August Dispatch
Oppressive NYC heatwave type beat.
These days it is too hot to think, but it is somehow never too hot to overthink how badly you feel about not being able to think. The constant flow of synthetic air pouring out of fans and AC units turns skin into sandpaper. Physically touching another human being feels more sweaty than intimate, and that’s *before* we factor in all of the monkeypox anxiety. Is it an STI, or is it possible to contract while brushing past strangers at the club? Is it even worth it to hug our friends hello anymore? I don’t know the answers, but I do know I’m entirely burnt out on global pandemics and other fear-inducing plagues. God, if you’re real, please let us all relax for a bit.
It’s also too hot to eat. Most days I just spend $8 on honey pistachio ice cream from Rolo’s, and justify the scoop’s exorbitant price by calling it brunch. While I wait for both my final grad school year at NYU and my America Reads teaching gig at a public elementary school in BedStuy to resume next month, I’m focusing on my second job at a natural wine bar in Clinton Hill. This heatwave is high in tannins and acidity. It’s low in sweetness.
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As Ottessa Moshfegh once said, “a writer using Twitter is sacrificing something sacred.” I love this quote. Tweeting is a form of talking. Writing is a form of understanding.
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The quality of light in the Rockaways just before sunset is angelic. When it feels too hot to function, remember the way that light hits the ocean. Imagine yourself as the point where they meet.
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