Hi, Friday!

A friend of mine died yesterday and another friend called me this morning to talk about it. When your friends are comedians or Icelanders, it seems like suicide is a fifth season, nestled between autumn and winter or–depending on the year–spring and summer. It’s those cracks, those strange wandering days, where I have lost friends and then quickly moved on to holiday cheer or summer revelry.

In my adult life, I have never really considered opting out–other than in my more borderline personality displays, meaningless tantrums. Give me another slice of pumpkin pie or I’ll hurl myself from this rooftop patio! I recently watched The Meaning of Hitler, a documentary about Austria’s boy wonder. He was prone to similar suicidal threats, which, in hindsight, unlike mine, can’t be considered empty.

I’ve always been frustrated with death. It’s overwhelming for brief moments. The whole concept of oblivion. I’ve always been more scared of death than dying. Is that weird? People usually say the opposite. They use the argument from Lucretius, “I didn’t exist before I was born and I will go back into that non-existence, and I won’t feel anything so it’s fine.” I’m paraphrasing. But this doesn’t work for me. In fact, since you were born, my frustration with my eventual demise has only increased. If death needs to be satiated or fed, if someone has to die, I have a few suggestions for my replacement. Why do I have to die when there are people who Facetime in public without headphones? Surely, they’re a mistake, right? What about writers who write essays about books they are proud to not have read? Why do they exist?

I was around four of five years old when I first realized that I wasn’t going to be around forever. I snuck downstairs from my bedroom to the main floor of the house where a large mirror hung next to the fireplace in the corner of the room. All the lights in the house were out but I could see my reflection in that mirror. I was wearing a baseball glove on my left hand and tossing a ball into it, working it in, making the glove less stiff. It was brand new.

With each step forward, I tossed the ball into the glove, and repeated the words “you’re going to die one day.” I got so close to the mirror that I could see the tears dripping off my chin onto my shirt. I got so angry I threw the baseball into the mirror.

My mother and father came down the stairs, but I don’t remember them getting angry. In the morning, all the glass was cleaned up and the jagged pieces still left in the mirror’s frame were removed. However, my parents didn’t remove the frame of the mirror from the wall until I moved out of the house at 19. I saw that frame every day. Every time I went out and every time I came home.

I think a lot of people have been obsessing over death this year. You were born during a global pandemic. In fact, there’s been a baby boom in Iceland. I’ve read that it’s the opposite in Canada and many adults feel it’s irresponsible to bring a child into such a dangerous world. I guess they haven’t heard of vacuum decay.

Why stop at kids? Why have any friends? What’s the point? They’ll all die eventually, or worse, hold the wrong political opinions. Everything ends and giving up is easy. Death is terrifying but entropy is worse.

I don’t know if this letter is for you or me. I’m a man stranded on an island, looking for someone to listen to me. Robinson Crusoe in search of his Friday.

My girl, Friday.

Hi, Friday!

I was tempted to backdate this letter, but I decided to be honest(ish) instead. I won’t write you a letter every Friday. I’ll try not to miss more than one or two weeks at the most. I don’t want to write you just for the hell of it, you know? I want to have something to say, which isn’t an issue most of the time.

Last Friday, Coldon & Brandy Martin came to visit us from Richmond, Virginia. Coldon and I, along with Todd Michael Schultz, Dagur Jóhannsson, Davíð Páll Svavarsson, Baltasar Breki Samper, produce The Bret Easton Ellis Podcast Book Club, a livestream discussing Bret Easton Ellis’s body of work from Less Than Zero to The Shards (currently released as an audiobook, chapter-by-chapter through his podcast). One of the inspirations for your name comes from American Psycho, Bret’s third novel.

I say “One of the inspirations” because your mother (my wife) believes it was a combination of my notes for the book club I had scattered across the bed and her listening to the musical duo from Manchester, Hurts. They have a song titled “Evelyn.” Despite what you will hear about American Psycho (is it still a cultural reference point?), the novel does give you a substantial list of outfits to try out:

“Evelyn stands by a blond wood counter wearing a Krizia cream silk blouse, a Krizia rust tweed skirt and the same pair of silk-satin d’Orsay pumps Courtney has on.”

Surely, a little glamour will still be appreciated, right? Or do these look ridiculous? How do people dress now? I mean the book was published in 1991…thirty years before you born…but still…somethings are timeless, aren’t they? Fashion has gone in cycles my whole life. I’m currently living (2021) through yet another phase of flared pants, inspired by the late 1990s-early 2000s, which really came from the late 1960s early 1970s…you get the point.

But where does “Friday” come from? It sounds nice, doesn’t it? Evelyn Friday. Evelyn Friday. Evelyn Friday! It also looks great written down. I don’t care how digital everything is for you. Learn handwriting. You think different than when you type and it’s worth it. Your mind and your body are connected. Enjoy both as much as possible. But I will explain Friday in the next letter. Can you guess?

But wait! What about the trip?

You and I, your mom (my wife), your brothers (Eldur and Rökkvi), are all travelling to Cabos San Lucas to spend Christmas and New Years with my brother, Tim, and my cousin, Karen, and her husband, Chris, and their daughter, Elladee. The distance between Reykjavik and Cabo San Lucas is 7,628 km. The circumference of the earth is 40,075 km. You were 51.5 cm when you were born and if you were born with the ability to somersault, it would take roughly 15,000,000 somersaults to get to Cabo from Reykjavik–not to mention the ability to walk on water and calm seas.

The flights from Reykjavik to Cabo would total around 38 hours in total with layovers and connections. We didn’t think it would be fun to travel with a four-month-old (you)–even with the help of your angelic brothers. Your mother and I decided to turn this into a slow trip, allowing me to work along the way and giving you and your brothers and chance to see things they’ve never seen before. We are flying to Boston, Massachusetts directly from Iceland, which is less than 6 hours flight time, and slowly work our way to Cabo San Lucas, Mexico.

You will see:

Boston, Massachusetts

Hartford, Connecticut

New York City

Washington D.C.

Nashville, Tennessee

Memphis, Tennessee

Oxford, Mississippi

Clarksdale, Mississippi

New Orleans, Louisiana

Los Angeles, California

You’re going to see so many things that you won’t remember. But don’t worry. Photos will be taken. Videos will be shot. Notes will be jotted. My only worry is how you’ll handle the snort of whiskey over Faulkner’s grave in Mississippi. Perhaps you’ll have to wait until your older to pay your respects. I’ve read you his only children’s book, The Wishing Tree. Have you read anything else by him? If you end up reading To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, you must pick up Faulkner’s Intruder In The Dust.

I have a copy if you want to borrow it.

–Dad

Hi, Friday!

These letters were supposed to start right after you were born. Well, the first Friday after your birth (you were born on a Monday). You were born during a period of great transition for me and will not recognize the man writing these letters by the time you can read them. I was not always the rugged, responsible man you’re accustomed to now–oh no! I was (or am at the time of writing this) a bit of a late bloomer, all dreams and ambition.

I’m a 35-year-old man, slightly overweight (yes, that’s right, I didn’t always have a six pack), and have yet to publish my first novel. If only I knew now what I will know then! You probably won’t believe that I didn’t run 8 kilometers every morning like I will then. In fact, I have yet to really commit to any fitness routine worthy of note.

Your mother and I sleep next to you every night. It’s called “co-sleeping” and I had to quit smoking and abstain for drinking to sleep next to you safely. I still worry about crushing you to death in my sleep and often awake in a panic. Yet, despite your life hanging in the balance, “co-sleeping”[1] has been one of the most enjoyable experiences of my life. Though, I have yet to dream about you. I will let you know when that happens.

I don’t know very much about babies. The first diaper I changed in my entire life was yours. Your poop was black or dark green. It’s all the stuff you accumulated in your stomach during the brief stint inside my wife’s (your mother’s) uterus. The word for your weird, first, blackish-green poop is meconium.

On November 2, 2021, the psychologist and author, Paul Bloom, as if he knew you’d been on the outside for three months, published an article in The Atlantic titled, What Becoming a Parent Really Does to Your Happiness. It’s an excerpt from his new book, The Sweet Spot: The Pleasures of Suffering and the Search for Meaning (2021). I hope this link still works when you read this. He writes like he’s your close friend and you can talk about anything. You can even try on ideas you don’t necessarily believe in or want to be true or have been thinking about all wrong. I haven’t read The Sweet Spot yet, but I will get around to it (or will I?). I really enjoyed Just Kids and Against Empathy (what a title!). But why am I saying this…do I still ramble like this to you?

Paul Bloom writes in his Atlantic article:

Children make some happy and others miserable; the rest fall somewhere in between—it depends, among other factors, on how old you are, whether you are a mother or a father, and where you live. But a deep puzzle remains: Many people would have had happier lives and marriages had they chosen not to have kids—yet they still describe parenthood as the “best thing they’ve ever done.” Why don’t we regret having children more?

One possibility is a phenomenon called memory distortion. When we think about our past experiences, we tend to remember the peaks and forget the mundane awfulness in between. Senior frames it like this: “Our experiencing selves tell researchers that we prefer doing the dishes—or napping, or shopping, or answering emails—to spending time with our kids … But our remembering selves tell researchers that no one—and nothing—provides us with so much joy as our children. It may not be the happiness we live day to day, but it’s the happiness we think about, the happiness we summon and remember, the stuff that makes up our life-tales.”

This could be because I’m a male between the ages of 26-52, but I’ve only felt happier since you were born. I mean, it’s only been three-months, but so far, so good, right? Other than contemplating the finite nature of existence and constantly worrying about your well-being, I’m all smiles and songs.

Whenever you’re stressed or restless, I sing “Wrap Your Troubles In Dreams” from Dean Martin’s 1959 album, Sleep Warm. You seem to like it.

Or maybe it’s because you were planned? Well, you weren’t really planned so much as inspired–willed? Your mother (my wife) and I wanted you the moment we met. It’s not popular to admit of such impulsiveness, but your mother and I fell in love at first sight (don’t laugh!). I knew in a moment that I wanted her and you. I guess a thirty-something man wanting to start a family isn’t really that out of the ordinary, but it was jarring for me.

We have a big trip coming up, but I will tell you more about it next Friday. I’ve been reading you Alice in Wonderland (1865) & Aesop’s Fables (approx. 600 BCE). Also, I’ve started a library for you. It’s mostly classics (some first printings!) and all in English…your mother (my wife) will select the Icelandic titles. Do people still read? What’s your favourite book?

Make sure you tell me.

[1] “co-sleeping” is one of these terms created online to give the impression of scientific classification. The more accurate and less bullshit-y verb is “sleeping” followed by “next to”.