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.