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?
This might be my favorite thing I do all year long: It’s a great, big mashup of the best books I enjoyed reading in 2018 (though not necessarily published this year), along with my favorite songs released this year. So if you like a song, you’ll probably like the book I’ve paired it with — and vice versa.
I always like making annual lists of my top books and favorite music as a way to reflect on what I’ve consumed and enjoyed during the year. But last year I smooshed the two lists together, and it changed the whole game. (You can see that here.)
I liked it enough to do it again. So here we go! You’re welcome.
A harrowing novel told through intersecting stories of urban Native Americans in Oakland, There There delves into the kind of trauma that endures through generations. I paired it with Arrows, a song of grief and many facets of heartache.
Circe is a lesser god-turned-island witch who sleeps with inappropriate men, tames wild beasts, and makes questionable decisions for love — similar to the narrator in this Bishop Briggs song, who sings, “My baby’s got a fucked up head, doesn’t matter ’cause he’s so damn good in bed … yeah, he’s fucking crazy, but he’s still my baby.”
Alan Lightman wrote some of my all-time favorite fiction, so I was already predisposed to enjoy this work of nonfiction, a lyrical meditation that explores the tension between our yearning for permanence and certainty. I’ve paired it with a song about getting older, significant life changes, and a literal birth.
I’m sure I don’t have to tell you why Michelle Obama’s bestselling autobiography is worth reading. Here I’ve paired it with this Michl song for the line, “This house feels better with you.”
As in White House. I want her back in the White House. That house feels better with her.
I’ve raved about They Can’t Kill Us Until They Kill Us to just about everyone, and I don’t think I ever do this book justice. Abdurraqib is a poet, so the prose is lyrical and precise, and his insightful essays blend pop culture and social justice, covering everything from a Carly Rae Jepsen concert to the shooting of Michael Brown, and everything in between. Each piece was a genuine surprise, and I never knew if I would end up crying or laughing.
I paired Abdurraqib’s collection with this pop confection, because it seems like the kind of thing he might write about someday. Also I’ve liked Cardi B ever since I read about her illegal butt filler injections, back when she was a stripper, because that’s the kind of dedication to craft that I admire.
Less, which won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction this year, is the story of an aging, failed novelist who receives an invitation to the wedding of his ex-boyfriend. Rather than confront his feelings, the novelist travels around the world and occupies his time in other ways, occasionally with other men.
Tieduprightnow is a perfect match, especially the chorus: “The one I need is tied up right now/So let’s just wait a while/The one I need is tied up right now/So let’s not draw the line …”
A summer romance blossoms between a 17-year-old boy and an older scholar staying at his house. It’s a powerful story about intimacy, undeniable attraction, and what happens when passion is indulged. Plus a peach.
This pairs nicely with Back to You, a song of desire from the perspective of someone willing to make the same choices all over again: “I want to hold you when I’m not supposed to/when I’m lying close to someone else/You’re stuck in my head and I can’t get you out of it/If I could do it all again, I know I’d go back to you.”
I’m Panio’s biggest fan, so I’ll read anything he writes. Truly. I once read an article he wrote about paying off student loans, even though my personal longterm repayment plan involves faking my own death, so that should tell you something. OF COURSE his achingly beautiful little package of stories ranks at the top of my list.
I paired it with Gang of Youth’s The Heart is a Muscle, because strengthening the heart feels like a good compliment to a book that examines many forms of love: relationships that exist within family, domestic chaos, fumbling for connection, a ridiculous Pomeranian.
But I just read through the lyrics again and realized this might be a Jesus song. Damn it.
This is an exquisite story about migrants and immigration in which people travel to new countries via literal doors that act as portals, but at the heart of it is the love story of refugees Nadia and Saeed.
I’ve paired it with a sweet pop song about memory and the things we cling to as reminders of love.
Touch is a sharp, insightful novel that skewers high-tech, modern consumer culture, and it was one of my best reading experiences of the year. Not only did it make me laugh, but I thought about the characters for a long time after I finished the book. I’m pairing it with Everybody Wants to Be Famous, because that’s an obvious match for a satire about a culture based on likes.
Citizen contains some of the most urgent, important writing I’ve ever read, and it dovetails so perfectly with this Childish Gambino song (and video) that looks at what it means to be a person of color in America.
It might seem weird to pair a song with a book about finding space for silence in a busy an chaotic world. And it is weird, which is exactly why I placed it with a quiet, slow burn of a song called Nevermind.
Woman World isabout a world without men, and I read it just after the Kavanaugh hearings, which made this charming comic even more of a delight. In Woman World, women rebuild society but better (the new flag is simply a picture of Beyoncé’s thighs) and study relics of the former world, like “Paul Blart: Mall Cop.”
Woman World started as an Instagram comic, so the graphic novel version doesn’t have a strong storyline to pull the reader through the book. But the panels are so cute and funny, it makes for a quick, entertaining read anyway. I paired it with the great bisexual anthem of 2018, although any Janelle Monáe song would work.
My experience of reading Ohio involved a lot of googling. First because the fictional town in this novel felt so real, I swore I had been there. And the characters — I knew them all.
Then I googled because I developed a deep, profound writer crush on author Stephen Markley. Every time I read a passage that I swore was the best thing I’ve ever read, it was followed by another greatest thing I’ve ever read.
Ohio is the story of four former classmates who converge one night in their hometown, a small rust belt town that has been gutted by the recession, opioids, and the loss of industry. It’s melancholy and perceptive, examining the Midwest through the compassionate lens of someone who’s been there.
I paired the book with this Lord Huron song about mistakes and second chances, which would resonate with any of the imperfect, disillusioned characters at the heart of this story. Also because “If I can’t change the weather, maybe I can change your mind” destroys me. Just like Markley’s writing.
I actually just started this book, so I can’t say yet that it’s one of my favorite reads of the year — mostly I just wanted an excuse to post this Kurt Vile song, which sounds like the desert to me.
“Some are weird as hell, but we love ’em/ Some are one trick ponies but we embrace ’em.”
I’ll have another post soon with a few more favorite tunes from 2018; I just couldn’t make them work with any books. In the meantime, what did I miss? Tell me about the books and songs you loved this year.
Ever had one of those conversations in which you know you’re saying the wrong thing — you feel yourself saying the absolute worst words — but you can’t stop yourself? It’s like when you’re headed for a car crash and time becomes stretchy and slow, but it’s too late. You’re already on a trajectory.
That’s what happened recently when I watched Coco with my 4-year-old son, Everest. We’ve seen the movie before, but this was the first time that he fully realized the skeletons were dead people. Of course he had questions — and that’s when a car crash spilled out of my mouth.
E: Are they really dead? Like dead dead?
ME: Oh, yes. Dead like our cat.
E: Dead like Kung Pao? … Why did they die?
ME: Well, everybody dies.
E: EVERYBODY DIES?
ME: Yes.
E: Even me?
ME: Yes, even you. But don’t worry. I’ll probably die a long time before you.
I can’t even count the number of therapy appointments Everest will eventually have based on that one conversation.
It didn’t phase him too much in the moment, but he’s 4. Sometimes it takes him days to process something, and then seemingly out of nowhere he’ll say, “Wait. So tigers DON’T lay eggs?” So I fully expect him to circle back to this at a very inappropriate time: “What do you mean I’m going to die like my cat?!?”
