claiming the land.

i hated new york this week.

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

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

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

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

but this week. oh this week. 

this week i was lonely. 

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

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

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

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

loneliness.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


image
via.

counting.

it was cool. the air was cool in coming home.

suddenly.

the promise of fall made manifest.

the streets quiet. 

me padding down the sloping hill. 

and there came a push: remember this. 

the thought leaned into me. 

remember this. this sacred time of night. this alone time. this feel of the air. this ritual that has made your life these last few years, remember this. your days by the river are numbered. these carefree days--untouched and totally afraid--are numbered. 

as long as i live in manhattan, i should:

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

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

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

this is entirely doable, non?

who's in?


photo via. 

friday night in brooklyn

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



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

the hudson (from where i sleep)

i have a skewed sense of money. i'll pay four bucks for a cup of coffee with only the slightest twinge of regret, but i absolutely refuse to leave the refrigerator door open for one second longer than necessary. don't get me started on running a half-empty dishwasher--i feel bad enough running the full one.

and then there's air conditioning. my guilt at turning on the small window unit in my room knows no bounds.

my stomach is in knots just thinking about it. actually, come to think of it, my stomach may be in knots because i just broke one of the keys on my brand-spankin'-new-macbook-air...sigh. kerfuffle. splat. {feeling like a bit of a disaster today. most days, really}.

but that's another story for another day.

back to the air conditioner.

when new york got hot this summer and the heat rash broke out on my stomach i swallowed my guilt and started pressing that glorious little button of that cooling machine. at first i'd pull my reading chair right up to it and let it blow over my face. i'd close the doors to my room and create a little ice box: air conditioner, fan, closed windows, closed doors, and me in the corner--a greedy little kid stealing cool air from the pantry and hoping not to be caught.

from there my idea of it expanded. i'd turn it on and walk about the room, unapologetically. i even took to sleeping with it on at night (though usually i'd wake sometime just after three to turn it off in a half-wake/half-sleep/half-guilt stupor.

and then new york got hotter. and these old buildings--these buildings that have seen it all and tell countless stories began to take that heat on and in and i started to lose my mind.

and just as the mind went, clarity arrived (go figure). why not move my bed as close to the window unit as possible? why not switch my room around for the sake of the practical.

when i took this room--this room with two separate window looking out over the hudson--i knew one thing: my desk would sit between those windows. and mornings would be spent there with coffee in hand taking in the water's gleam and getting work done.

from there i arranged the bed. the bookcase. the dresser. and it was just right. just as it should be.

but having flipped the room, for the sake of the practical, well, i can see the hudson and the green of the palisades when i wake in the morning (from my bed). gone is the image of the red building across the way--a building who's facade i loved and was always glad to greet upon rising. turns out river and trees trump red brick, every time (go figure).

i'm not sure why i'm writing about this this morning. i think because there's a metaphor in it.

i didn't want to move my bed. i thought it was in the perfect spot. but i did because i knew i'd be cooler at night. turns out, the air conditioning isn't even what i most love about the shift. it's the view. the view i least expected. the view that i'm not quite sure how i didn't work out months ago was best seen from this position.

my mind is in a fog this morning. what i'm getting at (and what i need to take away) is that shifting one's perspective can illuminate a lot more than you bargained for.


hmph. something like that. and because i always like seeing people's space and home and such, i give you some of mine: