itchy itchy summer
I’ve spent most of my summer, which is slipping away from me as always, itchy. Itchy around my ankles, my elbows, my index and pinky fingers. It’s been a summer of benign ailment, starting with Park City elevation sickness which led into some sort of respiratory infection which led into heat hives, paired alongside never-ceasing motion sickness and mosquito bites. The sort of inconveniences that do not warrant any medical attention whatsoever but could be the result of a mild hex.
In other news, I am at war with insects. Every time I leave my apartment, I take a look at the enormous band of carpenter ants splishing and splashing and having a wonderful time in the liquid bait I put out, a delicious mixture of borax and sugar. They think they’ve hit the jackpot, and they’ll bring it back to all their friends and their queen, slowly poisoning the community. I’ve violated Zeus’s law. I justify myself ruefully: it’s you or me.
This weekend after I made a poorly timed left turn, Valerie told me that traffic conflict in the North and South Bay is exhilarating, a borderline public good for a populace so accustomed to frictionless life. I love summer, and maybe I love it because it is characterized by simultaneous pleasure and inconvenience. I feel this friction in my East Coast life, wherein a thunderstorm is liable to break out at any moment, a beach day means spending hours sandy on the subway, the most gorgeous nature in the world is easily accessible but comes with the nonzero chance of a tickbite that could prohibit beef and dairy consumption forever. Summer is eating white nectarines with an oddly shaped foot tan and discovering that mosquito bites don’t itch in cold, salty water. Wading in swimming holes with warnings about algae and grimacing when a plume of green rises with every step through the water. I know that I’m getting older because I’ve started wearing long sleeves or draping cloth over my body at the beach when it’s hot outside – I’d risk sweaty discomfort over a sunburn.
I spent the past three weeks at home in California. Basically, everything is changing, and it’s breaking my heart in generative ways. I watched my first friend, someone who knew me before I could swim or read, get married. For the wedding, I visited my hometown with my family for three days and made note of all the restaurants that had closed or been repainted a garish color. There is now a shake shack in downtown berkeley. The AI ads on the billboards beside the 101 are getting even scarier. I probably can’t afford to live in San Francisco again, any time soon. I finally retired my 12-year-old laptop and could not help guiltily personifying its haggard loyalty and perseverance. My best friend, who I thought would be a California lifer, is moving to Germany at the end of the month for graduate school. Somehow, no matter what we started off talking about, all conversations with my parents eventually led to reminiscing about all our dead dogs. I went camping at a site in Marin that had free WiFi. During my evening walks in my parents’ neighborhood, sometimes I caught sight of the Amtrak across the Bay, heading south next to the water.
I have more trouble writing diaristic entries these days. This applies to substack and also to my mostly empty 2026 journal. When people ask me what I’ve been up to, most of the time I don’t have an answer. I saw Cats: The Jellicle Ball? I pull out my phone to reference my camera roll for any recent notable events and discover that I barely take photos now either. My hot take well has come up dry. My highlight reel is out-of-date. I swear I’m still living life; I just don’t show my work anymore.
Sometimes I get annoyed with my mom for asking if businesses from fifty years ago are still open and the same, asking if campuses or restaurants or attitudes have changed since she was my age. Inside the question is a pearl of hope that maybe they haven’t, maybe there are pocket time machines that exist in the form of family-owned pizza shops. The truth is that they do exist, sparsely, but I’m afraid of hoping for them too.
Recommended reading:
I have two very short stories coming out in the Bullshit Lit anthology available for pre-order here: https://www.bullshitlit.com/shop/p/antho4 I think the price goes up a week.
I read Anna Karenina while I was home, and it was sooo amazing. Like has anyone heard about this book? I was so resistant to classics in my early 20s, on some contrarian bullshit, but I’m realizing there’s usually a reason why things stand the test of time.
Also listened to Just Kids by Patti Smith via audiobook. Highly recommend listening to this recounted by her awesome Jersey accent. It is a little jarring when she describes a lifetime of events, heartbreaks and accomplishments and then is like, “I was twenty-five years old.”
My favorite tv show of the year so far is Widow’s Bay. I wish it had one hundred more episodes.