CW26: it's time for cicadas
"I just do the best job I can with what's in front of me and follow the path that reveals itself" - Ina Garten
30.06.2024
It is almost the end of June, the time of year when I am the most nostalgic. Up until the end of uni, July meant Procida, an island near the Neapolitan gulf where me and my friends gathered and made up for a year spent mostly apart.
Procida is where I made friends for life, where I gave my first kiss, where I met my boyfriend, where we got drunk for the first time. Procida has always been my home away from home, even when home was a blurry thing in and of itself.
Now that I am a working adult, Procida is my annual leave destination, two weeks that I long for throughout any winter. Yet, it is not enough for me: I’d like to be there tomorrow, thank you! Instead, I have reserved my favourite spot for my birthday week, so I still have some waiting to do.
For the whole day I had not realised what kept leading me to the verge of tears, up until I began this paragraph. Writing can do that for you.
I wish for all of you to experience the smells of home sometime soon.
THE OUTFITS
![](https://substackcdn.com/image/fetch/w_1456,c_limit,f_auto,q_auto:good,fl_progressive:steep/https%3A%2F%2Fsubstack-post-media.s3.amazonaws.com%2Fpublic%2Fimages%2F453ff782-3cc0-4a85-801c-65432b919164_959x1280.jpeg)
Day 1: here’s the reveal - last week I was back in Edinburgh for a concert. It was incredibly bittersweet. I spent the (shockingly sunny) weekend with all of my friends, catching up, reminiscing and - most importantly - dancing! Leaving was hard, it’s hard to turn your back to a place that gave you so much and return somewhere you know it’s only temporary.
This time around, everything was just a wee bit more complicated as I stayed at Lily’s flat, which was my flat throughout 3/4 lockdowns. A lot of life happened there, I had a hard time matching what I was seeing to the grey image I had created of the place.
Turns out the apartment was kind to me, I just could not accept that kindness by the end of our time together.
—
Day 2: back at home, I was finally able to log off at a decent time for the first time in weeks. I had the whole evening ahead of me, which was mostly spent ruminating about how guilty I feel for not being able to write anything other than this newsletter for weeks.
The whole whiteboard behind me is all the essays I want to write, but I can’t bring myself to. Perhaps the problem is that it’s too much, but if I had to be truthful I would have to admit that I am just scared.
I know this sounds like fishing, please know it’s not. I am genuinely terrified that I will run out of ideas, that starting to tick off my “to do” list means slowly coming to the end of my creative journey. I am also afraid that my writing is too self-serving to be worth the effort, that I - someone who was only ever good at executing - have no right to attempt to grow into a better writer.
I guess I’ll remain stuck until I’m not; I won’t write until I do.
—
Day 3: I call this my “class clash day at the office”. For some reasons unknown to me, I ended up in a warehouse for three hours, sorting out packages and orders for one of our B2B partners. I remind the audience that my job is Marketing Strategy.
The task was frustrating, mostly because I didn't know how I ended up there, but what was even more frustrating was the attitude of some of the guys who were with me.
I was not alone in this insane endeavour. With me: three graphic designers from my team and two delivery drivers who had been paid to collect the items already sorted, and ended up forced to help us for the whole afternoon (the culprits were, of course, our combined bosses who each managed to overwork unprepared people).
Since I am the lead in this account, I took charge in the process, something I was happy to do because I - at least - knew who we were working for.
Imagine my shock when, after 3 hours of sweating, ripping my trousers, moving boxes around, liasing with the partner to send us all of the info, one of our graphic designers told the delivery driver that the two of them were the same, two exploited workers, while I, in this made up scenario, was the boss who makes the proverbial dollar while they make the dime. Did it matter that me and him are literally on the same contract and that we are both office workers? NO! He told our delivery driver that he “was a graphic designer, while she…” and he trailed off. See, in our very toxic workplace, it is believed that while graphic designers break their backs all day, us in the strategy world spend the whole day jerking off.
Thankfully, this comparison was not appreciated by the driver who quickly suggested my colleague should join an actual factory and see what real back-breaking labour is. To which I followed with “ah, you offended two people at once!”.
It is not that I am offended by the implication that my job is easier than that of a brick factory worker (which he related his job to) because I am not deranged; rather, I find the lack of class consciousness insulting: first, to the physical labourers who disclosed how much they were being paid to the horror of our big boss; second, to us - me and him - two people who should be united against what is an oppressive and demanding working environment but who keep getting caught up in petty office politics.
We will never be free.
—
Day 4: away for work. I had to attend an event I organised, which was somewhat exciting. I, unfortunately, don’t have that much to say about it tho because the whole day went by so quick and when I returned to my couch I did not feel like a person.
—
Day 5: instead of going to the cinema like we had originally planned, my boyfriend and I were overtaken by laziness and heat and decided to stay home and watch Gilmore Girls.
While I was laying on the couch, nostalgia sucker punched me as Jess Mariano went to the Santa Monica Pier and got a tour of the beach. I can’t express how much I miss bodies of water without sounding annoying, but living in a landlocked area is becoming too much for me to bear.
I need to feel the salt on my skin, to breathe in fresh air. Honestly, I just need to know the sea is there, I don’t even have to catch a glimpse of it.
I am starting to feel disappointed with myself: I thought I would be a globe-trotting girlie, but I am a homebody. I see friends who have moved to NYC, friends who are still very much happy in Edinburgh, and I am so jealous of them, because I thought I would be them, it was what I always dreamed of. But growing up, far away from home, has taught me that I want to be home, and I know where home is.
Home is a loud and chaotic seaside, it’s my sister and my family having pizza on a Saturday, and driving to my grandma’s house for Sunday lunch.
I wanted the whole world, and now I am afraid I am a stranger to everyone but me.
BONUS
yep. another poem by moi.
As someone who also grew up by the sea, I can totally understand the need of breathing fresh air and being close to a body of water. When I'm stuck in a city for too long, I miss it so badly!
Also, regarding the section 'I am also afraid that my writing is too self-serving to be worth the effort, etc.' This week, I was having the SAME exact thinking about my own, and then your newsletter popped-up in my mind as an example of writing that, even if self-serving, is able to be very entertaining, playful and carefree. I don't mean to console you or anything, but I thought it was worth sharing ;) Keep going!