The Firewood 009: The Paint
You're not getting a Why I'm Leaving New York essay from me this week, and here's why.
Hello, friends.
First up, welcome to another batch of new readers! Amid all the hyper-analytical debate over whether Substack is the future of this or that or whether it’s the new cesspool of problematic political commentary or media navel-gazing or whatever, it’s nice to see so many of you subscribing to updates from the crazy cat lady in the woods (literally or figuratively on the woods part). And her cat, of course.
Well, it’s been a few weeks. I have been unapologetic about not living up to my “I will write to you weekly” commitment. I was moving out of NYC. It was a lot, logistically and emotionally. I’d lived in the same apartment for 7 years, in the same neighborhood for 10 and a half, and in the same city for nearly 15 — unless you count the stint when I left the room I’d been renting in the East Village to move to a series of sublets around San Francisco and fancied myself a “nomad” in the process. This apartment in Brooklyn Heights was the first lease I’d ever signed, the first time I’d really lived on my own, and heck, the first time I’d bought a set of tableware. So it’s been a lot. I found stuff deep in the back of closets that I’m pretty sure I’ve owned since I was a teenager, and clothes that haven’t fit since George W. Bush was president.
Naturally, I wanted to write my intensely self-aware Why I’m Leaving New York™ essay and send it all to you.
Mercifully, you are not getting one.
Maybe you never will. I’d wanted to say some stuff about the empty promises of outdoors access throughout NYC, the weird and beautiful creatures who started to come out of the woodwork when COVID hit — I was on the phone when a scarlet tanager showed up behind my house and I started screaming about how the crazy tropical-looking bird must have been some kind of escaped exotic pet, and thankfully the person on the other end of the line was my aunt who’s an environmental lawyer and who totally understands freakouts over wildlife. I have not been able to string together more than a few paragraphs. And it was like, “Nobody wants another white lady essay about leaving NYC.” (True.) Or, “Literally half your neighborhood saw that scarlet tanager and if you’d taken the time to look up from your phone more often you probably would’ve seen it way more often too.” (TBD on that one.)
But I don’t really think it’s about what I could or should or shouldn’t write about, and more that sometimes we have to let our brains rest.
Sometimes you want to write about something and you just can’t find the space for it. Writing, for me, is about feeling like you’re standing in the middle of a massive room with a bunch of cans of paint and you have the freedom to hurl one of those cans of paint at the wall, see what kind of shape it makes, and then use that as a kind of writing prompt. But you need enough space to throw a lot of paint. And you need a lot of paint in the first place. And when you’re going through an enormous upheaval in your life, it is perfectly OK to suddenly not be able to write a profound or even cloying personal essay about it. Sometimes you find that you do not have enough paint. Or that you are not in a room large enough to hurl paint all over the walls.
So that’s where I am. Information overload can get you to the point where that room is small, where those walls are low, where when you throw that paint it just ends up splashing right back at you and you are effectively wallowing in a dunk tank of your own self-indulgent feelings. Or sometimes you do not have the paint. It is OK to not have the paint. You will have it again soon.
Oh, anyway, some other stuff.
Before I close and wish you all a lunar cycle full of health and happiness, I want to bring up two very important things.
1) I wish to correct a grievous error. In “The Firewood 005: Cougartown,” I mention a could-have-been-ill-fated snowshoeing excursion on Wittenberg Mountain in the Catskills with an unnamed “then-BF.” I had the privilege of sharing a few beers with him this weekend, and he would like to point out that we did not irresponsibly oversleep because we were hung over and, in fact, got a very early start but had no idea that it would take so long to snowshoe to the summit. (This actually is probably correct.) He also would like to be referred to henceforth as “Russell Crowe” and I shall respect his wishes.
2) I have a couple of inquiries for y’all. Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I’m hoping to dig deep into some “relevant” topics related to outdoors access and culture, and I’m interested in talking to any of you who have ever been involved in the following:
the “digital nomad” lifestyle
the “vanlife” lifestyle
snowshoeing as a leisure pursuit
You know what’s cool about Substack? You can just hit reply and email me! So give a shout. I am trying to pull in some interesting perspectives on those topics and am happy to keep all your input anonymous if that’s what you want. Bonus points if you are not a white dude who has cashed out at least one startup. It’s not that I don’t love you, pale fellows who can code, but you tend to be the loudest voices on this stuff, except maybe for snowshoeing, where the loudest voices are likely white dudes who look like Vermin Supreme and they’re loud because they’re telling you to get off their lawn. While on snowshoes.
So anyway, there wasn’t much of substance for me to share with you today. But my point is that sometimes you don’t have much to give. I didn’t. And literally all I was doing was dealing with a stressful job and a move. I can’t imagine what it’s like for my friends who are activists, caregivers, first responders, animal rescuers, etc.
In short: Be kind. Set boundaries for yourself. Don’t expect the people in your life to be able to give you everything you need, because these days, they may be struggling just to nourish themselves. Give yourself the space to rest and breathe however you possibly can, and let those paint cans refill themselves with freaking brilliant colors that have way cooler names than anything Farrow & Ball could think of.
(Sulking Room Pink, I’m looking at you.)
Stay wild,
Caro
P.S.: On a completely different note…I, for one, was not expecting there to be a Gawker Media connection in the story of the dude who found Forrest Fenn’s treasure.