Grief Beach #150: Media Mediary 2023 (Part Two: Books and Music)
My media diary for a weird year (continued)
Last week I talked about how the books, music, movies, that most resonate with me aren’t often totally defensible. To put it bluntly, I will more happily defend my love for a given piece of media than I will defend my taste. A generalized star-system rating feels like it breeds senses of superiority and suspicion, whereas we could instead just love what we love for the indecipherable reasons we love anything or anyone: a fortuitous mix of chemistry, compatibility, timing, and opportunity.
When I don’t know what’s going on I turn to books. When I don’t know what to feel I let music do it for me. This past year was a chaotic one and I did a lot of letting artists work things out on my behalf.
So let’s get into it: 2023’s books and music that may not have been good, but were good for me.
Books
Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel — I do not want to talk about this one, frankly. Partly because talking about it may involve spoilers that I do not want to offer you, and partly because it fucked me up so bad. Emily St. John Mandel has had a way of making herself memorable in my life. I remember reading Station Eleven on the rooftop deck off our swanky hotel room in Madrid on a Thanksgiving trip with my in-laws; I read The Glass Hotel on a gray, windy day late in the first pandemic summer, where I drove myself to the beach, wrapped myself in towels, sat on an abandoned lifeguard stand and devoured it in its entirety. I finished Sea of Tranquility at the bar of Ollie’s Pizza in High Falls, NY, while I waited for a grandma pie to be cooked so I could drive it several hours home. I was already feeling alone and terrified about what I was driving back home to, and the book made all my choices feel simultaneously more and less significant. Tears were streaming down my cheeks and the bartender politely refrained from commenting. I tipped extravagantly.
Boys Weekend by Mattie Lubchansky — My foray into dating this year started hesitantly, and one of the first shots was laughably bad. I could probably write a whole essay about that date, but let’s not give him the space. When the time came to part, I invented a reason to go in the opposite direction of him, and—desperate to reclaim my evening—I went to a bookstore. I picked up a copy of Boys Weekend, asked the bartender at one of my favorite cocktail spots to bring me something creative, and sat and read it in a single setting, giggling aloud and crying at the end of the bar. It turned the night around.
Star Child by Claire A. Nivola — When I visited Emily in Northampton this May, one of the things I was excited to have proximity to was the Eric Carle Museum of Picture Book Art. First off, I managed to mention this to a coworker I did not know very well in advance of my trip—and she ran to her desk, delighted, and handed me her museum membership card so I could get in for free. So my visit was already colored with kindness. Then when I arrived, there was an exhibit on Claire A. Nivola, who is probably best known for illustrating The Mouse of Amherst (more local interest!). But she also wrote a cult favorite book called Star Child, which is about a bodiless celestial entity who wants to experience the earth as a human. The entire book is a warning, a series of disclaimers about the exquisite pain and fear and joy and comforts and uncertainty that come with being alive. In the end, after all that assessment, it’s still worth it. I don’t need to tell you I cried.
Glaciers by Alexis M. Smith — I booked my trip to Portland this year with very little agenda but to wander and see friends. I’d asked Sarah what she wanted me to bring by way of treats from home, and she asked for the Herr’s Flavored by Philly potato chips (absolute angel). So my suitcase on the way out was padded out with a bunch of air, which meant that I had the space to collect plenty of books to take home. On one of my first days I stopped by Powell’s Burnside location and stumbled upon Glaciers, which 1) took place in Portland, 2) was published by Portland-based Tin House Books, and 3) had been recently re-released with an introduction by force of nature Maris Kreizman. I took myself on a date to read it and just felt so pleased with the luck I had in my life to be able to travel and be held by friends.
Moby Dick by Herman Melville — ‘nuff said.
Songs
“Salt in the Wound” by boygenius — I am telling you once more I will NOT apologize. I know that listening to boygenius is cliché! That is the point of this piece, that it does not MATTER that it is cliché, because either way it managed to scratch the right part of my brain at the right time. The new singles came out very early in 2023 while things still seemed relatively calm for me, but I listened to them so much they became the soundtrack of a kind of breakdown. I had partly been able to motivate myself to travel to the PNW by booking tickets to the show in Bend, where I wound up sobbing alone in the crowd (“I wanna be happy… I can’t feel it yet // but I am waiting”). I bought the original LP at the show, walked it back to my motel and brought it in a tote bag on the plane home. As I sorted out how I felt about the year I’d had, about the work I’d been doing to hold things together for which I may not have had the support I needed, I took its chorus as an affirmation: trick after trick, I make the magic // and you unrelentingly ask for the secret.
“Hospital (One Man Down)” by Madison Cunningham ft. Remi Wolf — I’d listened to enough Remi Wolf that this track was suggested to me on Tidal, and it became a hyperfixation. I have a long history with songs that sound driving and upbeat but have dark, dire lyrics. This one is about recognizing how ill-equipped you are to move on, and how hard it is to stop getting in your own way. I remember driving around after work and blasting it, letting the open windows whip away my tears. Put in terms I can understand // this wound is all I’ve got // and I can’t disconnect my hand // from the damage that it’s wrought.
“Glass, Concrete & Stone” by David Byrne — OK, listen, it isn’t all bad vibes on the AUX! I got very into season two of The Bear this year, like all of us. And while I’ve never been an enormous David Byrne guy, the deployment of this song in the episode—where Richie starts to find his way, polishing forks and learning that every second counts—stopped my heart in my chest. Listening to it felt like settling into a new comfort.
“To Noise Making (Sing)” by Hozier — Here’s another one where I got really into the album that was released this year (Unreal Unearth), but then used my fixation to go through the back catalog. This is probably the most straightforwardly happy song the man has, but goddamn it, it stuck with me. I got into it right when I was having a moment thinking I might be a spinster forever, to learn to live with no attachments. But the song is about loving someone so deeply that every expression of their joy feels religious; that when they sing, it doesn’t even matter if it sounds good, because witnessing the gesture is beautiful enough. I first heard it when someone I care about made an effort to tell me they love to hear me sing, and it reminded me how nice it is to adore someone and to be adored.
“Anything to be With You” by Carly Rae Jepsen — I saw Carly Rae twice in 2023 and the fact that she released her newest album the day I landed in Portland felt like a personal gift. In 2023, I listened to the bonus track “Anxious” from The Loneliest Time way more than I listened to this song, but again, “Anything” lands on this list because listening to it felt significant. I was taking a long walk in the Portland sun, blackberries from the farmers market still smeared on my lips, sun glinting off the Willamette onto my drugstore sunglasses, saxophone trills fluttering my nervous system like heart palpitations. I listened and I felt alive. I listened and I felt like I wanted to stay alive.
Honorable Mentions
“Subterranea Fury” by Wangechi Mutu — I first saw Mutu’s work at SFMOMA back in 2006 and was taken aback. I was reminded of her work when I saw “Water Woman” at Laguna Gloria in Austin in 2019. When I saw she had a retrospective at the New Museum in the middle of this year, it felt like the right time to reconnect. I took a Sunday and drove up by myself on the final day of the exhibit, stood in front of this piece, and felt tears rising in my chest like floodwater. I hadn’t realized how angry I was. Soon after, I wrote “Temper.”
Yours in survival,
Arielle
Three Things Bringing Me Joy
Self-medication. Sorry! It’s true! And it feels strange to say that during Dry January, but I don’t know, let the soft animal of your body love what it loves or whatever. I’m not advocating total obliteration to avoid feelings, but there are things I find I can do to better meet and process my feelings. Certainly, professionally-advised medication has helped tremendously (thanks, Lexapro!). But after decades of avoiding cannabis because I’m terrible at smoking and I would cough violently and get too high and paranoid, I got my medical card, and I’m finding I can partake of just a little, in a vape or a bubbler or a microdose gummy, and just… notice things better, more safely. Last week I had a nigh-religious experience when my edible kicked in right at the first forward fold of a romantically-lit yoga workshop soundtracked by live cello. I melted into myself. I felt love.
Stupid labors of love. Someone made the Egg Game from I Think You Should Leave. Why? Because the original sketch made someone happy, so happy that they were like “I should assign myself a task about this.” The ways people decide to pay homage to each other is a continual miracle.
Voice memos. The group chat is planning a premier party for S11 of Vanderpump Rules, and half of us are obsessed and half of us only follow along with what they hear from the half of us that are obsessed. We’ve been asking questions and recapping for each other using audio messages, and hearing each other’s voices throughout the day is like microdosing hanging out, especially when we’re stuck in the office.
What I’m Reading
That was the tragedy of our sisterhood. As soon as we came close to a mutual understanding, one of us changed, or both.
—All-Night Pharmacy by Ruth Madievsky