Time passes. Edges that once were so sharp are softened. Memories fade, the pain and the tears subside.
It does not mean you are forgotten.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Tax Season
By the time I reached the Meatpacking District, it began to snow. Hesitant, cautious snowflakes, seemingly confused as to their own existance at this time of year, this time of geography. They fluttered aimlessly towards the ground and transformed into raindrops before they even hit the pavement. Spring is ever the manic depressive. I forgive it.
We can't afford to live like this, she says, as her daughter plays hide-and-seek in a cardboard box, oblivious to their troubles. But then, who can? We were raised in years of little money, but all the social safety nets one could dream. Our childhoods were green grass between bare toes and taking life for granted. Her daughter is all concrete and loud sounds and maybe next month you can go to the zoo with the other kids. Still, her sunshine beats its way into my heart, and we giggle together.
It occurs to me that year has passed since that night on the fire escape on Charles Street. How young we were then, how blue our eyes. This city sinks its teeth into all of us.
For better or worse. No one comes out unscathed.
We can't afford to live like this, she says, as her daughter plays hide-and-seek in a cardboard box, oblivious to their troubles. But then, who can? We were raised in years of little money, but all the social safety nets one could dream. Our childhoods were green grass between bare toes and taking life for granted. Her daughter is all concrete and loud sounds and maybe next month you can go to the zoo with the other kids. Still, her sunshine beats its way into my heart, and we giggle together.
It occurs to me that year has passed since that night on the fire escape on Charles Street. How young we were then, how blue our eyes. This city sinks its teeth into all of us.
For better or worse. No one comes out unscathed.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Cumulonimbus
I took a late train home from Marcy Ave on Friday, and we were a beat collection of strays in the harsh light on the J. Standing on Delancey, waiting for my connection, I stared down the long tunnel into the dark, unexplored entrails of Manhattan. It is the part of the city I have least explored, but that I most desire to see. How easy it would be, I thought, to simply follow that narrow strip from the platform and away, along the tracks, along the regularly dispersed lights, into the eternal night of the underground. . .
As I gazed at the little ledge, I noticed a pile of what I had previously assumed was garbage move. A homeless man rolled in his sleep, precariously close to the edge, undisturbed by passing trains as they shook the walls and pushed the wind. When I looked again, he was jerking off. Life is sad. The point didn't need to be rubbed in. My train came, I averted my eyes, went home in the freezing night.
It could just be the hangover, I said over my coffee in a crowded West Village café the next day. Perhaps it'll pass and I won't know why I overreacted so. The knot in my stomach was coming and going. We were trying to catch up on months apart and still mostly all we talked about was the future. How being back in the City tickled him, how the dream of buying More Time on its streets still gleamed like a treasure in his eyes. How I feared it was an impermanent residence, that soon my time would be up.
Just look at it as an adventure. As running off into the world and trying something different. You can always come home again.
I knew he was right. I love a good adventure.
(And yet knot did not pass, with the hangover.)
As I gazed at the little ledge, I noticed a pile of what I had previously assumed was garbage move. A homeless man rolled in his sleep, precariously close to the edge, undisturbed by passing trains as they shook the walls and pushed the wind. When I looked again, he was jerking off. Life is sad. The point didn't need to be rubbed in. My train came, I averted my eyes, went home in the freezing night.
It could just be the hangover, I said over my coffee in a crowded West Village café the next day. Perhaps it'll pass and I won't know why I overreacted so. The knot in my stomach was coming and going. We were trying to catch up on months apart and still mostly all we talked about was the future. How being back in the City tickled him, how the dream of buying More Time on its streets still gleamed like a treasure in his eyes. How I feared it was an impermanent residence, that soon my time would be up.
Just look at it as an adventure. As running off into the world and trying something different. You can always come home again.
I knew he was right. I love a good adventure.
(And yet knot did not pass, with the hangover.)
Sunday, March 27, 2011
On the LES
I was so giggly. I simply could not help myself. And why would I want to?
The perfume reminded me of youth. The smell of Red Bull with the pre-dinner vodka. We ordered another drink, a bottle of wine, a shot, and then we stumbled down the Lower East streets arm in arm. When the dance floor emptied, we took pictures in the photo booth and I left them at the corner of Bowery and Houston with my southern accent and skipped home along the street. For a second I felt sixteen again.
I ran my hand along the brick walls, along the steel mesh, along the New York streets. On every corner, another City Monument kept me company, and I loved the city so. This is my home. These are my laughs.
Remember when we were, in fact, sixteen? I had that ache in my shoulder, when we drank, and it only went away when I had a smoke. I remember that feeling so well. Tonight, on Houston Street, I had that same feeling, that same ache. We are who we were, only older, supposedly wiser. We were young, once.
We will never be that young again.
The perfume reminded me of youth. The smell of Red Bull with the pre-dinner vodka. We ordered another drink, a bottle of wine, a shot, and then we stumbled down the Lower East streets arm in arm. When the dance floor emptied, we took pictures in the photo booth and I left them at the corner of Bowery and Houston with my southern accent and skipped home along the street. For a second I felt sixteen again.
I ran my hand along the brick walls, along the steel mesh, along the New York streets. On every corner, another City Monument kept me company, and I loved the city so. This is my home. These are my laughs.
Remember when we were, in fact, sixteen? I had that ache in my shoulder, when we drank, and it only went away when I had a smoke. I remember that feeling so well. Tonight, on Houston Street, I had that same feeling, that same ache. We are who we were, only older, supposedly wiser. We were young, once.
We will never be that young again.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Vacancy
We clean. We sneeze through dust clouds and wade through the years of trinkets piled into this tiny Greenwich village apartment. The big interior design site wants to come by to photograph our home, and it doesn't take long to realize how much grime remains in corners unseen. She frets, I delight in the open windows, the higher ceilings. Daylight savings tricks me into thinking the day is young, and I adore forgetting dinner, weariness, while my hands smell of softsoap and clean.
She erases every trace of me in the bedroom, and I let her. How proud she is of her home. We joke of the madness of the house, squirrels on the fire escape and santa clause salt shakers in March. In the end it's an apartment 25 years in the making; we are who we are, with all our eccentricities. I go into her apartment and I think how much potential it has, if only... she says of the neighbor, and perhaps that's how we all feel. How much easier to find flaws in others, to say why don't they just..?, and how hard to do the same for oneself.
I roll silently in my self-righteousness before I try to shake it off, again. In the end, it's too lovely an opportunity to revel in the clear windows and polished porcelain, to waste time making yours what is not.
She erases every trace of me in the bedroom, and I let her. How proud she is of her home. We joke of the madness of the house, squirrels on the fire escape and santa clause salt shakers in March. In the end it's an apartment 25 years in the making; we are who we are, with all our eccentricities. I go into her apartment and I think how much potential it has, if only... she says of the neighbor, and perhaps that's how we all feel. How much easier to find flaws in others, to say why don't they just..?, and how hard to do the same for oneself.
I roll silently in my self-righteousness before I try to shake it off, again. In the end, it's too lovely an opportunity to revel in the clear windows and polished porcelain, to waste time making yours what is not.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
And Yet
It's alright as long as the sun shines, as long as the building is alive and the people are distracting. The demons are easily warded off on sunny spring days, and anyways there are always things to do.
And then evening arrives. When all is quiet in the apartment, the voices in my head get so much louder. How much pain unresolved, how much life unlived, coagulates in my veins and slows my body. In a quiet house, there is nowhere to run.
I go to bed early. In a few hours it will be light again. I'll just not look over my shoulder, until then.
And then evening arrives. When all is quiet in the apartment, the voices in my head get so much louder. How much pain unresolved, how much life unlived, coagulates in my veins and slows my body. In a quiet house, there is nowhere to run.
I go to bed early. In a few hours it will be light again. I'll just not look over my shoulder, until then.
Super Moon
All day this sense of unease. Tears always on the verge of breaking, emotional walls no doubt softened by the arrival of those babies, the burgeoning life in the ground, and the way orphan puppy prances in the sunlight now even though no one gave her more than days. Unnamed feelings swirl through my innards and it is not until much later that I curl up in the privacy of my own room, in my own solitude, that words begin to form, labeling emotions and stowing them away in neatly organized compartments in my journal.
I needn't bore you with the details of what those emotions amounted to, the language they created. In the end, I suppose, it comes down to getting one's shit together. Take a deep breath, start over, get it right. Life is short, but we are never too old to do ourselves justice.
It seems like I should be fighting like hell.
I needn't bore you with the details of what those emotions amounted to, the language they created. In the end, I suppose, it comes down to getting one's shit together. Take a deep breath, start over, get it right. Life is short, but we are never too old to do ourselves justice.
It seems like I should be fighting like hell.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
New(s)
I wake up with the lingering feeling of a delicious dream on my skin. Something about spring, about simple joys and open eyes. I rise slowly, make my coffee just as strong as I want, because it is, after all Saturday. I pace around my telephone, check again so that I didn't miss a beep. And then, at last, there it is.
They were born at 10:30 last night.
And while the world is busy bursting forth with new leaves, new flowers, new songs and new hope, two little lives join in the madness. Two boys so many years longed for, so eagerly awaited, were born one Friday night in spring.
Life is magic. It's a beautiful thing.
They were born at 10:30 last night.
And while the world is busy bursting forth with new leaves, new flowers, new songs and new hope, two little lives join in the madness. Two boys so many years longed for, so eagerly awaited, were born one Friday night in spring.
Life is magic. It's a beautiful thing.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Repeat
The night is mild, soft, breezy. Long row of cars line Morton Street as we sit with our Friday Night Cocktails and watch the slew of dog walkers passing by. Neighbors from upstairs and down pass us on the stoop, carefully treading between clinking glasses and plates of salume while remarking how warm the night, how lovely spring. Reluctant to return upstairs to the real world, we order pizza and dumplings for the steps, giggling about how to direct the delivery boy.
All day is spent staring into the sun. Running around playgrounds with kisses and giggles, carrying piles of clothes unworn. I take the long way home and call a world of people to gloat about spreading crocus and suddenly flushed cheeks. My phone beeps with messages of babies on the verge of being born, and I can't imagine a better day for it. Welcome, this is the only Life you know, isn't it perfect? The dogs skip down the street and tell me the times are a-changing.
It's like turning a light switch. Every year, it's the same procedure. Every year, the same amazement and surprise. The familiarity of the feeling, the delighted giggles as though it were the first time. Spring grabs me by the heartstrings, and I fall helplessly and happily into the whirlwind of rainbows and sparkles.
Spring is here. I am tickled pink.
All day is spent staring into the sun. Running around playgrounds with kisses and giggles, carrying piles of clothes unworn. I take the long way home and call a world of people to gloat about spreading crocus and suddenly flushed cheeks. My phone beeps with messages of babies on the verge of being born, and I can't imagine a better day for it. Welcome, this is the only Life you know, isn't it perfect? The dogs skip down the street and tell me the times are a-changing.
It's like turning a light switch. Every year, it's the same procedure. Every year, the same amazement and surprise. The familiarity of the feeling, the delighted giggles as though it were the first time. Spring grabs me by the heartstrings, and I fall helplessly and happily into the whirlwind of rainbows and sparkles.
Spring is here. I am tickled pink.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Burst
And in an instant, how it all is transformed. Where did these buds come from? Surely they weren't there yesterday in the cold March rain. We run around the playground with our jackets open and stare into the sun without reservation. Every branch is teeming with sticky little clusters of Life in the making; I awoke to the sound of birds months gone.
How simple it is, the change. Life rushes so quickly back into my veins, into every fiber of my pale, weary body, and I feel it tickle my nerves as it comes. The heavy eyelids and tired limbs seem months away, the dark corners where I let my soul huddle through the dark months are long gone, and all that's left are dust bunnies along the walls, exposed by the bright light streaming in.
I grab a dishrag, find some soap, and I set about scouring the remnants of winter, from my heart.
How simple it is, the change. Life rushes so quickly back into my veins, into every fiber of my pale, weary body, and I feel it tickle my nerves as it comes. The heavy eyelids and tired limbs seem months away, the dark corners where I let my soul huddle through the dark months are long gone, and all that's left are dust bunnies along the walls, exposed by the bright light streaming in.
I grab a dishrag, find some soap, and I set about scouring the remnants of winter, from my heart.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Anticipation
Spring is so close, I can smell it. I stood at the Howard Beach station in Queens today and felt it in the sunlight. It tickles something deep, deep within me. Every year it's the same story. Every year, I am more than willing to fall helplessly and happily into the return of life.
Tonight I am tired. But tomorrow, tomorrow I allow the Life to run in my veins, again.
Tonight I am tired. But tomorrow, tomorrow I allow the Life to run in my veins, again.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Reminders
It is good to be questioned, to have to put into words. See this city with more attentive eyes. Show someone else what makes it magic for me. We walk the streets up and down, tire ourselves and still don't get very far. The Village is calm, the city doesn't seem particularly big at all.
The little Spanish girl was not satisfied; if my parents lived in Utah, my sister in Sweden, and here I was only living with a friend, then where was my really real home? she asked.
This is it, I said. This is my really real home. And if she didn't believe me, at least I was convinced. This is my really real home, in the end.
The little Spanish girl was not satisfied; if my parents lived in Utah, my sister in Sweden, and here I was only living with a friend, then where was my really real home? she asked.
This is it, I said. This is my really real home. And if she didn't believe me, at least I was convinced. This is my really real home, in the end.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Revisited
Where are you going? the woman asked me as we waited for the AirTrain. Oh, nowhere, I replied. I'm here to pick up my mother.
Two years since last she was here, and isn't it strange to think? A life based in that Greenpoint apartment with the breathtaking view. An adventure in the city, barely out of its cradle. There was no telling where it would lead; I suspected my money would run out by fall. We navigate the West Village maze now, and it's difficult to remember a time when everything was new, every map uncharted.
It's good to be reminded sometimes: we live, we learn, we evolve. These days pass so quickly, but not a single one was lived in vain.
Two years since last she was here, and isn't it strange to think? A life based in that Greenpoint apartment with the breathtaking view. An adventure in the city, barely out of its cradle. There was no telling where it would lead; I suspected my money would run out by fall. We navigate the West Village maze now, and it's difficult to remember a time when everything was new, every map uncharted.
It's good to be reminded sometimes: we live, we learn, we evolve. These days pass so quickly, but not a single one was lived in vain.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Medicating of Self
an·o·dyne /ˈanəˌdīn/
1: something that soothes, calms, or comforts
anodyne cocktail /ˈanəˌdīn ˈkɒkˌteɪl/
1: see above, add vermouth and orange rind
I think I have found the trick to surviving (the rain, the winter, the everything).
1: something that soothes, calms, or comforts
anodyne cocktail /ˈanəˌdīn ˈkɒkˌteɪl/
1: see above, add vermouth and orange rind
I think I have found the trick to surviving (the rain, the winter, the everything).
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
In Waves
Orphan Puppy gets sick in the night. Spends hours pacing and by morning we are on high alert, our hearts breaking before our eyes, as she hangs listless from her bed. We prepare ourselves, yet again, and I go to work with heavy steps. But by afternoon, she is back to pitter-pattering around the apartment, inhaling food and wagging her tail at every flicker in the lights. I laugh, relieved and delighted at her antics, and she spends the afternoon snuggled next to me as I work. These days are tough our emotional sanity, but every good day in the wait, is still so much better than the alternative.
And suddenly I sit here with an airplane ticket in my inbox. The greatest solution to every itch, to every dead feeling, to every restless fear. A deadline looms, more like a promise than a stressor, and I ready myself to write lists and check them off in time for departure. I run through the nerves that need to be stretched, and paint the romantic images of spring in France to tempt my palate. France, spring, wine, work. Open roads and people to win over. A project of passion in the making, the passion long since there. I know there is much work to be done before this trip, I know there are obstacles to overcome. But the trip is worth the effort. The Trip is always worth the effort. That's what makes airplane tickets sparkle so.
And suddenly I sit here with an airplane ticket in my inbox. The greatest solution to every itch, to every dead feeling, to every restless fear. A deadline looms, more like a promise than a stressor, and I ready myself to write lists and check them off in time for departure. I run through the nerves that need to be stretched, and paint the romantic images of spring in France to tempt my palate. France, spring, wine, work. Open roads and people to win over. A project of passion in the making, the passion long since there. I know there is much work to be done before this trip, I know there are obstacles to overcome. But the trip is worth the effort. The Trip is always worth the effort. That's what makes airplane tickets sparkle so.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Be Mine
I saw a picture of you today. It's been so long since I saw you in the flesh. I forget to think of you. Perhaps if I had thought of you when the time was right, things would be different.
But I didn't.
But I didn't.
Attached
Trains never run proper on weekends; I found myself upended on the far end of Bleecker street, and the torrential downpour followed me home. Restaurants along Bleecker stood empty in the rain, but the line outside Poisson Rouge stretched around the block. We pick our battles. In Brooklyn, the windows shuddered from the storm, but the company was worth the trek. We pick our battles, indeed.
As I turned the corner on Morton, I found myself slowing down, reluctant to return home and hear the news of Orphan Puppy's condition. The morning had seen a setback and we were again reminded of Reality, of Mortality. But when I got home, her wagging tail and eager eyes reassured me, bought us another day.
Faced with mortality, every day lived is another battle won.
As I turned the corner on Morton, I found myself slowing down, reluctant to return home and hear the news of Orphan Puppy's condition. The morning had seen a setback and we were again reminded of Reality, of Mortality. But when I got home, her wagging tail and eager eyes reassured me, bought us another day.
Faced with mortality, every day lived is another battle won.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
One a.m.
I wish I lived on the upper west! he explained, when I for the nth time assumed that's where he lived. Something about him just screams UWS. That's what I want; married, having kids. They all have kids up there, it's made for it. The night ends early; I walk alone down Morton Street and am not tired.
I forget that people here, too, want that life. That millions of them are living it. They've found their one, against all the odds of dating in the city, and they want to settle down. They just want to do it here. No weird artsy job, no mad youthful endeavors in the LES night. They want their nine-to-five, their family, their life in order.
One a.m. and my book is spiraling out of control. Twists and turns, I am not in control. But I see clearly how my subconscious weaves its tales into the word processor. My subconscious could not care less about the upper west side. And at the end of the night, that's the company I prefer to take to home.
I forget that people here, too, want that life. That millions of them are living it. They've found their one, against all the odds of dating in the city, and they want to settle down. They just want to do it here. No weird artsy job, no mad youthful endeavors in the LES night. They want their nine-to-five, their family, their life in order.
One a.m. and my book is spiraling out of control. Twists and turns, I am not in control. But I see clearly how my subconscious weaves its tales into the word processor. My subconscious could not care less about the upper west side. And at the end of the night, that's the company I prefer to take to home.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
How to Save a Life
Friday night and all is well with the world. I giggled from the moment I woke up right on time and realized I'd forgotten to set my alarm, through the work day of silly children and chilly sunshine, to the last hours of counting down until it was time for Friday night cocktails. Unexpected company and we all felt the tingle of the anodyne cocktail flowing into our veins, the remains of the day finally washed away.
Hours later, I walked home down west 10th street and New York had that weird glow it does when the clouds roll in and every building bounces its lights into the nighttime sky. Front yard trees revealed hints of leaves and Bedford was quiet despite the Friday night buzz. Saturday morning lies waiting with not a care in the world.
There is something inexplicably delicious about such a moment. I do my best, to savor every morsel.
Hours later, I walked home down west 10th street and New York had that weird glow it does when the clouds roll in and every building bounces its lights into the nighttime sky. Front yard trees revealed hints of leaves and Bedford was quiet despite the Friday night buzz. Saturday morning lies waiting with not a care in the world.
There is something inexplicably delicious about such a moment. I do my best, to savor every morsel.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Presently
"There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed."
— Ernest Hemingway
— Ernest Hemingway
Weep for Yourself
Another sunny day, I squint into the sun the entire way to work and smile. But March is treacherous, and the air is so cold I no longer feel my fingers. Spring is waiting in the margin, I know it.
The parks have been cleaned up, and along the earth I see them, tiny, tiny green sprouts seeming effortlessly to rise to the surface, stretch in the afternoon sun. The trees seem to lose their sharpness, and it takes me a while to realize that it is because little knobs are growing on them, preparing for the moment when they may burst forth and paint the world in a new light. Birds return to the concrete, looking for crumbs and gossipping with the neighbors.
My steps are longer in the mornings now, my back straighter. I still pace within these four walls and cannot muster up the energy for any actual living, but I know it is within reach. I know that soon enough, my eyes will open properly for the first time in months. I know my smile will be truer, my heart lighter. It is coming. It is coming.
Can you feel it?
The parks have been cleaned up, and along the earth I see them, tiny, tiny green sprouts seeming effortlessly to rise to the surface, stretch in the afternoon sun. The trees seem to lose their sharpness, and it takes me a while to realize that it is because little knobs are growing on them, preparing for the moment when they may burst forth and paint the world in a new light. Birds return to the concrete, looking for crumbs and gossipping with the neighbors.
My steps are longer in the mornings now, my back straighter. I still pace within these four walls and cannot muster up the energy for any actual living, but I know it is within reach. I know that soon enough, my eyes will open properly for the first time in months. I know my smile will be truer, my heart lighter. It is coming. It is coming.
Can you feel it?
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
March On.
Today the sun shone brightly on the Hudson River. Jackets opened, faces softened, hope sprang to life. The sweetest soul brought armfuls of tulips, pastel bright lights to our dank house of gloom. We spoke of changing seasons and emerging from hibernation, our sickly bodies stretching in the fresh air. Everyone is speaking of that, lately. Another year comes full circle, and we near the light at the end of the tunnel.
Only, in this case, reaching the light doesn't mean we're dead.
It means we made it out alive.
Only, in this case, reaching the light doesn't mean we're dead.
It means we made it out alive.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Repose
Suddenly, she eats. Devours entire slices of smoked turkey deli meat and triple cream cheese from a Brooklyn co-op. It brightens her eyes and perks her walk. We skip down Leroy Street in the sunshine and death feels so far away. Lurking around the corner, certainly, but no longer entrenched in every breath. Friends come to visit her, my sister calls to say goodnight via webcam; everyone wants to spread the love into every available space in her tiny body. We rejoice in the good moments, smother her in five times as many embraces as before.
But it is not that which is truly the best part of getting these last few days with her. The best part is when I wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen to make my coffee, and I see her lying there in her bed under my chair, nuzzled into her blanket like so many mornings before. It is turning a corner and seeing her great big eyes stare up at me before she pitter-patters away down the corridor in search of new adventure. It is all those normal moments that have become routine, that have become a part of our home. It is that which will be so empty, once she is no longer there to fill it, that I truly cherish now.
Absorb the everyday magic. It is that which makes up your life.
But it is not that which is truly the best part of getting these last few days with her. The best part is when I wake up in the morning and stumble into the kitchen to make my coffee, and I see her lying there in her bed under my chair, nuzzled into her blanket like so many mornings before. It is turning a corner and seeing her great big eyes stare up at me before she pitter-patters away down the corridor in search of new adventure. It is all those normal moments that have become routine, that have become a part of our home. It is that which will be so empty, once she is no longer there to fill it, that I truly cherish now.
Absorb the everyday magic. It is that which makes up your life.
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