....
i cry a little bit.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Happiness Is...
Today, happiness is a quiet moment. It's sitting cross-legged on my bed at my mother's house, enjoying the stillness. It's the way the sunlight pours in the window and drifts slowly towards me as the afternoon ticks by. It's eating slices of bakery bread spread thick with butter and drinking coffee from my very favorite ceramic mug. It's the fact that mixed into my messy sheets are two magazines, one literary journal, one travel guidebook, and a few novels, like little word-surprises lost in the wilds of my bedding.
It's my dog, rotating from room to room to follow the sun for her naps. It's the way a house feels when everyone in it is quietly absorbed in something, or resting. It's the way my body feels after a morning run in the fresh air and the bright light. It's the anticipation of dinner tonight in the company of old friends.
But mostly, it's in the awareness that spring is a real thing, an actual guarantee that is walking steadily towards me. And it's the knowledge that, if you let it, peace will always follow the dark, in the same way that flowers will always stretch towards the warmth and that the stars are always there, hiding behind the sun glare or the light pollution or some wispy clouds. Whether you can see them or not, they're always there, glinting effortlessly down, like an invisible promise. Like faith.
I'm not one for religion, so Easter as a holiday is something that is lost entirely on me. But any day set aside to celebrate rebirth, that happens at the start of spring, is an excellent way to mark the end of the dark and the walk into the light.
Also, jelly beans are really good, but mostly the jolly rancher kind. Like, honestly. That shit is delicious.
It's my dog, rotating from room to room to follow the sun for her naps. It's the way a house feels when everyone in it is quietly absorbed in something, or resting. It's the way my body feels after a morning run in the fresh air and the bright light. It's the anticipation of dinner tonight in the company of old friends.
But mostly, it's in the awareness that spring is a real thing, an actual guarantee that is walking steadily towards me. And it's the knowledge that, if you let it, peace will always follow the dark, in the same way that flowers will always stretch towards the warmth and that the stars are always there, hiding behind the sun glare or the light pollution or some wispy clouds. Whether you can see them or not, they're always there, glinting effortlessly down, like an invisible promise. Like faith.
I'm not one for religion, so Easter as a holiday is something that is lost entirely on me. But any day set aside to celebrate rebirth, that happens at the start of spring, is an excellent way to mark the end of the dark and the walk into the light.
Also, jelly beans are really good, but mostly the jolly rancher kind. Like, honestly. That shit is delicious.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Demand It Courageously
Make some room for yourself, human animal.
Even a dog jostles about on his master's lap to
improve his position. And when he needs space he
runs forward, without paying attention to commands
or calls.
If you didn't manage to receive freedom as a gift,
demand it as courageously as bread and meat.
Make some room for yourself, human pride and
dignity.
The Czech writer Hrabal said:
I have as much freedom as I take.
- Julia Hartwig
Even a dog jostles about on his master's lap to
improve his position. And when he needs space he
runs forward, without paying attention to commands
or calls.
If you didn't manage to receive freedom as a gift,
demand it as courageously as bread and meat.
Make some room for yourself, human pride and
dignity.
The Czech writer Hrabal said:
I have as much freedom as I take.
- Julia Hartwig
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Boot Hunting: The Kill.
Boots are serious business. Good ones must be both sexy and comfortable at the same time, and you should be able to wear them with anything - jeans and a big sweater on a cold, overcast Saturday, a pencil skirt to the office on an important meeting day, a dress and big earrings to the bar on a Saturday night. This kind of versatility is the most important thing about boots, considering a high quality pair can set you back an astonishing amount of money.
I have high demands of my boots - they must be as comfortable as slippers, and make me feel as hot as stilettos. I think boots are way, way sexier than frilly heels anyway. The right pair of boots makes me think of dirty dancing late at night in a roadside bar somewhere in the dusty south. In this mythical land I am throwing back tequila shots, sitting on a bar stool, legs crossed, while a jukebox blares something fantastic and twangy from a dark corner. I am singing along in a carefree, lusty way, my lipstick is perfect, and I am exactly the right amount of drunk.
In other words, this is a fantasy that I will never actually live, but the right boots make me almost, almost believe it could be so.
In this hot little scenario it's all boots, baby. Keep your rickety heels in the city, where every girl looks awkward and steps gingerly over sidewalk cracks and cobblestone streets, and spends the tail end of the night moaning about blisters and forming little blood trails down her heels.
I know all of this about boots from a combination of research and fantasy only, I am sad to report. In real life, I spent good money on one pair of boots ever; then proceeded to wear them every single winter day for the next four years like a sad, boring uniform. There is a literal hole in one of them now. You have to look closely to see it, but yeah, it's there. A hole. In my shoe. Like a hobo.
I have been hunting for a new pair all winter long. I've been circling a handful of stores, prowling some websites. My heart was set on Frye boots but even my wallet starts to tremble around the $400 level. I mean, what am I, a lawyer? Fuck no. I cry a little bit inside when I have to pony up $60 to get my hair cut. Which is why I almost never get my hair cut.
So now you know the truth about me. Instead of being that wild girl at that roadside bar singing and dancing and doing tequila shots, I'm secretly a hobo with shabby, hole-laden old boots and ratty hair. And while we're on this tangent, I should mention that I never, ever have an umbrella with me, or rain shoes, or gloves, or a hat. I have a weird tendency to accidentally steal library books, and to forget to close the door of my apartment behind me when I leave the building. I often toss a banana into my purse and forget until I find it, with deep regret and a handful of black slime, a week later. I regularly fall over things, knock over other things, and just tonight dropped a whole slice of pizza onto a fuzzy blanket but ate it anyway. I tend to swear in the absolute wrong moment, like at a funeral or in front of small children. I will always steal your chocolate. I will never be sorry.
If you don't find these qualities of mine charming in a spastic, pleasantly absent sort of way, then I am not for you, my friend.
But again, the boots: I have hunted, I have prowled, I have been vastly unsatisfied with my findings and unwilling to part with my cash. Until tonight! Tonight, whereupon my dear friend Gina and I browsed through a few stores in the village and happened upon an enormous boot sale at Steven, the high-end version of Steve Madden. Five pairs tried on and some mild stressing later, a new pair were finally mine. Pretty little black ones with a fun, sexy heel and that smell like buttery leather. They were $300 originally.
But tonight? Tonight, my dear friends? Those fantastic little beauties were $75.
I got home and danced around my apartment in them. I tried on all manner of things: jeans, little casual dresses, a sexy dress, and then graduated to dancing foolishly in my bedroom in nothing but the boots and my underwear. This excited no one, but it did confuse the dog, who kept chasing me and trying to lick them. Yes, she literally licked my boots. This is adorable until you realize she's probably actually trying to lick the cow that later became these boots, but whatever. That was his cow duty, and I am duly appreciative of his sacrifice. Maybe I'll eat the burger version of him tomorrow.
Boots, people. Get me that dirty bar, that jukebox, that tequila shot. Or, you know, my normal routine of walking to work and walking back home again. I can handle either plan, as long as my feet feel pretty.
***What I am learning: blogs inspire a weird mix of sloppy, confessional writing, but by 1 a.m. I am too tired to care.***
I have high demands of my boots - they must be as comfortable as slippers, and make me feel as hot as stilettos. I think boots are way, way sexier than frilly heels anyway. The right pair of boots makes me think of dirty dancing late at night in a roadside bar somewhere in the dusty south. In this mythical land I am throwing back tequila shots, sitting on a bar stool, legs crossed, while a jukebox blares something fantastic and twangy from a dark corner. I am singing along in a carefree, lusty way, my lipstick is perfect, and I am exactly the right amount of drunk.
In other words, this is a fantasy that I will never actually live, but the right boots make me almost, almost believe it could be so.
In this hot little scenario it's all boots, baby. Keep your rickety heels in the city, where every girl looks awkward and steps gingerly over sidewalk cracks and cobblestone streets, and spends the tail end of the night moaning about blisters and forming little blood trails down her heels.
I know all of this about boots from a combination of research and fantasy only, I am sad to report. In real life, I spent good money on one pair of boots ever; then proceeded to wear them every single winter day for the next four years like a sad, boring uniform. There is a literal hole in one of them now. You have to look closely to see it, but yeah, it's there. A hole. In my shoe. Like a hobo.
I have been hunting for a new pair all winter long. I've been circling a handful of stores, prowling some websites. My heart was set on Frye boots but even my wallet starts to tremble around the $400 level. I mean, what am I, a lawyer? Fuck no. I cry a little bit inside when I have to pony up $60 to get my hair cut. Which is why I almost never get my hair cut.
So now you know the truth about me. Instead of being that wild girl at that roadside bar singing and dancing and doing tequila shots, I'm secretly a hobo with shabby, hole-laden old boots and ratty hair. And while we're on this tangent, I should mention that I never, ever have an umbrella with me, or rain shoes, or gloves, or a hat. I have a weird tendency to accidentally steal library books, and to forget to close the door of my apartment behind me when I leave the building. I often toss a banana into my purse and forget until I find it, with deep regret and a handful of black slime, a week later. I regularly fall over things, knock over other things, and just tonight dropped a whole slice of pizza onto a fuzzy blanket but ate it anyway. I tend to swear in the absolute wrong moment, like at a funeral or in front of small children. I will always steal your chocolate. I will never be sorry.
If you don't find these qualities of mine charming in a spastic, pleasantly absent sort of way, then I am not for you, my friend.
But again, the boots: I have hunted, I have prowled, I have been vastly unsatisfied with my findings and unwilling to part with my cash. Until tonight! Tonight, whereupon my dear friend Gina and I browsed through a few stores in the village and happened upon an enormous boot sale at Steven, the high-end version of Steve Madden. Five pairs tried on and some mild stressing later, a new pair were finally mine. Pretty little black ones with a fun, sexy heel and that smell like buttery leather. They were $300 originally.
But tonight? Tonight, my dear friends? Those fantastic little beauties were $75.
I got home and danced around my apartment in them. I tried on all manner of things: jeans, little casual dresses, a sexy dress, and then graduated to dancing foolishly in my bedroom in nothing but the boots and my underwear. This excited no one, but it did confuse the dog, who kept chasing me and trying to lick them. Yes, she literally licked my boots. This is adorable until you realize she's probably actually trying to lick the cow that later became these boots, but whatever. That was his cow duty, and I am duly appreciative of his sacrifice. Maybe I'll eat the burger version of him tomorrow.
Boots, people. Get me that dirty bar, that jukebox, that tequila shot. Or, you know, my normal routine of walking to work and walking back home again. I can handle either plan, as long as my feet feel pretty.
***What I am learning: blogs inspire a weird mix of sloppy, confessional writing, but by 1 a.m. I am too tired to care.***
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
For Desire
Give me the strongest cheese, the one that stinks best;
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.
- Kim Addonizio
and I want the good wine, the swirl in crystal
surrendering the bruised scent of blackberries,
or cherries, the rich spurt in the back
of the throat, the holding it there before swallowing.
Give me the lover who yanks open the door
of his house and presses me to the wall
in the dim hallway, and keeps me there until I'm drenched
and shaking, whose kisses arrive by the boatload
and begin their delicious diaspora
through the cities and small towns of my body.
To hell with the saints, with martyrs
of my childhood meant to instruct me
in the power of endurance and faith,
to hell with the next world and its pallid angels
swooning and sighing like Victorian girls.
I want this world. I want to walk into
the ocean and feel it trying to drag me along
like I'm nothing but a broken bit of scratched glass,
and I want to resist it. I want to go
staggering and flailing my way
through the bars and back rooms,
through the gleaming hotels and weedy
lots of abandoned sunflowers and the parks
where dogs are let off their leashes
in spite of the signs, where they sniff each
other and roll together in the grass, I want to
lie down somewhere and suffer for love until
it nearly kills me, and then I want to get up again
and put on that little black dress and wait
for you, yes you, to come over here
and get down on your knees and tell me
just how fucking good I look.
- Kim Addonizio
Sunday, March 17, 2013
On...Fitness?
So, I'm getting close now. Close to being, if you will, "done" with losing weight. This is a strange and sort of daunting idea, when losing weight is something you've been...doing, something you've been in the active pursuit of, since you were literally what, eight years old? Nine?
The sadness in that is near overwhelming, of course. Actually, it disgusts me. But it's undeniably true, and probably is for an enormous amount of people, so let's just applaud ourselves for all being assholes in that way, shall we?
I know that once I hit my magical number, I'm going to have a lot to say about what this process has meant to me. And believe me, it's meant an extraordinary amount. It's not so much about looking good, although for sure, I am a fan of that. It's more about feeling strong as hell. Feeling strong is something I didn't realize could be so addicting. It's way hotter than feeling thin. It's sexy as shit, honestly.
I realize I'll never be a skinny girl now. All those times in high school that I went to the beach with my friends and lusted after the bodies of the tiny little girls in tiny little bikinis were misinformed at best, plain stupid at worst. That's just not ever, ever going to be me.
But now I realize I'd rather maybe look kind of rounded, less than model-perfect, and be able to run for miles. Which I can do now. Which is still astonishing and maybe always will be. I'd rather have a little bit of a chubby stomach - for the life of me, I cannot get rid of it - but be able to do 30 push-ups without collapsing, or wall squats for so long I leave gross streaks of sweat on the mirrored wall behind me. I often walk into that gym hating myself, loathing my life, so full of poison that I can't breath for the weight of all that self-hatred. I lift weights and do squats and planks for one hour, and I leave that place like a warrior fucking queen. It's amazing. Don't talk to me about addictions to heroin, to liquor, to cigarettes. Mine is the gym. If you try to take it away from me (who would? what a weird thing to say) I will have to plain kill you, and there's a solid chance I won't feel bad about it.
I've lost 65 pounds. For some reason my magic number is 70. At this point it's totally arbitrary, and I know five pounds means nothing, but there is still something to be said for crossing a finish line that you've been staring at in misery for your entire life.
I know now that it's not really about the number. It's not like I'll hit the 70 pound mark - which for me is 142 pounds, which is for sure not skinny at all - and suddenly stop caring. I'll still keep trying to be stronger, faster, better.
But there's a little girl in me crying because she's the fat girl at summer camp who doesn't want to put on a bathing suit in front of the other kids. For her, I want the satisfaction of the number. Just for proof that no matter how late the victory comes in life, it still counts.
Fuck numbers. They matter, they really, really do sometimes, but fuck them anyway.
Something in this process has made me angry. I will have to figure out why.
The sadness in that is near overwhelming, of course. Actually, it disgusts me. But it's undeniably true, and probably is for an enormous amount of people, so let's just applaud ourselves for all being assholes in that way, shall we?
I know that once I hit my magical number, I'm going to have a lot to say about what this process has meant to me. And believe me, it's meant an extraordinary amount. It's not so much about looking good, although for sure, I am a fan of that. It's more about feeling strong as hell. Feeling strong is something I didn't realize could be so addicting. It's way hotter than feeling thin. It's sexy as shit, honestly.
I realize I'll never be a skinny girl now. All those times in high school that I went to the beach with my friends and lusted after the bodies of the tiny little girls in tiny little bikinis were misinformed at best, plain stupid at worst. That's just not ever, ever going to be me.
But now I realize I'd rather maybe look kind of rounded, less than model-perfect, and be able to run for miles. Which I can do now. Which is still astonishing and maybe always will be. I'd rather have a little bit of a chubby stomach - for the life of me, I cannot get rid of it - but be able to do 30 push-ups without collapsing, or wall squats for so long I leave gross streaks of sweat on the mirrored wall behind me. I often walk into that gym hating myself, loathing my life, so full of poison that I can't breath for the weight of all that self-hatred. I lift weights and do squats and planks for one hour, and I leave that place like a warrior fucking queen. It's amazing. Don't talk to me about addictions to heroin, to liquor, to cigarettes. Mine is the gym. If you try to take it away from me (who would? what a weird thing to say) I will have to plain kill you, and there's a solid chance I won't feel bad about it.
I've lost 65 pounds. For some reason my magic number is 70. At this point it's totally arbitrary, and I know five pounds means nothing, but there is still something to be said for crossing a finish line that you've been staring at in misery for your entire life.
I know now that it's not really about the number. It's not like I'll hit the 70 pound mark - which for me is 142 pounds, which is for sure not skinny at all - and suddenly stop caring. I'll still keep trying to be stronger, faster, better.
But there's a little girl in me crying because she's the fat girl at summer camp who doesn't want to put on a bathing suit in front of the other kids. For her, I want the satisfaction of the number. Just for proof that no matter how late the victory comes in life, it still counts.
Fuck numbers. They matter, they really, really do sometimes, but fuck them anyway.
Something in this process has made me angry. I will have to figure out why.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
"Nothing is worth more than laughter. It is strength to laugh and to abandon oneself, to be light. Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing."
- Frida Kahlo
When I was 18 years old, I had a rough time of it. In September, my grandmother died. In November, my father died. In January, my grandfather died. The months in between were also genuinely less than stellar.
At the end of the third funeral, my mother, sister and I climbed into our third black limousine in front of the big, beautiful cathedral I'd grown up singing in but would now forevermore associate with loss. We clamored into our seats in that hunched, awkward way you do in limos, then looked quietly forward while we waited for the driver to start the engine.
I turned to my sister's sad face, noticed my mom's exhausted eyes. Outside it was an overcast, frigid morning. This whole situation was near-cartoonishly depressing, so I figured, what the hell.
"Well, hey now. Three times in the limo, never in the hearse, am I right?" I chortled, and theatrically elbowed my mom right in the ribcage. For a second I got nervous that I'd crossed a line, but then she sort of deflated and laughed a little, and then my sister kind of snorted, and I felt all that terrible pressure lift off my body for just a few blessed, light seconds.
Tragedy really is the most ridiculous thing. I swear, whether I die in some horrific accident tomorrow or snug under some blankets when I'm 96 and gray and fulfilled, if anyone gets all moony and weepy over me at my funeral I'm going to find a way to haunt the everliving crap out of them, and I will giggle with real delight at every goddamn minute of their big-eyed fright.
I mean, really now. If you can't find a way to laugh at a funeral, we should not be friends. Taking yourself, or death, too seriously is the quickest way to self-implode.
It's also just really, really boring.
- Frida Kahlo
When I was 18 years old, I had a rough time of it. In September, my grandmother died. In November, my father died. In January, my grandfather died. The months in between were also genuinely less than stellar.
At the end of the third funeral, my mother, sister and I climbed into our third black limousine in front of the big, beautiful cathedral I'd grown up singing in but would now forevermore associate with loss. We clamored into our seats in that hunched, awkward way you do in limos, then looked quietly forward while we waited for the driver to start the engine.
I turned to my sister's sad face, noticed my mom's exhausted eyes. Outside it was an overcast, frigid morning. This whole situation was near-cartoonishly depressing, so I figured, what the hell.
"Well, hey now. Three times in the limo, never in the hearse, am I right?" I chortled, and theatrically elbowed my mom right in the ribcage. For a second I got nervous that I'd crossed a line, but then she sort of deflated and laughed a little, and then my sister kind of snorted, and I felt all that terrible pressure lift off my body for just a few blessed, light seconds.
Tragedy really is the most ridiculous thing. I swear, whether I die in some horrific accident tomorrow or snug under some blankets when I'm 96 and gray and fulfilled, if anyone gets all moony and weepy over me at my funeral I'm going to find a way to haunt the everliving crap out of them, and I will giggle with real delight at every goddamn minute of their big-eyed fright.
I mean, really now. If you can't find a way to laugh at a funeral, we should not be friends. Taking yourself, or death, too seriously is the quickest way to self-implode.
It's also just really, really boring.
***This message has been brought to you by the other side of 4 a.m.***
Thursday, March 7, 2013
The Observation of a Good Day
Yesterday was a good day. I got some news that made me happy. I came home after work and ate a weirdo celebratory dinner of guacamole and delicious homemade chicken soup. While I was eating, a song that I'm currently obsessed with and have listened to at least five times today alone came on, so I put it on loud enough to be annoying and didn't care. I took a bath - a bath! this means that my bathtub was clean enough for me to voluntarily sit in, naked! - with a silly candle and an actual flute of champagne and two delicious new books to read. I took a photo of the candle and the champagne perched together on the edge of the bathtub and almost put it on instagram, but then I realized you could see the toilet framed just behind them, which of course made it all a little weird. I got all wrinkly in there in the meantime; it was grand.
I love the word grand. I dig how it automatically makes you sound Irish and lilting and jovial, even if you've said nothing to deserve any of that.
Happy days are uncommon sometimes, particularly during a gray, long winter. It is important to pay attention to them when they come, to notice them and, as a result, inhabit them fully. Otherwise they just slide by and before you know it, you're just another day older with nothing to be thankful for.
For Christmas, my cousin Kim gave me an antique glass jar that was empty except for colorful little slips of blank paper. She said that for every good thing that happens this year, I should pick one piece of paper, write it down, and stick it back in. Then, on New Years Eve next year, I should take them out one by one to remember and honor all those good things - no matter how small - that happened as the year passed.
What a simple, beautiful gift. An empty jar that I get to fill with my own happiness. For perhaps the first time this year, I'll have a few to add this week:
I love the word grand. I dig how it automatically makes you sound Irish and lilting and jovial, even if you've said nothing to deserve any of that.
Happy days are uncommon sometimes, particularly during a gray, long winter. It is important to pay attention to them when they come, to notice them and, as a result, inhabit them fully. Otherwise they just slide by and before you know it, you're just another day older with nothing to be thankful for.
For Christmas, my cousin Kim gave me an antique glass jar that was empty except for colorful little slips of blank paper. She said that for every good thing that happens this year, I should pick one piece of paper, write it down, and stick it back in. Then, on New Years Eve next year, I should take them out one by one to remember and honor all those good things - no matter how small - that happened as the year passed.
What a simple, beautiful gift. An empty jar that I get to fill with my own happiness. For perhaps the first time this year, I'll have a few to add this week:
- The way it felt to watch Carousel at Avery Fisher Hall in Lincoln Center. It was a concert performance with the NY Philharmonic, rather than a traditional stage show, and it was one of the most glorious musical moments I have ever experienced. I cried so hard when it was over that my husband had to stand with me in the balcony and wait for my internal storm to settle so I wouldn't fall down the stairs and kill myself while wailing about how sad and perfect all those dark images were: The park bench they fell in love on when they were young. The wife's childlike faith in his goodness, even after he failed her, even after he beat her. The way he dies so recklessly, so violently. The star he plucks out of the night sky to give to the dancing teenaged daughter he never met in real life, and the way he hovers around with such intense protection during her graduation, but she can't see him there. The falling blossoms on his aging wife, so many years later. But mostly, it's the idea of having one last chance to go back to earth after your death and do one simple good thing, one shining moment to set it all straight, and failing at even that. How perfectly, perfectly human and dark. I have gotten teary at performances before of course, but after this one I *literally* could not stop crying. It was astounding. Also, oh my god Nathan Gunn. Holy shit, people. He is magic.
- The fact that I JUST NOW REALIZED they recorded this performance for PBS!!!! April 26th! Ahhh!
- Being out to dinner afterwards, singing in my seat and dancing along with the bad radio station, shoving pieces of garlic bread into my mouth with wild abandon and absolutely no manners. For a few minutes there I was just lost in it, whatever "it" is, and I felt like myself, and I noticed it. It is the noticing of your own happiness that is important, folks. Paying attention is the thing. Otherwise, I was just an annoying girl singing too loud over her crabcakes.
- I went to Target on Sunday night. I spent an inordinate amount of time selecting new candles for my office, because I guess it turns out I'm a creature of habit and I can't write without a candle next to me. I love Target. Something about the vastness of it all, the great red and white florescent scentless joy of organized commerce, just soothes my tired soul.
- Tonight, of course. Good news and guacamole and chicken soup and champagne and books and a bathtub that is clean enough to climb into without twitching.
So ok, a random visit to Target may not make it into a memory jar, but the way it felt to watch Carousel will. Having a quiet, happy night tonight will. There is a beauty in noticing the simple things and clinging to them as they pass. I suppose that writing is, in essence, my memory jar. This blog, my copious email habit, my journals, all of it is just a way of capturing and preserving both the good and the bad.
I still don't know if that bent towards preservation is a good thing or a bad thing. I wonder about the people, so different than me, who just live their lives forward and never look back. That could be healthy, I suppose. But how do you learn? How do you honor who you were and where you came from, and then choose - with real sureness and direction - where you're going next? Sometimes I think those people are healthier than me, and sometimes I think it's all bullshit, and mostly I think, who the fuck cares? We are who we are.
So much of art is just encapsulation anyway; the effort to grab onto a moment and preserve it. Paintings, sculptures, plays, movies, photography, writing, all of it - it's preservation, it's story-telling, but it's more than that, too. It's illumination. It's paying attention to the world and how we all move within it. It's taking a simple moment, a simple story, and lighting it up. It's finding the spectacular hidden inside of the ordinary.
How could a world that makes a show like Carousel be anything other than beautiful?
I still don't know if that bent towards preservation is a good thing or a bad thing. I wonder about the people, so different than me, who just live their lives forward and never look back. That could be healthy, I suppose. But how do you learn? How do you honor who you were and where you came from, and then choose - with real sureness and direction - where you're going next? Sometimes I think those people are healthier than me, and sometimes I think it's all bullshit, and mostly I think, who the fuck cares? We are who we are.
So much of art is just encapsulation anyway; the effort to grab onto a moment and preserve it. Paintings, sculptures, plays, movies, photography, writing, all of it - it's preservation, it's story-telling, but it's more than that, too. It's illumination. It's paying attention to the world and how we all move within it. It's taking a simple moment, a simple story, and lighting it up. It's finding the spectacular hidden inside of the ordinary.
How could a world that makes a show like Carousel be anything other than beautiful?
Friday, March 1, 2013
Textbook Statistics
On average, 5 people are born every second and 1.78 die.
So we're ahead by 3.22, which is good, I think.
The average person will spend two weeks in his life
waiting for the traffic light to change.
Pubescent girls wait two to four years
for the tender lumps under their nipples to grow.
So the average adult has over 1,460 dreams a year,
laughs 15 times a day. Children, 385 more times.
So the average male adult mates 2,580 times with five different people
but falls in love only twice in his life - possibly
with the same person. Seventy-nine long years for each of us,
awakened to love in our twenties, so more or less
thirty years to love our two lovers each. And if, in a lifetime,
one walks a total of 13,640 miles by increments,
Where are you headed, traveler?
is a valid philosophical question to pose to a man, I think, along with
Why does the blood in your veins travel endlessly?
on account of those red cells flowing night and day
through the traffic of the blood vessels, which if laid out
in a straight line would be over 90,000 miles long.
The great Nile River in Egypt is 4,180 miles long.
The great circle of the earth's equator is 24,903 miles.
Dividing this green earth among all of us
gives a hundred square feet of living space to each,
but our brains take only one square foot of it,
along with the 29 bones of the skull, so
if you look outside your window with your mind only,
why do you hear the housefly hum middle octave, key of F?
If you listen to the cat on the rug by the fire with
the 32 muscles in your ear, you will hear
100 different vocal sounds. Listen to the dog
wishing for your love. 10 different sounds.
If you think lonliness is beyond calculation,
think of the mole digging a tunnel underground
ninety-eight miles long to China
is one single night. If you think beauty escapes you
or your entire genealogical tree, consider the slug
with its four uneven noses, or the chameleon shifting colors
under an arbitrary light. Think of the deepest point
in the deepest ocean, the Marianas Trench in the Pacific,
do you think anyone's sadness can be deeper? In 1681,
the last dodo bird died. In the 16th century,
Queen Elizabeth suffered from a fear of roses.
Anne Boleyn had six fingers. People fall in love
twice. The human heart beats 3 billion times - only - in a lifetime.
If you attempt to count all the stars in the galaxy, one
every second, it'll take 3 thousand years, if you're lucky.
As owls are the only birds that can see the color blue
the ocean is bluish, along with the sky and the eyes
of that boy who died alone by that little unnamed river
in your dreams one blue night of the war
of one of your lives. (Do you remember which one?)
Duration of World War 1: 4 years, 3 months, 14 days.
Duration of an equatorial sunset: 128 seconds, 142 tops.
A neuron's impulse takes 1/1000 of a second,
a morning's commute from Prospect Expressway
to the Brooklyn Bridge, about 90 minutes,
forty-five without traffic.
Time it takes for a flower to wilt after it's cut from the stem: five days.
Time left our sun before it runs out of light: five billion years.
Hence the number of happy citizens under the red glow
of that sun: maybe 50% of us, 50% on good days, tops.
Number who are sad: maybe 70% on good days -
especially on the good days. (The first emotion's more intense, I think,
when caught up with the second.) So children grow faster in the summer,
their bright blue bodies expanding. The ocean, after all, is blue
which is why the sky now outside your window is bluish
expanding with the white of something beautiful, like clouds.
Fact: The world is a beautiful place - once in a while.
Another fact: We fall in love twice. Maybe more, if we're lucky.
- Arkaye Kierulf
...there isn't a word to describe what it feels like to collapse into a perfect poem, but there should be. And it should sound like both music and an explosion happening at the same time. And it should be almost, but not quite, a profanity, because "bad words" are best at conveying intensity, and also because I swear like a sailor. Falling into a perfect poem is nothing if not intense.
This is wondrous.
So we're ahead by 3.22, which is good, I think.
The average person will spend two weeks in his life
waiting for the traffic light to change.
Pubescent girls wait two to four years
for the tender lumps under their nipples to grow.
So the average adult has over 1,460 dreams a year,
laughs 15 times a day. Children, 385 more times.
So the average male adult mates 2,580 times with five different people
but falls in love only twice in his life - possibly
with the same person. Seventy-nine long years for each of us,
awakened to love in our twenties, so more or less
thirty years to love our two lovers each. And if, in a lifetime,
one walks a total of 13,640 miles by increments,
Where are you headed, traveler?
is a valid philosophical question to pose to a man, I think, along with
Why does the blood in your veins travel endlessly?
on account of those red cells flowing night and day
through the traffic of the blood vessels, which if laid out
in a straight line would be over 90,000 miles long.
The great Nile River in Egypt is 4,180 miles long.
The great circle of the earth's equator is 24,903 miles.
Dividing this green earth among all of us
gives a hundred square feet of living space to each,
but our brains take only one square foot of it,
along with the 29 bones of the skull, so
if you look outside your window with your mind only,
why do you hear the housefly hum middle octave, key of F?
If you listen to the cat on the rug by the fire with
the 32 muscles in your ear, you will hear
100 different vocal sounds. Listen to the dog
wishing for your love. 10 different sounds.
If you think lonliness is beyond calculation,
think of the mole digging a tunnel underground
ninety-eight miles long to China
is one single night. If you think beauty escapes you
or your entire genealogical tree, consider the slug
with its four uneven noses, or the chameleon shifting colors
under an arbitrary light. Think of the deepest point
in the deepest ocean, the Marianas Trench in the Pacific,
do you think anyone's sadness can be deeper? In 1681,
the last dodo bird died. In the 16th century,
Queen Elizabeth suffered from a fear of roses.
Anne Boleyn had six fingers. People fall in love
twice. The human heart beats 3 billion times - only - in a lifetime.
If you attempt to count all the stars in the galaxy, one
every second, it'll take 3 thousand years, if you're lucky.
As owls are the only birds that can see the color blue
the ocean is bluish, along with the sky and the eyes
of that boy who died alone by that little unnamed river
in your dreams one blue night of the war
of one of your lives. (Do you remember which one?)
Duration of World War 1: 4 years, 3 months, 14 days.
Duration of an equatorial sunset: 128 seconds, 142 tops.
A neuron's impulse takes 1/1000 of a second,
a morning's commute from Prospect Expressway
to the Brooklyn Bridge, about 90 minutes,
forty-five without traffic.
Time it takes for a flower to wilt after it's cut from the stem: five days.
Time left our sun before it runs out of light: five billion years.
Hence the number of happy citizens under the red glow
of that sun: maybe 50% of us, 50% on good days, tops.
Number who are sad: maybe 70% on good days -
especially on the good days. (The first emotion's more intense, I think,
when caught up with the second.) So children grow faster in the summer,
their bright blue bodies expanding. The ocean, after all, is blue
which is why the sky now outside your window is bluish
expanding with the white of something beautiful, like clouds.
Fact: The world is a beautiful place - once in a while.
Another fact: We fall in love twice. Maybe more, if we're lucky.
- Arkaye Kierulf
...there isn't a word to describe what it feels like to collapse into a perfect poem, but there should be. And it should sound like both music and an explosion happening at the same time. And it should be almost, but not quite, a profanity, because "bad words" are best at conveying intensity, and also because I swear like a sailor. Falling into a perfect poem is nothing if not intense.
This is wondrous.
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