last week, i came across a youtube channel consisting of animated illustrations that loop for eight hours while jazz plays in the background. i didn’t know such a thing existed. in the context of current events, these videos exude a sort of dystopian comfort—sure, in the before times, you could stay inside and play this video for fun, always knowing that you could actually visit a coffee shop or diner if you really wanted to. but now, these videos are a small way to transport ourselves.
the comments on these videos strike me as explicitly earnest. users talk about how they wish they could “jump through the screen,” that they played the video while taking an online exam or folding clothes, and how they miss being able to actually witness these atmospheres physically. they take comfort in the fact that they’re all in the comment section, talking about what they miss, perhaps thinking about what they were doing last fall.
for some, this time of year is reliably cozy—the weather changes along with the light, allowing for a solid distinction from the summer months. in southern california the transition seems slower or altogether nonexistent: 100 degrees until the middle of october and then, slowly, cooler temperatures arrive.
for me, the anticipation of fall took on a new feeling this year. i bought a weighted blanket, dedicated myself to becoming a “tea person,” and started making soups and pumpkin bread with more vigor compared to previous years. it feels as though i’m trying to convince myself that it’s okay to be home every day because it’s finally october, not because there's a global health crisis.
recently, i discovered that i was not interested in reading, which is my primary way to self soothe. i panicked! after closing my laptop at the end of each work day, i would float around and wonder what i should do. i watched 15 movies in 15 days. i learned how to make pastry dough. i alphabetized my record collection. i felt deeply lost.
i picked up marilynne robinson’s debut novel, housekeeping, and hoped that it would pull me out of my reading rut. it’s a story about women and their relationships with each other in a small town in idaho—how family histories influence future generations and the meditative ambiguity that exists between mothers and sisters. robinson paints beautiful, rural landscapes and constructs sentences that can take your breath away. while i had to push myself to get through the 219 page volume, i finished it feeling reassured and comforted—more like myself.
we all look to different media to find our place in the world. movies, books, art, and music make us feel as though we belong. i find that i’m increasingly grateful for this sensation—for internet friends who’ve told me they’ve experienced the same listlessness and have turned to poetry, realizing that one of my favorite writers and i watched the same movie on the same day, or reading about something in one place only to have it show up again in a different place a few days later.
all this rambling to say, i hope that something is buoying you. whether it’s a habitual walk around the block, a morning coffee ritual, or conversations with friends, i hope you’re finding comfort where you seek it.
tiny morsels
in the spirit of today’s letter, here are five comforting things i’ve watched recently:
david lean’s summertime
a deliciously calming documentary about painter edward hopper, hopper’s silence
juzo itami’s tampopo
sonic solace by way of fog lake, florist, laura marling, and newly released tomberlin.