Still Stoked #1: Soft, Not Softy
Including five mentions of avocados, four bottles of CBD oil, and one candle hack.
I said I wouldn’t write too often and here we are. Did you forget you signed up for this? That’s okay, I’ve been thinking about it for you. Here’s a screenshot of a text exchange with my friend Adam from last Saturday to prove that I’ve been agonizing over this for at least eleven days:
In fact, during the text banter above, I was supposed to be watching (participating in?) a virtual MFA open house at a certain NYC institution that I will not be applying to and not because I missed key info while texting about my newsletter anxieties. But rather, because according to my therapist, I am “softening.”
(Before I overshare about what it feels like to be a human avocado right now, I’ll address two pieces of info in that sentence:
1. Yes, I am applying to MFA programs! This means you can find me most evenings staring at the wall, trying to answer questions about my work and my practice, which is as difficult/awkward as it sounds.
2. Of course I have a therapist, but I promise not to talk about our sessions too much. Not just because that’s only second to hearing about other peoples’ dreams as The World’s Most Boring Conversation Topic, but also because I think I might sound like Carrie Bradshaw in them and that is humiliating.)
Back to the softening thing. I mean, it’s true. The next part of the text convo with Adam was him prompting me to write what I was stoked about from that week, me chiding him for obviously not reading the intro here, and then me patiently indulging him anyway. So I told him that I was currently stoked on my new probiotics and CBD tinctures that had just arrived in the mail. I also bought a gently-used Prius earlier in the week. Oh, and I went on three hikes. This, this total embrace of California stereotypes that has me feeling like that 2010s “Visit California” ad campaign? Soft-en-ing.
Of course, I wouldn’t be this tender human avocado, on whose skin you can almost leave a gentle imprint of your index finger and thumb, had I not left Brooklyn. Sure, yes, it was a gentle landing back into LA’s benzodiazepine-ish weather, mood, and general way of being. But leaving New York was, and still is, harrowing.
What I was not stoked on last week was contracting movers for my favorite little Park Slope apartment that I wouldn’t even get to pack up myself because of motherfucking COVID. I left it intact when I departed back in August, unsure if coming to LA was going to be for the winter or for now or forever or what. A week into life here, some combination of “for now” and “forever” became abundantly clear, and keeping another life going in Brooklyn was expensive and silly. Still, I held out until a few other pieces shifted before mailing my keys to some dudes I will never meet in Bushwick.
(Side note: if you have any experience with entrusting your entire material life to some dudes in Bushwick you will never meet and can maybe tell me what will happen to my plants during their cross-country trip in a truck, I’m listening.)
(Do you see why I ordered the CBD now? FOUR bottles.)
I’ve moved out of New York before, and San Francisco before that, and Los Angeles before that. Every time I left somewhere, it was in a little bit of a panic and in a lot of needing to be out of that place; I was running away. This most recent chunk in New York came after five years and a divorce (there it is!) in Asheville. For that reason, and eventually many others, my little Park Slope refuge came to represent much more than its 463 square feet.
This time, leaving was different. I wasn’t fleeing the scene or escaping painful life choices or burning some bridge. Moving to LA was quiet and deliberate. It was moving towards something, a softer something.
And that’s okay because soft does not mean less. It doesn’t mean easier or boring. A soft avocado is a ripe avocado.
So here is a picture of an overpriced tiny candle I broke on accident the other day but didn’t flip out about. It’s on my desk that is also covered in architecture stuff that isn’t mine but this desk isn’t actually mine either. It’s fine, man. I’m going with the flow, dude. I made a new candle and some space on the desk to write this to you, see?
One last thing: I know I said that this would sound like Old Celine but maybe I should’ve said that it will sound like an email to you because that is what it is, a conversation. This means it would be really nice if you wrote me back. I’m sure I miss you! Maybe tell me about what kind of fruit or vegetable you’re ripening into, or, yikes, maybe rotting as these days? Or maybe you broke something recently. Or maybe you moved a long distance and your plants are okay! You can also just keep reading these without sending a response; there’s always room for quiet moments in a conversation.
xx Claire
Thanks for being here. And now for some links because it’s not really a newsletter unless I share some:
The four bottles of CBD oil. I got the sampler and the small Big Mood. They taste so good that I probably ingest too much but whatever, come at me, bro.
The probiotics that I (and Adam) now subscribe to, even though I can’t tell if they’re doing anything besides making me feel like A Person Who Subscribes to Probiotics.
The Visit California ad campaign that is basically my new human avocado life.
“This is Aphex Twin,” which I listened to while writing this whole email — by way of explanation, apology, or inspiration.