THE FEELING: Analog Summer
The other kind of childhood injury
An analog baby, last year. Will she have my Stickle Brick ankles???
Pals,
Last week, I was locked out for ten or fifteen morning-minutes, which is a long time for those of us who hold our limited pre-real-day liminality close-close.
Having recently given away the seating on the porch — I was driven mad by raccoons, the idea of raccoons, like, how can I reasonably enjoy a sunrise coffee (please note, I live in one of Toronto’s Brooklyns, dense and scrappy, and cannot see the actual sunrise) when I know a raccoon might have been vibing right there, an hour ago? — I had occasion to sit on the steps and wait, like, 1990s kiddo-mode. (“Waiting” even with a charged phone is analog.)
I had also recently broken my ankle, when my leg fell asleep on the bus (Simon: “The bus? Not even a streetcar?!”) and I thought I’d just walk it off and instead went down with an “Oh!” and limped the rest of the way home. I should have called Simon for a ride but I was already partying on the phone with my bff, so, no, and here I am.
(I was first told that because I could walk on it, it was sprained but not broken, a fiction I lived with until the X-ray revealed the most me, most childlike injury: a hairline fracture, at once high-key dramatic and nothing much at all. This reminds me of when my friend told me she guessed I grew up “with money” because all of my problems — dyscalculia, et al — had been diagnosed.)
I’ve broken my ankle once before, in the swale between two suburban homes, while I was running away from an enemy’s house party where we had planted contraband for the enemy’s parents to find, and toward my friend’s car which would become immediately involved in a car chase that we won on an otherwise empty two-lane road when my friend slammed on the brakes and whipped around. Cinema!!! The night ended at my house, where I iced my ankle among the octopus limbs of the Older Boys I was very-obviously-from-this-story hanging out with at the time.
I’ve also sprained it a few times, once because I was wearing Frye motorcycle boots with tights instead of more stabilizing socks. That time I just sat on the curb and cried.
So yeah I was on the porch, on the stairs, on my butt, ankle swole and blue, one Airpod in the ear that didn’t recently explode (the other ear is fine now, but oh my god), subject to the whims of the sky and the sweeping tree branches, visiting the tones and ghosts of my childhood across data points, while writing content-strategy advice on my phone.
This is a strange time for me. I accept these childhood injuries that have befallen me. They are perfectly, seamlessly metaphorical for where I am, elsewhere: I have started a new contract where I am a real employee, not an imported consultant, which means that I have mostly been doing the work of learning how to do the work, as it needs to be done in this particular context in the long-ish term, instead of asserting my own little rules and laws and then leaving. I did this very intentionally and am really happy I did, but it’s hard to be so very stupid at something, so suddenly. “This is going to be an adjustment for everyone!” is something I said very sternly to a pal, to whom I am no longer available for midday anything.
STRAWBERRY PATCH
She’s really into talking about Donald Trump, or, “Donal” Trump. “Does Donal Trump have children?” “Yes.” “What are their names?” “Don Jr., Eric, Ivanka, Tiffany and Barron.” “Those are dangerous names.”
CURRENTLY
When my friend Eyad died, the outer circle (me) was asked by the inner circle (my connection to Eyad was, is, my friend Ellen, who was dating him when Ellen was my boss and soon enough, friend: I slept on their couch while I learned how to be a writer) to listen to the Beach Boys at the time of the funeral. I was in Toronto and the funeral was in California so it was late in my workday when I stopped what I was doing and started floating around to “God Only Knows” and crying and crying. Eyad (who was a DJ and musician and incidentally one of the nicest people I’ve ever met in a lifetime that has been absolutely bursting with nice people, iridescent streamers whipping past you, tangling your hair) was my only thought when I heard that Brian Wilson died, and I tentatively looked at Eyad’s Facebook page soon after, and yes, someone had posted that “The Whole World” reminded her of Eyad and “you can't do much better than a song that makes you think about Eyad.”
Been really enjoying the show Sort Of on Netflix via CBC. CBC shows are all sort of flavoured the same way, like eating at Fresh or Terroni, so, if you like Working Moms this is a queer Millennial version of just the same thing. This is a “Toronto Currently.”
I can’t not be listening to either boygenius or Phoebe Bridgers right now, p much. Analog? Summer?
I always need to have a Fun Little Treat (this is a concept adjacent to Fun Little Drink), like: the Gwyneth Paltrow Ski Trial. Scandoval. Something pointless and exhilarating. Right now it’s the way that the Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy character has been styled for Ryan Murphy’s CBK miniseries. This is a great tiny scandal because it is correct (the styling is essential and yet so wrong and bad, anyone who has hunted down vintage TSE and FACE Stockholm Cranberry Veil knows what I mean), and rewarding to stans, and utterly without real-world stakes at a time when our hearts and brains are shattering anew each day.
xx
Kate
Been singing it like “Breakfast in cemetery / Boy tasting wild cherry / Touch girl, apple blossom / Just a boy playing possum / We'll come back for analog summer / We'll come back for analog summer / We'll come back for analog summer / And go our separate ways”