volume 6: 25 year old baby
honouring the clock and kissing the self
I am hunter-gatherer.
Of summer moons and Value Village négligés. Of The Cosmos and butterfly stomach poops. Of hot tea on hot day. Of hot tea turned cold, half drank. Half caf oat milk cappuccino. Of croissant too eggy, too crunchy, too dry. There are so many things to say about croissants. I hunt and gather these “little girlie things” for the sake of Monday joy, my loyalty to the Debit Card and to remember that somewhere up in the heavens, the clock is ticking. In my final weeks as a 24 year old, I am starting to understand that To Be is to be conscious of the clock.
Thank the clock. Bow down to the clock. Work in harmony with the clock. (Kiss the clock?)
The clock is important, and therefore, croissants are important.
It feels hard to be right now. There are so many people asking me to buy asymmetrical dresses and so many squirrely white women who want to read my tarot. People asking me to live as a marshmallow (with a debit card) and cobble together personhood.
And you have to be really careful eating marshmallows. Sometimes the thought of a marshmallow filling my throat, like a gelatine airbag, keeps me up at night — or maybe just alarmed on the TTC. Recently, in an anxious sort of blackout, I nearly lost my life to a strawberry basil CBD gummy in an attempt to medicate myself to sleep. Retainer and mouth guard mounted, I couldn’t afford to restart my teeth cleaning routine. So, naturally, I dry-swallowed the gummy whole. Now choking, I saw my life flash before my eyes. Pressing play on my funeral slideshow — the slideshow for which we should all be perpetually gathering content (derogatory). I would never say goodbye to my lover. I would never cure my anal fissure or my wrist cyst. I would never pay rent again. Finally, free.
Never swallow anything home alone. In fact, never chew. Too dangerous.
Beware of the clock.
My birthday is coming up in a matter of weeks. October 25th. My champagne birthday. The clock, like the moon, waxes, particularly at this time of year. Pulsing forward, closer and closer with each October day. Bringing me to my curly baby self, my office publicist self, my teenage rebel self, my twenty-something rebel self.
My vegetarian self, my “I eat fish now” self.
My knee-length skirt modesty Jewish Hebrew day school self.
My “Not Like Other Girls” street hockey, front lawn wrestling, driveway basketball self.
My “Not Like Other Girls” Fuck Boy apologist self.
My 2011 turquoise bedroom walls self.
My “I can pay my own rent” self.
My hipster/emo/punk tattoo boy crazy self.
My bisexual making out with all my girl friends self.
My makeup artist Sephora employee cut crease self.
My pandemic witchy moon worshipper self.
My summer self, my fall self, my spring self, my winter self.
My cruel and impatient self.
Happy, laugh, cry, scream self.
Bleeding, bruised, numb self.
“I hope this lasts forever” self.
To all of the selves I’ve gently and violently embodied in my quarter life, the selves who led me to this self.
A chronic Birthday Blues sufferer, it’s nearly impossible for me to steer clear of existential dread and deep reflection on my special day. Examining the quality of my life not in clear detail, but in a somatic slideshow of discomforting mirages. Staring at my selves in a police lineup, all of different heights and crimes.
I’ve always found it hard to describe this feeling of birthday blues to people in my life. It’s a hard feeling to put into words. It lives somewhere in between examining the love I didn’t receive from the people I was supposed to or feeling the closest to my mortality on October 25th, than any other day of the year. The clock descending into my bedroom, not as a reminder of the years I have left, but how I spent the years I wasn’t counting. Forcing me to confront the guilt and shame that do not belong to me and bathe in the beauty of friends who shower me with the love I sometimes believe I don’t deserve. Birthdays are uncomfortable.
In recent years, I've followed a very Virgo Moon strategy of late August birthday ideation. Set my intentions early and consider my needs for that particular year. Another joint Halloween birthday party? Run away somewhere? Do I feel strong enough to trust the day? Rarely. I am my own birthday master because, on a day of battling “unlovable” feelings, I can only trust myself to deliver joy and love.
Come October 25th, I am well prepared to babysit myself. Perhaps a solo movie to kill some hours, or maybe I am out of town with friends — too caught up in enjoying the sights and considering everyone else's enjoyment to go inward. The day requires an itinerary. Birthday feelings rarely carry over. Just get through the day.
This year, I turn a corner into an age I sort of already resonate with. I feel 25. Have felt 25. I feel the transformation of a pandemic exit. A corporate exit. A closet exit. A friendship exit. A familial exit.
I wish for a year of fewer closing doors and more opening windows. Fewer blues, more yellows. And more gorgeous, life-changing summer rainstorms in Toronto. We are truly in a deficit.
In the spirit of birthday reflection, I’d like to share some thoughts/feelings/ramblings about the first 24 years of my life in a special birthday edition of Silly Little Things. Prefrontal cortex fully downloaded (maybe), slightly wiser, slightly hotter, reasonably priced car rentals finally more accessible.
If you’d like to join me in my birthday retrospection, please tell me everything you do to avoid the Birthday Blues or your own birthday reflections.
10 SILLY/THOUGHTFUL/SLIGHTLY STUPID/ROMANTIC THINGS I AM REFLECTING ON MY 25 YEARS ON PLANET EARTH
These have truly been my baby years. And I’m not sure that the baby years ever end. I will always be fumbling, stumbling, crying through every stage of life. I think I prefer to.
It truly is all about love. It’s about where love didn’t grow and where love wasn’t enough. Loving big and strong and continuing to let love in — over and over again. Be it a river, the certified hottie next door, or a big slice of Pumpkin Pie. Love love love.
I want to be weird. As a kid, I was often called weird or made to feel weird. In elementary school, with the kids on my street growing up, even within my immediate family in many ways. At 25, I’d like to lean into it. Wear the weird clothes, dress the weird way, be around other weirdos. Bathe in my weirdest self.
Cats mightttttt be better than dogs. I was a sworn dog person, but 2022 has been the year of the cat, and I am truly sold. Namely, dear Jinx. My roommate Ella’s Sphinx cat. The best new friend I made this year.
This year, I felt especially called to be alone. I found unexpected comfort in my only child status. I always thought I was an extrovert, but seeing this new comfort in the silence of solitude has made me feel otherwise. The friendship I’ve grown with myself is such a gift.
I travelled alone to NYC this summer and commuted from Greenpoint all the way to Rockaway Beach, on the windiest windiest July day. It felt like a spiritually important day of solitude. I’d never been to the beach alone until then. Never been in the ocean alone. Some kids playing nearby encouraged me to be brave and dive in.
I will always need to be making something, having just made something or thinking about making something. Everything in big, beautiful colour. Make a pie, crotchet a big hat, write a newsletter. Arts and crafts ground me. Follow the (f)art.
It’s okay to be someone who doesn’t visit home.
It’s okay if I leave safety for the unknown.
Remaining friends with Anger keeps me safe, understanding of my boundaries and conscious of evil. There is a lot to be angry about. And lots to be at peace with. Find balance.
I love to have fun!!!!!!! Joyous, childish, silly good fun. Fun is how I choose to build my world. Finding the fun. Building the fun. Being the fun. Forever and ever.
If you’ve reached the end of this newsletter thinking “What should I buy Shuli for their birthday?” “What do I buy the person who has it all?” Then, I will offer one small suggestion that would mean the world to me.
I participated in a Darkroom photography workshop with Nia Centre for the Arts and Gallery 44 and I’m selling my two works that won The 2022 Toronto Image Works Award. I am looking for an extra special home for these mixed media pieces titled “I Saw Monsters in the Daylight” and “Big Girls Aren’t Afraid of the Dark”.
Priced in Angel Numbers, as below. Email me if you’re interested. Will ship them far and wide for a good home (price not including shipping).
See you soon. I promise.
Happy New Year to all my fellow Jews. Be brave. Be strong.
Hope you wear something sexy to Thanksgiving.
xoxo
on my day of birth, I languish in the love - I accept the appreciations of my existence, watch the world burn and eat take-out with those who gave me life
to avoid birthday blues: I swallow the clock and ignore its pitiable ticking in the depths of my bowels - I have become master over time