Lifestyle: Annie Fay Blog

Animals

7/5/2020

"Animals" is the third of a few pieces I will be slowly sharing from my Senior Capstone, Oh, The Places.

Oh, The Places, is a collection of 15 short, creative nonfiction essays focusing on the theme of place. This project was meant to be like a plein air painting (but with words), like sketches. I wanted readers to feel like a close friend handed over their personal journal or a box of intimate letters. I wanted the collection to be a delicate thing of beauty like a single flower or a rabbit in the night.

I was inspired by many artists (Jenny Slate, Patti Smith, Lauren Elkin, Durga Chew-Bose, Rebecca Solnit, Robert Smithson, Norton Juster and Jules Feiffer, Lewis Carroll, Maggie Nelson, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Charlie Mackesy, Jamaica Kincaid, and Greta Gerwig in particular) and I have immense gratitude and respect for my wonderful professors at The New School for motivating me to refine my voice and use it. This project would not be possible without Rebecca Reilly, Richard Tayson, Timothy Quigley, Laura Cronk, and, of course, the incredible Lisa Freedman.

Music That Inspired My Project:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1fA25bbB4fh7KUcUzlBoOw

Behind The Scenes:
I love the looseness and negative space in the illustration I did here of my cats, Cookie and Gracee. This piece was inspired by eavesdropping. And Googling AR penguins—please do that. (:

Animals

Something new that I love that I discovered recently is AR animals on Google. Type in Penguin and see what you get. It’s hilarious.

It’s funny how we like to place wild things in our manmade spaces. We do it with cats and dogs all the time. These tiny, fur-covered, wild creatures that we domesticate and let trod around our homes and breathe softly on down feathered comforters in our beds.

I think I hear crying. Voices sniffling to be strong. Vulnerability is strong. And so was that last snotty inhale I could feel through the wall. The essence of sadness drifts in a blue cloud up nine stairs to where I am sitting between one gray and one orange cat. The orange light from the hallway beneath me illuminates nothing. I can’t hear the words, but I can feel the tears. There’s really something extraordinarily heartbreaking about a man crying. Well, even a man child. A 19 year-old. A gemini. The sobs remind me of the shrieking yowls emitted from my cats mouths as they wrestle, clawing into each other’s ears with talons. These beautiful, charming little creatures, innocent little kittens I brought from the wild into my manmade space are capable of harm. Maybe that’s some of their beauty though. Remembering that although they lick each other and that’s endearing, and I sometimes catch them with their paws around each other like an old couple in a movie theater from the 20s, they’re animals.

And so are we.

I’ve never been drunk but I’ve made foolish enough decisions pretending to be while drinking a sip of vodka mixed into a hot chocolate in the swimming pool on a summer night.

It’s funny how relationships bring out the animals in us. Here’s this other person of my same species and together we can go from being wild to tame just based on setting. As animals we tear into each other stripping back to the nothingness we entered this world wearing on our backs. We claw and gnaw at each other’s homes until we’re pink and blush colored. And just as easily, we settle down around dining tables or walk around museums and libraries behaving totally civilized.

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© Annie Fay Meitchik. All Rights Reserved. All content on anniefay.com is my own or credit is given when applicable, please do not use any of my images before contacting me above or @ anniefaymeitchik@gmail.com.

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Work

6/28/2020

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"Work" is the second of a few pieces I will be slowly sharing from my Senior Capstone, Oh, The Places.

Oh, The Places, is a collection of 15 short, creative nonfiction essays focusing on the theme of place. This project was meant to be like a plein air painting (but with words), like sketches. I wanted readers to feel like a close friend handed over their personal journal or a box of intimate letters. I wanted the collection to be a delicate thing of beauty like a single flower or a rabbit in the night.

I was inspired by many artists (Jenny Slate, Patti Smith, Lauren Elkin, Durga Chew-Bose, Rebecca Solnit, Robert Smithson, Norton Juster and Jules Feiffer, Lewis Carroll, Maggie Nelson, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, Charlie Mackesy, Jamaica Kincaid, and Greta Gerwig in particular) and I have immense gratitude and respect for my wonderful professors at The New School for motivating me to refine my voice and use it. This project would not be possible without Rebecca Reilly, Richard Tayson, Timothy Quigley, Laura Cronk, and, of course, the incredible Lisa Freedman.

Music That Inspired My Project:
https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1fA25bbB4fh7KUcUzlBoOw

Behind The Scenes:
This essay came about from a place of heartbreak and vulnerability and anger—all emotions I very rarely feel. I wrote this first for an assignment in Laura Cronk’s course Essay Writing: Truth and Culture, and I’ve continued to edit it. I worked really hard to include so many sensory details and I was really happy with the result as well as the illustration. I think the use of quotes changes the tone and distinguishes this piece from the rest in the collection while also building upon the ideas presented in “You Woke Up: A Conversation.”

Work

The concept of work stems from a seed planted in a void of nothingness. The many branches of work fill time, consume time, even kill time. As a child, you were taught to play. Playing seems to be the antithesis to working. Time and play are simply incompatible as play can take place in imaginary realms that don’t function along the same axis of reality as the working-world.

As a kid, oftentimes work and play coincided so seamlessly it was hard to differentiate between the two until one day you couldn’t even remember when the playing ceased. Suddenly, everything became work.

Coloring pages and picture books were replaced by arithmetic and literature. Even friendships became harder to navigate when unbound from multicolored bracelets woven with love.

♀ ♂ ♀ ♂ ♀

You’re older now and each facet of your life requires work. You put effort into setting aside time for school, for family, friends, a relationship, self-care, self-love, meditation, eating, showering, and the list goes on. Days are divided into hours, into minutes—seconds to work on becoming the best, most realized, and truest version of yourself. When you’re so busy working on your own, it comes as a shock when he tells you he wants to work on things together.

Your phone screen lights up. You press your thumb to the screen and navigate to iMessage. Black text in a gray bubble floats harmlessly as you read: Go check your mailbox.

You walk outside, bare feet on the driveway, and retrieve the sheets of folded paper with your name etched in pencil on the front. A love letter? Words of affirmation? Your heart races in anticipation.

You carry the note close to your naive heart back up the stairs to open in bed and your stomach sinks as you read the unexpected words.

Because, when he tells you he wants to work on things together, what he really means is that unless you change, he is leaving. Sometimes the truth is sour, deafening, rancid, unclear, and hurtful. But, sometimes letting truth fester within is worse. So, he let his truth build up until it exploded. It was as surprising as a dormant volcano erupting—you knew you were dealing with a volcano, you knew it was full of magma and history, but still, you thought you were safe.

♀ ♂ ♀ ♂ ♀

You knew there were problems. You did. You knew that. But, how do you address problems when you don’t want to change, but you need to remain likeable? Loveable even? In her essay, On Likeability, Lacy M. Johnson hypothesizes that “... perhaps, one reason—maybe the primary reason—that the world tries so hard to pressure you to be likable (and to punish you when you aren’t) is because they are afraid you will realize that if you don’t need anyone to like you, you can be any way you want. You can tell any story. You can tell the truth.”

♀ ♂ ♀ ♂ ♀

The truth consisted of crying and worrying. You drove to his house first thing in the morning after a sleepless night. You ate egg and onion matzo in your car once you were parked in his driveway and took photos of your puffy eyes and tear stained face. Why is that when faced with your own crying image, things feel a little bit lighter? You aren’t sure, so you let yourself laugh and cry at what it means to work.

Working on things tastes like semen at midnight. Hot almond milk that you will wake up tasting on your tongue because you and your toothbrush slept in different houses. It tastes like peanut sauce, cauliflower crust pizza, and the scrambled eggs that you know you will miss—the way he mixes olive oil and butter together in the hot pan, cracks two eggs against the side, and mixes them over the heat. It tastes like the turmeric ginger tea from Trader Joe’s you would never be able to drink again. Even now, viewing the boxes of the tea perched serenely in the cupboard feels oddly confrontational. Through bittersweet lists, rants, long conversations, and text messages you wish to believe that someday you won’t have anything left to work on at all.

That part is funny.

Working on things sounds like tears muffled by a hyperventilating mouth pressed up against a tee shirt. It sounds like fragmented truths. Each one rises to the surface like a bubble in a carbonated refreshment. Pop. But, there’s nothing refreshing about it. It sounds like crying in the bathtub as your eyes and the faucet run. It sounds like saying the same things on repeat, but always striving to come up with a better way. Almost like when an amateur band covers a classic like “Across the Universe.” Working on things sounds like that song in particular. It meant something to you both, but it is now more depressing than the sad songs you suddenly relate to.

Time to hit shuffle.

Working on things smells like a lit match. Like their parents’ home cooked dinners that your nose tries to remember especially while you’re in the middle of eating cold peanut noodles and lettuce cups filled with sriracha tofu. It smells like the meals you will always remember preparing together—pressing corn tortillas into a heavy metal press or cooking meat and veggies in a fondue pot. It smells like the salt water streaming down your eyes, and you wonder if your tears and his come from different oceans. Maybe when your faces touch it’s like the Pacific and the Adriatic are mixing together.

It’s briny.

Working on things looks like walking through fog. Everything is slightly distorted and blurry. Slightly damp. Your green eyes and his are mirrors that are very hard to look into because the image is realer than that reflected by silvered glass. It looks like a starless sky, a moonless night, a sunless day. A broken ladder, a broken bridge, the broken bracelet with the little white daisy with a yellow center from a vintage shop in Brooklyn. It looks like the emptiness in your habitat where you removed all of the distractions so you could think—gaps on the walls where pictures and cards hung, or the gap on your bedside table where the hand carved wooden mushroom statue from his trip to Bali serves as a home for the air plant you’ll probably manage to keep alive longer than your Love.

Fuck.

Working on things feels like being in the eye of a hurricane. Nothing is actually happening to you, but chaos surrounds. It’s memorizing collarbones with your fingertips and using kisses as apologies. You care about being likeable, lovable, perfect. You worry about doing everything you possibly can to fix anything. Well, anything but yourself. But maybe you’d even give that a try. Because the truth is that all of your deepest insecurities, fears, and flaws have been presented before you and illuminated by your Love. The voices in your head, your inner monologue, cannot help but to sing in unison He has a point. Avoidance isn’t a healthy coping mechanism.

But it is an easy one.

♀ ♂ ♀ ♂ ♀

I think that as women we are told for so long what we want. Yet, how often are we asked? In The Thing Around Your Neck, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie asks “How can you love somebody and yet want to manage the amount of happiness that person is allowed?” (Adichie 153). I ask: Do you want to be in a relationship? Do you want to be in love? We are often told it requires hard work, sacrifice, and compromise—but should it have to? Do you want to take control or give it up? Do you want to do both, and can you? Do you want to pursue your own career or live in the shadow of his? In her autobiography, The Power Notebooks, Katie Roiphe points out how “Fantasies of quasimaternal power involve a tricky kind of subjugation to someone else’s difficulties; it is an antique female idea of taking care of things, assuming control, but at the same time erasing one’s own desires,” (Roiphe 88). So I ask: Do you want to erase your own desires? Do you want to be the one responsible for birth control and accept that we live in a patriarchal society that puts more responsibility on women than men yet placing that responsibility on women just serves to demonstrate that men have more power than women?

As Rebecca Solnit writes in “if I were a man” these questions revolving around gender inequality are nearly impossible to answer because, “How do you think big when you’re supposed to not get in the way, not overstep your welcome, not overshadow or intimidate?”

We are inundated by stories of sexual assault, emotional abuse, and misogynistic micro-aggressions so we must pause and wonder: what is the reason for this? Why is this imbalance so hard to shift?

♀ ♂ ♀ ♂ ♀

Maybe it’s because as Solnit says, “Gender shapes the spaces – social, conversational, professional, as well as literal – that we are given to occupy,” or that “Having strong opinions and clear ideas is incompatible with being flatteringly deferential,” (Solnit). But, maybe in addition to those sentiments, it is because working on things doesn’t taste like sugar. It doesn’t sound like a kitten purring. Because it doesn’t smell like freshly baked cookies or look like a sunset. Maybe because hard work isn’t supposed to be feminine—isn’t supposed to feel like a woman’s job.

But here I am, here you are, here we all are…

Working.

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On Intersectionality

6/21/2020

My voice does not need to be heard right now. As a white person, however, maybe you will listen. I made this because the intersectionality of Covid-19 and BLM is being blatantly ignored and I refuse to stay silent. Please read this, share it, and take it to heart.

If you are hanging out with your friends you are saying Black lives don't matter. Here's why...

Black Americans are dying of Covid-19 at 3x the rate of white people.

When death rates are ranked by zip code, 8 out of the top 10 have majority Black or Latino populations.

1 in 1,625 Black Americans have died (61.6 deaths per 100,000). 1 in 3,800 white Americans have died (or 26.2 deaths per 100,000).

Black Americans continue to experience the highest overall mortality rates. The Black mortality rate across the US has never fallen below twice that of ALL other groups, revealing a durable pattern of disproportionality.

If Black Americans died of Covid-19 at the same rate as white Americans at least 14,400 would still be alive.

Black Americans are more likely to be part of the essential workforce than all other groups. Black workers are about 50% more likely to work in health care or social assistance industries and 40% more likely to work in hospitals, compared with white workers. Yet, Black Americans are also twice as likely to lack health insurance compared to white Americans.

What should we do? Continuing protesting and supporting the BLM movement while maintaining safety protocols like wearing a mask and keeping your distance from others. Stay at home as much as possible. Be mindful of others when at work or running essential errands. Practice social distancing with everyone outside of your household and encourage friends/family to do the same.

We ALL want this to be over. It is a PRIVILEGE to be able to stay safe. Don't treat your privilege as a CHOICE. lil reminder that your happiness is not more valuable than someone's life.

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