SHORT:
New Year’s Eve this year should just be 1 person in Times Square going “woo”.
MEDIUM:
That one painting of Venus that they always have you study in school really stresses me out. I don’t know why, and I wish it didn’t.
I can’t look at her for too long.
She arrives at the shore after her birth. Emerges from the water fully-grown. Her right breast is covered by her right hand and her hair blows backwards as she’s driven towards land by the breeze of Zephyrus, a wind god.
I can’t look at her for too long.
It might be a shame thing, but I think it’s more that I am jealous of her confidence and congruence.
I know congruity. From snapping my bike helmet into place. From when magnets pull marbles back into their slots on game-boards. From geometry and architecture and math. But I’d love to experience it myself: Lock in. Sit and settle properly. Take a breath that doesn’t stutter, skip, and bump all the way down.
When you’re Venus, the air hits you and it’s error-less. You stand there in front of painters, men, the world, and say: I am fastened, I am divine and correct, this is rightfulness and righteousness, I am Venus and the world knows I’m Venus and I feel like Venus and I fucking know, deep in my bones, that I am motherfucking Venus!!!
I can’t look at her for too long.
I don’t know if what I’m talking about is jealousy or envy. The difference hinges on what you can and can’t have, and I have a heavy feeling in me that hints at the latter.
LONG:
A year ago I experienced a date with too much talking.
I love talking. It’s my smoking. I can’t quit it, and it probably will kill me one day. But 7 hours of talking? Is not a good date. I don’t care if you’re cupid himself, 7 hours is hell. Especially if you’re sitting in a laundromat-bar-cafe in the part of Brooklyn where girls feel cool because they wear sweatshirts as dresses and boys feel cool because they have long hair.
Despite the 7 hours, you say “sure” to her request to stay over. You leave the bleach-alcohol-mocha den and go home. The sex is eh, but (so?) you keep talking after it. You try to explain the difference between a play and a screenplay and literally want to set yourself on fire as you do it, but hey, she asked.
You exhale some garbled bullshit about sculptures versus blueprints and end up half-naked on your tiptoes desperate to find an example of a “quirky contemporary play” on your windowsill. You scan the ledge for the little-green-volume-you-have-in-mind as she checks out your ass. You feel like a “tool”, in like... the cinematic sense. Or whatever.
7 hours and a play discussion is too concrete of an interaction to, days later, just text “I don’t think this is working.” To make things worse, you add an iteration of “it’s not you, it’s me.” Which isn’t a lie… It was you, not her, who scanned the shelf for a play to explain. It was you who bought her the 13 dollar drink and nodded as she explained why she got a degree in social work.
The 13 dollar drink tasted like weak lemonade and the music in the bar was too soft. You could hear your heart beating with a strange- is this connection or is this regret- sort of rhythm. A rhythm you’re sort of always “dealing with” (but escalates when things are lubricated with liquor, no matter how weak and lemonade-y). You lie about needing to be at work early. Take the train. Fill the silence. Count the minutes until you can sit at a cafe across from your office and read alone. Eat a croissant as your hair dries…
She asked if you always shower in the morning. Why? Why did she ask that? Why didn’t you correct her when she looked at your boxer shorts and said I can’t believe you sleep in spandex?
You should never spend 7 hours at a bar talking to anyone. Ever again. Even if it’s not a date. Even if you’re totally head-over-heels in love with the person. You pick up croissant crumbs with your finger and nod with certainty.
When you finally get to the office, you realize that, despite the morning shower, you still smell like bleach-alcohol-mocha.
EXTRA:
When people post 5 paragraph essays about “customer success” on LinkedIn, I’m always like... let's remember that I've seen you face-down-ass-up in a ditch in college.
Why do we spend our time at work pretending like we’re robots who’ve never barfed up Tequila-Sprite at a late night eatery? I think the world would be better if we posted on LinkedIn about stuff like that.
Did you enjoy this? Did you hate this? Are you mad at me for flying home during the pandemic? I am currently waiting for my brother to get out of his experimental movement for actors Zoom class so we can eat Thai food as a family. If this week’s newsletter is weird, blame it on the CA air.
-Meg
Social- @megspope@mpopetweets
Venmo- @mpope-venmo-26
Website- meganpopework.com
Donate to The Audre Lorde Project
Song Of The Week: This. Sorry in advance.
Promo Of The Week: I write for a satire site called AWF. All the articles are really fun, and you should poke around/read them. You can also follow on IG and Twitter.
Thing That Made Me Smile: This Video
Did you miss one of the previous newsletters? Read them all here.