Things I have an unnatural, visceral, and vitriolic hatred for, that have never done anything to me:
Actresses:
1. Kirsten Dunst
2. Ann Hathaway
Music:
1. Neil Young
2. Modest Mouse
Places:
1. Texas
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Untitled No. 4,000,007
I always sit on this side of the C train
Don't think of it until Chambers and
I can't look for you at the station
Staring at the tiled "CHAMBERS"
It's been May to March, God,
almost a year already and yet
every. day. i. look. for. you.
imagining what I'd do
Dreading
Imagining what I'd say
Would I lose my shit?
Attack, black out like the convicts
claim they do
Come to and find a pile of lifeless
flesh in a puddle of blood
Would I pretend not to see you?
Or approach you, ask you pointedly
What, exactly?
I still can't untangle us
I don't know myself in relation to you.
There is no exaggeration in the statement,
"You lied about everything."
And yet
there is another truth
"I still love you."
Incongruous, dichotomy
Nothing makes sense if that is true
And it is.
Don't think of it until Chambers and
I can't look for you at the station
Staring at the tiled "CHAMBERS"
It's been May to March, God,
almost a year already and yet
every. day. i. look. for. you.
imagining what I'd do
Dreading
Imagining what I'd say
Would I lose my shit?
Attack, black out like the convicts
claim they do
Come to and find a pile of lifeless
flesh in a puddle of blood
Would I pretend not to see you?
Or approach you, ask you pointedly
What, exactly?
I still can't untangle us
I don't know myself in relation to you.
There is no exaggeration in the statement,
"You lied about everything."
And yet
there is another truth
"I still love you."
Incongruous, dichotomy
Nothing makes sense if that is true
And it is.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
a week of writing
my last day at my old job was Tuesday, the one before Thanksgiving. the first day of the new one is next Monday. I'm taking a week off to write.
And here I am, blogging at 11 am on Tuesday, hoping i have enough to say to get me through the week. hoping i have enough to say to keep my hope alive that maybe someday i could do this, really do this, like, do this all the time, not just in the evenings or the mornings or the rare weeks between jobs.
Natalie Goldberg says, "It was important to give myself permission to fail. It is the only way to write. We can't live up to anyone's high standards, including our own...Kindness. It stemmed from kindness. I have always been kind to myself in the area of writing. I know if I'm not kind, if I get too tough, I'll get scared, close up, freeze."
I have never been kind to myself in the area of writing. I have been frozen; I am trying to unthaw. Yesterday, as I wrote, I felt light, free, weightless as a helium balloon climbing high, higher above the brownstones and the leafless trees. Today, I awoke terrified. Yesterday, all I cared about was getting the sludge out of my system. Today, there is pressure to Write. Capital W Write. I am trying to be kind, but kindness does not come easily. I haven't yet learned it.
And here I am, blogging at 11 am on Tuesday, hoping i have enough to say to get me through the week. hoping i have enough to say to keep my hope alive that maybe someday i could do this, really do this, like, do this all the time, not just in the evenings or the mornings or the rare weeks between jobs.
Natalie Goldberg says, "It was important to give myself permission to fail. It is the only way to write. We can't live up to anyone's high standards, including our own...Kindness. It stemmed from kindness. I have always been kind to myself in the area of writing. I know if I'm not kind, if I get too tough, I'll get scared, close up, freeze."
I have never been kind to myself in the area of writing. I have been frozen; I am trying to unthaw. Yesterday, as I wrote, I felt light, free, weightless as a helium balloon climbing high, higher above the brownstones and the leafless trees. Today, I awoke terrified. Yesterday, all I cared about was getting the sludge out of my system. Today, there is pressure to Write. Capital W Write. I am trying to be kind, but kindness does not come easily. I haven't yet learned it.
Saturday, November 13, 2010
a little late
Good news, minions!! I have acquired myself a brand-spanking-new job! But that's another post. Today's post is about dating, and the meaning of the phrase, "a little late."
So, here I am, all super-stoked about this great new job and wanting to celebrate. I've gone on a few dates with a man we will call The Jamaican, or TJ (and no, for those of you who know me, not THAT Jamaican. a different Jamaican.) In any case, this Jamaican is fun and attractive, and while not long-term material, when I text to tell him I got the job, he says, "We have to celebrate!" And so we make plans to meet at 9 for dinner at one of my favorite little holes-in-the-wall Italian places in the East Village.
But it is Friday. And I have had a loooooong week of working late, interviewing, waiting for job offers, getting job offers, telling one of my favorite bosses ever that I'm leaving, and just general stress and sleeplessness. All I really want to do is lay on the couch in my jammies. BUT, I have made plans, and so I go home, shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and put on a dress and tights and heels. About half an hour before we are supposed to meet, he texts: "I may be running a little late but not too late." I have expected this text. (He was late for the first 2 dates.) I have already adjusted my own schedule to arrive a few minutes late. So I respond: "Okay. No worries."
I arrive at the restaurant at 9:08. It's warm and dark and full of music and talking and the sound of silverware on plates. I wait for someone on the waitstaff to make eye contact and then ask if there is a list. He says no, I say I'm waiting for someone, and he directs me to sit. I'm surprised by this, since in New York, they rarely seat you until your entire party has arrived. But, as it is already almost 9:15, I assume TJ will be there soon and take a seat by the window. I order a glass of pinot noir. The bar is in front of me, full of talking, laughing people, including a few men who keep glancing over at me. The restaurant is full of couples and groups of friends. Basketball is playing on a small TV over the bar. My wine arrives and I check my phone. I text him to tell him that the restaurant is around the corner from the cross-streets I gave. Nothing. It is 9:20, then 9:25. I decide that if he hasn't arrived by the time I finish my wine, I'm leaving. The wait staff glances in my direction every time they walk by. I eat a piece of bread, trying to look calm. I know I'm not being stood up, but I begin to be embarrassed. After all, I am sitting alone in a restaurant at 9:30 on a Friday night, clearly waiting for someone. The looks on the men's faces at the bar turn (whether I imagined it or not, I don't know) from mild interest to mild pity. Same with the wait staff. I finish my wine. It is 9:40. I pay the waiter, apologize for taking up his table, and leave. There is definite pity in his voice when he says, "It's okay, miss." I calmly put on my scarf and coat and hold my head high as I leave. I imagine them all putting it together in their heads when TJ finally shows up, comes in, looks around, calls me, looks around again, calls again, and then leaves.
I start walking in the direction of the lower East side. I know some friends are out, so I call them and head in their direction, a little embarrassed but slightly relieved. This man has just made it incredibly easy for me to stop seeing him, which I will do. I get to the bar and relay my story. We sit and drink. I wait. Finally, at 10:03, he calls. I don't answer. Again, at 10:05. A text at 10:08. And then two more calls. All of which I ignore. At 10:35, a text to say he's sorry. I shrug and keep drinking. I am happier here with friends.
We had just decided to leave when who do I see passing the window in front of me to come into the bar than the best friend of the EX. THE ex. "Fuck." They ask what, and I tell them, as 3 other of his friends come into view. I wait for his face. Thank god it doesn't appear. I turned my face away from the door and put my hand up to my temple, hoping they wouldn't see me as they walked in. One of my friends said he thought I'd been spotted. I was shaken, my stomach in knots. We left without incident and went to a tapas place for some food, then to another bar. Finally, I got into a cab home around 2, glad that I'd spent my night the way I had, reaffirming to myself to do what I want to do next time, not what I feel obligated to do. It's so easy to feel like I "should" do something and ignore my gut when it says, "No, you really don't want to do it. Don't." It's a lesson I learn over and over again.
So, here I am, all super-stoked about this great new job and wanting to celebrate. I've gone on a few dates with a man we will call The Jamaican, or TJ (and no, for those of you who know me, not THAT Jamaican. a different Jamaican.) In any case, this Jamaican is fun and attractive, and while not long-term material, when I text to tell him I got the job, he says, "We have to celebrate!" And so we make plans to meet at 9 for dinner at one of my favorite little holes-in-the-wall Italian places in the East Village.
But it is Friday. And I have had a loooooong week of working late, interviewing, waiting for job offers, getting job offers, telling one of my favorite bosses ever that I'm leaving, and just general stress and sleeplessness. All I really want to do is lay on the couch in my jammies. BUT, I have made plans, and so I go home, shower, do my hair, do my makeup, and put on a dress and tights and heels. About half an hour before we are supposed to meet, he texts: "I may be running a little late but not too late." I have expected this text. (He was late for the first 2 dates.) I have already adjusted my own schedule to arrive a few minutes late. So I respond: "Okay. No worries."
I arrive at the restaurant at 9:08. It's warm and dark and full of music and talking and the sound of silverware on plates. I wait for someone on the waitstaff to make eye contact and then ask if there is a list. He says no, I say I'm waiting for someone, and he directs me to sit. I'm surprised by this, since in New York, they rarely seat you until your entire party has arrived. But, as it is already almost 9:15, I assume TJ will be there soon and take a seat by the window. I order a glass of pinot noir. The bar is in front of me, full of talking, laughing people, including a few men who keep glancing over at me. The restaurant is full of couples and groups of friends. Basketball is playing on a small TV over the bar. My wine arrives and I check my phone. I text him to tell him that the restaurant is around the corner from the cross-streets I gave. Nothing. It is 9:20, then 9:25. I decide that if he hasn't arrived by the time I finish my wine, I'm leaving. The wait staff glances in my direction every time they walk by. I eat a piece of bread, trying to look calm. I know I'm not being stood up, but I begin to be embarrassed. After all, I am sitting alone in a restaurant at 9:30 on a Friday night, clearly waiting for someone. The looks on the men's faces at the bar turn (whether I imagined it or not, I don't know) from mild interest to mild pity. Same with the wait staff. I finish my wine. It is 9:40. I pay the waiter, apologize for taking up his table, and leave. There is definite pity in his voice when he says, "It's okay, miss." I calmly put on my scarf and coat and hold my head high as I leave. I imagine them all putting it together in their heads when TJ finally shows up, comes in, looks around, calls me, looks around again, calls again, and then leaves.
I start walking in the direction of the lower East side. I know some friends are out, so I call them and head in their direction, a little embarrassed but slightly relieved. This man has just made it incredibly easy for me to stop seeing him, which I will do. I get to the bar and relay my story. We sit and drink. I wait. Finally, at 10:03, he calls. I don't answer. Again, at 10:05. A text at 10:08. And then two more calls. All of which I ignore. At 10:35, a text to say he's sorry. I shrug and keep drinking. I am happier here with friends.
We had just decided to leave when who do I see passing the window in front of me to come into the bar than the best friend of the EX. THE ex. "Fuck." They ask what, and I tell them, as 3 other of his friends come into view. I wait for his face. Thank god it doesn't appear. I turned my face away from the door and put my hand up to my temple, hoping they wouldn't see me as they walked in. One of my friends said he thought I'd been spotted. I was shaken, my stomach in knots. We left without incident and went to a tapas place for some food, then to another bar. Finally, I got into a cab home around 2, glad that I'd spent my night the way I had, reaffirming to myself to do what I want to do next time, not what I feel obligated to do. It's so easy to feel like I "should" do something and ignore my gut when it says, "No, you really don't want to do it. Don't." It's a lesson I learn over and over again.
Friday, November 5, 2010
just me and the bamboo
well, it's just me and the dying bamboo. the most slowly dying bamboo in the history of dying bamboo. honestly, i didn't even know you could kill bamboo. it doesn't even need dirt to grow! just water. WATER. makes me wonder if i kill everything i touch. plants, yes. as evidenced by the sickly yellow bamboo. "I'm sorry," i want to tell it. Okay, do tell it. I feel badly about killing it, and slowly is the worst way to go. But here we are, the only living (ish, i'm not really sure the bamboo counts as living) things in my apartment (unless you count the transient mice, which I don't, but mostly out of sheer denial).
oh, there's a bottle of wine here, too, but it's not alive or anything.
okay, 3 bottles, technically, but i'm only drinking out of one.
right now.
i guess it's been awhile, huh? I hadn't realized I haven't posted since Thanksgiving last year. a LOT has happened since then. I could tell you about all of it, but there is too much. So I will, as the great Inigo Montoya once said, sum up.
I was in love. Seriously in love. Like, really in love. Epically in love.
And then I found out that the man I was in love with was (and I am not exaggerating here) lying about everything. Every. Thing.
This was May.
Since May, I've pretty much been dealing with that. I wouldn't really call it an "adventure" as such, and nobody wants to hear the gory details (likely not even the people who have heard them), but it's been pretty bad.
Which brings me to today, the dominant thought of which was, "If I'm this depressed before winter even starts, how am I going to even make it through until Spring?"
But, you know what? I'll be okay. I always am. And breakups, just like other big life things, are an opportunity to re-examine our lives and to think about what we really want and to change and to grow (blah blah blah). The last time I went through a horrible breakup, I moved to New York, which is quite possibly the best decision I ever made. So, we'll see, right?
But for now, me and the bamboo are going to have a quiet evening in watching "Secretary" and having wine and popcorn for dinner.
oh, there's a bottle of wine here, too, but it's not alive or anything.
okay, 3 bottles, technically, but i'm only drinking out of one.
right now.
i guess it's been awhile, huh? I hadn't realized I haven't posted since Thanksgiving last year. a LOT has happened since then. I could tell you about all of it, but there is too much. So I will, as the great Inigo Montoya once said, sum up.
I was in love. Seriously in love. Like, really in love. Epically in love.
And then I found out that the man I was in love with was (and I am not exaggerating here) lying about everything. Every. Thing.
This was May.
Since May, I've pretty much been dealing with that. I wouldn't really call it an "adventure" as such, and nobody wants to hear the gory details (likely not even the people who have heard them), but it's been pretty bad.
Which brings me to today, the dominant thought of which was, "If I'm this depressed before winter even starts, how am I going to even make it through until Spring?"
But, you know what? I'll be okay. I always am. And breakups, just like other big life things, are an opportunity to re-examine our lives and to think about what we really want and to change and to grow (blah blah blah). The last time I went through a horrible breakup, I moved to New York, which is quite possibly the best decision I ever made. So, we'll see, right?
But for now, me and the bamboo are going to have a quiet evening in watching "Secretary" and having wine and popcorn for dinner.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
A Brooklyn Thanksgiving (Part 2)
Thanksgiving dawned sunny and bright on the Gowannus canal, and thus, on my small apartment. We had, to my dissapointment, decided not to go to the parade (a childhood dream of mine) so that we could get the turkey in on time. The good news was that I got to sleep in. At 10, I yawned, stretched, and thought about what a great day it was going to be.
The first thing I saw when I wandered out of my bedroom was a raw turkey, spread eagle on the counter, with J's face disturbing close to the opening between it's legs. "Come here," he said. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head as a wave of nausea rolled over me. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
"Look in there. Do you think I got everything?" I timidly cocked my head to the side to get a better view from where I was in the doorway.
"Uh, I don't know. Did you get the gizzards?" He reached in and pulled out something that I supposed could be called a gizzard.
"Is this it?" I shrugged. He threw it away and thrust his hand in again. "I don't feel anything else. Come look. Do you see anything else in there?" I didn't want to look, and I couldn't imagine that a small opening like that could really conceal anything else, but I did anyway. It was gross. And looked empty. And I wasn't about to put my hand in there.
Side note: Much, much later, when our friend Mike was picking the turkey clean, he pulled a plastic bag out of some dark recess of the bird and said, "Hey! Why didn't you guys throw out the innards?" Seriously, I have NO IDEA where they came from. And I hope no one gets cancer from us cooking plastic inside a turkey for several hours.
I pulled up Grandma's E-mail Instructions on Cooking a Turkey From a Woman Who's Done it 80 Bazillion Times and Made it Look Easy, and read verbatim to J while he pulled stuff out of it, rubbed stuff on it, flipped it around, put other stuff in it, and then tried to tie it all up with yarn because I don't have kitchen string. I am a helpful, thoughtful woman. Based on Grandma's calculations, we had 6 and 1/3 hours to burn once the turkey was in. The hot water in the apartment wasn't working for the fourth time that week, so I called the landlord and we sat around in our PJs drinking coffee and hoping the hot water would be fixed in time for showers before people started arriving.
It wasn't. And the good news is I believe I broke a world record for shortest shower in the history of showering. It was under a minute, people.
The rest of the day is a happy, warm (the apartment heated up to a balmy 85 degrees or so, despite opening the windows), glowy rush, with friends coming and going, good conversation, many bottles of wine, a turkey that just couldn't wait to be done (several hours early--though I refuse to blame this on Grandma's calculations and instead now believe that my oven is schizo), and a mad rush to make all of the side dishes before the turkey got cold. Granted, the turkey was a tad bit dry, and the green beans may have cooked a few minutes too long, and the football games--don't even get me started on how terrible the football games were--but nothing beats a big meal surrounded by people you love. And PIE.
And when the last couple of people left at 1:30 in the morning, and some (but by no means all) of the dishes had been washed, and the leftovers were put away in the fridge, J put on the soundtrack to "Charlie Brown's Christmas" and we sat in quiet happiness, ruminating on what we decided, on all counts, may have just been the best Thanksgiving ever.
I can't wait to do it all again next year.
The first thing I saw when I wandered out of my bedroom was a raw turkey, spread eagle on the counter, with J's face disturbing close to the opening between it's legs. "Come here," he said. I furrowed my eyebrows and shook my head as a wave of nausea rolled over me. I hadn't even had my coffee yet.
"Look in there. Do you think I got everything?" I timidly cocked my head to the side to get a better view from where I was in the doorway.
"Uh, I don't know. Did you get the gizzards?" He reached in and pulled out something that I supposed could be called a gizzard.
"Is this it?" I shrugged. He threw it away and thrust his hand in again. "I don't feel anything else. Come look. Do you see anything else in there?" I didn't want to look, and I couldn't imagine that a small opening like that could really conceal anything else, but I did anyway. It was gross. And looked empty. And I wasn't about to put my hand in there.
Side note: Much, much later, when our friend Mike was picking the turkey clean, he pulled a plastic bag out of some dark recess of the bird and said, "Hey! Why didn't you guys throw out the innards?" Seriously, I have NO IDEA where they came from. And I hope no one gets cancer from us cooking plastic inside a turkey for several hours.
I pulled up Grandma's E-mail Instructions on Cooking a Turkey From a Woman Who's Done it 80 Bazillion Times and Made it Look Easy, and read verbatim to J while he pulled stuff out of it, rubbed stuff on it, flipped it around, put other stuff in it, and then tried to tie it all up with yarn because I don't have kitchen string. I am a helpful, thoughtful woman. Based on Grandma's calculations, we had 6 and 1/3 hours to burn once the turkey was in. The hot water in the apartment wasn't working for the fourth time that week, so I called the landlord and we sat around in our PJs drinking coffee and hoping the hot water would be fixed in time for showers before people started arriving.
It wasn't. And the good news is I believe I broke a world record for shortest shower in the history of showering. It was under a minute, people.
The rest of the day is a happy, warm (the apartment heated up to a balmy 85 degrees or so, despite opening the windows), glowy rush, with friends coming and going, good conversation, many bottles of wine, a turkey that just couldn't wait to be done (several hours early--though I refuse to blame this on Grandma's calculations and instead now believe that my oven is schizo), and a mad rush to make all of the side dishes before the turkey got cold. Granted, the turkey was a tad bit dry, and the green beans may have cooked a few minutes too long, and the football games--don't even get me started on how terrible the football games were--but nothing beats a big meal surrounded by people you love. And PIE.
And when the last couple of people left at 1:30 in the morning, and some (but by no means all) of the dishes had been washed, and the leftovers were put away in the fridge, J put on the soundtrack to "Charlie Brown's Christmas" and we sat in quiet happiness, ruminating on what we decided, on all counts, may have just been the best Thanksgiving ever.
I can't wait to do it all again next year.
A Brooklyn Thanksgiving (Part 1)
It felt like the first in many ways, even though I've been around for 27 of these now...27 Macy's Thanksgiving Day parades, 27 turkeys, 27 burnt fingertips from pulling turkey skin off of a too-hot turkey, complete with pie, football, and family. The number of Thanksgivings I've spent without my immediate family is somewhere around 3. Most often, I am in Pittsburgh. But this year was different. This year was the first Thanksgiving J and I spent together. It was also the first year I hosted.
Five trips to the grocery store, one giant turkey roaster purchase, several meltdowns, and one narrowly avoided fight about the correct way to bind a turkey (trust me, it sounds like more fun than it is) later, and we had one of the best Thanksgivings in recent memory.
It all started several weeks before Thanksgiving, after J and I had decided to have a "quiet Thanksgiving at home" with just the 2 of us. This, of course, turned into "the boys don't have anywhere to go" and I said, "oh, I know a few people who don't have plans either" and before you know it -- POOF! -- I'm hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for 6. No problem. 6 is totally manageable. Until the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when 6 turned into 8, and the day of, when 8 turned into 10.
A quick note on the layout of my apartment: I have a bedroom and a living room. I have no dining room and no dining room table. I have enough seats for 5. My kitchen is on one wall of my living room. I have maybe 2 square feet of counter space, and that's being generous.
We had, by Tuesday, been to the grocery store twice, and I had successfully purchased an enormous turkey roaster that I had no idea where i was going to store after the holiday. I had forgotten about the last minute crush at work the week before any holiday, and had to abandon my plans to clean the apartment and make yet another necessary grocery store run for more forgotten items. Instead, I worked 14 hours, took a car home, and collapsed into bed with the intention of getting to work early on Wednesday to leave by 2 (when the office "closed" but only if you were done with your work) so I could go home and bake pies.
A note about pies: In my family, pies may just be the most integral part of any Thanksgiving celebration. Turkey? In a pinch, we could do without one. Pie? UNTHINKABLE. Also, pie is a bit of an undertaking. You need time, focus, and an empty oven. Therefore, the pies needed to be done on Wednesday, when all of those things, theoretically, would be in ample supply.
J, thankfully, decided not to work on Wednesday. This was the only way we got everything done. I headed off to work an hour early, leaving a "to do" list a mile long in his possession. We were in good spirits. We were in control. We had a plan! Thanksgiving was going to happen after all!
Until I got to work and watched the extra hour I had given myself vanish while trying to turn on my computer. By the time IT had me up and running, I was back where I would have been if I had just come in when I usually do. Luckily, I had budgeted an extra hour into my work time that meant I could leave at 1 if nothing went wrong, and 2 if one hour's worth of things went wrong. I was now on a tight timeline to get done by 2. Nothing else could go wrong.
Meanwhile, J was ticking things off his list with lightening speed. Buy folding chairs: done! Go to the grocery store--again: done! Clean and mop the apartment--done and done!
Needless to say, my day wasn't going nearly so smoothly. The day before Thanksgiving is either incredibly busy or incredibly slow -- apparently, for all of my chatty coworkers, it was incredibly slow. I put in my headphones and put my head down. I was going to finish by 2. Until 11 am, when I got the news that we had done an entire section wrong and it would need to be rewritten. And I wouldn't get it until 5. Fine, the night editor could take care of it. Crisis averted! Until noon, when I remembered it was my day to buy cheese for our department's Wednesday wine and cheese. Fuck. I ran to the Amish Market, grabbed a Brie and and Gruyere, ran back to work, threw it on the community table, and went back to work. 2 o'clock was growing nearer and nearer. The e-mails were coming at lightening speed. People behind me were chatting louder and louder. The work seemed to be going slower and slower. My strength waned. I forgot about food. I just had to get done so I could go home and bake pies.
Finally, at 2:45, I packed up and walked out the door. I headed for Trader Joe's (grocery store run #4), and, laden with two more big bags of groceries, arrived home a little after 4. I promptly broke down and cried. I hated Thanksgiving, I said. I was never going to host again, I said. I haven't eaten since breakfast, I said. J hugged and consoled me, then heated up some soup. I blew my nose, ate my gumbo, and decided to suck it up. I just had to get through making pies.
By 5:30, I was elbows deep in Crisco and flour, and the stress seemed to melt away with every thrust of my pastry cutter. I took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
Except that I didn't have a big enough cutting board to roll out the dough, and then the wax paper that I put down on the coffee table kept sliding around, and flour was getting all over the freshly mopped floor, and the dough wouldn't roll out and I couldn't figure out why.
Cue meltdown number two. J once again hugged and consoled me before softly suggesting that all the dough might need is a little water. Presto, bingo, why didn't I think of that?! And we're back on track once again.
I realize I don't have everything I need for the pumpkin pie, and J puts on his shoes for the 5th (and I'm hoping last) run to the grocery store. We're learning so much for next year! I'm thinking to myself as he shuts the door behind him. 45 minutes later, he walks back in, looking haggard and spent. A run on spices had occurred sometime since he'd been there that morning, and he narrowly avoided a fistfight with a large black woman over the last jar of powdered ginger. Luckily, he is not afraid of anything, not even large black women, and he prevailed. He is, truly, my hero.
Three pies (a very good looking apple and pecan, and a somewhat not-so-appetizing-looking pumpkin) and several cinnamon doo-bops later, I snuggled into that place under his left arm and looked out over the landscape of pies with exhausted happines. We had done it, and with only two meltdowns on my part. We were ready for Thanksgiving. It felt like a giant victory, all around.
Five trips to the grocery store, one giant turkey roaster purchase, several meltdowns, and one narrowly avoided fight about the correct way to bind a turkey (trust me, it sounds like more fun than it is) later, and we had one of the best Thanksgivings in recent memory.
It all started several weeks before Thanksgiving, after J and I had decided to have a "quiet Thanksgiving at home" with just the 2 of us. This, of course, turned into "the boys don't have anywhere to go" and I said, "oh, I know a few people who don't have plans either" and before you know it -- POOF! -- I'm hosting a Thanksgiving dinner for 6. No problem. 6 is totally manageable. Until the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, when 6 turned into 8, and the day of, when 8 turned into 10.
A quick note on the layout of my apartment: I have a bedroom and a living room. I have no dining room and no dining room table. I have enough seats for 5. My kitchen is on one wall of my living room. I have maybe 2 square feet of counter space, and that's being generous.
We had, by Tuesday, been to the grocery store twice, and I had successfully purchased an enormous turkey roaster that I had no idea where i was going to store after the holiday. I had forgotten about the last minute crush at work the week before any holiday, and had to abandon my plans to clean the apartment and make yet another necessary grocery store run for more forgotten items. Instead, I worked 14 hours, took a car home, and collapsed into bed with the intention of getting to work early on Wednesday to leave by 2 (when the office "closed" but only if you were done with your work) so I could go home and bake pies.
A note about pies: In my family, pies may just be the most integral part of any Thanksgiving celebration. Turkey? In a pinch, we could do without one. Pie? UNTHINKABLE. Also, pie is a bit of an undertaking. You need time, focus, and an empty oven. Therefore, the pies needed to be done on Wednesday, when all of those things, theoretically, would be in ample supply.
J, thankfully, decided not to work on Wednesday. This was the only way we got everything done. I headed off to work an hour early, leaving a "to do" list a mile long in his possession. We were in good spirits. We were in control. We had a plan! Thanksgiving was going to happen after all!
Until I got to work and watched the extra hour I had given myself vanish while trying to turn on my computer. By the time IT had me up and running, I was back where I would have been if I had just come in when I usually do. Luckily, I had budgeted an extra hour into my work time that meant I could leave at 1 if nothing went wrong, and 2 if one hour's worth of things went wrong. I was now on a tight timeline to get done by 2. Nothing else could go wrong.
Meanwhile, J was ticking things off his list with lightening speed. Buy folding chairs: done! Go to the grocery store--again: done! Clean and mop the apartment--done and done!
Needless to say, my day wasn't going nearly so smoothly. The day before Thanksgiving is either incredibly busy or incredibly slow -- apparently, for all of my chatty coworkers, it was incredibly slow. I put in my headphones and put my head down. I was going to finish by 2. Until 11 am, when I got the news that we had done an entire section wrong and it would need to be rewritten. And I wouldn't get it until 5. Fine, the night editor could take care of it. Crisis averted! Until noon, when I remembered it was my day to buy cheese for our department's Wednesday wine and cheese. Fuck. I ran to the Amish Market, grabbed a Brie and and Gruyere, ran back to work, threw it on the community table, and went back to work. 2 o'clock was growing nearer and nearer. The e-mails were coming at lightening speed. People behind me were chatting louder and louder. The work seemed to be going slower and slower. My strength waned. I forgot about food. I just had to get done so I could go home and bake pies.
Finally, at 2:45, I packed up and walked out the door. I headed for Trader Joe's (grocery store run #4), and, laden with two more big bags of groceries, arrived home a little after 4. I promptly broke down and cried. I hated Thanksgiving, I said. I was never going to host again, I said. I haven't eaten since breakfast, I said. J hugged and consoled me, then heated up some soup. I blew my nose, ate my gumbo, and decided to suck it up. I just had to get through making pies.
By 5:30, I was elbows deep in Crisco and flour, and the stress seemed to melt away with every thrust of my pastry cutter. I took a deep breath. Everything was going to be okay.
Except that I didn't have a big enough cutting board to roll out the dough, and then the wax paper that I put down on the coffee table kept sliding around, and flour was getting all over the freshly mopped floor, and the dough wouldn't roll out and I couldn't figure out why.
Cue meltdown number two. J once again hugged and consoled me before softly suggesting that all the dough might need is a little water. Presto, bingo, why didn't I think of that?! And we're back on track once again.
I realize I don't have everything I need for the pumpkin pie, and J puts on his shoes for the 5th (and I'm hoping last) run to the grocery store. We're learning so much for next year! I'm thinking to myself as he shuts the door behind him. 45 minutes later, he walks back in, looking haggard and spent. A run on spices had occurred sometime since he'd been there that morning, and he narrowly avoided a fistfight with a large black woman over the last jar of powdered ginger. Luckily, he is not afraid of anything, not even large black women, and he prevailed. He is, truly, my hero.
Three pies (a very good looking apple and pecan, and a somewhat not-so-appetizing-looking pumpkin) and several cinnamon doo-bops later, I snuggled into that place under his left arm and looked out over the landscape of pies with exhausted happines. We had done it, and with only two meltdowns on my part. We were ready for Thanksgiving. It felt like a giant victory, all around.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
When all else fails...
April?! My last post was in April? Sweet Lord, I had no idea it had been that long.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
My apologies, my sweet little crumb muffins. I lost track of time. I was busy soaking in as much sun as I could to delay the winter doldrums that are always just around the corner. I was driving through the night over the east-midwest and spending saturdays lolling around deciding whether or not I would get dressed. I was being in love, and going to work, and writing in Tudor City Park as many lunch hours as possible, and cursing the ever-present rain in June, and fighting mice to the death in the wee hours of the night. Really, there's no excuse. I was somewhere else. But I'm here now.
And I haven't got much to say, really.
I've made the decision, once again, to apply for MFA programs for creative writing this fall. This, of course, has had a seriously devastating effect on my writing, which has screeched to a nasty and frustrating halt. I sent the boy off this afternoon (which was particularly suited to writing--cool, rainy, not much going on) so I could write, and then spent the next 4 hours reading essays on writing, writing about how frustrated i was about writing, writing a paragraph or two on the story i'm working on, hating it, writing some more about my writing frustrations, getting a snack, doing some pushups, checking the scores of all the college football games...all to end up with 10 frustratingly scratched pages in my journal and loads of frustration.
And now, here I am. When all else fails, there is still blogging.
I'm trying to trick myself into finishing the story I'm working on, the story I'd like to submit to MFA programs, the story that now HAS TO BE PERFECT, by telling myself that I'm just writing, no big deal, it doesn't matter, I'm just getting ideas on paper. But inside, I'm wrung tight like a wet dishtowel, I can't let go and just let it flow through me, it's like when you're deep breathing through an injury--it doesn't take the pain away, it just distracts you a little.
Basically, I'm fucked.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
printemps (springtime)
walking through dim stony corridors
the delicious cool warmness of new spring breeze
rolling across my skin
cross-hatching of sun-dappled avenues
the yellow-gray plaid of the city
speckled with a melange of wool-coated
and leather-booted pessimists, dewy browed,
and bare-forearmed optimists, the occassional
peeking set of toes or flash
of bare calf glinting in the sun
the occassional god
or goddess, perfectly suited
for the exact degree, percentage humidity,
miles-per-hour of wind,
and the rest of us wonder
how their contract with the devil reads
shimmering, slinky, silver, glass,
and marble gargoyle-encrusted towers
part perfectly just in this spot
the acoustics transforming
the churning, swirling belly of a cement mixer
into a humming choir.
the great library rises
swathed in bright yellow sun glaze
the steps pillowed with soft warm soaking bodies and
resurrection falls like fairy's dust from the buds
in the opening trees
we take a collective breath, deeper
and happier today than a week ago
amazed, perhaps, by the affect of a few degrees
and storm clouds on our outlook on life.
daffodils dance in evenly spaced clay pots
on the sidewalk, an approximation of spring
as the scarf makes the metamorphosis
from necessity to accessory
from tightly wound cocoon to floating butterfly wings
three carefully chosen hardbacks
tucked under my arm
the steps, the lolling masses wave for me to join them,
i long to lay for a moment,
to flip through these newly acquired treasures
i glance at the time and turn the other direction,
poems rustling as I walk about the nature of spring in New York.
the delicious cool warmness of new spring breeze
rolling across my skin
cross-hatching of sun-dappled avenues
the yellow-gray plaid of the city
speckled with a melange of wool-coated
and leather-booted pessimists, dewy browed,
and bare-forearmed optimists, the occassional
peeking set of toes or flash
of bare calf glinting in the sun
the occassional god
or goddess, perfectly suited
for the exact degree, percentage humidity,
miles-per-hour of wind,
and the rest of us wonder
how their contract with the devil reads
shimmering, slinky, silver, glass,
and marble gargoyle-encrusted towers
part perfectly just in this spot
the acoustics transforming
the churning, swirling belly of a cement mixer
into a humming choir.
the great library rises
swathed in bright yellow sun glaze
the steps pillowed with soft warm soaking bodies and
resurrection falls like fairy's dust from the buds
in the opening trees
we take a collective breath, deeper
and happier today than a week ago
amazed, perhaps, by the affect of a few degrees
and storm clouds on our outlook on life.
daffodils dance in evenly spaced clay pots
on the sidewalk, an approximation of spring
as the scarf makes the metamorphosis
from necessity to accessory
from tightly wound cocoon to floating butterfly wings
three carefully chosen hardbacks
tucked under my arm
the steps, the lolling masses wave for me to join them,
i long to lay for a moment,
to flip through these newly acquired treasures
i glance at the time and turn the other direction,
poems rustling as I walk about the nature of spring in New York.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Church of the MTA
My morning subway ride began like most others. I sat on the 4 or 5 train, whichever had come first, in my usual car, on one of my usual benches, iPod tuned to the Flaming Lips (after several weeks of Sufjan, while I read Lolita), reading The Loved Ones, by Evelyn Waugh. I noticed this morning my tendency to do this, listen to one artist while I read a book, switching only when I've finished.
As happens about once a week on this particular commute, a man entered the train somewhere downtown, maybe Wall Street, and began speaking. Usually when this happens, it is loud and annoying, and I sit in my seat, staring at the floor, cringing and waiting for it to all be over. Often, it is a man who says that he has sandwiches for the poor and homeless, and that he is accepting donations. Occasionally, it is a homeless person apologizing for the interruption and asking for spare change. Last week, it was a man who yelled loudly and somewhat incoherently, punctuating his words by slamming his fist into the ceiling, yelling that the immigrants needed to stop sending their money home and that the Muslims should go home, and New Yorkers needed to protect "the 'hood." He talked for so long and seemed so disturbed that I finally got up and moved to another car.
This morning, when I heard a man's voice over my earphones, I thought, "Ugh. Here we go again." I was tired from working late and sleeping little last night. I was annoyed. But this guy wasn't yelling. He wasn't asking for anything. His voice was loud enough to hear, but it's tone was one of conviction and sincerity. I could see him from his belly down out of the corner of my eye as I stared at my book. He squeezed a dark knit cap in his pale left hand, which he raised and lowered as he spoke. I was curious. I stopped reading to listen to what he had to say. When I worked up the courage to look at him, I saw that his curly black hair was streaked with gray. He looked like he was of Jewish descent. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, not looking at me when I looked at him.
"Please consider," he said, "The love that God has for you. That he loved you so much that he sent his only son, Jesus, to suffer and die for you, so that you could be cleansed of your sins and have eternal life."
In a clear, even voice, he went through the whole story. God loves you. We are sinners. God sent his son Jesus to die in our place so that we could live eternally. God loves you. Life is hard, but at the end is eternal life if we believe in God, and repent of our sins. And God wants you to do so, because he loves you.
I have certainly heard this message in many ways, in many places, in many voices. I knew the verses he was going to quote before he said them, reciting them along with him in my head. But what I haven't heard in the more than two years that I've lived in this city is someone who is trying to tell people about Jesus do it in such a humble, unobtrusive way. I know that preaching on the subway is hardly unobtrusive, and as someone who hates it when people do this, I have to say that this man struck me, not only because he was obviously not mentally disturbed, not yelling, and not damnating, but because of his message of God's love in such a humble and sincere voice. The weight and burden of his message seemed to cause him almost physical pain.
Much of my criticism of Christians is that they make God look bad. I wanted to hug this man because he did not.
When I got off the train at 42 Street, he had finished his message. I believe he quietly left the car behind me. I prayed that God would bless this man who, counter to the many who alienate people with their, i'm sure, often sincere but misguided attempts at pushing God at the masses, is quietly preaching a message of God's love.
I left Grand Central feeling as though I had been to church.
As happens about once a week on this particular commute, a man entered the train somewhere downtown, maybe Wall Street, and began speaking. Usually when this happens, it is loud and annoying, and I sit in my seat, staring at the floor, cringing and waiting for it to all be over. Often, it is a man who says that he has sandwiches for the poor and homeless, and that he is accepting donations. Occasionally, it is a homeless person apologizing for the interruption and asking for spare change. Last week, it was a man who yelled loudly and somewhat incoherently, punctuating his words by slamming his fist into the ceiling, yelling that the immigrants needed to stop sending their money home and that the Muslims should go home, and New Yorkers needed to protect "the 'hood." He talked for so long and seemed so disturbed that I finally got up and moved to another car.
This morning, when I heard a man's voice over my earphones, I thought, "Ugh. Here we go again." I was tired from working late and sleeping little last night. I was annoyed. But this guy wasn't yelling. He wasn't asking for anything. His voice was loud enough to hear, but it's tone was one of conviction and sincerity. I could see him from his belly down out of the corner of my eye as I stared at my book. He squeezed a dark knit cap in his pale left hand, which he raised and lowered as he spoke. I was curious. I stopped reading to listen to what he had to say. When I worked up the courage to look at him, I saw that his curly black hair was streaked with gray. He looked like he was of Jewish descent. He stared straight ahead as he spoke, not looking at me when I looked at him.
"Please consider," he said, "The love that God has for you. That he loved you so much that he sent his only son, Jesus, to suffer and die for you, so that you could be cleansed of your sins and have eternal life."
In a clear, even voice, he went through the whole story. God loves you. We are sinners. God sent his son Jesus to die in our place so that we could live eternally. God loves you. Life is hard, but at the end is eternal life if we believe in God, and repent of our sins. And God wants you to do so, because he loves you.
I have certainly heard this message in many ways, in many places, in many voices. I knew the verses he was going to quote before he said them, reciting them along with him in my head. But what I haven't heard in the more than two years that I've lived in this city is someone who is trying to tell people about Jesus do it in such a humble, unobtrusive way. I know that preaching on the subway is hardly unobtrusive, and as someone who hates it when people do this, I have to say that this man struck me, not only because he was obviously not mentally disturbed, not yelling, and not damnating, but because of his message of God's love in such a humble and sincere voice. The weight and burden of his message seemed to cause him almost physical pain.
Much of my criticism of Christians is that they make God look bad. I wanted to hug this man because he did not.
When I got off the train at 42 Street, he had finished his message. I believe he quietly left the car behind me. I prayed that God would bless this man who, counter to the many who alienate people with their, i'm sure, often sincere but misguided attempts at pushing God at the masses, is quietly preaching a message of God's love.
I left Grand Central feeling as though I had been to church.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
i love a little (bad) poetry after supper
I am in love.
When I am in love, I write bad poetry.
See how that works? Love = bad poetry.
Want to hear some? I wonder if it's an inverse relationship? As in, the better the love, the worse the poetry? Maybe just for me.
This doesn't have a title, and I don't think it's finished, as in, I probably won't finish it, but if I were to finish it, it would need finishing. Also, please be gentle. Here goes:
I want to sleep in your belly
Make a nest out of your blood vessels
and use your heart as a pillow
Letting the soft thud-thud, thud-thud
Lull me to sleep.
I'll sprawl over you,
tucking my toes into your intestines
and wrapping my arms around your lungs
Letting the soft whoosh-whoosh rise
and fall be the tide of my dreams.
That's it so far. Maybe it needs another, um, stanza, or something. I dunno.
When I am in love, I write bad poetry.
See how that works? Love = bad poetry.
Want to hear some? I wonder if it's an inverse relationship? As in, the better the love, the worse the poetry? Maybe just for me.
This doesn't have a title, and I don't think it's finished, as in, I probably won't finish it, but if I were to finish it, it would need finishing. Also, please be gentle. Here goes:
I want to sleep in your belly
Make a nest out of your blood vessels
and use your heart as a pillow
Letting the soft thud-thud, thud-thud
Lull me to sleep.
I'll sprawl over you,
tucking my toes into your intestines
and wrapping my arms around your lungs
Letting the soft whoosh-whoosh rise
and fall be the tide of my dreams.
That's it so far. Maybe it needs another, um, stanza, or something. I dunno.
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
To keep or not to keep...
...the resolvements, that is.
So, as I was lying in my bed last night thinking some more about my new year's resolutions, I wondered about whether or not I could/would actually keep them. I'd like to, of course, and I think the problem generally is that resolutions are either
1) too unsavory
2) too vague
3) too un-documentable
to be kept. So, in all of the brilliance that is the moments right before falling asleep, I came up with a plan to document my resolution keeping.
Warning: we are going into serious nerd territory.
So, you remember when you were a kid and you had a list on the fridge of all of your chores or whatever, and then every time you did a chore, your mom put up a gold star and then when you had enough stars you got your allowance? Or something? I don't. What I do remember is trying to implement a system similar to this one at least quarterly from the time I was maybe 8 until I was 12 or 13. The problem was not with me. It was with my mother, who just couldn't be bothered to put up a freaking foil star next to my (albeit meager) accomplishments, or to care at all except whether the bathroom had been cleaned or not. Also, for all of my efforts for a system of (what I believed to be more than fair) compensation for hard work, I maybe got an allowance once. Maybe.
Which brings me to the present day list of New Year's Resolutions. I've condensed them down to the really important, actionable ones:
1. No douchebags
2. No smoking
3. Exercise
4. Write
5. Once a week fun
My goals for exercise and writing are 3 times per week each. Exercise only counts if I'm in proper exercise attire and actually exercising on purpose (so, not walking around the block at lunch), generally at the gym. Writing is defined as FICTION writing, so blogging and journaling, which I will continue to do, do not count towards the three times a week (since I tend to use blogging and journaling as excuses not to write fiction).
Now, what if, every day that I do one of these things, I write the corresponding number in the corner of that day in my datebook? So, say, a day when I exercise and don't smoke and avoid douchebags, is a 1,2,3. And a day when I don't smoke and I write, and I avoid douchebags is a 1,2,4. And so on. And that way, I can have visible proof to myself that I'm doing what i said I wanted to do, while keeping it at the top of my mind by writing it down every day.
So Far!
Monday: 1,2,3
Tuesday: 1,2,4
I really don't know if this is going to do any good, and I haven't gotten to the rewards part of this yet, as monetary rewards don't really motivate me, nor do buying myself presents, so...suggestions welcome!
Happy New Year's Resolutions keeping. What are your resolutions? How are you planning on keeping them? Or do you think resolutions are stupid?
So, as I was lying in my bed last night thinking some more about my new year's resolutions, I wondered about whether or not I could/would actually keep them. I'd like to, of course, and I think the problem generally is that resolutions are either
1) too unsavory
2) too vague
3) too un-documentable
to be kept. So, in all of the brilliance that is the moments right before falling asleep, I came up with a plan to document my resolution keeping.
Warning: we are going into serious nerd territory.
So, you remember when you were a kid and you had a list on the fridge of all of your chores or whatever, and then every time you did a chore, your mom put up a gold star and then when you had enough stars you got your allowance? Or something? I don't. What I do remember is trying to implement a system similar to this one at least quarterly from the time I was maybe 8 until I was 12 or 13. The problem was not with me. It was with my mother, who just couldn't be bothered to put up a freaking foil star next to my (albeit meager) accomplishments, or to care at all except whether the bathroom had been cleaned or not. Also, for all of my efforts for a system of (what I believed to be more than fair) compensation for hard work, I maybe got an allowance once. Maybe.
Which brings me to the present day list of New Year's Resolutions. I've condensed them down to the really important, actionable ones:
1. No douchebags
2. No smoking
3. Exercise
4. Write
5. Once a week fun
My goals for exercise and writing are 3 times per week each. Exercise only counts if I'm in proper exercise attire and actually exercising on purpose (so, not walking around the block at lunch), generally at the gym. Writing is defined as FICTION writing, so blogging and journaling, which I will continue to do, do not count towards the three times a week (since I tend to use blogging and journaling as excuses not to write fiction).
Now, what if, every day that I do one of these things, I write the corresponding number in the corner of that day in my datebook? So, say, a day when I exercise and don't smoke and avoid douchebags, is a 1,2,3. And a day when I don't smoke and I write, and I avoid douchebags is a 1,2,4. And so on. And that way, I can have visible proof to myself that I'm doing what i said I wanted to do, while keeping it at the top of my mind by writing it down every day.
So Far!
Monday: 1,2,3
Tuesday: 1,2,4
I really don't know if this is going to do any good, and I haven't gotten to the rewards part of this yet, as monetary rewards don't really motivate me, nor do buying myself presents, so...suggestions welcome!
Happy New Year's Resolutions keeping. What are your resolutions? How are you planning on keeping them? Or do you think resolutions are stupid?
Monday, January 5, 2009
Resolvements
Ah yes, it's that time of year again, my fluffy marshmallows. Resolution time! During which I "spontaneously" make the exact same list as last year to be studiously followed for somewhere between 1 and 48 hours before unceremoniously forgotten, after, of course, the requisite amounts of consternation and guilt about not really planning to lose weight or quit smoking. I mean, I mean to do those things, but somehow, my resolve just isn't, I don't know, resolved enough. Or something. Or resolutions are stupid and just make people feel like failures.
In that happy, optimistic vein, then, I offer you my Lizzie's New Year's Resolutions 2009 Edition, in which I resolve to do things I know I should do or I really really want to do, but in such broad, vague terms that the actual doing of the things will require many many smaller steps that I'm not going to think about now, and then when those smaller steps come up to be done, I'll probably just ignore them. But resolutions are what we Americans do, and by dammit, I want to at least appear patriotic.
1. No more douchebags
Originally, this one applied to sex only, but I've since broadened it out to other parts of my life, like people I know, and people on the Subway, and world political leaders. See? Broad generalizations, the small steps of which I'm cleverly avoiding. No, but seriously, I'm tired of guy douchebags especially, and the plan is to be a little more careful in the coming year about who I date and etc. Also, the eradications of "friends" who are really just douchebags who know me who I'm not sleeping with. I won't go into specifics here, but let's just say that if you've been a douchebag in the recent past and I stop talking to you, you probably are on the list.
2. No more cigarettes
Sigh. If only they could make them healthy. But alas. This is something I will actually be working toward, in small, measured steps. I've wanted to quit forever for real for a long time, and though my smoking is generally sporadic, I'd like to stop for real. If only it weren't so damn enjoyable! Ah well, we all have to grow up sometime. Or get lung cancer.
3. The requisite resolution to work out more.
You know, because everyone is doing it. Resolving to, anyway. The truth is that exercising helps curb the smoking and is pretty much the only way I cut back and/or quit ever, so they're pretty entertwined. Besides, all the douchebags need to see how hot and sexy I am now that I'm not wasting my time on them. Yes? Yes. It is all about making boys jealous. Always. And other girls. That is where self-esteem comes from.
4. No suicide
Since #1 is going to take a serious toll on my love life, and #2 is going to take a serious toll on my social life, and i know that being in shape isn't everything, I figure a resolution is in order to make sure that my resolutions don't kill me.
5. No homocide
Or anyone else.
6. Do one fun, new thing every week by myself
I figured I'd throw in a semi-pleasureable one because a) no one ever resolves to do anything fun or exciting and b) I need something to do to keep me from smoking and sleeping with douchebags. And no, I don't know what I'll be doing yet this week, though I'm probably going to hit up a museum after work Friday.
Oh, and 7...
7. Write more, write consistently, stop being so goddamn self-loathing about writing, and maybe think about trying to publish something.
Ugh. We'll see about this one.
In that happy, optimistic vein, then, I offer you my Lizzie's New Year's Resolutions 2009 Edition, in which I resolve to do things I know I should do or I really really want to do, but in such broad, vague terms that the actual doing of the things will require many many smaller steps that I'm not going to think about now, and then when those smaller steps come up to be done, I'll probably just ignore them. But resolutions are what we Americans do, and by dammit, I want to at least appear patriotic.
1. No more douchebags
Originally, this one applied to sex only, but I've since broadened it out to other parts of my life, like people I know, and people on the Subway, and world political leaders. See? Broad generalizations, the small steps of which I'm cleverly avoiding. No, but seriously, I'm tired of guy douchebags especially, and the plan is to be a little more careful in the coming year about who I date and etc. Also, the eradications of "friends" who are really just douchebags who know me who I'm not sleeping with. I won't go into specifics here, but let's just say that if you've been a douchebag in the recent past and I stop talking to you, you probably are on the list.
2. No more cigarettes
Sigh. If only they could make them healthy. But alas. This is something I will actually be working toward, in small, measured steps. I've wanted to quit forever for real for a long time, and though my smoking is generally sporadic, I'd like to stop for real. If only it weren't so damn enjoyable! Ah well, we all have to grow up sometime. Or get lung cancer.
3. The requisite resolution to work out more.
You know, because everyone is doing it. Resolving to, anyway. The truth is that exercising helps curb the smoking and is pretty much the only way I cut back and/or quit ever, so they're pretty entertwined. Besides, all the douchebags need to see how hot and sexy I am now that I'm not wasting my time on them. Yes? Yes. It is all about making boys jealous. Always. And other girls. That is where self-esteem comes from.
4. No suicide
Since #1 is going to take a serious toll on my love life, and #2 is going to take a serious toll on my social life, and i know that being in shape isn't everything, I figure a resolution is in order to make sure that my resolutions don't kill me.
5. No homocide
Or anyone else.
6. Do one fun, new thing every week by myself
I figured I'd throw in a semi-pleasureable one because a) no one ever resolves to do anything fun or exciting and b) I need something to do to keep me from smoking and sleeping with douchebags. And no, I don't know what I'll be doing yet this week, though I'm probably going to hit up a museum after work Friday.
Oh, and 7...
7. Write more, write consistently, stop being so goddamn self-loathing about writing, and maybe think about trying to publish something.
Ugh. We'll see about this one.
Monday, December 22, 2008
Pre-traumatic stress disorder
I have noticed, over the years, that in the weeks preceding my going home for any extended (read: longer than two days) period of time, I lapse into a curious verbal mood--that of complaining about my mother. I don't really mean to, and it's not like I sit around thinking about how much I don't want to go home or how much I dislike her (because I don't really mind going home, and i don't really dislike her), but the idea of going home, especially for Christmas, for an entire week, carries with it a certain amount of stress.
Granted, all families are crazy and stressful. The holidays are nostalgic, frustrating, beautiful, frenzied, happy, sad, terrible--they are your childhood and your teen years and the breaks from college, and now that you're an adult, all of those things piled up and mashed and sifted through your memory and I stand in my grandmother's kitchen surrounded by people who I am completely comfortable with because they know me as well as anyone, even though they may not know the current me, they know my history, they are my history, and so we are familiar, and in that familiarity is comfort and discomfort, a longing for the past and some discomfort with the present. I see the new lines around my mother's eyes; the slightly less coherent sentences of my grandmother; my teenage cousins who suddenly look like adults; my nephew who has grown two feet every time I see him. Every year, I am further away from this, from them. Every year, the small shocks at the things that have changed since I've been home get bigger. And yet...this is home, even though it is no longer home, it's as close as I ever get, and even though I can't talk to my mother without her getting that quiet, strained look, or without her not responding to something I said because she doesn't want to be judgmental, though she doesn't realize that her silence is judgment enough, and so we keep everything superficial and we avoid the hard things, but what i really want to do is scream at her all of the things that i've ever wanted to say.
i suppose this is where the stress comes, beforehand...the knowledge that these silences are coming, the silences in which we do not say all of the things that we would need to in order for us to have a good relationship. i cannot say to her that i feel that she resents me, or that i think she blames her unhappiness on me. i can't say to her that there is nothing that i will ever do, no amount of success that can ever make up for her mistakes, and in any case, that it is not my responsibility to atone for her sins. i don't understand how, as an adult, our childhoods affect us so much still, even when we have tried and tried and tried to either forget them or forgive them, or if nothing else, to let them go. I see that all of those things that I felt and learned as a child affect so much of my life now--that believing i was unwanted informs my relationships (or lack thereof) with men and with friends, that believing that I could somehow do enough to make it worth their while, that if i was only good enough or successful enough, that somehow i could earn their love...that leads me to feel now that there is nothing i can ever do to be good enough. not for me or for anyone.
These are the things I think about while I'm Christmas shopping, while I wrap the scarves and earrings and children's toys i've bought. i think about those silences and what they mean. i think about all of the things that i can't quite understand, as if my mind now cannot understand things beyond what my six-year-old mind could understand back then.
and i know that i will go home, and it will be familiar and comfortable. and those silences that i dread will only come once or twice, and they will pass, as they always do, with nothing being resolved. But maybe there are things we don't want to know. And maybe there are things better left in the past. And in the end, I know it's no different for most people, in similar ways--family knows your beauty and your ugliness, and love you. They believe in you whether or not you do the same. They tell you the truth, if you're lucky, and support your decisions whether they agree or not, though sometimes with more stoic silences than others. And in the end, they are as close as you can get to unconditional love. And if the price of all of that is those goddamn silences, then I guess I'll take them along with all the rest.
Granted, all families are crazy and stressful. The holidays are nostalgic, frustrating, beautiful, frenzied, happy, sad, terrible--they are your childhood and your teen years and the breaks from college, and now that you're an adult, all of those things piled up and mashed and sifted through your memory and I stand in my grandmother's kitchen surrounded by people who I am completely comfortable with because they know me as well as anyone, even though they may not know the current me, they know my history, they are my history, and so we are familiar, and in that familiarity is comfort and discomfort, a longing for the past and some discomfort with the present. I see the new lines around my mother's eyes; the slightly less coherent sentences of my grandmother; my teenage cousins who suddenly look like adults; my nephew who has grown two feet every time I see him. Every year, I am further away from this, from them. Every year, the small shocks at the things that have changed since I've been home get bigger. And yet...this is home, even though it is no longer home, it's as close as I ever get, and even though I can't talk to my mother without her getting that quiet, strained look, or without her not responding to something I said because she doesn't want to be judgmental, though she doesn't realize that her silence is judgment enough, and so we keep everything superficial and we avoid the hard things, but what i really want to do is scream at her all of the things that i've ever wanted to say.
i suppose this is where the stress comes, beforehand...the knowledge that these silences are coming, the silences in which we do not say all of the things that we would need to in order for us to have a good relationship. i cannot say to her that i feel that she resents me, or that i think she blames her unhappiness on me. i can't say to her that there is nothing that i will ever do, no amount of success that can ever make up for her mistakes, and in any case, that it is not my responsibility to atone for her sins. i don't understand how, as an adult, our childhoods affect us so much still, even when we have tried and tried and tried to either forget them or forgive them, or if nothing else, to let them go. I see that all of those things that I felt and learned as a child affect so much of my life now--that believing i was unwanted informs my relationships (or lack thereof) with men and with friends, that believing that I could somehow do enough to make it worth their while, that if i was only good enough or successful enough, that somehow i could earn their love...that leads me to feel now that there is nothing i can ever do to be good enough. not for me or for anyone.
These are the things I think about while I'm Christmas shopping, while I wrap the scarves and earrings and children's toys i've bought. i think about those silences and what they mean. i think about all of the things that i can't quite understand, as if my mind now cannot understand things beyond what my six-year-old mind could understand back then.
and i know that i will go home, and it will be familiar and comfortable. and those silences that i dread will only come once or twice, and they will pass, as they always do, with nothing being resolved. But maybe there are things we don't want to know. And maybe there are things better left in the past. And in the end, I know it's no different for most people, in similar ways--family knows your beauty and your ugliness, and love you. They believe in you whether or not you do the same. They tell you the truth, if you're lucky, and support your decisions whether they agree or not, though sometimes with more stoic silences than others. And in the end, they are as close as you can get to unconditional love. And if the price of all of that is those goddamn silences, then I guess I'll take them along with all the rest.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
The sugar cookie effect
Tonight, I had cookie dough, wine, and a banana for dinner.
I decided to have a few people over for a Christmas-housewarming party because 1) I have put up a tree that is beautiful and I would like other people to enjoy it, too; 2) I feel myself spiraling into the winter blues and felt a holiday party would be a good way to claw at the edges of my sanity to slow the descent into dark, winter madness; and 3) it gives me an excuse to bake. Also 4) now that it is winter, i do not wish to leave my house and therefore will resort to any means to entice others to come here so that I do not have to leave.
On the street, people are meowing loudly. Through the floor below my feet, a dog barks incessantly. A small dog. A dog I would like to strangle.
There are many, many things to love about my new apartment. I could probably sit here most of the evening listing them for you, but I'll try to keep it to the biggest. First and foremost, there is no giant, loud, crazy person here judging me, speaking ill of me behind my back to her friends, yelling, or taking up space in the fridge. It is glorious to finally be alone after two years of living with people in small spaces. Glorious. Secondly, I now have a real living room that is not also a tiny hallway in which to entertain guests. See number 4 above. I have lived here for a month and comfortably entertained more guests than I ever had in the entire time I was in my last apartment. Thirdly, there are no drunk teenagers yelling outside of my window at 2 in the morning. Or 3. Or 4. No more 2 am trash pickups. No more sirens. The only sound is of the door across the hallway occassionally opening and closing; the rumble of the train carrying across the frozen air; the tires swishing down the avenue; the occassional person meowing loudly on the street. And that damn tiny dog, but that's only sometimes.
Also, I now have room to bake. I've always been more of a baker than a cooker, and I still don't understand how one can understand baking in an intuitive way and freeze up in the face of things like vegetables and meat. But I understand baking, and it understands me. We are one, me and the butter and sugar and flour and eggs. And so, because I'm having a holiday party on Saturday and because my heart is hurting and because it is something that I know I can do well, tonight I made sugar cookies. And I thought about all of the things I feel like I'm terrible at or that I just don't understand--men, writing, relationships--and then I looked at the 7 dozen or so perfectly browned, beautiful cookies I just baked, and I felt relieved that at least I understand something, at least I am good at something, at least, even if I cannot bring joy in ways I would like all the time--why can't I be happy with anything I write?--at least the cookies are good and the people who come to my party will like them, and it brings me joy to bake them. And even though it is such a small thing, making cookies, it calmed me and centered me, and now I'm not feeling so bad about the writing that is frustrating me or the boy that has hurt me, and even if I was, I've got 7 dozen cookies at my disposal to soothe me.
I decided to have a few people over for a Christmas-housewarming party because 1) I have put up a tree that is beautiful and I would like other people to enjoy it, too; 2) I feel myself spiraling into the winter blues and felt a holiday party would be a good way to claw at the edges of my sanity to slow the descent into dark, winter madness; and 3) it gives me an excuse to bake. Also 4) now that it is winter, i do not wish to leave my house and therefore will resort to any means to entice others to come here so that I do not have to leave.
On the street, people are meowing loudly. Through the floor below my feet, a dog barks incessantly. A small dog. A dog I would like to strangle.
There are many, many things to love about my new apartment. I could probably sit here most of the evening listing them for you, but I'll try to keep it to the biggest. First and foremost, there is no giant, loud, crazy person here judging me, speaking ill of me behind my back to her friends, yelling, or taking up space in the fridge. It is glorious to finally be alone after two years of living with people in small spaces. Glorious. Secondly, I now have a real living room that is not also a tiny hallway in which to entertain guests. See number 4 above. I have lived here for a month and comfortably entertained more guests than I ever had in the entire time I was in my last apartment. Thirdly, there are no drunk teenagers yelling outside of my window at 2 in the morning. Or 3. Or 4. No more 2 am trash pickups. No more sirens. The only sound is of the door across the hallway occassionally opening and closing; the rumble of the train carrying across the frozen air; the tires swishing down the avenue; the occassional person meowing loudly on the street. And that damn tiny dog, but that's only sometimes.
Also, I now have room to bake. I've always been more of a baker than a cooker, and I still don't understand how one can understand baking in an intuitive way and freeze up in the face of things like vegetables and meat. But I understand baking, and it understands me. We are one, me and the butter and sugar and flour and eggs. And so, because I'm having a holiday party on Saturday and because my heart is hurting and because it is something that I know I can do well, tonight I made sugar cookies. And I thought about all of the things I feel like I'm terrible at or that I just don't understand--men, writing, relationships--and then I looked at the 7 dozen or so perfectly browned, beautiful cookies I just baked, and I felt relieved that at least I understand something, at least I am good at something, at least, even if I cannot bring joy in ways I would like all the time--why can't I be happy with anything I write?--at least the cookies are good and the people who come to my party will like them, and it brings me joy to bake them. And even though it is such a small thing, making cookies, it calmed me and centered me, and now I'm not feeling so bad about the writing that is frustrating me or the boy that has hurt me, and even if I was, I've got 7 dozen cookies at my disposal to soothe me.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Third time's not a charm at all, actually
This is my third attempt at a post. Maybe this one will stick. I wrote the first two, and then realized that I'm not ready to write them. Maybe soon.
My friend Ronald died last month. I found out two weeks after the fact, on Facebook. That was my first failed attempt at a post.
I really like a guy with whom things are, sadly, going the same way they seem to always go. That post was a whiny "what's wrong with me?" one step away from terrible teenage angsty poetry journal entry mess that you would probably gag on and then wonder why on earth anyone would post anything remotely so terrible on their blog as an adult. So.
It's winter again. I walked to the library during lunch today while snowflakes I swear to God the size of my head dropped on me like fluffy clouds falling from the sky. The giantest of giant snowflakes. It was as if God was throwing snowballs from heaven.
Third post, about snowballs from heaven. I'd rather hear about dead friends and scared lovers, wouldn't you?
How about this? I will post all three, and you can vote. I won't edit them. I'll just post them. And you, dear readers, can decide. My vote is for none of the above, btw. I think they're all awful. But you people won't leave me alone, so I'm going to just blame this on you.
My friend Ronald died last month. I found out two weeks after the fact, on Facebook. That was my first failed attempt at a post.
I really like a guy with whom things are, sadly, going the same way they seem to always go. That post was a whiny "what's wrong with me?" one step away from terrible teenage angsty poetry journal entry mess that you would probably gag on and then wonder why on earth anyone would post anything remotely so terrible on their blog as an adult. So.
It's winter again. I walked to the library during lunch today while snowflakes I swear to God the size of my head dropped on me like fluffy clouds falling from the sky. The giantest of giant snowflakes. It was as if God was throwing snowballs from heaven.
Third post, about snowballs from heaven. I'd rather hear about dead friends and scared lovers, wouldn't you?
How about this? I will post all three, and you can vote. I won't edit them. I'll just post them. And you, dear readers, can decide. My vote is for none of the above, btw. I think they're all awful. But you people won't leave me alone, so I'm going to just blame this on you.
The fear of the unknown
I fear loving you more than I fear hating you. The truth is that the latter is much easier, and temporary. If you walk into and then out of my life, I have no lasting obligation to you, I cannot be fully known by you, I am not given over and over and over again the opportunity to disappoint you. This idea of permanence terrifies me--Ronald's death, for instance, or, rather, not so much that he is dead but that he always will be--I want it to be a temporary state, so that he can come visit me for his 30th birthday after all.
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
I see the used condoms in the trash, and think that a part of you is here, but also I think of the fleeting nature of physical love. Sex is a failure without orgasm--orgasm signals its end. I wonder about love, and how similar it is to sex. In my experience, love is just as fleeting as the moment of orgasm, a moment in time, the flame-burst of a match. Yesterday, you lay where I lay now, our bodies slick with each other's sweat. Tonight, I wonder whether she will win you back--or, rather, if you will decide to return to her. Will you come to me, after all, and say, your different face but the same old words, "I'm sorry, but..." And then all we will have between us is the one night and the three used condoms I'll be putting out with the trash in the morning. I am afraid that this is the conversation that we will have, you, with a pained look on your face, ironically, as the hurter, and me, trying to act unmoved, as the one being hurt.
We are already keeping secrets; you, of her and what happened when you left here yesterday, me, of the date with my own ex tomorrow night--a pillow to help soften the blow I'm already flinching in anticipation of, not knowing if or when it will come.
Why only date one man who will use you up and leave you when you can stay unattached to several?
How does anyone continue to hope for love, when everything suggests that it is unsustainable? When the men you have loved have consistently disappointed you, how do you continue to believe that the next one, or one someday, won't? How do you cross the bridge from every relationship failing, failing, failing, to one that doesn't? At a certain point, don't you begin to believe that they simply will, and then you've damned them--they cannot survive.
Part of me wants to kill this thing now, before we get too deep. And then I look up at the invitation on my dresser to my grandparent's 50th wedding anniversary, and i see in front of me the evidence that somewhere, somehow, my logic is off. Love has to be sustainable, at least in some form, even if I don't understand how. My grandparents have been married almost twice as long as I have been alive. It is not possible that I know more about love. I'd like to think that maybe I know more about heartache, but I don't think that after 50 years, that is possible either.
And now you and I are wrapped together with a thin satin white ribbon, and I'm afraid because, as always, the seeds are planted and beginning to grow, and the ax is never far away, and the longer you let it grow, the harder it is to cut it down. If you did it now, I would hate you and move on, to get my hopes up and be disappointed by someone else and someone else and someone else. But what I'm really afraid of is letting this thing between us grow, to see how big and leafy and beautiful it will get, because always in the back of my mind, I'll know that the ax is arm's length away, that you can never get comfortable, you can never let yourself totally go, you must always keep a part of you to yourself, because if I love you, then when will it happen? After 3 years? Marriage? Children? No. Better to enjoy each other now and not dread the day when the world will come crashing in around us, when we will wonder how we were so blind, when we will realize the terrible people we have become with each other. No, I'll put the condoms out with the trash. You won't have to see me any more.
(written December 8, 2008)
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Where does love go?
I didn't find out until yesterday, even though it had been a week and a half. And on Facebook, of all places. I just happened to leave a comment on Lindsay's page, and she sent me a message: Have you heard about Ronald? And my heart seized up, a tiny panic right in the center of my chest. I don't know how we know these things about the people that we love, but we do. I clicked over to your page, and there was your picture, you smiling just as I remember you--olive skin and white teeth, kind dark eyes touched with mischief. And I began to read the comments, one after another, eulogies to a man who was well-loved, and a note from your sister to say thank you for the thoughts and prayers, and to say good night to you and not good bye, that you were home now. I couldn't imagine what had happened--a car accident maybe? I assumed that something tragic and unanticipated had taken you too soon.
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
Lindsay wrote back that she had few details besides that you died of liver disease on November 6. I didn't even know you were sick. I didn't even know you were dead. And here I was at work, where I couldn't cry, let alone think about it properly. A work buddy called on my office phone to say that his girlfriend of a year had broken up with him. I told him that I just found out a good friend from college had died. We pretended to be less sad than we were, mourning two separate but similar passings. We hung up quickly, maybe finding our own fronts flimsy and transparent, unwilling to seem vulnerable with one another. Later, at a meeting, I sat far from him, where we couldn't make eye contact, but all I could think of what you, and him, and each of our sadnesses.
I tried to put it to the back of my mind until I could go home and think about it, about you. But I avoided thoughts of you all evening, making dinner, watching TV, reading, readying for bed. Your ether permeated my dreams that night, and my first thought when I woke was of you. The alarm woke me at ten to six--I wanted to get up early to think and write about you and us. I hit the snooze until seven and finally woke, looking out my new bedroom's windows to a gray and orange dawn. I sat up--you. Put on my glasses--you. Padded to the kitchen and filled the coffeepot with water from the Brita. And I began to cry, silently, tears running slowly down my face, and I had the gradual and overwhelming feeling that you were standing behind me, watching me as I ground the beans and spooned them into the filter. It was the same feeling as when anyone is standing near you and you feel their presence before you see them. Unable to stand it any longer, and feeling rude for having my back to you, I finally turned, leaning against the counter, tears on my cheeks. I didn't see you, but I didn't need to--you embraced me, and I felt that you wanted me to know that you were okay. The moment passed, I turned on the coffeemaker and got in the shower. I didn't feel you there, or while I was getting ready for work--I hadn't tried to summon you, I hadn't expected you, I wasn't asking God for comfort. I wish I had said, while you were there with me, that I love you. I wish I had asked if you were okay. But I feel like you know and you are. I don't understand how this happened, but I'm not surprised that you found me, that you came to me, or that I knew it was you. I know it sounds unbelievable or like I somehow made myself believe that something happened that didn't, but the closest thing to what happened this morning is having a friend drop by unexpectedly--the only difference is that you didn't bring your body with you. I wish I could have seen you once more, said goodbye, kissed you one last time, heard your voice say that something, anything, was fabulous. But somehow, I also feel as though none of that really matters--that, in a way, we can still give and receive love even though you aren't here in the same way, and that somehow--is it possible?--we are closer now than we were before. And so, a standing invitation. Come whenever you like, you will always be welcome. And if you are not able to come, then good night, sweet friend, until we meet again.
(written November 18, 2008)
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
The problem with adventures...
The problem with adventures is that while you're busy having them, you don't have time to write.
Hence the silence of late.
So much is going on right now that a short post feels necessary, yet I have so much to say. Maybe once my life dust settles, again, a little, I can tell you more, but for now, a quick update.
1. My novel in a month has morphed into a novel in however long it takes me to finish. I'm excited about the 22,000 or so words I've written. I love my stories and the characters and the themes I've seemed to fall into--tragedy, love, sadness, loss, the strength of the human spirit, relationships, faith. I'm excited to get back to it, as I've been busy the past two weeks, what with
2. MOVING INTO MY VERY OWN APARTMENT!!!!! Those of you who have been listening to me complain about my current living "situation" can now rest easy that I will no longer have an evil roommate to complain about, as I have found the most adorable, sun-filled, cozy little one bedroom there ever was, all to myself. Thanks to the new job, I am finally able to afford to live on my own, and God or fate or what (or who) have you sent this lovely gift my way. I can't wait to move on Friday and finally have some dedicated space for writing, and a quiet street outside my window, and freedom to come and go as i please without someone looking over my shoulder. The commute is longer, and I'm moving out of Manhattan into Brooklyn, but I'm excited to have more time to read on the train to and from work every day, and I can't wait to explore a part of New York that I'm so unfamiliar with.
3. My new job has been verrry busy lately, and I'm still learning the ropes, but my good friend Okie is just a few desks away, and he makes sure to keep me grounded with a morning reading of Rilke or a fun fact about Thomas Jefferson or to just check on me when he hears me screetching "Oh my God, you want WHAT? WHEN?" into my telephone. I'm also getting over the awkward "new girl" hump and am getting to know my coworkers, who, for the most part, are awesome. Especially the socially awkward editors. I feel right at home.
Did I mention that my new apartment will be within walking distance of at least 4 of my friends?!? How lucky am I?
Remind me to tell you about riding the Coney Island float in the Village Halloween Parade with Leslie and dressing as Bristol Palin for my friend Holly's Halloween party.
All my love and Autumn bliss,
Lizzie
Hence the silence of late.
So much is going on right now that a short post feels necessary, yet I have so much to say. Maybe once my life dust settles, again, a little, I can tell you more, but for now, a quick update.
1. My novel in a month has morphed into a novel in however long it takes me to finish. I'm excited about the 22,000 or so words I've written. I love my stories and the characters and the themes I've seemed to fall into--tragedy, love, sadness, loss, the strength of the human spirit, relationships, faith. I'm excited to get back to it, as I've been busy the past two weeks, what with
2. MOVING INTO MY VERY OWN APARTMENT!!!!! Those of you who have been listening to me complain about my current living "situation" can now rest easy that I will no longer have an evil roommate to complain about, as I have found the most adorable, sun-filled, cozy little one bedroom there ever was, all to myself. Thanks to the new job, I am finally able to afford to live on my own, and God or fate or what (or who) have you sent this lovely gift my way. I can't wait to move on Friday and finally have some dedicated space for writing, and a quiet street outside my window, and freedom to come and go as i please without someone looking over my shoulder. The commute is longer, and I'm moving out of Manhattan into Brooklyn, but I'm excited to have more time to read on the train to and from work every day, and I can't wait to explore a part of New York that I'm so unfamiliar with.
3. My new job has been verrry busy lately, and I'm still learning the ropes, but my good friend Okie is just a few desks away, and he makes sure to keep me grounded with a morning reading of Rilke or a fun fact about Thomas Jefferson or to just check on me when he hears me screetching "Oh my God, you want WHAT? WHEN?" into my telephone. I'm also getting over the awkward "new girl" hump and am getting to know my coworkers, who, for the most part, are awesome. Especially the socially awkward editors. I feel right at home.
Did I mention that my new apartment will be within walking distance of at least 4 of my friends?!? How lucky am I?
Remind me to tell you about riding the Coney Island float in the Village Halloween Parade with Leslie and dressing as Bristol Palin for my friend Holly's Halloween party.
All my love and Autumn bliss,
Lizzie
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