The Pleasure Lists Q&A: Writer Terry Nguyễn of Vague Blue
Pleasures, Curated by Terry Nguyễn
We’re back with another installment of
: Pleasures, Curated.I hope you enjoy reading these as much as I enjoy getting to know members of the Pleasure Lists community and what makes their Pleasures tick.
Pleasures, Curated by of
This week’s Pleasure-seeker is
of . Terry Nguyễn is an essayist, critic, and poet from Garden Grove, CA. She writes Vague Blue, a critical essay-in-newsletters with over 9,000 subscribers, and is interested in weird forms, metaphysics, coincidences, and pleasure. She has recent work in Dirt, The Nation, The Believer, New York Magazine, and Still Alive Magazine.Instagram: @nguyenterry
TikTok: @etherealnugget
Twitter: @terrygtnguyen
Location: Brooklyn
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ MY PLEASURES ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ cloud gazing ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The most a person should do on any given day is look up at the sky. (Nineteenth century landscape painters called it skying; John Constable painted meticulous sky studies with voluminous clouds.) Cloud-gaze from your kitchen window! Follow a cloud from the corner of your eye (I like the cotton ball-like cumulus ones); see how it drifts and merges and ducks behind another. I can’t help but quote Frank O’Hara’s “Meditations in an Emergency”: My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time…
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ poems ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Every poem is an attempt
an attempt of language
an attempt at language
Every poem isFor your consideration: a poem about pleasures and a poem about swimming in August
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ the scent of fresh laundry ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
On August 1, I woke up with the sentence “Heaven is the scent of fresh laundry” on the tip of my mental tongue. (This is how I prefer to write poems—with a sentence or a phrase I can’t get out of my head.) The scent of fresh laundry is heavenly, so soul-softening. I feel new, almost reborn lying atop a bed of freshly-laundered clothes, buoyed by angels (my comforter and sheets), warmed by the rays of the sun (the dryer).
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ the first sip of a good martini ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
I know a good martini from the first sip. I prefer gin with a lemon twist. The colder the better. I like olives too, but lemon balances out the alcohol. The first sip is honest. Just me and the martini before the potential for ribaldry sets in…
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ my husband’s tweets ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
I am a simple woman: I love my husband’s mind; I love his tweets. His “best”—if we are to equate best with viral—is a sailor’s rhyme about Lana Del Rey. His account is currently private for employment reasons, but it’s evidence of how his marvelous, strange mind works. Whenever I’m away from home and miss him, I go on his Twitter. I like a few tweets and all feels right again in the world. And it’s true: Some things are better tweeted than said aloud to a spouse.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ swimming in the ocean ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
I grew up swimming in indoor pools even though the Pacific Ocean was fifteen minutes away by car. Pools were a luxury of Southern California life, whereas the ocean was a vast, gray-ish void—too volatile and cold to swim in, too crowded by Republicans to hang loose on the shore.
It’s taken me years to admit my love for the Atlantic; it’s the only ocean I enjoy swimming in. The ocean humbles and comforts and consumes. I AM MOST ALIVE IN THE OCEAN! I crave those rare moments of submission, when I am in sync with the rhythm of a crashing wave. Briefly and miraculously, my body is buttressed by a wave before another swipes me off-kilter—momentarily, I am rendered helpless and lost, blind as a baby in the womb underwater, only to resurface, renewed, strengthened by the salty air.
˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚ ripe peaches ˚₊‧꒰ა ✦ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
So ripe it demands to be eaten, easily bruised, the juice flowing past your wrists on first bite unless it’s a petite donut peach, whose slurp is more easily contained, licked up. I wish it were always stone fruit season but the seasonal availability of peaches makes it a stark spring-summer pleasure; I equate it with warm days, park hangs, beach outings, strolling out the door sans jacket with a peach in hand. Patience procures the perfect peach; let her sit and ripen!
What does pleasure mean to you?
Pure, invigorating delight. A reminder of life.
Who do you want to see next? Send me suggestions for who to feature in the next installment!
What Is “Pleasures, Curated”?
Each week, a new Pleasure-seeker will document their personal Pleasures and ruminate a bit on what Pleasure means to them. True to
style, I keep the list-maker’s je ne sais quoi in as much as I can — only minor editorial changes are made when necessary. I do this intentionally so that the writer’s inner world really comes through. The style of the list says as much about the writer as the list itself.Read Previous Q&A’s:
Why submit a list?
Pleasure Lists are a summary of what you need, want, or have, or see at a particular moment in time. They are a survey, an overview, a summary of the crucial facts of the state of one aspect of your life. It’s a kind of blueprint that can be a guide to the future.
Mull it over and if you’re moved to, send me a list.
Questions? Comments? Send any recommendations or suggestions for what you’d like to see in these newsletters my way. I’d love to hear more about what you’re currently finding pleasure in.
Join the chat below to connect with other members of the Pleasure List community:
Please share this newsletter! The Pleasure Lists is meant to be a collaborative project that calls people from all over to write, read, and share their pleasures — a global community of artists, writers, and pondering minds alike.
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