Learning to Read
Earth and Death on the Lower East Side
A few days after my father died, I received an email from Tao Lin asking me to read at Earth in New York. I was on the Amtrak, coming back from a trip with my sisters. We’d been aiming for collective grief, which was proving difficult. My sisters hadn’t seen our dad in years, whereas I’d seen him just a few days earlier, on his last day on Earth.
I never knew my dad well, but I nonetheless felt a deep grief that didn’t seem to fit into the lighthearted conversations we were having. My sisters let him go decades before he actually died. They were ready to crack jokes. I wasn’t ready to laugh. What I really wanted was to lose my shit, to throw a book across the room. I never got the chance. I was always in company, at a restaurant, on a train. I couldn’t even cry at night because I was sleeping on the futon in my nephew’s room.
The invitation from Tao was unexpected. Tao lives in Hawaii and I live in London. Improbably, however, we would both be in New York in May. After my father died, things like this kept happening. Good things. With a self-conscious, atheistic irony, I began attributing my luck to my father’s intervention. He was pulling strings for me from beyond. I received a well-paid illustration commission out of the blue; I got shortlisted for an art prize; I met someone on the street who invited me to edit a magazine; I found an affordable sublet within hours of starting my search. When each of these things came to pass, I imagined my dad looking on, proud of his efforts. And, maybe, mine.
The reading was for Muumuu House, which had published a story about my dad. I wrote the story in his hospital room. He died a few weeks after it was published. Grief can turn even a skeptic spiritual. I kept drawing links: between the story and the death, the death and the reading, the reading and my father. Things felt supernaturally aligned. Of course, I said yes.
It would be my first reading ever—a fact I kept to myself. I had spent a decade performing music, but I’d never gone on stage to share my writing. What would I do with my left hand? I worried about this and other things. I worried about getting Covid before the reading. I worried about throwing up or shitting myself on stage. I worried my story would suck and no one would ever invite me to read again. I worried people would talk over me, having come for Tao or Dasha or Jordan. I worried I was nobody. The Muumuu House piece was the only story I’d ever published. Every night leading up to the reading, I rehearsed alone in my sublet. It was a new story and it was stupid. I hated it. I also tried other stories but all of them were stupid. Suddenly, everything was.
The day before the reading I met Becca, who would also be reading. A fellow newcomer to the scene, Becca was equally nervous. We stayed up late talking about everything that could go wrong and how it would ruin our lives and careers and we would never live it down and we would have to go off the grid like Salinger except no one would miss us. And other such scenarios. Somehow, this was reassuring.
I showed up to the venue two hours early even though I was only supposed to show up 30 minutes early. I opened the door and the organizers looked at me like, May I help you? And I said, Just trying to get a lay of the land! Then I left to meet Becca at a nearby bar, where we locked ourselves in the bathroom and brushed our hair and scrutinized each other’s outfits and said, I can’t believe this is happening. Then we walked to the venue.
There, I found my two sisters and my nephew (he’s 21) and my friend Maggie and her boyfriend. I felt supported and loved and suddenly very, very calm, as if I’d taken a Xanax (I’ve never taken a Xanax). I met Tao. I met Jordan Castro. Everyone was nice. I remained calm the whole rest of the evening. I listened to other people’s stories and laughed. I read my story and it went well (even though my leg was shaking the whole time). Afterward, I stood on the sidewalk and looked at the people gathered there, all smoking and taking photos. I felt like I should recognize them from the internet, like they were probably important in certain spheres. I didn’t recognize anyone, I was new to the city, and that was fine because I had my adult-nephew and my friends and also the organizer Christopher, and the conversation was easy and I felt immense relief that it was all over and I hadn’t fucked it up. I felt like the patron saint of not fucking things up. I felt qualified to give advice about literally anything to anyone. I felt like I would never fuck up again. My dad was administering an IV of delusional over-confidence. Or was this just what it felt like to not hate yourself?
The venue took us to dinner at this nice restaurant. We were in the basement, which looked like a wine cellar. The table was lit by candles. I could’ve fallen in love with anyone in that environment, but my tablemates were: a straight female friend, my nephew, and Peter Vack. I said to my friend, It feels like we’re going to finish dinner and then curl up on the floor and have a sleepover. I was having the best time. Peter and I talked about how we’re both publishing novels based on our romantic folly. I told him I was bummed that once I published my book (which is about getting engaged to a stranger) I could never get engaged to a stranger again because they’d just be like, Is that your thing? Jordan and I talked about his Blimp project. Tao and I talked about his hair mineral test. I didn’t drink. I ate a bunch of fried olives. I overcame my veganism. I had many tiny spoonfuls of dessert.
I took the train back with Maggie and told her I was so grateful she’d been there, it wouldn’t have been the same without her, we would always share this memory. I arrived home at one a.m. then stayed up even later talking to Becca. I told her the evening felt like the kind of weird dream you might have after reading the alt-lit anthology.
The next day, I was physically destroyed but mentally protected, elevated above exhaustion and other bodily discomforts in a way I’d only ever experienced when falling in love. (I could add something stupid here like, It turned out that Literature was the true love of my life.) The mania was heightened by a cold brew, which I permitted myself even though I’m usually super strict about caffeine. I spent the whole day chatting with people on the internet and it was awesome.
On Saturday, I went back to Earth for Tao’s lecture on DMT and the afterlife. Before it started, I talked to Tao about the idea of being “excited to die.” He said he felt confident he could convince me that death was something to look forward to. I was skeptical. I was starting to really enjoy being alive. I asked about near-death experiences—how survivors describe the soul’s departure but not its destination. I understood that the soul could hover above the room or float toward the light or whatever, but where did it end up? Where did it stay? Tao said he thinks the dead can inhabit moths, because one time he was reading an email about his dead dog and a moth landed on his computer screen. After the lecture, someone asked me if I’d seen any moths recently. I said I hadn’t. But I could still feel my dad floating around somewhere, doing something. How could I explain it? Did I have to?
<3
great job on the reading