And it all shakes out smoothly when the weather gets better. The girls are in the park wearing their favorite flat black shoes again, pushing back a Mary Jane strap and laughing at that tan line like a badge of honor. They’ll think about taking a photo, but they’re too old for that—they don’t post like that. The funny things about their bodies are reserved for moments in the grass, between other girls like them: quiet poking and whispering. Scrolling could never honor what this dirt could—a girl in the know has a line across her foot.
And as they sit, they discuss a similar frustration. The cornerstone that the winter took, usually in the shape of a person, something core and cemented, is now gone, smashed, and disappeared. And it hurts so much because it’s supposed to, but also because the chaos that comes with finding something else to lean on is tricky. Becoming new, unplanned, is hard.
There’s a busker nearby, scratching at a violin, playing something close to familiar but far from good music. It’s pleasantly unpleasant and sets the tone for now, and for the rest of the season. He’s just figuring it out, caught in a fit of trying his best—and so are the girls. As I sit there with them, my hair agrees to every direction the wind wants to take it, and I’m squinting, pulling the smallest bits of me out of lip gloss.
We all know that this will turn into some kind of betterment with time, but for now, all we can do is sit the hour away, pick at our shoes, and swap similar stories of “that’s so fucked up.”
These are my notes from April:
I’ve taken time to think about the feeling of success and how my relationship to it has changed as my career has matured. Maybe it’s because I’m no longer new to putting projects out or receiving press, or maybe it’s because my life is a little more stable now than it was a few years ago. I remember when I found out I was going to be profiled in the New York Times a few years back (x). At the time, I was working at Goodwill in Hollywood and preparing for my move to New York. I was on my lunch break and had just sorted through a pile of donated clothing soaked in piss and cigarette smoke, like I did most days. I absolutely hated every moment of that job—walking around, putting sweaters on racks, and looking for rescue with big puppy dog eyes. There is solace to be spared for the Goodwill shopgirl. I remember what I felt when I got the call. I remember running home and falling to my knees. I remember the disbelief, like I had somehow shot myself into the center of a bullseye. It’s funny, now I don’t really feel that way when I get something I want, and I think that’s a good thing. I’m not tied to a shitty job anymore, and I’m no longer in need of rescuing. I’m living a life I never thought I’d have. Every day holds a small slice of lottery, and I think I’d rather have it that way than all at once.
I talk about what’s happening with Katseye with the same cadence I use when speaking about a war.
Got up early and headed to the Strand in Union Square, where I waited about 20 minutes before they brought more copies of Famesick off the truck. I then went to the park and sat down to read as a guitarist set up across from me, playing an awful cover of “Don’t Dream It’s Over,” which audibly displeased me but somehow felt suited to the contents of Lena’s book.
I know I’m growing up because I don’t hear about “pyromania” anymore.
Sometimes the dirty old man inside of you recognizes the dirty old man inside someone else, and you perv out together.
I used to be an amazing leaver, but now I’m quite bad at it. I think that says less about me and more about the quality of the people around me these days. My friends are good people.
I had this thought in the middle of the month that gave me a bit of a release. I’ve been moving slowly through my feelings about love, trying to collect whatever vital information I can about my relation to it in efforts to repair whatever is apparently broken within me. This period of singleness has been beautiful. I do have my sad stories to tell, and I get lonely. I often go to bed feeling a little un-whole, but I’d take that over the stupidity I endured while I tried to stay attached to people unfit for me. If anything, I feel balanced these days, which at times is unsettling. I haven’t known much about balance. My days are spent with my friends, usually in the park, usually on the couch, usually ending each night in dialogue, Taryn and I using each other like living diaries until there is nothing left to say. My phone is full of people to call. I have too many people to rely on. And it occurred to me at some point that I’d rather plan my future around them instead. Men come and go, and it’s my mistake to try to use them as anchors for the future, when my friends can give me true security. There is no risk. There is no gamble. There is just love with no fine print or clause, and I think for now I’d rather have it that way.
Ian (x), Taryn (x), and I attempted to sing “Heart Attack” by Demi Lovato. This idea came after Ian tried to sing it on his own and sent a video of his best attempt to our group chat. The rules were that we really had to go for it, but truthfully, it was hard for me to give myself over to the song because of our neighbors. I knew that Taryn was also going to record a video, and I was worried about what the girls next door must have thought if they heard “Heart Attack” being sung so badly from both sides of our apartment.
Got on Hinge for a week. I wanted to see how it would make me feel. I’m really not looking for a boyfriend right now, but a player’s gotta play. Immediately, I get hit with the feelings I remember from the last time I brought myself to online dating. This small fish feeling, this big pond feeling. Dating apps make cities into liquid, like something that struggles to meet the size of its container, with a center that is hard to pinpoint or understand. I hate feeling like an option instead of a destiny.
My health has been taking a dive since the year began. It seems that every three weeks, I get these awful sinus infections that take a while to go away. I know it’s stress-related and exhaustion-related, but I don’t really know how to stop my life. I think growing up north of popular and suddenly having all these invites at my feet makes it very hard for me to say no. I’ve never suffered from FOMO, but I’m always intrigued by the possibility of what a night could offer. I’m learning that it’s important to show face, but it’s also important to know when it’s time to stay home, and it seems I only feel like staying home when I’m so congested I can’t breathe.
Was profiled in Nylon, which felt like a teenage dream come true (x). My friends who work at the tea stand I frequent in the park during my mornings have taken to calling me “E-Girl Supreme,” which always makes me laugh. I remember reading articles like this one about my idols. I remember listening to “R.E.A.M.” by Kitty Pryde (x) and always loving that one line where she references a Nylon article about herself, which made me feel like she was the coolest girl in the world. So thank you, Nylon.
I met Lily Allen backstage at her Brooklyn show. She is small and lovely, holding herself with the knowing composure of a mother when speaking to me. Our conversation was brief, and I didn’t ask for a picture because I know better (lol).
Tripped on a wire at the Byline 5 words reading (x) in front of everyone, I wouldn’t want to trip on a wire in front of.
Slayyyter’s album WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA is perfect. I don’t really say that about many albums because it’s rarely true, but I’m extremely confident in this claim. It’s perfect. I feel like I’ve heard so many 2020s pop stars attempt to tap into the same kind of anger—this “feminine rage” that the culture seems to remain hungry for—and I used to wonder why that was. If there is seemingly an abundance of female pop stars making music about how angry they are, why are we still looking for it? I think WOR$T GIRL IN AMERICA is some kind of answer to that. This album is angry and miles away from being performatively pissed. It’s music made by someone who is in the middle of something but has enough of a connection to their artistic voice to execute a real, unconfused, and cohesive album about it. The ideas presented are fully realized. The music is insanely good. It’s singular. It’s angry. It’s really important.
Lost my house keys at the American Dream Mall in New Jersey and only realized it when I was halfway home to Brooklyn, which made me feel completely silly. Again, I’m exhausted.
I took a friend to the hospital sometime in the middle of the month. It was one of the first days this year when humidity could be felt in the air. My dad used to call this weather “balmy.” I remember waking up and feeling like I was in Florida, a thought that seemed to snake around me for most of the day. When you’re sitting at the edge of a hospital bed, it’s hard to think deeply; you’re almost always part of a situation bigger than you, accompanied by beeping machines and other people trying to zero in on a deeper meaning, yet failing because it’s impossible but also obvious. All you can really do is feel the air, feel the shades of Florida that entered the room with the last body or stretcher. Feel present and adrift, feel the hand of your friend, and tell him he’s going to be okay, not because you know that to be true, but because you know that secondhand faith is necessary to the alchemy of pulling through.
New insult: implying that someone wasn’t a person in their past life.
Went on a date and almost puked on him. I’ve run the situation over in my head a couple of times, and I think it was the combo of alcohol and being up on his roof. I made the mistake of looking down at the street after we kissed, got all dizzy, and started gagging ungracefully like a dog that ate something it didn’t like. I think puking is my least favorite bodily function; it’s wayyyy too animal for me. It makes me snap into the smallest part of my brain. Immediately, I brought myself to the edge of the roof, not even thinking about how embarrassing this might be—or about falling over the edge—heaving in between “I’m sorry” and “it’s not you.” He disappeared to get me a glass of water, and in the meantime, I took as many deep breaths as I could so I could hopefully begin to function normally again.
I’ve noticed my laugh is a little bit louder now. I don’t know what that means, but it’s probably a good sign.
I do miss touch. I’m handling being alone, but I do miss touch. I found myself compiling a list of the different types of touches I missed, after waking up one morning and noticing both of my hands held together in an embrace— a habit that seems to only return when I’m truly touchless.
Ran into a young starlet I’m obsessed with at the Cult100 party (x). I was too drunk to say anything of note. I caught myself saying, “You’re fab, you’re fabulous, fab fab fab fab fab fab” on a loop, truly aging me. She told me, “I’m actually supposed to be in rehab,” while juggling a full drink in her hand and the end of the long train on her peachy-colored dress. As “Like a Prayer” played and she mouthed a few words to me, I felt less silly about my comments about her being fabulous, because I was completely correct—she is deeply fabulous.
At the same party, my friend Harmony (x) tells me, as we crouch down to smoke a cigarette on the world’s smallest yet most packed balcony, “There are men everywhere. I see a hot guy every time I leave the house… THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.” We laugh as exactly that materializes in front of us: a half-hot guy approaches her and starts to spout shoddy game about his musical capabilities, not knowing that my friend Harmony is a savant. I shout at him, all snotty, “SHE IS A PROLIFIC INDIE MUSICIAN”.
Saw Michael in 4DX with Ivy (x) a few days ago. This is part of a long string of movies we’ve seen together over the past few years—the concept of us sitting through movies like these would probably make anyone familiar with us both laugh: films like Madame Web, Miller’s Girl, and the most recent Hunger Games with Rachel Zegler. My time with Ivy is very precious; it’s more apparent to me than ever that she is becoming quite famous. I don’t get to see her as much as I would like, but I know when she’s not with me, she’s somewhere working, making the impossible happen, and doing an amazing job of it. I will admit it’s strange having to adjust to public outings to the size of her aura. She is no longer the homeschooled high schooler I met many years ago; she’s a woman in demand, and the world is desperate to know more. I’m sure this protectiveness I feel will only grow, I’m already ready to jump at any stranger that shoots a look our way that isn’t clearly read as a smile. It’s a strange circumstance to apply the now overly Tumblr’d saying “life is an act of letting go” to, but my baby belongs to the world now. Her life is changing, her schedule is packed, and I just want everyone to be kind to her.
This month ends at the wrong doorstep. My friend Marissa (x) invited me to a party. I haven’t seen her in a few weeks, and of course, because I’ve been so tired and guilty of being on autopilot mostly, I got the address wrong and ended up somewhere where there was nothing awaiting me. I didn’t have it in me to go further, and I’m still fighting the tail end of another sinus infection, so I decided to turn around. A part of me really wanted to push and see people, but I think my body deserves a rest.
happy spring 🌸
-Mackenzie
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