The ice storm cometh. Nothing else seems of interest, and every turn of wind warrants immediate dissection. We abandon the office early, scramble to reach a train before they arrive full stop in the tunnels. The grocery store shelves lie empty, the floor overflowing with desperate shoppers on line. We make Christmas drinks and take pictures of the wintry courtyard. It eases come evening; the eye of the storm hovers over the Village. I paint my nails with my grandmother's hue and find myself wishing I could call her.
His smile reminds you of warmer climates. For a short moment, you allow yourself to drown in it. Let it keep you warm, until the storm has passed.
Tuesday, January 27, 2015
Saturday, January 24, 2015
Ideal
It's 4:30 in the morning, he says, I have to give up, give in, go to sleep. Another voice from another time zone says I should go to bed earlier, adjust my daily rhythm after the sun and greet each morning with alert eyes and breaths of fire. The former appeals to me far more, but it ended in such wretched tatters.
Perhaps that was not the rhythm's doing.
I spend the night with children on my lap. They discuss my long blond tendrils and try to stay up past their bedtimes. We read about crayons, and I stroke their foreheads until they sleep. I wonder if I will abandon the idea of having some of my own; the world seems far too big a place, and the life far too short, to fit them in. You consider your current home -- the one thing that has consistently made you happy and safe, ever -- and realize again you'd end up having to choose one over the other.
You want to choose the world.
You just hope it will choose you back.
Perhaps that was not the rhythm's doing.
I spend the night with children on my lap. They discuss my long blond tendrils and try to stay up past their bedtimes. We read about crayons, and I stroke their foreheads until they sleep. I wonder if I will abandon the idea of having some of my own; the world seems far too big a place, and the life far too short, to fit them in. You consider your current home -- the one thing that has consistently made you happy and safe, ever -- and realize again you'd end up having to choose one over the other.
You want to choose the world.
You just hope it will choose you back.
New Moon
There's a sliver of light, hanging at the edge of the city and only hinting at the fullness beyond. To imagine, there is an entire universe beyond the meager days we spend trifling around this island. My toothache pales in comparison. You drink massive glasses of red wine and scrub kitchen tiles until your head spins, there doesn't seem to be a better way to get your brain to work. Solve all the world's problems in the middle of the night and when you wake up another week has gone by and you are none the wiser.
He writes from the war-torn, dusty lands and you wish he would return soon. There's an empty space along the bar and your convoluted mind cannot make sense of the twists on your own. The snow storm turns into rain in the forecast. You're sober longer before you're ready for it.
He writes from the war-torn, dusty lands and you wish he would return soon. There's an empty space along the bar and your convoluted mind cannot make sense of the twists on your own. The snow storm turns into rain in the forecast. You're sober longer before you're ready for it.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Machines
My roommate goes to New Jersey. The apartment on Morton Street seems suddenly larger, I stretch my limbs in its every room and drink great big glasses of straight liquor in the early afternoon. Turn the music up loud, so loud it vibrates in my chest and drowns out the sound of the typewriter gunfire.
I looked at other interiors on Craigslist for a while, and came upon such a green and flowering courtyard that I knew I knew by heart. The room above me lies empty soon, she has the same view I do of the ivy at a neighboring wall, although her rent hasn't been stabilized with the years. The post mentions that no one ever leaves this building, that we've all lived here for decades and isn't it lovely. The idea of such stagnation makes my skin crawl, but I come back to the lush window views and do not know where to turn.
There is too much of life left to live, it is too soon for stillness and rest and complacency, your gut burns with firewater and potential and you rage at the keys until they speak the language you want to hear. We are masters of our destiny. If it does not approach us softly, we must drag it kicking and screaming into the light.
Believe that our best days,
are yet to come.
I looked at other interiors on Craigslist for a while, and came upon such a green and flowering courtyard that I knew I knew by heart. The room above me lies empty soon, she has the same view I do of the ivy at a neighboring wall, although her rent hasn't been stabilized with the years. The post mentions that no one ever leaves this building, that we've all lived here for decades and isn't it lovely. The idea of such stagnation makes my skin crawl, but I come back to the lush window views and do not know where to turn.
There is too much of life left to live, it is too soon for stillness and rest and complacency, your gut burns with firewater and potential and you rage at the keys until they speak the language you want to hear. We are masters of our destiny. If it does not approach us softly, we must drag it kicking and screaming into the light.
Believe that our best days,
are yet to come.
The Brazen Fox
The river was freezing tonight, an icy wind thrashing across the piers and it hurt just to turn the corner. I didn't meet a single soul, except a young woman practicing dance moves underneath a power generator light. The water was low, and the earthy smell of rotting ocean floor swept over the sides of the promenade in cold waves. The sky was perfectly clear, starry and deep blue, the lights of the city twinkling quietly. I shivered.
I can't be near you, she said, and the words ring in my head like metal shingles. This won't pass. The age difference between us expanded and grew into those corners that cannot be explained but with time. Her words felt like a bad rerun. I tried to do better than in years past. Perhaps heartbreak returns to us when we do not learn out lesson. You never wanted to be the cause of anyone's tears.
Yet you wreak havoc, everywhere you go.
I can't be near you, she said, and the words ring in my head like metal shingles. This won't pass. The age difference between us expanded and grew into those corners that cannot be explained but with time. Her words felt like a bad rerun. I tried to do better than in years past. Perhaps heartbreak returns to us when we do not learn out lesson. You never wanted to be the cause of anyone's tears.
Yet you wreak havoc, everywhere you go.
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
Borders
He plans for travels back to Africa. Reroutes and strange lands we'd never see as mere mortals, and doesn't my skin ache a little at the loss of never going anywhere. My bosses speak of travel, of keeping me sated, and I love them impossibly in opportunity. It occurs to me that the people I admire most circle me with their adventures, while I am perpetually grounded, and this wasn't where I started. When I see him again perhaps everything will be different.
Most likely nothing will have changed.
I ride the E train back downtown, through the mires of midtown and it's a train always so filled with diversity. New York breathes in me, reminds me of how different it may look in just a few blocks. I came here giggling and terrified once, and now nothing makes me feel more safe. You will return, we will build whatever we have to offer, the days and years will trickle through this city until all is history but the stories we leave behind.
You were always one for the books, anyway.
Tuesday, January 13, 2015
That Scare Us
What if they happen, some day?
The weather flounders, I arrive freezing at the office or in a puddle. He writes to say he longs for colder nights, but you don't understand the sentiment so you let it pass. Mark days in the calendar and try to figure out if you want the month to pass quicker or slower. Your sister writes from across the ocean in love. The years pass so quickly and suddenly we're miles from where we started. I google craigslist ads and am reminded there are a million places you could live in this city. It is, as ever, your most delectable oyster.
Pearls take different shapes than we expect sometimes. Just remember to see it, when it appears.
The weather flounders, I arrive freezing at the office or in a puddle. He writes to say he longs for colder nights, but you don't understand the sentiment so you let it pass. Mark days in the calendar and try to figure out if you want the month to pass quicker or slower. Your sister writes from across the ocean in love. The years pass so quickly and suddenly we're miles from where we started. I google craigslist ads and am reminded there are a million places you could live in this city. It is, as ever, your most delectable oyster.
Pearls take different shapes than we expect sometimes. Just remember to see it, when it appears.
Saturday, January 10, 2015
Beginnings
You, my precious, are onto a great thing. I have never heard a person wax as lyrical about their abode as you do about New York. I retract all my previous comments. A place that makes you that happy cannot be a bad choice.
His email lies like a tiny jewel in my inbox, wedged in between bank statements and communications of daily doldrums. I read and reread it with a manic leap in my heart, as though his affirmation justifies this wretched love affair. There was a full moon over the west village this week, heavy and huge, looming over the brick buildings in a fiery peach color, and I thought life is a beautiful thing, even when we do not know why.
2015 begins in a cold spell. But I will choose my path with heart; I will follow where it leads, and I will not regret a thing. Spring returns. I will be ready.
If you don’t know the way, choose a path with a heart.
His email lies like a tiny jewel in my inbox, wedged in between bank statements and communications of daily doldrums. I read and reread it with a manic leap in my heart, as though his affirmation justifies this wretched love affair. There was a full moon over the west village this week, heavy and huge, looming over the brick buildings in a fiery peach color, and I thought life is a beautiful thing, even when we do not know why.
2015 begins in a cold spell. But I will choose my path with heart; I will follow where it leads, and I will not regret a thing. Spring returns. I will be ready.
If you don’t know the way, choose a path with a heart.
Sunday, January 4, 2015
Turn. Turn. Turn.
How many times have you sat on that couch crying, unable to make words of the terrible monsters that rage within, that they fed and nursed and left in their stead. You tell her about it later and it sounds so harmless, you shrug it off and remain surprised not everyone spends their time in the same destructive cycle. You vow to show him all your cards at once, to prove to yourself you will not actually die having divulged them.
A week comes and goes so quickly in the land of sharp drawls and lilting mountain ranges. You find your big city edges soften, your impatient pace recede in the curves of the canyon. You run along snowy country trails and feel your lungs grow accustomed to the altitude. So many years and you still don't believe you're committed, yet nothing feels more like home than the descent into these valleys. You long for your brick buildings and long steps on the sidewalk, but the deep silence of the West buries itself in you and will not leave you at security. You try to pack as much of its sweet innocent as you can into that bulging suitcase.
New Things begin with your return. Harness them, create them out of the shapeless masses they are. Bend the world to your will.
A week comes and goes so quickly in the land of sharp drawls and lilting mountain ranges. You find your big city edges soften, your impatient pace recede in the curves of the canyon. You run along snowy country trails and feel your lungs grow accustomed to the altitude. So many years and you still don't believe you're committed, yet nothing feels more like home than the descent into these valleys. You long for your brick buildings and long steps on the sidewalk, but the deep silence of the West buries itself in you and will not leave you at security. You try to pack as much of its sweet innocent as you can into that bulging suitcase.
New Things begin with your return. Harness them, create them out of the shapeless masses they are. Bend the world to your will.
Friday, January 2, 2015
2015
The new year enters in permafrost. I drove down to friendly faces in the valley last night, and the sunset turned snow and sea and sky the same blue shade of ice. It was so beautiful I nearly had to pull over to catch my breath.
My grandmother writes illegible notes in her journals from 70 years ago. She finds such joy in the simple treasures, even then, but her every hope revolves around the magical cure-all of love. She is 19, who can blame her.
The new year lies ahead, like a blank slate with brain stormed ideas in the margins. The possibilities are so vast before reality steps in. You sharpen your pencil.
Set about writing the script.
My grandmother writes illegible notes in her journals from 70 years ago. She finds such joy in the simple treasures, even then, but her every hope revolves around the magical cure-all of love. She is 19, who can blame her.
The new year lies ahead, like a blank slate with brain stormed ideas in the margins. The possibilities are so vast before reality steps in. You sharpen your pencil.
Set about writing the script.
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