Welcome to Coucou! 2021
thank you for being here :)
Hello, friends, and welcome to 2021!
I mean, it’s been 2021 for a minute now, but I have yet to pop into your inboxes.
I hope everyone is doing okay and giving themselves a little break this week. But then next week???? Bitch, it’s back to work! LOL and I will be annoying about it, you neolib cucks, but for NOW…we celebrate :)
I have been finding myself praying, or whatever version of prayer is available to a non-believer. I am not a religious person, but it feels as though the world grows crueler every day, and I more helpless. What is a person – even a godless one – supposed to do? I find myself asking for help from an empty sky. I suppose it can’t hurt, right? On the off-chance that someone is listening, that something is there and would give a shit.
I haven’t wanted to fantasize or daydream about the future, really, since this all began. I think mostly because the future feels so absent and the task feels so futile and privileged. But more and more, I’ve noticed a collective urge growing. A playful whisper getting louder, saying, “Go ahead, fantasize!” All around me there are inklings of a dream, a lust for greener pastures, the brightness of fantasy poking through the dark clouds above.
It’s all very far from being over, of course, but there is a restlessness beneath the surface. I think we’re all itching to Arrive at Our Destination, despite knowing how much longer the road really is. The feeling of today or this week might be of relief or a desire to quietly excuse ourselves, finally, to the other room and just not have to deal with it anymore. The problems aren’t gone, although, admittedly, it is nice to exhale and feel a little comfort, however short-lived.
It can be difficult to engage in optimism or even simply in the exercise of imagining the future, with or without the rose-colored glasses, when the level of suffering is so high all around us. But I’ve been trying, at least, to form a vision of the future that generates a little bit of hope, even if on the most microscopic level: I picture the next dinner party with my friends inside without masks; being able to grab a peppermint out of the bowl as you leave the restaurant; seeing someone drop the contents of their purse on the sidewalk and being able to actually help them instead of standing there feebly staring with your hands bound by an invisible pathogen.
In a recent piece for The New Yorker, Rachel Syme talked about the vintage 1930s blue velvet cloak she bought herself mid-pandemic, the one she’s been visiting in her closet, “imagining the adventures [they] may have together when [she] can go to theatres and dark bars again.” She suspects that this habit of checking in with her abandoned clothes is symptomatic of something deeper: “I’m homesick for the city I live in, and I miss the clothing I already have.” Maybe this urge to fantasize is not about longing for something new, but for something to return, for something deeper and more meaningful with what is already there.
I have been finding myself praying, and I’m not sure why. When I was in a group therapy class a few years ago, we practiced what is called a “loving-kindness meditation,” where, essentially, you think of one person you care for, one person you feel neutral about, and one person who kind of…annoys you and, one at a time, you hold them in your mind’s eye and extend warm wishes in their direction by saying, “May this person be at ease. May they be content with their life. May they be joyful. May they feel safe and secure.” The idea is to cultivate empathy and a feeling of “social safety,” but I’ve also noticed it’s kind of a version of prayer. At least, it’s as close as I can get. I want to engage in a fantasy of the future that is not ignorant of our current suffering, but one that asks us to work hard and care for each other on our way to that better place.
Below is a kind of prayer, or wish, or meditation. For myself and for you, if you want it. A fantasy, simple and pure. A vision to keep pinned on the refrigerator.
Maybe a Year From Now
I’ll wake up in the morning feeling actually rested.
It’s still early but since I’m so refreshed and reinvigorated it’s no problem at all. I linger in bed a moment – it’s cozy and warm with body heat but it’s not too hot either. I can tell that the weather is going to be nice before I even open my eyes; I can feel that the sun is out even with the shades drawn.
I sit in the kitchen and drink my coffee and I don’t look at my phone at all. Maybe I read a book or I make a to-do list but I certainly do not look at my phone. It feels good to not even have the urge.
On the way to meet some friends, I decide I ought to buy my tickets to the Superhero Franchise Midnight Premiere ahead of time. I don’t care much for The Franchise but I like to people-watch and eat popcorn and would never pass up the opportunity to do both at the same time. The people love to ooo and aaa and shout no, Chris Hemsworth, you exquisite fool! at the screen. There is a joy simply in being surrounded.
When I arrive at my friend’s building in Yorkville, the doorman makes the same uncomfortable joke he always makes and I wait the necessary amount of time before returning an equally uncomfortable laugh and asking, “Which apartment is it again?”
I am transported by the laughter of my best friend which I can hear from down the hall. It lifts me, carries me the rest of the way into her arms. I am embraced by the smiles I have not seen in too long.
We drink wine, partake of finger foods, share a joint. Because we can.
Tonight, it’s bliss that steals the air from our lungs. Tonight, we stumble into crowded rows of movie theaters and fall asleep on velvet seats.
Reacquainted with ourselves, reunited with the world.
john’s joke of the week
This part of the email is brought to you by John Jennings Randall.
President Trump issued a handful of pardons on his last day in office including Steve Bannon, Lil Wayne, and Ashlee Simpson’s 2009 SNL performance.
postscript
I am so grateful that anybody at all wants to read this newsletter.
I hope that over the course of 2021 and now that I have been doing this for a lil bit, I can make this into something more consistent and less blog-post-y and with fewer phrases like “neolib cucks.” (I say this here only to hold myself accountable and, um, to test my powers of manifestation.) 2020 was The Year Of The Newsletter imho in the sense that a lot of people started newsletters (rose@me.com lol 👀) and I, personally, started actually reading and subscribing to newsletters. I love Maybe Baby by Haley Nahman so much, but I don’t think I’m capable of that kind of introspective personal essayship on a weekly basis; I love Sam Irby’s hilarious daily-ish newsletter in which she just recaps Judge Mathis episodes and talks about good snacks; I’m reading Cat Cohen’s funny and distinctly millennial poetry; Luke O’Neil’s frustrated takes on this Hell World we live in; I’m even delighting in witnessing Hunter Harris parse through the insane crockpot of shit that is pandemic-era Hollywood gossip. They’re all different, unique, and precise…adjectives I’m not sure I would use to describe Coucou!
…Yet!
So I’d like to invite you on this journey with me as I (continue to) discover “the voice” of this newsletter, or whatever, and maybe also if you’re like, “I like when you share poetry,” or, “I like when you actually send any email at all,” or, “Unsubscribe,” or other helpful feedback, please let me know. I so often find myself making the assumption that nobody wants to hear from me, and I am working on that.
THANK YOU for being here!! I hope this is and will continue to be an enjoyable experience for you. As always, I’m on the other end of that reply button if you wanna chat <3
byyyyyyeeee!!!!!!