volume 4: bed times
"it was the best of times, it was the worst of times"
Hi, sweethearts! Some housekeeping off the top — I’ve decided to let you pay me, meaning I’ve turned on my paid subscription settings to welcome cold hard cash into my life. This is merely a suggestion and an effort for me to recognize my work as monetizable. As joyful and alive as writing pitter + patter makes me feel, Earth is in her ~inflation era~ and all I want to do is steal from Loblaws… So, if you can spare $5 CAD/month, I would love to have you.
It has felt particularly hard to write to you lately, Friend. Lover. Stranger. The month of May dealt me a colourful deck of cards, which I will reveal to you happily/harshly/slowly hereafter. I keep sitting at this IKEA desk, surrounded by horse stickers and sticky-note affirmations, waiting for just the right sun or at the very least, some rainy pitter patter (hehe) to write to. Perfect day or not, I’ve been reflecting.
On January 3rd, I was reborn as a Substack girlie. Spilling, photoshopping, and using the word “little” a lot. (So many things are just energetically little — sue me). Creating an internet soapbox for me to publicly gasp at how truly puzzling, sexy, ugly, and boring life is. I love to write, and even more so, I love to have written, and I thank you readers, old and new, for bearing with me as I navigate my slow times. As I would care for a fragile little baby child, I must be conscious in my process. Take her to the playground, feed her fibre, and teach her cursive. I must love pitter-pattering — always. So you can feel my heart in the words.
I feel scattered. Maybe all this sunshine? After months of punishing my naturopath, I finally made it to LifeLabs to test all my luscious blood for nutrient deficiencies, life changing diseases, yada yada. Bad blood? Plenty. Prognosis? Severely Vitamin D deficient. A Canadian amount. So, I’ve been prescribed 6,000 IUD/DUI/IU’s (pick one) of Vitamin D, on top of me self prescribing infinity ∞ units of Park Culture participation, now that the sun is gleaming down on Bickford Park. My sun anxiety (a true weather scarcity mindset that plagues my fall/winter) has temporarily subsided and I am left to wonder, can you overdose on sun?
Doctors/mediums/sexperts/spirits, please text me your solar insights.
To ease my scattered summer Goldfish brain, I’d like to return to a favourite writing format, as debuted in Volume 1: ♡lists♡.
Dear reader, please find below a list of happenings, observations and compulsive thoughts, since I kissed you last.
I am no longer the witch I thought I was.
Before May, I was holding onto my COVID-19 virgin status with the tight Grip of Death. (The Grip of Death as it defers from Death Grip Syndrome aka masturbation carpel tunnel, lol.) An only child sort of grip to a thirsty sense of individuality. As of May 24th, 2022, I am a Pleeb. Just perfect.
However frustrating, I do live my life by a “When in Rome” sort of philosophy. And COVID was no exception. When in Rome, at least be symptomatic.
My childhood fantasy of being bedridden in a stale hospital, surrounded by “Get Well Soon” balloons and explosive bouquets of flowers, family and friends at my beck and call, laughing as I effortlessly eased the tension with my still intact sense of humour, went largely unfulfilled. Instead, I sent an extremely Virgo grocery list to my dear friend Ryan, who purchased and delivered my favourite things, on the house. Close enough.
This house arrest comes conveniently after I have already surrendered to bed. To my need for bed, and bed’s need for me. (In my infamous Leave of Absence). As I tossed and turned in my rainbow Afghan, I kept thinking about Haley Nahman’s COVID experience, as reviewed in Maybe Baby:
“…so I was grateful, in a strange way, whenever I felt too ill to do anything at all. Only then could I accept care and turn away from my work without guilt, the way I easily did when I was 14. When your incompetence is involuntary, you’re finally free.”
I realized, maybe not in concrete words or thoughts, but in my body, that I like how it feels when I give into my incompetence voluntarily. To know that I can do many many things well, and I can simply choose not to.
Fun.
Update: Great Exodus from corporate life, now complete.
On Tuesday, a friendly man with an unknown number and a mystery accent called to say he was here to take away the burden of my corporate experience. My laptop, monitor, mouse and keyboard. Sad. In my leave of absence, it had been months since I’d used that computer to do anything I hated. My creativity thrived in a double-monitor life. In fact, I would add this to the list of quick and easy ways to improve your quality of life. One of the few values I hope to take with me into the corporate afterlife.
In many ways, I feel like I have these machines to thank for my first newsletter. Something about an extra clicky clacky keyboard and a sticky mouse. It feels very olden days. Very elementary school library. A writing setup as designed by Hashem himself.
I’ve reached the end now. No more Big Girl job. I followed the yellow brick road straight to the Emerald City. The Emerald City of unwavering optimism, calling myself an Artist, and being a big girl on the phone with my family doctor.
This first half of the year has been the wonkiest Trust Your Gut time of my life. My Tummy Months. Relying on the dark void behind my belly button to keep my head happy, rent paid, and food on the table.
Thinking back to the January Shuli who ripped the rug from under my comfortable/predictable/stable bi-weekly pay cheque lifestyle, I feel shocked at how full of life this Bed Period has been. In my stormiest days, I clung to Play. And I feel mournful of this wonderful time I had to come back to myself. January Shuli bought me a beautiful gift. I am so grateful.
I don’t feel sad anymore. Why can’t I write when I’m happy?
Lately, it’s felt like I’ve conquered sadness. A sort of life long, lingering case of the blues. Connected to my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. The kind of Blue that comes from the clouds. Or highway radio smooth jazz. The Blue that comes from my dad and sometimes my mom. Cloudy days, formerly my Achilles Heel. The greyness grabbs me by the cankle and draggs me back to my pit of off-white Bamboo bed sheets. For as long as I can remember — fetus to leaseholder.
I heard once that some people are simply born sad.
But, my kingdom of Blue has been freshly colonized. By happiness and love and excitement and dance and the promise of tomorrow. And as such, I find it hard to write. To tell you all about my joy and have it be interesting even to me. With a quieter brain, I am tempted to just enjoy and exist. Act on every impulse to say the funniest thing I can think of, buy out Wholefoods and call it a day. Because, the quiet still feels impermanent. I still feel inches from True Blue.
This time around, I’d like to offer a quick and dirty review of everything I watched in my COVID spell. Some great, some nail biting, some truly unmemorable.
The Kardashians (on Hulu)
It has been years since I was a committed, weekly viewer of Keeping Up. So, I was curious to renew my vows. A surprising realization — I feel like I am returning to family. To my distant, 5”3, skin-care oriented Armenian family members. I feel comforted and included. Proud, even. I am laughing, cringing, wondering why Ellen DeGeneres is using Kris Jenner’s birthday dinner to repair her image. Sorry, I think ignorantly loving the Kardashians is my toxic trait.
xo, Khuli Kardashian-Jenner
Conversations with Friends
Bad. A prank. I have no words other than, I understand why Taylor Swift loves Joe Alwyn. +1 for my Fuck-it List. So quiet. So inoffensive.
Ozark Season 4
Poor Ruth. Navvaro was pussified by the penal system. Wendy can get it. Jason Bateman can get it.
I will miss this chronically dark show. There is no laptop in the tri-state area that can brighten enough for this show’s Evergreen lighting.
We. Are. In. The. Dark.
Also, I want a poppy farm. What if I had a poppy farm, but without the opium business? Thots?
The Flight Attendant Season 2
I will be sending hate mail. Bullying is in order.
Hacks Season 2
I cry. Over and over again. The enemies to lovers is strong in this one. I cannot watch Paul W. Downs without thinking about Trey.
……and of course 900 TikToks.
Duh.
Thank you for reading. I love you for it! This felt so hard to put together. So many so many attempts.
Thank you for your patience.
xx
shupi
Love to hear you’re still alive! Survived corporate life and COVID!
here and happy to hear from you and believing in your journey