change the pear vol. 18 6 Oct 2023

hello! it’s october again, which means i’m about to get even more reflective, deranged and earnest than usual as we head deeper into autumn and winter. sorry. it’s truly out of my control.

on repeat

[cn for suicide mention]

in lucy dacus’ song please stay, widely believed to be about julien baker, she sings: “i believe you mean what you say, when you say you want to die / i believe you mean what you say, when you say you want to stay alive”.

i’ve been trying to write this essay on julien baker and her third album, little oblivions, for a while. i think those lyrics go to the heart of what i want to say. listening to julien baker convinces you of two things: one, that life contains a lot of suffering, perhaps too much for one person to bear; and two, that death is not the only way to liberate yourself from that. that an honest reflection on the pain you have been through and caused can open up a path to a different sort of freedom.

i discovered julien baker through listening to boygenius, and then by reading an excerpt from hanif abdurraqib’s album notes for little oblivions, where he says:

The grand project of Julien Baker, as I have always projected it onto myself, is the central question of what someone does with the many calamities of a life they didn’t ask for, but want to make the most out of. I have long been done with the idea of hope in such a brutal and unforgiving world, but I’d like to think that this music drags me closer to the old idea I once clung to. But these are songs of survival, and songs of reimagining a better self, and what is that if not hope? Hope that on the other side of our wreckage — self-fashioned or otherwise — there might be a door.

i truly cannot imagine a higher endorsement of someone’s art than the above paragraph. so i listened to little oblivions and felt like i was being stripped down to my bones. i have listened to a lot of confessional music in my time, but i have never listened to songs like these before. ones that confront someone’s self-destruction in such a relational way. that are deeply aware of what the harm you wish upon yourself does to others. a few newsletters ago, i wrote that i love music that “reaches into the gaping maw at the heart of you, pulls out everything you think is wrong about yourself, and sets it loose”. this album, julien baker’s music, does that. but it also holds you to account. it says, no matter how dark things get, there is always someone in the world out there who loves you. even if you are hurting so badly you can’t quite believe it, there is a small part of you that will always know this to be true. and, on the other side of the coin, there are people that you love. and you are letting them down. you are using up your second chances, and your third chances, and your fourth chances. and what do you do about that?

sometimes, that question makes me want to run for the hills; cut myself out of every web of relation i’m part of and vanish entirely. it is a difficult thing to confront. but through listening to these songs, relentless in their commitment to self-excavation, i see a better and more honest way forward than disappearance. this album shows how opening yourself up to rigorous scrutiny can be a map towards understanding, towards redemption. not as something bestowed by an external force, but within yourself. that’s a kind of liberation, i think.

these songs are gutting, they are painful, they are raw. you could be forgiven for listening to little oblivions and finding it bleak. but i agree with hanif’s assessment that these songs contain so much hope in them. i have thought a lot about vulnerability over the last year or so. to me, allowing the worst thoughts you’ve ever had or the worst things you’ve ever done to be heard by other people is an act both of hope and of freedom. freedom from shame and humiliation, from easy resolution. freedom from the idea that we are always progressing towards something better. sometimes we’re on a long spiral down, sometimes we’re stuck inside a vision that repeats, repeats, repeats, repeats, repeats. but as long as we can find the words to express ourselves, as long as we have the desire to reach for redemption for ourselves—hope is not lost. there might be a door—and one day, you might be able to step through it.

reading

i reread piranesi on the plane—like the first time i read it, in one big gulp. there’s something so magnetic about the story, how it sets up the mystery of piranesi’s House and perceptions and then slowly overturns them. i don’t know how to articulate this exactly, but it’s such a pure story. the tenderness and goodness that suffuses piranesi’s perspective; his optimism and wonder. something i really noticed on this reread was that when he realises what has happened to matthew rose sorensen, when he realises how he has been tricked, he does get angry. he plots revenge. he doesn’t just accept it. that feels hugely important to me. the anger courses through him and he explores every corner of the feelings of rage and vengeance—and then he lets it pass through him. he moves to a place of peace. and, of course, the generous, gentle ending will always move me deeply. the person who is not piranesi and not matthew rose sorensen looking out at the world, our world, and viewing it with such tenderness and respect. i’ve been listening to young lagoon’s prizefighter a lot recently on zoë’s recommendation, and these lines will always be associated with piranesi now: i got the world so i’ll be fine / i got the sunshine to figure me out.

a new book that blew me away was ann patchett’s tom lake. i reviewed it fully here so i won’t repeat myself. but i did want to talk about how i’ve read several of ann patchett’s novels previously and none of them have had a particularly deep effect on me. i always like her character work and i think she has a gift for observing people’s inner lives. her writing is good, a safe bet in a charity shop or a library where you want a novel that you’ll read to the end and enjoy. but what bothered me about all the other books i’ve read was that for all her deft observation, she often chose to write about settings and scenarios which she has no familiarity with. i’m not saying that authors can’t do this and do it well. but i think that’s what always tripped me up about her novels. there was a ring of inauthenticity to them, or plain cultural insensitivity (such as state of wonder). anyway, like i said she’s usually a safe bet for a solid middle-of-the-road read, so when i saw tom lake was out, that’s what i was expecting. i was not expecting to be so affected by this book i would put it down and stare into space for a few seconds at the crucial moments; nor that it would make me cry. finally, she’s is writing about an experience (and the type of people) she knows intimately well and my god, it paid off. when i turned to the end and found out that our town, the play that is central to the happenings of the novel, is one of patchett’s favourite works of literature, it wasn’t surprising to me at all. it’s a deeply moving and poignant novel, about growing up and growing old, about second chances, about moving on, about first love, about the gulf between what you thought you when you were young and what you got in the end, and about how what you got is actually what you did want all along. it is so deftly plotted; all the details slot into place perfectly. the only small criticism i have is that the ending does trail off. it felt like she used up all her chest-punching energy during the middle parts of the novel, and then the last pages are quiet, dying away. i think it could have been more powerful. but overall, a spectacular novel and one that i’m sure i will revisit.

last seen

some thoughts from touring the roman ruins of anatolia. the first city we went to was ephesus, which was magnificent. i have never walked through an ancient city before, and it really affected me. to be physically in the space where two thousand years ago people were living, working, dreaming; to walk the marble streets where they would have walked, to wander through their homes, see where they would have cooked and bathed. there’s something connective about it, for sure, particularly seeing things like graffiti or clay pipes or central heating or latrines. there’s a line between us and them. but what struck me most of all was the gulf that exists between me and the people and the world i know, and the people who lived then and the world they knew. some things do feel the same but how can i claim that our perceptions of it would be similar, when the society and politics and religion and economics these people lived under were all so different to what they are now? so much of their perceptions and understanding has been lost. it made me think: what will be left of us, when we are gone?

the second city was aphrodisias, which was our favourite, mainly because there were hardly any people there except for us. we were totally alone in the remains of the amphitheatre. the acoustics in there were insane! asa stood on the stage and whispered and we could hear him from the back. he recited jabberwocky and it made me feel so emotional. people stood right there two thousand years ago and spoke! and now here my little brother is! there was also a stadium, where sports/chariot races took place. it had a capacity of 30,000! to stand in the centre of that was insane. i thought about how we have stadiums and theatres and concert halls now, how we still have the desire to cram ourselves into seats next to strangers and be united in our love of sports or plays. to be entertained as a crowd, a collective. to be unified by that experience.

currently watching

thank god abeera is committed to watching the sopranos with me, because if not for her i think i might have given up by now. i need another person with me to turn to in shock as the show takes an increasingly bleak and violent turn. the episode where tony keeps questioning people, AM I A TOXIC PERSON?? whew. okay. we’re far from the hee hee ha ha days of season one where it was funny to witness his inability to handle his emotions in a reasonable way; or to be honest in therapy. his volatile personality IS toxic actually! he’s incapable of meaningfully connecting with anyone. it’s no wonder carmela’s eye is wandering, it’s no wonder christopher is slipping further and further into addiction (this is extremely painful to watch!!), it’s no wonder he’s constantly attracted to unstable, temperamental women because it’s a way for him to exercise control, it’s no wonder he can only show empathy for animals. god, the scene where he beats ralph to death and then calls christopher over to chop him up in the bath? borderline unwatchable. it is a testament to the show’s writing and plotting that i actually felt sympathy for ralph, after two seasons of saying, “god i can’t wait for ralph to die”. the show was like: oh really? see how you like THIS!! and i didn’t like it. i did not like it at all. after every episode i feel like i need to lie down with a cold cloth over my eyes.

miscellaneous

alfie teaching me how to improve my swim strokes at brockwell lido. a long, expansive conversation with rox and agnes. huda FINALLY getting into ateez and exchanging psychological deconstruction voice notes with her. the yuuki ozaki playlist zoë made me. ethiopian food with alex. making wontons for arenike and jun. fresh, ripe figs. fava bean spread. the bounty at the market. roasted aubergine dip. fish grilled whole. stuffed squid. big grapes! how every hummus was different. eating the sweetest, juciest melons for breakfast. making a playlist of my favourite anime music for hayley. pomegranates growing by the side of the road. swimming in the sea with my prescription goggles (life-changing). the drama of the termessos ruins, set against a granite backdrop. the percy jackson trailer! this sopranos x lotr crossover tiktok. this william stafford poem. this claude wilkinson poem. this adam zagajewski poem. this carl phillips poem. hanif abdurraqib’s post about bruce springsteen.

thank you, as always, for reading.