scribblings in a moleskin:

beginning of june, three guys rejected me all at once. the span of one week. for a month thereafter, i began every story with that preface.

things is, i owe each of those three men a thank-you-note.
....................................................................................................

the languages of love.

mine will be memory. i will remember + record.

b/c i won't be good at voicing the i love you's, the kind words. i won't offer up compliments freely, and i won't take them humbly. but i'll remember it all. your shoes. the cut of the light across the floor.


.....................................................................................................


it begins under the skin. gets caught in the throat. lines the undersize of the collarbone. lodges below that first set of ribs. trickles down to the stomach.

it's only when it gets there--bottom of the belly--that you're sunk. in deep shit, so to speak. or just in deep.

......................................................................................................

october 20.


i took an elbow to the boob at work tonight. boy did that grant some perspective. big picture. means to an end.

getting into the cab at 2 am. it reeks of cigarette. makes me think of that one guy. that totally wrong one. he's married now. i hope he's well and happy. i hope time and a new love...

...........................................................................................................


she wanted to tell him, he was her christmas morning.

..........................................................................................................

to try + compare our beauty to someone else's is a moot point.

all we strive for is to fulfill our own capacity to be beautiful--it signals worth (reproductive +...)

to say i'm more beautiful/ less beautiful than her is a waste of energy. waste of time

..........................................................................................................


she didn't want to say it. didn't want to give voice to it. to answer his question. mutter it aloud, make it real, create a boundary--a set of rules, gift a road map that would mean more lives must pass before they'd see each other again.

but the truth always surfaces. it must

the hour after waking

most days i couldn't tell you two things about happiness other than sometimes i am, sometimes i'm not.

sometimes it's there. sometimes it's not.

but this morning, this morning happiness was the quick walk to the corner caffe. the white lunch bag with the bagel-and-egg sandwich. the plastic sip-cup of orange juice. this morning happiness was the quiet apartment and a song on repeat. it was the forgiveness i granted myself for the unmade bed and messy floor. the notion that everything--every action, every thought, every sideways glance is a prayer. distilled down, all is prayer, and i am changed by that. that thought, that knowledge, that eternal and ever-reaching love changes me. this morning happiness was the not-so-gentle sense that everything will work out. the turmoil of excitement sitting pit of stomach for a reason that i am not yet conscious of.

this morning happiness was the hour after waking. when the world was mine and mine alone. and there was no fear. only love. in every action. love of waking, despite exhaustion. love of taking the elevator, and studying the windows across the street. love of feeding my body. of taking this suspended time before the day catapults forward and staking a claim.

on little lies, white lies, the big stuff, and all that comes between.

i still remember the first lie i told.

or, well, the first lie i was conscious of telling.

it was mid-afternoon, after school, and i sat perched atop one of the high bar stools framing the kitchen counter. it spun from side to side and i sat, legs folded under, slowly moving and swaying, a yellow box of nilla wafters in front of me.

my mother had made it clear that i was only to have some (alarmingly) low number of them. no more than three, or some such.

nonsense!

(i had a really good mom. among the best).

i ate three. then three more. then probably three more after that. and on and on and on and on and on.

and i remember her coming back into the kitchen,

did you have just the three?

yup. just three.

and there it was. the first lie told.

i don't remember is if she knew. probably. but what i do remember is the stomach-churning it elicited--and how that had nothing to do with too much sugar.

i am a tremendously lousy liar. i don't do it. perhaps that's the dictate of some strict, and often too-rigid moral compass, but i just don't have a knack for it.

no talent, no skill.

every once and a while i'll give it a go, but when i do i make a face that very clearly says i am lying and you know i am, don't you?


just the other day my mother asked me if i'd taken some pill i was supposed to.

yup.                                silence.

you're lying, aren't you?

yup.

even over the phone it's clear.

i cannot tell a lie and my face hides nothing. more than the question of morality, i think i just want to live authentically.

life is so hard, you know? filled with too many struggles and failures not to embrace them. i just don't want to diminish who i am by lying about it. even if it's a small lie.

and yet. i am deeply fearful. so i omit things. often, i omit.

lying by omission, i suppose that's not much better. and i conceal by structuring the truth in such a way that it's fragmented and unclear. or purposefully misleading.

i consider myself a deeply private person.

bet you didn't think that--didn't know that. hell, here is all this stuff that i've written and revealed and it's as truthful as it can be, and yet, i consider myself a deeply private, often secretive, person.

how can that be? not sure. but that's how i feel.

i parcel out only bits and pieces,  hold the larger truth so close to the chest. i fold truth over on itself so often that the end result is something entirely muddled--language in code.

very rarely does someone stumble upon something i'm unwilling to speak about, but when they do, i smile, side-step, unfurl silence like a ribbon between us, and re-direct. a magician's game.

however, if someone were to ask me something, point blank, i would tell the truth. stripped down, i would answer honestly.

yes. or no. and all the words in between.

and because that's all i know i cannot conceive that other's might do it differently.

that a lie might pass between.



tell me, do you ever tell lies? how do you do it? no judgement here, i'm honestly just tremendously curious. 

week three of this new year: january 15-21

this is the week i put on my suede pumps, colored my lips red and finally took in lincoln center's production of war horse. (it really is as stunning as they say--if you find yourself in new york, you must see it). this is the week i took in a lot of liquids--trading coffee and tea for warm noodle soup. (yes, that's right. this is the week i attempted to cut back on coffee consumption!). this is the week that after five weeks of not feeling well, i slowly started to lose my mind--began rubbing vic's vapo rub on my face (yes, you read that right), applying other salves to heal the tell-tale red just under my nose from where the tissue has marked the skin. this is the week i began dreaming of paris in the spring. may, perhaps? this is the week when new york got cold in a way that made me question if i'd actually survive this winter. truth be told? jury's still out.

a little tune to begin the week.

been a while since i posted anything i'm listening to, so i thought i'd share the song that has kick-started the year for me.

i love it. can't stop listening to it.

"don't you wait, and let time, put those bags under your eyes"




in other news: i was thinking this morning about the first time i told a lie. i actually remember it. i'm gonna write about it later, so should you wanna know...

at the bottom of a coffee cup.

it's been a doozy of a week. and it's gonna be a doozy of the next few.

but last night as i walked through an industrial section of brooklyn, dipping my vegan biscotti into an almond milk latte, i thought: when and how did i become this person? 


turns out, i really quite like this person. 


and that thought is enough to get me through.

one of those things i wish i myself had written:

Before I could flinch, he planted his warm lips against mine, wrapping his arms around my waist. I didn't know what to do with my hands. I thought about putting them in his hair, stopping inches away from his head. I thought about putting them around his neck, but I stopped myself mid-flight. So there I was, being kissed by a boy I was falling hopelessly in love with and making a complete fool of myself, because I looked like I was flagging someone down with my hands. 


Concealed
Sang Kromah




image via. 

the kind of woman i want to be:

i want to take my makeup off every night before bed.
i want to floss my teeth just as often as is recommended.
i want to wear high heels. or not.
i want a little garden. whether it be mounted on a wall, contained in a window-box, or a full backyard plot, i want my own greens. want to mark time by their progress. want to pick them fresh for dinner.
i want to bike to the farmer's market. i want to like green tea. or not. but drink it anyway.
i want my food to be rich in the colors of the earth.
i want to live near the water. or the mountains. or both. want to pray and give thanks beneath trees that reach toward the heavens.
i want balance. balance between investing in all the right things and paying attention and putting in the work and then letting it go and not giving two shits.
i want to turn off the lights when i leave a room. and i want to find a partner who can honor that.
i want pictures everywhere. frames everywhere. i want the words hung right up there on the wall. i want to wake early. to move my body because it's good for my heart. because it keeps me light and kind. i want breakfast in bed on saturday mornings. and fresh flowers and gifts for no reason at all. i want to be the kind of friend who honors commitments, takes the time to make the call, sends ridiculous emails just because, who speaks truly and freely, and plans birthday trips to paris.
i want to wear colorful socks and knee-length skirts. bright lipstick and my hair in a high bun.
i want to never go another six-year-period without owning a pair of bluejeans.
i want to return to a bar just because i thought the bartender was cute. and i want to sit late into the night, as darkness folds over itself, falling in love, if only for a morning.

i read this and sobbed--the kind of good, big, open tears that unfurl the chest.

so if you read only one thing today, let it be this--
please, God, let it be this:

{i'm posting it in full here, but please, take note: THESE WORDS ARE NOT MINE. the original can be found here}.

Dear Sugar,

I read your column religiously. I’m 22. From what I can tell by your writing, you’re in your early 40s. My question is short and sweet: what would you tell your 20-something self if you could talk to her now?

Love,
Seeking Wisdom

Dear Seeking Wisdom,

Stop worrying about whether you’re fat. You’re not fat. Or rather, you’re sometimes a little bit fat, but who gives a shit? There is nothing more boring and fruitless than a woman lamenting the fact that her stomach is round. Feed yourself. Literally. The sort of people worthy of your love will love you more for this, sweet pea.

In the middle of the night in the middle of your twenties when your best woman friend crawls naked into your bed, straddles you, and says, You should run away from me before I devour you, believe her.

You are not a terrible person for wanting to break up with someone you love. You don’t need a reason to leave. Wanting to leave is enough. Leaving doesn’t mean you’re incapable of real love or that you’ll never love anyone else again. It doesn’t mean you’re morally bankrupt or psychologically demented or a nymphomaniac. It means you wish to change the terms of one particular relationship. That’s all. Be brave enough to break your own heart.

When that really sweet but fucked up gay couple invites you over to their cool apartment to do ecstasy with them, say no.

There are some things you can’t understand yet. Your life will be a great and continuous unfolding. It’s good you’ve worked hard to resolve childhood issues while in your twenties, but understand that what you resolve will need to be resolved again. And again. You will come to know things that can only be known with the wisdom of age and the grace of years. Most of those things will have to do with forgiveness.

One evening you will be rolling around on the wooden floor of your apartment with a man who will tell you he doesn’t have a condom. You will smile in this spunky way that you think is hot and tell him to fuck you anyway. This will be a mistake for which you alone will pay.

Don’t lament so much about how your career is going to turn out. You don’t have a career. You have a life. Do the work. Keep the faith. Be true blue. You are a writer because you write. Keep writing and quit your bitching. Your book has a birthday. You don’t know what it is yet.

You cannot convince people to love you. This is an absolute rule. No one will ever give you love because you want him or her to give it. Real love moves freely in both directions. Don’t waste your time on anything else.

Most things will be okay eventually, but not everything will be. Sometimes you’ll put up a good fight and lose. Sometimes you’ll hold on really hard and realize there is no choice but to let go. Acceptance is a small, quiet room.

One hot afternoon during the era in which you’ve gotten yourself ridiculously tangled up with heroin you will be riding the bus and thinking what a worthless piece of crap you are when a little girl will get on the bus holding the strings of two purple balloons. She’ll offer you one of the balloons, but you won’t take it because you believe you no longer have a right to such tiny beautiful things. You’re wrong. You do.

Your assumptions about the lives of others are in direct relation to your naïve pomposity. Many people you believe to be rich are not rich. Many people you think have it easy worked hard for what they got. Many people who seem to be gliding right along have suffered and are suffering. Many people who appear to you to be old and stupidly saddled down with kids and cars and houses were once every bit as hip and pompous as you.

When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.

The useless days will add up to something. The shitty waitressing jobs. The hours writing in your journal. The long meandering walks. The hours reading poetry and story collections and novels and dead people’s diaries and wondering about sex and God and whether you should shave under your arms or not. These things are your becoming.

One Christmas at the very beginning of your twenties when your mother gives you a warm coat that she saved for months to buy, don’t look at her skeptically after she tells you she thought the coat was perfect for you. Don’t hold it up and say it’s longer than you like your coats to be and too puffy and possibly even too warm. Your mother will be dead by spring. That coat will be the last gift she gave you. You will regret the small thing you didn’t say for the rest of your life.

Say thank you.

Yours,
Sugar

you don't have a career. you have a life.
acceptance is a small, quiet room. 
what you resolve will need to be resolved again. 

the kiss in doorway--that's where i began to really lose it. from there it was all downhill. or up, maybe. this piece will be bookmarked in my tab bar till the end of time.

this new need. a home.

last night i stood with my fingers poised on the doorknob listening for the footsteps to recede into the room furthest from my own.

i hadn't even realized he was home.

the roommate.

just as i'd been about to open my door, i heard the shuffle of his feet and so paused, hand in the air, breath in throat, waiting

we've entered into a dance, both of us, without ever speaking of it or agreeing to it, with no words at all, we've found a way of living in which we shuffle step, one around the other. never occupying the same space, interpreting the music of closing doors, running water, the sweet hum of the kettle.

i'm not proud of this, this way of living. this absence of hello's or how are you's. this passing as strangers on the street. and we are, we're strangers, tied together only by the loose bond of mutual acquaintances and similar schooling. he had seemed the best choice to fill the third and largest room.

and he was. he is. he's fine.

it's not really about him, you know?

this three-room apartment, this once castle-in-the-sky, this once playground-of-open-space, endless flooring, and hudson views, it's--well, it's not enough now.

priorities have changed. values have shifted.

i want my own space. i'll take a closet, if i have to, but i want it to be mine and mine alone. i want to build a home. i want to recognize all the smells, know the hair on the bathroom floor. i want to be sure of who to blame for the over-stuffed and over-ripe garbage (yes, me). i want to be sure the nicks and scratches littering my favorite bowls were the product of my careless fingers--and until the possibility that they were caused by the man i love, by our growing children, well, until that possibility is more than just  hope or passing thought, let me live alone.

i want to know that the next time i share a space with someone the impetus will be love.

this new need is so immediate, so strong. startling, really, in just how physical it is.

i was talking about it at work when another girl said, oh, you're moving, do you need a roommate? in her defense, she had caught the tail-end of the discussion.


no, i replied, taking a deep breath and smiling slowly. i want to live alone. 


alone, why would you want that? 


i gave her a little laugh, oh you know...


the oh, you know was my kind way of saying if you even have to ask, it's not worth explaining. 

perhaps it's age, perhaps it is shifting wants and needs from this thing called life, perhaps it's just part of my makeup. perhaps it's part of my fierce need for independence, product of my believe that space is charged and sacred.

who knows for sure.

all i know for now is, let me live alone. let there be a new adventure, a new experience. for the first time in all my years of new york city living, let me lay claim to a space, let me build a home.

week two of this new year: january 8-14

i've been waking up with no sense of what day it is or where i am or if i even know my name. this is how i know i am busy. so i am trying--really, i am--to focus in on the little things. the chance meeting of feet against cobblestone. the warmth of a really good latte. a book so well-loved and so oft-read the pages are falling out. beautiful plates. the sighting of a vespa. animal crackers and their ability to transport me some twenty-two years. and the joy that comes from days well-filled with work and laughter, new friends and cute men, and the dreams we share over the breaking of bread.

the need to say.

i got home tonight positively alight with the need to put pen to paper.

to expel the clawing, clamoring words.

it's been so long since i've felt the immediacy of that push--the inner-gnawing folding the stomach in on itself.

but the need to write, the words, they were nothing if not fragmented. cutting shards.

and where to begin?

i am not so patient. and i am not so strong. and i can't wait. i want to. but i can't. because it's fair to no one. i have to let this one go. cast it up to the fates and move on. trust that if it's meant to be, it will. was it just one lie that was told? or many? were there things misremembered and confused or were they just not remembered at all? i worry it's all too far gone. worry i'll never be good enough or pretty enough, that'll we'll never meet as equals. and i know this penchant i have for speaking honestly, for saying everything, can alarm and undo, but it's as much who i am as the dark moles littering my skin. it cannot be rubbed off or snuffed out--i've tried.

really, i'm not so strong--a common mistake. and the turmoil and disease of contradictory thoughts, well, i struggle with that, am wounded by that. perhaps i could choose the bits i want to believe--listen to the gut. but i am human, and woman, at that. and the thoughts, the warring words, they're just not enough. i'm not asking for more. that would be unfair. but know this: i am as terrified and fallible and deeply insecure as anyone else.

and so i offer it up. all of it. i throw my hands up, casting it to the wind, trusting the dust will settle as it must.

pho in chinatown.

i have reached this lovely little phase in my life in which i'm surrounded by the most amazing women. kim, is one of those women. we haven't known each other terribly long, but i can confidently say, i adore her. she's the best. the BEST. (she's been a showgirl in vegas, a lounge-singer on a cruise ship, and a woman of international intrigue {i imagine}). she loves to travel (and she's good at it) so when we take to the streets of new york we do so with idea that we're visiting--and what i mean by this is--we take it in with fresh eyes and force ourselves to traverse the parts of the city we're not terribly familiar with. we seek out independent book-sellers, eclectic fashion boutiques, bars with dim-lighting and cute bartenders.

kim introduced me to pho (pronounced: fuh) which is a vietnamese noodle soup that will knock your socks off. (add the hot sauce and that won't just be metaphor talk). we went in search of some today since i'm now four weeks in to a chest cough that won't quite budge (my socks needed some knockin').

so if you ever find yourself in chinatown (you can take the N/R/Q from 42nd to Canal) go get your pho on.

did i mention it's all of about 4 dollars?


places to go:

Pho NhaTrang
Pho Pasteur

(they are next door to each other and located on Baxter street, between White and Walker streets)

the tin atop my desk

there is a tine atop my desk filled with coffee-stained scraps, unfinished lists, scribbles of things i felt the call to remember.

this tin--well, the contents of this tin, might be my most prized possession.

it is random and chaotic and has absolutely no rhyme or reason, but it is important. to me, it is important.

it is a memory box.

i pulled it out the other day, took to leafing through the bits and pieces, scratched out lines that i felt i had properly tended to, circled words and phrases i wanted expand upn.

and i came across a list from november.

november was hard. the fall was absolutely hard this past year.

it was a list of the things i did one day when the going was particularly rough:

i slept with the humidifier on. ordered the books from amazon i'd been wanting. ordered some skirts from asos. woke early. i showered with my new body scrub. took the time to use lotion after getting out. i made sure my phone was fully charged. i ate a nourishing breakfast of oatmeal and flax seeds and slivered almonds. i scrubbed the mold from the shower curtain.

an innocuous list. not terribly exciting. someone else might come upon and wonder why i had thought to save it.

well, because on that day, when i was feeling so blue, each of those things was prefaced with i love myself enough that...

even at the lowest, even feeling blue and unworthy, and terribly sad, there came the thought:

i love myself enough to wash the shower curtain because i deserve to live in a clean home. 

i love myself enough to eat a hearty breakfast because my body deserves that much. 

i did the things i didn't feel like doing, because the larger, better part of me knew i deserved them.

it was a list of my successes that day. short and simple and not terribly interesting. but hugely triumphant, for me a triumph of the little odds and ends that keep one afloat and lead to that delicious territory in which happiness sings.