Favorite Things of 2019

Photo by freestocks.org on Unsplash.

As 2019 draws to a close, I wanted to look back and recommend a few of my favorite things from the year: books, music, television (this was a great year for television!), movies, podcasts, and so on. I hope you check some of these out, and if they’re already among your favorites of the year, let me know! At the end I share a handful of the books, TV and other things I’m looking forward to in 2020.

Books:
Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good, Adrienne Maree Brown
The Book of Flora, Meg Elison
Those Who Wander: America’s Lost Street Kids, Vivian Ho
The Atlas of Reds and Blues, Devi Laskar
Burnout: The Secret to Unlocking the Stress Cycle, Emily and Amelia Nagoski
The Witches Are Coming, Lindy West

(You can hear me talking about Burnout on the GrottoPod podcast on Tuesday, Dec. 31. To keep up to date on that podcast, which I co-produce, sign up for our newsletter.)

Music:
Alcest, Spiritual Instinct
Lizzo, “Boys” (song)
Rope Sect, “Handsome Youth” (song)
Russian Circles, Blood Year
Chelsea Wolfe, Birth of Violence

Movies:
Hustlers
Last Black Man in San Francisco
Little Women
Marriage Story
The Farewell

Television:
Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance
Fleabag
Game of Thrones (Season 8)
Gentleman Jack
Good Omens
His Dark Materials 
Killing Eve
Pose
Shrill
The Magicians (Season 4)

Podcasts:
By-The-Bywater
How to Survive the End of the World
The Boiler Room
The Storm
This Podcast Will Kill You

YouTubers:
Bernadette Banner
Cathy Hay
Kitten Lady
James Welsh

Some Things I’m Looking Forward to in 2020:
Anne with an E, Season 3
Big Girl, Meg Elison
Breath, James Nestor
You Were Born For This, Chani Nicholas
She Votes: How U.S. Women Won Suffrage, Bridget Quinn
Parked, Danielle Svetcov
The Magicians Season 5

Poem a Week: Game

Content warning: references to intimate partner abuse.

"Torres Del Paine National Park, Chilean Patagonia" by helen@littlethorpe is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0

I: Nature

The fox crouches beneath cotoneaster fronds, 
red snout a strange berry.
A mouse scrabbles in the kudzu, 
tiny twitchings of her nose, whiskers, paws. 
The fox waits, can already taste 
the burst of meat and blood across his tongue.

She's so near he can smell the wet earth of her fur. 
In one motion he lunges, traps her in his jaw. 
Her terror makes his heart thrill.
She goes still in the cage of his canines. 
For long moments, months it seems,
(foxes cannot track time as well as they track prey) 
he holds her.

Is she alive? Curiosity swarms like flies in the fox’s ears
and his jaw falls open like a trapdoor, 
dropping the spit-slicked morsel into the duff. 
With no breath wasted the mouse dives back into the kudzu, 
deep beneath its sheltering barbed wire. 
Her babies will wonder why she brings home 
the scent of the hunter.

What do we say about foxes?
They cannot be trusted to protect hens and chicks.
The difference between the fox in the wood
and the fox in humans’ minds is this: 
the true animal does not grieve when its prey escapes, 
does not spend months wondering why she left.


II: In Fairytales

What makes a man terrorize the mother of his child, 
who saw Kali in the basins of blood 
the midwives carried from her bedroom,
who nearly died ushering in their lily-child?
What makes him tear the telephone wire from the wall,
arbiting connection to kin and rescue, as though
her screams would not carry from house to house?

We hire police to muzzle such men and cage them,
lawyers to seal the locks with guilt.

It is no wonder that some men dream themselves into
foxes or wolves, blade-toothed wild hounds, as though
doing so excuses them from the twin responsibilities of
conscience and respect. To live by hunger, lust,
the violence of bones snapped between strong jaws,
scent, the hunt: simple, isn’t it?

And all the throbbing, hot-veined creatures who
tremble in your presence are yours for the taking.


III: The Leash

Last night I dreamed we made a private joke between us.
While laughing, you wrapped a cord around my throat
so gentle and slow, I didn’t notice at first 
how tight it became until I could no longer 
slip my fingers underneath and pull it loose. 
We pretended that this, too, was funny.

Men have told me what to think, what to wear,
what to eat, what to buy, whom to love, what to say.
What not to say.
I have made their leashes my own.


IV: Wake Up

Sirens slice the night. 
Red and blue spins across your face.
Your hand still clutches the torn telephone line, 
copper wires the frayed end
of a marriage come undone,
ragged, separating, naked.

They enter in blue, sticks raised.
Behave as an animal and they will treat you like one.

V: Leaving

Just as the fox does not grieve and blame himself when the mouse escapes,
the mouse does not celebrate or feel proud. But we are not animals,
and I was secretly glad when I heard you left him.
More than secretly: I wanted to set bonfires on each mountaintop
to light your way to liberty. I longed to name each beacon
that would welcome you: Overleving, Sopravvivenza,
Vrijheid, Liberté, Freiheit. Freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

Poem A Week: False Garlic

False garlic, Nothoscordum bivalve. Photo by Eric in SF.

Kick your spurs
deep into winter's hide.
Gulp rainwater, splay your blades,
stabbing green into the black earth.
Claw through soft soil for the sun,
sky the color of a dishrag.

Nod white petals in summer,
shade blonde pistils
from the blistering light.
Flounce your beauty,
flirting through anodyne petticoats
that mask your ballistic blueprint.

Swell your bulbs deep,
masked in papery brown,
studded with seeds: cluster bombs
cocked to burst if they dig you up.
They'll have to savage the soil for years
before they can forget you.

An Annotated Bibliography of the Inside of My Head

My friend Alex is running a blog circus now through December 15, 2019, in which we list books we find ourselves recommending over and over again: “You know those books that you can’t stop thinking about, won’t shut up about, and wish everyone around you would read? The ones that, if taken in aggregate, would tell people more about you than your resume?”

Here’s my list. If you’d like to participate, check out the details on Alex’s blog.

“Metalheads: Heavy Metal Music and Adolescent Alienation,” Jeffrey Jensen Arnett: Until I read this book, I thought I was the only person who listened to heavy metal because I found it soothing. 

“Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of a Buddha,” Tara Brach: I hated this book at first, but being able to accept yourself just as you are, right now, is the most radical and important steps toward self-love. You are worthy.

“The Deepest Well: Healing the Long-Term Effects of Childhood Adversity,” Nadine Burke Harris: The idea that childhood adversity leads to a lifetime of stress, pain and illness is being called the germ theory of the 21st century. Harris (now California’s surgeon general) describes the remedy. 

The Road to Nowhere series, Meg Elison: After a pandemic wipes out most of the women, and new babies become vanishingly rare, a story of how women and trans folk survive across the United States. 

“Come As You Are,” Emily Nagoski, and “Burnout,” Emily and Amelia Nagoski: In “Come As You Are,” Nagoski lays out the science to reassure us that our libidos, however they are, are normal. In “Burnout,” she and her twin sister give us tools for shedding the stress that gets in the way. 

“So You Want to Talk About Race,” Ijeoma Uluo: White people: we need to talk about race. Yes, it’s uncomfortable. But here are some facts and perspectives to get you started. 

“Cinderella Ate My Daughter,” Peg Orenstein: Disney’s “princess industrial complex” is motivated by profit and greed, and is teaching generations of girls toxic lessons in femininity.

“Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice,” Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha: Healing doesn’t mean you go back to the way you were before. Trauma gives us superpowers. Communities of care help us thrive.

“Migraine,” Oliver Sacks: One of the world’s premier neurologists began having migraines as a young boy. He describes how they’re more than just headaches, but fascinating electrical storms in the brain and body.

“You Have the Right to Remain Fat,” Virgie Tovar: You are not required to be thin. You are not obligated to go on diets or control your eating. Fat-shaming leads to health disorders, but being fat doesn’t. Take up space and shine. 

“The Body Keeps the Score,” Bessell Van Der Kolk: Our bodies remember every terrifying thing that happened to us. Here’s how and why they do it, and how to start on the path to recovery.

Poem a Week: At 89

Photo by Jeff Turner on Flickr. Creative Commons.

She looks at her reflection in the solid glass
of a nearby skyscraper.

She sees her curves and filigree framed
by its straight black borders, doubled by its impermeable sheen.

Born in 1914, she knows her young neighbors,
who sleekly shade the sunlight from her face, silhouette progress.

She's seen the blueprints that trace it out: there is no future
in her stone flanks, her bright crown.

She wonders if it's true that buildings earn
their souls when they survive a century

of bankers and barbarians, lawyers and legislators
who bow when they enter her marble chambers.

Who, when they look to her from below, see her face twice; her image
not trapped so much as giving that steel and glass a purpose.

Poem a Week: Summer Fever

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash.

I am walking in the noon sun 
through the canyon, searching for evidence
of the fire that woke us last night. 

There are no remains – no charred
earth, no noseful of smoke or rivulets
of mud churned by the firefight.

So I go looking for blackberries
in the wood, thinking of the tart fruit
I devoured last summer, when I 

was newly pregnant. But the 
thickets have been cut back and picked 
over by birds and human hands. 

Last night you came clutching
a belated half-apology, seeking – what, 
exactly? The sun has long set

On the day for amends between us. 
the woman you seek no longer lives in this
house, this unfamiliar body. 

In the oppressive sky, a clucking raven
dives, hunting what meager morsels are
brave enough to emerge at midday

in this summer fever, 
more stunning for what it lacks: fog, 
noise, abundance, comfort, peace.

Poem a Week: Apocalypse Real Estate

"eine Treppe" by YtvwlD. Creative commons.

This is the house you want to own when shit goes down.
Its blast-proof windows will withstand bullets,
hydrogen bombs, political rhetoric,
and they come pre-sealed with duct tape.

The walls are rubberized concrete,
ready to shimmy when the big one hits,
ready to suck down the heat of climate change
or the cold of the sun's death.

These floors are melt-resistant steel,
just in case those terrorists fly a plane into them
or your ex sets fire to the place.

With the touch of a button the kitchen converts
to a bomb shelter, complete with compostable toilet,
water- and sun-free garden and tankless heated shower:
just the thing for when the Koreans nuke us
to high heaven or your stock bottoms out.

The paint and carpets will match themselves
to your clothes in case of a break-in;
those burglars will never spot you.

No, there's no bedroom.
But you don't actually sleep at night, do you?
There's much too much to worry about
for you to be able to get any shuteye, anyway.

Poem a Week: False Clover (Oxalis)

"Common Yellow Oxalis, Yellow Wood Sorrel" by milesizz. Creative commons.

Don't even think about wishing on
my green hearts. They fold
like the wings of three butterflies,
heads in a huddle. Never four,
not like the one you think I am
when you spy me under
the redwoods' emerald umbrella.

They don't call me sour grass
for nothing. In the wood I am sorrel,
a word like a mouthful of spring;
at home I choke your tender
peas and parsley for all I'm worth.
With each drift of yellow petals
I'm building up my buttercup brigade.

Go on. Pull me. I like it so much I
shower seeds so I can do it again.
Smother me with your thickest mulch;
I will dig my way into the sunlight.
Purge is another name for propagate.
When you found me, you were right
on one count: I can change your luck.

Poem a Week: Basket Stinkhorn

Several basket stinkhorn mushrooms, Clathrus ruber, at varying stages of development.

Alien egg, or bee-spun globe
the size of a toddler's head
sleeping in its bed
of sedums and mud.

At first no more than a marshmallow,
round and mute as an amnion.
Inside, a fungus fossil blooms
a basket of brains.

Come closer, whiff the perfume
of putrescence, a dead ringer
for summer-baked carrion.
You'll catch more flies

with stench than maple syrup
and this is no waffle worth eating.
Stand aside. Let the insects
scatter saprobes as they soar.

Poem a Week: Land's End

The Golden Gate Bridge as seen from the Land’s End trail. Photo by Pest15.

Land’s End

This trail has everything:
views of the Pacific so full, the horizon scythes.
Squawking ravens. Foghorn.
Wide tableau of the fog-headed bridge.
Warning signs that keep you from learning the hard way
about fragile cliffs, sleeper waves, poison oak.

The Great Beach is never
more than a stone's throw from the Great Highway.
There is no getting lost here,
only nature half-tamed
as walking cliches in track suits
check their cell phones for signal.

Even the gulls crave McDonald's.
Even the surf knows Natalie Wood.
Here, you could dismiss the sea's cold limbs,
crumbling headlands, toxic perennials,
and, beyond the water, a green land so feral
it makes you forget you are part of it.