Well hello there,
I have been surrounded by much celebration as of late. Birthday dinners and graduation ceremonies, sprinkles and candle wax, red velvet crumbs, empty beer bottles, and discarded ribbon strewn across the floor. There is so much to be grateful for, so much to cherish and hold and adore. When you read this, it will be my turn to celebrate. I am turning twenty-five. Wow. I rarely give myself the opportunity to reflect before I age another year, mostly because I have never liked my birthday. Growing up, June 26th was spent at summer camp or home in the hot, stale heat away from my school friends. I never had the chance to bring in a birthday snack, and very quickly felt that celebrating felt more like work than it did pleasure. I feel strange opening presents in front of those who gifted them to me, I despise the sixty seconds of monotone birthday singing around a cake, and having to say thank you repeatedly for something I did not earn. But the truth is, birthdays scare me. They are fragile, rare, and without guarantee. And even more so, birthdays are an exercise in allowing oneself to feel loved.
You see, there is always the person you wished had called, there is always the gift you hoped you would open, there is always the threat of being disappointed on your birthday because something, inevitably, does not work in your favor. And I think, on one’s birthday in particular, we search for these moments to try and compensate for the discomfort and challenge of allowing oneself to feel and accept love. I know I do it.
When I turned sixteen, I decided to make my own birthday cake. Partly because I was a snobbish boy who had a particular craving for hummingbird cake, and also because having to labor extensively over a six-hour multi-day baking expedition on a day meant for total relaxation felt better, somehow. (I ended up throwing the cake into the trash in a fit of rage.) When I turned twenty, I had many friends at my parents' house for a dinner party, save the one person I wanted there but knew he would never show. When I turned twelve, I was paraded around the summer camp dining hall during lunch, wearing a sash with my name on it, written “Carter.” I spent the next four weeks reminding people that Carter was not, in fact, my name. All of these examples are monstrously frivolous, I am aware. But they encapsulate that very energy of imperfection, of yearning, of without. My entire life, I have obsessed over the mistakes, focused on the blank space, and found the flaws in my birthday to let it feel more normal somehow.
To hear that people love me is one thing, to give myself the space and courage and energy and trust to feel that love is another. I know I am loved, I see it every day. From the hugs I share with my housemate to the phone calls I have with my mother. I read love in the text messages and FaceTimes from my friends around the world, and I even give love to myself when I look in the mirror and smile, sometimes. But on my birthday, I have long withheld my capacity to feel it. The adoration, the care, the joy, the spirit. I am radiant because of those who hold me up. I am confident because of the words I was told as I drifted to sleep. I am strong and capable and determined and excited and curious and motivated and alive because of the army behind me that is woven into my skin. Birthdays, if anything, should be a celebration of those connections – proof that life, its fragile beauty, is only worth it for those interconnected relationships, those mysterious passages that connect oneself to a world bigger than the one they would have created on their own. That is what I hope to celebrate as I pass a quarter of a century on this planet.
My birthday is beautiful because I am not alone — because the candles are lit by someone else, and the song is sung by a messy choir of laughter. Because the table is filled with people other than myself, and my memories of joy and laughter and acceptance are not in solitude. There is so much I feel on the twenty-sixth of June each year – sadness, fear, uncertainty, hope, and wonder. But mostly, now, I feel grateful that I am getting older. That the smile lines on my face no longer disappear. That my stories are weathered and dense and true. That my body has fallen and risen and will do so again. I feel old yet younger than last year. I feel wise and deeply curious. I feel afraid and nervous and shocked and full of each minuscule current of energy running between. And most of all, I am grateful to do it not alone, to have air to blow out the candles, and smiles to greet my gaze.
I know it is of bad taste to say what one wishes for when they blow out their candles, but I don’t care. For many years of my life, I wished to be Hannah Montana. Before that, I wished for a horse. For some time in between, I wished not to get kidnapped – I am aware I am strange, thank you. And now, for several years, I have wished for the same thing. For my family, friends, and all the people I care about to be safe, happy, and healthy. It’s true. It is incredibly unoriginal and lacking any literary spunk, but that’s the line: For my family, friends, and all the people I care about to be safe, happy, and healthy. This year, I suppose, I will add a line, “and to welcome in the love, from wherever it may come.”
This isn’t advice. These aren’t warnings, it just is. Perspective. Ideas. Twenty-five years of shit, twenty-five things to say. My gift to you.
Write it down – the idea, the quote, the thought, the dream. I have pieces of writing everywhere – on coffee-stained napkins and the backs of envelopes, in journals and the margins of books. Sometimes it's song lyrics, other times it is something someone else said. It is a line, a question, and mostly it’s gibberish. But whatever it is, it’s no longer in the ether. It’s in the world.
Smile. At the stranger, the clerk, your boss, and yourself in the mirror.
Mother and Son, For Now, Alone Get drunk and be a fool. Then go out sober. Feel the difference. Pick your poison or choose both.
Move. To a new city, toward the hot stranger at the bar. To a place or a job or a feeling that makes you scared and excited. And move your body. Go for a run. Walk after dinner before the sun is down. Walk in the morning before the sun is up. Just move. And sweat.
Two Minutes, Roller Case, Staying Forever Have sex. With yourself, with strangers, with someone you love. Be hot and laugh. Sex is funny. Cum a lot.
Listen to your younger self. What did they love? What did they wear? Chances are, they were the coolest and most authentic version of yourself. Get back there.
God's Favorite, Zit Pic, More Please You are far less important than you think. It’s true. No one is looking at you, no one cares if you aren’t at the party. Do your thing. Let the invisibility free you.
Take care of something – a plant, an animal, your body, your mind. Water it. Love on it. Appreciate it. Grow with it.
A Love Letter, Free, All Done Let it consume you – the joy, the grief, the anguish, the fear. Feel it deep. In your toes and up through he knots in your stomach. We are taught so few words to describe how we feel. Anger or sadness are seldom the emotions we feel, but the only words we know how to use. Sit in it – the mush, the shit, the stuff. No words are better than wrong ones.
It feels good to be bad, but better to be good.
Oooh, What Was That, Three O'clock The Latin root of “amateur” is “amare,” which means to love. Try new things because being bad at them is fantastic. We do it for no other reason than passion and curiosity. Go find something to love, then be really bad at it.
You will never be mad about buying a book about someone you admire. Biographies help remind you that a hero is just a person. Read the ones about the people you love, but especially read the ones about the people you’ve never heard of. There is no better way to learn how to navigate the world than to consider how someone else did it.
Help, Fennel, Mom-mom Presents are overrated. Cook them a meal or buy them flowers. But really, just spend time with them.
Grief never goes away; you just get stronger. Like a stone in your pocket, it feels heavy at first, impossible to walk even. Eventually, you will run. And the stone will still be there. That’s okay, let it swing with your rhythm.
Good Girl, Gripped, Rising Letters are chic. Buy fancy stationery with delicious cardstock paper and write notes to people you love, as gestures of gratitude, or to just say hello.
Know what you like. The fabric for your bedsheets, the smell of a candle, the drink at the bar. But also know what you need. The love that makes you confident, the people that make you better. Fuck what other people say is cool, listen to what your body tells you.
Father Son, Dinner, For Me? If you’re thinking of someone, tell them.
Do one thing every day that reminds you who you are. We all do shit we don’t want to – for work, for family, to survive. But remind yourself what it is all for, just once a day.
So Real, Private School, Treasure Be comfortable by yourself.
Don’t be afraid of money. Spend it when it makes you happy, save it when it doesn’t feel right. Buy things for other people. Gift yourself a treat – a fancy cookie, five-dollar flowers, the belt you can’t stop thinking about.
Party Glow, On Point, Leprechauns Be the dumbest in the room. Surround yourself with people who make you better. Learn to tread water. Trust yourself, then teach them what you know.
Try your best. When you fuck up, just say it — at work, in a relationship, with yourself. It’s okay. Perfection is a myth; honesty is sexy.
Drizzle, Reminders, No Legs Spend less time looking in the mirror. You know what you look like. Love what you look like, then move on.
Slow down. Slow down. Slow down.
Let love in.
I’ve been on my phone a lot. Watching reels and texting boys. I’ve been drinking thick black coffee with cinnamon from my mocha pot and iced jasmine green tea from the farmer’s market. I’ve been obsessed with peonies and blackberries and my new German glasses from the 70s. I’ve been wearing t-shirts with black jeans and The Row derby loafers gifted by a friend. Vintage straight leg pale brown jeans and pink distressed tie-dye tees. Hot mat pilates and lots of sugar-free electrolytes. Shrimp - the cocktail, taco, or seared kind, you name it, I’m in. I’ve been loving a tequila soda with extra lime juice and a salted rim, messy black eye shadow, and a little yellow flower pot I use to hold my brushes when I paint. I smell like Malin and Geotz Cannabis perfume oil, cigarettes, lavender body soap, and Aesop’s Karst fragrance. I read and loved the sex memoir “The Loves of My Life” by Edmond White, “When the Going Was Good” by Graydon Carter, and “Lot” by Bryan Washington. I have been listening to the podcast “Fashion Neurosis” by Bella Freud on 1.5 speed while driving or folding my laundry. Cameron Winter, Phill Cook, Yasmin Hass, Clairo, and Bob Dylan have been my musical soundtracks as of late. I’ve been trying to wake early without snoozing, trying to read and write each day, and trying to let connection pass through me without worrying too much.
That is all for now.
Until soon,
C
xx
