five things #4: post-vacation
<3
Hello! Of course, I failed to get my act together this week to start early on preparing this week’s letter, but I think this is probably a good sign that these letters will have to be bi-weekly rather than weekly. Judging by the weeks of work ahead, I’ll need the extra time.
Another thing is that I Went On Vacation this past week, a much-needed break away from massive screens and responsibilities in general. My sisters joke about my Emotional Support Laptop, but it’s only funny because it’s true. I haven’t done a Lazy Vacation in a while, the last year’s travels were activity-filled bonanzas which—while fun—were exhausting. I was ready to rot on the beach for a few days with some books and cold Cokes, and some stolen beers (sorry, Nick!) I’m home, sun-browned and surrounded by cats. It was a beautiful time.
I.
Someone I loved died a few days ago, suddenly and unexpectedly, while I was on vacation. She left us far too young.
I didn’t know her for very long, but here’s an incomplete list of things about her: she loved unreservedly, welcoming strangers and old friends with equal fervour. She loved a good cuddle. She loved looking at cats and exploring slightly dangerous corners of the world. She’d listen to you while you were crying incomprehensibly about something, not really understanding what’s going on. When you wailed especially hard, she’d sit so close your limbs would touch; even if you didn’t feel like it, she’d initiate a small game to cheer you up. She danced like a drunk. She was so beautiful it sometimes hurt to look at her. She liked tomatoes and soft blankets. Really, she was just happy to be here.
II.
It’s odd to have to come to terms with her death as I turn 30 today.
It’s probably putting too much egg on it to say that I’m surprised to still be here, but it’s not totally wrong. There were days when I watched a red bus roll by and thought about, what if? I know how to sneak up forbidden staircases in high buildings, and of course, now I live in an apartment. Pills have never interested me, and neither have knives or car exhaust fumes, but I understand them in theory. The logistics may be challenging but they’re not impossible, is what I’m saying. These thoughts were easier to entertain when I was younger and more prone to partying irresponsibly; now, at 30, there’s the weight of the people around me and the cats to keep me in place.
I don’t want to die now, and I am a little shocked at my surprise at being here, still. It’s an awakening thing.
At the Illustration Fair over the weekend, I got a portrait done of myself. The artist painted my face in blues, greens and pinks; my hair is a riot of curls, I had them cut before I went to the beach. My cleavage is a sly wink at the bottom of the page: “can’t miss them,” the artist joked.
I don’t usually go for these kinds of things, but with so much heaviness in the air, it felt like the right dose of beauty I needed today. I want to remember myself like this, at 30. That there is colour and life and joy in aging. I am thinking about my younger self, the one who wanted to die all those years ago, even as I think about my lost friend.
IIII.
Remember when I wrote last week that I didn’t like The Tortured Poets Departments?1
Turns out it took much less time than I had originally expected, and I actually really like it! What a weird turnaround.
Not all of it is, good good, though. Some of it is pretty mid, and the biggest challenge has been figuring out which parts are the most mid. The album’s sprawl makes it “dense” thicket to navigate, but it’s been catnip for my literature student’s brain. I’ve been listening to the songs closely, reading the lyrics for allusion and connection. The most boring part of Tortured discourse has come from either ends of the spectrum, where people are comparing notes to figure out which song is connected to which person.2
To me, there is much more of the fictionalising of folk/more in this album than at first blush. The swampy heat of “Florida!!!” has “no body no crime”’s fingerprints and “But Daddy I Loved Him” is like a “Wildest Dreams” redux but with Taylor’s Old Hollywood persona transfigured into Scarlet O’Hara or Brontë’s Cathy Earnshaw or poor Maggie Tulliver. There are plenty of gothic ghosts haunting the album, and it’s Taylor and also not Taylor. It’s fiction, baby!3
There’s some truly breathtaking poetry in this, but the sounds are getting a little old. I do like the paralleling/undermining of sounds she’s used before, but I don’t think it’ll work if it follows her into a fourth (fifth?) album. For now, I am content to sink into the music, and I’m conducting some Very Important Research.
Other half-formed thoughts:
“The Albatross” is definitely a reworked “willow”, but I like how we’re back to capitalised letters. The abundance of epithets is interesting, and I haven’t thought about it long enough to come up with a theory, but they’re there.
“The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived” feels like it borrows something from Lorde’s “Man With the Axe.” Likely nothing, but a hint of a vibe or a spiritual third-cousin.
The way “The Prophecy” reshapes the sounds and images of “seven,” which I think is probably the most successful attempt in the album. The coda/bridge is so effective, I want someone to let her soundtrack the new Greta Gerwig Narnia movies.
Truthfully, sometimes her lyrics are pretty cringey (sic: Guilty As Sin?) but remember.
IV.
This clip from @subwaytakes about “Candid Girl” that I’ve rewatched like 20 times now. As a recovering pick-me-girl,
V.
I’m taking the rest of today to myself, off work and missing the beach. Leonard is curled up next to me, half-asleep, as Arthur attacks my laptop wire. Life can be beautiful, I am only just now beginning to understand.
I am a big birthday person, and I love little gifts: receiving them and (more so) giving them. So, I leave you with this poem and I hope that, whilst I away, that the last hours of April held you.
With grief, gratitude and much love,
Sam.
Writing about Taylor Swift can often feel like you’re writing from a defensive crouch. Any wonder, considering she also produces music that often feels like it comes from a defensive crouch. Anyway, you love the music you love.
Yes, I know Taylor is herself guilty (as sin?) for capitalising on public’s hunger to decode her lyrics for salacious details about her personal life. She isn’t perfect, and certainly not above gossipy impulses, the first commandment of realistic Swiftism is to remember that she is a snake, but who amongst us etc etc.
Personally, I prefer the elegant graces of tinkling music box songs like “I Look Through People’s Windows” or “The Albatross.”