I was introduced to Alexandra Naughton when I was shy of seventeen. I was friends with a girl, let’s call her E, who didn’t go to my high school, but took classes online and lived off Entenmann's cookies. She was the coolest. I’d skateboard by her apartment in the Richmond District of San Francisco, always covered in fog, and she’d tell me about books I should read like Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums and eventually, American Mary by Naughton. Already, the cover reminded me of Tumblr film stills, a series of hands holding an egg as it slowly cracked. I didn’t realize at the time this was “alt-lit,” or whatever. Just that it was honest-to-god prose. Lyrical prose. Introspective but not solipsistic. I was excited when Naughton shared an ARC of her latest poetry collection, Sick of Being Inside Myself, with me. It felt like knowing a folk-hero. I still remember images of her long red hair, wearing sunglasses, and I knew I wanted a life in poetry, not at fancy galas, but at house shows in Oakland and Philly.
Starting from the cover (the title scrawled in all caps on a plain white t-shirt) Naughton conjures a punk DIY mentality I’ve always treasured, that sometimes feels lost in the streets of New York City where academic accolades are favored over good writing. There’s a magic to her poetry, both wistful and humorous at the same time. Moments like “fog looks extra alpha with palm trees” and “I just want Google Drive to be my only social media” bring out the comic tragedy of contemporary life.
Relating to the title, there’s a sense of unfulfillment and staggering credibility within the poems: “I’m tired of loudly pronouncing / my underdog status.” Yet there’s a notion that the “I” in the poems is still admired despite not having an MFA: “my cancellations are street cred.”
Naughton confronts us with uncomfortable truths:
the human condition is asking:
am I shadow banned
or am I just not that interesting?
Musings like “I just wanna be hot and have no thoughts” and “now I’m a poet writing another ode to nowhere” shape up the thesis of her latest collection. There’s also a sense of aging and running out of things to say: “all my best ideas are from 12 years ago / that’s why I keep plagiarizing myself.” These dichotomies always end in the urge to continue creating for the sake of it, for the love of it. “Selfish art is still art.”
Naughton pauses the levity to discuss moments of abuse from ex boyfriends and a stanza from “Chirality” sums up an aspect of her poetry that resonates with anyone who was once a teenage girl:
this poem is for everyone
who was once a seventeen-year-old girl
who dated a guy
who made them watch La Jetée
it’s ok to watch it again
you’re not derivative
From film recollections to unlocked memories listening to certain songs in the car, Naughton moves us masterfully through her stream-of-consciousness and relationships with others through these references. Pop culture embedded in beauty. The mundane glamours of unbrushed hair, stalking someone on Myspace or Twitter, and figuring out how to use Apple Pay are embedded throughout her “wispy daydream.”
I never returned E’s copy of American Mary, and we sort-of fell out of touch throughout the years as I moved from the West to the East Coast like Naughton. But E recently texted me a photo of spotting my own debut collection GLIB at Stories in L.A., and I felt that even when I feel sick of being myself, I’m happy to feel so surrounded by all the beautiful poetry that reminds me that I’m alive. Life keeps happening and Sick of Being Inside Myself has it all.
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Check out Ashley D. Escobar, Alexandra Naughton, and others reading in Philly on February 19! DM @alexandranaughton or @quinoacowboys on Instagram for the address.
