Nerves

The night before, and I feel like a child awaiting her birthday. I am exhausted but too jittery to lie down. I run around the apartment doing meaningless things with my time, instead of, for instance, packing. My bag lies there, half-filled, taking up the entire floor space and begging for attention. I am aware I will find myself across the world with too many skirts and not enough underwear. It doesn't faze me.

A vicious storm raged across New York, and all exits are sealed. My departure lies in shivers of uncertainty; I cling to scraps of hope. If only I can make it across the water, it will all be okay.

The thought is comforting. It is the way my body leans. If only I can make it across the horizon, I will be washed clean, I will be born again. The secret to life lies in always having another ticket in your back pocket. Nothing really changes, butI believe it just as fervently every time.

I set my alarm. My body itches. The horizon beckons. I am ready to go.

Stirring

Orphan puppy is restless as she watches me put my boots on, my jacket. I gather the bags of trash, find my keys, and she looks at me with those giant, sad eyes, until she realizes that she's going with me, and she begins to tremble that excited shake of hers.

We step out onto Morton Street. Christmas Day, and all the world is quiet. I have never seen the street so still; it's an eerie silence. Orphan puppy is delighted with the fresh air and trots down the sidewalk unnaffected. Later, she lies alongside my leg, all sugarplum visions and deep breaths, while my mind tries to remember a story worth telling.

December has been one long dry spell, without words, without a single spark. Christmas rolls around, social tinsel and work line my every day with soft cotton that numbs my senses, and nothing is contorted enough to write about. Everything just is. Perhaps it's a welcome break. Perhaps I should be alarmed.

The bigger questions will not be away for long. Some nights I enjoy the stillness of their absence, but mostly I itch for their return.

I am not me, without them.

In a Whirl

It's been such a year. (It's been such a life.) There is no wrapping one's head around, there is no making sense of the madness or becoming aware of the Bigness of it all.

These are our lives. You may believe you will have another, an infinity, an energy, a soul, and that this life only prepares you for the wonders of what is to come. I, however, believe in no such hopeful future. I believe in cells, and mulch, in carbon dioxide and earth. I believe that we have this one life, this one moment of existence, to do with as we please. Outside my Greenwich Village window, a great big moon hides in shadows from the sun; the galaxy lies impossibly vast beyond. Sixty square feet of apartment has nothing on infinity. Five liters of oxygen in my lungs are dismissible in the scheme of things.

But somewhere therein lies the magic. That this life is mine and no one else's. That this spark flashes now and never again. That life is a moment, and you have to make that moment worth something.

We must never forget to be tickled pink, at the mere prospect of being alive.

4:44 a.m.

This will all end in tears, he says, and something inside me says he is right, but not for the reasons discussed. You deserve so much better.

I drop him off on Charles Street, and it is not until I walk alone down Hudson that I realize the city has gone to sleep. It seems like minutes ago we were leaving a bustling East Village street and sending our loved ones off in a cab, the New York night vibrant with promise and giggles. How quickly it dissipates into undefined future. How quickly the world changes and the city is not the same.

As I walk down the avenue, contemplating his new future in a whole other world, a whole other life, I realize all this talk of leaving for my part is ridiculous. If I were not here, I would be nowhere. If I were not here, I would be no one.

On Morton Street, I have left the radiator valve open, and I have to open a window to breathe. An orphan puppy sleeps in the room next door. How quickly lives change. How much we take for granted.

I set my alarm. Tomorrow, the world begins anew.

Congestion

For days on end this ruthless cold, this chilling air but it's not so bad. There is too much else to see to bother with shivering. New lives are created in a world far from mine, and the knowledge thereof warms my senses. We sit at White Horse Tavern and reminisce; we were all 16 once, flipping through yearbooks and molding stormy feelings out of clay like they were the be-all end-all of all time. He says thank god we don't have to remember all the words we used. All that's left are the mixtapes.

We part ways by the Rite-Aid on the corner and I think how many things have ended in this life.

How I wish for something begin, instead.

1989

it's so close
I can smell it.

Plastics

Big, heavy snowflakes slowly twirl down toward a West Village courtyard. They land on the trees, the windowsills, the brick walls. They melt on the ground but rest quietly on the cast iron rails, and in the distance, the sky has that faint glow that comes with snow.

Overnight, the temperature plummeted, and everything grew a little more still. The blood doesn't course as quickly through my veins, my breath isn't as shallow. My To-Do list grows and I accept. Patti Smith comes on the television and says New York was such a kind city, but that it's no good to artists these days, and that art is sacrifice. She looks happy. She has such a soft face.

I know it isn't true. But I still think the world was a cooler place, then.