this is a sunday in august

on poetry and the end of summer

Good morning my lovely friends,

Okay, I have been extremely chatty this week. The irony of Sunday’s post about troppi cosi, and here I am spamming everyone’s mailboxes with yet ANOTHER newsletter. Maybe its the gloomy weather, maybe it’s my weird melatonin-induced sleep cycles. But maybe I just really like connecting with all of you. ♥️

It’s 5:30 in the morning, and I’ve made myself a second espresso. It was one of those mornings where you just know you’re not falling back to sleep, and then you start to spiral. So, here I am, deciding to just go with it and probably crash at noon.

Well, since the last time we spoke on Tuesday, not much has happened. I’ve spent the past few days in a little cocoon, hibernating with buffalo mozzarella, bread, and prosciutto. Do you ever have one of those weeks where you feel like the less amount of people you see - the better off you’ll be? That was me this week. I think sometimes we all just need to take a nap, both literally and metaphorically. I also have been going down a rabbit hole of watching old Housewives vacations - the iconic RHOC trip to Ireland, and when RHOBH when to Rome and ordered margaritas and Pina Coladas.

Anyways, the past few days I realized I hadn’t written poetry in a few months. The whole point of me writing newsletters was to almost uncover this veil that writing poetry can be. The poetry process in itself is so interesting and beautiful - because I usually think of an event or a feeling, and then figure out ways how to describe it to people that will make it fit into their own lives, without actually stating what the event or feeling is. And it’s hard.

I will rarely ever go back and read my own work. Is anyone else like that with their art or writing? I don’t know if it’s this fear of vulnerability, mixed with imposter syndrome - I truly don’t know. Sometimes, and only when I’m in the mood (usually after a few glasses of wine) - I’ll go back and read one or two in particular, but not all.

There is one piece that does always find itself weaving in and out of my mind. I wrote “On A Sunday In August”, ironically, at the very beginning of August of last year. And I wrote it at a time where nothing particularly was happening in my life - I wasn’t heartbroken or angsty, but I also wasn’t that excited about anything either. I was going through the motions of a 28 year old girl living her life in the summer, sitting in a backyard, eating watermelon and wearing an old t-shirt, listening to Lana Del Ray and thinking about life.

To me, Sundays and Augusts are both similar because they bring about this overwhelming sense of longing. You’re longing or anticipating the next week or the next season. You’re hopeful, but there’s also this underlying fear. A fear of the unknown, and almost this existential dread of “Am I doing enough? Is this it? Is it supposed to be better?”

It was also written during a time of when people around me started to get engaged, which to me, signified this end of an era, and the beginning of another.

There’s a pair of last night’s heels beside my bed,

And a thank you note inside of a bouquet.

I think we’re growing up now. 

I remember waking up after a friend’s engagement party to this gorgeous dried lavender bouquet she had handed out, and my pink Zara heels beside my bed, with the slightest champagne hangover. And I remember thinking to myself - this is probably the most beautiful morning-after I’ve ever had, a contrast to the espresso martini hangover, which always resulted in 7 hours of me starring at my ceiling, hang-anxiety at it’s prime.

And it was also this reminder of time. We had been stuck in time for the past year and a half, and, all of the sudden, things started to move forward. Nothing was ever going to be the same again - which is the cyclical nature of movement and life, but again - a contrast to where we all had started, pre pandemic.

He brings me breakfast and I start to cry

And I wonder why people save the best parts of themselves for someone else

These two lines are always the most interesting to me, because they tell the story of a strained father-daughter relationship. But I always wonder what experience it brings the reader. Who did they think of? Was it an ex, was it someone else that they loved, or was it a memory?

I used to think that I gave away my power when we first met

And to think that August was when you stopped existing in the margins 

But you’re still one of my favourite adventures to revisit. 

This was a combination of two separate situations. I had a therapy session once, where my therapist told me: “Whenever you speak your truth, you actually take your power back.” I was seeing this guy back in the summer of 2020, we had gotten into a fight, he started to ghost, and I thought that I’d win in the situation by ghosting him back.

I also never realized how powerful it would feel to be honest. I used to swear by the whoever-cares-less-always-wins game, which, I learned, backfires greatly.

And I remember, rolling my eyes as she was telling me, “uncomfortable conversations are how we grow.” And I nodded, yeah yeah, but in my head, I was like - you’re out of your mind if you think I’ll message him first.

Anyways, what ended up happening? I ended up messaging him first. And you know what? It was a productive, adult conversation. And, weirdly enough, we’ve actually remained on good terms to this day.

And, because things come very full circle, right after that situation had ended - one of my first ever pieces to be published was about another ex - a week later. And to me, it always serves as a reminder to keep “speaking your truth” - in whatever way that looks like. To me, it’s usually subliminal messages in poetry - but to you, it could look like the perfectly crafted text, the letter, the drunken phone call, etc. etc.

There are so many things that I want 

And I think August might love me.

Sometimes I wonder if I share too much. But then I am reminded that - you can’t create without exposing yourself. And as I was writing this, I wondered how interesting it would be to some. Maybe it would encourage people to write more, or look at menial moments around them differently. I’ve realized that there is a lot of truth and intimacy hiding in those moments where we’re by ourselves, not doing anything in particular. 

Anyways, I’ve made it until past 1:30. Time for a nap.

I love you!

Emily