the lumineers: the mercury lounge, august 30.

such a good, lovely, lovely evening. his voice really is something else. it lives in that space between--you know the space... that special space that literally reaches out, grabs you by the innards and hoists you up. yup, that space.

today i'm taking for myself.

today my good girlfriend sam and i are off to see these guys.
and have vegan pizza beforehand. (sam knows all the coolest places in nyc).

before any of that happens i'm treating myself: making my bed. big latte. perhaps a manicure? and wandering around a new york city inundated with cool, fresh air.

sometimes i have to remind myself that when i get a day off, it's not just a day off, it's a day off in a city that people from all over the world come to see. so...day-stay-vacay. or something.

amen, amen, amen.

I think happiness is what makes you pretty. Period. Happy people are beautiful. They become like a mirror and they reflect that happiness.

Drew Barrymore

(as always, via one of my favorite tumblrs).

the illicit cigar

palma.

that was the name of the cigar he got from the bodega on 84th.

he didn't like the looks of it. didn't like the green wrapper it came in. didn't trust the easy packaging. but the man behind the counter had become impatient, weary of his blond, curly hair--his earnest face. so he got it. rather than deal with the man's ire, he looked up, shrugged, said, fine, okay. 

palma.

i stood off to the side, watching. he threw a smile my way and i took it. turned on my foot and walked outside into one of those crisp nights marking summer's end.  i liked that blonde hair. liked the way the curls cut across his face anytime he looked down.

and i didn't mind the wrapper... i just liked saying the name: palma. liked how the l into the m felt in my mouth.


palllmmmma.

he got the cigar and i got the ice cream (pistachio nut) and into central park we went. found a sloping hill, set off from the path. and perched on my knees i watched as he lit the thing, the palma.

i feel like i'm fifteen, i said. a slow smile. a soft laugh, a long, deep breath of smoke.

i'm not sure what prompted it. i must have told him about my only act of teenage rebellion--smoking cigars with the boys on the elementary school soccer field. night painting morning, that final year of high school--all of us knowing we'd be going soon. leaving. that those nights would be among our last.

perhaps that was the connection. that after so many years in new york he was leaving. and so a cigar it was: an ode to youth and a calculated impromptu of a goodbye.

just after meeting, a goodbye.

funny how timing works that way. how it is elastic and ever-moving and mostly ill-advised.

one final night: a prelude to nothing. a demand of the present--that we be there--right there, in that moment. two figures on a grassy hill, one cigar (one illicit palma), backs pressed into the grass--into each other, drinking in those few stars the manhattan skyline will allow.

no expectations, no plans, a single cigar and the promise of very little sleep.

sunday night, picture box.

every once and again when the apartment is filled with cool air rolling in off the hudson, and all the lights are off, i pass by the doorless kitchen and have the thought, yes, that's the life i'd like to live one day. followed quickly by, yes, that's the life i'm living.

and then there's the hanging realization that life is full, already terribly full. and pregnant with possibility. and it feels like it's all getting a bit closer. the space between the now and all that i've ever dreamed of.

the gap is closing. and i'm simply along for the ride. and as long as i live fearlessly, it will arrive.

(easier said than done, of course. but the pursuit sure is a hell of a good time).

a hurricane in nyc.

unintentional blogging break.

regularly scheduled programming will begin following irene's departure.

among other things, you'll find that you're not the first person who was ever confused and frightened and sickened by human behavior. you're by no means alone on that score, you'll be excited and stimulated to know. many, many men have been just as troubled morally and spiritually as you are right now. happily, some of them kept records of their troubles. you'll learn from them--if you want to. just as someday, if you have something of offer, someone will learn something from you. it's a beautiful reciprocal arrangement. and it isn't education. it's history. it's poetry.

the catcher in the rye
j. d. salinger

i, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naive or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

anais nin

as long as i live in manhattan, i should:

there is a low, guttural call in the pit of my stomach.

it is the desire to spend a night in a basement bar dancing to nothing but bob marley (or any music that came out of paris in the 1960's).

to leave the bar only when forced and wander the streets of lower manhattan in search of breakfast.

this is entirely doable, non?

who's in?


photo via. 

"so i could stay the tallest man, in your eyes"

my wish.

this is what i want to say to you:

just for tonight, let's be happy.

just for tonight let's forget about all that's come before. gloss over the fissures, smile from that small store yet untouched by sadness. just for tonight let's take a cab home, sit close and revel in whoosh of summer's fading air.

and if we have to go moment by moment, breath by breath we will--if that's all we can manage, so be it. if all we can do is the three feet in front of us, then we'll take those three feet together.

just for tonight.

just for tonight smile. just for tonight let me get a good look at those laugh lines ringing your eyes. just for tonight let me see how many times i can make you swallow a snort.

i could tell you it all gets better. i could tell you there's meaning in all of this and that the how are you's won't always feel like scythes cutting through fields of tall grass. and i could do my very best to reach in and pull you out--and i'd have some pull, i would, having been there before, a near native of the murky depths of that great, big blue. but it wouldn't be fair. there is a power in the floundering--the ocean salts do heal. so i won't try to. i'll head to the shore and go about the forward motion this life demands.

but before the floundering, before the blur, before the sinking and pulling, let's take tonight. to levitate. to be fifteen and carefree and pay no mind to what comes next. to kiss with the space between our toes--to hold hands and have that be enough.

i can't stop watching this.

my manhattan: and the rain moves in.

i found my lens cap. forgot how much i missed the crisp click the cannon makes.

you cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness. 

jonathan safran foer, extremely loud and incredibly close






(sometimes i wish i had this etched on the palm of my hand so i could carry it as a constant reminder--so i could literally wrap my fist around it). 

dear husband-to-be,

i am becoming increasingly aware that the things that make me an interesting writer (i can say that, no? interesting? let's go with it) make me a less than skilled liver-of-life.

i spin stories and fill in the blanks and make illogical leaps that i then get to justify. and that justification is awfully tricky and awfully fun when done on the white blank page (or screen, as it turns out).

it's the best part, actually: making real the illogical. making true the impossible.

and yet, in life, this contortionist's act is...less than helpful.

i'm working on it, on taking things at face value. and trusting that if someone says something, they mean it.

but what this really means is, i get insecure. terribly, so. and i may not always be able to distinguish if we've talked about something or if it's just a conversation i lived in my mind.

so, do me a favor won't you? squeeze my hand. and pull me the three feet down to solid ground.

love, love,

the one hoping she learns to plant her feet before you find her

have i ever told you how i think rain is holy? well, i do.

among other things i bow down to today: this song, the band, portugal. the man, those sunglasses, and (how all men who play music are unequivocally good looking--it's like tennis players. they are all very attractive. how is that?).

men's fashion. yup, that's the blog subject on this morning

i have to tell you men in denim shirts are everywhere.

and i am helpless to resist any of them. any-a-one.

the first night i was in chicago, my girlfriend amanda and i headed out to a bar (remind me to tell you that story later on--it's not a bad one) and i spent the night with my eye on a guy from france in a light, blue, denim, long-sleeved thing of wonder.

heaven was he in that shirt!

and then i returned to new york and voi-la! they are everywhere--men in denim shirts are everywhere!

is it just me or did this happen overnight?

and the thing is, i've yet to see a bad-looking guy try to pull one off.

{okay, okay, there was that one man, but it was a short-sleeved denim shirt and we were in midtown, and well, it just did not work, so i'm gonna chalk that one up to, the half-sleeve missing}.

and then there's the matter of the new haircut going round. shaved on the sides, full on top. very old-school, military. or something.

lord help me, sometimes i just adore being young, single, and unafraid to gawk.

and gawk i do.




photo via the sartorialist (obv).

the kiss. reprised.

it happened again.

the forgetting of how to kiss...it happened. again.

there was a kiss. a first kiss, of sorts.

he leaned in and i. was. lost.

i. simply couldn't. figure it out.

and that moment of not figuring it out stretched before me. eternal was that moment.

i can't give words to the embarrassment that rushed in.

this was a thing i could do at fifteen. and now here i was, twenty-five and...inept.

okay, in all fairness, it was not a thing i did at fifteen. i was eighteen when i had my first kiss. sitting in my father's old toyota camry. next to a wonderful boy by the name of matt who i had been going to the movies with (or occasionally sharing an ice cream cone with) for over a month before he asked if he might lean in and kiss me good night. it was on the eve of our high school graduation. he was such a good guy--probably one of the best i've known, which says a lot for him, and not much for those who have since followed.

but i digress.

so there we were. each in separate chairs. leaning in, ever so innocently, pressing our lips together. and i just couldn't seem to do it. and so i became horrendously self-conscious. and let out a laugh as i said, it's been so long. i can't seem to remember how. 

and he said what any guy worth his salt might say in that situation, really? i can't tell. 

and of course he said that. it was the perfect thing to say. the perfect thing to calm me and (let's be honest) the perfect thing to encourage me on.

but i wanted to shout, don't do that, don't lie to me. i know that you can tell, i know that you're surprised by my...lacking or whatever this is or who-knows-what...oh hell.

so i groaned and he teased me and generously let me get away with it. (this one is, in fact, one of the good ones).

but i'm not going to lie. i'm more than a little concerned.

because this go round i didn't really figure it out. this time fear and history and the little fragments of something broken got in the way and i. didn't. figure it out.

so much happiness

It is difficult to know what to do with so much happiness.

With sadness there is something to rub against, 

a wound to tend with lotion and cloth.
When the world falls in around you, you have pieces to pick up,
something to hold in your hands, like ticket stubs or change.

But happiness floats.
It doesn't need you to hold it down.
It doesn't need anything.
Happiness lands on the roof of the next house, singing,
and disappears when it wants to.
You are happy either way.
Even the fact that you once lived in a peaceful tree house
and now live over a quarry of noise and dust
cannot make you unhappy.
Everything has a life of its own,
it too could wake up filled with possibilities
of coffee cake and ripe peaches,
and love even the floor which needs to be swept,
the soiled linens and scratched records…..
Since there is no place large enough
to contain so much happiness,

you shrug, you raise your hands, and it flows out of you
into everything you touch. You are not responsible.
You take no credit, as the night sky takes no credit
for the moon, but continues to hold it, and share it,
and in that way, be known. 

So Much Happiness | Naomi Shihab Nye

(thank you elizabeth for sending this my way!)

and the gorgeous photo is by: rion on flickr




(sorry about the double post in google reader--it's something that happens on this new computer--i think i'm editing it correctly and then BOOM, second post. so, apologies, i'll figure it out, eventually, i promise).

what i want to hear those politicians talk about for this upcoming presidential election.

i'm on my third attempt at brewing a pot of coffee this morning.

i put in the grounds, the filter, turned on the light and upon returning to pour a cup...i had forgotten the water.

so i turned it off, put in the water, gave it a minute...never turned it back on.

now it's on, there's water, and i'm still waiting. let's hope the third time really is the charm.

i tell you this in warning. if it was that hard to get a pot of coffee going this morning then, well, i'm really not sure what might come of this rambling post.

okay, here goes:

i am not a foodie. i count this as a blessing. i am not a person who tastes the gradations of good in food. once it's good, i'm set. i don't taste the subtleties beyond that. i realized this upon a visit to tom colecchio's restuarant craft. i sat with five friends around a massive wooden table and watched and listened as they made sounds and faces usually reserved for the bedroom. this is soooo goooooood they crooned. and i sat there thinking, yeah it's good. it's good, but...hmmmm. tell you the truth? i was far more interested in the rustic decor and the simplicity of the dishes--the fine, local ingredients that had been sourced.

i've been a vegetarian for coming on two years now. few things can i say with such pride. (though i must admit that every once and again someone i live with throws bacon on the stove and the smell infiltrates every crevice of our apartment and i can barely contain myself. i'd give it all up for just one slice of that stuff, i think. but i haven't--not yet, anyway).

food is fun again. for me, it is fun. after so many years of it being anything but, it is suddenly fun again. there is a challenge to the art of eating locally. to eating well and wholly. to reducing the amount of oil used in getting the food to our table. we are a nation of gas guzzlers. i think we can all agree on that. so we talk about riding bikes and commuting together and taking public transport and we pass judgement on those with unnecessary suv's (oh, you don't do that, it's just me when i'm home in texas? hmm. well, okay). and all of those things are good and right. but i don't hear too many people talking about all the oil that we guzzle in getting our perfectly packaged, hermetically sealed foods. consider the following:

americans put almost as much fossil fuel into our refrigerators as our cars. synthetic fertilizers, pesticides, and herbicides use oil an natural gas as their starting materials, and in their manufacturing. but getting the crop from seed to harvest takes only one-fifth of the total oil used for our food. the lion's share is consumed during the trip from the farm to your plate. each food item in a typical u.s. meal has traveled an average of 1,500 miles. in addition to direct transport, other fuel-thirsty steps include processing (drying, milling, cutting, sorting, baking), packaging, warehousing, and refrigeration. energy calories consumed by production, packaging, and shipping far outweigh the energy calories we receive from the food. if every u.s. citizen at just one meal a week (any meal) composed of locally and organically raised meats and produce, we would reduce our country's oil consumption by over 1.1 million barrels of oil every week.   (animal, vegetable, miracle...page 5)

when i was really sick, really in the throws of an eating disorder i was accused by more than once of being terribly selfish. and i was. it made me into an entirely different person--a terribly, unbelievably selfish human being and that is something i have to reconcile myself with day after day.

but we americans, we're not doing much better, are we? we want it and we want it now and we're entitled to it. forget the impact on oil consumption and those multitudinous political ramifications, forget the impact on the environment--in fact, why think about those things at all?

we cast off environmentalist as radicals or tree-huggers and we blame big-oil for much of the world's problems, all the while demanding more of it, more oil.

before the catastrophic bp oil spill, does everyone remember the exxon valdez spill? of course you do, it's been a watchword for years, a warning, a catch-all for the harm the oil industry rails against the environment day after day. but in 1995 smithfield (america's leading pork producer) spilled more than twenty million gallons of lagoon waste [pig shit] into the new river in north carolina. the spill is twice as big as the iconic exxon valdez spill six years earlier... smithfield was fined $12.6 million, which at first sounds like a victory against the factory farm. at the time, $12.6 million was the largest civil-penalty pollution fine in US history, but this is a pathetically small amount to a company that now grosses $12.6 million every ten hours. (eating animals...pages 178-179).

every ten hours. wow.

why am i blogging about this this morning? i'm not sure. i guess because i feel like not enough people are. children are getting fat. and people are dying from obesity related illnesses. and all the while we're depleting the environment at a terrifying rate. so shouldn't we all be talking about this? shouldn't this be what the 2012 election is about? shouldn't this be the hot-topic issue?

one meal. one organic, locally grown meal a week and we'd reduce the united states oil consumption by 1.1 million barrels per week. that's easy. one meal? that's nothing. there are things we can do. steps we can take. we just have to get off our fat asses (literally) and do them. and demand the government make it possible.

girl talk.

i'm not good at being a girl. or rather, i'm the worst of all things female.

all that stuff that guys attribute to girls--the things that drive men nuts about women--i embody them.

i think way too much. i overanalyze everything. i worry. i gravitate towards nuttiness. i get lost in my head. or at the foot of my bed (i've been lost for days at the foot of my bed).  i disappear inward. have unknowable, unwordable thoughts.

and i cannot say what most needs to be said when it most needs to be heard.

i sat with my best girlfriend alisha last wednesday. in a diner on ninth avenue. it was pouring. we rushed in under the cover of a single, red umbrella, slid into the dark, brown booth and began an epic and important session of girl talk:



dating is hard, i said.                               {profound}.

yes, it is, she replied.

i've had enough, i said.                         {it's  not been a terribly successful month}.

okay, she replied, the way i see it you have two choices, meg. you can be done with dating.  for the time being, if you've had enough, then sure, fine, okay. but you gotta get yourself two cats then. and every day after work you have to go home and feed those cats. and then you have to sit on your sofa watch some bad television and eat some unsatisfying ice cream. then you have to go to bed and do it all over again. 

don't mock me, alisha.


i'm not. i'm really not. i'm just being brutally honest. so you can do that. or can you soldier on. and accept that it's hard. for everyone, dating is hard. and we all struggle and we all worry and don't be so ridiculous to think you're the first or the last person to have ever had these thoughts--to have ever wanted to give up. 


alright. point made, i said, half-smiling, leaning back, reluctant to admit that i was lapping up her wisdom.

not quite, alisha continued on, you have to be hard on yourself. you can't go on one date and be satisfied for a month. you have to keep pushing and going and moving forward. you have to be courageous and hold yourself accountable. 






alisha is one of those dear no-nonsense friends (part of the yesterday's blogged about cocktail for happiness). and i'm trying really hard to hang onto all of her wise words this week.

claire (another dear no-nonsense friend) coined the phrase "cocktail for happiness" and suggested honesty is a part of the mix i forgot to list. i suspect she's right.

so courage and honesty...my two signposts of the week.

it's been raining like cats and dogs in new york for two days now.

but the rain coat i got at the age of fifteen before my first trip to europe is still kickin' and i have to tell you, ten years in, it still does its job (and even keeps me feeling pretty).

i'm finding my peace. and forgiving myself for those things i've never done.



willy tea taylor 
"cattleman" 


read here. 


(it's been a while since a string of words drew all the breath from my body. but last night, upon reading this, that's exactly what happened. i haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.)

illumination.

i went out with a friend recently, one i haven't seen in ages--and by ages i mean years. it had been years. whole lives had passed between our last meeting. we went to a posh restaurant in the meat-packing district--one of those places that people say you simply must go when in manhattan. the girl who sat us wore a black dress, red lipstick, and a pill-box hat. the waiter spoke with a heavy french accent. we sat outside, at a tiny slip of a table. my dress tugged on my neck as i tried to find a comfortable (and modest) way to sit in the small folding chair. there was a garden across the street--with a large wooden table and sunflowers atop it. and the way the sun hit the stones of the patio caught my breath in my mouth.

there is always the moment, with old friends, when i must explain what i'm doing in this life.

no acting? why not? what then? writing? what kind of writing? and my answers become tedious and often vague because to answer them all well and truthfully and fully would be a whole (and pardon the language that's about to come) shit-storm of information. and some things are best unraveled slowly and carefully. so i gave some sort of (or i thought so) coy look and said, i've been learning how to be happy. i've figured out happiness for myself. and he looked at me incredulously and said, really, you figured that out? 


it's a bold statement. to say i've figured it out. i know. but i think in a lot of ways, i have.

i smiled, looked down at my latte (what else) and said, yeah, sort of, it starts with this (the latte). and a clean room--a clean room is essential to my happiness. 


i have a whole list of things. red lipstick. hoop earrings. a camera around my neck. live music. late-night conversations with my father. riding in the car beside my mother. trips to boston. sitting next to strangers on a bus. girlfriends that refuse to deal with nonsense. photo albums. any book by pat conroy (with the exception of south of broad--not mr. conroy's finest). living through fear. doing what i once thought impossible. the list is endless. or at least, that's the hope, that it should be never-ending.

but the list is only a sliver. i think what i've figured out is this: everything passes. and sadness does not negate happiness--it sometimes eclipses it, sometimes not. the two can live side-by-side. they can co-exist. there is a sadness in me this morning, as i write this, but that is not to say i'm not happy.

it's just that happiness is ever-moving and ever-changing and all i can do is be open to the possibility that every-once-in-a-while when i least expect it, i'll be so lucky to have it move through me and around me--to fill me and live there before it continues on.

do i have happiness figured out? as much as i can, right now. yes, i think so.

i've been feeling weary of my upcoming 26th birthday because i feel i've accomplished so little. i'm so near a number and so far away from any expectations i had for my life at this point. but realizing this last saturday morning that a little piece of happiness is mine, knowing i've just a wee of a handle on it? well, that's not so bad for a twenty-five year old nearing twenty-six, is it?

lollapalooza playlist

my parents send me clippings from the newspaper if they think it'll strike my fancy (or if they think it's something i should know). recently the new york times did an article on beirut and zach condon, asking him about his influences and what inspires him. he spoke about attempting to find a clarity of vision--of how when something means more it's a bit more terrifying to put out there--to really reveal yourself. 

but what really got me, what really made me laugh out loud on the subway was when the interviewer asked: is your band dressing better? (zach had just referenced chico buarque and how he used to dress up impeccably each evening and how he himself was trying to adopt some of that attitude). 

zach responded: i'm trying to force them all to wear suit jackets. i'm sick of seeing 30-year-old men in new york look like toddlers, wearing sweatpants and flip-flops. 

me too, zach, me too. there is nothing quite like a man who can wear a suit really well. 

now a full week after my lollapalooza adventure, i offer you just a small smattering of some of my favorite songs of the festival...

friday night in brooklyn

what's a gal to do on a friday night in brooklyn? mexican food and wine in prospect park. a trip to the park slope food coop for coconut ice cream. then stealing spoons from an actual outdoor ice cream shoppe (well done, alisha). lots of laughing, new friends, a beer garden, and a little bit of adventure.



i seem to have misplaced my cannon's lens cap (this is why they tell you to replace it immediately). i know that it's somewhere in the apartment, but until i unearth it...well, until then we're left with instagram. so...okay.

getting older.

yesterday i confessed to tom that i'm having difficulty with the number 26. i am almost 26. just writing that now nearly takes my breath away.

he told me not to worry, it's not till you turn 27 that you're in your late twenties.

funny, i didn't think it was till 28.

oh boy.

off to take a nap...

i have yet to unpack my suitcase. yet to do laundry. my apartment is in disarray.

i barely slept this weekend. well, that's not true, i slept. just not enough. not enough to counteract all the sun and all the drinking and dancing and living of life.

and i've barely slept since arriving home to new york where the air is sweet and cool in the mornings and blazing hot in the afternoons.

so after running errands all morning i'm lying down for a nap.

life is so good. it's so good right now. as hard as it still is i'm just so happy at this moment.

so while i sleep i leave you with another video...it's a week of music.



the vaccines was the first band i saw on friday morning. and i have to tell you, i really have a thing for brits. this song is on repeat in my home.

the cost of food.

i have a thing for airline magazines.

i love them.

unabashedly, i love them.

and i always leave the plane with one.

the writing is good and funny and among the smartest out there.

and the subjects range from travel (obv) to brain development to the life of a bee.

when i traveled this past monday i plopped in my seat and immediately reached for Hemispheres (united's magazine).

and it didn't disappoint. in fact, the question and answer with alice waters is among one of my greatest magazine reads to date.

who is alice waters? well, let me just quote the article's author, david carr:

Even if you've never had the pleasure of eating at Chez Panisse, Alice Waters' remarkable restaurant in Berkeley, Calif., you have likely dined at a table that she has indirectly set. when your grocery store stocks a legit organic produce section, you have Waters to thank. When the waiter at your local bistro goes on and on about how local and fresh the ingredients for the day's special are, he is channeling Waters' philosophy. And when a dish arrives at your table glorious in its simplicity and unadorned by all manner of highfalutin, ego-driven flourishes, Waters can take a bow. 


essentially waters is the godmother (someone else's term, can't take credit for that) of the organic food movement. one of the most influential activists promoting local foods for the health of the environment, the economy, and the each person eating them (us).

and of all the interview what follows is the thing that struck me most--the thing that had me folding over the page, knowing i'd blog about it later in the week.



Hemispheres: What is the one thing we don't understand about food.

Waters: That it's precious. We need to pay for it. We need to pay for the food and pay the people who produce it. That's profound and terribly important. We still think we can get it for free. And you know, it's that idea that we have been indoctrinated to believe, that food should be fast, cheap and easy. And it's really that kind of thinking that is destroying the world. 




so, i have one less glass of champagne this week or look for a cheaper apartment or pass on a pair of shoes so i can afford to pay for local produce and raw almond butter?

yup, i'm okay with that.

because by paying more for the good stuff now i'm helping to create a market for it.

honestly, it's my belief that because i can afford to pay for the local produce, the healthy stuff, the unprocessed food it's my moral obligation to do so. because my doing so will help one day make the good stuff more affordable for everyone (or God help me, i hope so).

find the full article here. 

illustration by jeffrey decoster

i don't ask you to love me always like this, 
but i ask you to remember. 
somewhere inside me 
there'll always be the person 
i am tonight.

f. scott fitzgerald

a little note to some of the anonymous commenters out there. (and this will be the one and only time i address this).

there were always in me, two women at least, one woman desperate and bewildered, who felt she was drowning and another who would leap into a scene, as upon a stage, conceal her true emotions because they were weaknesses, helplessness, despair, and present to the world only a smile, an eagerness, curiosity, enthusiasm, interest.

anais nin



i've been thinking about words lately.

words versus experience. words aiming at experience. and how words do not always fail, but they are never the thing.

a photo of an apple, let's say (first thing that came to mind, must remember to have one later) is not the apple. it is an image of the apple. and a compressed image at that. and because compressed, inherently distorted.

words convey an image. compressed and distorted. aiming at truth, but not the truth itself.

when i first went to see tom many moons ago (to deal with that nasty case of bulimia) we talked a lot about weight. a number. weight is a number. but it isn't, not really. weight is a constantly changing thing, contingent upon countless factors--many of them unknowable. tom told me that even with the very best scales the world has to offer, taking my weight at the same time each week, after many weeks all he would be able to give me was an approximation and an idea as to whether my weight was going up, down, or holding steady (well, holding as steady as weight ever can hold).

but we americans we like to know things. we like things in black in white. we want the concrete. and a number, well, that's concrete.

i began this blog as a way to tunnel out of a very dark period in my life. a way to focus on the good and identify all those things that fill me up and fill me out. as a way of cataloging progress and change. but after the last three years with this blogspot lover of mine, the only thing i can say with any certainty is this: i am not what i wrote last week, nor what i wrote two years ago. but somewhere in the space between--if you could subtract the one from the other--somewhere in the weeds of all that muck, you'll find me.

this is all an attempt. an attempt at truth. at attempt at my truth. and i tell lies and omit things and twist the facts to aim at a larger truth. but it is not truth.

there is a buddhist expression: the finger pointing to the moon is not the moon.

 everything i've shared here, it is not the moon, it only points to it.

but i'm trying. and that's something.

bright eyes

i spent much of this morning trying to describe my feelings about what's happening in london. but there aren't enough words.

biright eyes played towards the end of day one at lollapalooza. i was standing way at the back. not paying too much attention. i had instagram out, was people watching and daydreaming. and then conor played what follows. and of all the songs i heard over the course of the three days--of all the music--it's the one i can't get out of my head. the one i found most halting and beautiful--with the greatest meaning.

the progression is simple and stunning.

and on this tuesday morning, with my heavy boots, it seems particularly meaningful. 

dale earnhardt jr. jr.

dale earnhardt jr. jr. was one of those bands that my friend scott and i just happened upon. we had gotten ice cream and gone in search of shade and standing all the way at the back--barely able to see them--just beneath the trees i fell in love during the course of this song.

and it was one of my very favorites of all of the festival.




i do apologize if you all get tired of hearing me talk about music and lollapalooza this weekend. i humbly beg your forgiveness. it's just that it's what's on my mind.

lessons from lollapalooza.

i started to get really blue last night. and this was more than your average sunday-night-blues. this was an intense feeling of not wanting to return. not-wanting-to-return-to-the-real-world-blues. these past few days have been so very good to me--good for me. and i am aware that some of what transpired will never be spoken aloud (words only go so far, you know?) and most of what transpired will be left in chicago frozen in some glorious moment in time. but i also thought, some of what made these past few days so wonderful could certainly be introduced into my real-world-life, no? so what i offer below are my lessons from lollapalooza:


1. sometimes a morning mimosa is the only way to begin a day, lattes be damed! or heck, have them both if you so fancy.

2. an umbrella is a versatile thing.

3. there's a fine line between looking ridiculous and looking unbelievably cool. it's a confidence thing.

4. it's okay to flirt, to not give a damn, to eat whatever you want. (all three in moderation, of course).

5. when the sky opens up, dance. and laugh--laugh, a lot. (and if you're so lucky that music is playing, do sing along, won't you).

6. people in restaurants, on the train, even those standing three feet away from you for the three hours leading up to local natives--it's okay to talk to them. they won't bite. and heaven help me, a smile goes a long way.

7. a twenty-dollar dress can be a girl's best friend.

8. the really good stuff, music or not--everyone will stop to listen.

9. you have to show up. because it's when you least expect it that you find yourself at the very best concert.

lolla update.

i didn't bring my camera to lollapalooza. i didn't want to worry about it. didn't want it getting in the way of enjoying some really great music. so, alas, i don't have pictures to offer you. but i found this video which is a fantastic audio version of one of my favorite songs from day one (not sure what's going on with the visual--it's not an image from yesterday).

i adore the mountain goats and this song is one of my favorites:

there's so much more i want to share. foster the people and bright eyes and the vaccines. but i suppose i shouldn't spill all my beans at once. and i really should get ready for the day ahead. so...

ok.

visiting chicago.

funny how you don't always know just how much you need a little vacation until the moment is upon you.

i've done a bit of traveling this summer--quick trips to boston and connecticut, even taking on the city as a tourist upon the visit of my mother.

but there is something about this vacation--these few days in chicago--that is entirely selfish. entirely for me. {and sometimes that's important}.

it all happened because at a family dinner just days before christmas last year i mentioned a band. and my brother mentioned liking them. so i bought tickets--got him a christmas gift. and we saw a show. and it was love. and i was in love with live music.

so i saw another show. and another. became that person always in search of the next great harmonic high. and then i got a ticket for lollapalooza. by myself. and a year ago this never would have happened.

and that's kinda what this trip is about: vacation and rest and really great music, but also that i'm doing what i couldn't have done one year ago.

life changes and it gets better.

and you wake one morning and the oatmeal you've ordered with blueberries and toasted almonds and brown sugar is better than any donut you've ever had in your life.

{well, okay, almost better}.

in honor of a the upcoming musical vacation...

i leave tonight for chicago. lollapalooza is this weekend (funny story about that, remind me to tell you later). instead of packing i made this playlist of some of the songs i'm currently listening to.

enjoy. 

on getting bangs.

i needed a wee of a change. you know?

and i thought, bangs, so very parisian, no?

yesterday a man stopped me at work and asked if people don't tell me all the time i look like carla bruni?

i do not. i do not look like carla bruni. and i've never gotten it before. (she's far better looking than i).

but i understand why he said it--it's the haircut. with the bangs and when i wear my hair down, well, i understand where this man was coming from. 

and listen, a compliment like that, i'm gonna take it and run.

after all i was going for french. and she's married to the president of france, so...

i might have over shot it. 

(ps: i'll get an email from my mother saying this photo doesn't really look like me. 

and she'll be right. 

but that's the miracle of instagram--it's a really cheap way of airbrushing 

{and making you look better than you do in real life}).

first dates and such.

have i ever told you how very much i like parks and recreation?

i do. a lot. because it's about good people trying to do good things by actually doing...well-meaning things (and if you think about this premise, it's a pretty rare one on television).

anywhoo, one of my very favorite episodes is one in which the main character (leslie) has to go on a first-date.

and since i'm entering that period of my life (albeit, a little behind the curve) where i'm actually open to the possibility of first-dates i thought i'd share:


leslie: what if he shows up with another woman? what if one of my sleeves catches on fire and it spreads rapidly. what if instead of tic tacs i accidentally pop a couple of ambien and i have to keep punching my leg to stay awake?


ann (her best friend): those are all insane hypotheticals and i promise you they won't happen.


leslie: they have all happened. all of these have happened.


{cut to interview-style}
uh, no, there's more. one time i accidentally drank an entire bottle of vinegar. i thought it was terrible wine. once i went out with a guy who wore 3-d glasses the entire evening. oh, one time i rode in a sidecar on a guy's motorcycle, and the sidecar detached and went down a flight of stairs. another time i went to a really boring movie with a guy and while i was asleep he tried to pull out one of my teeth. i literally woke up with his hand in my mouth. we went out a couple times after that but then he got weird. 

this one is worth watching. hand to God.

the first song on this undoes me.

disclaimer: part iii

i spilled coffee on my laptop last week--on the keys. and in an attempt to dry it up before it reached the...well, whatever it is that it reaches before the computer stops working, i pulled out my hairdryer.

i melted the shift key. the ctrl key now sticks.

i'm a disaster.

{most days, i'm a disaster}.

i'm the girl who spills coffee on her laptop. i wish i wasn't but i am. (and i can say that now because it's not the first time it's happened). i'm terribly judgmental and i complain. all the time, i complain. and i second guess and doubt--i'm a veritable whirling dervish of insecurities.

but i am funny. every once in a while, when you least expect it, i make a good joke--a mouthful of a joke that'll make your cheeks hurt and your eyes burn.

i want to grow vegetables in the backyard. i want to go to the farmer's market every saturday. i want our children to grow up in the kitchen--surrounded by whole grains and colorful fruit and ice cream we make in the cuisinardt. that's not too much to ask its it?

you do know i'm going to be that crazy mom who doesn't allow refined sugar in the house (or at least holds off for as long as possible). i'll be the mom making vegan cookies for the bake sale and packing brown sack lunches with zucchini fries and raw-goat-cheese pizza.

i don't have a mind for dates or numbers. i'll forget all that stuff. or confuse it. or wake one morning and realize the trip i've been planning for several months was off by two days. and so there will be a mad shuffle as flights are rearranged and work is rearranged and the whole thing will be so ridiculous all we'll be able to do is laugh. because it's small fries. that stuff is small fries. i'll remember the good stuff: where we went on our first date and what we ate and your shoes, too. i'll remember your shoes.

it's gonna be a hard life. because life is hard. but it'll be really worth-it. i promise you that--i promise the worth.

and i promise you the attempt. the attempt to be good. and the attempt to be kind. to not worry so much. to not care what others think. to not complain at every turn. the attempt at humor--always, the attempt at a joke.

i promise you the space between perfection and utter chaos. the marrow of life--that'll be my gift to you.


me

part i

part ii