constellations #112: peak foliage again (again)

Hi again.

I spent a few days earlier this week and last in Maine, a state of uncommon beauty. Matt and I went up there for the wedding of some dear friends and decided to make a trip out of it, spending an additional day and a half in Acadia National Park and another day and a half in Portland. Mostly we wanted, as so many people do, to see the leaves. At an oyster bar in Bar Harbor we eavesdropped on a woman from Los Angeles, a couple from Florida, two friends from Kansas—all of them having come so far north, so far from home, just to see the foliage. I felt an unexpected warmth, a strange pride—was it patriotism?—as I surveyed my barmates. (But maybe that warm feeling was only because Matt and I got suckered into buying an expensive shot of whiskey from a savvy bartender; really, it was the Kansans’ idea…)

At the top of Cadillac Mountain, earlier that day, we had looked out over the treetops and the view made us delirious, giddy. Then, the next day, cruising along the highway, we kept nudging each other, look at those trees, wow, look over there, oh my god are you seeing that? Genuine awe. I thought: Living here, it must do something to you. To be surrounded by beauty like this all the time! Then I remembered that I used to live like that. I grew up in rural New England, where the foliage is consistently astounding; for the past couple days, I’ve been back in my hometown, and I keep feeling the awe.

(Sometimes, when I’m back in Brooklyn, I try to will myself to feel awe when I look out over the New York City skyline but I don’t feel it, never have. I know lots of people feel that feeling spontaneously and I’m envious; I can’t even manage it under duress. Maybe some people have to will themselves to be astounded by foliage. Is that you? Let me know. I’m curious.)

My overwhelm is a response to the sheer natural beauty but maybe it’s something deeper, too—how fall offers a reminder that summer’s heat always breaks, its unrelenting pace always slows. And those truths feel, to me, like a gift. All year I have been reflecting on my gratitude for the fact that things change, that change is possible. My friend Chris, whose work I cite often, was at this same wedding in Maine and he also wrote about foliage this week. “It’s easy to feel like nothing changes, even when I know that it, of course, does,” he wrote. “This is probably, in some way, a part of what I love about fall. I can see the change happening right in front of me.”

Anyway, this is all just a big windup to say that—as is my tradition—I’ve made a playlist of songs for peak foliage. It’s a mix of old songs and new songs—just music I think is a good accompaniment for the season. Hope you enjoy.

(This newsletter platform doesn’t allow Apple Music embeds but here is a link for the playlist on Apple Music. I have heard from several friends who are considering switching over from Spotify; as a longtime Apple Music user, I think that’s great! See you there!)

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Here are some other things I have been consuming lately: What I Want Doesn’t Want Me Back by Cusp; LOTTO by TAGABOW; The Life You Save by Flock of Dimes; the 10th anniversary edition of Carly Rae Jepsen’s Emotion, which I wrote about for Pitchfork; Peel Dream Magazine and 22° Halo at Baby’s; Alex G at Radio City; Vaginal Davis: Magnificent Product at PS1; the film In Transit as part of NewFest; a veggie burger at Toad Style with my friend Christina, as documented in her newsletter, Burger Diva; a new battery for my phone, which meant losing the 50+ browser tabs I had been keeping open for some number of years—what a loss!; a book club discussion of Franny & Zooey in which I won over hearts and minds; “Pieces of Me” by Ashlee Simpson at karaoke

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This time last year I was: thinking about community (and Community Action Center); and before that: getting married, writing about listening to Hop Along, and thinking about Stockholm

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Thanks for reading. I hope you have something beautiful to appreciate this season, even if you’re far from the foliage I love. See you next 24th.

xo,
M