—Schua Dipa, who was awesome—I was doing rotating slowly in a circle to keep from being too bored and these two teenaged girls came down from their seats to where I was standing.

“You seem like you’re have so much fun, so we had to join,” they said/squealed.

I did my platonic smile, “Oh yeah, I’m having a blast.”

They were from upstate New York—five hours away from where I live/civilization—and were seniors in high school. Either they thought I was really fucking cool—reminder, I’m a 21-year-old working a Schroye Tevan concert on a Saturday night—or they were desperate, but they did that thing that all teenagers do when they’re talking to anyone older. They tried to act cool.

They told me how they bought their outfits—T.J. Maxx, which I’m not dissing because I’m a Maxxinista—and how they went to this “cool pizza place” near MIT. Okay, there are no “cool pizza places.” Pizza is just pizza, unless it’s a calzone and then it’s not pizza. They were telling me how they kept getting hit on by older dudes—I was snarky enough to use my “disgusted” face and have it look like a “oh no you didn’t girlfriend” face—who gave them their food.

This I find hard to believe because they’re bragging that older, married men gave them their leftover pizza? How? And more importantly why? And most importantly ew?

They asked me what I like to do in Boston, which is like asking someone how their year was—like where do I start? Why do you even care?—and I just said that I like to chill and blah blah blah. They started talking about drinking—I did say at one point, “You guys are literally seventeen”—and when I commented on them talking about margaritas, they had this to say.

ME: the place across the street has good margs.
MAXXINISTA #1: Omg I love margaritas.
MAXXINISTA #2: I’m more of a prosecco person.
ME: (no words, just stares at MAXX. #2)
ME: (internal monologue) You having prosecco once last New Year’s Eve with your parents is not you being “a prosecco person”.

Then Maxxinista #1 told me that her grandmother is 91 but is dating a 65-year-old and recently went to an orgy. This was in response to Maxxinista #2 telling me, WITHOUT PROMPT, that she has two lesbian grandmothers who run a farm—duh. This was in response to me saying, “Oh look, a pride flag.”

I LOVE TEENAGERS.

During the encore, my little friends came down again and tried to get me to dance. I didn’t, because omg I did not want anyone seeing me dance with them!!!1! Omg so embarrassing!! Like what if Tiffany saw me! She would tease me so bad in Chem II!!!!! NO WAY!!!!1!

The girls then asked me my name—wearing a nametag and we’ve been talking for twenty minutes—before going ‘OMG UR NAME TAG.’ Then they told me that I didn’t look like a Danny. They said I looked like a Seth.

“Seth?!” I screeched.

“Yes!!! Such a good name!” they screeched back. Maxxinista #2 then told me that the college she’s applying to allows cats, and she wants a cat and wants to name him Seth. So, in their defense, “Seth” might’ve been the only name they know. Or I look like a giant pussy.

The rest of the concert was pretty uneventful. I spent forty minutes staring at the high school gay in my section who had somehow planned a full 90-minute interpretive dance to the concert, while his lady friend just stood there watching him—that’s a lie; about fifty minutes in, she sat down and stared up at him from the floor.

Teenagers are, like, the worst about technology. I know that people my age are boning their phones, but teenagers are worse thrice times over. I saw at least five different instances of people SnapChatting their way into the concert floor, when nothing was happening and the overhead lights were glaring. They would put their flashlights on for every other song, and didn’t understand the “sexy casual drifting sway of the light” motion. Instead, they “windshield wiper”-ed for half the concert. I mean, I was an asshole at 16, but I was an asshole with a Samsung Alias 2.

Additionally, all teenagers look as old at 17 as I do right now. And they’re all gorgeous. It’s so unfair. I only recently—like “two Wednesdays ago” recently—got hot, but I kept seeing all these beautifully dressed beautiful gays and had to keep thinking, “they’re in high school; you’re not Woody Allen; they’re in high school.” They might’ve been in college, but seriously who can take a risk like that?

There were beautiful moments though. At one point, during “Heaven” (name?), everyone pulled out sheets of paper they had been given before. Each section was a different color, and they put their flashlights on behind the paper, turning the entire arena into one huge rainbow. One person near me had an iPhone 4, so she fucked up, but other than that, it was stunning.

It was nice to see young people, younger than me, who were as passionate about politics and queer rights. They didn’t/couldn’t even vote in the election (some of them are too young for driving permits) but they were still deeply invested in our country. And I think, weirdly enough, that’s what I needed to see. That a bunch of vapid, hormonal, angsty teens in Adidas Superstars and tube tops (that was just the boys, btw) could be as passionate and wordly and educated and righteously angry and wonderfully committed to our world.

Was anyone expecting an article that used the word “Maxxinista” so much to end up on an uplifting note? I certainly wasn’t.

P.S./Side bar: dont’ you love how everyone who’s like “Ugh i love the ’90s!!!!” was born in 2002. Chill the fuck out, dude.

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Life

TODAY

Today was muted. The sky was dark and gray. It felt like the earth was pulling the covers over its head, trying to go back to sleep, to hope hopelessly that this was all a dream.

Walking to class, the sweat making my shirt stick to my back. I crossed the bridge, but it was silent. People sped around me like fish in a stream, but we were all behind our private panes of glass. We were all looking out at a window display that we couldn’t believe was real life.

In class, my friend came in late. She sat down next to me and I looked at her. I put a hand on her hand and she put her hand over mine, and we just shared that human touch.

In the middle of the street, my friend called out to me. We stepped out of the traffic and clung to each other. We held on tight. We did not let go.

In my class, my professor rubbed his eyes beneath his glasses. He said we were going to read Edgar Allan Poe, revenge tragedies, but in light of the circumstances, it wasn’t appropriate. Instead, he picked a different poem. After his voice became clogged from tears, the students began to read the stanzas.

The opening lines were these:

I celebrate myself, and sing myself

And what I assume you shall assume

For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

Walt Whitman, Song of Myself (1892).

I sat in a coffee shop and I saw people graze fingers. Small motions, but subtle reassurances. People treated each other gently, but not like glass. Glass can break. Glass can shatter or melt under heat and pressure. They, we, held each other differently. Like something precious. Something to be cupped in soft palms, to be nestled close to hearts. We treated each other like our own hearts. Protected. Protective.

In the midst of mourning there is morning. There is the hint of a sun peaking behind a cloud. It doesn’t disturb us, because it knows we aren’t ready. But when we are, when we have grieved and held each other and grazed fingers to let each other know that we’re still there in this wide darkness, it’ll come through. It’ll warm us up. It won’t be an oppressive heat.

It’ll be the heat of coming home after a long day and the radiator is rattling in your apartment. It’ll be the heat of the oven door as it whoshes open and good smells come out. It’ll be the heat of hands together, fingers interlaced. It’ll be the heat of warmed metal as someone holds the door open for you.

The sky was heavy and gray, and I wrapped myself up in it. It was trying to protect me. To shield. And under it we all clung close.

I don’t have the right words to say, so this is my nothing. Today I saw love. I saw strangers smile at each other. Today was scary, and gray and I don’t know what tomorrow will look like. But we made it through today. And that’s all we had to do today.

I love you. And I see you. And I’m with you. No one can take that from us.

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