the wild and wily ways of a brunette bombshell

playing the numbers.

2012-01-31T08:43:00.001-05:00

sometimes i have to pull out the really rational (and, i fear, underutilized) part of myself--the part that knows life is just a number's game.

the harder i work, the more i fail, the more i experience, the more growing-pains push me this way and that, the more i come up against what i fear and the more i don't get what i want, the longer it takes to meet this person or that person or get this or do that, well...

the chances of the good happening--of that one thing or one person or one job or one moment that could turn the course, dictate the path, illuminate--the chances get better each day.

it's a number's game. my chance of success increases each day it doesn't happen.

sometimes it's hard to remember that when my head is stuck in the mud of a very busy block of weeks and the universe seems to have just thrown a few things at me that while livable, feel like what-are-the-chances, cruel twists of fate.

a few months ago i was lying in bed, terrified by the idea that i might actually get what i want, and there was this thought: too soon. too soon, it hasn't been hard enough yet.

(hasn't been hard enough, yet?! bite your tongue, ms. fee, not a helpful thought).

dearest universe: i'd like to take that back--that thought, if you might be so kind as to allow me. okay, well, not take it back, but amend it, or just altogether change it. not too soon, it's definitely been hard enough. perhaps that particular story isn't finished yet, and that's okay. but some of the other stuff, not too soon. not too soon.

i think i'm ready. i'm ready.

so i'll do my best to keep showing up, and if you wouldn't mind just fudging the numbers a bit in my favor? well, that would be swell.

okay. deep breath. onto and into the day...

image: brian w. ferry

scribblings in a moleskin:

2012-01-26T10:57:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-25T09:28:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-24T11:38:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-24T01:01:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-23T09:39:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-20T08:28:00.000-05:00

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:

2012-01-19T10:00:00.001-05:00

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:

2012-01-18T14:14:00.002-05:00

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.

2012-01-17T08:00:00.001-05:00

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.

2012-01-16T13:13:00.000-05:00

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

2012-01-16T11:31:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-12T09:42:00.000-05:00

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.

2012-01-11T23:00:00.002-05:00

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

2012-01-09T11:01:00.000-05:00

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.

if i had to boil my entire life philosophy down to seven words, it would be this:

2012-01-09T09:19:00.001-05:00

via

week one of this new year: january 1-7.

2012-01-08T22:09:00.000-05:00

in this first week of this new year i wore heels and bright red lipstick. i drank peppermint tea, went back to exercise class, got out of the apartment more, gave thanks for the best girlfriends i've ever had, woke to a package with the most beautiful (and adult) wallet, and wore a new pair of jeans for the first time in six and a half years.

then i flew to cleveland, spent some time with family, and got to see one of the most spectacular women i've ever had the great pleasure of knowing marry the love of her life.

not such a bad way to kick off 2012.

written for SCHOOL PUBLICATION

2012-01-08T19:44:00.000-05:00

when first asked to write this piece i was…hesitant. of the little i remember of my time at school, i regret much. my story is is certainly not one of juilliard's great successes. and yet. it is mine. for all its faults and flaws and that's worth sharing, no?

the white blank page before me disagrees. i've been unable to piece together...anything--about any of it. how does one sum up school or the subsequent three years in a nice and tidy pile of words? if the story is fragmented and messy how does one do it justice on the page?

i lost myself at school. that's the long and the short of it. i came to new york at the tender age of eighteen and while others marveled at skyscrapers and central park i acquainted myself with an unnamable sadness. in fact, sadness became my sole companion. perhaps i was too young. perhaps i should have attended a basic liberal arts college. perhaps, perhaps....truth be told it's remarkable i survived at all. but when graduation day finally came it was not a marker of success but a desperate gasp for air. i had failed. deeply, i had failed. and i had lost that little kernel of faith in my ability to act, and as it turns out, myself.

so i stopped. acting, that is. four years studying the thing and i couldn't stomach it. i know, i know, just what anyone wants to hear as they prepare to leave school or continue on in their education.

but here's the thing failure, as it turns out, proves fertile ground. and in the absence of acting i began to write. i simply meant to document. to put pen to paper to help me remember or preserve a period of my life for the future. but those words became a solace that slowly unfurled me--revealed me to myself. the great roadmap of the journey inward. and i found that all that i had learned at school in terms of sounds and shapes of vowels and the discrepancy between what is thought and what is known leant itself beautifully towards writing.

and writing, as it turns out, gave me back my life. does that sound terribly dramatic? well, it is. and it was.

there are moments i wish i could go back and do school all over again. as the person i am now. perhaps this time i'd be ready. perhaps this time i'd get it right. perhaps, perhaps. but i have to remind myself that few stories are truly linear. we twist around, circle back on ourselves, and when we're lucky, move forward. and that's okay. my story is not done. i left acting but whether or not i will return is a part of the story i've yet to write.

what i mean to say is this. if things don't go as planned, that's okay. (i know, i know, everyone says that.) how to tell you--to make you understand.

how about this: failure is essential. fail as much and as gloriously as you can. fail in little, seemingly inconsequential ways when no one is looking. or fail on a stage under the lights. the thing is, others might not see it as such. and given enough time, it might actually reveal itself as something else. because when the failure fades or passes or wears another mask it gives way to a joy so profound, it lies beyond imagination--even that special brand of imagination that juilliard encourages.

and joy, more than anything else i've ever known, is essential to art. (yes, joy).

sometimes i wonder how i'll look back on this period in my life--as a pause in the story? as a precursor to the next great plot twist? a time when i was tied to nothing, living anonymously in a small, sunlit apartment, way high north on the island of manhattan next to the train tracks and nestled against the river--and i think i'll be a better actor because of these days, a better person, if nothing else.

written for STORY OF MY LIFE

2012-01-08T19:40:00.000-05:00

i've been wracking my brain all week for a good story to tell.

i could write about that time in canada i found myself seated next to a half-naked man in a theatre (and not a theatre of ill-repute, mind you). he arrived fully clothed, then there was a lot of movement, and suddenly--voila--a bare chest. let's just say, i didn't see much of that first half of arms and the man.

or perhaps i should speak of those lazy spring nights in texas when i'd escape to the soccer fields with the boys and smoke cigars as dew formed on the grass. i was not a rebellious teen. i didn't drink alcohol or smoke cigarettes or kiss anyone under any bleachers. i worked hard in school. but as senior year came to an end i found myself staying out just a little bit later, falling for a boy who would go on to follow phish around the country, and puffing on cigars by the elementary school soccer fields.

but both those stories are slivers, small bits. and i want to tell the story of my life, right? or, at least, try. perhaps, though, that's all it is right now, slivers of a story. scattered pieces waiting to come together. after all, i'm just beginning (or so i hope).

and yet, i keep coming back to this: new york.

new york is my story.

beginning on 66th in a white, stone, fortress-like building and an open-air plaza filled with boys who threw frisbees, made bets, and smoked too much pot. moving on to 72nd and a pub named malachy's where many a baseball game was taken in and the man behind the counter knew all of our names. there was my first apartment at 104th and a cat we called flaubert. i dated a guy at 190th who gave me a key to his house and promised to show me the cloisters (among other things). i ended that relationship at a diner on 70th. there's central park and riverside park and fort tryon park and the countless times i've traversed each one pounding something more than pavement.

the city is a zig-zagging-connect-the-dots of my history--of my sadness and its eventual passing. of the joy that follows, the sweet bliss that sweeps in after utter destruction.

and then there's here: 181st street. in a small corner apartment--my own little castle in the sky--a corner apartment abutting the hudson and nestled against the train tracks. and i can feel this corner apartment-- this corner of manhattan working on me, pushing me past this cesura in the story. this moment between, this hanging breath in which all is possible and all is unknown. i write this now in the cafe down the street and i, more than anyone, wonder what's next--when the plot twist will arise, when new characters will be introduced, when there will be some sort of resolution.

and the thing is, i don't know. i just don't know. but i do know i'm better for all this. better for the unknown. better for the sadness. better for the bliss. better, for new york.

better, yes, but poised for the next.

so should jenny ever have be back here again, years from now, my great hope is i'll have more to tell you. more of the story to share. more space filled in and out.

written for FAIRYTALES ARE TRUE

2012-01-08T19:31:00.000-05:00

last night i sat staring into my skim latte, my friend alex sitting across the long and narrow, wood-grained table.

what should i write about? i asked. (i do best when prompts are dangled before me like a bowl of pepperidge farm cheddar goldfish).

what's her blog about? alex asked me.

sarah's? i lit up. oh, well, it's called fairy tales are true, and alex, they just might be. because she's tall and gorgeous and blond and she's married to a baseball player and now they travel the world together from one exotic location to the next and she's going to end the obesity epidemic with her living kitchen and yes, yes i'm gushing (and speaking at an uncomfortably high volume), but i might just be a little bit in love with her (and maybe, just maybe my fairytale {yet to come true} looks awfully similar to this).

alex responded, perhaps you could write about what the fairytale is like when you don't look quite so much like the fairy-princess.

scoff. kerfuffel. plunk.

(eventual chuckle).

this was not a slight on my beauty but rather against my dark hair. my, yes, brunette hair. (and also a testament to how well and how long i described just how gorgeous sarah really is). alex quickly amended the statement when i pointed out disney princess after disney princess who was not blond: belle (literary goddess and my life's great role model), snow white, pocahantas, mulan (and of course, anastasia {thought technically she was dreamworks, i think}). alex then went on to point out that i look most like pocahantas (paler skin, of course) and maybe a little like mulan. keep in mind i'm a white, irish-catholic girl from texas. thing is, he's kinda right.

as for the fairytale portion, mine is yet unknown. well, that's not entirely true. for now the fairytale is one of me living by myself in new york city and taking the world by storm (and by storm, i mean figuring it out inch by pain-staking inch).

i love new york, i do (much of the time). but i can't stop dreaming of red vespas, breezy sundresses, and sandals against cobblestone. the careless curvature of intersecting piazza and street. small, sunlit kitchens with copper kettles and adjacent balconies. unprocessed foods and bright shutters against aging stone structures.

europe has my heart.

oh, to be european! to dress like one and eat like one and travel like one. to love like one! and just as soon as i figure out how i promise you this: i'll spend my days traversing italy and france, scotland and germany, austria and switzerland, with the man i've always dreamt of and nothing but a pen, a piece of paper, and the very best camera my grubby little fingers can get a hold of.

(of course if the end days happens before this--and in new york, it's set to happen this saturday--i might be in trouble).

for now i toil away here in the states, living a charmed but often lonesome, little life. you see, i'm still waiting for the prince to arrive on his impressive white horse and whisk me away.

waiting is not quite right though. i am a modern girl in a modern world braiding my rapunzel rope one goldspun (brunet) strand at a time.

(and this is where baseball comes in). lately it feels as though i'm on the brink of something. on the brink of a new life--man, pen, camera and all. this feeling is persistent and nagging and all-together wonderful. and so the thing i keep coming back to, my touchstone words are these: if you build it, they will come.

and so i'm building. and dreaming. and sending up prayer after prayer that my fairytale comes to fruition. and i have this sneaking, wonderful, little suspicion that it just might. despite, or maybe just because of, my long, dark locks.

concealer (written for THE VIOLET)

2012-01-08T19:28:00.001-05:00

In The Violet's inaugural issue I touched on the genius that is under-eye concealer. But I wanted to take some time to address how it should be worn--or at least, how it should be applied. Because application is key.

So I'm risking life and limb here by revealing some unbelievably unattractive photos (1 and 2, specifically) so that you can see step by step just how it's done (well, how I do it, I should say).

Note the dark circles. I blame my Polish roots (mostly because i once read an article in which Diane Kruger talked about inheriting very dark under-eye circles from her Polish grandmother). Every time I go home and I walk downstairs that first morning, I give my mother a fright. Am I sick? Have I not been sleeping? she wonders. Nope. Just genetics. And maybe bad allergies--that's my hypothesis.

Euf. Okay, now that you've seen the before, let's get to work. The most important thing is to focus on more than just the problem area. Please, I entreat you, do not simply focus on the circles themselves--don't only apply the concealer there! I start in the lower corner of my eye and work outward and downward (along my nose). For shape think of an elongated arrowhead. And hint: I don't always get the whole of the dark circle--the bit furthest away from my nose I often leave for basic foundation.

Now pat. Below you can see one eye patted in.

Use your ring finger--it is always the finger with the lightest touch. And for the love of all that is good, don't rub. Okay, maybe when the patting is finished rub just a bit--but with great discretion.

The above process is then finished off with foundation all over the rest of the face--and the foundation need not go over the concealer. It can meet the edge of it, but don't pile foundation on top of concealer.

Below begins what I refer to the owl eye brightening process. It is a second way to apply concealer--learned during my short stint as a makeup artist for a cosmetic company. I only use it when I'm in the mood, but I must admit it works quite well. You apply the concealer in small dashes all around the eyes and up over the eyebrows (think owl). Then pat in (again with ring finger). The effect is the brightening of the area all around the eyes. We want to do all we can to avoid applying under-eye concealer to just the under-eye dark circles--if you take anything away from this, take that little nugget of info.

The final step in brightening the eyes--because that's what this is all about, no?--is finding a great eye base for eyeshadow that can be worn alone. A neutral shade that just pops the eyelid is key.

Oftentimes I don't want to leave the house in a full face of makeup so I begin (always, always) with a moisturizer that has an SPF. From there I put on my under-eye concealer and a bit of mascara and that's all I need.

In this final picture I do have on mascara, concealer, light foundation, a bit of bronzer, and just a swipe of eye-shadow. The result from picture to picture is extremely subtle, but all together it adds up to something that nicely enhances my own brand of natural beauty (Don't believe me? Return now to picture 1 and 2. We're on the same page now? Phew).

Happy concealing (or, well, enhancing, really)!

beauty regimen

2012-01-08T19:16:00.000-05:00

when asked to break down just how it is that i do my makeup, i thought, what better place to share then here at the violet--a space that encourages natural beauty and the enhancement of one's greatest assets?

my beauty philosophy is one of ease and simplicity. making a little bit of work go a long way.

i actually made a little low-quality video of my process step-by-step but until i figure out how to work imovie or upload videos of a certain size to vimeo, we'll have to make do with what follows.

1.

i am all about skin-care. it's my big thing. i put spf on my face every day. and then i put it on my neck and the backs of my hands (i want to age gracefully all over). i eat kale and cucumbers because i know they're good for my face (among other parts of the body). i take my make-up off before bed and then i moisturize all over again. as a very wise woman once said to me, the party happens at night. meaning: it is while we sleep that the body works to restore itself--so cream before bed is the absolute best time to give your skin a little love. my secret moisturizing weapon is toner. i always apply toner just before the moisturizer. it preps the skin so the cream gets down in there--otherwise you're just moving it around on the surface of your skin.

for toner i use clinique clarifying lotion #2 (the purple one). it's relatively well-priced. for moisturizer i use absolue premium (both day and night). this stuff does not come cheap. but man oh man does it work better than anything else i've tried. i have a mild case of rosacea and it transformed my skin--returned it to it's most natural (and best) state.

another skin-care secret? i sleep with a humidifier. new york city winters are brutal and the heaters in these old apartments (new ones too, i imagine) will suck the moisture out of the air faster than you can will spring to come. a humidifier helps hydrate the skin, as well as the throat. and during the summer the cool mist variety can do wonders in place of a traditional air conditioner.

am i beginning to sound vain, yet? that's okay. i'm okay with that. here's the thing. some of it's vanity. and some of it's not. the skin is the largest of the body's organs. it's worth taking care of. it's worth protecting agains the harmful rays of the sun. and it's worth investing in now so that when we're older we won't be thinking about plastic surgery, but marveling at all the fine lines we've worked hard to earn.

when applying my daily moisturizer, i never neglect the eye area--it's the most delicate skin on the face. i find clinique's all about eyes is a the best bang for your buck. it lightens the dark bags (and keeps the skin fresh.

2.

in a perfect world, the next step in the process is the application of eye makeup. this comes before concealer and foundation because often the shadow will deposit flurries which then defeats the purpose of the two products you've just applied.

for every day use i go with an eye base--a cream that goes on easily and allows eye shadow to adhere without getting stuck in the crease. and that's all. well, that and a little liner and mascara. the eye base (i use trish mcavoy's sand) gives the eye a definite color and brightness. and brightness in the eye area, along with a little definition (which is where the liner comes into play) is all i'm really after. to apply my liner i use a small angled brush and a dark plum and then just lay it down along the lash line. i don't stroke it, but simply lay it down, lift, lay it down again, adjacent to the first mark and on an on until i've done the length of my eyelid. does this make sense? see, the video would come in handy here.

tip: when i want a a more polished look i'll wet the brush before laying it in the liner (this allows for a more defined line).

3.

after the base and liner i go for the kill: mascara!

my secret to long lashes lies in a little product that is not mascara, but lash grower. it's called lilash and can be ordered online. it runs about 120 dollars but make sure to google search for a coupon and enter the code at checkout. i am still on my first tube (i got it sometime in december) and have seen amazing results. now i use it about once a week, that's all.

there are all sorts of ways to put on mascara. often i place the brush just under my lash line, give it a wiggle and pull up. other methods include blinking down onto the wand or actually applying the mascara to the top of the lashes and then coming from underneath to de-clump. lost yet? because of the shape of my eyes, i give special attention to the outer corner lashes--making sure to maximize their length, giving the whole eye a bit of a winged effect.

i splurge on the lash-grower and save on mascara by using maybelline's volume express: the falsies.

another tip: when i have a really special occasion--a wedding to go to, or a big party, or if ever i just want to feel my absolute most beautiful i'll buy a drug-store pack of false lashes. they never fail to impress.

4.

alright, we've made it to concealer! oh how i love some good concealer. i begin in the corner of the eye and work down along the line of my nose. if you've been here before you must have seen my fantastic pictures describing such. because we've already discussed it, i won't go into much detail. but i will say, for me concealer is the difference between feeling like i just woke up versus feeling like i can head out for whatever the day might bring. concealer is my tipping point of beauty--in the best possible way.

right now i'm using mary kay's concealer in yellow.

and now my favorite part: foundation. i used to hate foundation. i couldn't wear it without feeling overdone. but now that i am a woman of a certain age i see it for what it is: a blessed tool to give that long sought after glow! i kid a little, but not really. foundation doesn't need to be heavy to really do it's job. in fact, i suggest that it not be. right now i'm using trish mcevoy's even skin foundation in shade number two. i apply it with a great stippling brush.

of possible beauty feaux-pas i consider the strong mark of foundation on the jaw-line into a make-up free neck among the worst. you know what i mean don't you? the line of demarcation between covered and not? it is easy to avoid this buy choosing the right shade for your skin, making sure to diffuse the line as you apply the makeup by actually getting foundation on your neck, and if all else fails take a little of your daily cream and rub it along the jaw-line.

foundation for me is always seasonal. sometimes i want to wear a powder. sometimes a liquid. sometimes i want to appear dewey, other times i want a good matte, polished look. whenever i use a powder foundation, i always apply a primer first. may i suggest any primer by smashbox? in fact, there is a theory that many of the mineral makeups out there will, over time, cut your skin and thus enlarge your pores because the minerals themselves are not perfectly cylindrical. i don't know how much truth there is to this, but i will say that with a primer you don't have to worry one way or the other. primer is also great because it creates a really even canvas on which to put the powder--and it will extend the life of your makeup--both how it stays on during the day, as well as how long a container will last. primer means less is more!

i want to take a minute to talk about investing in a really great set of brushes. brushes, good ones, do not come cheap. but in my humble opinion they make all the difference in how the makeup goes on and therefore the overall effect. brushes should last a good long time so don't be afraid to build up your collection slowly. i ask for the ones i want for my birthday or christmas. i would rather use a really great brush to apply a maybelline (or any other drugstore) powder foundation then a bad brush to apply the most luxurious and beautiful makeup that money can buy.

5.

after applying foundation i apply bronzer just below the apples of my cheeks and work my way up just under or on the cheekbone--this step i do more by feel than anything else. i make sure to get a little swipe on my forehead, nose, and chin (all places the sun naturally hits).

6.

i then take the side of the brush and swipe on some 1. bronzer (again) and 2. blush. only during spring and summer do i mix the bronzer and blush together on the brush. i apply this to the apples of my cheeks.

okay. almost there.

most move onto the lips from here and that's that. but i...well, i go for the eyebrows.

i used to get my eyebrows done at any run-of-the-mill nail salon. now i go to the benefit brow bar. it's about twice as much (where before it was ten, i now pay twenty {add 5 bucks for a tip}). but like my friend erica said, it's like a haircut for your eyebrows and we girls now that a good haircut is worth investing in. and wow, do the people at that brow bar know their stuff. they've changed the shape of my brows and it really makes a difference in my overall look. daily, i fill in my brows using the benefit brow set. i like my brows full and just ever-so-slighly-unruly.

most days for my lips i use trish mcevoy's luxe lip balm-i like what the yellowish tint does to the color of my lips (and it's got spf!). sometimes, if i'm feeling especially spicy i'll apply a lipstick (i most like those by smashbox, nars, and make up forever). the only time i ever line my lips is if i'm doing a deep red--in which case i always line my lips--because the red tends to bleed.

and that's it.

phew. you exhausted? me too.

in truth though, all this takes ten, fifteen minutes, tops.

and now for the real thought to leave you with:

yes, i invest in my appearance. but for me, makeup and skincare is just the tip of the iceberg when investing in beauty.

the best brand of beauty is an outward reflection of happiness. so i eat well, dance around to noah & the whale in nothing but my nickers, and take time to do what i love.

2012-01-08T18:02:00.000-05:00

when Reachel first emailed me about this lovely series she posed a question that i loosely translated to what makes you feel beautiful? and then quickly mis-remembered as what make you feel sexiest?

(there's some kind of insight into my core right there).

the question could not have come at a better time. (precisely because i was feeling anything but).

beauty is a funny thing, isn't it? a fickle mistress. what i've come to understand is that feeling you're beautiful and knowing you're beautiful are entirely different things. and i'd take the feeling any day of the week, because the feeling--that inner spark--well, that informs everything.

so i took Reachel's question and i went for a jog (literally). and as my feet pounded away at the pavement, and the hudson river rolled past on my left, i made a list. and that list made one thing very clear: i feel most beautiful when i am most myself (which as it turns out is also when i feel sexiest--for me there is no difference between the two), when i am fully engaged in this chaotic and turbulent and wholly exciting world we live in.

what does that mean?

well, it means i feel most beautiful when i'm laughing really hard. out loud. and even more so when i'm telling a good joke or a good story--watching the eyes of the people i love crinkle in response to something i've said? heaven. few things trump that.

i feel most beautiful while eating a green apple, after an impossible exercise class, with my hair pulled into a high, messy bun, as i traipse about lower manhattan giving thanks for a body that moves and runs and spins--holy heck is the body a miraculous thing!

or when listening to good music. or waiting for the subway with a good book in hand. reading and understanding and reveling in a poem that three years ago made no sense to me (walt whitman's "song of the open road"). watching the rain move in over chicago as portugal. the man plays "so american". standing arms and mouth open to welcome said rain. imbibing a hot drink on a cold day. a walk through central park on a cool morning. furtively glancing at the guy at the end of the bar and then catching him mid-stare. or a nod from the bass player from that one alaskan band i so love.

doing something, anything, that a year ago i couldn't (or rather, was too afraid) to do. heading into the belly of the beast of fear and coming out the other end makes me feel beautiful in a way that nothing (and i do mean nothing) can touch.

what i look like will change with time. my weight will fluctuate. the lines on my forehead will crease. the gray hairs will take hold and multiply. but my mind, my intelligence, the light behind my eyes--that (God willing) will remain. more than that (again, God willing) it will grow and burgeon. it is my belief that my intelligence and my desire to live life fully--to live imperfectly but honestly, makes me wholly myself. and the more i can align myself with my value system, the more i balance on the axis of who i am--the more i know what i want and what i believe in, the more beautiful i feel.

and there, on that axis, perched atop it all--balancing on the bounties of this life (both good and bad) well, then, from there, the opinions of others regarding what i look like will matter only with my consent. it will be how i feel from within my body--inside the sweet-spot of life that will dictate my response. i won't need a mirror or a scale or any of the trappings to provide me with what i've somehow always known but often doubted: that i am, in fact, yes, beautiful.

the big kitchen table.

2012-01-05T10:30:00.003-05:00

you know what i want?

one of those ridiculously, unbelievably, alarmingly large kitchen tables--the kind that are long and thick and made from recycled, imperfect wood.

i want that kind of table that if need be (and why wouldn't need be?) could host a party of twenty. let it be big as a ship, middle of the kitchen, steering our home life through the tempestuous waters of this deliriously juicy life.

let it be covered in papers. let those papers be stained by coffee and tea. let them be slips of words i've yet to collect, half-formed ideas--fragments of scribble on white that you found i've left behind in the bathroom, the bedroom, by the table under the stairs.

let it be messy. our mess. let our mess sing. let it thrum the beat of the daily grind and subsequent salve.

let the table house stacks of things that must be read and marked up--things we'll know the words to by day's end. let those things be the marrow of our work. let those things be reminders of all that we love and that which we still foolishly believe might change the world--or our little corner of it, at least.

let the table see dinner party after dinner party. quiet ones, raucous ones, ones for just us two. let it be where we feed the ones we love. where we build the life we love. let it anchor us to a place and to each other and to hard work and late nights and lots of wine and the following morning with its warm, pooling lattes.

i don't want a life that's perfect. where every day is good. where happiness never falters and gives way to longing or loneliness or pain. that doesn't interest me. why try and hide what makes us human? show me that. give me that. offer up your humanity, your fault-line of divinity, and i will spend each day forging forward into that land where language has no meaning. to that place beyond words where we find and love each other wholly and simply.

image.

this morning.

2012-01-04T10:47:00.002-05:00

in going through last year's posts to come up with some sort of year-end review there was a thing that became alarmingly clear.

i hadn't written much--i couldn't find the words to accurately chart what a compelling year it was for me. where were those posts i was sure i had written?

i've become a lazy writer. i'll cop to that. not that i've ever been terribly disciplined. but as of late...well, it's been harder to get the words out. and the fear of that reality has kept me from even trying.

so i woke this morning, determined.

i sat down, pounded some very poor words onto paper.

gave up halfway through and pulled out a book instead.

reading is imperative for writers. {that was my excuse this morning}.

my manhattan: the wreaths are still up, but the resolutions are resolving and revolving.

2012-01-02T18:08:00.000-05:00

it's that sacred time in new york when the decorations are scattered, the trees are finding their way once more to the sidewalk, but everything feels possible with the start of a fresh year and the blistering wind sweeping in off the river.

i'm feeling the newness of this year more than usual. so i put on heels today, have taken to drinking tea when i can--you see i am trying to live as the person i've always wanted to be.

but the thing is: i'm still half-way to a bag-lady. and i still lose things. all the time i'm having just lost my keys or my sunglasses or my metro card, and there i am stooping on the sidewalk so as to empty the contents of my many bags in search of the thing which i haven't really lost, but hell if i can find it.

some things never change. new year or not.

i think i'll look back on 2011 as the year i was made bold by a love of music and the weight of a camera against my chest:

2012-01-02T00:20:00.002-05:00

2011 in Review by meg fee on Grooveshark

these are the songs that will tell the story of this year. these are the songs i carry in me. these are the songs that will remind me of my first-ever-concert in boston, the long cab-ride to brooklyn, how music marks time and makes circles, of all the things i learned in chicago this summer.

i will remember what song i was listening to when i took the subway downtown to face my greatest fear, my greatest love, to mark the passage of could-have-been lives.

it will be the beginning of the soundtrack for when i finally get around to making my own cameron crowe coming of age film.

this past year was magic. heartbreaking and difficult and monumental and heaven-sent in so many ways. i may not yet have the words to adequately sum it all up, and my photos may not do it justice, so until i take the time to hash it all out, i offer up these melodies...

2012 will be the year of the big pearl...

2011-12-31T15:04:00.000-05:00

the $2 big pearl.

happy new year!!

2011-12-29T11:10:00.001-05:00

it felt like there was so much to celebrate this holiday season. with my mother's 50th* birthday just days before christmas and an unexpected twist in my schedule that got me home to texas a little while longer than expected, with everyone's health in good stead, and the four of us being together for the first time since last december, it just felt like a really special few days at home.

my brother and i have long since passed the point of needing a lot of gifts under the tree--a point we keep emphasizing to our parents--a point that continuously falls on deaf ears. i began to wonder about this. we don't care about the gifts we'd say again and again. and again and again my mother and father would shake that off. we don't want you stay up all night wrapping and placing packages under the tree. go to bed, we'd continue. it was this year that revealed my parents like doing that stuff. they are the ones who aren't over it. they are the ones who care about the gifts and piling them up under the low-hanging branches of the evergreen. but it's not so much what's in the boxes that they care about--they enjoy the process. so, this year, in order to make that happen they took to scavenging under all the sinks in our home for long-ago forgotten hair ties and boxes of toothpaste and who-even-knows-what-else. they separated packs of socks and wrapped each pair individually. my brother and i sat through the whole thing bewildered, watching as my mother and father nearly wet their pants from laughing so hard. it was so fun to see the roles reversed. so fun and so strange and so very, very different.

it was a holiday of renegade gifts, really good food (and wine), lots of games, and the people i most love in this world.

all in all, not bad. not bad at all.

*(the number my mother has now decided to go with. so we're gonna give it to her).

2011-12-28T09:47:00.000-05:00

it's getting to the time of the year that i'm beginning to ponder new year's resolutions.

did you know the french don't call it a resolution, but rather a wish?

a wish for the new year.

i like that.

(though, if i was to adopt a mantra, it might have to be the one above).

the avett brothers

via.

ever wonder what we texans do two days before christmas?

2011-12-27T09:47:00.000-05:00

well, a holiday beer exchange followed by flip cup and beer pong, of course.

all to be capped off by a late-night-run to taco cabana (we like our mexican food).

decorating the tree...

2011-12-23T15:07:00.000-05:00

sometimes unwrapping the ornaments is almost better than unwrapping the gifts on christmas morning.

each has its own story. like books, they are memory made tangible. (thank god ornaments haven't gone electronic (not really) what a loss that would be).

it's beginning to look a lot like christmas...

2011-12-22T13:26:00.000-05:00

i know people from all over the world sojourn to new york in order to see it during this magical time of the year. and i get it. i do.

but. there's no place like home. you know?

2011-12-21T08:02:00.000-05:00

"My darling girl, when are you
going to realize that being normal
is not necessarily a virtue? It rather
denotes a lack of courage."

Alice Hoffman

okay, i'll go first.

2011-12-21T00:39:00.002-05:00

i peeled off the tights in such a hurry. there were holes in the feet and my toes were poking through and i was embarrassed. so i got out of them, fast as could. no show of it, just off.

there was so much i didn't want you to see. because if you saw, well then you'd know everything. and i am nothing if not deeply prideful.

i dreamt a few nights back that i reached for you. we were sitting in a car. a car? headed somewhere. and i reached my arm out to cup the back of your neck--that sacred space between shoulders and tufts of hair. but i couldn't quite reach. you were just past arm's distance.

i did that. i get that. i kept you there. i reached but never let you get closer than the span of my wing. and i would turn over and roll away because i didn't want you to think i needed you. it was casual and i was cool and i was fine, so i responded to everything dismissively and carefully navigated your questions, revealing nothing, all the while keeping to my side of the bed.

because, well, to reveal reveal anything would be to reveal everything. and i was nothing if not afraid.

i know you saw how my cheeks flushed. and watched as i averted my eyes again and again--not wanting you to catch the half-glints of a secret shame. and there were all those terrible jokes i told just to keep the levity?

self-preservation.

to imagine a world in which you might care for me was impossible. it had been so impossible for so long that it was simply a luxury i couldn't afford. the cost would be too much.

so instead i'd keep myself awake at night just to study the outline of your face, the curve of your back, the color of your skin, how you shifted and moved as light angled its way into the room.

the thing is... no one tells you about that moment--that moment well into the night when you get up to use the bathroom and you spend a minute in there--breathing, water on the face, studying yourself in his oversized, knit shirt and then you open the door to return to bed, and yes, he's still there and he's still asleep but his arm is reached out to the empty space where you were just minutes before. and you climb in--and he pulls you in. into him. all without ever really waking.

his awareness of your absence. no one prepares you for that.

there have been others, of course. other stories. other half-loves. triumphs and tragedies of this fragile heart. and it was early on that i came to accept i'd never tell you--you, the first man i ever loved, those three words: i. and love. and you. my love for you would simply be. it would shift and change and recede. and it would fill me up. and i'd move on. to the next. we all cope. we all adapt and adjust and accept.

but there was this sense, this desperate, ne'r talked of hope that we might cycle back and, then what?

i. and love. and you.

i love the way the avett brothers put it. everything aspires to music, doesn't it. the ands there giving the words room to breath. so very shakespearean.

go ahead, you're almost there. i knew you'd make it eventually.

i just had to share...

2011-12-20T14:21:00.000-05:00

because the way he looks at her...

holy hell.

my manhattan: the one downtown with vietnamese food, a soy latte, market shopping, hints of christmas, and yet another coffee (this one to end the day)

2011-12-20T08:00:00.009-05:00

all this before a friend's bachelorette party yesterday evening.

(regarding the party: there are no pictures--some things are not to be photographed).

reunion.

2011-12-19T12:19:00.002-05:00

on saturday, with josh, naomi, and little eleanor in town, our group of friends had a college reunion of sorts. and like all reunions there was good food, plenty of laughter, and reminiscing.

but it was more than that.

there was a point when i leaned back in my chair, took note of the surroundings and the stories unfolding and thought, this meal is prayer made manifest. both prayer of the present as well as the future.

i studied the messy table littered with half-eaten food, crumbs that only eleanor could have made, and i sent up a silent plea: let there always be children. let there always be mess. and children's books. let there be plentiful food and drink. fresh flowers on the table. the music of a good joke and the subsequent cascade of laughter. let there be shared looks between old friends and the gentle palm of a hand on the back by someone who's seen you cycle through good, bad and all that is between. let there be love. of friends. of partners. of children. of another memory in the making.

thinking a trip to d.c. might be a good way to kick off the new year. more memories to be made. more stories to be told.

dreaming of a winter wonderland..

2011-12-16T14:00:00.002-05:00

it's been so warm in nyc this winter (with the exception of that renegade snowstorm we had at the end of october) that i actually find myself craving the cold and the white--the trademarks of this holiday season.

in place of the real thing (which i'm sure i'll complain about when it actually arrives) i'll settle on these images today.

what are you doing to get in the holiday spirit?

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

the push of prayer

2011-12-16T11:30:00.000-05:00

(i'm gonna level with you. i wish i brought my camera with me everywhere. i wish i always had lovely and beautiful and fun pictures to post. i wish i was better at documenting the day to day--more consistent and streamlined in my style. but if i think back to why i began this blog it was to remember. so that five, ten, twenty years from now i might remember the day to day, as well as what was inspiring me at any given point. so today there are no pictures. only the words of a man much wiser than myself that i have returned to again and again since reading them a month ago. if this is no interest to you, then i beg your indulgence, or invite you to skip it all together. because for me...well, i need to post it for myself.)

A Prayer for Pete
Brian Doyle

The phone rings, it's an old friend, he tells me of another old friend who is dying. Our friend is in his forties, just married, with a little boy, and there's no hope, he'll be dead within a couple of years, and dying too in a most cruel fashion, piece by piece, as his body slowly fails around the bright light of his mind, leaving him trapped in the husk of what had been a wonderfully lithe body.

I try to imagine my friend inside himself, immobile in a dark crumbled castle, his mind racing--and I have to get up and get outside and go for a walk.

So what prayer do I make for Pete? What do I say for his little boy, who will lose his father before he knows him well? What do I say for his wife, who will watch her new husband die a little every day and then be left alone with their son, who has the same thick red hair as his father?

I don't know.

Do I really think that my prayers will save Pete, or cut his pain, or dilute his fear as he sees the darkness descending? Do I really think my prayers will make his wife's agony any less, or reduce the confused sadness of his little boy?

No.

But I mutter prayers anyway, form them in the cave of my mouth and speak them awkwardly into the gray wind, watch as they are instantly shattered and splintered and whipped through the old oak trees and sent headlong into the dark river below, where they seem lost and vanished, empty gestures in a cold land.

Did they have any weight as they flew?

I don't know?

But I believe with all my heart that they mattered because I was moved to make them. I believe that the mysterious sudden impulse to pray is the prayer, and that the words we use for prayer are only envelopes in which to mail pain and joy, and that arguing about where prayers go, and who sorts the mail, and what unimaginable senses hear us is foolish.

It's the urge that matters--the sudden Save us that rises against horror, the silent Thank you for joy. The children are safe, and we sit stunned and grateful by the side of the road; the children are murdered, every boy and girl in the whole village, and we sit stunned and desperate, and bow our heads, and whisper for their souls and our sins.

So a prayer for my friend Pete, in gathering darkness, and a prayer for us all, that we be brave enough to pray, for it is an act of love, and love is why we are here.

words and time and...

2011-12-15T14:28:00.005-05:00

it wasn't the symmetry of the number that appealed to her, or the aesthetics of the even.

six years.

that was the time she associated with being unwell. six years. a time when life was somehow not her own. when she was less than. six years. that was all. and yet it felt like it was all there ever was and all there had ever been and all there would ever be: a lifetime. the whole of her lifetime.

seven years.

the amount of time she had known him and... well...

he knows. he must know. surely, he must know.

she expected it to pass. the feeling. she expected it to pass. everyone told her it would. and she had been so young when they first met and there was so much life to unfold and so surely this, this...thing would pass.

but it lived there. in the deepest part, in the braided ligaments of her core, and so she came to accept that it might never. it would shift and change, but remain.

that moment moment there, on the couch, him commenting on the black tights, it was a marker of time, for her. that he didn't know. he couldn't possibly have known that that, more than the lines now ringing his eyes or the new gray hairs (both things she found endlessly appealing), more than her fuller hips and forehead creases, that comment, was a marker of time.

because he wasn't there for those six years. and thank god for that. she wasn't either.

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

god, words fail. they just aren't enough.

if i could find them, if i could find the right ones, i'd ask you to place you hand there again, between curve of knee and hem and let it live there for as long as we both could bear. i'd tell you that of course i see you. and the image is so clear, despite present circumstances or recent history. i don't know the whole of the story but i see you and i...well, you must know, surely you must.

i'm a girl that's only ever seen the pieces. the bits and the pieces. but with you it came all at once in a startling clarity. and so i'm mostly unafraid. i, who fear all, is mostly unafraid where you are concerned. unafraid of all that's come before or of all the time and land and life yet to traverse.

and i don't know what's to come. or of how much we'll traverse alone. or if we'll take any of it together.

but perhaps it doesn't have to be so hard.

there are those words. and they are so comforting. so full of... but i don't know if they are yours. and the strange, strangling doubt takes hold.

because you know that these are mine. i give them freely. well, mostly. but, without a doubt, you know they are mine. the question must then be, are they for you?

yes, yes, of course, yes. you must know that.

and so i want nothing so much as to ask, who? who wrote them? because there is the suspicion and the hope and the endless, endless doubt.

but somehow that questions seems unfair. or too soon. or simply past the point.

and i am at a loss...

dear husband-to-be,

2011-12-15T09:53:00.003-05:00

i think i want to name our first child phinneus. (given it's a boy, of course).

i re-read a separate peace last spring and now the notion is not to be dislodged.

think of it: we'll call him finny when he's little, finn as he grows older and self-conscious of youth.

and the name'll serve as a compass of sorts. a benchmark, a weight tying him to fealty and courage and the pursuit of joy.

i don't know why it's been on my mind as of late. but now it's written down so i can stop worrying about trying to remember or the encroaching curtain of forgetfulness.

take this for what you will.

love, love,

yours. ever yours.

i'm in the sharing mood today. and i can't think of something better or more important than what follows...

2011-12-14T09:32:00.000-05:00

my dear friend laura emailed this to me sunday morning. in some ways it took my breath away because i realize i too play into the female stereotypes--i am just as much to blame for perpetuating the notion that women are "crazy"--not because i am or how i act, but by paying lip-service to that notion.

A MESSAGE TO WOMEN FROM A MAN: YOU ARE NOT "CRAZY"

Yahsar Ali

"You're so sensitive. You're so emotional. You're defensive. You're overreacting. Calm down. Relax. Stop freaking out! You're crazy! I was just joking, don't you have a sense of humor? You're so dramatic. Just get over it already!

Sound familiar?

If you're a woman, it probably does.

Do you ever hear any of these comments from your spouse, partner, boss, friends, colleagues, or relatives after you have expressed frustration, sadness, or anger about something they have done or said?

When someone says these things to you, it's not an example of inconsiderate behavior. When your spouse shows up half an hour late to dinner without calling -- that's inconsiderate behavior. A remark intended to shut you down like, "Calm down, you're overreacting," after you just addressed someone else's bad behavior, is emotional manipulation, pure and simple.

And this is the sort of emotional manipulation that feeds an epidemic in our country, an epidemic that defines women as crazy, irrational, overly sensitive, unhinged. This epidemic helps fuel the idea that women need only the slightest provocation to unleash their (crazy) emotions. It's patently false and unfair.

I think it's time to separate inconsiderate behavior from emotional manipulation, and we need to use a word not found in our normal vocabulary.

I want to introduce a helpful term to identify these reactions: gaslighting.

Gaslighting is a term often used by mental health professionals (I am not one) to describe manipulative behavior used to confuse people into thinking their reactions are so far off base that they're crazy.

The term comes from the 1944 MGM film, Gaslight, starring Ingrid Bergman. Bergman's husband in the film, played by Charles Boyer, wants to get his hands on her jewelry. He realizes he can accomplish this by having her certified as insane and hauled off to a mental institution. To pull of this task, he intentionally sets the gaslights in their home to flicker off and on, and every time Bergman's character reacts to it, he tells her she's just seeing things. In this setting, a gaslighter is someone who presents false information to alter the victim's perception of him or herself.

Today, when the term is referenced, it's usually because the perpetrator says things like, "You're so stupid," or "No one will ever want you," to the victim. This is an intentional, pre-meditated form of gaslighting, much like the actions of Charles Boyer's character in Gaslight, where he strategically plots to confuse Ingrid Bergman's character into believing herself unhinged.

The form of gaslighting I'm addressing is not always pre-mediated or intentional, which makes it worse, because it means all of us, especially women, have dealt with it at one time or another.

Those who engage in gaslighting create a reaction -- whether it's anger, frustration, sadness -- in the person they are dealing with. Then, when that person reacts, the gaslighter makes them feel uncomfortable and insecure by behaving as if their feelings aren't rational or normal.

My friend Anna (all names changed to protect privacy) is married to a man who feels it necessary to make random and unprompted comments about her weight. Whenever she gets upset or frustrated with his insensitive comments, he responds in the same, defeating way, "You're so sensitive. I'm just joking."

My friend Abbie works for a man who finds a way, almost daily, to unnecessarily shoot down her performance and her work product. Comments like, "Can't you do something right?" or "Why did I hire you?" are regular occurrences for her. Her boss has no problem firing people (he does it regularly), so you wouldn't know from these comments that Abbie has worked for him for six years. But every time she stands up for herself and says, "It doesn't help me when you say these things," she gets the same reaction: "Relax; you're overreacting."

Abbie thinks her boss is just being a jerk in these moments, but the truth is, he is making those comments to manipulate her into thinking her reactions are out of whack. And it's exactly that kind manipulation that has left her feeling guilty about being sensitive, and as a result, she has not left her job.

But gaslighting can be as simple as someone smiling and saying something like, "You're so sensitive," to somebody else. Such a comment may seem innocuous enough, but in that moment, the speaker is making a judgment about how someone else should feel.

While dealing with gaslighting isn't a universal truth for women, we all certainly know plenty of women who encounter it at work, home, or in personal relationships.

And the act of gaslighting does not simply affect women who are not quite sure of themselves. Even vocal, confident, assertive women are vulnerable to gaslighting.

Why?

Because women bare the brunt of our neurosis. It is much easier for us to place our emotional burdens on the shoulders of our wives, our female friends, our girlfriends, our female employees, our female colleagues, than for us to impose them on the shoulders of men.

It's a whole lot easier to emotionally manipulate someone who has been conditioned by our society to accept it. We continue to burden women because they don't refuse our burdens as easily. It's the ultimate cowardice.

Whether gaslighting is conscious or not, it produces the same result: It renders some women emotionally mute.

These women aren't able to clearly express to their spouses that what is said or done to them is hurtful. They can't tell their boss that his behavior is disrespectful and prevents them from doing their best work. They can't tell their parents that, when they are being critical, they are doing more harm than good.

When these women receive any sort of push back to their reactions, they often brush it off by saying, "Forget it, it's okay."

That "forget it" isn't just about dismissing a thought, it is about self-dismissal. It's heartbreaking.

No wonder some women are unconsciously passive aggressive when expressing anger, sadness, or frustration. For years, they have been subjected to so much gaslighting that they can no longer express themselves in a way that feels authentic to them.

They say, "I'm sorry," before giving their opinion. In an email or text message, they place a smiley face next to a serious question or concern, thereby reducing the impact of having to express their true feelings.

You know how it looks: "You're late :)"

These are the same women who stay in relationships they don't belong in, who don't follow their dreams, who withdraw from the kind of life they want to live.

Since I have embarked on this feminist self-exploration in my life and in the lives of the women I know, this concept of women as "crazy" has really emerged as a major issue in society at large and an equally major frustration for the women in my life, in general.

From the way women are portrayed on reality shows, to how we condition boys and girls to see women, we have come to accept the idea that women are unbalanced, irrational individuals, especially in times of anger and frustration.

Just the other day, on a flight from San Francisco to Los Angeles, a flight attendant who had come to recognize me from my many trips asked me what I did for a living. When I told her that I write mainly about women, she immediately laughed and asked, "Oh, about how crazy we are?"

Her gut reaction to my work made me really depressed. While she made her response in jest, her question nonetheless makes visible a pattern of sexist commentary that travels through all facets of society on how men view women, which also greatly impacts how women may view themselves.

As far as I am concerned, the epidemic of gaslighting is part of the struggle against the obstacles of inequality that women constantly face. Acts of gaslighting steal their most powerful tool: their voice. This is something we do to women every day, in many different ways.

I don't think this idea that women are "crazy," is based in some sort of massive conspiracy. Rather, I believe it's connected to the slow and steady drumbeat of women being undermined and dismissed, on a daily basis. And gaslighting is one of many reasons why we are dealing with this public construction of women as "crazy."

I recognize that I've been guilty of gaslighting my women friends in the past (but never my male friends--surprise, surprise). It's shameful, but I'm glad I realized that I did it on occasion and put a stop to it.

While I take total responsibility for my actions, I do believe that I, along with many men, am a byproduct of our conditioning. It's about the general insight our conditioning gives us into admitting fault and exposing any emotion.

When we are discouraged in our youth and early adulthood from expressing emotion, it causes many of us to remain steadfast in our refusal to express regret when we see someone in pain from our actions.

When I was writing this piece, I was reminded of one of my favorite Gloria Steinem quotes, "The first problem for all of us, men and women, is not to learn, but to unlearn."

So for many of us, it's first about unlearning how to flicker those gaslights and learning how to acknowledge and understand the feelings, opinions, and positions of the women in our lives.

But isn't the issue of gaslighting ultimately about whether we are conditioned to believe that women's opinions don't hold as much weight as ours? That what women have to say, what they feel, isn't quite as legitimate?"

see original article here.

i just couldn't resist... it's so darn sweet.

2011-12-14T08:47:00.002-05:00

an older gentleman recently said to me,

2011-12-13T14:34:00.003-05:00

you're too tall. but other than that you're delightful.

well, sir, did you ever consider you're too short?

and yes, i am delightful, thank you.

words and time.

2011-12-12T09:28:00.002-05:00

words were dangerous around him.
because they were so few and they meant so much.

he placed his open palm above my knee but below the hem of my dress, let it live there for a moment, feeling the shape of my thigh through my thick, black stockings.

i like you in tights, he said.

oh god. time. awareness. the awareness of time.
i took a quick, sharp inhale.

how is it possible he knew me before i wore little more than tights with skirts or dresses or ill-fitting sweaters--anything oversized to cover a ballooning body in the throws of a disease? how is it possible?

six years.

seven.
eight.
four.
years and years and years.
two months.

time. countless breaths marking time.

and he was there before. but not during. not really. and so much has changed and passed and morphed. and for each of the worlds i've traveled through, he's traversed his own.

and we know a little.
but not so much, not enough

and we don't use our words terribly well. we talk in the space of silence. willing nearly impossible interpretations.

and there's been so much time. but not enough, really. not enough.

but he knows me. words or not. six years or not. seven, eight, four, years and years and years, two months, or not. he knows me.

more time.

my manhattan: the late night edition.

2011-12-09T10:27:00.002-05:00

getting over the hump.

2011-12-07T15:00:00.002-05:00

i am such a sucker when i come across these lists on pinterest.

told you. (you think some of these things really work?!).

indie christmas music? i'm sold.

40 quotes about reading. even i was skeptical, but i must admit 40 really, really good quotes about reading.

this is the kitchen i want. i've found it! it's perfection. now where and how to get it. (i've been dreaming about kitchens a lot lately. homes, too. what does this say about me?).

if ever i'm in charleston, i'm going here.

so much new music to check out!

a tea goes (on) in brooklyn.

2011-12-07T09:38:00.001-05:00

one of the best things about having been in new york for so long now is that i feel like i have friends all over. and not just geographically, what i mean is... there are friends from school, yes, but also from work and from friends of friends. from chance encounters.

the circle is ever-growing.

i met heather and brooke last january and they've quickly become two of my very favorite people in this world. i feel like i've known them for ages. we do things like brunch, celebrate birthdays, go fishing for men in brooklyn on friday nights, observe high-tea, take ridiculous photos, and on and on.

working for this...

2011-12-06T10:50:00.001-05:00

shameless taken from one
of my very favorite
tumblrs.

this holiday season...

2011-12-05T11:34:00.000-05:00

i'm doing my darndest to look at new york as if i'm seeing it all for the first time.

dear husband-to-be,

2011-12-05T10:07:00.002-05:00

you know what i want?

to hear bare-feet on the old-wood-floor.
to hear the creak and strain and clomp.
and know that they're yours. your feet.

that's all.

love, love,
the girl listening from the bed

oh, hey there, december! let's make it a good one, no?

2011-12-02T09:33:00.001-05:00

my manhattan: not so different.

2011-12-01T15:47:00.000-05:00

sometimes life in this city is just like anywhere else. i clean my home. and i cook my dinner. and never sleep in quite enough. and i work a lot. and there's never enough time. i nest and burrow. and i chop vegetables while sipping white wine and listening to whichever folk singer is sitting heavy in my chest. i try to build a home here. and new york is the variable, not the definition.

getting over the hump.

2011-11-30T14:42:00.000-05:00

a little mid-week eye candy to get us all over the hump that is wednesday...

this tumblr is right up my alley. {especially this one. and how bout this?}

holy heck, this wedding is one of the most beautiful i've ever seen.

uh-oh, i best start reading. and really fast.

this girl just gets it. talk about wisdom.

so does this one: it's all going to be okay.

political and religious views aside, this is really something. (in the end it's all about love).

one of my very favorite noah & the whale songs in perfect video form.

i'm gonna level with you, my mind keeps coming round to these two blog posts: first this one. and then the central notion of this one--that two people have to come to a relationship after choosing, fighting, working for personal happiness.

(image found here).

here's to the rest of the week!

tip-of-the-tongue.

2011-11-30T10:04:00.002-05:00

i got off the A train at 181st street around midnight last night.

from the train platform to the entrance of the street is nine stories. you can choose to take the stairs or long escalator up.

i hurried off the train last night, toward the towering, long escalator, and found myself in step behind a taller man, blond, dressed in an impeccable suit. and walking behind him i thought, this man reminds me of someone.

but i couldn't put my finger on it. couldn't dislodge it from that proverbial tip of a very real tongue.

it started to drive me nutty, who does this person remind me of? it wouldn't come. there were murky images and half-formed thoughts, but still, even now this morning as i sit with my coffee, a lit spiced egg-nog candle just off to my side, i haven't really a clue.

the strongest thought or sense or notion, is more that it's someone i've yet to meet. not the man i followed behind, this really has nothing to do with him, it's that he reminds me of someone i've yet to meet.

nonsense.

and yet.

not.

i don't know.

it's been happening a lot lately. this pervasive feeling that i have exciting news to share and then thinking, well, what is it? and coming up blank.

everything feels so on the cusp. just over the ridge. beyond that next hill. so close--closer than ever before.

but what if it's not?

you know when you've can hear a really great song in your own mind? and it sounds so good rattling around up there that you attempt to sing it aloud. it's clear as a bell to you, perfectly crystallized, but when it comes out, oh dear, hideous. the journey between your mind and the mouth, the surfacing that has to happen, it distorts, mistranslates.

i feel like that's where i am: a song surfacing. coming through water for air. on the way up, so very near to the surface. but what comes out, well, that has yet to be seen.

it could be nothing short of disaster.

or not.

i don't know.

i just feel like i'm nearing the end of this nine-story-long-escalator. and as for my sense of what's waiting at the top when i get off? murky, half-images, at best.

on beauty.

2011-11-29T10:00:00.004-05:00

i am so honored to be over here today. talking about beauty. and how it has almost nothing what to do with what i look like and definitely nothing to do with what the scale says or how my thighs do or do not jiggle when i attempt a morning jog (or walk).

i think reachel is glorious. all you have to do is read her about section to know why. and this series? well, if only we could all put down the pages of glossy magazines, cease the comparisons, and hook into what makes us--each, individually--really gorgeous.

trading thursday for saturday. and turkey for fish.

2011-11-28T09:36:00.003-05:00

thanksgiving is my favorite, you know?

i'm not entirely sure why. maybe because it's so known. it's always the fourth thursday. it's always a half-week event. maybe because it feels like the beginning--because it ushers in, invites a season of such joy.

i'm pretty sure it has something to do with the feel of the air, the holiday's hallmark colors, the falling leaves. the lack of expectations or demand of gifts. it is a holiday predicated on giving thanks. on taking the time to sit down, to dinner, as a family. it demands a dressing up of the dining room table and departure from the usual.

the holiday is a trumpet calling us in from the fields to eat.

the funny thing is my love for it has nothing to do with the food and everything to do with the experience (yes, yes, which the food is a part, of course). but i don't eat turkey (i'm a vegetarian) and even when i did, i didn't care for it. mashed potatoes don't really do it for me, nor does stuffing. but a good acorn squash? heaven help me.

this year i had to work the majority of the day. it was less than ideal but bearable. my parents came over in the morning to my clean apartment and we watched the parade while eating clementines, banana bread, and drinking our respective morning drinks (tea vs. coffee).

my real holiday happened saturday. my parents and i went to the theatre, took in Other Desert Cities-- such a beautiful, arresting play--the very finest of what theatre has to offer (the writing is so damn fine that i've seen it twice). we then sought out one of our very favorite haunts, One if by Land. there we saddled up to the bar and let the live melodies of the piano wash over us. and in a moment of throwing caution to the wind we threw out our original dinner plans to remain there. to sit at a beautifully set table, fresh flowers everywhere, and eat our way through the four-course menu.

people come to new york to see midtown. radio city and times square. the lights, the endless lights. they want to take a carriage ride in central park and see the tree. and i don't blame them for this. i understand the impulse. but i would argue that it is a relatively recent development in new york. i know, i know, it goes back to the fifties and beyond, but this is a city of such history. boston gets all the historical glory, but new york holds its own (just rent Gangs of New York to know the veracity of that--also because Daniel Day Lewis is a genius).

this is all to say...give me the old new york. the fringe new york. the underground new york. with it's exposed brick and lit candles. it's easy to love a new york that's all glitz and bright lights, but it's so obvious. i want the underbelly, the hidden pockets, the tucked-away-corners.

(One if by Land is in Aaron Burr's old carriage house) and it is everything i love about this city. it may have made for a less than traditional thanksgiving and i certainly missed gathering around the table with so much of my family in colorado, but it was so special, nonetheless.

thanks-giving, indeed. for this, i give thanks.

2011-11-25T11:15:00.001-05:00

it happened two days ago. the day before thanksgiving. a preparatory miracle, for the holiday.

i awoke and i knew. immediately, i knew. before my swollen feet had even hit the cool, creaking floor, i knew. it had passed, lifted, moved on.

or perhaps it had simply moved through.

this bout of blue was done.

it sounds so naive, doesn't it? so simple? you wake one day and it's no more. but that's how it was. that's how it is.

an energetic shift, a tilt. like moving your weight from your heels to the balls of your feet.

what struck me this go round--in the immediacy of the lifting fog--was the absence of fear that colored the last three months. that was the difference.

i awoke without fear. the kind that presses in on your chest, makes breathing difficult--a low grade panic you learn to deal with, resign yourself to.

but upon waking two mornings ago, i felt fearless, unafraid, filled by such faith. faith that all will work itself out. that i will find meaning, find purpose, fulfill a calling, be filled with such love as is written and talked about and dreamt of.

and in the presence of such faith, the other things fade. it's not that they disappear or have no place, but the focus shifts and they recede, find their proper place. it is the turn of the lens and the subsequent clarity.

order restored.

and the return of words. suddenly the delicious, glorious onslaught of words! welcome back, old friends. welcome home.

i can't tell you for sure what caused the shift. whether it was the fresh flowers i bought this week, or the new haircut. i don't know if it was the popcorn and small glass of white wine i had the night before last at one in the morning after returning home from work.

maybe it was the moment a month ago when i literally felt God unfurl himself within my chest. great flaps of wings spanning the width of my shoulders.

the week in texas helped, i'm sure. walks on the bayou. walking, moving, energizing the body.

maybe it was the necklace that's meant to symbolize open-heartedness that sits flush against my chest. or the men's gingham shirt that i got from the gap and makes me feel sexy in a way few dresses ever have.

maybe it was the consistent and constant love of those who so kindly support me.

i don't know which of the small things did it, which of any of the things i've done day after day over the last three months caused the shift. perhaps it was the accumulation of all of them.

it's alchemy. magic. or just a moving through.

the trick is not forcing the shift. it's preparing for it. being ready so that you can catch it as it rushes past you. and then holding on as it takes off. a willingness to go along for the ride.

does any of this make sense?

hmm. maybe it doesn't need to. maybe some things are best left in that realm of half-sense, half-absolute-miracle.

the red dress.

2011-11-23T10:02:00.000-05:00

did i ever tell you that i blame a red dress for the fact that i am so darn tall?

because i do.

and i blame charlize theron.

more specifically, i blame charlize theron in that red dress.

you know the one i'm talking about. you must.

hmmm. okay, yes, i see your point. now that i look at it i realize it's not exactly red (the footnote says bronze). but you get the point.

i mean, come one, is she not heaven in that dress?

this spawned a certain love affair with ms. theron, such that, i took to googling. and what i remember is that i was particularly taken with her height.

five feet, ten inches.

glorious! huzzah! yes, i would be that height as well then. i was old enough to know that the chances were pretty good that i would be tall, so might as well really be.

so i took a sharpie, pulled out a tape measure, and charted out the distance on the frame leading into my bathroom.

growing up i would stand there. against the molding, mark how tall i was, how much progress i had made, and how far i had yet to go.

and when all was said and done and all the proverbial cookies had crumbled (puberty and growth spurts and the joys of teenage-hood) don't know you, i stood right up against the frame, put my hand atop my head, stepped away to look where it had landed and...BLAM. 5 foot 10.

some things are willed into existence. of this i'm almost nearly, just pretty sure, nursing a strong inkling that yes, indeed, that is true.

the funny thing is. i'd give a few of those inches back. because this is what i know now: men are short. particularly those in drama school. particularly on the east coast. and the thing is i'm like anyone else: i wanna wear heals! i want to feel small and demure and lithe next to my beau!

then again, this too is true: it's great for concerts, and...

oh, gosh, that's all i've got so far, it's great for concerts.

i've been working on it though. of late. i've been working on pulling my shoulders back, unfurling the full width of my chest, holding my neck high. because for better or worse it's not just ms. theron's story, it's mine. and when i'm surrounded by family, and the tall women we boast, i know it's part history, part heritage, part love-story.

but do send your really tall guy friends my way, won't you?

life slice #5.

2011-11-22T09:53:00.000-05:00

lying there, wide awake as he slept, she angled herself close, put her nose right up under his mouth. and there she remained, all night, fed by the sweet breath that sleep slipped out.

i believe...

2011-11-21T09:42:00.001-05:00

in stemless wine glasses. in the feel of the bowl in my palm. i believe in white wine. sauvignon blanc, of the new zealand persuasion, imbibed barefoot in the kitchen--vegetables roasting in the oven.

i believe in men who can wear a sweaters. in over-sized oxfords and penny loafers. that cauliflower is the most interesting and versatile vegetable out there. that truffle oil pairs nicely with almost anything worth having (popcorn).

i believe in laughter and big, rolling tears--the need for both, the importance of of both, the beauty of both.

i believe all things aspire to music.

i am learning that a lease hardly ends the moment you are ready to leave. and so a shuffle-step ensues. of learning to live around those things that elicit frustration and unease. and that sometimes an expansive room and a jaw-dropping view are not enough to tether one to a place.

i believe in buoyancy. in the calm that comes from dusting. or reading. or long, hot baths. that we've all failed. and we're all flawed. and that happiness must be found on one's own. separate of anything or anyone else. because everything ends, eventually, everything ends. and most things, given enough time, enough space, enough heaven-sent perspective reveal themselves as blessings.

i believe that no gift is greater than that of sitting in silence and listening. really listening. and that we get to choose our friends. and as we grow and get older, discernment is vital.

i believe in peanut butter. an on an intellectual-level i believe in peanut butter in moderation. but on an experiential level i only believe in peanut butter in moderation when it's already too late.

i believe in the attempt. in the leap. and that things happen the very moment you think they never will--the very moment you give into that, accept that, make peace with that (easier said than done).

i believe in the return. in coming back. in coming home, wherever home may be.

image.

home.

2011-11-16T10:04:00.000-05:00

i barely took out my camera while i was home. when i did, it was to document our adventures in food, which (believe it or not) was only a small portion of the trip.

i love going home. and i love returning to new york. (pick your jaw up off the floor--yeah, i said it: i love returning to new york. and that is true. because, for now, it's home as well).

but man oh man is there something about returning to that place you grew up. that place you made your first mistakes, had your first kiss, first failed, first flew, first loved. there's something to returning to that place that marked you--imprinted itself.

it helps me find my axis. my center. the very core of who i am.

because when in texas there is knowledge and remembrance in getting behind the wheel, cranking up the radio and pressing my foot against the accelerator. or walking along the bayou and touching the part of me that's a low-country-gal--one who grew up on the ranches of friends, alongside horses, swinging across creeks and rivers, fostering imagination in skeleton houses.

and then there's the immediate and tangible love of family. and well, that's one of those things that i've yet to find adequate words for.

(i must say that i love looking at these pictures because i'm reminded that food is 80% adventure in color. and yes that percentage is made up by yours truly, but you get the point).

(and can you find the hidden allergy medication? that's one of those things that translates from place to place. that and funky seasons . houston is warm, new york is warm, but definitely our actions are not at all responsible for changes in weather patterns. nope, global warming is definitely not happening).

and back again i go...

2011-11-14T23:36:00.002-05:00

perhaps once i unload my suitcase, settle into the apartment, and have a good little mope about being homesick, i'll finally return to this blogspot-lover-of-mine. time to rekindle the romance.

meg

image via.

it's good to be home.

2011-11-10T12:50:00.000-05:00

image.

one more day...

2011-11-08T09:33:00.000-05:00

new york can be a difficult place to describe. never has a city of so many paradoxes existed. there are moments i feel this indescribably deep love for it. and then moments and days and months where i can barely breathe here, where i want to run screaming from my own skin.

i've been hating the city of late. and so everyone asks me the same question, when was the last time you got away? when was the last time you went home? away? august to chicago. home? march.

i'm overdue.

all new yorkers know you must constantly flee this place in order to sustain and cultivate your love for it.

tomorrow, if i can wake in time to make my flight, i'll wing my way toward that great state of texas. and there i'll spend near a week so that when i do return...well, the hope is i'll be a bit more palatable (for everyone, to everyone, including myself).

what all this really means is just one more day to keep that wicked jaw in check. wish me luck.

here's to beating the monday blues...

2011-11-07T10:04:00.002-05:00

2011-11-04T16:00:00.000-04:00

"I used to feel so alone in the city. All those gazillions of
people and then me, on the outside. Because how do
you meet a new person? I was stunned by this for many
years. And then I realized, you just say, 'Hi.'
They may ignore you. Or you may marry
them. And that possibility is worth that one word."

Augusten Burroughs

resurfacing.

2011-11-04T12:25:00.002-04:00

i cried in whole foods this week. there was a woman who made me cry. she was unkind and i lost my voice. so i cried.

but it wasn't really about her.

and then again on the subway platform the next day, at one in the morning, waiting for the train. i turned into one of the green pillars, with no one around, and quietly sobbed.

few things have felt better.

last night as i climbed out of a cab at an unreasonable hour after an unreasonably long day i handed the driver the cab fare in all singles. many, many singles. and i apologized for all the ones. but he smiled, said in his culture, such a thing was good luck. i laughed, good luck for both of us then, i replied. good luck for me having unwittingly, unknowingly passed good luck onto you.

i sat down this morning to write about these last two months. about the sadness that pressed in and what i know now. and i got some stuff out about it, but not enough and there's not enough time today. never enough time anymore, it seems. though, maybe there never was?

all i can say is that today, end of this week, i'm okay.

i don't like uncertainty. and much as i attempt to explore the virtue of the unknown and life's multitudinous shades of gray, i'm mostly at a loss. i am mostly undone by the gray.

my mother asked me this go round what the catalyst was for this bout of blue (or whatever you want to call it because surely no name really ever does it justice) and i told her some things are sacred. and secret. and must remain as such. that this time, the answer to that question, was yes, in fact, known, but mine. and mine alone.

sacred. and mine.

tom granted me a gift yesterday. sitting in his office, talking about it all, he looked right at me and said, you know, i think it had to happen. just as it did. it was absolutely vital and necessary. and it couldn't have unfolded any other way.

and there was breath in that moment. life. as i come back to myself now, that moment resonates.

today thinking on it, tom's language strikes my ear as unusual. i think mostly because, being the good therapist he is, he never really speaks in absolutes. most usually refrains from confirming or denying much of what i spout.

but he offered that up yesterday. without prompting. he handed me that absolute.

it had to happen that way.

all of life, all of my life (and i venture all of anyone's really) has to go just as it does. has to. there's comfort in that. a real comfort and release in that.

had to happen. that way.

(don't think this song in this week's parks and rec episode didn't make me cry. and lord help me, aren't april and andy just the best?).

i've had this on repeat all morning.

2011-11-02T12:59:00.000-04:00

Disappearing

2011-11-01T11:44:00.000-04:00

"The day he first told me he
was starting to disappear I
didn't believe him & so he stopped
& held his hand up to the sun & it
was like thin paper in the light &
finally I said, you seem very calm
for a man who is disappearing &
he said it was a relief after all
those years of trying to keep the
pieces of his life in one place.
Later on, I went to see him
again & as I was leaving, he
put a package in my hand.
This is the last piece of my
life, he said. take good care
of it & then he smiled & was
gone & the room filled with the
sound of the wind & when I
opened the package there was
nothing there & I thought
there must be some mistake
or maybe I dropped it & I
got down on my hands &
knees & looked until the light
began to fade & then slowly
I felt pieces of my life
fall away & suddenly I
understood what he meant
& I lay there for a long
time crying & laughing at
the same time. "

Brian Andreas
Story People

studying the seasons.

2011-10-31T11:35:00.002-04:00

it has been suggested to me that there are seasons to these lives we live. and that they aren't always clear and summer doesn't always follow spring and every once and again winter will yield more winter will yield more winter will yield more.

so i've been giving some thought to this season, to this season i'm in now. it's not clear whether it's winter or spring, summer or fall. but this i do know:

it is a season of strong women. a season in which i've been blessed by tremendously strong women. women who model friendship for me, who are driven, who take no prisoners, who laugh freely, and demand the very best. women who actually listen. intelligent, feminine, no-nonsense women. i'd met women of this ilk before. in passing i'd met them, but suddenly i am surrounded by them. suddenly i have collected a whole group of them and few things in this life have felt so important (so totally and truly lucky) as that.

this is the season in which i crave simplicity. in which i long for clean lines and uncluttered floors. in which i, unfortunately, feel a half-stranger in my own home (but know {humbly and with gratitude} that feeling will pass).

this is the season in which an unexpected october snow-fall awakened something within. demanded i order a chai latte and watch the white accumulate while standing in the warm light of the corner's coffee shop. there's something to seeing and studying and loving that cold and that dark and that dim from under the subtle yellow lights of familiarity.

this is the season i dared leave the light for the snow. into the white.

this is the season i am surrounded by, swathed in, ambivalence.

this is the season i find solace in a cabinet stocked with spices.

this is the season in which i attempt forgiveness. of myself. for the past. for my mistakes. for all that abandoned, lost time.

this is a season of reckoning. of acceptance. of remembrance. oh yes, that's who i am. oh yes, for better or worse that's what i'm made of. oh right, that's a part of my story. still.

image by Carol Reed.

i'm back.

2011-10-30T23:57:00.000-04:00

just about two weeks after getting a brand-spankin-new-macbook pro last july there was an incident.

it involved an eight a.m. skype date to australia, a wee bit of coffee, a spill, and then a hairdryer.

the computer came out okay (or so i thought). the loss of the caps-lock key and sticky shift seemed manageable.

but then the trackpad stopped working just about a week ago. so into the store we went. i copped to the water damage, batted my eyes, and begged for mercy.

the genius kindly obliged. checked it in under tier-four damage and waved the fee (water damage is not covered under warranty).

but in helping this working-girl out, the genius did so with a caveat: it was incumbent on me to get a protective case and a silicone cover for the keys.

he fixed this lovey of mine. and i obliged. case and cover procured.

we're back in business, baby.

(though, can i admit something? a week with no computer? no endless surfing, beholden to no one and no thing...it was nice. i'm not gonna lie. it was really nice).

the swell and the breath.

2011-10-25T21:45:00.002-04:00

i've never really been of the belief that happiness is a choice.

there was that one summer i went around paying lip-service to it--to the belief. that one summer i wanted so desperately for it to be true that need eclipsed sense and i wore the phrase heavy around my neck.

i should clarify.

it's not that i don't think happiness a choice, it's that i think the choosing only goes so far.

it's part choice, part fight, part smidge of luck, some indeterminate amount of divinity, a hell-of-a-lot of hard work, part ritual, part mystery, part getting out of bed in the morning. and when all is said and done, you offer those things up. like a prayer, you offer them up. and then you wait. you wait to see if they're enough.

because the blue is big and the blue is deep.

and some days, some weeks, some indeterminate stretches of time, they're not .

and sadness swells and breathes like an out-of-tune accordion.

i watched it approach this go round. watched as it appeared on the lip of the horizon. watched as it slowly, steadily, hurtled toward me. and i got out of bed each morning, and i payed homage to the ritual and the mystery, and i had my morning coffee, but the sadness took hold.

that hauntingly familiar sadness filled and unfurled. settled in.

both hollowing and hallowing is that blue.

and in the space it created, i with flailing arms and pitiable grace, groped for meaning.

two days ago, on the train, i began to cry. while reading a short essay about a father's love for his son, i wept.

i wept not because i was sad but because the words were beautiful and simple and wholly solvent.

and in doing so, in weeping, there was a thought:

here i am.

here i am, the girl moved to tears by the love a father not even my own.

and the meaning--the reason for this stretch of time--while still unknown, is somewhere in there--there, in that moment.

that is what is known, the boundaries of this swath: the reading of an essay on a train. and the human response.

and for now that is solace enough. for now, that is the salve that will heal.

this week's absence.

2011-10-25T17:17:00.000-04:00

my computer is with those wily geniuses at the mac store.

yes, i know it's brand new computer. yes, i realize not much time has passed for it have already gone kaput. yes, i recognize that the whole thing is a comment on me (in some--if not many ways).

yes, i know i should not be allowed to drink coffee near the device. i know now, okay!

this is all to say, i am computer-less.

and really, really exhausted so maybe for the best that i take a bit of a break.

see you in a few.

thought you might like to see (what's above my desk):

2011-10-21T22:27:00.002-04:00

i had two goals this week.

1. to exercise

2. to sit down and write

i did neither.

i did however, attempt to create a better work space--one conducive to writing. this involved switching desks, trading my stool for a left-behind-chair, turning my bookcase to create a faux-wall and thus sectioned-off-office (yes, my manhattan dwelling room is that big).

the picture is of what's above this new desk, in this new "writing" office: a reminder of past and present and the tether along which both run and change and meet.

so that's something. this next week: the actual writing.

at some point, a few weeks ago...

2011-10-21T11:09:00.001-04:00

in a moment of sentience, i logged onto amazon.com and ordered the books i've been wanting and needing (books i've been thinking about for months). there is a book on the mechanics of writing, jonathan safran foer's first work--a collection of works inspired by joseph cornell (which i had misread as joseph campbell and thus expected something all together {and yet, not}). there is brian andreas' story people and at the last moment, i included in my bundle, leaping: revelations & epiphanies (having only just discovered this brian doyle character).

two days ago mr. doyle's work arrived in the mail, an answer to a prayer i hardly knew i had.

one of the first pieces is an essay on writing--on why he writes, on why anyone writes, really.

i often tell people i'm a writer. and feel fraudulent as i do so. what do you write, they ask? and i hardly know how to answer that. but this term "writer" it covers all manners of sins, no? and perhaps one day, i will be and i will claim the title with some authority, having actually written something that wings beyond this little corner of the internet. and because i intend to one day actually be such--a writer--i found the essay particularly important and meaningful. so indulge me, will you? allow me to share bits and pieces of it here?

(bits and pieces of ) WHY I WRITE | BRIAN DOYLE

I look over the essays I have published over the course of twenty years of diligent scribbling and am astonished at their riotous incoherence...If there is a theme in all this it completely eludes the author, who feels that he has wandered into a pathless forest and is thrashing his way home armed with only a pen.

Which is sort of the point. Thrashing toward the light with a sharp pen is what writers do.

Why? [why write]

Because, as the fine essayist E. M. Forster said, "How can I know what I think until I see what I say?"

Because there have been times in my life when the only way I could handle rage and horror and fear was to write it down and thus fend it off, fight it, force it to retreat, understand it, hurt it.

Because writing is a form of contemplation and a form of prayer.

Because writing occasionally leads to rapture.

Because writing is a way to connect electrically and directly with other people, which we crave, while generally preserving privacy, which we also crave. ("Do I contradict myself? Very well, then, I contradict myself," wrote Walt Whitman.)

Because writing is a form of performance that does not demand physical grace or youth, and writers, despite their craving for privacy, like to be the center of attention, usually intermittently, rather than continually like film stars and Bill Clinton.

Because writers are, deep in their souls, didacts who itch to deliver the Unvarnished Truth and cannot help but unburden themselves of that which burns in their hearts. Writers are preachers.

...It's what I do, and what I love to do, and no one else can do it quite like I do.

Better, perhaps--but not with my particular flavor and music, and somehow, in a way I do not wholly understand, that is important, and in a very real sense miraculous, and necessary.

image
via.

2011-10-20T16:48:00.000-04:00

May I never be complete.
May I never be content.
May I never be perfect.

Chuck Palahniuk

fear and new york {and Portugal. The Man}

2011-10-20T00:05:00.001-04:00

i followed a twitter feed yesterday. (when did twitter get to be the most helpful and exciting social media app?) and found myself rsvp-ing to see Portugal. The Man at the lomography store on west eighth street here in new york. i sent the email off with no real hope of anything.

and then today, just hours before the event, while at work, i got an email confirming my ticket and my +1. so in a mad rush i went about finding said +1. this is what i learned/realized: many of my friends (and people i'd most like to go with) do not live in new york. many, many more of my friends are successful and have jobs that don't allow for such off-the-cuff planning.

so i started to waver: should i go. should i not go. i'm meant to see the band in boston on saturday. i got two tickets (one for me, one for my brother) as a birthday gift to myself, from him (smooth, no?). only i didn't run the date by him first so...i'm headed to boston. to see Portugal. The Man by myself (really, really smooth).

anywhoo, to go or not to go.

i was tired today. i'm always tired nowadays. and i've been feeling low and blue. i wanted nothing more than to come home take a nap, run some errands, do the laundry (and let's be honest...hide from the world).

and i was afraid. afraid to go by myself.

but if i'm living in new york, if i'm going to live here, in new york, hell...isn't this precisely why people love the city--where exposure to these sorts of things is prevalent and everyone is alway rubbing elbows with someone exciting and story-worthy.

three months ago i would've gone. no questions asked. three months ago i felt bold and confident, three months ago i didn't care if it meant standing by myself in a corner for two hours sipping white wine while waiting for the event to begin.

but today i felt fearful. and lacking. and because i was so afraid, because fear was dictating, i knew i had to go.

so i did. and i did stand for two hours. by myself. in my stodgy, black work-clothes and my tried and true blue rain slicker. (let's just say i was not in my hipster-best).

but i was so proud of myself for going. for reclaiming some of that girl i tapped into mere months ago.

and it was so great. the music was so great. they are so great. they were the last band i saw at lolla this summer. and as their set progressed, all of us there in grant park watched as a massive rain storm rolled in. and just as they began the last song, the sky opened, and lord did we dance and slice and get a little muddy that day. so it seemed fitting that sky deluged new york today.

Portugal. The Man is my rain dance music. my be-brave, get-wet, dance music. and don't think i don't have a thing for every single one of the guys in the band.

on a separate note: there was this brief moment, when, before they had opened the upstairs to the public, i somehow wandered up there (no security) and found myself face-to-face with the band's drummer and a gaggle of others only to turn right around on my heel and high-tail it back downstairs. no one stopped me. no one said you can't come up here. i should've sauntered right in and started talking to everyone as though of course i'm meant to be here. but, that's a level of bold i'm still working on.

hey boys, saturday night. in boston. be there, be square.

life slice #4.

2011-10-19T22:38:00.001-04:00

when just the right guy happens to smile at
just the right moment and
it just so happens he's smiling at you and
he's caught you mid-laugh
and all of it,
all of it is just enough
to keep you going.

me too.

2011-10-19T10:00:00.000-04:00

today it's raining in new york and i'm so thankful for it. for the gray and the clouds and the little bit of gloom. something magical about a rainy day, i say. and while i'd like to stay in bed all day, it's not in the cards.

turns out the cards today herald day-old-dirty-hair and a laundry list of things i've been putting off--a laundry list of things i need to do to keep myself afloat--like head to the bank and head to the gym (goodness, can't tell you how long that's been) and maybe head to the kitchen tonight, too. to actually make myself something--to nourish the body and the mind and give that stove-top a workout.

so off i go. to smile in the rain.

via.

"something 'bout the quiet surprise in darkness"

2011-10-18T11:13:00.000-04:00

i have a list of people i want to see live: mayer hawthorne, fitz and the tantrums, portugal. the man, the avett brothers, laura marling, but there's something about this guy...

that puts him at the top of the list.

no question.

"Last night, as I was sleeping" by Antonio Machado {and happy monday}

2011-10-17T12:02:00.002-04:00

Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

     Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

     Last night, as I was sleeping,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

     Last night, as I slept,
I dreamt -- marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

(a very kind reader sent this my way and i can hardly read it without crying. so true and beautiful and needed is it this week--may it be a good week for us all--full of light and marvelous errors and honey made from sweet failures and divinity, above all else).

image
via.

2011-10-16T19:29:00.001-04:00

"Why am I afraid to dance, I who love
music and rhythm and grace and song
and laughter? Why am I afraid to live,
I who love life and the beauty of the flesh
and the living colors of the earth and sky
and sea? Why am I afraid to love, I who
love love love?"

Eugene O'Neill

claiming the land.

2011-10-15T14:04:00.003-04:00

i hated new york this week.

hated the long subway rides. the assault of smells. the brush-bys by men who should not be. that. close.

hated that i've taken to hiding in the stairwell when i see that one particular neighbor waiting for the elevator. (26 brings maturity, don't let anyone tell you different).

hated that the guy at the corner store knows me. has for near two years now. hated that he knows when i'm eating well. and when i'm not. hated how his hand always brushes against mine when he hands me the change. no matter how i place my hand--inviting the dropping of the coins, he brushes up against it. and since i have this theory (or strong-held-personal belief) that all intimacy begins and ends in the hands i find this action invasive, intrusive.

and yet. he knows me. let's me cut the line when i'm just getting my chocolate covered pretzel. i hand him the dollar and he gives me a wink and a smile. he knows my name. always offers kindness, even when i don't deserve it.

but this week. oh this week.

this week i was lonely.

seems to me as i cycle through emotions some, at certain times, are harder to admit than others. and why is that? sometimes i can't admit sadness. i'll claim everything else, but don't ask me to reveal the underside of that cloak that falls heavy on the shoulders.

this week loneliness sat heavy and oppressive on my chest. this week loneliness curled up under the two highest rib bones, wrapped itself there and clung.

and i considered writing about it. but upon the realization that somebody might actually read these words--oh god, people actually see this?--i evaded, ducked and missed the words all together, which was the first real mistake i made.

it's been harder to write, lately. as though it costs more. takes something from me. a wise friend suggested it's because my life has more value now--or i value it more, so yes, writing from this place is quite literally (metaphysically) more expensive. a side effect of getting better i did not anticipate and certainly do not welcome.

loneliness.

i thought about giving it all up this week. my lease ends in six months. i could sell my furniture. or put it in storage. take three weeks to travel around europe (because it's been suggested to me that three months would not be financially sound) and then move to seattle. or portland. and no i've never been to either of those places but i've just this sense that i was meant for the pacific northwest. for the gray skies and massive pines and the water. for a pace of life that differs and bends.

i think i would thrive there. i have not reason to think this, no basis for this thought, other than it seems many a good musician is there now and some damn, fine writers as well, so maybe there's something in that water? and maybe that something would do me some good.

if i'm going to be lonely, might as well really be.

might as well go to a place where no one can ask me if i'm acting--if i'll ever, because no one will know me as such, as an actor, as a person who used to act. i hardly know myself as such. no one will know me at all. blank slate. fresh page. page turn.

and just as i'm having all these thoughts, just after having gotten off the train, and having passed quickly through the corner store, i look down at the bottle of sparkling water in one hand and the yam in the other. and the lack of bag, this quick purchase on the way home--it seems so very new york to me. and i love it. and i love new york for it. and just as soon as that thought passes, i pass the local restaurant and wave at my good friend from college who's perched at the end of the bar. and there is a love for that moment.

i'm trying, god help me, i'm trying to feel it all: the dislike and discomfort. the loneliness and wanderlust. the snippets of love i feel for this corner, this home. the in between-ness of this time in my life. because i know it will pass. i know this time, too, is sacred and important. i am changing now, becoming the grown-up version of myself. but oh, how the pushes and pulls make me sick to my stomach.

but again there comes that call--that push: remember this. remember this.

that's the great comfort: all things pass. sadness and loneliness. seasons of our life and slivers of time. and happiness too. and it cycles back only to move on again.

so, okay, before i rid my apartment of all my things, before i take off for europe, i'll enjoy this--this latter half of october, when, heaven help me, i'll feel loneliness, really feel it. i'll live with it and study it and know it. i'll stake claim to it, plant flags in it, delineate territories and identify tributaries. and make it mine.

if only for a time, if only for a time...

image
via.

linking up.

2011-10-13T09:52:00.001-04:00

the coolest thing since sliced bread: laura marling in concert recorded by npr. {damn, that girl is good}.

notes on writing. (i certainly, somewhat sheepishly, identify with that last one). {and lord help me, i hope my husband one day calls me a supernova of a human being}.

putting raw hemp on a salad the other day, i decided to google just why it was good for me. i found this. if half of this stuff is true, well then it's time for a new industrial revolution...hemp may just save the world!

i always thought ambivalence meant not caring. i had the meaning wrong. was i the only one? it means caring in two directions...two contradictory directions. i find ambivalence exhausting, but this essay exhilarating.

pumpkin oatmeal? 'tis the season.

the next cake i'll attempt to make.

definitely the kind of woman i wanna be.

image
via.

life slice #3.

2011-10-12T09:54:00.001-04:00

via.

love of an...

2011-10-11T12:58:00.008-04:00

sometimes i wish i could go back to that first night at the bowery ballroom.

take in the dark wood floor for the first time. the vaulted ceilings and small stage. the space as an ode to a different time: a simple, uncluttered, unfettered time.

i didn't know that night would be transformative. didn't know charlie fink had been reading bukowski as he wrote the third album. didn't know he was attempting to tell stories about the outliers--a move away from the deeply personal narrative of the first days of spring.

the music that night felt redemptive. holy. a controlled bubbling of euphoria. it filled me, washed over me, touched some part of me i didn't quite understand.

and so when the night ended, i went back to the band's previous work. i listened again to the first two albums groping for that greater meaning. why was the night transformative--for me, what made the experience transcendental?

bereft.

i think bereft may well be one of the greatest words the english language has yet produced. bereft: lacking, without. the word itself is an expulsion of air. just to say it requires something, demands something.

that's the word that comes to mind when thinking of the first days of spring: bereft. a man bereft. abandoned, bereaved, utterly without.

with songs entitled "i have nothing" and "my broken heart" it's fair to say i'm not hitting on anything revolutionary here, just stating the obvious.

the thing about the second album that's so interesting is the progression of it. because smack dab, middle of the thing comes "love of an orchestra" and with it, these brilliant words:

I know I'll never be lonely/ I've got songs in my blood/ I'm carrying all the love of an orchestra/ gimme the love of an orchestra

and if that isn't a breath of air returned to the body, i don't know what is.

empty of everything else--love and happiness and hope, even--there is the music. the resurgent, hypnotic melodies that drop down, invited or not.

and so the third album, last night on earth, well, it's that love of an orchestra made manifest. it is an album about the return of joy.

in fink telling stories about those that ring the outskirts, those who live on the fringe, he unwittingly reveals the very axis on which much of humanity balances, himself included.

when things get tricky on my end, when upheaval reigns, and nothing is clearer than murky, when i feel most alone--most bereft, i remember i am filled with words. gimme the love of the english cannon, or the library, or...well, i'm not sure what the equivalent is, but you see where i'm going with this, don't you?

when all else fails i am left with words and their endless, malleable patterns. they are my music, or my attempt at such. and i am never without.

there is bereft. and there is life after. and the life after, it's just so much better. and no one tells you that, and no one prepares you for that, and those on the other side of it just don't understand. but it's just so much better. you grow up and you find balance and you feel happiness in a way you didn't even know to be possible: there is more in this world to be found/ than dreams.

and you wake one morning to find you're a better person. filled with the love of an orchestra or the love of small, tangible, wriggly words--and those words open worlds and life thrums along. only different, better. and you live your life as though it is the last night on earth because you already lost everything once and you came back from it so fear doesn't have the same hold. and we're all living on some line, some edge, some axis anyway--might as well enjoy our own precarious placement in the universe.

that night, for me, was both explanation of the past and road map for the future. and touchstone, too. reminder of where to look when even hope evades: the words. always, the words.

2011-10-11T11:20:00.000-04:00

For our hearts are not pure; our hearts are filled with need and greed as much as with love and grace; and we wrestle with our hearts all the time. The wrestling is who we are. How we wrestle is who we are. What we want to be is never what we are. Not yet. Maybe that's why we have these relentless engines in our chests, driving us toward what we might be.

Brian Doyle

life slice #2

2011-10-10T10:06:00.002-04:00

she'd been feeling like she couldn't rub two good days together to save here life.

there'd be one--one good, passable, livable day.

followed by a rush in of three or four others. days that recalled an older time. a time well-passed, once-lived, and tremulously difficult.

but then there'd be another good one.

and so the cycle went.

and there were just enough good ones to make it all survivable, bearable, perfectly withstand-able.

but there was a sense of treading water. and while the pull of the waves seemed gentle and harmless with her head above peek-a-boo caps, she knew the rhythmic bob belied the actual pull.

the difficulty was, to keep her eyes on the horizon? or to give in? was there redemption to be found in surrendering to the undertow--would the very thing she feared get her to where she most needed to go?

life slice #1

2011-10-08T13:09:00.003-04:00

everyone kept telling her to be more careful this go round.
she kept telling them she wasn't the same person.

2011-10-08T12:52:00.002-04:00

I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable,
but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive
is a grand thing.

Agatha Christie

travel light.

2011-10-07T02:03:00.002-04:00

"I would have actual troubles & fewer imaginary ones."

the whole thing makes my heart swell to such an extent that it actually hurts. to make more mistakes. to fail more often. to go barefoot.

it all makes such good sense.

the gorgeous sarah posted this yesterday

and i just had to share.

if only for myself. so i might remember.

my mantra for this new age...

2011-10-06T09:00:00.000-04:00

found here.

recognize the words?

celebrating the next year. (my manhattan: the birthday edition).

2011-10-05T10:54:00.001-04:00

having been in new york for so long now i feel extremely lucky to have so many friends from so many different parts of my life: childhood friends, school friends, work friends, happenstance friends. on monday night several of them came over to help me ring in the new year (new to me, so to speak). with plenty of wine, noah & the whale carrying through the speakers, and such good people around me, i felt so very lucky--so very happy and humbled to know such kind and generous people.

i wore fake eyelashes, my most comfortable dress, and padded round the apartment barefoot. i only broke one champagne glass (and that's on me, i was drinking diet coke from it while baking the cake), but i did manage to land a fair amount of bubbly all over the wood floor (those old school champagne glasses have too much exposed surface area).

all in all it was simply a lovely evening.

ps: i must thank you all--you who come to this wee-here-blog-of-mine--for sharing in my birthday yesterday. your kind words of encouragement never cease to inspire and fill me.
i am in your debt, truly.

linking up.

2011-10-04T21:00:00.002-04:00

{so w're gonna have to just accept that while i like making these link lists the chances of them happening at the same time every week (friday)...slim to none. so it'll be like a little surprise each week}.

surprise!!

a lovely discourse on the power of touch.

considering it was the most powerful book i've ever read (yes, i'm saying that), i know the movie will disappoint. and yet, i began sobbing about thirty seconds into the trailer.

seriously, what is it about ryan gosling?

love that this man claims to be the product of a conspiracy of love. what a powerful thought.

the democratization of energy? now that's an idea.

these pictures of rome have undone me. can we say wanderlust?

not so lucky as to get to see the head and the heart in concert anytime soon? the next best thing.

in light of the occupy wall street protest that is snowballing in new york, i found rolling stone's article on the security exchange commission nothing short of enlightening. (this one's mostly for my dad).

amy poehler / leslie knope. huzzah.

really gives one something to think about in light of the upcoming election. doesn't hurt that it's one of the best movies ever--and always good to watch when the weather turns cool.

photo: kate murphy

photography

who i am at 26.

2011-10-04T09:55:00.002-04:00

i woke this morning exhausted and not feeling terribly well. something about too much bubbly and too much cake last night.

and not enough sleep.

but the incessant call of the buzzer roused me from my warm bed--me cursing whoever thought it appropriate to make deliveries at seven-thirty in the morning, all the while.

flowers.

flowers at the door. a beautiful fall bouquet.

a birthday.

i tried to climb back into bed, reappropriate sleep for myself, but there is something so holy about the quiet and early morning hours in new york (anywhere for that matter) that once up i am helpless against its pull, tired as i may be.

and so i made my way to the kitchen, surveying the empty wine bottles and glasses along the way, brewed a pot of coffee, and pulled from the cabinet a green mug--the plant-potter mug.

morning ritual.

bare feet on wood. cool tin of coffee grounds. the hiss and spit of the coffeemaker. the selection of the mug. the settling into my chair just in front of the window. and all the moments between. the connect-the-dots.

i am both the ritual and the departure from it.

that's what i came to this morning, thinking about who i am now, at 26.

i am the product of 25 and 24 and all the years before. i am the rituals i have made my own. and i am the departures.

the air is getting cooler now. brisk and breezy. and i have this suspicion it won't be long before the people across the street who take their morning coffee on the fire escape disappear inside for the long winter months. already i am wistful for that image, sorry for the loss of their presence. but this weather--oh how this weather heralds a hope like no other. how the cool air carries on its back a sense of possibility and precipice and great joy--old joy.

today i am the girl who is better than okay. the girl with a flirting, passing love-affair with happiness.

sometimes i can feel the thing--that joy, that happiness--just beneath my tongue, or behind my eyes. sometimes it's right there where my ear meets my neck and every once in a while, when i least expect it, it is everywhere all at once. it is profound and all-encompassing--swaddling and lifting.

i am the girl who is just now realizing some things must be fought for. happiness, yes, and courage yes, and people, too. and that pride isn't too tremendously helpful.

i'm pretty good at giving up. at giving in. at letting fear dictate. but i'm working on that. i'm learning to fight for myself. learning to fight for the chance to suss out who i love and what i love and what i'm meant to do. learning to fight for the right words in this world. and the courage to say them, aloud. not to write them, but to form my lips around them and feel them as they move up and out of me, physically. this is the world of light and speech. right? isn't that what george elliot said? this is the world of light and speech--i'm just now coming into that, owning that.

just the other night my father told me that when i was a wee of a thing he'd arrive home from work and my brother would run hollering at the door, daddy, daddy! and as he did so, i'd run to the furthest room in the house, silently, and wait for my father to come find me.

only now at 26 am i learning one can't always wait to be found. endearing as that hunt was, my brother kind of had it right. sometimes you have to run headlong and fearless into the arms of the thing.

so here i am attempting to make my way down. coming from that back room, down the staircase. welcoming myself. my arrival. my decision to finally show up--to become an active participant in creating a life in this world of light and speech and the space between.

coffee photo

found via

this gorgeous blog.

reflecting back. (25).

2011-10-03T15:54:00.002-04:00

i've been thinking a lot about what i would--what i should--write for this.

and the thing is, well, i haven't come up with much.

other than...

i'm okay.

here i am. 25. and i'm okay.

thrilling, right?

well, for me, it is. okay is nothing short of utterly and completely thrilling.

because for so long i was not. okay.

and then i was not quite.

i have moments. all the time. moments where i feel like i should have done more. been more. said more. moments where i feel so far behind. hell, i'm 25 already. this is it? this is all i've accomplished? but then i quietly remind myself that we all have different paths. different life trajectories. our stories vary. and my accomplishments, my multitudinous (yup, i just used that word) victories are mostly private. things that others might never understand. but for me those victories are the difference between not okay. not quite. and just fine.

and just fine, okay, whatever-you-want-to-call-it is the beginning. the beginning of everything. the part of my story where my successes become (i hope) a bit more public.

so who am i at 25?

i'm someone who believes that unsolicited smiles by strangers are one of the most profound acts of kindness possible.

i still use the crabtree and evelyn room spray that my mother gifted me for my 19th birthday. it immediately brings me back to a time of naivete and endless possibility.

i find the music of florence + the machine to solicit more sock-to-wood-floor dancing than is proper or appropriate or even becoming of a lady of my pedigree (and now) age.

the quote that makes the most sense to me right now--right at this very moment: "sometimes i can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives i'm not living" (jonathan safran foer {of course}).

if i could go anywhere tomorrow i'd hop on a boat and sail up the dalmatian coast. or i'd return to rome. and sit in church after church after church. saturating myself in beauty and history. satiating myself with prayer (and a lot, a lot of gelato).

i don't know where life goes from here. but i'm so excited to go boldly into the unknown. to try. and to fail a little, as inevitably i will. but also to start gathering successes. collecting them one by one in the cradle of my arms so i can lay them on the alter of this life as my humble (and multitudinous) thanks.

i am so thankful to be 25. to be 25 and just fine.

see last year's who i am at 24.

image via.