Charles Manson and Cherry Trees
Or the Eternal Battle of Evil vs. Good
Does anyone else feel a twinge of unease about spring this year? Maybe it’s the glorious resplendence of blossoms in contrast with the repulsive nature of the news, but I swear the cherry trees have never looked so fragile or so tauntingly frothy on the branch, the magnolias so aggressively pink and fleshy. I look at them and almost feel annoyed—as in, I don’t want to feel elation and joy, because I know in a second it will come crashing back down to Earth. Not the earth of spring but the planet of President Trump and his Botoxed henchmen— I am referring to the men here, too. Matt Gaetz as much as Laura Loomer are both giving Jocelyn Wildenstein a run for her money— and that only hurts that much more to remember what the world is really like at the moment. Then I wonder if that’s the right attitude to take about things? Maybe we should siphon off joy where we can, but sipping at elation and feeling that high makes the pendulum swing feel back down to the low even more intense. Intense pleasure and intense pain. Personally, I’ve always been more of a Miss Marple than a James Dean, sensible and calm, and I resent having to become a rebel with a VERY GOOD CAUSE at this late a date. I like libraries and cats. I like predictability and crocheting berets. I like watching Bridget Jones for the thousandth time because I know she’ll turn the soup blue like the silly wench she is and pick the good guy in the ugly Christmas sweater like the decent girl she really is at heart. It’s comforting.
This? This intense swing from beauty to the beast is nauseating.
It’s the same reason I’ve been dealing with some minor writer’s block on here and haven’t been posting my promised weekly amount, which I apologize for. I started this SubStack, because I wanted to write about and share what brings me pleasure— the way a vintage Dior dress can drape across the bodice with the same long languid folds as the Balanchine fingers of a prima ballerina— but I wanted to make that universal.
But how do I rhapsodize over Dior’s Venezuela draped green evening dress while real men from Venezuela languish without a trial in a concentration camp?
Maybe we don’t resist it. Maybe we relish in the beauty, so that we can bear not to look away from the pain. With that in mind, here are some things bringing me joy as I ramp up to join the April 5 “Hands off” protests tomorrow. (Find one near you by entering “April 5 protest” into your search engine.)
My Salinger Year both the movie and the book. On the same day, an Instagram ad randomly served me up this Margaret Qualley flick, one of my dear friends happened to post about the author of the memoir it’s based on, and I knew I needed to read the actual book. Happy to report both are an absolute delight. And while I’m a huge fan of both Margaret Qualley and supporting actress Sigourney Weaver, the book is so redolent with details, reading it will transport you to New York City circa 1996, which is a nicer place to imagine yourself being at the moment, frankly.
Classical Bangers on Spotify— One of my kids is obsessed with my running playlist, a compilation of fast-paced pop and hip hop songs that were starting to sound repetitive to me instead of stimulating, so I searched classical hits on Spotify, thinking I could turn our time in the car together into a chance to teach my kids about classical music— I maybe had the ulterior motive of trying to soothe not stimulate them after school as well— and I stumbled on this really fun playlist. Most of the songs are the kind of vivid classical compositions you have definitely heard in one film or another, so it makes for a fun, synesthetic listen. (Well, at least one of my kids loves my idea, the other one, the hip hop fan, is not so convinced.)
Vintage Upcyclying Projects— Okay, this isn’t Dior or even Azzedine Alaïa, but I recently cleaned out the spare bedroom we use as an office (but really use for storage) for my husband who’ll be working from home a little more often now that he’ll be commuting between NYC and Philly, and I unearthed my sewing machine and a whole pile of vintage spring dresses I’ve been meaning to upcycle into more modern pieces. I’m pretty excited about it. Nostalgic polka dots are in big time for spring (as are other classic *cough* retrograde silhouettes, but let’s save that “why” for another discussion). Instead of blowing $200 I don’t have on a dress, I actually found a gorgeous vintage polka dot dress that just needs a few minor alternations to take it from Church Lady chic to 2025 chic and all for the bargain price of $30 and an hour of my time. I’ll be sharing the results on my Instagram.
Speaking of Venezuela, I learned today that a judge ruled the Trump administration must return the Maryland man wrongly deported to El Salvador back to the United States within three days, and that is definitely reason for hope. And while I celebrated that (potential) huge win, I couldn’t help but think about the other men who had no one to speak up for them. Years ago, for some godforsaken reason I can no longer recall, a few months after I’d had my first child, I decided to read Helter Skelter, the book Charles Manson’s prosecutor wrote about his crimes and the subsequent trial. (I believe this decision might have had something to do with Gilmore Girls, which I was mainlining at that time.) My memory of that gruesome book by prosecutor by Vincent Bugliosi is VERY fuzzy, given the baby I had latched to my boob, but what sticks out most from that reading is not the horror of his crimes— horrible as those crimes were— but the horror that he almost got away with it. Due to, was it?, a clerical error, the first trial against him and his cult was dismissed and a second trial was almost not called. I believe it was only because one of the victim’s family members made a stink, but otherwise he and his Manson Girls would have walked free. (I could have this wrong. I couldn’t find the corroborating info online, but I’ll check my copy of the book.) False memory or not, I do know it’s possible for trials to simply time out, and it made me wonder how many other victims with no one to speak up for them never experienced even the paltry justice that the dead can enjoy from their graves. It stuck in my head and was my first thought when I heard everyone focusing their attention on Kilmar Abrego Garcia but not the other men who were convicted to life in prison with no evidence and no trial.
Grouch though I may, I am awed by the beauty of spring this year, more so than in previous years. Knowing what Trump is doing to the EPA, though, it’s almost like I want to avoid its power. Its terrifying vulnerability. I saw a butterfly fluttering over the ground ivy in my backyard today, and I held my breath. What if that’s the last butterfly I’ll see? We see so few of them these days. I can’t bear a world without butterflies in it. Edna St. Vincent Millay, the manic pixie girl of bohemian poets once said of fall, “My soul is all but out of me,—let fall
No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.” But that dying fall she was rhapsodizing over had nothing on spring in Philly.
I guess all this is to say that whether despair pulls at us or not, we can’t turn our back on all that’s beautiful and good. That is REALLy all to say I hope to see you all in person or your smiling proud faces online at tomorrow’s Hands Off Protest around the nation.
Love,
Izzy