December

A "congratulations" in a sea of murmured "so sorry"s. 

I couldn't even properly respond. It had been two years of dressing in black, two years filled with quite a lot of looking back and so very little looking forward. 

The sentiment had actually been hinted at before, by others who could stand to gain from it. But this seemed genuine. 

"I love the idea of you," a man once said to me. The idea, the idea, the projections and not the muck of me. And I do it too, with someone new, and I blush because I can't help myself. 

And I can't help but wonder, what if? What if that change in perspective is just the thing I need: a sturdy enough little ship, bravely pressing onward. 

Sky Blue

A tiny Bic lighter rests on top of my desk, which is built to resemble an old school desk and has afforded me near-daily joy for almost one year. The lighter is sky blue and is the companion to my lavender Mrs. Meyers candles. I was in the powder room of my favorite café in Brooklyn when I discovered the things. The label had been peeled off and I assumed it was a luxurious and handmade item, as everything in that neighborhood was a luxurious and handmade item. Craning my neck and lifting it overhead, I was delighted to discover the candle was acquirable and affordable. I've rarely been without one since.

I've also rarely been without a lighter. There was a time when, I'm a little afraid to admit, it was a constant, a talisman. I'd actually owned several; they were strewn about the house, where we could always find one, where we'd smoke when it was too cold to go outside. I'd pick a color to match my aesthetic, or if shopping in a bodega and given few choices, the least offensive hue. Sometimes I'd be feeling blah and the brown lighter would be purchased. It somehow felt natural and neutral, warm, earthy, and comforting.

When I finally quit (which I was actually proud of, which I probably should not have been, as it's really a no-brainer; but such was the result of my depression, slight addiction, and unsteady sense of self during those years) it hurt to see them around, to pull out an old handbag and brush my fingers against one hiding inside. I had dreams of banishing them all, but sometimes there are compromises you make, and so they stayed.

In time, the lighter became just another object. I couldn't continue on a path that was wrong for me, that was perhaps right for others, simply because I was afraid to go my own way. So I still keep one around and it no longer instills any feelings of anxiety. And yet, in a strangely sentimental way, it does remind me of when I was younger, grasping for my identity and hoping to find it in a kelly green, in a walnut brown, in a sky blue.

August

There's a surprising amount of noise for all the quiet.

Driving with the windows down, I hear crickets and katydids and cicadas and crickets.

(Did you know an SUV can take truck tires as well as plain old car tires? I did not.)

This SUV has truck tires. I can hear them too.

I hum along with the tires and the bugs and I think This Night Is Heavy.

Reckless.

There was a time when a heavy night equaled

Reckless.

When it signified

Potential.

I don't know why the moon hurtles its chalky orb into the sky with such a quickness now.

Or why it is August again and again and again so fast Too Fast I say.

I look for you who knew me before.

If you could be here now, to know me now

But not a one has come with me from low tide to high.

June

My legs are scratched and bruised, my shoulders are brown, just like when I was eight. I've almost fallen off a trail's edge several times now, usually in an attempt to pluck a strange wildflower or thistle. Along the way I see beetles and fire ants and rabbits and Queen Anne's lace and honeysuckle and jasmine. Earbuds in, I choreograph dances in my mind, like that time I was drunk and leaned up against our fireplace mantel, hands fluttering patterns for both themselves and the feet. You all laughed at my silliness. I kept going. 

I eat grapefruit while standing, gazing out of my kitchen window. It reminds me of my mother and of her mother. I eat California strawberries and avocados and I drink red wine and bourbon. I am happier more often than I'm not. Sometimes I press both hands into my door frame and whisper a thank you to my home for being here. Like that childhood game where you push push push then release and your arms float up like an angel's. 

I don't have the answers, not yet. And I feel guilty and uncertain and less than and too late and a failure and I apologize too much and sometimes I still cry myself to sleep. 

But then I awake. 

And I keep going. 

Arrow

She is serene.

Hair spun of cotton candy.

She is a Gibson Girl, she is a Klimt portrait.

She is a swan.

Rising up from her mat, she comes onto full relevé, tiny pop-rock-crackles from each perfect toe.

The students walk forward, thanking her for class. She envelops every outstretched hand with both of her hands, forehead slightly bowed.

One man thinks:

If we were lovers, we would stand facing one another, with hands clasped (my right in her left and my left in her right) and folded in towards our chests and our foreheads would bow to touch.

Like we were paper Valentines on a school desk.

Like we were the flashes of a photo booth and the strip that developed.

Like we were swans.

January 21st

My love, did you know
That ten years ago
I was wind-tossed and wrecked by you?

I asked over the telephone, "Did you ever receive your package?" You had not. So many things lost.

(A week later the battered box arrived at my door, having exploded somewhere around Maspeth and now missing a few of the gifts I'd packed. The birthday card survived. I threw it away.)

"Hmm, I sent it awhile ago." I tried to sound cheerful, but the fact that I perhaps carried much more sadness than mirth was evident upon my last visit to New York. I'd sensed it the morning I was to fly back, a panicky feeling that caused me to apologize over and over for my behavior on New Year's Eve. Behavior that was born from a longing to make us work and the discovery that you were moving on without me. It was desperate, it was not pretty, but it was love.

You ended it over the phone. It was your birthday. I couldn't quite grasp why you hadn't done it a couple of weeks prior, in person. As I fell to my knees howling, fistful of white blouse over my heart, I was glad you had not. Before the phone call ended you mentioned something (tearfully?) about keeping in contact. I said I didn't want a pen pal. This was before Facebook. We did not remain in touch.

What followed was an anniversary of sorts:

February 21st, one month, he's just going through something, he'll call. March 21st, two months, I'm slacking, teachers hate me, should I visit the city? April 21st, I was to move there soon, maybe he'll remember and change his mind? May 21st, my own birthday, I smiled, had the very best of friends surrounding me, and got black-out heartsick drunk.

By January, I was in California.  I was living alone for the first time, I was lonely, I was cleaning toilets, I was acting, I was happy, I was miserable. Sitting in the theatre during a break, other actors were asking a new guy about his birthday plans. My body trembled, a little shock, as it occurred to me that your birthday was coming up. And with it, the end to this awful anniversary of what ifs. It had been an entire year. And you had not changed your mind.

"When is your birthday?" I asked the new guy.

"January 21st."