Living in hybrid-pandemic New York has been a continuous cycle of forgetting and remembering that I have a body.
This week alone:
FORGETTING. Dancing in the back room of a dive bar with my boyfriend after martinis and oysters on a Wednesday (who lets us live this way lol).
REMEMBERING. Blushing from ears to ankles for the first time in literal years when a 50-year-old street cart vendor flirted with me. The conversation went something like this:
Coffee Vendor: Good morning, sweetheart!
Charlotte Muth: Good morning!
CV: What will you have today?
CM: Can I get a medium black coffee and that pastry. (pointing emphatically, not knowing what to call it)
CV: One coffee, with no nothing, and THIS pastry. (emphasizing the fact that this was a girl who knew exactly what she wanted!)
CM: And that’s all, thank you! (handing CV $20 bill)
CV: (mock incredulousness) A twenty thousand dollar bill! Wow! A rich girl.
CM: (sardonic, but jovial) Yep, very rich! It’s that big nonprofit money. (gestures vaguely toward office building)
CV: Rich and beautiful! You know, I’ve been looking for a rich girlfriend… (hands CM $16.75)
CM: (giggles rapturously, mutters something like a sarcastic “oh yeah?” and scuttles off to work. Why am I such a sucker for flirty strangers?)
FORGETTING. Being engulfed by the velvety darkness of a movie theater for a 30-second silence between the trailers and the film. This is perhaps the closest to sensory deprivation I’ve felt.
REMEMBERING. Talking to the substitute doorman at my office building (Helen) about what she likes and dislikes about her job. Lately, she has started to wish for a predictable commute with all of the violence on the trains. She told me to keep trusting in God as I bid her adieu.
FORGETTING. Spending an entire Friday without leaving my apartment, and most of the day between the four corners of my not-particularly-comfortable mauve Wayfair couch. In the daylight, I worked on my laptop. At nightfall, I sipped wine, watched Conversations with Friends, and had a few phone conversations with actual friends.
Is it safe to have a body?
One of the most pertinent matters vis-à-vis incarnate life is an oldie but a goodie: physical safety. Shortly before my cross-country move last year, I recall the men in my life having minor breakdowns about how I would protect myself in such a ~big and dangerous city~ (Even though the crime rate per capita is pretty comparable between Berkeley and New York. You are welcome to unsubscribe knowing I spent five minutes trying to think of a decent “Big Apples” and “oranges” pun.)
It’s true that it’s hard to feel safe in an era marked by such constant horror. I try to be smart. Occasionally, I’m stupid. I often wear headphones in the subway (I’ll never forget Bradley Cooper’s anecdote about being held at knifepoint “to a soundtrack” - Listen from approx 06:22 - 10:00). I’ve been guilty of drunk walks home where I was lucky to make it back without tripping in a ditch or getting bonked over the head.
It’s nihilistic, but I don’t believe that my personal efforts will ultimately save me. I’ll continue to keep my wits about me, but can’t live my life in constant fear. It seems that the bottom line is luck (or idk… reform of the laws that allow people to murder children, elders and everyone in between everywhere, all the time).
“The Body” feat. “Mind”
When I feel most mentally insecure (for example, after binge-reading every fucking Dimes Square article that randomly dropped this week), bodily comforts are often the best antidote. Sometimes, I’ll comfort myself as if I’m an agitated horse: patting my own head, stroking my arms, while making “shushing” sounds. The humor and physicality of this motion always has a cheering and calming effect. Long ago, my mom taught me a trick for nerves which she describes as “pounding out your bones.” To do so, you can pound your back against a chair, or jump/stomp around a bit. Before interviews, I’ve often benefitted from the “breath of fire,” an energetic jolt to the diaphragm that I admittedly learned from white girl yoga icon Adriene.
And, that’s all I have to say about existing in the physical realm this fine Sunday. As promised, what follows is my first micro-playlist. Hope you enjoy!
5 songs for embodiment
“O, My Soul,” Big Star.
A great song for “pounding out your bones.” Take it on a jog, and snap along to those funky guitar sounds!
🎶 I can’t get a license / To drive in my car / But I don’t really need it / If I’m a big star. 🎶
“Elevate Us,” Maia Friedman.
Maia Friedman first got on my radar when I saw her open for Bedouine in April. Her bell-clear voice captivated the audience: I’ve never seen a room full of concert-goers stand so reverently still. This ballad makes me feel haunted and tingly.
🎶 Oh how they elevate us / Not that it’s for real / But, oh, the elevation I feel. 🎶
“I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free,” Nina Simone.
Civil Rights anthem, originally written and performed instrumentally by Billy Taylor. The gradual rise in intensity makes my heart swell.
🎶 I wish I could give all I’m longing to give / I wish I could live like I’m longing to live / I wish I could do all the things that I can do / Though I’m way overdue, I’d be starting anew. 🎶
“On Lankershim,” Foxygen.
Hold out until the end: the last twenty seconds redeem the whole song. Turn up the volume at 02:28, and wail along in mid-twenties anguish!
🎶 Well I know I can make it back ‘cause I’m only 25. 🎶
“Embody,” Frankie Cosmos.
A bit on the nose, but how could I not? A bop since it captured my heart in early college. Classic smart-girl-indie-pop.
🎶 Sarah is a lightbeam / from the picture Jonah sent me / it makes me so happy she embodies all the grace and lightness. 🎶
🫖 Thanks for reading my first newsletter! Same time and place next Sunday? 🫖