A few weeks ago, I discussed embodiment; today, I have escape on the mind. It’s topical because this weekend I was supposed to go on a boondoggle out of the city. Tragically, a known exposure to COVID booted me out of the group.
“If you want to make God laugh, tell him about your plans.”
—REDACTED FILM DIRECTOR
The guidelines are murkier with negative tests and no symptoms, but at the end of the day, you can’t transgress on the comfort level of your friends. It’s interesting to navigate the pandemic as it’s being divorced from the moral strictures we all got accustomed to.
2021: Staring daggers at an errant unmasked person in the grocery store.
2022: Intermittent masking.
Most of the people I consort with have gotten pretty lax. It’s an anxious underlying contract: you are granted a relatively normal life in exchange for the understanding that you might get sick. It’s undeniably a reflection of the privilege and hubris of having a healthy body and not living with more vulnerable folks. I feel a little weird and guilty about it. But, it sure as hell is easier and more fun than the dark days of quarantine and unilateral social distancing.
Jesus Christ, is this the nEw NoRmAl everyone was talking about?
The hum
When I lived in Berkeley, I loved to spread rumors about “The Hum.” The concept was introduced by a friend of Roman’s. I have little interest in demystifying it, but the gist is that it’s a low, persistent, mechanical humming sound reported in certain cities. Due to its inescapable nature, and the fact that not everyone can hear it, it’s taken on vague eerie connotations. “It can drive you mad! Mad, I say!”
There aren’t widespread reports of The Hum in Berkeley. I never heard its fateful drone with my own ears. Yet, I like to joke that it must be the reason why all the older folks are crazy. Decades of living amidst a toxic frequency begot a very particular brand of madness. (Couldn’t be the confluence of drugs and peculiar intellectual types. The Hum is a more whimsical theory!) God, I miss the crusty old libs in berets leaving 30-cent tips after sitting at a restaurant for hours, and writing angry handwritten notes to leave on the windshields of mildly inconsiderate parking jobs.
In New York, there straight up is a hum. The city that never sleeps also never shuts up. On a zoom call last week, the street noises were particularly bad and my boss asked if there was construction happening on my street. The thing is, there’s always construction on my street. Avenue A is like the Winchester mansion, except instead of stairways to nowhere, it’s in a constant flux of new Citibike docks, rebrandings to local psychics evading scandal, and endless hammering on the outdoor restaurant seating gazebos.
That’s a rare bright side of my nearly windowless room (I call the 10”x12” vent in the corner a W.I.N.O. aka Window In Name Only). It may be dark and stuffy, but it’s pleasantly insulated from the constant urban drone.
I can’t find good numbers, but there is certainly a cult of getting out of NYC in the summer. Get thee to the Hamptons, darling! There are lots of reasons to leave. The humidity cooks the street garbage into a potent stew even more offensive to the nostril. HGOBs (“Huge Groups of Boys” - I credit this TikTok) materialize out of nowhere with cases of White Claw. I suggest that the urban hum may be a less conscious but equally bona fide reason to get out every so often.
No Park-ing
It makes sense to want to escape the city because life is often… hard. You can’t even get a library book without being the 23rd person on hold. Gatekeeping is a celebrated pasttime.
On Thursday, I decided to walk home from work. My usual route is to meander from park to park. It helps to see a couple trees after a day navigating the maelstrom of Midtown. Passing by Gramercy Park, I witnessed the unimaginable: one of the gates was propped open with a bag of mulch.
For those of you who aren’t familiar: Gramercy is the only private park in Manhattan. In a sense, it’s the collective backyard of the superwealthy that reside in the adjacent buildings. There are 400 keys in circulation, which purportedly cost $1000 to replace.
Since forbidden things are desirable, I’ve longingly lingered near the park on many occasions, peering through the fence like an ugly little plebeian. Admittedly, it’s kind of epic that they don’t let any old street urchin in there. When everything is for everyone, it’s also for no one. While I tend to be a rule-follower, the open door in front of me was too tempting to pass up. I lingered for about 15 minutes, trying to look really casual and wealthy while I finished a phone call with my mom. I took a full loop before arriving back at the gate I had entered. But this time it was closed. Where there should be a doorknob, there was instead a lock.
Immediately, my trapped animal instincts kicked in and my adrenaline went through the roof. I had to remind myself that it was truly a low-stakes situation: escape could be purchased for the price of mortification. My mind raced through possible solutions where I could avoid looking like a poor fool. Casually sit and read until someone organically leaves and tail them? Wait for nightfall and climb the fence?
As I was pondering my next move, two people came up behind me. A godsend! I mumbled something about “forgetting my key.” But instead of reaching for their keys, they said, “Oh, you need a key to get out?” They were dirty little trespassers, too.
They made a beeline for one of the other gates. They asked a man sitting nearby to let them out and he made a cheeky remark about how you need a key to get in AND to get out. They didn’t seem to care, and went on their merry way. I approached and ate crow:
“I, too, was an interloper! My apologies. The gate was propped open. I walk past the park all the time and have always been so curious. I work at the Horticultural Society and couldn’t resist seeing the plants up close. Thanks for letting us out.”
He smiled and said: “It’s nice, isn’t it?” It was.
I’m sure my face was red as a beet. It’s funny how the tiniest taste of entrapment can trigger such a visceral escape response.
5 Songs for Escape
“Chasing The Sun,” Angel Olsen
Might I say that Angel Olsen’s new album Big Time is everything I’ve been missing in her work for the last six years. She maintains some of the orchestral musicality seen in All Mirrors, with some fun new countrified elements. MY WOMAN came out just when I needed it in 2016 when I was in pitiful collegiate unrequited love. BT matches many of the big feelings from MW, but deals more with love than loss. Angel’s music continues to grow up with her, as her lyrics elegantly navigate complex interiorites. Chasing the sun is oft-used metaphor for adventure, and I appreciate how she uses it in the context of the escape from reality inspired by all-engulfing love.
🎶 I can’t seem to get anything done with someone like you around. 🎶
“Little Questions,” Adspace
A lovely instrumental track by a talented college friend of mine. Echoes of Mort Garson’s Mother Earth’s Plantasia (simply one of my all-time favorite albums). The bird-chirp-laden track is dreamy, uplifting and transportive. Check him out on Soundcloud and IG!
“Legal Man,” Belle and Sebastian
The best songs are less than 3 minutes. I’ll go to bat for this assertion.
🎶 Get out of the city and into the sunshine. Get out of the office and into the springtime. 🎶
“Endless Sleep,” Nick Lowe
The chorus of this song sounds so perfect it makes me suspect there’s a formal reason at play. Iambic pentameter?
🎶 Makes you want to lay face down on the grass so brown, where the sun beats down on the bakin’ ground to find sweet release in endless sleep. 🎶
“I Was Neon,” Julia Jacklin
Another sad girl bop fresh off the presses (released mere days ago). I see escape in two elements of this song. The repetition of “Am I gonna lose myself again?” signals a fear of being distanced from your authentic self, but the repetitive drone has the effect of lulling the listener into a dissociative escape.
🫖 Thanks for reading! Oh, also happy Father’s Day and Juneteenth. 🫖
From the old timers in Berkeley to the prisoner in the park, I’m laughing...