Dear Brooklyn,
Fall is here. And it turns out that it doesn't feel so different than fall in Brooklyn.
JRoss is away and I've been staying at his house 'cause my dad was in town yesterday putting together bookshelves and such in my house, so it looks like three explosions went off in each room. Today, the dogs and I have been taking walks, playing tug of war in the yard, chewing on sticks (them, not me), roasting vegetables (me, not them), and wearing sweaters (all of us, in our own ways). It's awesome to be wearing heavy flannel and a hat when I take them out--I'm enjoying the solitude up here, and its multiplication when for days I don't speak to anyone I know well.
My dad's help yesterday means that things in my new home are coming close to being settled. Still some items to search for and a fair amount of sorting and organizing and putting away, but at least there are places to sit and to work and to write you all letters, and places to put things once they are sorted. My goal is to be all in and living like I've always lived there by September 30.
Most other things that are worthy of note are too worthy to be posted for free consumption--I've begun rereading this fantasy series that's the only fantasy series I've ever been into but also the only fantasy series I've ever read, so maybe that says something. JRoss is reading it too, so when I finish rereading the first one, we'll add reading the second one together to the long list of cute, New England-y, hibernatory fall activities I seem to be making.
Still sending lots of letters--if you'd like to receive one and haven't, send me your address and they'll never stop.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Friday, September 9, 2011
Transformation fucking hurts
So much deep shit is coming up, and it's coming up so hard and fast and from places so far down I didn't even know about them. Feels like it's coming up from the places where the fire that kept me alive back then was burning, the places where the fire was burning and I didn't even know, but thank God.
I am sitting on the porch of my new home. This home is amazing. There is a little garden that I can do whatever I want with, but gardening isn't really my thing, so I'll probably just let it be. It's filled with echinacea and some tall purple flowers and sunflowers that have passed but which will be amazing next year. The kitchen is green and very sweet and there is a huge fucking dining room and the living room looks like an old lady's parlor. I feel overwhelmed by how wonderful it is and also by the immensity of the task of putting it together, of filling it with furniture and with myself.
Right before I came up here, I saw this body-based psychic, and she said that there's some stuff happening for me now around letting my whole self be seen, be known, letting it take up space. She said that making this home really mine will be part of that. Making it a place I can fill.
For the last month and half or so that I was in New York, things got really fucking hard. Hard in the way they get sometimes--life or death hard. And something that happened in that time, which I think is something that's always happened but which has never before been named in this way, is that I disappeared from my closest people. I went inside what I was feeling, and though I reached out in need--of comfort, of care, of support--I did not share the darkness I was in. I assumed as I always assume that no one wants to know. That there is beauty in me, but that the darkness isn't part of that, and so I keep it hidden.
And that being gone, that distance I created, it hurt some of my closest humans real bad.
Here, in this new home, in this solitude and emptiness, I am digging into shit that's so old I'd've thought it'd be gone, buried or burned or dissolved by now, but it's not. Maybe it's my Saturn return bringing it up, I don't know. But here it comes and it comes hard.
I am finally naming how that one horrible, broken, breaking human is imprinted on me forever. I said earlier today that I feel defeated. I feel like I've been fighting and fighting to be rid of him and I just can't get him gone. JRoss said, "Maybe it's not about getting him gone. Maybe it's about accepting the imprint." He broke me open with that. Here I am, imprinted. Here I am, terrified all the time. And maybe that won't ever change. And I am still going to be here. And I am still going to love hard and hope that something about this imprinted person, this wounded, broken person who will not heal in the way she wanted to, hope that something in me just is deeper and more beautiful 'cause of that imprint and hope that there is love for me even so.
I don't even feel angry. I just feel so sad. I feel forever burdened, bowing beneath the weight of this stupid thing I did when I was a kid that will now last forever.
Obviously, in the past years there have been major healings, major breakthroughs, major lettings go. But there is something that will not leave. And I think Jules is right. I think I have to just integrate that something into all the rest. I think fighting it, trying to "get better" is exhausting and painful and damaging. I think real healing might come from integration more often than I realized.
But, damn. It is so hard, so painful, this feeling forever afraid. Like I have to be so sorry or so ready to be sorry. Always stepping back. Always making sure there is a safe path out the door. Always feeling like the other person is angry, and if they aren't angry it's because they are repressing their anger because they think I am too stupid or too sick or too weak to hear the criticism they want to give me about whatever I am doing wrong.
It's much easier when I am alone. When I am alone, there is no one to fear. But I do not want to be alone. I want to be with humans, and the one in particular. And I do not want the sweet and gentle humans in my life to feel the way they feel when I cower, like they have given me some reason to cower, because it is not and will never be any of you I cower from.
I think this integration might come from feeling the fear and choosing to live in the face of it. Choosing not to cower, not to duck, not to back up or apologize. Choosing to say, okay, yes. There is a chance this moment could turn unexpectedly, and that that could be terrifying. But there is also a chance that it will not, and so here I am, choosing to be fully in this moment, fully in it and alive.
I think I have to hold onto the truth I know more deeply than any other truth--even if things in some way get terrifying, even if some force tries to reach inside me and extinguish the fire, I know I can live through it. I know I can live through anything. I know there is something in me that is hotter than anyone's grabbing fist. Maybe that's the imprint.
I am sitting on the porch of my new home. This home is amazing. There is a little garden that I can do whatever I want with, but gardening isn't really my thing, so I'll probably just let it be. It's filled with echinacea and some tall purple flowers and sunflowers that have passed but which will be amazing next year. The kitchen is green and very sweet and there is a huge fucking dining room and the living room looks like an old lady's parlor. I feel overwhelmed by how wonderful it is and also by the immensity of the task of putting it together, of filling it with furniture and with myself.
Right before I came up here, I saw this body-based psychic, and she said that there's some stuff happening for me now around letting my whole self be seen, be known, letting it take up space. She said that making this home really mine will be part of that. Making it a place I can fill.
For the last month and half or so that I was in New York, things got really fucking hard. Hard in the way they get sometimes--life or death hard. And something that happened in that time, which I think is something that's always happened but which has never before been named in this way, is that I disappeared from my closest people. I went inside what I was feeling, and though I reached out in need--of comfort, of care, of support--I did not share the darkness I was in. I assumed as I always assume that no one wants to know. That there is beauty in me, but that the darkness isn't part of that, and so I keep it hidden.
And that being gone, that distance I created, it hurt some of my closest humans real bad.
Here, in this new home, in this solitude and emptiness, I am digging into shit that's so old I'd've thought it'd be gone, buried or burned or dissolved by now, but it's not. Maybe it's my Saturn return bringing it up, I don't know. But here it comes and it comes hard.
I am finally naming how that one horrible, broken, breaking human is imprinted on me forever. I said earlier today that I feel defeated. I feel like I've been fighting and fighting to be rid of him and I just can't get him gone. JRoss said, "Maybe it's not about getting him gone. Maybe it's about accepting the imprint." He broke me open with that. Here I am, imprinted. Here I am, terrified all the time. And maybe that won't ever change. And I am still going to be here. And I am still going to love hard and hope that something about this imprinted person, this wounded, broken person who will not heal in the way she wanted to, hope that something in me just is deeper and more beautiful 'cause of that imprint and hope that there is love for me even so.
I don't even feel angry. I just feel so sad. I feel forever burdened, bowing beneath the weight of this stupid thing I did when I was a kid that will now last forever.
Obviously, in the past years there have been major healings, major breakthroughs, major lettings go. But there is something that will not leave. And I think Jules is right. I think I have to just integrate that something into all the rest. I think fighting it, trying to "get better" is exhausting and painful and damaging. I think real healing might come from integration more often than I realized.
But, damn. It is so hard, so painful, this feeling forever afraid. Like I have to be so sorry or so ready to be sorry. Always stepping back. Always making sure there is a safe path out the door. Always feeling like the other person is angry, and if they aren't angry it's because they are repressing their anger because they think I am too stupid or too sick or too weak to hear the criticism they want to give me about whatever I am doing wrong.
It's much easier when I am alone. When I am alone, there is no one to fear. But I do not want to be alone. I want to be with humans, and the one in particular. And I do not want the sweet and gentle humans in my life to feel the way they feel when I cower, like they have given me some reason to cower, because it is not and will never be any of you I cower from.
I think this integration might come from feeling the fear and choosing to live in the face of it. Choosing not to cower, not to duck, not to back up or apologize. Choosing to say, okay, yes. There is a chance this moment could turn unexpectedly, and that that could be terrifying. But there is also a chance that it will not, and so here I am, choosing to be fully in this moment, fully in it and alive.
I think I have to hold onto the truth I know more deeply than any other truth--even if things in some way get terrifying, even if some force tries to reach inside me and extinguish the fire, I know I can live through it. I know I can live through anything. I know there is something in me that is hotter than anyone's grabbing fist. Maybe that's the imprint.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
My new digs...
Dear Brooklyn,
What you can't tell from this photo is how enormous this living room is. It's true about the whole house--HUGE! There is a dining room. A DINING ROOM. This is not New York.
I am in the slow, slow process of filling my new home with furnishings and unpacking my belongings. It's somewhat of a challenge, given the fact that I fled bed bugs in Brooklyn and so left without any furniture. And most of my stuff is in storage in JRoss's basement, so it's step-by-step.
I'm loving it here, though. This room is shaping up faster than the rest--it's furnished now, though I've no place to store my books as of yet. There is a reading chair for when you come visit and want the real New England experience, and there will be a writing desk, too.
What you can't tell from this photo is how enormous this living room is. It's true about the whole house--HUGE! There is a dining room. A DINING ROOM. This is not New York.
I am in the slow, slow process of filling my new home with furnishings and unpacking my belongings. It's somewhat of a challenge, given the fact that I fled bed bugs in Brooklyn and so left without any furniture. And most of my stuff is in storage in JRoss's basement, so it's step-by-step.
I'm loving it here, though. This room is shaping up faster than the rest--it's furnished now, though I've no place to store my books as of yet. There is a reading chair for when you come visit and want the real New England experience, and there will be a writing desk, too.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Monday, August 22, 2011
This is where I've been...
From Wednesday to Sunday, ten of Jorie's and Hal's closest and most loved descended upon her mom's house in Charlotte. We ate and drank and laked and pooled and hot tubbed and played Mafia and watched sunsets like these.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Friday, August 12, 2011
"His delusion is preferable to the actuality of the situation."
Brooklyn, I wish you were here.
I am sitting in the sun in my parents' backyard, the dog under the table. I'm working on my children's book proposal and drinking coffee, so glad to be here and alone except for the dog. But still: I wish you were here. It's just so fucking beautiful, and so quiet, and so nice. I am getting so much done--all I can hear is the sharp buzz of whatever insect goes all summer days making that sharp buzz. It was chilly yesterday, cold at night. And this morning: chilly too. But now the sun is warm, almost hot, and I am evening out my A-shirt tan so I don't a) look weird in my bridesmaid dress or b) have to get a spray tan.
Last night Schnipper and I went to see OAR play at the Burlington waterfront. OAR is a band we liked in high school--back then they were also in high school, white boy hippie kids playing reggae-inspired jam-band music. Now they are 30-year-old clean-cut white boys still claiming to be the revolution, playing to 30-year-old clean-cut white boys still claiming to be the revolution. There were no people of color and so many dreadlocks. But: it was so fun. It was fun to see the hippies of our youths grown up and there with their kids. It was fun to see hippie women dancing with hula hoops. It was fun to hear "One for three, two for five," called over and over. It was fun to watch the dynamics of a group of straight people who seemed to be swingers. It was fun to track the movements of a beautiful boy we were calling "our hoodie boyfriend." It was fun to feel like my high school self was accessible without regressing. By the end of the night, my foot hurt bad and my back hurt bad and I felt old and like my high school self was long-gone, but: those few minutes with her were awesome.
Tonight Nas and Damian Marley are playing in the same venue, and though we want to go, it seems like my body just can't handle it. We'll see, though. It's hard to pass up the lake and the summer and the Schnip, especially when I've been without all three for so long.
And: I wish you were here.
I am sitting in the sun in my parents' backyard, the dog under the table. I'm working on my children's book proposal and drinking coffee, so glad to be here and alone except for the dog. But still: I wish you were here. It's just so fucking beautiful, and so quiet, and so nice. I am getting so much done--all I can hear is the sharp buzz of whatever insect goes all summer days making that sharp buzz. It was chilly yesterday, cold at night. And this morning: chilly too. But now the sun is warm, almost hot, and I am evening out my A-shirt tan so I don't a) look weird in my bridesmaid dress or b) have to get a spray tan.
Last night Schnipper and I went to see OAR play at the Burlington waterfront. OAR is a band we liked in high school--back then they were also in high school, white boy hippie kids playing reggae-inspired jam-band music. Now they are 30-year-old clean-cut white boys still claiming to be the revolution, playing to 30-year-old clean-cut white boys still claiming to be the revolution. There were no people of color and so many dreadlocks. But: it was so fun. It was fun to see the hippies of our youths grown up and there with their kids. It was fun to see hippie women dancing with hula hoops. It was fun to hear "One for three, two for five," called over and over. It was fun to watch the dynamics of a group of straight people who seemed to be swingers. It was fun to track the movements of a beautiful boy we were calling "our hoodie boyfriend." It was fun to feel like my high school self was accessible without regressing. By the end of the night, my foot hurt bad and my back hurt bad and I felt old and like my high school self was long-gone, but: those few minutes with her were awesome.
Tonight Nas and Damian Marley are playing in the same venue, and though we want to go, it seems like my body just can't handle it. We'll see, though. It's hard to pass up the lake and the summer and the Schnip, especially when I've been without all three for so long.
And: I wish you were here.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
"The more you can get yourself in trouble, the better off you are. You want to get in the dutch as deep as you can get in the dutch."
Dear Brooklyn,
It's getting so cool. The temperature is dropping, the air is crisping. The light is turning autumnal. It's almost here.
After staying up almost all night watching Damages, this morning Lyra and I met up with my best friend from middle school, Rae, and drove up Mt. Philo. As a kid, four out of five field trips took us up Mt. Philo. "Mount" is a strong word, but it's a nice little hike with a beautiful view of Charlotte and the lake and the Adirondacks. Not that I can hike, though, so we drove up, and I hobbled through the picnic area and we sat on some rocks (a bluff?) and looked out over the place from which we've come and now to which we've returned. It's beautiful here, and we--me and Lyra and the other Rametses and also Rae--are headed to the right place.
And we hope you'll come visit.
It's getting so cool. The temperature is dropping, the air is crisping. The light is turning autumnal. It's almost here.
After staying up almost all night watching Damages, this morning Lyra and I met up with my best friend from middle school, Rae, and drove up Mt. Philo. As a kid, four out of five field trips took us up Mt. Philo. "Mount" is a strong word, but it's a nice little hike with a beautiful view of Charlotte and the lake and the Adirondacks. Not that I can hike, though, so we drove up, and I hobbled through the picnic area and we sat on some rocks (a bluff?) and looked out over the place from which we've come and now to which we've returned. It's beautiful here, and we--me and Lyra and the other Rametses and also Rae--are headed to the right place.
And we hope you'll come visit.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Home again, home again.
It's dark at night here. Funny, how I've learned to sleep with light, learned to live always able to see. And funny how it feels to come back to this darkness--it feels safe inside, warmly lit, but walking to the car, letting the dog out before bed, I'd rather not.
It was early spring when I first started thinking seriously about moving north. I'd been missing New England since I left in 2001, always eager to visit, always longing for more trees than Central Park (as if I ever went there) could ever offer. But it wasn't until the end of March or the beginning of April that I started to realize: the time was coming.
I was up visiting JRoss, driving to Hampshire for a conference or to see his office or to pick him up. As you approach the college, farm land stretches out to either side of the winding road. Split rail and wire fences reach across the fields, penning in cows and horses. There are beaten barns and enormous farmhouses. I said to JRoss, "I like that house." And he said to me, "I love how much you love it here." And I realized: I do.
In the early weeks of considering this move, I imagined moving into one of those farmhouses, renting an apartment an older couple had built in the attic or what was once a carriage house. And then I came to Vermont to visit my family and I realized: were I to live in a house like that, it'd be dark like it is where I grew up--no streetlights, no passing cars, no neighbors. And it would be terrifying, in a way that it wasn't in my youth, partly because I rarely spent nights home alone and partly because I didn't know darkness from light in the way I do now.
So, thankfully, the apartment I've found is in a house where other humans also have apartments, on a street that is quiet and quaint but filled with life, walking distance from downtown and, hopefully, lit, though I haven't been there at night. September first is fast approaching, and it's time for me to start thinking about making this new home. And from scratch, having left everything in Brooklyn with the bed bugs.
Brooklyn, I miss you, but I don't miss those bugs. They are with me in my sleep, still. They will make it hard to visit.
It's dark at night here. Funny, how I've learned to sleep with light, learned to live always able to see. And funny how it feels to come back to this darkness--it feels safe inside, warmly lit, but walking to the car, letting the dog out before bed, I'd rather not.
It was early spring when I first started thinking seriously about moving north. I'd been missing New England since I left in 2001, always eager to visit, always longing for more trees than Central Park (as if I ever went there) could ever offer. But it wasn't until the end of March or the beginning of April that I started to realize: the time was coming.
I was up visiting JRoss, driving to Hampshire for a conference or to see his office or to pick him up. As you approach the college, farm land stretches out to either side of the winding road. Split rail and wire fences reach across the fields, penning in cows and horses. There are beaten barns and enormous farmhouses. I said to JRoss, "I like that house." And he said to me, "I love how much you love it here." And I realized: I do.
In the early weeks of considering this move, I imagined moving into one of those farmhouses, renting an apartment an older couple had built in the attic or what was once a carriage house. And then I came to Vermont to visit my family and I realized: were I to live in a house like that, it'd be dark like it is where I grew up--no streetlights, no passing cars, no neighbors. And it would be terrifying, in a way that it wasn't in my youth, partly because I rarely spent nights home alone and partly because I didn't know darkness from light in the way I do now.
So, thankfully, the apartment I've found is in a house where other humans also have apartments, on a street that is quiet and quaint but filled with life, walking distance from downtown and, hopefully, lit, though I haven't been there at night. September first is fast approaching, and it's time for me to start thinking about making this new home. And from scratch, having left everything in Brooklyn with the bed bugs.
Brooklyn, I miss you, but I don't miss those bugs. They are with me in my sleep, still. They will make it hard to visit.
"The ground on which you make the fiction is already a fiction."
Headed to New England again, at long last.
I woke this morning before the alarm, watched the sun come up against the buildings out the bedroom window. It was easy to get out the door—JRoss was sleeping, so I was not tempted to make some kind of scene. But the sweetdog was piggy and bear-y and I could not hug him enough or make him understand how I love him. JRoss’s friend, now mine also, drove me to the airport. A real gift, such a ride, seven AM and rush hour.
It’s impossible to accurately describe how much a loathe air travel. The stressful drive to the airport, stuck in traffic and watching the clock. Trying to check in on the ticket machine that doesn’t work. Standing in the security line forever, then scrambling to unpack my things the way the TSA wants me to, taking off my shoes, holding up the line. And then: the gate so far away, the food so overpriced, the current issue of US Weekly uninteresting. Delays. Nausea. Trapped in the window seat. The entire time convinced it’s impossible to get wherever I am going. Horrible.
Now I am sitting in the Philadelphia airport. I wish I were traveling with someone—Mary B, headed back to Chicago for AWP; JRoss, heading to MA. But: there are many things to be said in favor of traveling while injured. People offering to take my bag, airline employees offering to call that little electric cart I rode once as a kid when traveling with my grandparents. I get to board early, even before the horrible parents with their horrible infants. I don’t have to put my own bag in the overhead compartment.
But: this connecting flight is delayed.
Horrible.
But I have hope: that I will make it to Burlington by dinner, that I will finally rest my foot and it will heal, that JRoss’s car will come back to me from the shop as good as new, that Schnipper and I will take the dogs to the lake and that Lyra will be brave enough to swim. I have hope that I will drive to the top of Philo, that the ice cream will be sweeter than when I left, that there will be sweetmail waiting when I arrive home.
And in a week: Jorie and Hal come home, too, and their wedding week starts, and then Mary and Hannah and TT arrive and we will eat and drink and swim and spa and rehearse and process and recess and speech and dance and be merry. And then: I will return to Chicago and collect my sweetperson and sweetdog, and we will return east, where we most belong—even if my cheating heart has found a mistress in the Middle West.
I woke this morning before the alarm, watched the sun come up against the buildings out the bedroom window. It was easy to get out the door—JRoss was sleeping, so I was not tempted to make some kind of scene. But the sweetdog was piggy and bear-y and I could not hug him enough or make him understand how I love him. JRoss’s friend, now mine also, drove me to the airport. A real gift, such a ride, seven AM and rush hour.
It’s impossible to accurately describe how much a loathe air travel. The stressful drive to the airport, stuck in traffic and watching the clock. Trying to check in on the ticket machine that doesn’t work. Standing in the security line forever, then scrambling to unpack my things the way the TSA wants me to, taking off my shoes, holding up the line. And then: the gate so far away, the food so overpriced, the current issue of US Weekly uninteresting. Delays. Nausea. Trapped in the window seat. The entire time convinced it’s impossible to get wherever I am going. Horrible.
Now I am sitting in the Philadelphia airport. I wish I were traveling with someone—Mary B, headed back to Chicago for AWP; JRoss, heading to MA. But: there are many things to be said in favor of traveling while injured. People offering to take my bag, airline employees offering to call that little electric cart I rode once as a kid when traveling with my grandparents. I get to board early, even before the horrible parents with their horrible infants. I don’t have to put my own bag in the overhead compartment.
But: this connecting flight is delayed.
Horrible.
But I have hope: that I will make it to Burlington by dinner, that I will finally rest my foot and it will heal, that JRoss’s car will come back to me from the shop as good as new, that Schnipper and I will take the dogs to the lake and that Lyra will be brave enough to swim. I have hope that I will drive to the top of Philo, that the ice cream will be sweeter than when I left, that there will be sweetmail waiting when I arrive home.
And in a week: Jorie and Hal come home, too, and their wedding week starts, and then Mary and Hannah and TT arrive and we will eat and drink and swim and spa and rehearse and process and recess and speech and dance and be merry. And then: I will return to Chicago and collect my sweetperson and sweetdog, and we will return east, where we most belong—even if my cheating heart has found a mistress in the Middle West.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
"Choosing a ground by something pre-existent in you... presumably the object that has aroused in you something."
Well, Brooklyn: I am leaving Chicago.
It's been real. Lots of sweetperson time, lots of sweetdog time, lots of sweetfriend time, lots of newfriend time and newbeach time and newcity time. Lots of movie-making and Christine Schutt-reading and foot-healing. Yesterday JRoss competed in Queer Top Chef... and yes, it was as awesome as you're imagining. He and Vea, competing as the Queerly Brothers in Chippendale's outfits (for real), won in the outfit category, but were beaten overall by the Crusty Mustards. Otherwise there were barbequed foods and some intensely sweet rum punch and the kind of sunburn you get when it's overcast. There was me limping up to the roof and back down again. There was crippling shyness I got over. There was pal-ing around with my new friend. There was snuggling the littlest, most submissive dog I have ever met. And then in the evening we went to JRoss's friend's going away party at the bar where they all hang out, this sweet dive bar called The Sovereign that's filled with older white people you'd expect and then a bunch of radical queers. Pretty awesome. There was some whiskey-drinking and shit-talking and sweetfriend's-sweetperson-meeting and wishing-i-could-dance-but-having-to-sit-instead. There was serious fatigue, as there has been throughout this visit.
Today Marielle comes again and we'll be extras in the movie and then I will get ready to head back to NEW ENGLAND. Land of ice cream and swimming and greenery and berry-picking, I will return.
And Brooklyn: I miss you.
It's been real. Lots of sweetperson time, lots of sweetdog time, lots of sweetfriend time, lots of newfriend time and newbeach time and newcity time. Lots of movie-making and Christine Schutt-reading and foot-healing. Yesterday JRoss competed in Queer Top Chef... and yes, it was as awesome as you're imagining. He and Vea, competing as the Queerly Brothers in Chippendale's outfits (for real), won in the outfit category, but were beaten overall by the Crusty Mustards. Otherwise there were barbequed foods and some intensely sweet rum punch and the kind of sunburn you get when it's overcast. There was me limping up to the roof and back down again. There was crippling shyness I got over. There was pal-ing around with my new friend. There was snuggling the littlest, most submissive dog I have ever met. And then in the evening we went to JRoss's friend's going away party at the bar where they all hang out, this sweet dive bar called The Sovereign that's filled with older white people you'd expect and then a bunch of radical queers. Pretty awesome. There was some whiskey-drinking and shit-talking and sweetfriend's-sweetperson-meeting and wishing-i-could-dance-but-having-to-sit-instead. There was serious fatigue, as there has been throughout this visit.
Today Marielle comes again and we'll be extras in the movie and then I will get ready to head back to NEW ENGLAND. Land of ice cream and swimming and greenery and berry-picking, I will return.
And Brooklyn: I miss you.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
"It is in the fewness of the materials that the muchness of the effect is created."
Dear Brooklyn,
It's not you, it's Chicago.
East Coast, we have had the wool pulled over our eyes. The Middle West is amazing. It's glorious here--CHICAGO HAS BEACHES. Did you know this? And not Brooklyn beaches--beaches with clean sand and not a million people and water that everyone is saying is questionable but that looks and feels glorious to me. There are wide, tree-lined streets, and gorgeous, spacious, one-bedroom apartments with dining rooms and porches that cost $750 a month. People are friendly. Like, really friendly. There are beautiful old signs everywhere and plenty of parking and, again, people are friendly.
I feel ashamed of the superiority I felt living in New York. The false pride people from Philly always proclaim when they come to New York--who knew we in New York claimed the same pride just thinking about Chicago. San Francisco? We're right about that one. But not Chicago. Chicago is awesome.
It's not you, it's Chicago.
East Coast, we have had the wool pulled over our eyes. The Middle West is amazing. It's glorious here--CHICAGO HAS BEACHES. Did you know this? And not Brooklyn beaches--beaches with clean sand and not a million people and water that everyone is saying is questionable but that looks and feels glorious to me. There are wide, tree-lined streets, and gorgeous, spacious, one-bedroom apartments with dining rooms and porches that cost $750 a month. People are friendly. Like, really friendly. There are beautiful old signs everywhere and plenty of parking and, again, people are friendly.
I feel ashamed of the superiority I felt living in New York. The false pride people from Philly always proclaim when they come to New York--who knew we in New York claimed the same pride just thinking about Chicago. San Francisco? We're right about that one. But not Chicago. Chicago is awesome.
"You get to a certain age--don't touch. You'll find you're crumbling."
I've been out of touch. Since last Sunday, I've been in Chicago--JRoss is filming the movie we wrote, and I'm here, too, participating some in the movie-making, cuddling with Cooper, and kicking it with our friend Vea and Vea's and Jules's whole bunch of rad, loving, queer-ass friends.
I was supposed to fly back to Vermont last Thursday, but Wednesday night, JRoss and Vea and I decided to change that plan. So I moved my ticket and we planned for me to stay awhile longer, helping with film stuff, but mostly supporting my sweetperson while he works on such an intense project.
On Friday, I went to the shoot, which was something of a disaster. And also a really effing long day. At the end of it, JRoss and I found out that our housing situation had been temporarily complicated. As we walked down the stairs to head (not) home, I fell. And then I recovered. And then I fell again. And that time, I really fucking hurt my foot. So Vea and another friend carried me to a car, and to an apartment, and I was iced and arnica'd and Advilled and otherwise intoxicated, and it seemed like maybe it was just a bad sprain. JRoss carried me "home," which, for that night, meant a third floor walk-up.
Upon waking the next morning, it was PAINFULLY clear that my foot--though maybe just sprained--required some medical attention. We headed to the emergency room, where everyone--from the nurses to the doctors to the x-ray techs--was sweet and polite and accommodating and friendly. Coming in, as I always do, expecting the worst from doctors, I was fairly hostile and demanding, but by the time we left, I would have been able to smile at them, if I wasn't weeping for my fractured foot.
We spent two more nights on that third floor, and last night we were allowed back into the beautiful, spacious, glowing-with-light, plant-filled, cool, internet-accessible apartment JRoss is subletting, where we were reunited with our clothes (though they all need to be washed), a bed that is not a futon, and Facebook. Glory be.
So. Now I am doing my best to at least be a sweet face for my sweetface, even if I can't be the kind of support I'd intended to. I went to a shoot on Sunday, broken foot and all, and that was surprisingly functional and fine, so. I'm not the best bed-maker or dish-washer or laundry-doer at the moment, and there's absolutely no way I can sweep the floor. But I sure am nice, and I look real cute.
I was supposed to fly back to Vermont last Thursday, but Wednesday night, JRoss and Vea and I decided to change that plan. So I moved my ticket and we planned for me to stay awhile longer, helping with film stuff, but mostly supporting my sweetperson while he works on such an intense project.
On Friday, I went to the shoot, which was something of a disaster. And also a really effing long day. At the end of it, JRoss and I found out that our housing situation had been temporarily complicated. As we walked down the stairs to head (not) home, I fell. And then I recovered. And then I fell again. And that time, I really fucking hurt my foot. So Vea and another friend carried me to a car, and to an apartment, and I was iced and arnica'd and Advilled and otherwise intoxicated, and it seemed like maybe it was just a bad sprain. JRoss carried me "home," which, for that night, meant a third floor walk-up.
Upon waking the next morning, it was PAINFULLY clear that my foot--though maybe just sprained--required some medical attention. We headed to the emergency room, where everyone--from the nurses to the doctors to the x-ray techs--was sweet and polite and accommodating and friendly. Coming in, as I always do, expecting the worst from doctors, I was fairly hostile and demanding, but by the time we left, I would have been able to smile at them, if I wasn't weeping for my fractured foot.
We spent two more nights on that third floor, and last night we were allowed back into the beautiful, spacious, glowing-with-light, plant-filled, cool, internet-accessible apartment JRoss is subletting, where we were reunited with our clothes (though they all need to be washed), a bed that is not a futon, and Facebook. Glory be.
So. Now I am doing my best to at least be a sweet face for my sweetface, even if I can't be the kind of support I'd intended to. I went to a shoot on Sunday, broken foot and all, and that was surprisingly functional and fine, so. I'm not the best bed-maker or dish-washer or laundry-doer at the moment, and there's absolutely no way I can sweep the floor. But I sure am nice, and I look real cute.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
"I'm ready to make--out of whatever you give me--a story."
Incomparable things about this part of the world:
Hay carts everywhere, empty and waiting for August. (If you've never seen a hay cart, they look like enormous cages made of wood, often painted blue or red, and when they are pulled, they are pulled by tractors. The rest of the time, like now, they sit empty at the edges of the sprawling hay fields that are all across the state, and they are gorgeous.)
Men can call me "dude" and still, somehow, be flirting with me. (How is it that they look so strong and outdoorsy even in the summer, when they are dressed just like everyone anywhere that's hot? It's like they are wearing invisible flannel shirts.)
The primary ways people suggest hanging out are a) going swimming or b) eating ice cream. (The lake is warm now--people are saying in the seventies--though I haven't been in yet. And when we talk about ice cream up here, we call it "creemees." As in, "I'll meet you down at the creemee stand after dinner," which is a phrase I have uttered countless times in my life, including earlier today.)
Lyra, in the passenger seat of the car (don't tell JRoss) with the window all the way down and her front paws on the armrest, her head out the window so that the wind pushes her ears back and her mouth is open and grinning. (Even better is when she turns back and looks at me, like, "Hey! Mom! Can you see? This is so fucking awesome!")
Hay carts everywhere, empty and waiting for August. (If you've never seen a hay cart, they look like enormous cages made of wood, often painted blue or red, and when they are pulled, they are pulled by tractors. The rest of the time, like now, they sit empty at the edges of the sprawling hay fields that are all across the state, and they are gorgeous.)
Men can call me "dude" and still, somehow, be flirting with me. (How is it that they look so strong and outdoorsy even in the summer, when they are dressed just like everyone anywhere that's hot? It's like they are wearing invisible flannel shirts.)
The primary ways people suggest hanging out are a) going swimming or b) eating ice cream. (The lake is warm now--people are saying in the seventies--though I haven't been in yet. And when we talk about ice cream up here, we call it "creemees." As in, "I'll meet you down at the creemee stand after dinner," which is a phrase I have uttered countless times in my life, including earlier today.)
Lyra, in the passenger seat of the car (don't tell JRoss) with the window all the way down and her front paws on the armrest, her head out the window so that the wind pushes her ears back and her mouth is open and grinning. (Even better is when she turns back and looks at me, like, "Hey! Mom! Can you see? This is so fucking awesome!")
"We are too ill to bear the cure."
I am staying with my parents. They are up so early that no matter what time I get up, if I want to sit outside and write, there is no way to avoid letting them in before the day starts, no way to work before the world is too much with me. However, if I can push past them, if I can get outside and I can sit down, the yard, with its gardens and its wildflowers and its lilac bushes and its wood pile and its pine trees and its barn, stretches out before me.
Right now, it's the kind of light that only happens on summer mornings--yellow--and there's a coolness in the air, and the birds, who woke up hours ago, are still very busy and very loud.
Yesterday, when I woke, this was paradise and I knew it. But as the day wore on, some kind of darkness came back, and by evening, when I saw the beautiful face of my beautiful person Skyped across half the country, I could only weep, I could only wish for some word from him or from G-d that would somehow alleviate this thing inside me that is spoiling this adventure and, it seems at times, this life. And no word like that can come from anyone, except possibly G-d, and G-d, so far, is not speaking.
But again it is morning, again the sun has risen and again I am awake. Again, today, I see this paradise, I know it is paradise, I am filled with hope, with gratitude that New England is a place on this earth and that it is the place from which I come and the place to which I have returned... grateful for the beards and the flannel and the men wearing clogs Schnipper and I saw in Burlington last night; grateful for Schnipper entirely and how she reflects a world I understand, a world I am part of; grateful for the joy I find in my work; grateful for the dream I had about Hannah that was filled with love and the years and years of our friendship; grateful that I woke being able to hold space for the love of my sweetperson, the love of my family--given and chosen.
Good morning, Vermont. Good morning, Chicago. Good morning, Brooklyn.
Right now, it's the kind of light that only happens on summer mornings--yellow--and there's a coolness in the air, and the birds, who woke up hours ago, are still very busy and very loud.
Yesterday, when I woke, this was paradise and I knew it. But as the day wore on, some kind of darkness came back, and by evening, when I saw the beautiful face of my beautiful person Skyped across half the country, I could only weep, I could only wish for some word from him or from G-d that would somehow alleviate this thing inside me that is spoiling this adventure and, it seems at times, this life. And no word like that can come from anyone, except possibly G-d, and G-d, so far, is not speaking.
But again it is morning, again the sun has risen and again I am awake. Again, today, I see this paradise, I know it is paradise, I am filled with hope, with gratitude that New England is a place on this earth and that it is the place from which I come and the place to which I have returned... grateful for the beards and the flannel and the men wearing clogs Schnipper and I saw in Burlington last night; grateful for Schnipper entirely and how she reflects a world I understand, a world I am part of; grateful for the joy I find in my work; grateful for the dream I had about Hannah that was filled with love and the years and years of our friendship; grateful that I woke being able to hold space for the love of my sweetperson, the love of my family--given and chosen.
Good morning, Vermont. Good morning, Chicago. Good morning, Brooklyn.
Monday, July 18, 2011
"The subject does not pre-exist. It emerges out of the interaction between the artist and the medium... between the subject and the object."
Good morning, Vermont.
Hi. It's amazing to wake to you.
I slept for eleven hours, a kind of sleep I have not slept in months--definitely not since 2010. And it was glorious. I had my cards read before I left New York, and the card reader said that I'd start getting real rest when I left, that this move would be good for my sleep. And it's pretty fucking thrilling that, day one, that's starting off true.
Now I am sitting in my childhood bed and there are birds out the window, and a cool breeze coming in, and the sound of the trees moving slightly, and the sky is grey, but a beautiful grey, and the only other sound is my fingers on the keys (and if you've ever been in the same room as me, typing, you know that sound is pretty loud).
Next I will get up and shower and take the dog to play. I will eat something and then go to a yoga class that the neighbor up the hill teaches in the studio on the top floor of her barn. It's walking distance, but--this is not New York, and I no longer have to agitate my injured foot just to get where I want to go, and so I will drive. And then I will go to the post office and the dentist, and then back to Charlotte, to read and write and eat dinner with the fam and my parents' friends who are coming over. Real vacation, if vacation means a vacation from my entire life, including my dearests.
The torment of yesterday as I anticipated leaving has abated for the moment. I am not missing anything or anyone. I am not longing for something that is not here. I am just here, just letting this be the day and this be the adventure and knowing that you all whom I love will join me on it at some point down the line.
Good morning, Brooklyn.
Hi. It's amazing to wake to you.
I slept for eleven hours, a kind of sleep I have not slept in months--definitely not since 2010. And it was glorious. I had my cards read before I left New York, and the card reader said that I'd start getting real rest when I left, that this move would be good for my sleep. And it's pretty fucking thrilling that, day one, that's starting off true.
Now I am sitting in my childhood bed and there are birds out the window, and a cool breeze coming in, and the sound of the trees moving slightly, and the sky is grey, but a beautiful grey, and the only other sound is my fingers on the keys (and if you've ever been in the same room as me, typing, you know that sound is pretty loud).
Next I will get up and shower and take the dog to play. I will eat something and then go to a yoga class that the neighbor up the hill teaches in the studio on the top floor of her barn. It's walking distance, but--this is not New York, and I no longer have to agitate my injured foot just to get where I want to go, and so I will drive. And then I will go to the post office and the dentist, and then back to Charlotte, to read and write and eat dinner with the fam and my parents' friends who are coming over. Real vacation, if vacation means a vacation from my entire life, including my dearests.
The torment of yesterday as I anticipated leaving has abated for the moment. I am not missing anything or anyone. I am not longing for something that is not here. I am just here, just letting this be the day and this be the adventure and knowing that you all whom I love will join me on it at some point down the line.
Good morning, Brooklyn.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
"Choosing a ground by something pre-existent in you... presumably the object that has aroused in you something."
We made it. Barely, but we made it. Lots of weeping, lots of scrambling, lots of traffic. But here we are. And it is green, and the gardens are in bloom, and Lyra lept around and dug for mice and I sat outside with my parents as the sun dropped behind the Adirondacks at the pace it takes this time of year--slightly faster than a month ago, but still slow.
There is respite here, I think. There are dentist appointments and a trip to the vet, and there are late night mojitos with the Schnip, and there are late night beers at the OP, and there are walks along Church Street and walks along the lakes, and there is swimming, and there are mornings spent working in the sun, and there is yoga class, and there is building a job for myself out of the seed I have been carrying with me. There are Skype dates with friends afar, and there is unpacking and repacking and watering the plants I've almost killed in the last months, there is the chance of bringing back life. The plants' and my own. There is fetch with Lyra in the park, there is hoping she might try to swim, there are movies with my brother and meals he cook,s where "meals" equals meat alone.
There is also a sore throat and exhaustion, there are episodes of Real Housewives, there are books--I'ma read something indulgent, something delicious, something kind of dumb but not dumbing. I am going to repair myself and write a children's book and I am going to apply and apply and apply for jobs in Massachusetts. I am going to write letters to Brooklyn here and on paper, I am going to go to the post office and buy forty stamps and I am going to use them all before the week is out.
Goodnight, Brooklyn, I say from Vermont. Sleep sweetly and send sweet sleep to me.
There is respite here, I think. There are dentist appointments and a trip to the vet, and there are late night mojitos with the Schnip, and there are late night beers at the OP, and there are walks along Church Street and walks along the lakes, and there is swimming, and there are mornings spent working in the sun, and there is yoga class, and there is building a job for myself out of the seed I have been carrying with me. There are Skype dates with friends afar, and there is unpacking and repacking and watering the plants I've almost killed in the last months, there is the chance of bringing back life. The plants' and my own. There is fetch with Lyra in the park, there is hoping she might try to swim, there are movies with my brother and meals he cook,s where "meals" equals meat alone.
There is also a sore throat and exhaustion, there are episodes of Real Housewives, there are books--I'ma read something indulgent, something delicious, something kind of dumb but not dumbing. I am going to repair myself and write a children's book and I am going to apply and apply and apply for jobs in Massachusetts. I am going to write letters to Brooklyn here and on paper, I am going to go to the post office and buy forty stamps and I am going to use them all before the week is out.
Goodnight, Brooklyn, I say from Vermont. Sleep sweetly and send sweet sleep to me.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
"The more I can postpone death by telling pointless tales, the better--for me."
Dear Brooklyn,
I'm trying to get out the door. The last three days have been filled with sadness and weeping and wishing for this to be easier, wishing to know more about what I am leaving for, what I am moving toward, wishing to be someone who can pack and go, someone who can change her life without it being some kind of disaster, some kind of crisis, but--it seems like that will never be the case. It seems like something in me just cannot handle certain difficulties, including things that, for other people, are insignificant, barely noticeable. And here I am, sprawled and weeping, paralyzed with loneliness and fear and wanting to be saved and knowing that wanting to be saved is how I might lose everything I care about.
JRoss and Cooper are on their way to Chicago. Lyra and I are in Meghan and Christy's bedroom, Lyra hiding under the bed, me getting snot all over the pillowcase I'm not going to have time to wash before I go. Not that I am in any kind of shape to do the laundry/dish-washing/tub-scrubbing/dog-hair-vacuuming I'd planned to do, even if there were time. Which I can add to the list of things that should not break me or anyone and yet break me and in breaking me, act as proof that what I am trying to do is impossible, that my limitations are unbearable--that I cannot bear them and that I cannot ask others to help me bear them; they cannot be alleviated.
To get out the door I need to pack the things I've left to the last minute--some of Lyra's toys and treats, my toiletries, my dry laundry that's been sitting in the dryer since Friday, the few food items I'm taking, my plants. I need to take out the trash and wash the dishes. I need to sweep up some dog hair and make the bed and wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom. I need to eat something and walk Lyra. I need to leave a note for Christy and Meghan. I need to dig some kind of music situation out of the back of my packed-to-the-brim car. (Well, JRoss's car.) I need to not hold myself accountable for all the ways in which I wish I were different--that I wish I'd organized this summer better and was not doing this part alone, that I'd organized my stuff better and was not bringing a whole house worth of stuff up to Vermont, only to have to bring it all over creation in the next two months in order to get it to where I'll end up. Though it's impossible to believe I'll end up where I'd hoped to.
Brooklyn, I wish I could leave in some other state--that I could celebrate you and thank you and love you and depart full of joy and hope and excitement and enthusiasm. I will close my eyes for a minute, rest. And then I will leave in whatever way I can leave, I will take the steps I can take and I will be on my way somewhere.
I'm trying to get out the door. The last three days have been filled with sadness and weeping and wishing for this to be easier, wishing to know more about what I am leaving for, what I am moving toward, wishing to be someone who can pack and go, someone who can change her life without it being some kind of disaster, some kind of crisis, but--it seems like that will never be the case. It seems like something in me just cannot handle certain difficulties, including things that, for other people, are insignificant, barely noticeable. And here I am, sprawled and weeping, paralyzed with loneliness and fear and wanting to be saved and knowing that wanting to be saved is how I might lose everything I care about.
JRoss and Cooper are on their way to Chicago. Lyra and I are in Meghan and Christy's bedroom, Lyra hiding under the bed, me getting snot all over the pillowcase I'm not going to have time to wash before I go. Not that I am in any kind of shape to do the laundry/dish-washing/tub-scrubbing/dog-hair-vacuuming I'd planned to do, even if there were time. Which I can add to the list of things that should not break me or anyone and yet break me and in breaking me, act as proof that what I am trying to do is impossible, that my limitations are unbearable--that I cannot bear them and that I cannot ask others to help me bear them; they cannot be alleviated.
To get out the door I need to pack the things I've left to the last minute--some of Lyra's toys and treats, my toiletries, my dry laundry that's been sitting in the dryer since Friday, the few food items I'm taking, my plants. I need to take out the trash and wash the dishes. I need to sweep up some dog hair and make the bed and wipe down the surfaces in the kitchen and bathroom. I need to eat something and walk Lyra. I need to leave a note for Christy and Meghan. I need to dig some kind of music situation out of the back of my packed-to-the-brim car. (Well, JRoss's car.) I need to not hold myself accountable for all the ways in which I wish I were different--that I wish I'd organized this summer better and was not doing this part alone, that I'd organized my stuff better and was not bringing a whole house worth of stuff up to Vermont, only to have to bring it all over creation in the next two months in order to get it to where I'll end up. Though it's impossible to believe I'll end up where I'd hoped to.
Brooklyn, I wish I could leave in some other state--that I could celebrate you and thank you and love you and depart full of joy and hope and excitement and enthusiasm. I will close my eyes for a minute, rest. And then I will leave in whatever way I can leave, I will take the steps I can take and I will be on my way somewhere.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
"The way you do anything is the way you do everything."
I am fighting my inclination to leave without saying anything. I have made space to be with people--in groups, mostly, some individual farewells--though I keep wishing I had just packed my car two weeks ago and gone quietly north, informed people that I was gone once they asked, but said nothing beforehand, certainly not goodbye.
Last night Liz came to say goodbye to Lyra, and also, theoretically, to me, though it didn't really feel like goodbye, or so much like anything, between us. She said, "It's really more like 'see you soon,'" and though she is right, there is still a finality for me, a finality in me.
Tonight I see Abbi and tomorrow, Lauren, and then it's over; Saturday with JRoss and Sunday I'm Vermont-bound.
I am doing my best to say goodbye, doing my best to stay here until I am actually gone, to stay here until I said I would leave, to mark the end on the calendar where I have already marked the end on the calendar and to not quit before and to not quit quietly.
Later, Brooklyn, I will say, I am saying. See you soon.
Last night Liz came to say goodbye to Lyra, and also, theoretically, to me, though it didn't really feel like goodbye, or so much like anything, between us. She said, "It's really more like 'see you soon,'" and though she is right, there is still a finality for me, a finality in me.
Tonight I see Abbi and tomorrow, Lauren, and then it's over; Saturday with JRoss and Sunday I'm Vermont-bound.
I am doing my best to say goodbye, doing my best to stay here until I am actually gone, to stay here until I said I would leave, to mark the end on the calendar where I have already marked the end on the calendar and to not quit before and to not quit quietly.
Later, Brooklyn, I will say, I am saying. See you soon.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Refusing Heaven
The old women in black at early Mass in winter
are a problem for him. He could tell by their eyes
they have seen Christ. They make the kernel
of his being and the clarity around it
seem meager, as though he needs girders
to hold up his unusable soul. But he chooses
against the Lord. He will not abandon his life.
Not his childhood, not the ninety-two bridges
across the two rivers of his youth. Nor the mills
along the banks where he became a young man
as he worked. The mills are eaten away, and eaten
again by the sun and its rusting. He needs them
even though they are gone, to measure against.
The silver is worn down to the brass underneath
and is the better for it. He will gauge
by the smell of concrete sidewalks after night rain.
He is like an old ferry dragged on to the shore,
a home in its smashed grandeur, with the giant beams
and joists. Like a wooden ocean out of control.
A beached heart. A cauldron of cooling melt.
–Jack Gilbert
are a problem for him. He could tell by their eyes
they have seen Christ. They make the kernel
of his being and the clarity around it
seem meager, as though he needs girders
to hold up his unusable soul. But he chooses
against the Lord. He will not abandon his life.
Not his childhood, not the ninety-two bridges
across the two rivers of his youth. Nor the mills
along the banks where he became a young man
as he worked. The mills are eaten away, and eaten
again by the sun and its rusting. He needs them
even though they are gone, to measure against.
The silver is worn down to the brass underneath
and is the better for it. He will gauge
by the smell of concrete sidewalks after night rain.
He is like an old ferry dragged on to the shore,
a home in its smashed grandeur, with the giant beams
and joists. Like a wooden ocean out of control.
A beached heart. A cauldron of cooling melt.
–Jack Gilbert
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
"A life saved by allowing a substitution. This thing is a substitution. It replaces the given."
Dear Brooklyn,
This is a serious countdown. A deposit-on-a-New-England-apartment-no-turning-back-start-the-Subaru-engines countdown. In 22 minutes, it will be Wednesday. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and I leave. We leave. Me and Littles, headed to Vermont. The lake, the Schnip, the dentist, my mother's flower garden. Also lots of looking for work (where "looking," at this point, largely means "hoping that there is, actually, something to The Secret") and sleeping without fear of bugs, and star-seeing, and limping up Mount Philo.
And then Times Square for a minute to celebrate the birth of Carolyn Pincus and then Chicago to see my sweetperson making a movie and to hug his big bear dog. And then Vermont again and then Chicago again, this time at the end of Can You Catch Up on a Year Between New York and Chicago? A Marielle/Alex Adventure. And then back to Vermont to make a toast in honor of Jorie Pollak and Hal Himmel, and then, and then, and then, the real adventure--the I'm-walking-away-from-that-which-is-known adventure--begins.
And already, Brooklyn, I miss you. And Inwood. And Tenth Street. And Washington Heights. I miss you, all the lives I've lived here, and I step on your backs and I'm gone.
This is a serious countdown. A deposit-on-a-New-England-apartment-no-turning-back-start-the-Subaru-engines countdown. In 22 minutes, it will be Wednesday. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and I leave. We leave. Me and Littles, headed to Vermont. The lake, the Schnip, the dentist, my mother's flower garden. Also lots of looking for work (where "looking," at this point, largely means "hoping that there is, actually, something to The Secret") and sleeping without fear of bugs, and star-seeing, and limping up Mount Philo.
And then Times Square for a minute to celebrate the birth of Carolyn Pincus and then Chicago to see my sweetperson making a movie and to hug his big bear dog. And then Vermont again and then Chicago again, this time at the end of Can You Catch Up on a Year Between New York and Chicago? A Marielle/Alex Adventure. And then back to Vermont to make a toast in honor of Jorie Pollak and Hal Himmel, and then, and then, and then, the real adventure--the I'm-walking-away-from-that-which-is-known adventure--begins.
And already, Brooklyn, I miss you. And Inwood. And Tenth Street. And Washington Heights. I miss you, all the lives I've lived here, and I step on your backs and I'm gone.
"The grisly fact is that whatever space you intend to enter words into already has in it a multitude of words into infinition."
I'm feeling all kinds of sorrow and grief and worry and fear and excitement about leaving New York and, quite literally, heading for the hills. One of the things I'm thinking about is how to stay connected to the humans I love here, the humans who've become my humans, the friends who are my family.
While I have every intention of writing a million letters and postcards, of sending packages and making Skype dates, the reality is that I've chosen to leave this home and make another, and that with making a home comes work and life and new people and my sweetheart living close, and I probably won't be as connected to this former home as I'd like to be. So I am going to use this space as letters to Brooklyn (and Manhattan, obviously, and Philadelphia, and Boston, and Bellingham, and Illinois), and I am going to hope that some of you, my people, my family, check in with it once in awhile, though I hope even harder that you also check in with the actual me, and that we do send a million letters and postcards, that we do send packages and make Skype dates, that we stay close.
So, this is where you'll find me--one place, anyway. You'll also find me, in the next months, in Lake Champlain, in Chicago, in someone's car (mine or JRoss's). And come September, you'll find me in Gay City, USA, shopping at a co-op (!), walking my dog in the woods (and picking ticks off her stomach), and climbing apple trees--all while wearing Carhartts and wool sweaters and clogs. Yup. It's happening.
While I have every intention of writing a million letters and postcards, of sending packages and making Skype dates, the reality is that I've chosen to leave this home and make another, and that with making a home comes work and life and new people and my sweetheart living close, and I probably won't be as connected to this former home as I'd like to be. So I am going to use this space as letters to Brooklyn (and Manhattan, obviously, and Philadelphia, and Boston, and Bellingham, and Illinois), and I am going to hope that some of you, my people, my family, check in with it once in awhile, though I hope even harder that you also check in with the actual me, and that we do send a million letters and postcards, that we do send packages and make Skype dates, that we stay close.
So, this is where you'll find me--one place, anyway. You'll also find me, in the next months, in Lake Champlain, in Chicago, in someone's car (mine or JRoss's). And come September, you'll find me in Gay City, USA, shopping at a co-op (!), walking my dog in the woods (and picking ticks off her stomach), and climbing apple trees--all while wearing Carhartts and wool sweaters and clogs. Yup. It's happening.
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