Some exact fact
Hello from a beautiful, like, achingly beautiful March day in D.C.,
It’s just before 6 p.m. and I’m sitting next to my living room window that overlooks Independence Ave. I’ve had so much on my mind recently but it all got wiped away this morning when I went out. The sky was soooooo brazenly blue. It was 15 degrees out and I felt like doing cartwheels. Everywhere in Capitol Hill, people were so goofy, dancing off-beat to music and exclaiming stories to strangers. In the afternoon, when I was waiting for Ruairi outside the Arts & Industries museum, there was an older Latino couple sitting on the edge of a fountain opposite me, holding hands and smiling aimlessly at the families passing by them. I scribbled into my notebook: “What a relief.”
For everything about this particular time — the news, the jokes about nuclear war, the mental illness, the entrapment of digital technology, the oppressive routine of work, the unrequited feelings, the grief, the jitters —, it seems like people still know how to enjoy a warm March day; still remember how to idle and to soak; still have the wisdom to say “yes” to ice cream on the Mall. It turns out I know too – how to suspend worry in the face of a warm work-free afternoon in PRESSING need of being enjoyed. I have an appetite for happiness, just like everybody else. What a fucking relief.
From left to right, Clouseau, Maggie, Rach and I. Tadi siang, saya mau praktek bahasa Indonesia dan teman saya mau baca buku, tapi anjing-anjing sangat lucu.
In January, I read “A Writer’s Diary” by Virginia Woolf – a selection of entries from the diaries that she kept for 27 years, starting from just before “Mrs Dalloway” to after “Between the Acts." The entries cover her creative process (she was very self-conscious about reviews!), her “best friend” Vita, and the material minutiae of her life. The last entry reads: “And now with some pleasure I find that it’s seven; and must cook dinner. Haddock and sausage meat. I think it is true that one gains a certain hold on sausage and haddock by writing them down.” This is an aside but that line — haddock and sausages — reminds me of the other funny shorthand for material life from Iris Murdoch: "... There is nothing illusory about this life: the courage of a parent, the meanness of a child, are as much features of the world as cabbages and kings."
Anyway: In a review of the Woolf book, W.H. Auden wrote, “I have never read any book that conveyed more truthfully what a writer’s life is like.” That may be enough to persuade you to read it, but in case you’re not convinced, here’s an extract I can’t get out of my head:
“As I said to Leonard today, I enjoy almost everything. Yet I have some restless search in me. Why is there not a discovery in life? Something one can lay hands on and say “This is it?” My depression is a harassed feeling. I’m looking: but that’s not it – that’s not it. What is it? And shall I die before I find it? Then (as I was walking through Russell Square last night) I see the mountains in the sky: the great clouds; and the moon which is risen over Persia; I have a great and astonishing sense of something there, which is “it.” It is not exactly beauty that I mean. It is that the thing is in itself enough: satisfactory: achieved. A sense of my own strangeness, walking on earth is there too: of the infinite oddity of the human position; trotting along Russell Square with the moon up there and those mountain clouds. Who am I, what am I, and so on: these questions are always floating about in me: and then I bump against some exact fact – a letter, a person, and come to them again with a great sense of freshness. And so it goes on. But on this showing, which is true, I think, I do fairly frequently come upon this “it”; and then feel quite at rest.”
I’ve been trying to be more aware recently of these moments of “it” and I’m realizing that they crackle and pop in random places. I was driving home from an assignment the other day and stopped to get gas. I looked at the gas cap, heard Ruairi’s voice in my head say “lefty loosey, righty tighty,” which told me which way to turn it, and then started chatting to the driver next to me about how high gas prices were. You see, there was already inflation, he said, and now this war. We both shook our heads, said goodbye and headed into rush hour traffic. Something about that moment, maybe call it a glitch, grounded me. It made me feel like I was inside a life that was inside a community. Like I was latched on; buckled in.
I didn’t feel alienated or estranged or like I was wasting my time, even though I know it’s easy to fall into those conditions for reasons within and beyond our control. I felt, sitting in my car, sweaty and tired from the day: “enough: satisfactory: achieved."
I’m interested in how I can create more of that feeling for myself and the people around me. In a way, I think people who click on “That Girl” morning routines on Youtube or restlessly toggle between “wellness” podcasts on Spotify are also interested in the same thing. How not to feel alone. How to feel useful and part of something. Corporations make it easy for us to feed this impulse with goods and services, but there's a growing number of people articulating solutions that are cheaper and more sustainable. I'm a little embarrassed saying all this because I know I'm preaching to the choir here. So many of you already know the answer is ethics and exercise; I'm reminded every time I go home.
“There is no movement, there is no effort, there is no unionizing, there is no fight for the vote, there is no resistance to draconian abortion laws, if people think that the future is baked in and nothing is possible and that we’re doomed. Even on climate—or especially on climate. And so the day-to-day of my day job is frustrating. So is everyone else’s. I ate shit when I was a waitress and a bartender, and I eat shit as a member of Congress. It’s called a job, you know?
So, yes, I deal with the wheeling and dealing and whatever it is, that insider stuff, and I advance amendments that some people would criticize as too little, etc. I also advance big things that people say are unrealistic and naïve. Work is like that. It is always the great fear when it comes to work or pursuing anything. You want to write something, and, in your head, it’s this big, beautiful Nobel Prize-winning concept. And then you are humbled by the words that you actually put on paper.
And that is the work of movement. That is the work of organizing. That is the work of elections. That is the work of legislation. That is the work of theory, of concepts, you know? And that is what it means to be in the arena."
From the New Yorker's recent interview with AOC. It's a good piece to pair with this story, which looks at those who question politics and place their faith instead in labor movements: "A Rhodes scholar barista and the fight to unionize Starbucks."
And now, maybe something actually useful. My mum said the other day there's so much misinformation about Ukraine, which was making her understanding of the issue kind of haphazard. I was surprised but then realized, duh, the "fake news" doesn't reach me. So: a brief guide of who to follow. First, to plug the home brand, the Post's lead correspondents on the ground there are Isabelle Khurshudyan (most well-informed; speaks Ukrainian; was stationed in Moscow), Siobhan O'Grady, and Max Bearak. On Instagram, follow Salwan Georges or Whitney Shefte. Both the Post and the Times have Ukraine live blogs, which are much better to follow than Twitter. There's also Tim Mak at NPR and Marcus Yam at the LA Times. If you know old people who only watch cable news, CNN's Clarissa Ward is really good. And then, there's the Kyiv Independent, an English language news outlet staffed by Ukrainians. They've done a phenomenal job covering the war so far and if you want, you can donate to them or to a bunch of other reliable organizations here.
But though L. says he has petrol in the garage for suicide should Hitler win, we go on. It’s the vastness, and the smallness that makes this possible. So intense are my feelings (about Roger); yet the circumference (the war) seems to make a hoop round them. No, I can’t get the odd incongruity of feeling intensely and at the same time knowing that there’s no importance in that feeling. Or is there, as I sometimes think, more importance than ever?
Woolf, "A Writer's Diary."
This newsletter was written to Mitski's latest album, "Laurel Hell," and (for some reason) Sharon Van Etten's "Seventeen" on repeat.
Your friend always,
Reb
P/S: Thank you for helping to make Ruairi feel so happy and at home in Singapore. It was the best gift. He loves his "Singapore Zoo" t-shirt and wears it all the time.