In Spite of Everything, the Stars

Like a stunned piano, like a bucket
of fresh milk flung into the air
or a dozen fists of confetti
thrown hard at a bride
stepping down from the altar,
the stars surprise the sky.
Think of dazed stones
floating overhead, or an ocean
of starfish hung up to dry. Yes,
like a conductor's expectant arm
about to lift toward the chorus,
or a juggler's plates defying gravity,
or a hundred fastballs fired at once
and freezing in midair, the stars
startle the sky over the city.

And that's why drunks leaning up
against abandoned buildings, women
hurrying home on deserted side streets,
policemen turning blind corners, and
even thieves stepping from alleys
all stare up at once. Why else do
sleepwalkers move toward the windows,
or old men drag flimsy lawn chairs
onto fire escapes, or hardened criminals
press sad foreheads to steel bars?
Because the night is alive with lamps!
That's why in dark houses all over the city
dreams stir in the pillows, a million
plumes of breath rise into the sky.

- Edward Hirsch

...sometimes i can't catch my breath for the wonder of it all. this poem is a gift. perfect words in their perfect order are a gift. certain images and colors and sounds are gifts. gifts. and there is nothing else that i need.

well, ok, wait. maybe i need food. sometimes. also, sex is nice. shelter is helpful, in a roughly traditional kind of way. and i do find money to be convenient. coffee is important. and dogs. people are nice to have around. (er, sometimes.) so perhaps, i mean just maybe, i am a tad dramatic.

but what is this life for, if not to be moved by beauty? even just the title of this poem somehow calms me. in (artful) communication of any kind, whether it's music or words or a painting or a photograph or a movie or a play, there is always this blissed out moment of relief - this yes, yes, this person understands, they totally get it!

Which is, for me, immediately followed by a sincere thank fucking god. i'm not the only one.

Maybe only the neurotic among us know this knee-buckling relief in being understood, in seeing beauty valued, captured properly, and reflected back upon us. I hope not, though. It would be a sad, shallow kind of life to not be moved by these things.

In spite of everything, the stars.

It's 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday, and what have you accomplished?

"I began to realize how important it was to be an enthusiast in life. If you are interested in something, no matter what it is, go at it full speed ahead. Embrace it with both arms, hug it, love it, and above all become passionate about it. Lukewarm is no good. Hot is no good, either. White hot and passionate is the only thing to be."

- Roald Dahl

Yes, yes, absolutely yes, but...what about those days when it's essential, utterly essential, to do nothing but lay on the couch and get lost in the internet? Or eat a whole bag of family-sized Doritos? Or have lunch with a friend during which you have the same conversation you've had approximately 15 other times in the last year, but who cares, because no one is counting? Or those rainy days when you read six trashy magazines instead of a novel? Or sleep for another few hours because really, why not? Or decide to finally clean your apartment, put away exactly one shirt, and then lay down again, exhausted and defeated?

Those days are important, too. I am having one right now. It was near-medicinally necessary.

Balance. Right?

White hot and passionate is better, but sometimes you just need to lay there and stare at a spot on the ceiling, too. I'm gonna go do that now.

On Brownstones

I've written nothing here in a month. Nothing.

The weird thing is, the longer I go without writing here, the harder it becomes to start again. I'd have thought the opposite would be true, that it would be easy to find something to say after so long, but I was wrong.

If you are in the habit of writing often, then it's easy to say whatever stupid thing pops into your head. If you're writing less frequently, there becomes this urge to say something "important" or "beautiful" or "funny." Mounting internal pressure helps zero things, I usually find.

So fine, I have nothing important, or beautiful, or funny, to say. But I wanted to break the silence anyway. So, I'm writing about having nothing good to say.

But, let me say this: that goddamn humidity is finally gone. This morning I got up at 6:30 and walked my dog wearing shorts and a t-shirt, and the air was clean and cool. I got goosebumps on my thighs and felt a sort of wild relief at being able to breath again.

And so right now I'm sitting on my couch, looking out the windows of my living room. I love this view in the spring and summer. My apartment is on the second floor of a brownstone, a corner unit with lots of big, old, creaky windows. Being on the second floor means I'm leaf-level with the big oak (maybe-oak?) trees in my neighborhood. So when I look outside, right now, what I see is this: other brownstones across the street, and between me and them nothing but rustling, bright green leaves and the twisting old arms of branches. Sometimes a squirrel. And on a gorgeous clear morning like this one, the leaves are sun-dappled and luminous, and the birds are chattering, and I've long-since trained myself to block out the street noise, so this moment is about as country and peaceful as it gets in Jersey City.

When I was a little girl, I imagined myself growing up and living in a brownstone. I'd seen approximately one million movies where beautiful 20-something women came tripping down the stairs of their gorgeous apartments wearing shiny, clicky heels, flipping their shiny, perfect hair. Looking happy and adult in a way that I imagined would fit me.

Living in a real one is a bit of a bear sometimes. Like yesterday, when my husband dropped a razor into the porcelain sink and a huge chunk of it broke, and now our sink is un-sinkable. Or like that horrible night last year when the great mouse invasion happened and we caught and/or murdered eight of them, me shrieking wildly the entire time, in less than 48 hours. You try sleeping with the souls of eight broken necked mice hanging over your head. I dare you.

But mostly, I love it. Every morning I wake up and write a little bit while looking out these old, grainy windows, and I think about the fact that this building has been here for 150 years or something insane like that. I think about the many lives it's held, the stories it's collected in its old brick walls. It makes me feel like I"m a part of something continuing and sturdy. Something lasting.

Right now a squirrel is sitting on a branch, gazing up into the sun. If my dog sees it, she'll freak the fuck out. And thus, the circle of life continues on.

Now I'm going to work. You are welcome.

Advice for Writers

"Be brave. Write what's true for you. Write what you think. Write about what confuses or compels you. Write about the crazy, hard, and beautiful. Write what scares you. Write what makes you laugh and write what makes you weep. Writing is risk and revelation. There's no need to show up at the party if you're only going to stand around with your hands in your pockets and stare at the drapes."

- Cheryl Strayed