sitting by the pool
floating in the pool, thinking about the pool, obsessing over the pool
We drove an hour and a half to an oasis tucked away in the arid hills of Sonoma Valley. Enclosed within a white fence, metal bars spaced wide enough that you could stick your arm through all the way up to your shoulder, sat three pools.
Sliding into those turquoise basins, bracing ourselves for the shock of cold, we discovered something far gentler instead.
True to its name, Morton’s Warm Springs is fed by geothermal waters – ideal for splashing around in if one wished to ward off the autumnal chill. Yet, although the light had grown lambent and Trader Joe’s salesclerks opined the marvelous attributes of the pumpkin, I was not ready to let go of the dog days.
We drifted in that amniotic ooze. Leaves from a nearby maple fell onto the rippling surface one by one. A woman plucked them out with serene and fastidious dedication. Her shoulders browned and freckled under the careful attention of the sun. I realized I had forgotten the sunblock in the car and sank into the water. My vision filled with a soft, dark haze. No longer bound by gravity, my hair was free to bloom into whatever shape it desired. A cloud. A tree split by lightning. A flickering flame. Down below, I was free to be a critter and wondered, not for the first time, what it must be like to live in the depths of the world.
A muffled chatter entered my awareness, and I burst through the surface. Seeing things through water must be a cheat code to falling in love with the world again. The colors are far more intense, the sounds brighter, the sky hopelessly blue and boundless.
After our swim, K and I parked ourselves on a beach blanket I brought. A dark brown, probably dirt or sand from the beach, blushed across the blue-white gingham, reminding me to throw it in the wash once we returned to the city.
The sun was hot, boiling my brains. For as long as I could remember, I was prone to overheating. All this energy shimmied its way to the top of the crucible that was my body before shoving flat against an invisible barrier right at the lip, with no room to overflow. If only I could pry open that lid and release all this energy in a grandiose motion. I sucked in a breath and let the air hiss out through my clenched teeth. My skin brimmed with a slow-burning, toe-curling fire. What a torment, one I was willing to withstand in this masquerade of a summer.
K threw his shirt over his eyes and promptly fell asleep. He claimed that he learned to sleep through his housemates clamoring in the kitchen, a claim that was proven true. Still as a corpse, he lay oblivious to the high-pitched glee of children leaping into the pool and screaming with abandon. In a fit of mischief, I wanted to see if dripping water on his legs would wake him up. Perhaps rolling him back into the pool would do the trick. In the end, I decided to leave him be and dozed off myself.
When was the last time either of us had gone to a public pool?
K said he used to go all the time when he was a kid. “But you never hear adults say, ‘I went to the pool this weekend,’” he concluded.
I agreed. Swimming in the pool all day was far more fun when putting on a swimsuit didn’t feel like such a chore. My aerodynamic youth propelled me into the existence between earth and water, my body more sylph than clod. My friends and I baldly ignored the warnings of lifeguards as we clambered out of the pool, rough edges biting into our knees and palms, and goaded one another into executing another perfect belly flop.
There were quite a few kids at the pools. When researching the Warm Springs, I recalled one reviewer wishing there were fewer kids. Maybe it’d be more peaceful. But kids bring a frenetic energy that I kind of dig. They flail around in their floaties, toss around beach balls, and take up space without regard for boundaries or limitations. They bump into you without saying sorry, but I’m not even bothered. It’s a public space, and if the kids are happy and free, then who cares? With their kids latching onto their backs and shoulders like limpets, even the parents seem happier.
“Excuse me!” A man waved at me while admirably hoisting two of his toddlers close to his chest at the same time. “I’m so sorry, but do you mind taking a picture of me and my kids?”
“Sure.” I looked around for any sign of his phone before feeling stupid. Of course he didn’t have his phone in the pool.
“Oh,” the father said sheepishly, “my phone’s all the way at the other side of the pool. Do you mind taking the photos with yours and texting them to me?”
“Sounds good.” I crouched, trying to get a good angle as the father prompted his children to look at me with varying degrees of success.“Three... Two... One... Say cheese!”
In one of the photos, the older child’s face pulled in an expression both menacing and adorable, her gaze fierce and mouth drawn in a pursed ‘o’. The younger child solemnly stared ahead, a perfect replica of a Victorian child whose soul had been captured and sealed within a daguerreotype. Thankfully, there was one shot where all three of them beamed at the camera.
“Very cute,” I affirmed to the father, who glanced at the photos before giving a delighted nod of approval. “What number should I send them to?”
After texting him the photos, I sat back down and hugged my legs. Which photo would they like best? I personally was a fan of the photo where the older child reclined dramatically in pietà, but I got the sense that the pressure to look perfect but candid in front of the camera doesn’t extend just to adults.
Back in LA, my mother brought over a photo album filled with baby photos of my sister T. She did not resemble her own baby at all. Her thick hair stood up in a stiff and stubborn comb that could not be tamed by brush. Combined with her strong brows and gnashed teeth, she presented an irresistible tour de force, often sending our parents to the brink of exhaustion with her imperious demands. I too felt compelled to sink to my knees, begging her not to break my legs. Babies apparently don’t develop personalities until a few months in, but my sister’s attitude shined so bright from the get-go that I couldn’t help but laugh.
“I was not a cute baby,” T lamented, a statement that caught me by surprise.
“Aren’t all babies cute?” In my view, babies are similar to cats and dogs – creatures of innocence that elicit an overwhelming desire to protect, care for, and coo over.
“Not me,” she repeated. “But J’s a cute baby. You were too!”
I looked back at the photos, wondering how she saw herself in them. There she was, nestled in the arms of my mother, lifted high into the sky by my father, directing the brunt of her cat-eyed glare to the lens. One moment she would scowl. The next, she’d laugh as if nothing brought her greater joy than the sight of whatever was out of frame. I wanted her to know that she was a cute baby too; that all babies are cute because they’re pure beings, even if they deprive those around them of sleep and sanity. I also hoped all those kids at the pool could enjoy a childhood where they didn’t have to worry about striking the perfect pose or buying anti-aging skincare. Surely, they could remain oblivious to the concepts of melanomas, cellulite, and body dysmorphia for a little while longer.
“Remember the beginning of Kokoro? When the protagonist meets that guy at the beach resort?” I asked, grateful for the shade. We had relocated to a set of lounge chairs shaded by a beach umbrella. K removed the shirt from his face, and beads of sweat lined his upper lip as though he’d just come out of a sauna. “It kind of feels like we’re at a resort.”
A pool is wonderful in its own right, but the amenities elevate the experience. Sure, Morton’s Warm Springs was no Amangiri, but it didn’t need to be. Plenty of umbrellas and chairs lined the perimeter of the space, guests were pleasant and friendly, and the shower pressure was delightful.
The poolhouse was especially lovely. Near the toilets was a pair of stained glass windows. What an odd place to have stained glass. Upon further inspection, as I washed my face clean, I saw that it was just stick-and-peel applied to the window. Still, the effect was marvelous. The marbled light melted into iris and lapis and agate onto the shabby, rustworn walls of the bathroom stalls. Chlorine snuck up my olfactories, and all of a sudden, I was a shivering kid again. Feeling too cold, too hot, too wet, wanting to stay in the water a while longer.
Around the corner was a snack shack that served hibiscus lemonade, open-face tomato basil toast, and soft-serve that curled in the most adorable dollop.
“TRY THE MORTON’S MEGALODON. OUR TALLEST SOFT SERVE EVER!!! $12 OR FREE IF ONE PERSON CAN FINISH IT IN 2 MINS!!!!” shouted a sign tucked to the side of the menu. A nearby pillar displayed a gallery of Polaroids, immortalizing all who braved the challenge of gobbling up at least two feet of soft serve under the time limit. The champion, reigning at one minute and three seconds, gave a broad smile and two thumbs up. Chocolate smeared all over his impressive beard.
“You could do it,” K dared me.
“No way.” My teeth were way too sensitive. “But you could do it.”
“I could do it in under thirty seconds!” K’s unbridled confidence sent me grinning. “Back in school, there was a restaurant nearby that had a karaage challenge. If you could eat all the jumbo-sized karaage, your lunch would be free.”
“Wait, you actually did that?”
“No. It was actually two guys I knew.”
“Don’t say it like you did it then!”
Further out was a lawn with picnic tables gathered on the woodier end. Small tents the color of bright candies peppered the shaded area, where families sought reprieve from the afternoon heat. A kid swung his baseball bat, a seismic thwock rattling the air. His brother shot after the wiffle ball rolling down the hill we walked past, heading back to the car. Golden light pooled all around us like a broken yolk.
To my great satisfaction, my illusion of a summer camp getaway remained intact.
🌊 this month’s wave brings you
Putting a new section to recap some of the cool things I’ve been reading/listening to/watching.
It may be brat summer, but I’m longing for FKA twigs autumn. Since experiencing her auditory and kinetic magic on the magadelene tour, I’ve been keeping an ear out for any news of where her one-of-a-kind artistry would lead her. After an unfortunate incident where hackers leaked her new material, FKA twigs announced that she would have to start over from scratch – but if Eusexua is any indicator of what’s to come, I’d say she’s right back on track.
“Eusexua is that feeling when you’ve been dancing all night and you lose seven hours to music. It’s also if you meet somebody that you really like, and you just kiss all night, and you kiss for all hours. You lose time.” – FKA twigs
🎞️ Angel’s Egg and Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust
Perhaps it was ambitious of us to watch these films back-to-back, but my friends and I thoroughly enjoyed both of them for very different reasons (even though the unifying reason was that illustrator Yoshitaka Amano provided artistic direction for both).
The atmosphere of Angel’s Egg swirls around you, lethargic and mystifying at every turn. Each frame dazzles you to the point that you’re ready to wander the desolate wasteland with the little girl and makes you long for the days when animation was still hand-drawn. Teeming with symbolism, Angel’s Egg leaves much up to interpretation without any definitive conclusion (and will most likely leave you confused), so if you enjoy arguing about different takes with your friends, I’d recommend organizing a watch party and taking a drink every time an egg shows up.
Vampire Hunter D: Bloodlust, on the other hand, is non-stop action and a whole lot of fun. Despite the rapid-fire pacing, the character and relationship dynamics were surprisingly poignant and measured. I was even more surprised to find that the setting, despite its gothic aesthetic, was decidedly sci-fi, and vampires had learned how to travel through space. Come for the campy plot, stay for the funny talking left hand.
📖 My Brilliant Friend by Elena Ferrante
After NYTimes ranked My Brilliant Friend as the best novel of the 21st century thus far, I checked it out on Libby to see what the hype was all about. If you loved A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and cried watching Lady Bird, you ought to give My Brilliant Friend a shot.
The friendship between the two central characters, Elena and Lila, is taut with tension that sent my mind reeling: do they love each other? hate each other? want the other succeed? or watch them trip and eat shit? could they want all of those things all at the same time, and then some? All the truths and contradictions Elena holds are ones I know intimately, and I imagine most girls and women do as well.
I was so engrossed in watching their friendship develop that I completely lost track of where I was in the book. Before I knew it, I crashed headfirst into the ending, simply and utterly devastated by that last sentence and all its implications.
loved reading your publication as always!! you just write so perfectly and it really seemed as if i was reading pages of a book, really beautiful. i love how you write about “deeper” arguments starting by observations you had about the world around you. thanks for the recommendations and “my brilliant friend” it’s a fantastic novel! i’ve read it two summers ago in italian and i’ve adored it! i’m planning to re-read it in these months!!
I just got a copy of My Brilliant Friend! We have to discuss once I am done with it 💜