Related Recs

🍽

date idea

The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block. Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitment… like yesterday, like the day before. You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone else’s sheets.  It’s five o’clock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers. You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before. Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last — now empty — jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip. You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting. The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken. A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment. Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store. Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.  You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home. It is no one’s fault. You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number. That night you eat too quickly, knowing you’ll wish you’d saved some leftovers. I come over once, then again. We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh. We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be. You don’t mind. We talk for hours. We agree, ballpoint pens are better. I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles. I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you. I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter. I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer. I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes. You call in sick for work too often. I hold you, and you know my callouses well. We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other. I hold you, and kiss your hair. You smell like candied oranges. The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds. You say you feel uninspired. Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.  You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering. This time, it’s different. Sleep escapes us ‘til the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop. I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but don’t know why I stay. We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in “Charcoal Baby”, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings. I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you. Will I see you next week? Yes, if you text me. You forget, just like we’d both hoped.

@ad

Sep 17, 2024

🕯

listening to the fear

hey hey!!!!!! i’m so glad youre here! i went on another run tonight. let me tell you about it. my knee hurts, i tweaked it last night, but i started nice and steady. i like to run at night, often late, so a 1 am run is not out of the ordinary for me. i usually take a road by my house that leads out of town until the streetlights stop. if it’s not yet sunset, i’ll go another mile or so along the road before turning back at nightfall. on my lucky days, the sky paints itself rosy, and wisps of clouds turn alight with oranges and reds. that, juxtaposed against the brightest blue imaginable makes for a pretty picture to distract myself from whatever pain boils in whatever part of my body. i have endometriosis, so oftentimes when i work out, i’ll cramp in ways that would humble a god. so i enjoy watching the sun tuck itself into the ground. my favorite part is undoubtedly the brilliant magenta color that only comes if the clouds are at just the right elevation. after the sun drops to wherever it’s needed next, and the rest of the sky’s blues deepen, ultimately saturating the ochre hues right along the horizon, i turn around. show’s over, i gotta get home. but, when i’m out past 11, and the sky is clear, the farthest point is where i stop and turn my head to the heavens. i’m lucky to live on the edge of a national park and in close proximity to total darkness. the stars here are fantastic. many nights, i’ll wander a little off the road and lay down to stargaze. the faint outline of the milky way, precious cosmic glitter; i’ve loved all of it since i was little. anyway, tonight, i got out to where the street lamps ended, but something stopped me. i took off my headphones and just stood there, listening. i gazed up, stunned by the beauty of the stars. after more than a few minutes spent in awe, i saw something small trot across the road behind me. its tail was unmistakable. a fox, silent as night, the first one i had seen since i was a child. it sailed through the trees by the road, pausing every so often to smell around or investigate a patch of ground. it’s always shocking to me, how quiet it gets out there. even the wind, that slices right through my two jackets, makes no noise. unmistakably eery, probably sacred, and known only to me. i am so incredibly fortunate. it’s the kind of thing you find when you disregard everyone entirely; having an idea, and executing it, no thought to if it’s fucking insane or not. i continued back along the lit road, taking a detour on a dark offshoot to elongate my run. the stars shone there too, but near the end of the street the shadows configured too darkly, the trees lining the sidewalk felt as if they were entombing rather than accompanying me. so, i called my brother and breathlessly caught up with him, as i turned around once more to make my way home. and i saw a shooting star! so there. fox and shooting star. because i was a pussy and didn’t press my luck during one of my (admittedly questionable) daily habits. i love them! i’m going to keep them in my brain like a keychain. a fox and a shooting star jingling next to my house key. isn’t that lovely.

@dailey

Oct 27, 2024

🖋

leaving montgomery park

we’re careening— well, that sounds dramatic. not careening— but sliding, holding you and myself in place— because my disposition leads (and has always led) to believing abandon reckless will kill if I let it as close as myself and yourself held only by bicycle rope or kayak rope or moving box rope side beside inside truckbed backseat forgone throats slicked with City of Roses forest gin and Artemis Moons I’m sober and you’re not I’m anxious and you’re not you’re carefree spit-balling about side parts and saying love and love as we pass long-haul truckers— eyesclosed Lyft drivers— that pinkie-promise coworker to fast friend elbow to elbow barefoot to clogs off in the cab shallow river dipping mask off cheek pinch I-tell-everyone-you’re-my-cousin kind of love that no mother could ever that no father could ever that kind of love that door we kicked down and threw into that mustard bonfire of before that old worthless hinge don’t work so won’t bother not ever not now not in this truckbed— I toss my thoughts to traffic fine me $900 for littering lock me up for language you say what a beautiful city my glasses are in my pocket those empty offices stacked apartments and windowbeam glitterblurs fall into the nightvoid I’ve seen beautiful and more unmatched in those words you weave so keep weaving them— I’ll be here listening long after we pull into the driveway. (& if u like it, I linked my poetry newsletter :)

@chickeninshoes

May 14, 2024

Top Recs from @florinegrassenhopper

⏰

Analog sunday

No screen Sundays. If I want to listen to music its CDs or radio. If I want to watch a movie, no I don’t. If I want to see a friend, I will make plans with them on Friday or Saturday to meet up. As a result, I read more, write more, and sit with questions like “did Citizen Kane‘s 50 year winning streak in the Sight and Sound critics choice survey end in 2012 or 2022? When did Stephen Merritt come out? Whats the etymology of Whitsun?“ This is something that I have practiced off and on for many years but I’ve been doing it every week since December and I love the way that it just allows me one day of true freedom and rest.

@florinegrassenhopper

Jan 22, 2025

15

🏞

One star reviews of parks

@florinegrassenhopper

Mar 3, 2025

11

🌇

Writing down the things that bring you joy

My calendar this year has 52 of these week at a glance pages but I don’t think that way. So, I've been inspired by Ross Gay’s Book of Delighs to start recording the little moments and sensations that bring me joy throughout the day. An analog pi.fyi, if you will. heres some of what I have so far: - Waking up to the sound of my upstairs neighbor‘s footstep. It sounded nostalgic. Felt like company. - Strawberry jam - feeling tender for strangers: their lips, nail colors, their small wrists. Thinking of all the lives we hold gently. - A young girl bought an LP at the bookstore just before I left. She stroked its cover with love - Green tiles —the mint shade always makes me think of Jancie - Charlie’s little bop and punch dancing to some German language punk - lunch with Katherine, curry Brussels sprouts - small talk at the photo studio. The photographer's brother was named after their dad, stole his identity, bought jet skis.

@florinegrassenhopper

Jan 13, 2025

10