When I stayed at an ashram in India, we woke up at 5:30 every morning to sit cross-legged on the floor of a large room for meditation and mantra chanting. And every morning during the Jaya Ganesha chant, the ashram leaders passed out instruments — bells and finger cymbals and wooden blocks — at random.
Every morning I wanted the tambourine. I hungered for it. I wanted it so badly, it became the only thing I’ve ever wanted, and that in itself became part of my meditation. Even though I was chanting as the leaders wandered the temple space, my eyes signaled my wanting. I had to have that tambourine.
FINALLY, on one of my last days, somebody handed it to me. It was like getting a shot of serotonin. My heart exploded with such joy, I played the shit out of that tambourine. I shook it and clapped it and wiggled it, coaxing what I thought was beautiful music from it, so happy to finally let my tambourine light shine.
Then someone from the ashram took it back. HE TOOK IT BACK. He ripped the instrument right out of my hands and shot me a dirty look. I guess I let my tambourine light shine a little too much.
I keep thinking back on that moment now, as I’m living in a vast, strange, empty space waiting for early reviews of my book. It’s an unpleasant limbo state, hoping for the best, bracing myself for the worst. I’m as excited as I am anxious. And I’m not a patient person anyway, so just the waiting part sucks too. I desire so much.
Realistically, I know my book won’t be for everyone. I know I can be too much. Not everyone wants to hear my tambourine.
Remember those cologne machines in truck stop bathrooms where you could buy cheap imitations of the real thing? “If you like Obsession, you’ll love Desperate Measures.” “If you love Chanel No. 5, might as well try Channel 42.” “Love Polo Sport? Welp, here’s Fantasy Football.”
This post is like that, but in a good way. And when it’s over, you won’t smell like a quarter’s worth of sadness.
Here’s how it works: I’ve mashed together my favorite books that I read in 2019 (though not necessarily published this year) and my favorite 2019 songs. Each tune has some kind of tenuous connection with the book I paired it with, so if you like a book on this list, you’ll probably like the song too. And vice versa. So if you like Carmen Maria Machado, you’ll love Mallrat! Maybe.
A graphic novel-style memoir about American identity, race, sex, relationships, and raising a brown child in the Trump era, all told in conversations. Jacob goes to uncomfortable places and tackles the things we should be talking about but aren’t.
A darkly funny novel about a young, beautiful Nigerian woman who can’t stop murdering her boyfriends and the exasperated but reliable sister who bails her out of trouble. Until the serial killer falls for the sister’s crush …
A fractured family on a road trip out west, set against the backdrop of an immigration crisis as children crossing the southern U.S. border are detained or dying in the desert. This novel was so stunning and gutting, I think I highlighted something on every page.
Mashed with: Texas Sun • Khruangbin & Leon Bridges
A romance in which America’s First Son falls in love with the Prince of Wales. I was clawing my way through a particularly low point when a friend recommended this book. Turned out a fun, flirty, escapist read was exactly what I needed.
A queer coming-of-age memoir in essays that instantly became one of my all-time favorite books. As soon as I finished, I went right back to the beginning and read it a second time to figure out how she did it.
I listened to Heavy, which is read by the author, and then I bought a print copy to hold in my hands and see the words on the page. This memoir is about the emotional and physical burden of growing up black in America, examining the secrets Laymon spent a lifetime avoiding.
Greene’s two-year-old daughter was sitting on a park bench in Manhattan when a brick fell from a nearby windowsill and killed her. This memoir opens with that incident and follows Greene and his wife through their journey of grief. I don’t know how he managed to craft such a wonder out of true horror, but I’m grateful he did.
In this memoir, Machado explores an abusive same-sex relationship through dozens of different lenses, like horror tropes, fairytales, and a devastating Choose-Your-Own-Adventure sequence. This book blew my figurative house down.
Hi. I’m the one person who never read Octavia Butler before this year, and I don’t know what took me so long. This historical fiction/fantasy novel about an African-American woman in 1976 California who travels through time to antebellum Maryland is considered to be the first science fiction written by a black woman, and it’s a true classic.
Mashed with: Turn the Light • Karen O & Danger Mouse
A slim novel about a woman who has no friends, no boyfriend, and no real life outside of the soothing structure of the convenience store where she has spent her entire career.
Ross Gay has written micro-essays about moments of delight. Some of them are guilty pleasures, some are natural joys, but most show how we are always just a few inches away from sorrow – and it can be a radical act to feel joy and gratitude in a sad world.
Speaking of guilty pleasures, I think I like Harry Styles now? And I definitely find joy in watermelon, my favorite food. So this song here is my Tune of Delights.
Finally a mindfulness book that doesn’t feel like it was written by a blissful, solitary monk on a mountaintop. This is real talk and real meditation exercises for the real (fucked-up) world.
I Feel Emotion • Operators
Of course I have more favorites that didn’t make it into this smashup. For the books I read this year, peep my Goodreads and to see other 2019 songs I loved, here’s my playlist.
NOTE: There are affiliate links in this post. So if you click through and buy something, it doesn’t change anything on your end; it just means Amazon gives me a few pennies, which I use to help pay for this site because I am happy to take their money.
This morning Everest and I took a walk and passed a sweet little cemetery in downtown Palm Springs. He immediately scrambled up the stone wall that surrounds the cemetery, positioned himself to hop down, and declared his intention to pick a flower for me. A flower from a grave.
He’s never seen a cemetery before, so he didn’t know. I shouted “No no no no no!” Then I explained to him what this place is, and how we respect the dead. We don’t touch monuments or headstones. We don’t stand on a burial place. And we never, ever pick the flowers.
He climbed off the wall and ran to my side.
“There are dead people there?”
Yes, I said. He and I talk about death a lot, which I didn’t expect to do with a preschooler. But our cat died a couple years ago, and Ev always has questions about that, and we talk about my mom, who is dead.
I try to be very clear and straightforward about this: There is no rainbow bridge in our conversations. I don’t use any euphemisms or evasive language. And I don’t promise him an afterlife. There is simply the body, which is buried or cremated, and the memories, which live on.
He asked more questions about the cemetery: Who are the people buried there? Will I be buried there? Will he be buried there? Why are they under the ground? And as I answered him, I mentally congratulated myself on this healthy conversation about death and dying and how well I had explained everything.
“It’s just weird,” Ev said as we walked away.
“What is, baby?”
“How all those people died right there. And in a line too.”
This is my view when my dad’s cancer diagnosis is confirmed. My body is rigid, pressed up against a frosty window, unable to move or else I’ll lose the phone signal.
I don’t have much to say about it yet, but I can tell you he is hopeful, and he is angry.
“I have things to do,” he says. “I don’t have time for this crap.”
Long after the call ends, I keep my cheek against the window. It is cold, and it gives me something to feel other than scared. The drizzle is steady, and I hear the groan of snow as it is pelted with raindrops.
I should get back to writing, but first I need to listen to the snow’s complaints for a while.
Whoa, time really slipped away from me at the end of the year.
After I wrote my mashup of favorite books/fave music, I intended to whip up a quick post with some of my other favorite songs from 2018. (Basically everything that couldn’t fit in the original post). And I just didn’t do it.
Anyway, I’m here now. I have a mug of matcha, the dog is snoring at my feet, and my precious child who should be napping is hosting a demolition derby in his room. Or maybe that’s just what it sounds like. The point is, this is as peaceful as it gets around here. Let’s do this.
Cayucas • Jessica WJ
I love anything that sounds even vaguely reminiscent of the Beach Boys (see: The Drums), which is why I love Cayucas. Their sound is beachy, summery, and nostalgic, like I should be sunning myself on a beach and fondly remembering a furtive kiss at my high school reunion.
Rainbow Kitten Surprise • Fever Pitch
I can’t get enough of Rainbow Kitten Surprise, mostly because I can’t wrap my mind around their sound. It’s soulful and folksy, like Appalachian hip hop. Is that a thing? Please let it be a thing. Listen for yourself and you’ll see why.
Miley Cyrus • Nothing Breaks Like a Heart
I think I only like this because it sounds Dolly-esque.
Robyn • Honey
I have been desperate for a new Robyn album, and Honey was everything I wanted. The title song is particularly complex and hypnotic, sex and heartbreak wrapped in an infectious pop package. It’s like dancing while crying.
Toro y Moi • Freelance
Even though I’m a longtime Toro y Moi fan, this shouldn’t be a song I like, since it features almost everything I actively dislike: AutoTune, an overdone retro beat, restrained, monotone vocals. But it works. Plus it speaks to me as a freelancer (“Nothing’s ever worse than work unnoticed …”) and has a good chance of becoming my anthem for the next few months.
Little Dragon • Lover Chanting
There’s not much substance here, but I’m such a sucker for giddy, saccharine electro-pop. Also the video couldn’t be more fun.
Father John Misty • Mr. Tillman
Is it even possible for me to make a best-of list without Father John Misty? Thankfully we’ll never have to find out.
What I especially like about this song is that it falls into one of my favorite micro-genres: The jaded songwriter who is burned out on the industry.
What were some of your favorites last year? What did I miss?
