Soft Core Summer Dispatch: Greetings from the Edge of the Forest

Mothering, molting, writing, raging, aging, and trying to keep the signal alive in a world of noise.

Today in Hudson Valley: Sky High and Sour Cherries

I went to the TREES NEVER END AND HOUSES NEVER END exhibition at Sky High Farm’s inaugural biennial today. Tucked inside an old apple warehouse on the Hudson, the show is raw and lush and wildly ambitious. More than 50 artists from around the world, offering up everything from hydroponic lemon trees to Ryan McGinley’s photos, Cameroonian masks, mirrored floors, and poetry written live onsite.

Every artist pledged to donate 10–100% of their sales back to the farm, which Dan Colen founded with the radical idea that everyone deserves access to fresh produce and protein grown in ways that don’t wreck the planet. All of it left me feeling cracked open — in the best way. Creatively. Spiritually. Psychically. As a former East Village party girl who once worshipped the downtown art scene, with all its sex, drugs, and dark-cloud madness, I felt deeply moved to witness this kind of reinvention. It felt grounded. Rooted in care. In social justice. In tikkun olam — the Jewish concept of repair.

On the way home I stopped in Tivoli and, in classic upstate fashion, spent way too much money on sour cherries and turnips and flowers. I was talking to my mom about the state of the world while listening to a weirdly low-vibes British podcaster monologue about codependence and narcissism, and then I remembered this line from Nabakov’s: Speak, Memory — and for a few minutes — everything felt as it should be.

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A sense of security, of well-being, of summer warmth pervades my memory. That robust reality makes a ghost of the present. The mirror brims with brightness; a bumblebee has entered the room and bumps against the ceiling. Everything is as it should be, nothing will ever change, nobody will ever die.

Hats off, Sky High Farm. More of this. Please. xx

In New York City News: Tuesday night, I spent the evening with my dear friend Dana Cowin — former Editor-in-Chief of Food & Wine, Progressive Hedonist podcast host and one of the most gracious, future-thinking women I know. She invited me into her home to do what I do best: Psychic Storyboarding, my favorite skillset and a kind of collaborative visioning practice that mixes intuition, strategy, creativity, and a little bit of magic. The event, held in collaboration with Maker’s Mark, was an intimate gathering of radical thinkers, chefs, and creators—coming together to explore how the sustainable principles of regenerative agriculture can take root in all our lives, whether we’re city dwellers or country dreamers. Among the guests was the incredible Aretah Ettarh, Chef de Cuisine of Gramercy Tavern, and Evan Hanczor, founder of Table of Contents and co-founder of Egg Restaurant.

Dana believes deeply that food is one of our most vital mediums for addressing climate change. And I couldn’t agree more. Progressive Hedonist was founded on the idea that taking action — and gathering around a table — is an antidote to fear, isolation, and apathy. And yes—there was also a butter sommelier. Which might just be the best thing that has ever happened to me…

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Say What, Supreme Court? This week, the Supreme Court ruled 6–3 to let South Carolina strip Medicaid funding from Planned Parenthood, even for non-abortion services like birth control and cancer screenings. In Medina v. Planned Parenthood South Atlantic, the Court decided that neither patients nor providers can sue a state for blocking access to federally backed healthcare. The ruling was split along ideological lines. The fallout? It opens the door for any state with an agenda to do the same.

Let’s pause here.

We’re talking about low-income patients losing access to their only trusted doctor. We’re talking about a system that already fails women, especially Black, brown, rural, and queer women, now getting another layer of sanctioned erasure. We’re talking about the way “pro-life” becomes a death spiral.

This isn’t about South Carolina. It’s about the future of bodily autonomy in America. Instead of panic doomscrolling, let’s fund the frontlines.
Consider donating directly to your local PP affiliate or to independent clinics in trigger-happy states (they’re the ones that get hit first and worst). abortionfunds.org is a great hub.

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In Personal News….On Tuesday, walking down 23rd Street beneath a tangle of rickety scaffolding, I found myself thinking about that recent Variety article where Johnny Depp refers to himself as a crash-test dummy for #MeToo—and the Times documentary on Louis C.K., which charts his meteoric rebound while the women he harmed fade into muted, cat-lady obscurity.

The whole “reckoning,” I thought, now looks less like a cultural shift and more like a PR opportunity—a device to rebrand us as naggy, crabby witches angling for two cents’ worth of spotlight.

And then I literally collided with Anthony Weiner.

“Wait,” I blurted, “are you Anthony Weiner?”

“Yes,” he said, handing me a flyer for his run for the New York City Council, District 2.

In the split-second before politeness hijacked my tongue, I wanted to ask: How much rehab have you really done if you’re already back out here? Are you still working the Twelve Steps? Do you believe in God? Do you ever think about what you did — to those women online, to Hillary, to your son, to the campaign, to the country? Was all that lip service about accountability just a dream? Did you stay up all night studying photos from Huma’s wedding?

Instead, all that came out was a flat, bewildered “Oh,” and I kept walking.

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Lastly: Goodbye, Anna Wintour.
Dear Anna,

Thank you for letting me walk in a Hillary Clinton-themed fashion show with my daughters in 2016. That was very kind of you — especially since my one-year-old was extremely chubby at the time.

Also: I’m sorry.

Back in 2003, I drunkenly screamed “I know Jack and Lazaro!” into your ear canal backstage at a Marc Jacobs show. I was wearing a lowly Urban Outfitters tank and fringed moccasins and I had just given a jojoba oil handjob to a TV actor in my studio apartment on Avenue C. I know, my B.O. was unforgivable. I’d been crying because Johnny Cash had died.

If I’m honest, I think I was hoping you’d discover me. Pluck me from obscurity. Wrap me in something archival and whisper to an assistant: her.

Luckily, I got a gig writing beauty copy for Elle Girl a few days later. So it all worked out. Sort of.

Anyway — can I be considered for the EIC job now?

Love,

Molly