Thursday and Friday were one of the worst couple days I’ve had in a long time and so, on Saturday, I had that old but familiar “don’t leave the bed,” feeling. Then, I got a text from a friend who was struggling and I sent her some support and advice, which, miraculously, got me out of bed and straight to the Pearl Spa - where all of my wishes came true. I’m naked, there is water, dark, quiet, and a semi-professional hair dryer that makes me look good and fast. There’s also tea, and clean towels, and a basket of snacks, which all seem like things I could have at home, but ?
When I walked in the spa there was a small group in front of me, checking in — a mom and two daughters.
“Oh, you have my dream,” said the woman helping them, from behind the desk, “I have two sons!” And they laughed.
“I have a daughter,” I thought to myself: but it was one of those thoughts that came from the not-me, me to the me - like in a whisper, as if to tell me something important that I have not quite gotten.
I tore off my clothes and threw them in a locker and showered and sat in the hot tub, with two other women, one of whose body I preferred over the other. I noticed myself talking more to this woman than I did with her friend, as if some kind of kinship with her would make my body into a different shape. I asked them if they were celebrating anything, and said that it was so nice that they came together, and that I would probably not be bold enough to ask a friend to come with me, although this seemed weird: that I was more comfortable being nude with strangers. Later, I saw them both reading, and the person whose body I liked less was reading a book I liked more and I saw how much my own judgements keep me isolated and alone from my people.
As I sat in the clay room, I thought about how I could make this indulgence into an artist’s date. I thought about the perfectly shaped beads underneath me, how they rumbled together like marbles when I moved, how I wanted to hog the center, where the red light was strongest.
I thought about the mugworts bath at Olympic Spa in LA — a dark and murky hot tub that smells like earth and sun and shines like obsidian. It’s been replaced now by a salt water pool and I GRIEVE!
I thought about how I once got a massage that was so expensive I used every single amenity they offered, down to the individually packaged q-tips.
I thought about how once in LA, I felt so unsafe at home that I slept in at Wi Spa, which allows entry overnight and was open 24/7. I ate at the cafe in the spa and sat on the squishy seats and slept on the mat in the main communal area and went home at the crack of dawn. On my way to my car, I ran into a young woman on the street who looked distressed. I spent about an hour with her, looking for her keys and backtracking to where she had slept the night before, and texting her friend, from my phone, until I realized, all in one swoop, that there were no keys, and no familiar person who would answer the door at which we were knocking. The friend I texted agreed to come and pick her up and I left and thought about her for a long time, but less about me and why I not seen the obvious.
I thought about how once in NY, I used to throw parties, and we threw one in a spa, and that was my dream, so many bodies floating, whispers echoing off the surface of the pool, and coffee talk chat in the sauna.
I thought about how, at Esalen, you used to be able to go to the hot springs at 3am for $30. I always write about how I dragged my friend, Deb, there and then we slept in the car on the side of the road because I can’t seem to weigh things in terms of importance, or because weird shit seems important to me. Now, if you’re not a visiter staying on site - you have to pay $450 for a day pass — which includes a massage — but DOES NOT INCLUDE THE STARS, which carpet the sky like a 6 year old’s glitter party from 5 days ago, which is also, incidentally, is true of my own personal rug. I can’t seem to vacuum it up. I think it reminds me of a dance party, of infinite fun, of a never-ending thing which I hope is her childhood. Is that fucked-up of me?
I tried to think about what I was not thinking about, by just making space for it. I don’t think anything came. I did, for the first time, walk right down into the cold plunge — without hesitation.
SYNCHRONICITY THIS WEEK:
In between the bed and the spa, I left a voice text for my friend that was like: “WHAT, truly, is the next step?” Then I got an DM on Instagram from the artist who I wrote about in the Artist’s Date #3, saying how nice of me to write about her and yes, she’d read the piece. Can I tell you: I had forgotten I’d told her! Then, today, I was about to go to The Ruby, and I ran into Emily, from GROUP #1 ARTIST’S DATE 2022, while getting a burrito and she ended up telling me all about her art journalism and it turns out she knows everything about publications, current shows, institutional happenings, cool galleries, and other emerging writers. I tell you, universe, you surprise me just when I need it.