#17 It Looked Better in the Corner
Rearranging furniture until I find nirvana
Happy Wednesday (It’s The Ass Crack Of Dawn On Tuesday),
The kettle is on, the crossword is out, my YouTube fireplace is crackling, and I have never been more premenstrual. Today I am sad, and I feel grateful that at least my change in feeling matches the change in season. Lenny Kravitz has inaugurated Big Scarf Fall once again, and the summer ratgirls are trying their best to acclimate. I gaze forlornly out my living room window, wishing it looked out upon a dense forest Hozier might sing about, or the steep cliffs at the backdrop of Broadchurch. I am instead accosted by the sight of brightly colored sandbox toys and the hideous, death-trap trampoline of the landlord’s children. I want to be sad without the visible smiles and squeals of childhood joy, please. Let me be morose in peace.
They say comparison is the thief of joy, and I have come to report a burglary. I’m not sure how much of my melancholia has to do with hormones, but I’m also not certain that really matters apart from estimating how long it will last. For the past few days despite me doing All The Right Things™ for my mental health (she’s grocery shopping, she’s cooking healthy meals, she’s keeping her apartment tidy, she’s socializing, she’s dancing, she’s walking, she’s participating in activities that bring her joy, she’s attempting to date 🤢) I feel like the antagonist in the Mucinex commercial. Yes, the plaid-pants wearing, suitcase-toting booger that people have to brainstorm solutions to avoid in public. I need to be clear that there is nothing undesirable to me about the way this booger looks. In fact, I sort of love his appearance. It is the fact that he is so supremely unwanted.
When you wake up early in the morning, feeling sad like so many of us do
Have* a little soul and make life your goal
And surely something's gotta come to you, and you gotta say “it’s alright”
Is this rational to believe about myself? No, reader, it is not. But if therapy has taught me anything in the past half-decade it is that sometimes you can be doing good and healthy things and still sorta feel like a piece of snot? (This is when my therapist screams “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, DON’T STOP DOING THE HEALTHY THINGS, MONTANA! YOU MAY NOT FEEL BETTER BUT YOU CERTAINLY WON’T FEEL WORSE!) And I smirk and say “you’re not the boss of me Tonya*.” Kidding, my therapist doesn’t scream.
What’s hardest about this funk, when it inevitably comes around, is the sudden and overwhelming desire I have to withdraw from everyone I know. It just feels better to decide for myself that I’m rejected and unworthy instead of letting someone else make me feel that way. (Even if all they are doing is standing there wearing a pair of jeans, but I can’t help but think wow I’m not even good at wearing jeans. Look how flawlessly they are able to do everything I’m shit at.)
I mean, I think it just makes sense to have bad days where you’re insecure for no reason because every message we get about ourselves on a daily basis is meant to make us feel so disgusting that we buy something to cure or hide from some hideous deficiency we’ve convinced ourselves we have.
You’re not deficient. You’re not failing. No shoe is dropping. It’s literally fine.
Obviously I just said that to you so that I’d be forced to say it to myself. That’s what this newsletter was meant for in the first place — a place where the one rule is that I show myself some love. Some weeks it’s easier than others.
On the days where it is difficult, I am reminded of a quirk I have that has incensed every roommate I’ve ever lived with…I upend my apartment.
Here’s the thing: the women in my family have a shared birth right, a coping mechanism we all seem to turn toward in times of spiritual drought, and that is a proclivity for rearranging furniture. It is a language we understand in one another and a practice, even when done in solitude, that connects us somehow. My roommates did not share this ancestral call to repositioning floor lamps and reorganizing under-cabinet storage. You can imagine their chagrin when, upon getting up for a glass of water in the night, they discovered the couch had been moved. (I am still sorry). It makes me feel better to move things.
Growing up I’d watch as my mother, grandmother, and sister dragged heavy tables across linoleum and hardwood and hoisted large vases (usually containing nothing) upon them, only for them to take two steps back and decide everything looked better in its original position by the door. Time never felt wasted, however. At least now, we knew for sure what felt wrong.
I did this same routine it in my bedroom as a child, in my dorm room as a student, in my classroom as a teacher, and I do it in my apartment as a whatever I am now. My mother has an ever changing office — sometimes it’s at the front of the house, other times a sectioned off part of the living room. She’s currently flirting with the idea of a workspace in the entryway off the kitchen. My grandmother simply painted flowers on whatever she thought was ugly. I came into her apartment one day to find cherry blossoms covering her circuit breaker panel cover, the whole apartment smelling of acrylic paint. When I asked if she was worried about the landlord, she looked at me over the tops of her hexagonal transition lenses, Olympic diving pool sized cup of black coffee in hand and said, “fuck ‘em.” My sister, similarly, has an apartment like the Room of Requirement, ever changing to suit her specific need on any given day: a studio for a painter, an office for a therapist, a theater for a movie go-er, a library for a student. Lamps are moved, ottomans reconfigured, to best support the need at the moment. How can I make this place feel different using the exact same materials?
I used to think this was something that would eventually end, that one day I’d stumble upon the perfect orientation of furniture, and my mind could rest knowing: There, everything is exactly where and as it belongs. I’ve only recently come to the realization that that will probably never happen. I will probably lie on my deathbed wondering if that hanging planter would look better in the corner than by the window. And I will probably die never really knowing the answer for certain.
The point, maybe, isn’t to find the perfect articulation for each and every piece of your life to remain forever. My plants have taught me that, based on season and environment, the same plant will need a different arrangement due to light and humidity requirements. The same plant will require different levels of fertilizer and water depending on the time of year or the quality of the air or the presence of pests. It comes as no surprise that so do I.
Yet, I have been obsessed with finding the perfect arrangement for myself since before I can remember. If I could just have everything sorted out, then I wouldn’t have to tire myself out quite so much trying to get it exactly right — it would just be perfect, and I could stand back and feel proud that finally, I had figured out how each piece of furniture—each part of my life—fit together the way it’s meant to.
I fear this analogy was flawed from the beginning. Not that the parts of our lives — professional, personal, spiritual, physical— are not puzzle pieces; I believe they are. But the board isn’t static — it’s ever changing. The openings where you thought an edge piece would fit has changed to only accommodate a center piece now, and the red corner piece you held in your hand has changed a pale shade of pink, faded by the sun when you weren’t paying attention. Now you have to figure out, again, where it goes and what other pieces it best matches with according to new information you weren’t anticipating.
What I’ve realized is the objective of the game, however, isn’t to figure out how to get all of your pieces to fit together exactly on the board and then celebrate your win. The purpose of the game is to discover how to still function — how to find joy and rest and connection — when your puzzle is incomplete, when the pieces are missing, when a strong wind comes and blows the few you’d finally (finally!) fit together into the air and mocks you for even trying. The earth is seasonal. We are meant to shift with change.
My therapist told me once that I rearrange my furniture because changing my external environment allows me greater hope that I can change my internal one. If I can drag my sofa across the room in search of better reading light, suffering only minor injuries and mild perspiration, then can I also figure out how to let myself connect with someone new while still grieving the loss of someone gone. I can figure out how to move forward while still remembering the past. I can love myself while also wanting to change. I can experience pleasure while still feeling pain.
But I used to believe that in order to properly begin, all things before must end. At least that’s what they try to teach you when you have ADHD. You’ve got to do one thing at a time. Finish this before you start that. But life isn’t that neat. And so much healing happens in the halfway. So much good happens when we aren’t completely done feeling bad.
I realize now that I don’t believe as much anymore in perfect timing or being completely prepared, but I’m starting to put more stock into trying in spite of the absence of total commitment or absolute certainty. I’m not sure I’ll ever feel totally committed or totally certain about much of anything. And I don’t really believe I’m alone in that. Doubt, to me, is just another word for curiosity. For intuition. For questioning. For wondering…what if? Doubt has led me to so many wonderful opportunities. Why would I wish to rid myself of it? I can have doubts and still be successful. I can worry and still move forward. Doubt that something is right has given me the push I needed to try something that might be better. I’m learning to listen to it more.
A little over a year since I left teaching, if someone asked me what I do for a living, I wouldn’t really know what to say. If someone asked me how I plan to accomplish all the dreams I have, I’d really have no idea. Something I do know is, for whatever reason, this Huey Lewis and the News song has always made me feel better about waking up and not knowing. Sometimes just making life —being alive— your goal, is good efuckingnough.
*all the lyrics I found said “hold,” and I didn’t like it as much. and it’s my newsletter. sorry, Huey.
XO,
M
PS — i’m too tired to proofread. godspeed, lads.
🎧 Don’t Use Alone by Aymann Ismali (Slate, 2023) ⭐️⭐️⭐️
If you know me in real life you know that addiction runs in my family, and conversations about the opioid crisis or the drug epidemic have never just been casual headline topics at a dinner party. There are many people in my life whom I love dearly who struggle with their addictions. I don’t know my exact feelings on this Slate article or the This American Life Episode, but what I do know is that carceral punishment for a mental and public health issue is not a path to rehabilitation. Maybe more conversations like this one will help.
🎧 Murder Most Irish by Sarah Jane and Emma (comedy / true crime, 2023) ⭐️⭐️⭐️
If you’re not into true crime, maybe just skip my newsletters entirely for the time being? Because for reasons unknown to me, I’ve been sucked back into this world in both podcast and novel form, and I’m not sure when I’ll return. I feel morally complicated about true crime especially when paired with comedy, but I can’t get enough of Sarah Jane and Emma. I like that they are just friends who decided to do something together in the pandemic, and I love how much they love catching up with each other. I also have kind of a thing for Ireland, so this has been my go-to podcast for morning walks. I could honestly take or leave the true crime aspect, but if that’s your jam, I think it’s fine!
🎵 Goose (artist, indie/groove) ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I discovered Goose by googling “concerts tonight in Oakland” because I had an itch to see some live music. This is not that different from how I “discover” anything. Sometimes I just open my Google Maps app and search “sandwiches.” I really don’t care how much my data is being sold if it means I have a gyro and a good soundtrack. We’re here for a good time, not a long time.
Anyways, I saw that Goose was playing at The Fox, listened to an album while making carrot cake, and fell in love. I wish dating were this easy? Well I guess that is actually exactly how my dating life is going right now, falling in love with people on the internet who have no idea I exist…I digress. Goose is jammy and has played with the likes of Dead and Company, Phish, Father John Misty etc. If you like that sorta sound, maybe take a gander (I’m so sorry. I am my father’s daughter). Update on how the show goes next time!
PS. My favorite tracks so far are Travelers I, Hungersite, and Arcadia.
🎵Corner Club (artist, indie pop) ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
Instagram’s algorithm fed me “when i die” by Corner Club last week because I’ve been going to a lot of shows at Café du Nord, and Corner Club is playing there next week. Unfortunately, I’ll be in New Orleans that weekend, but I pulled a Devon (dm’d the band), and they said they’ll be playing more shows soon! I really dug this article about them in the East Bay Times. If you’re a Bay Area kid, check ‘em out at a little divey spot before they get big(ger)!
🎵Dumpstaphunk (band, funk/jam)⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I heard Dumpstaphunk for the first time when I went to a New Orleans music festival in Napa this past weekend. I found it physically impossible not to dance. Veronica, Devon, Katie, and I were the youngest in attendance by about thirty years, but here are my takeaways.
Elder* Music Festivals Are Superior to Those Catered To The Youths:
There are no lines
You can bring anything in! Bags? Yes. Water bottles? Yes. The couple next to us brought sweetbread inside and weren’t given a second glance. However, leave you infants at home. They are, in fact, contraband.
There is ample sitting
There are no babies (it specifically forbids them on the ticket. again, contraband.)
There are very few cell phones.
There are very nice, accessible bathrooms.
People are very willing to share their hula hoops.
Things end early.
*sorry
Hardly Strictly Bluegrass (free music festival in Golden Gate Park, SF)
THIS WEEKEND! September 28-October 1
Bands I’m Most Excited For: The Teskey Brothers and Shakey Graves
🎬 There She Goes (comedy, BBC) ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I’m in a David Tennant phase if you couldn’t tell. This show is so good. It was written by Shaun Pye about his life being the co-parent of two children, one of whom has a rare chromosomal disorder. It’s really endearing and very funny. I think the portrait of a marriage is really well done, and like always, the actors looks like real people.
📚 None of the Above by Travis Alabanza (memoir, 2023) ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
ELEVEN OUT OF TEN!!!!!! It’s not every day you get to recommend your friend’s book. Travis and I met teaching eighth grade at a non-profit in 2015 (literally who let us do that?) and have been lucky enough to remain friends since. There is something about teaching together…iykyk. Anyways, even if they weren’t my friend, the spine of this book would be weathered from my constant prying it open to read passages aloud to my other friends. (Lana, Meg, Ryan this is that book I read aloud on the phone last week). The pages would still be stained from coffee spills and french fry oil because it’s been to the diner with me all week. The corners would still be dogeared to the bits I can’t wait for my students to read. What I mean to say is, I didn’t need to know Travis beforehand to fall in love with this book. I just have the absolute pleasure of being able to.
Travis’ words stand on their own. They always have. They did in their first chapbook collection, Before I Step Outside [You Love Me], they did in the number of award-winning plays and poems they’ve authored since 2015, they did in the comedy tours and interviews and think-pieces they’ve penned, and they do now in their memoir sitting on bookshelves all over the world. Babe, it’s so wild to hold this thing in my hands. I can’t stop smiling???
I shouldn’t be amazed at how honest and funny Travis’ memoir is because they are one of the most truthful and hilarious people I know. And yet, art…amazes doesn’t it? That’s kind of one of its major criteria? And Travis is an artist who invites us into their writing process on their own terms. They control the intimacy they build with the reader throughout, and it is because of that awareness that this memoir is one of the most authentic accounts of a life I have ever read. After so much exposure and degradation in transphobic and racist media, Travis writes their life. Not as a defense or a response or anything to prove. They write because they have something to say. I was beaming with pride to feel just how much this memoir was for them. (Do not, for the love of all things holy, skip the prologue!!)
They don’t pretend not to be scared shitless about the whole overwhelming, daunting task of writing about and living one’s own life. Life is scary. And beautiful. And we’ve only got so much time here. As a reader, you can tell how aware Travis is of that. Their genius is that they are able to write with an unrelenting urgency, but from a place of such languid introspection that I felt I was on the couch with them, cup of tea in hand and cat not far away.
Just as in previous works, Travis’ unique craft and narrative structure could also be discussed for hours. The sequence of this memoir beautifully weaves together a life told through seven phrases that have stuck — for better or for worse—with Travis as they recount a life beyond the binary. Though at first glance this would look to be the gender binary (and it is), you understand as you read that of course there are restrictive binaries everywhere as race and class intersect to uphold colonial definitions of right and wrong, good and bad. Male and female. Black and white. Freedom from these restrictions and where the desire to transgress or conform originates within themself are the basis of many of Travis’ conversations — both internal and interpersonal— throughout their memoir. Transness, as Travis writes, is the gift. Though the goal of their memoir is not providing a case to be understood — in fact it is pointedly not that— you may find that through reading it, you understand a bit more what it means to be. Whether or not you anticipate it, you will relate to Travis’ story because they have an uncanny ability to draw all the threads of a human experience together. The violence. The joy. The fear. The freedom. The love. The belonging.
Carmen Maria Machado writes about the queer archive in her 2019 memoir In The Dream House. She discusses how much has been concealed, hidden, erased, and destroyed in the service of a ruthlessly heteronormative written history and how important it is to unearth and add to the everyday, ordinary histories of queer people who’ve always been here. The archive of queer stories is made far richer by the contribution of Travis Alabanza’s beautiful memoir. My life is made far more beautiful by our friendship.
Well done, my love.
Now, everyone go buy it! It’s been out for ages in the UK and comes out in the states next month!
📚 The Guest by Emma Cline (??? 2023) ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
In the words of Meg, “uhm wut.” The whole thing is stressful. The end is WILD. Read Roxane Gay’s review of it here. Also, I love how Roxane Gay, award winning author, does not proofread her reviews. Each typo feels like a f*ck you to the establishment. And I live for it.
🧁 Turmeric Ginger Chicken Soup ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️
I have no notes. This soup is so good that I made it twice and slurped up every sloppy, soupy bite. 10/10
🧁 Plum Nutty Crumble ⭐️⭐️⭐️
Convenient if you randomly have plums that have seen better days and live alone :)
📱The Locavore: Shop local guide
This one is for all my NYC girlies (there are 2 of you). I came across this a couple of weeks ago. If you’re wanting to support local businesses, this seems like a really user-friendly way to peruse what neighborhoods have to offer as alternatives to big chains!
📱Orchard Street Reading Society: substack/bookclub/field trip group in NYC
Again for my NYC folks. Seems fun! Still looking for something halfway comparable in the Bay!
Announcements
🔌 Spiral Made Ceramics
My friend Lydia is so cool and talented! She also happens to have survived living with me for an entire year which means she’s entitled compensation just for that alone.
Ending Note & Acknowledgements:
As always, I love hearing what you’ve enjoyed about this newsletter and if anything resonated with you.
Shout outs to:
Gem who started a new job this week! You go, Glen Coco!
My Aunt Kathy! She wore this shirt last week that was the prettiest purple I’d ever clapped eyes on.
Sina, for being brave.
Lana for all that SYMANSYAW stuff
Devon, Veronica and Katie for being my concert buddies this week
The inventor of carrot cake
Sol, for wanting to be my friend like, willingly
Ryan for prioritizing our friendship across the distance for the past nine years and being freakishly willing to accommodate the world’s most last minute trip to Philly (it didn’t happen, but he would have gone with it and that’s so cool to me)
Tessa who got an amazing new haircut
My mom for finding a really fun new restaurant and taking me out for dinner
My sister for rocking back-to-back business trips
Tony Sr. & his girls
Lauren who is moving into a fun new apartment with a friend and another cat!
My dad for giving us the week off work
Lily, the dance instructor who met me one time and remembered my name the next time. How??
Colleen for texting me and Lilbean her dream — made my morning
Coldbrew and Chai
Hilary for bringing me loaves of bread and carrots and planning a fun dinner for me and Lea
LEA for being the world’s best couch buddy
Lenny Kravtiz’ scarf
Peace and love, babies! Peace and Love!
XO,
M
PS: here’s a playlist since i’m in my feels this week and can’t fall asleep
When you are doing all the good things but still feel like a booger. I was experiencing this recently and it lasted so long. Glad to know I am not the only one. I hope for brighter and lighter days ahead of ya 💫
the part about doubt GOT ME. you are not alone. 🫶🏼