Tonight I had dinner with Nelson and began bemoaning the fact that most of the people in my new program do not speak the language of food and culture and philosophy that he and I share. I told him the way I had expected the people to be like us, to be able to speak intelligently and with authority on theories of cuisine and about the current happenings of the gastronomical world.
During this dialogue, it came out that some of the students have a more utilitarian approach to food studies; thinking about school lunch reform and localization projects. This in turn lead to a discussion about my purpose and goals for the program.
Some peculiar truths were teased out of this seemingly innocuous conversation. I began to speak about my passion for translating the human experience through the unique activity of eating, the amazingly rare phenomenon of a simultaneously utilitarian and indulgent act, matched only by sex in its universal application, and finally about the way that this dichotomy allows me to ground my sometimes overly philosophical or existential observations and musings in something tangible and real. I told him that I want to share my passions and ideas through my writing, but I have not figured out the best medium for it yet. Will I be best served with editorial or narrative writing or academic research? Will I be funded through grants or book advances?
We came to a point of concern. There is a fear, and perhaps rightly so, that academic writing; the scientification of these ideas, may in some way steal the soul of the concepts. This is an interesting problem, and one to keep in the back of my mind over the next few months.
While interesting on some level, many of the readings I have been working through have a clinical air about them. This is not a voice I want to mimic. I have decided to give this program and that path a fair shake. I am going to put 100% into my classes while attempting to stay true to my voice and my vision. As in love, we will either mesh or we won’t, and if we don’t then it is not to be considered a failure by either party, but simply a mismatch.
This will be a challenge for me. I am a fantastic adaptor, unceasingly adept at figuring out what is expected of me and delivering. That is fine, but I must learn to always keep an eye fixed on what I expect of myself and let that trump all. It is an interesting thing learning what your vision truly is, and something clarified by challenge and push-back. It seems that in an easy world without challenge, it become impossible to carve out a clear picture of what you truly believe or of what you truly aspire to.
These challenges are significant, but not catastrophic. The uncertainly is not actively terrifying, but it does take my breath away, like someone walking in the dark who stops just shy of an abyss.
I have gone down the winding, tortuous path in search of purpose before. I began with the query as to whether my motivation was merely a memorialization of my own personal experiences, and therefore myself, or a desire to share my experiences. I think that while I do want to memorialize, it is more than simple navel gazing I wish to capture. I want to write into immortality, bring into the homes of the unsuspecting a picture of a world they haven’t the ability to see for themselves. It is through this sharing that I hope to make the world a bigger place. I want to share the exotic flavors of the lands many will never travel to. I want to give a new perspective on life.
The greatest influences in my life have been the authors who penned into my heart worlds and lives I had not been able to imagine. They opened my world and my heart to possibilities I was never aware of before. When I am distraught, it is not the self-help section of the library I turn to, but the novels and biographies.
Giving someone the opportunity to see the world through another set of eyes, in a context that speaks to their soul, that is to me one of the greatest marvels of the human experience. I want to feed the imagination and the soul with a tantalizing feast. In the sharing of the feast, I will be enabled to fully satiate my own hunger. I cannot fully savor a meal if it is taken in solitude. I would go so far as to say that it is not truly a meal to me unless it is shared. In the same way, an experience does not become an adventure until it is shared.
I want to feast and explore, now I just have to figure out how. It is a blessing that I have had my blinders removed so early on, neither this program nor any other will ensure my goals will be met. The security blanket of credentials has become as useful a shield as a quilt to me, and it is good to know that I am not protected. I think the lack of security will give me the motivation needed to keep from losing my way, from falling into the pitfall of achieving simply to achieve. What I want cannot be taught like a vocation.
I must take it upon myself to prepare and keep my eyes open to possibilities and the markers along the way God will etch out for me. This is faith without a safety net. I see the drop and it leaves me breathless. Perhaps this is what God has been preparing me for, perhaps this time I am going to have to jump. I don’t know how and I don’t know when, but I know that I need to be prepared. God has lead me to the mountain peak, like Elijah to the alter, I pray that I have the courage and faith to make the plunge.
He knows I’m not ready yet, or maybe I am. He has shown me the chasm, I don’t know if I am breathless and brave or simply breathless from the shock of fear. I will pray for faith, it seems the only currency in the perilous land of dreams and greatness.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Words and Seasons
My fellow writer and I were musing the other night, as we often do, in a little cafe with a perfectly clear night sky and wine as smooth as the breeze surrounding us. We were bemused by the fact that when life is at its most voracious, offering so much content, we find it impossible to write. We have made a craft of turning the mundane into an adventure, finding the beauty in the ordinary. With this season of near manic reality, words just seem to fall short.
My writing has been a reflection of my life this year in that it has been fragmented and frenzied. When I try to control the flow I render the words contrived and empty.
There is a dark, deep truth in the pain soaked words that mark the beginning of this year, this amazing year. It began in the winter, a winter so cold and dark and bitter than I was wrought with a near obsession with the spring and brighter days. Then the spring did come. It did not come gently, but with a gluttonous roar. I suppose this should have been expected. When you wait so long for something, you tend to pounce upon it with the abandon of a starving refugee.
I lived as though death was nipping at my heels. There were times I no longer slept, I was terrified of stopping and letting the darkness catch me again. Spring moved to Summer and I ran faster and harder. This period was not marked by peace, but it was filled with brightness. I was a coma victim who was learning how to use muscles which had begun to atrophy after such a long period of uselessness. My heart was the muscle which had been still the longest. It was used to pain and learning to feel anything else was like learning to walk again.
There was a moment, a few beautiful moments, where I had everything. There were fewer moments still where I was able to have it all in my hands without shaking in terror at the fragility of it.
I suppose the way to summarize this time would be to call it freedom. Freedom is an intoxicating drug. It is, in its purest form, the absence of security. It sometimes feels like flying and more often like falling.
I teetered across a tight rope between peace and anxiety in their most potent forms. I wondered sometimes whether living in these extreme states would kill me, not that it mattered; I was in no position to stop this manic ride.
I reached the pinnacle of this mania and then, with just as little warning, it began to slow down. Some dreams began to fall and shatter around me, while others simply stood like bare branches, quietly watching their growing nakedness.
Now it is the fall and I feel the death of each leaf, bewildered at the pain of something so natural and inevitable. This is a quiet time and I am afraid. I know winter stands before me and another spring beyond that, but what truths wait for me there?
I pray that in the quiet of this season I will find clarity, that I will find peace, and that I will be able to hold onto the fire and warmth of the previous seasons. It will not be an inferno, as I have said, I’m not sure how long one can live in the face of that blaze. No, I simply hope that it will remain like a candle; gently flickering and reminding me of the warmth that lies ahead. Perhaps now in the quiet I can look back and write about that time in narrative, stringing together the fragmented bits and telling the story. Perhaps in retrospect I will begin to find words to describe the phenomenal, without rendering it mundane.
My writing has been a reflection of my life this year in that it has been fragmented and frenzied. When I try to control the flow I render the words contrived and empty.
There is a dark, deep truth in the pain soaked words that mark the beginning of this year, this amazing year. It began in the winter, a winter so cold and dark and bitter than I was wrought with a near obsession with the spring and brighter days. Then the spring did come. It did not come gently, but with a gluttonous roar. I suppose this should have been expected. When you wait so long for something, you tend to pounce upon it with the abandon of a starving refugee.
I lived as though death was nipping at my heels. There were times I no longer slept, I was terrified of stopping and letting the darkness catch me again. Spring moved to Summer and I ran faster and harder. This period was not marked by peace, but it was filled with brightness. I was a coma victim who was learning how to use muscles which had begun to atrophy after such a long period of uselessness. My heart was the muscle which had been still the longest. It was used to pain and learning to feel anything else was like learning to walk again.
There was a moment, a few beautiful moments, where I had everything. There were fewer moments still where I was able to have it all in my hands without shaking in terror at the fragility of it.
I suppose the way to summarize this time would be to call it freedom. Freedom is an intoxicating drug. It is, in its purest form, the absence of security. It sometimes feels like flying and more often like falling.
I teetered across a tight rope between peace and anxiety in their most potent forms. I wondered sometimes whether living in these extreme states would kill me, not that it mattered; I was in no position to stop this manic ride.
I reached the pinnacle of this mania and then, with just as little warning, it began to slow down. Some dreams began to fall and shatter around me, while others simply stood like bare branches, quietly watching their growing nakedness.
Now it is the fall and I feel the death of each leaf, bewildered at the pain of something so natural and inevitable. This is a quiet time and I am afraid. I know winter stands before me and another spring beyond that, but what truths wait for me there?
I pray that in the quiet of this season I will find clarity, that I will find peace, and that I will be able to hold onto the fire and warmth of the previous seasons. It will not be an inferno, as I have said, I’m not sure how long one can live in the face of that blaze. No, I simply hope that it will remain like a candle; gently flickering and reminding me of the warmth that lies ahead. Perhaps now in the quiet I can look back and write about that time in narrative, stringing together the fragmented bits and telling the story. Perhaps in retrospect I will begin to find words to describe the phenomenal, without rendering it mundane.
Goals
Is my goal to share my experiences of the world or to memorialize and immortalize them?
Is it enough to enjoy a dish, or do you want to understand the elements of the dish that make it what it is? My interest is not in the technical recreation except insofar as the recreation can enlighten me to a fuller understanding of that which I enjoy. Understanding enhances the enjoyment for me.
In the same way, when I travel, understanding the context of the place and the experience enhances my enjoyment of the “otherness” of the place.
Food is the context through which I can understand my own desires, the world around me and the baseline for the people I come in contact with. In the relative space of an intellectualized life, it is through the mysterious utilitarian pleasure of cuisine that I find my anchor, my grounding, the practice of the principles. To me food is not merely a vehicle for expression and sustenance, it the tangible embodiment of our identities and desires. That is why the why matters to me, understanding may help me better navigate the mental labyrinth of life.
I suppose the sharing and memorializing may be part of the same need. I wonder if, as humans, we are so fundamentally communal that a life which is not born witness to is really a life at all. Again, as I teeter on the edge of a concept too cavernous and overwhelming to fall into, I go back to the table. The pleasure of a meal, for me, is enhanced through the sharing. I can taste the same flavors, feel some sense of sating, but the same meal shared contains a level of satisfaction impossible to achieve in isolation.
The art of dining alone is not one which I am versed in, it feels empty somehow. In the same way my words seem impotent with only my eyes to see them. What do I hope to achieve? Do I hope to change the world with my perspective? No, sadly, my intentions are not that altruistic. I write because I must and I long to share my words to give them life.
I have a curious mind, eyes to see, ears to hear, and mind to understand and translate. I will go and find the little truths, I will collect them and bring them back. I will forage for the beautiful and the exotic and the resulting meal is one that is too spectacular not to be shared. Perhaps it will change the world. Perhaps it will give people hope.
I suppose the question of purpose has no place in art, or maybe even in life. The quest to find or create something real, something beautiful, it is one that is not so much something one chooses to do so much as something they can’t help but do. It is like breathing. I must question, I must explore, I must write. Without these things I am not living.
This may be the one thing that I should not try to find the “why” to. Perhaps this is the one thing that just is.
Is it enough to enjoy a dish, or do you want to understand the elements of the dish that make it what it is? My interest is not in the technical recreation except insofar as the recreation can enlighten me to a fuller understanding of that which I enjoy. Understanding enhances the enjoyment for me.
In the same way, when I travel, understanding the context of the place and the experience enhances my enjoyment of the “otherness” of the place.
Food is the context through which I can understand my own desires, the world around me and the baseline for the people I come in contact with. In the relative space of an intellectualized life, it is through the mysterious utilitarian pleasure of cuisine that I find my anchor, my grounding, the practice of the principles. To me food is not merely a vehicle for expression and sustenance, it the tangible embodiment of our identities and desires. That is why the why matters to me, understanding may help me better navigate the mental labyrinth of life.
I suppose the sharing and memorializing may be part of the same need. I wonder if, as humans, we are so fundamentally communal that a life which is not born witness to is really a life at all. Again, as I teeter on the edge of a concept too cavernous and overwhelming to fall into, I go back to the table. The pleasure of a meal, for me, is enhanced through the sharing. I can taste the same flavors, feel some sense of sating, but the same meal shared contains a level of satisfaction impossible to achieve in isolation.
The art of dining alone is not one which I am versed in, it feels empty somehow. In the same way my words seem impotent with only my eyes to see them. What do I hope to achieve? Do I hope to change the world with my perspective? No, sadly, my intentions are not that altruistic. I write because I must and I long to share my words to give them life.
I have a curious mind, eyes to see, ears to hear, and mind to understand and translate. I will go and find the little truths, I will collect them and bring them back. I will forage for the beautiful and the exotic and the resulting meal is one that is too spectacular not to be shared. Perhaps it will change the world. Perhaps it will give people hope.
I suppose the question of purpose has no place in art, or maybe even in life. The quest to find or create something real, something beautiful, it is one that is not so much something one chooses to do so much as something they can’t help but do. It is like breathing. I must question, I must explore, I must write. Without these things I am not living.
This may be the one thing that I should not try to find the “why” to. Perhaps this is the one thing that just is.
Peace
September 3, 2010
There is a strange peace that comes with acceptance. Not happiness, but only fools and drunks can maintain that feeling throughout the days and years. No, this is just a quiet. I will have or I won’t, all these things good and bad, come and go. I have to stop trying to cling to the wind and simply feel it.
I will keep moving forward. I will smile when the breeze kisses my face and I will press on when it whips around me, trying to push me back. What else can I do? You cannot hold the wind, you cannot change its flow. You can try to stay indoors, only hearing it tapping on your shutters or bustling your curtains, but then you may as well be dead.
The only certainty is that it will always blow. It will never stop for more than a moment. Acceptance, not submission, is the only safeguard against the madness that threatens to consume one who lives in a place where the wind is constant and ever-changing.
There is a strange peace that comes with acceptance. Not happiness, but only fools and drunks can maintain that feeling throughout the days and years. No, this is just a quiet. I will have or I won’t, all these things good and bad, come and go. I have to stop trying to cling to the wind and simply feel it.
I will keep moving forward. I will smile when the breeze kisses my face and I will press on when it whips around me, trying to push me back. What else can I do? You cannot hold the wind, you cannot change its flow. You can try to stay indoors, only hearing it tapping on your shutters or bustling your curtains, but then you may as well be dead.
The only certainty is that it will always blow. It will never stop for more than a moment. Acceptance, not submission, is the only safeguard against the madness that threatens to consume one who lives in a place where the wind is constant and ever-changing.
Dying, Again
September 2, 2010
How can dying hurt so much every time? The terror that comes from knowing what is in store only adds to the agony. The grey of the dead time has already begun to cover me. Ghosts can’t taste, can’t smile, and cannot lift their faces to the horizon. I eat and it is sawdust, I try to turn my lips up and it hurts, the once bright horizon is shrouded in darkness. All that remains is the ache.
I now know what I have been screaming, every time I sob, “save me”. I cannot save myself from this death. I will revive myself, but there is no stopping the dark death of heartbreak. Every man I have ever loved has let me die. Some have been necrophiliacs, continuing to make love to my lifeless corpse, some have walked away, but not one has heeded my cries.
My old nemesis, Lonely, has found me again. He makes the death even more tortured. My only salvation lies in the cruelly slow hands of time. I will taste again, I will find my hunger and my smile, but there is no telling when I will see those dear friends again. Last time was different, it was years in the making and I had let much of it die already. My desire still lives this time, making me acutely aware of every labored breath.
I ran last time. I filled the screaming silence with chatter and drinks, I ran from sleep as it was useless. I don’t know if I have the strength to run this time, hell, I don’t know if I have the strength to sit still.
I tried to comfort myself with food until it made me ill. I am more comfortable with an empty stomach. I tried to sleep it away, but the nightmares continue. I tried to seek solace in company, but their life made me more aware of my own death. I have smoked my throat raw, waiting for the relieve to set in. I drink until I feel something close to nothing, but the pain still catches me as the alcohol is absorbed. I work and am distracted for precious moments, but there is no relief.
No, there is no comfort in this death. There is no peace. Why couldn’t he have been who he pretended to be? Why did this heart of mine have to fall in love with a fraud? I still have to give him my final warning, and his final bullet to put through my heart. There is no hope inside of me, he has already shown me the answer, I simply need to hear it. Then it will be done, perhaps then I can submit to the death and wait for my reincarnation.
Each time I wonder if it will be the last, each time I wonder if this will be the time I stay dead. My mind says coldly, but not unkindly, that I know it will not last forever. My heart just weeps and writhes in her suffering. There are no more “I told you so’s” from the assassin, she just wears her anguish on her face and lets a few tears slip down her cheeks for the heart’s suffering. There is nothing left to fight or protect, what is done is done.
We all knew this was a risk. The mind rationalized the risk with empirical data and observations, the assassin was subdued only until the first red flag was waved, but by then the heart was too far gone. There was a point where a collective decision was made. There was a point when we saw the amazing possibilities and knew that we must either surge ahead or walk away. We are brave, we three, if nothing else. We were afraid, but it is not in us to walk away from an opportunity, not one this rare. We gambled. Only the assassin knowing how much we had wagered. I saw it in her wild eyes, but I wanted so deeply to be wrong this time, I wanted so deeply to be saved.
The line has blurred between the hurt and the love, making it impossible for the mind to see him clearly, or for the heart to trust herself or for the assassin to take a shot. We simply sit here, in the darkened room with our pain, waiting, again waiting. We glance every now and then, hatefully at the unwelcome guest. The hideous Loneliness lurks across the room.
The bottom line is, it sucks to die, and dying is the only ending I have ever had to a love story. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? No, it is not better, but I keep on dying, so I guess that makes me the contradictory one doesn’t it?
Desire is our lifeblood, you kill that and you die. You chase your longing, and it will probably end with your demise. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, spectacular.
How can dying hurt so much every time? The terror that comes from knowing what is in store only adds to the agony. The grey of the dead time has already begun to cover me. Ghosts can’t taste, can’t smile, and cannot lift their faces to the horizon. I eat and it is sawdust, I try to turn my lips up and it hurts, the once bright horizon is shrouded in darkness. All that remains is the ache.
I now know what I have been screaming, every time I sob, “save me”. I cannot save myself from this death. I will revive myself, but there is no stopping the dark death of heartbreak. Every man I have ever loved has let me die. Some have been necrophiliacs, continuing to make love to my lifeless corpse, some have walked away, but not one has heeded my cries.
My old nemesis, Lonely, has found me again. He makes the death even more tortured. My only salvation lies in the cruelly slow hands of time. I will taste again, I will find my hunger and my smile, but there is no telling when I will see those dear friends again. Last time was different, it was years in the making and I had let much of it die already. My desire still lives this time, making me acutely aware of every labored breath.
I ran last time. I filled the screaming silence with chatter and drinks, I ran from sleep as it was useless. I don’t know if I have the strength to run this time, hell, I don’t know if I have the strength to sit still.
I tried to comfort myself with food until it made me ill. I am more comfortable with an empty stomach. I tried to sleep it away, but the nightmares continue. I tried to seek solace in company, but their life made me more aware of my own death. I have smoked my throat raw, waiting for the relieve to set in. I drink until I feel something close to nothing, but the pain still catches me as the alcohol is absorbed. I work and am distracted for precious moments, but there is no relief.
No, there is no comfort in this death. There is no peace. Why couldn’t he have been who he pretended to be? Why did this heart of mine have to fall in love with a fraud? I still have to give him my final warning, and his final bullet to put through my heart. There is no hope inside of me, he has already shown me the answer, I simply need to hear it. Then it will be done, perhaps then I can submit to the death and wait for my reincarnation.
Each time I wonder if it will be the last, each time I wonder if this will be the time I stay dead. My mind says coldly, but not unkindly, that I know it will not last forever. My heart just weeps and writhes in her suffering. There are no more “I told you so’s” from the assassin, she just wears her anguish on her face and lets a few tears slip down her cheeks for the heart’s suffering. There is nothing left to fight or protect, what is done is done.
We all knew this was a risk. The mind rationalized the risk with empirical data and observations, the assassin was subdued only until the first red flag was waved, but by then the heart was too far gone. There was a point where a collective decision was made. There was a point when we saw the amazing possibilities and knew that we must either surge ahead or walk away. We are brave, we three, if nothing else. We were afraid, but it is not in us to walk away from an opportunity, not one this rare. We gambled. Only the assassin knowing how much we had wagered. I saw it in her wild eyes, but I wanted so deeply to be wrong this time, I wanted so deeply to be saved.
The line has blurred between the hurt and the love, making it impossible for the mind to see him clearly, or for the heart to trust herself or for the assassin to take a shot. We simply sit here, in the darkened room with our pain, waiting, again waiting. We glance every now and then, hatefully at the unwelcome guest. The hideous Loneliness lurks across the room.
The bottom line is, it sucks to die, and dying is the only ending I have ever had to a love story. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? No, it is not better, but I keep on dying, so I guess that makes me the contradictory one doesn’t it?
Desire is our lifeblood, you kill that and you die. You chase your longing, and it will probably end with your demise. Damned if you do and damned if you don’t, spectacular.
The Night my Soul Mingled with Ghosts and Poets
August 6th, 2010
Last night I sat with the spirits of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, with Faulkner and O. Henry and Julia and MFK too. Sabrina and I sat and conversed in their presence on a sidewalk café, drinking and transcending the time and place, yet being fully present in it. We spoke about life and love, wars and re-birth, God and truth and beauty. We spoke about writing and passion, the way only writers can, and the terror and ecstasy associated with the craft.
We humans so crave understanding, true communion with other human beings, it is such a rare gift to find it, even if just for one night in a west village café. In just this night I celebrated our meeting and mourned the death of a dear friend who I will carry in my heart through the moments and years. The wild thing inside of me was tamed and tantalized, like a lion purring. It saw a glimpse of a fellow creature, perhaps not of the same tribe, but of the same place. She felt at home, she felt both peaceful and free.
“Only in little old New York” O. Henry whispered, as Fitzgerald cried for his lost love and Hemmingway dreamed of other cities across the sea; Julia laughed and reached out for Paul, while MFK bravely looked into the distance and mused about her lives and loves and flavors both bitter and sweet, Faulkner cracked a melancholy smile, while we two young souls, still walking among the living, inspired one another with ideas to alien for most ears to hear. Last night my soul sang, my mind was free and I danced with ghosts under the watchful eye of the Manhattan lights.
Last night I sat with the spirits of Hemmingway and Fitzgerald, with Faulkner and O. Henry and Julia and MFK too. Sabrina and I sat and conversed in their presence on a sidewalk café, drinking and transcending the time and place, yet being fully present in it. We spoke about life and love, wars and re-birth, God and truth and beauty. We spoke about writing and passion, the way only writers can, and the terror and ecstasy associated with the craft.
We humans so crave understanding, true communion with other human beings, it is such a rare gift to find it, even if just for one night in a west village café. In just this night I celebrated our meeting and mourned the death of a dear friend who I will carry in my heart through the moments and years. The wild thing inside of me was tamed and tantalized, like a lion purring. It saw a glimpse of a fellow creature, perhaps not of the same tribe, but of the same place. She felt at home, she felt both peaceful and free.
“Only in little old New York” O. Henry whispered, as Fitzgerald cried for his lost love and Hemmingway dreamed of other cities across the sea; Julia laughed and reached out for Paul, while MFK bravely looked into the distance and mused about her lives and loves and flavors both bitter and sweet, Faulkner cracked a melancholy smile, while we two young souls, still walking among the living, inspired one another with ideas to alien for most ears to hear. Last night my soul sang, my mind was free and I danced with ghosts under the watchful eye of the Manhattan lights.
One Perfect Moment
July 10th, 2010
I had a beautiful night tonight. I walked from the West Side up to my East Side home. I let the music pour over me, the city fill my eyes in the fading light and God hold my hand and speak softly in my ear. I was still and peaceful, floating through my city and resting in my life.
I thought about all my treasures, all my people. I thought about the beautiful possibilities that keep being handed to me like extravagant gifts from a new lover. As though NYU wasn’t enough, as though being given the opportunity to chase my dream was enough, I am now being given the opportunity to live another old dream while doing so. I’m also being given the opportunity to love. It seems that when I say “thank you” and tell myself that what I have is enough, I am suddenly handed more than I could have ever dared to ask for.
I said, “A career is enough”. I said, “My friends are enough”. I said, “Being comfortable alone is enough”. Minnie is offering me the opportunity to chase a dream and live one simultaneously. He is giving me the opportunity to let someone love me, to trust. I had enough, yet I am being given so much more.
Neither is guaranteed, neither can be earned, they both must just be hoped for.
I was beginning to let the doubt and fear push Him into my heart like a knife. Today he gave me the reassurance I needed. He wants to move to New York. He wants to be with me. He is working on it and I trust him. He told me it would be a year or so, he asked me if I would wait for him that long. I simply said, yes. I did not ask him if he could wait that long, I didn’t even think to. I am learning to feel without fear. Accept and give boldly. I am learning to be strong even when my heart is in the open.
I am learning, I am learning so much. I am so afraid so much of the time. I am so afraid of my desires, so afraid of forgetting, so afraid of falling. I never knew I was so afraid. I am learning to live courageously; I am learning that the fear that is not the issue, just what you do with it. It is courage, not fearlessness I need. Fearlessness comes when you slay the dragon. Fearlessness comes when you look it in the eyes and walk strait through it, through it and into your desires.
I have these beautiful moments where the blindfold of the day to day battles is removed and I am able to see the shining splendor of my life. I was struggling, wondering whether the pain or the pleasure was the mirage; the pain seems so real sometimes. The radiance is real; the pain is merely passing through.
I watched the shining lights of the city drifting past me as we sped down the West Side Highway on our way from Hell’s Kitchen to the East Village. I was on my way to my third party of the evening with my best friend. I had spent the day with amazing, interesting people who were all vying for my time. I was on my way to celebrate the success of a beautiful artist who loves me and wants to share her victory with me. I knew the man I am falling in love with was dreaming about me and devising a plan to be with me. I knew that everything I wanted to be, I was starting to become. I knew that I was loved and savored by an amazing array of people. I knew that I lived in the most glamorous city in the world. I knew that I was living the dream. It was stunning.
My story is being written, it is building in an amazing arc. I have trouble beginning in childhood, I’m not sure if it is relevant to the story anymore. It may have begun in November 2001 when I sat in the CU Denver library, e-mailing a recruiter for the US Army.
I grew up on the bases of Ft. Jackson, Eustis, Bragg and Campbell. I was lost and found in the Deserts of Iraq. I died in Oak Grove, Kentucky. I began to come back to life in Atlanta, Georgia. I jumped from a burning ship into the dark arms of the unknown as I drove north. I fought my way out of Newark and into New York City. I wandered the city, like a lost child, until I decided the only way to find home was to build it. I transformed an angry, lonely, desperately ordinary life. I grew a community, fostered an army of friends, and created an adventure. I found my passion and I found a way to chase it. I let go of security and embraced freedom. I took every chance. I have the life I once dreamed about. I have a romance writing itself, that I myself never could have written. I have a career building around me. I have little control, but that is teaching me how to hope. It is terrifying to have so much to gain and so much to lose. Who knew that the greatest leap of faith would be living the life I fantasized about?
Hemingway was right, I own it all. I own it with each keystroke and each image I absorb. I looked at the beautiful apartment in the West Village, and it was mine. I looked at the Eames chair on 6th Avenue and it belonged to me. I looked at the giants and apartments I had seen on television, rising up before me, and I possessed them. All I seek to keep locked-up close to my heart, are those I cannot own. I desperately cherish the only assets that matter to me: the players in this story. My best friend, my crazy characters, my sisters, my someday lover. In a way they belong to this page like all the rest, but there is simply no substitute for their flesh and bone and voices. That is the story I am really trying to write, the one in which they will all belong to me forever. The story in which I can share this amazing menagerie with those who can only live this life through the pages I write. I want to write a story to feed the soul of the woman I once was. That story drives me, as I live it I try desperately to capture it before it passes through my fingers like fine sand.
I do want to clutch someone to me. I have felt the familiar desire lately to have a character who lives and breathes and will be mine in more than typeset alone. I want my love to be transformed from a fantasy to a reality. I want this romance to exist in this world where anything is possible; I want it to be the proof. I want to touch him, I want to hold him in my arms, knowing that he doesn’t not belong to me, but fought to be embraced by me nonetheless. In short, I want the love story, the fairytale, to come true. I want to slay cynicism with that long awaited kiss. No, it is not a ring and a happy ending I deeply, deeply long for: it is a happy beginning. It is desire fulfilled, it is tragedy overcome.
These are the two gifts I am terrified to reach for. It is these two dreams I need to bravely embrace.
The only way to live in a dream is to let go, open your arms, and let it swirl effortlessly around you. As soon as you try to grasp it, you will be left clutching yourself in anxiety. I must let go of security and fall into the freedom of living with wild abandon. That is the only way to truly live the dream.
I was wrong. It is not a matter of free falling. The key is to love every minute of the present and believe in your heart that whatever you lose will be replaced with something even more perfect for the next moment of your life. Faith, faith in the goodness of God and life. Bad things happen, but the most beautiful things can be just on the other side of the desolate hill. Perhaps that is why I love the Iraq of my memories. The beauty amidst the desolation is what hope is built on.
I had a beautiful night tonight. I walked from the West Side up to my East Side home. I let the music pour over me, the city fill my eyes in the fading light and God hold my hand and speak softly in my ear. I was still and peaceful, floating through my city and resting in my life.
I thought about all my treasures, all my people. I thought about the beautiful possibilities that keep being handed to me like extravagant gifts from a new lover. As though NYU wasn’t enough, as though being given the opportunity to chase my dream was enough, I am now being given the opportunity to live another old dream while doing so. I’m also being given the opportunity to love. It seems that when I say “thank you” and tell myself that what I have is enough, I am suddenly handed more than I could have ever dared to ask for.
I said, “A career is enough”. I said, “My friends are enough”. I said, “Being comfortable alone is enough”. Minnie is offering me the opportunity to chase a dream and live one simultaneously. He is giving me the opportunity to let someone love me, to trust. I had enough, yet I am being given so much more.
Neither is guaranteed, neither can be earned, they both must just be hoped for.
I was beginning to let the doubt and fear push Him into my heart like a knife. Today he gave me the reassurance I needed. He wants to move to New York. He wants to be with me. He is working on it and I trust him. He told me it would be a year or so, he asked me if I would wait for him that long. I simply said, yes. I did not ask him if he could wait that long, I didn’t even think to. I am learning to feel without fear. Accept and give boldly. I am learning to be strong even when my heart is in the open.
I am learning, I am learning so much. I am so afraid so much of the time. I am so afraid of my desires, so afraid of forgetting, so afraid of falling. I never knew I was so afraid. I am learning to live courageously; I am learning that the fear that is not the issue, just what you do with it. It is courage, not fearlessness I need. Fearlessness comes when you slay the dragon. Fearlessness comes when you look it in the eyes and walk strait through it, through it and into your desires.
I have these beautiful moments where the blindfold of the day to day battles is removed and I am able to see the shining splendor of my life. I was struggling, wondering whether the pain or the pleasure was the mirage; the pain seems so real sometimes. The radiance is real; the pain is merely passing through.
I watched the shining lights of the city drifting past me as we sped down the West Side Highway on our way from Hell’s Kitchen to the East Village. I was on my way to my third party of the evening with my best friend. I had spent the day with amazing, interesting people who were all vying for my time. I was on my way to celebrate the success of a beautiful artist who loves me and wants to share her victory with me. I knew the man I am falling in love with was dreaming about me and devising a plan to be with me. I knew that everything I wanted to be, I was starting to become. I knew that I was loved and savored by an amazing array of people. I knew that I lived in the most glamorous city in the world. I knew that I was living the dream. It was stunning.
My story is being written, it is building in an amazing arc. I have trouble beginning in childhood, I’m not sure if it is relevant to the story anymore. It may have begun in November 2001 when I sat in the CU Denver library, e-mailing a recruiter for the US Army.
I grew up on the bases of Ft. Jackson, Eustis, Bragg and Campbell. I was lost and found in the Deserts of Iraq. I died in Oak Grove, Kentucky. I began to come back to life in Atlanta, Georgia. I jumped from a burning ship into the dark arms of the unknown as I drove north. I fought my way out of Newark and into New York City. I wandered the city, like a lost child, until I decided the only way to find home was to build it. I transformed an angry, lonely, desperately ordinary life. I grew a community, fostered an army of friends, and created an adventure. I found my passion and I found a way to chase it. I let go of security and embraced freedom. I took every chance. I have the life I once dreamed about. I have a romance writing itself, that I myself never could have written. I have a career building around me. I have little control, but that is teaching me how to hope. It is terrifying to have so much to gain and so much to lose. Who knew that the greatest leap of faith would be living the life I fantasized about?
Hemingway was right, I own it all. I own it with each keystroke and each image I absorb. I looked at the beautiful apartment in the West Village, and it was mine. I looked at the Eames chair on 6th Avenue and it belonged to me. I looked at the giants and apartments I had seen on television, rising up before me, and I possessed them. All I seek to keep locked-up close to my heart, are those I cannot own. I desperately cherish the only assets that matter to me: the players in this story. My best friend, my crazy characters, my sisters, my someday lover. In a way they belong to this page like all the rest, but there is simply no substitute for their flesh and bone and voices. That is the story I am really trying to write, the one in which they will all belong to me forever. The story in which I can share this amazing menagerie with those who can only live this life through the pages I write. I want to write a story to feed the soul of the woman I once was. That story drives me, as I live it I try desperately to capture it before it passes through my fingers like fine sand.
I do want to clutch someone to me. I have felt the familiar desire lately to have a character who lives and breathes and will be mine in more than typeset alone. I want my love to be transformed from a fantasy to a reality. I want this romance to exist in this world where anything is possible; I want it to be the proof. I want to touch him, I want to hold him in my arms, knowing that he doesn’t not belong to me, but fought to be embraced by me nonetheless. In short, I want the love story, the fairytale, to come true. I want to slay cynicism with that long awaited kiss. No, it is not a ring and a happy ending I deeply, deeply long for: it is a happy beginning. It is desire fulfilled, it is tragedy overcome.
These are the two gifts I am terrified to reach for. It is these two dreams I need to bravely embrace.
The only way to live in a dream is to let go, open your arms, and let it swirl effortlessly around you. As soon as you try to grasp it, you will be left clutching yourself in anxiety. I must let go of security and fall into the freedom of living with wild abandon. That is the only way to truly live the dream.
I was wrong. It is not a matter of free falling. The key is to love every minute of the present and believe in your heart that whatever you lose will be replaced with something even more perfect for the next moment of your life. Faith, faith in the goodness of God and life. Bad things happen, but the most beautiful things can be just on the other side of the desolate hill. Perhaps that is why I love the Iraq of my memories. The beauty amidst the desolation is what hope is built on.
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