I'm a confident liar, have my head in the oven so you know where I'll be.
Spring Reflections: Poetry, Lies, and Rediscovery with Mary Oliver's Help.
It’s spring time which means I’m spending my time outdoors and immersed in the pages of poetry. Once again, I’m drawn to Mary Oliver’s Devotions (I go into more depth on my love for her and her poems in this blog post “I wasn’t ready at all to say anything about anything interesting,” a title ironically inspired by a lyric from The National, much like the title of this piece).
Mary Oliver’s quotes are constantly flooding my feed on X. Her poetry books are constantly recommended through Instagram posts and TikTok videos. I sleep with her book near my head. She is constant.
Lately, the surge of Mary Oliver’s presence across various media platforms, spanning cyberspace and my personal readings, forces me to wonder whether my thoughts or words are truly original or if they’re being shaped by her influence. Her presence seems to extend in my sleep.
In a dream, Mary Oliver occupies the chair beside my desk, her gaze tender as we converse. I ask for help so I can move on and enjoy my life. She tells me, don’t worry. I also know the way the old life haunts the new. Ignoring her I then tell her something about wanting to sit in the sun but afraid of getting burned. “Burn them! Burn them!”, she replies, Make a beautiful fire! More room in your heart for love, for trees! For birds who own nothing.
I respond with, I don’t need this from you. A lie. It’s not helpful. Another lie. I long for her wisdom, her prose.
“Listen to me or not, it hardly matters. I’m not trying to be wise, that would be foolish. I’m just chattering.”
It reminds me of this therapy session I underwent after reading How Not To Die Alone, a poignant tale where a man grapples with the consequences of his inadvertent deception about a fabricated spouse and the consequences that unfold after keeping up with the lie for years.
In a session with my therapist, I confessed my fear of being a psychopath due to my tendency to lie habitually. When asked about the nature of these lies, I admitted to fabricating details about breakfast, yesterday’s activities, and even my sleep patterns. It’s compulsive, I tell her, the words just spill out.
“Do you experience remorse for all the lying?”
“Yes.”
“Are you being truthful about feeling remorse?”
“No.”
At that moment, I struggled to articulate that while I don’t experience guilt about lying, I still despise the fact that I do it easily and frequently.
Why do you think you lie? I feel a twinge of resentment toward her for posing a question I can't easily answer. That's what I'm hoping you can help me understand, I respond, my tone conveying a hint of irritation
“Perhaps you harbor shame about how you utilize your time, prompting you to lie in order to project the image you desire others to perceive.”
“No, that’s not it.”
The gentle warm voice and wisdom from a woman much older than me, even when they are handing out trite advice seems to put me at state of ease but I cannot let them know how much it means to me; which is why dream me lies to Mary Oliver, which is why I am quick to deny my therapist assessment.
While I may not have a clear understanding of why I lie, one thing I am certain of is that she was wrong in her assumption. We never fully resolved the issue, and truth be told, talking about it didn’t hold much significance for me—I was simply tired of discussing everything else. I think the reason I lie so candidly about the nothingness of life is that it’s because I can. And that has to make me inherently unstable, doesn’t it?
A psychopath wouldn’t admit to lying, she reassured me.
Reading:
The Art of Cruelty: A Reckoning by Maggie Nelson. “So long as we exalt artists as beautiful liars or as the world’s most profound truth-tellers, we remain locked in a moralistic paradigm that doesn’t even begin to engage art’s most exciting provinces.”
Now Do You Know Where You Are by Dana Levin. “I was here, I / Lived in it, I/ Died in it, this shit / Paradiso.”
Crazy for Vincent by Hervé Guibert. “I remember the voice that I had mourned: in this empty center of a Sunday, it resurrects the love for the one in whose throat it nestles. / Grief is the illusion of this love.”
The Hearing Test by Eliza Berry Callahan “I had begun to understand my own life by way of misinterpreting things I was reading and experiencing with only half of my attention. I found clarity in misinterpretation. And I thought that our misinterpretations are perhaps the most individual and specific things we have.”
Winter Recipes from the Collective by Louise Glück “Do not be sad, he said. You have begun your own journey, not into the world, like your friend’s, but into yourself and your memories.”
ALSO:
-The importance of owning your name from
-This beautiful essay from
-This poem I reread once a month by Leila Chatti
-Commencement speech given by David Foster Wallace (I recommend listening to the audio as well — it makes me choke up every single time).
Listening:
This absolute gut-wrenching beautiful song about a goldfish
The entirety of Chappell Roan’s album
Nick Cave singing his heart out on a song about teenage lust and suicide
This 2005 song by Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (I once downloaded it off Limewire and burned it onto my “Summer Skin” CD).
Watching:
Beginning to rewatch The X-Files (1993) has brought back memories of when I first binged the show in 2014. It marked the first instance in my adult life where I formed a parasocial relationship with fictional characters, at a concerning rate. (See picture above).
Rewatching Charmed (1998) led me down a rabbit hole of behind-the-scenes drama involving the production company and Shannen Doherty. Listening to Doherty’s podcast, Let’s Be Clear, where she discussed her perspective alongside Holly Marie Combs, shed light on the conflict, notably implicating Alyssa Milano in Doherty’s departure from the show.
I watched Civil War in theaters, and I can only describe it as thoroughly enjoyable without giving spoilers. It was delicious.
Monkey Man had me entranced by its beauty and the sheer brilliance of its storytelling. The final fight scene with the needle drop was so brilliant.
AlSO:
-Ozempic and Hollywood by D’Angelo Wallace
-Tik Tok and writing by According to Alina
-Issue with tropes on Booktok by The Book Leo
-Catholicism as a fashion trend by Mina Le
In Other News:
Chiara and I have spent a few days together enjoying snacks, discussing books, and strolling through various neighborhoods around San Francisco, Oakland, and The Marina District.
Emilee and I have been in regular communication almost daily for the past few months. We used to maintain this level of contact constantly when we were younger. However, as life progresses, staying in touch daily isn’t always feasible, especially when you’re living in different cities. I miss her constantly.
I saw Midwife in Oakland at The Stork Club (I later found out that John Waters helped fund it — which makes so much sense).
Giselle and I were treated to complimentary beers, perhaps owing to our infectious humor and loud laughter. Though it’s possible the bartender’s reluctance to change the keg for the only IPA played a role, as we patiently waited nearly an hour for him to finally give in.
I work for the Public Library now!
I feel compelled to confess that I lied. While I’ve faithfully read from Devotions every day this month, the truth is, I haven’t been dreaming about her. I simply thought it would be interesting if I had. It is remarkable how effortlessly lies can be told, and how readily they can be believed. I understand why you might question why I’d fabricate something as trivial as a dream.
I may not be a psychopath but I’m a liar who lies cause I'm a liar.
-A.