This week at the Disco Hause!
On newsletters
Does your love for this newsletter make you want to subscribe to more? Might I suggest a few, like The Bi Monthly, which encouraged me to take care of my needs and take it easy this Friday after an intense workweek. Maybe Baby might be good if you enjoy Disco Diaries (but of COURSE you do), and I wouldn’t be surprised if you were already subscribed to this one by Ann Friedman. For visual stimulation, I love the light narratives that go along with photos in Noah Kalina’s newsletter, and the simple comics of Edith Zimmerman.
On rejection without the sting
I applied for a fellowship at the beginning of January, and I found out this week that I didn’t get it. I felt this likelihood from the beginning. It just didn’t feel like I put enough of myself onto the simple, one-page application.
Although I was prepared for this, I was disappointed — but grateful — but skeptical — ultimately at peace with the results. The writer hosting the fellowship sent a warm rejection letter — so warm that it could hardly be called that. It was more of an instructional letter on how to move forward from this moment without losing a beat. She gave great feedback for the 515 of us who were not chosen, paired with genuine encouragement, topped with an offer to connect with all of us on Zoom to give another slice of her time for FREE to answer any pressing questions we may have about the industry. Like, she really wants us to keep on with our writing efforts, and that felt really nice.
Still, it took some self-talk and weird math to make myself feel better. I had to figure out what percentage of the U.S. population made up the group of people who even thought to apply to this fellowship (.0002 percent), and for some reason that made me feel a little less like an unremarkable whisper drowning in an endless sea of lost ideas. Then I had to remind myself that my voice and my potential was not at all related to the fact that someone else’s journey led them to this fellowship.
These 20 minutes of mopey self-talk may have felt like a disappointment of its own, but my therapist assures me that such a thing was, in fact, a sign of my progress — that I now have the means to gently escort myself to upright position and move on to the next idea. So, all in all, a productive experience.
On collections
For years I have meant to replace my turn table, which has skipped inexplicably since, oh, 2015. Finally, I have a new one, not because of anything I did, but because my dad happened to have a spare he was willing to part with (thanks dad!).
And now, for the first time in 60 months, I’m listening to my record collection. I’m excited because I’ve become very Spotify dependent, and have gotten out of the habit of listening to albums all the way through — and as a musician, I ought to be ashamed of myself.
I don’t even know what’s in the record collection anymore, aside from a few favorites (Blonde Redhead, Stereolab, and Broadcast). I have suggested to Jake a suspenseful way of approaching the collection. We shall take out only one at a time, starting at the right side of the shelf, placing each record on the left side after we’ve listened. No disc shall go unspun. So far, we’ve heard The Velvet Underground, Arcade Fire, and Elliot Smith. A very collegiate trio, I feel.
On dreams
I’ve long had anxiety dreams set in various old work places, but mostly Applebee’s. In these narratives, I would get a table and run into the kitchen to make a side salad or grab an iced tea, and spend the rest of the dream — an eternity, it seemed — trying to prepare the item, all the while knowing I was getting stuck with dozens of other tables.
The last Applebee’s dream I had was about a week ago, but this one was different. Beyoncé was performing atop the bar. Unfortunately, her show started just as my shift ended and I was asked to clock out. I got stuck trying to figure out how to leave the kitchen in hopes to return through the front door and watch her set, and missed the entire thing. Wish I had seen her live on that bar, but I think this was still better than a side salad dream.
On motion pictures
Shutter Island (2010) is an ok way to spend a night during the 12th? month of lockdown, although I question Leo’s Boston accent. In my opinion, Scooby-Doo (2002) is a better investment of your time, and less of it.
Katya