Our Nations Capital is Surrounded by Trees

Originally posted August 23rd 2023

I have been listening to Sweet Disposition by Temper Trap on repeat the past few days and I feel old (the birthday blues been getting home runs this week). I’ve spent the last week between Maryland and Washington DC. The trip was fairly last minute, my mother calling me on a Saturday morning saying the school she works at needed help at their library and if I could help her build some Ikea furniture at her new flat. There was a quick “no”, still not confident taking the train 3+ hours, and our call ended soon after. About 5 minutes later my mom called back saying she would drive up to Brooklyn on Tuesday and we’d leave Wednesday morning. I was hesitant. But in therapy a couple days before there was talk of “ripping the bandaid off” so I thought, screw it.

That Sunday I sat in a restaurant for the first time in nearly a year, granted I just got toast. But we were inside and despite the noise, I was okay. I didn’t even think of an exit plan. I thought we were going to eat lunch in the park but I saw my brother and sister-in-law sat outside the restaurant, for a moment feeling like I’d been trapped into meeting them there, but then thought “This is good practice”. You build up the moment in your head too much then whatever you thought was never as big a deal.

A couple days of painting go by, and naturally when I felt in the groove, I left for Maryland. We drove through New Jersey and Delaware and after nearly 5 hours arrived where my mom was staying before getting the keys to her flat. The neighbourhood was like an imaginary America, where they would shoot all the “80s inspired” movies. The houses are obnoxiously large, bland and surrounded by trees threatening to at any moment collapse. The amount of green space vs the walk-ability of the area was baffling. So much greenery is only accessible by car, not even a wee footpath to get down to the river.

For a few days, I put barcode stickers on books in the library, judging many by their covers. One pamphlet was called The Problem of Lefthandedness, filled with pseudoscience about the left and right side of the brain and basically how left handed people are the worst. It’s a very weird hill to die on. Couple anti-vax books, another about meeting “insane and retarded people”. A whole lot of books on Anthroposophy, Christianity and “Autism cures”. I think I accidentally started working for a cult?

I caught up on the podcast Dungeons and Daddies (not a BDSM podcast), ate lunch with my mom, did stretches and went through over a thousand books. There has been a lot of driving. Luckily there’s a corner shop right by my mom’s flat so it feels a bit less cut off. Shopping with my mom for apartment things over the weekend was funny, because from the outside it looked like she was helping me get ready for university (do I even look young enough for that anymore?).

We went to Barnes and Noble (WHSmith for Americans) and I felt like I’d taken a portal back in time. Yes, there were new books but, the music, the layout, how people were dressed. It dawned on me that America hasn’t changed at all since I last lived here nearly 12 years ago. New York is a bubble, similar enough to London that I feel like the world is some homogeneous thing (but I guess what I’m saying is it’s sectionally homogeneous). But you leave the cultural seclusion of the city and find that the suburbs, or just not a major city, blends together. Shorts and oversized t-shirts, kids look the same, teenagers look the same, people are still just people. I know this isn’t exactly revelatory. I guess I’ve been convinced that things have changed drastically, beyond recognition, then seeing that no, places are still blasting Matt and Kim.

Since my arrival I’ve eaten at two restaurants, a Tex-Mex place that was decent enough and glorified coffee shop. I think having a car to go back to gives me a sense of ease I don’t typically have. But even when living in Spain last year with my parents, going out to eat was a struggle and there was a car then too. So I’m not sure.

I nearly made my therapist cry this week because she was proud of me. It’s kind of weird to think about. Because I don’t feel all that different. Or, I don’t notice how different I feel. I’m still anxious, still feel the waves. The panic attacks still come about and I have to lay on the floor, wondering what the fuck I’m doing with my life. So it’s hard to feel like I’ve changed. But for the past few nights I haven’t woken up at 3am with my heart racing, thinking I’m about to die.

It felt good to work. I have been working, but it’s been writing or painting, which doesn’t feel like a job (still can be a slog, but it’s different). Working this week was nice, because I felt like I was back in the world. Even though I was alone for the most part in the library, doing the most monotonous thing like putting a barcode on a book (but god forgive you if you mess up the order and have to go back through a shelf and fix them all, not that I would know anything about that). I liked wandering through the school with a sense of purpose.

I went to a bookshop called Kramers and felt bad about being judgemental of their selection and recommendations. I need a non-dickish way of saying “I read a lot please recommend me something niche.” But the booksellers were lovely and didn’t seem to mind my pretentiousness. I grabbed Fish Swimming in Dappled Sunlight by Riku Onda (which was a bookseller rec), Sea of Tranquility by Emily St. John Mandel and Bunny by Mona Awad. At B&N I grabbed Cursed Bread by Sophie Mackintosh and Birnam Wood by Eleanor Catton. Our hosts in Maryland also gifted me Midnight Riot by Ben Aaronovitch and The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead. Before leaving Brooklyn I’d grabbed a set of Seamus Heaney poems and Saltwater by Jessica Andrews. The library was giving away books so I took a copy of The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway, Cats Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut, Light in August by William Faulkner, a book of Russian folk stories and a history book called Age of Enlightenment. Was it the best time to get all these books when I have to move in a month (or a week, New York is confusing)? And I’m reading Moby Dick right now so I hardly have the time or patience to get through any of these. My end of August round up for books is going to be quite sad (I have finished zero books this month so far, it is the 20th when I’m writing this).

This morning I spent 4 hours putting together Ikea furniture. A sofa, four chairs, a nightstand and shoe storage. For two days there were no chairs in my mom’s flat. I would lay on my air mattress and fall asleep when trying to just rest my feet for a bit. I’m relieved to be writing this at the table. It’s nice to see the flat coming together. I gave mom a few paintings and they help brighten up the grey walls. I gave her a large piece, unstretched, which is her favourite because she says it’s like having another window. The others are smaller bits that I admittedly wanted out of my limited storage space. But also, it’s nice to see them hung up.

The birds here are so loud. It’s weird being in a place so starkly contrasted. You drive five minutes to the right and you’re in a national park. My mom complained that there’s only trees and nowhere to get a good view. Five to the left and you’re at the Lincoln Memorial, the Capital Building. The White House is much smaller than I expected. The whole area is clearly French design (it was designed by a Frenchman, Pierre Charles L'Enfant, and I felt like a damn genius when I found out). We went to The Arlington Cemetery in Virginia, just across the bridge, and visited JFK’s grave because we’re Irish I guess. There was a tour going by (the tours are not walking tours, there are little cars pulling you along, because ‘Merica), and I heard the tour guide say “These soldiers died for your freedom and this country, blah blah blah”. And I realised that Americans want to be Jesus. “Soldiers died for your freedom” “Jesus died for your sins”. They have such an intense martyr complex. I didn’t want to be there, I really dislike military anything. Also, this may sound mean, but the military cemetery in San Fransisco is much nicer. We had to go through a metal detector to get into a cemetery I mean, come on now. But, my mom was delighted to visit Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s grave and we placed stones on it. My mom was happy at the end of it, so it was a win.

I’ll be headed home maybe the day before or the day this is posted, and will probably be throwing all the books I bought into a box. My birthday is next week and potentially will be the day before moving day, which is not ideal but better than having nowhere to live. I need to finish a painting or leave it with enough time to dry so it doesn’t get wrecked in the move. There are suddenly so many things to think about. Not just getting the label order right for books.

My mom and I found a path near her flat that went along the river, though it was very far down the hill from us. The path led between the river, canal and water facilities. It was lush with green and bunnies ran along ahead of us. It seemed endless, every so often we’d get a glimpse of the river, some party boats were blasting music. But for the most part it was quiet. I felt like all I wanted to do for the rest of my life was walk down this path. I wanted to walk this path all day, everyday and then go home and do it again the next. I wanted to collapse at the dining table in whatever home I’d imagined and tell someone how my walk was. Then I would go back to the path early morning and it would never end. The same bunnies would run away from me, some letting me get closer than others, maybe some deer would appear. The chain link fence on the right with its red, white and blue “DO NOT ENTER” sign. I could fall off the side but never do. Forever and forever. Then my mother said something and the dream ended. We turned around and went home.

Thank you for reading,

-Enya x

A poem:

(us is a compilation of many people)

I remember us hiding off Old Street
Under an awning from the rain.
The building had a triangle off-cut
Cut specially especially for us.
You and I forever now, older still
You and I always-
Leaning on smoking section railings
We will always be in the Subway in Camden wishing to go home.
(Home for us are separate places, occasionally overlapped).

You hide your guitar under your bed,
“I don’t want to be that kind of guy”
“What kind of guy is that?”
“The kind of guy who plays guitar”
(including a self-deprecating laugh and change of subject)
Ever since then I have been compiling what kind of guy plays guitar:
arrogant, quiet, boisterous, nosy, messy, cleans the dishes even when they cooked, calls me by the wrong name, obsessed with King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard, pronounces my name right on the first try, old man hands, forever and forever and forever.

(You have not been here for a long time
Yet I hope to one day show you this)

I was too drunk to read your tarot cards
but if I did I think they would have said
 “You will soon have a life without me in it and that makes me terribly sad.
I hope we loop back ‘round.”

Us is a compilation of many people and in them is everyone 
I can no longer define us, because we no longer stand in the same rooms. 

I remember us running after the bus
Half asleep at 4am
Headphone wires split across us.
You and I always-
ended in silence.
Tesco Express Costa coffee machine at 7, heads heavy,
We will always be on the 25 headed to Forest Gate-
We will always be checking the TopShop sale section-
We will always be on Grafton at Christmas-
We will always be catching fish with our bare hands-
Catching last moments-
We never said goodbye just "See you later".