On Death, Edibles, and Getting Lost (6 min read)
I’m turning 34 next week. Around my birthday, I usually spend a good amount of time reflecting, introspecting, digging deep into my little gay psyche for whys and what’s nexts. I feel old parts of me dying and new parts struggling to be born. Now is the time of monsters—on my face, an allergic reaction; my tummy hurts; I am being kind of a bitch.
I am enjoying a bit of free time after leaving my stupid job a few weeks ago, and I am happy to see many other non-profit queers putting their well-being first and doing the same. A recent viral Tweet I saw said, “I bring a certain ‘we should all quit’ energy to the work place.” I do. I am an influencer.
I had an interview recently, which seemed promising. But it also shook me a bit: what if this little blip of freedom ends sooner than anticipated? As a working class artist with limited resources, rest and free time often feel like foreign concepts, things I’m not supposed to indulge in. I wanted to capitalize on this stretch of liberation in the event it runs out before I can take full advantage of it. Listening to the wisdom deep within me, I did what nearly 34 years of life spoke loudest to me: I took an edible at noon and walked to Green-Wood Cemetery.
Green-Wood is one of my favorite places in New York City. I like to visit while I’m in the middle of creating something new—to clear my head, to write, to boop around. The Cemetery is a National Historical Monument ripe with flora, fauna, and lots of dead people. Spring there is exceptionally beautiful. It really does harken back to a time when cemeteries were built to be roamed by the living, beautiful and peaceful walking spaces where people cleared their heads, wrote, booped around on edibles. Today my only prompt to myself was: idk get lost, you stoned idiot.
I performed last week, one of the longest performances I’ve been able to make since the height of the Covid pandemic. It was nice. It was fun. But I was left with a strange sense of wanting more. I spent a lot of my walk thinking about what’s next, and trying to shake the need to always do more.
Some artist friends I’ve spoken to recently have expressed a similar longing. Maybe there’s pressure to do more now, in case things shut down again or shit hits the fan on a global scale or the housing market crashes under Officer Eric Adams or we all decide art is stupid sooner rather than later.
I got really lost, which is surprisingly easy to do regardless of how many times you visit. I wound up following a very large red tailed hawk around (almost attacked me; no joke), and then got turned around while texting a video of said hawk almost attacking me (no joke) to my boyfriend. I was truly committed to my prompt for the day—I didn’t know where I was tbh.
It’s difficult for me to get lost, to just walk with no set agenda. Sometimes I tie my worth so deeply to what’s lined up next that I forget what’s right here. Even writing that feels uncomfortable, but I’m trying to soften myself to the idea of remaining present, more regularly. I had to force myself to get lost, to follow more birds, to really commit to the bit. There’s something here about creative processes and tenacity and the ephemerality of spring as a reminder that things always come back around but we have to enjoy them while we have them, I’m sure.
By the time I was full blown Stoni Collette, I stumbled upon a lilac bush in nearly peak bloom. What a good plant to have above your grave— a true serve, an icon. All of these monuments around me, 570,000+ interred bodies, many of whom were some of the richest and most powerful people in New York history, and let me tell you: this bush was where it was at. There’s something about simplicity, the promise of renewal, the capacity of nature to always one-up humanity’s vanity with the slightest gesture. I took note. Keep it simple, Stoni.
As I went deeper in, a woman pulled up next to me in her SUV and asked me how to get out. Girl, I wish I knew! I lied and said to turn left and look for the exit signs. She seemed pleased enough, even though turning left was literally her only option on the narrow road she was on. Sometimes we just need a little external validation. My goal was to get lost, and I was. But now I needed to get out. I left poetry behind and threw my own advice out. I opened my phone and looked at my map. Sometimes it’s okay to get your bearings before moving on, or something like that.
After a few turn arounds, I was on a clear path out of the cemetery. As I was making my final turn, I ran into a monument I hadn’t seen before. On the facade was a “Colloquy on Death,” which I paused to read. “O what is death? Pray tell me friend—is it the starting point or the end?” Maybe I was really stoned (I was), but this got me. Sadness and hope intertwined as I left the cemetery, as I leave my 33rd year—letting old parts of me, my art, my self die, come back to life with different growth, or not—leaving room for something new. Being reminded of death is often the most fertilizing thing we can do for ourselves—that and getting lost and stoned sometimes simply because we can.
Thanks for reading, girlies. I'd love to show you around the cemetery sometime x
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