Last weekend I made a vision board, an activity I also partook in last year with a group of other ladies. Any time I told someone what I was doing on Sunday, I felt the need to hastily tack on “not that I’m a believer in The Secret or anything!”

And I’m not (I feel ornery about The Secret, but I have to admit I kind of sort of believe in a branch of magical thinking that could be described as the reverse, e.g. that if you worry enough about something highly specific happening, it WON’T, so I’m aware that that’s just the inverse…I’m also interested in the phenomenon of only getting a thing that you want when you stop pinning all of your hopes to it; again, somewhat the opposite of The Secret, which I guess I should also admit I haven’t read), but I’ve always felt that vision boards, tarot cards, and other talismans/crafts that have to do with The Future serve a function regardless, as Rorschach tests.

The phrase you often hear associated with psychics, palm readings, and tarot cards is “You hear what you want to hear” – which I think is great, not a shortcoming, because sometimes you don’t know what you want – or what you want to hear – until you hear it. You learn how you’ve been interpreting your life when you project its narrative onto the combination of cards that turn down for you, or choose the pictures from magazines that draw your attention and arrange them to form a story. Tarot cards and vision boards are ideal vessels for metaphor.

I also like making vision boards because I like to think about the various absurd ways the things depicted could indeed manifest themselves in the coming year, outside of however you may have intended them. Mine has some elephants. Some kayaks. Books. Last year I put two adorable babies, who happened to be wearing knit hats that looked like pandas, on my board and guess what?! Now I own two panda suits.

Of various ages, and from long ago.

Me to student: “Where was Andrew Jackson born?”

Student: “Iowa? No wait…he’s from the south, right? One of those shady places.”

Me: “Shady places?”

Student: “Yeah, where all those pageant people come from.”

Me to young student: “…and discord is the opposite of accord, when things are not in agreement or harmony.”

Student: “Like…a discordant note was struck in our conversation when someone brought up the lawsuit?”

Me: “Is that from something?”

Student: “No.”

Student: “You really hate the word “get,” huh?”

Me: “It’s not very precise–pretty much every other verb is more vivid and specific.”

Student: “I have to say…”get” doesn’t really like you either.”

Me: “What do you need for your conclusion?”

Student: “I’ll tell you…”

Student:

Me:

Student: “Patience is a virtue.”

Student: “I want it to be in black and white, with burned edges…like it’s DEAD inside.”

I noticed the seasons shifting a couple of years ago, when October started to stay in the 60s and my birthday, at the end of April, was no longer guaranteed to be warm. When was the last time March came in like a lion and went out like a lamb? May has taken that over; April if we’re lucky.

It’s not that climate change has been a secret, but the last few years have been the first times I’ve noticed not just the changes in weather–polar vortex, unseasonable warmness, tornadoes in Queens, what have you–but also the shift toward those interstitial months lagging behind the seasons I associate them with (Granted, they are now more in line with the solstices and equinoxes…November actually still feels like autumn and March like winter).

At the same time, seasonal displays in stores have inched their way even farther forward, in the opposite direction of the weather–Valentine’s Day cards for sale in early January, back to school in July, Christmas decorations put on as Halloween costumes are taken off…the image that leaps to mind is of the year as a pepper grinder someone is twisting, wringing it out.

(I titled this post before I wrote that paragraph and realized…but I’m just going to leave it there)

I read plenty about life changes and milestones shifting later and later, and I think of that as I think about the seasons…but when those are delayed, they aren’t pushing something else back to the beginning. The seasons are on a strange conveyor belt.

Yoga teacher, instructing students to relax in savasana: “Now unhinge your jaw…”

 

Pilates teacher: “Really beautiful neutral pelvises, guys.”

I was hoping for a bold or metallic pelvis myself.

 

Pilates teacher losing her zen: “Lift your butts…OK. Your head is not your butt. I know it can sometimes seem that way–”

 

Yoga teach encouraging students to releve: “Now shift your weight into your balls…”

Well, they do say every body is different.

Linguistic superlatives from life recently:

 

Best appellation:

12-year-old student: “Do you like the snake I won? I named it prefrontal cortex.”

 

Best Venn diagram intersection:

The shaded region where “gummy snacks” and “popular sperm bank choices” meet: Trader Joe’s “Scandinavian Swimmers” Swedish Fish knock-off.

 

Best portmanteau of more than two words:

Boyfriend describing the zombies who live in a video-game subway station: “Deadizents”

(citizen…denizen…resident…dead!)

 

Best observation about words’ failings and shifts:

Friend talking about how hard it is to adequately describe what you see when traveling: “It’s hard to use words like “amazing” because we’re always using those words. We’re using extraordinary words for, like, a fucking taco, so to describe Egypt I have to come back around again and just say, “I was happy.””

 

Best mixed metaphor:

Roommate on shooting one’s self in the foot/burning bridges: “She salted the well!”

…which births a slightly different interpretation of events. You can salt the land; you can poison the well; if you salt the well, perhaps you really just wanted to improve someone’s iodine levels.

 

 

I’ve been trying to get rid of things. Mostly tangible things–clothes that itch or that I got in high school, lightbulbs for lamps I no longer own, tutoring materials from the old SAT–but also digital detritus.

Items that exist only as files do take up literal space–on my hard drive, Dropbox, Google account–but I’m not generally lacking for that (at least not since I got an external hard drive). What I’m lacking is the ability to ever listen to all of the songs I have on iTunes, or flip through all of the pictures stored in disparate places, or the right keywords to find the email that I remember receiving but can’t locate…

Digital clutter is a sibling to mental clutter, which seems to proliferate during the winter when the outside world has fewer variations, is less welcoming, and encourages turning inward. Mental clutter like: How much do I need for retirement? What’s about to go bad in my fridge, making me feel like an asshole for wasting food? Which diseases do I need to keep in mind in case I ever contract a mysterious, hard to diagnose illness? Is it less wasteful to throw out that difficult-to-wash bottle or to use water to wash and recycle it?

It may not help that I’m in various places in five books*–due to losing interest for the moment, needing to finish this one first because it’s due back at the library, leaving that one at home because it’s too heavy to carry with me, and on. None of them are books I intend to give up on, but I usually limit the books I’m holding in my mind at one time to two.

*(The Only Ones by Carola Dibbell, American Gods by Neil Gaiman, Infested by Brooke Borel, A Tale for the Time Being by Ruth Ozeki, and The Country of Ice Cream Star by Sandra Newman)

Sometimes my living room is full of mythical beings:

“Who here is a small creature, besides me?”

“Wait, wait–can you tell me how rage works? I’ve never been a barbarian before.”

“I just really want to tweet that my roommate is playing harp in a panda suit right now.”

 

Other times…

“If you have an extra free printer, great. But you understand I’m a 32-year-old man, right?”

 

LET’S BE CLEAR! Roll call.

I love hearing conversations between couples on the train.

Woman telling man about the book she’s been reading: “So then her boyfriend gets killed, right? So he’s dead.”

That is generally how it works, yes.

Woman: “So then she’s going through his stuff and she finds, like, a video of a woman chained to his bed, being tortured to death.”

Man: “Oh, a snuff film.”

Woman: “Yes–that’s what they called it! Wait. What does that word mean to you?”

Man: “Uh…snuff film?

Woman: “Yeah. You recognized that word. What does it mean to you?”

Man: “Um…well…a movie where a girl gets tortured and killed?”

Woman: “Yeah, but it’s fake.”

Man: “Well…no…I mean, sure, yeah, maybe.”

I don’t think that guy was looking forward to continuing the conversation at home.

(Also, I  hope that I don’t get really odd spam out of the keywords in this post.)

 

ALL of the books I read in 2015…subjective favorites in bold:

Blackwater, by Jeremy Scahill

The Infinite Sea, by Rick Yancey

On Immunity, by Eula Biss

The Last True Story I’ll Ever Tell, by John Crawford

A Brave Man Seven Storeys Tall, by Will Chancellor

Into the Wild, by Jon Krakauer

Speaker for the Dead, by Orson Scott Card

The Female Brain, by Louann Brizendine

The Ocean at the End of the Lane, by Neil Gaiman

Hell House, by Richard Matheson

The Collector, by John Fowles

Flatland, by Edwin Abbott

Feed, by Mira Grant

The Buried Giant, by Kazuo Ishiguro

The Dept. of Speculation, by Jenny Offill

A Little Life, by Hanya Yanigihara

We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson

In the House Upon the Dirt Between the Lake and the Woods, by Matt Bell

Xenocide, by Orson Scott Card

Bright-Sided, by Barbara Ehrenreich

Children of the Mind, by Orson Scott Card

Satin Island, by Tom McCarthy

Deadline, by Mira Grant

Blackout, by Mira Grant

So You’ve Been Publicly Shamed, by Jon Ronson

Hush, Hush by Laura Lippman

To the End of June, by Cris Beam

The Vanishers, by Heidi Julavits

Terms of Service, by Jacob Silverman

Biohazard, by Ken Alibek

Reaching Down the Rabbit Hole, by Allan H. Ropper

Brain On Fire, by Susannah Cahalan

The Viral Storm, by Nathan Wolfe

The Living, by Matt de la Pena

It’s Not About Perfect, by Shannon Miller

Plague Time, by Paul W. Ewald

The New Killer Diseases, by Elinor Levy and Mark Fischetti

Inside the O’Briens, by Lisa Genova

When Germs Travel, by Howard Markel

The End of Illness, by David Agus

Abroad, by Katie Crouch

My Brilliant Friend, by Elena Ferrante

The Hunted, by Matt de la Pena

No Time to Lose, by Peter Piot

The People of Forever are not Afraid, by Shani Boianju

The Darwin Awards, by Wendy Northcutt

The Ice Twins, by S.K. Tremayne

Find Me, by Laura Van Den Berg

Infectious Madness, by Harriet A. Washington

Hyacinth Girls, by Lauren Frankel

The Story of a New Name, by Elena Ferrante 

 

I guess I would describe this overall as eclectic people with difficult relationships against a backdrop of zombies and germs?

Small child–7? 8?–on the F train sits down next to me, begins quietly singing to the tune of “My Darling Clementine: “Went to Hellll, went to Hellll, went to Hellll just now–”

Her 6-ish-year-old sister: “Which one is that? The up one or the down one?”

First child: “Heaven is the up, boring one. Hell is down.” (resumes singing)

Unfazed grandmother chaperoning them: “That song just goes on and on, doesn’t it.”

 

ETA: Later on, when the train was going from Manhattan to Brooklyn…

8-year-old: “Where are we now? Are we in Brooklyn?”

Grandmother: “Yes. No. We’re underneath the river almost to Brooklyn.”

8-year-old: “Why can’t I see any water?”

Grandmother: “We’re in a tunnel, because if we were just in the water the pressure would break all of the glass in the windows and everyone would die.”

 

…I really admire the undercurrent of subtle morbidness that seems to run in this family.