1.09.2012
1.08.2012
week one of this new year: january 1-7.
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
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
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.
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
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.
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
I do believe in the genius that is under-eye concealer. But I want 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)!
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)!
on beauty
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.
(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.
1.05.2012
the big kitchen table.
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.
1.04.2012
this morning.
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}.
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}.
1.02.2012
my manhattan: the wreaths are still up, but the resolutions are resolving and revolving.
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:
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...
12.31.2011
12.29.2011
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).
12.28.2011
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.
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