Maine

Slamming screen doors.

Smaller blueberries.

Warm days and chilled nights.

I used to always bring two bathing suits but now I only have one. It’ll be fine.

Packing the full bottle of sunscreen. Full bottle of moisturizer. Full thing of hair stuff.

Jogging on the gravel shoulder of a country road, passing cows waking up, taking a dip in a glass pond.

Crickets. Loons. Raindrops on tin roofs.

Waking up with nothing to do, going to bed and it’s only half done.

Full, full, full.

Coffee

     I assume death feels something like an amalgamation of all the feelings I have while sharing a drink with close friends or coffee with people I love. I’ve heard someone hypothesize that it’ll be akin to the experience of being anxious about traveling somewhere new, and then realizing there was nothing to be afraid of the whole time. I’ve also heard it’ll feel like coming home.

     Oprah recently sat down with a man who was released from prison after unjustly spending thirty years on death row. He said to this day he doesn’t use an umbrella when it rains outside, because he loves the novelty of feeling raindrops on his skin. And I imagine it feels something like that, too.

     Sipping slowly on a mug of hot, black coffee, looking over at someone I love and saying, “How are you?” That’s what I hope it’s like.

Flower

     If I were a flower, I would be one with about three colors or so. I would bloom later in the season but die out around the same time as the others, enjoying a shorter life span but enjoying it a lot.

     When I bloomed again I hope you would be happy to see me, swaying in the wind with my brothers and sisters. And I hope you would choose me to sit on your kitchen table, a single stem, in a skinny glass vase.

Park Bench

     Sitting on a park bench in New York is like watching a jumbled symphony of indie movies, each with its own miniature odyssey and few with adequate funding. I always feel like I see at least ten guys I would like to fall in love with, as if every other jogger or boy with a book was my long lost soul mate with whom the universe has always conspired to connect me.

     When he sat down next to me, he carefully took out a large drawing pad and charcoal pencil like a modern-day Jack Dawson. I liked the way he zipped his backpack ever so gently, so I could hear each tooth in the chain connect in perfect succession. He took a deep breath in, his chest raising slightly, and generously surveyed the world. I knew as soon as I saw him.

     We split many of our first dates down the middle as a matter of principle, but soon find ourselves paying for each other and saying things like, “It’ll all come out in the wash.”

     The commute between our apartments is sizable, but we spend so many nights together that it’s easy to forget.

     At 4:00pm on Halloween night he turns to me and says, “Do you want to just stay in?”

     When the holidays roll around, we debate again about whose family we’re going to see. What if we just stay in the city? Or go on a trip? “No.”

     While both of us are fallen Christians, we agree that spending Christmas in a tropical climate is sacrilege.

     In the springtime we eat at a restaurant table on the sidewalk again, and agree that we only need to do this once a year.

     We both breath a sweaty sigh of relief after installing the window air conditioning units in our apartment, popping cold Heinekens as I sit in his legs on the floor, arctic air blasting on our faces.

     When the leaves turn burnt orange again, he takes me on a long walk in Central Park down the path where trees tower over us like a cathedral. Wearing his oversized canvas coat, he breaks away from me to go buy two cheap black coffees from the cart, tipping generously and handing mine over with the napkin placed neatly around the cup.

     He leads me to the bench where we first met, and we sit there until we notice our shadows change. Slowly his arm around me fades, and I remember my imagination. Glancing to my side, I stare longingly at the chipped green paint.

Away

Politics

     Politics is a game of agreeing with people who say, "This thing is bullshit," and it's the same thing you think is bullshit.

No Regrets

     Living life with “no regrets” seems to be a privilege reserved only for people on reality shows or those with obituaries. It always feels odd to me to hear such a presumptuous statement claimed proudly, as if there’s something virtuous about being oblivious.

     If it’s past 10:00am, I have likely already accrued a cornucopia of regrets.

     “Why didn’t I get up earlier…”

     “I wish I had worn the other shirt…”

     “I should have walked the other way…”

     My collection of periodic episodes of self-disappointment knoweth no end. En masse, my list of regrets would not fit on a scroll long enough to reach the end of a city block. I could hold a press conference at the conclusion of every day detailing my shortcomings (which is largely what I imagine marriage to be), and still have to cut myself off.

     Regret, to me, is just as much a part of the machine as joy and sadness and hope and fear. It keeps the tension. I’m sure there is a healthy balance between examining one’s past and looking forward to the future, but I have experienced few moments of that perfect, soulful equilibrium. And I regret that.

Gumpy

     Every now and again I catch myself peering out the window, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, inspecting the world outside. I scan the perimeter of my view to ensure all has remained contained, accounting for developments both big and largely small. I am my grandfather, Gumpy, staring intently at the front lawn from his kitchen, master of all he surveys. Or, at the very least, a loyal scribe.

My Plan

Spend way too much money on a Diptyque candle and only burn it when I am working on the book.

Only drink coffee on the weekends.

Work out every weekday morning.

Read the New York Times when it actually comes on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Get eight hours of sleep.

Finish the whole container of greens before it goes bad.

Or maybe I'll just settle for cleaning the floor.

Real Estate Bio

Daniel Van Note has always been driven by his passion for New York City. He’s lived up north in Maine and down south in North Carolina, but his heart was always focused on the greatest city in the world. Daniel’s dream after moving to NYC became centered on selling real estate, a career which capitalizes on his skills and allows him to live his passion while helping others find a special home. For him, there is nothing more rewarding than being a partner with his clients, and serving as an integral part of one of life’s most exiting journeys.

Daniel deeply enjoys getting to know his buyers and sellers and thoroughly analyzing how he can best guide them. “The New York City real estate market is continually changing and evolving, and my goal is to capitalize on the best options for each client’s needs by listening, researching, and jumping on opportunity in any neighborhood of interest.”

Daniel’s innate energy, enthusiasm, and zest for New York City living – from its vibrant street life to its diverse and sophisticated culture – is eagerly shared with his real estate clients, creating a positive home search or sale experience.

Daniel Van Note prefers to be called Dan but is hoping Daniel sounds more expensive. He cannot believe he paid $75 to have this bio written for him because he is already a good writer. He did not realize this fee was optional and that he could have, in fact, written his own bio. Dan deeply enjoys being at home alone, eating alone, going on runs alone, and going on trips alone. "I just love being alone." Dan's innate desire to have his own two bedroom apartment in the West Village is projected on every client he meets, and their inability to want the exact same thing baffles him. He will soon find that being a real estate agent does not mean that you are your own boss, but rather, that everyone else has somehow become your boss. He will leave this career almost as swiftly as he started, walking away with little more than stories and shame.

All Answer

We will.

The Time Until

     Sitting in my humid room, I could feel my pores sweating from my weekly pack mule-style haul to the laundromat. Glancing out the window, I noticed the sun glowing burt orange as it cut through dissipating storm clouds, its rays dancing on my bedroom wall. It was a rare moment of serenity amidst the hamster wheel of recent weeks. Gazing, I took a few more sips of water before peeling my thighs off my pleather office chair. There were just a few more things to do.

     "Do I have enough socks?"

     "Am I really bringing four pairs of shoes?"

     "They'll have a blow dryer, right?"

     "These travel bottles are so cute."

     While preparations can be wearing, they also offer a steering wheel for my anxiety, a checkbox to mark. And for me, the satisfaction of crossing things off a list is comparable only to multi-hour massages or romantic escapades in Bora Bora (I would imagine).

     After I fetched my load out of the dryer and sorted its contents, I stared victoriously at my neatly packed Samsonite.

     (The hard cases are much more durable and come with a TSA-approved zipper lock, in case you were wondering.)

     I pondered what was left to take care of, but could think of little more than remembering to pack my favorite comb in the morning. Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself to arrive:

     There is nothing more to do. Just let it all happen.

Plaid Shirt

     As I approached the crosswalk, I noticed him with two reusable Trader Joe's bags, one on his shoulder and one in his hand. His pants tapered perfectly to ankle-high street shoes, his plaid shirt partially tucked in. When he turned I saw a strong nose and fine beard, endearingly messy yet obviously maintained. He was about my age, but he had it together.

     I assumed he lived in the neighborhood, because his bags were full. He also seemed groomed and blessed with a general sense of peace, a strong indication that he spent little time on public transit.

     His apartment is well-appointed. He gets regular cleanings at the dentist and schedules his next appointment right then and there. When he visits his mother in Greenwich, he carefully drives the family SUV to fetch baked goods and fruit from the small market in town for breakfast.

     Can I come?

     He waited patiently at the median with his groceries in tow, taking care to check for traffic before stepping onto the street. I watched him fade away, walking what I imaged to be the two short blocks to his apartment. And as he unpacked his groceries carefully in his cupboard, I swiped my MetroCard to get back on the train.

Weather

Is it hot where you are? It's so hot here.

Frank

     It was a quiet Sunday morning when I stepped outside my building holding March’s rent check, wearing only my pajamas and L.L.Bean slippers.

     (They’re pretty pricy, especially for slippers, but the shearling liner and rubber soles are an absolute dream. They’re an investment piece, or a very good gift.)

     The walk to my landlord’s house is remarkably convenient. He lives just across the street in his own one family. A kind Hungarian man with grey hair and deep wrinkles, this has been his neighborhood for decades.

     “Come in, come in,” he insisted, looking at me with hopeful eyes, “Do you have a minute to sit down, you know, shoot the breeze?”

     As I considered generating an excuse, I realized that I truly had nothing else to do. (My outfit of lounge pants and an oversized sweater from Goodwill also did not exactly scream busyness or exclusivity.) We sat down on his floral-printed love seat with his vintage television playing a program from the Game Show Network on mute.

     Before long he was expounding upon the history of the block and about how he immigrated to New York when he was eighteen. He was a woodworker, and built the cabinets in my unit along with countless others I could find all over Manhattan. His eyes watered instantly upon speaking about his late wife.

     “Oh, this you’ll find interesting.”

     “What’s that?” I offered somewhat generously.

     “The first floor apartment finally got rented out. Two girls. Younger. Might be good for you and your brother, eh?” He nudged, referencing my younger sibling and roommate.

     I briefly considered playing along before realizing the litany of housing laws that protected me. My lease was already signed. So, like many times before and since, it was time to come out.

     “Well, maybe for Joey, but not for me.” I proclaimed.

     “What do you mean?”

     “Well, I’m gay.”

     Frank glanced down at his baby blue carpet, clearly not expecting this development. I curled my toes anxiously in my shearling-lined slippers. As he looked back at me, I met his eyes, shimmering.

     “Oh, nothing wrong with that,” he assured me, as if I had only spilled a glass of milk.

Sidewalk

     The sweet smell of a hot New York sidewalk knows no peer. While the suburbs have freshly cut grass and D.C. enjoys blooming cherry blossoms, the scent of warm asphalt is the city’s way of indicating the new season. After months of desolation, it reappears like a distant friend, the same.

     Suddenly I begin to notice displays of skin under the florescent lights of the subway. They remind me, to my surprise, that people have bodies comprised of more than weathered hands and frustrated faces. For the first time in a long time I see elbows, calves, and midsections. I tilt my head.

     They say summer bodies are made in the winter, but mine tends to just show up. The warmth of the beach is matched by a cool personal disassociation from my less-than-ideal figure. But thankfully, like a meal of cafeteria pizza with canned peaches, each year I become more comfortable with the mediocrity I am working with.

     In the meantime, I am left to treasure these last few days of brisk air, slipping on my black sweaters with ease and resting my hands in jackets with generous pocket space. The sweet spot is now.

     Before long it will be summer and I will be back on the sidewalk, sweating. I'll pass by a steaming pile of trash, holding my breath.

Notes

What do you do with your other hand while you’re at the water fountain?

A Cheerio on the floor is a recipe for disaster.

Taking your shoes and socks off on the subway feels like having a beer in the shower.

Let the weight of the knife do the cutting for you.

I feel like Bath Fitter is definitely a metaphor.

What would my performance piece at the Short Hills Mall look like?

A magazine is paper in drag.

A poem is an essay in drag.

Wisdom is not inhaling as you open the office fridge.

Tick Tock

Tracing the spiral of tumbling of clothes in the dryer.

Holding the phone to my ear.

Sitting in the gym, sore.

Weaving through foot traffic.

Writing down the list.

Knocking on the door, nervous.

Playing the song.

Holding the hug.

Putting away the dishes.

Making plans.

Gazing out the window at yellow cabs speeding, and stopped.

Wondering, "How many times will I do this again?"

Seasonal

     I am a marketer’s dream.

     I buy citrus brews in the summer, pumpkin ale in the fall, and any six pack that mentions snow, log cabins, or ‘holiday spices’ in the winter. Just as the trees begin to bud, the giant images of young models frolicking on the beach down Fifth Avenue remind me that I really should get a new bathing suit. And I always forget how much I love fast food breakfast sandwiches until I see that I can buy one, get one free.

     Sold!

     The ability of advertisers to pinpoint the moment of connection between my physical desires and my wallet is truly uncanny. When so many of my preferences feel elusive, the organized presentation of suitable options provides a sickly artificial yet welcomed relief. Whether it’s celebrity endorsements or chain restaurant logos placed next to menu items, I find solace in the illusion that I am making a justifiable choice.

     A hair stylist once told me that I should stop using a popular brand of anti-dandruff shampoo every day because the chemicals likely dry out my hair, and could even be contributing to my suspiciously receding hairline.

     “That can’t be true,” I concluded on my walk home. “Sofia Vergara is in the commercials.”

     I use Jennifer Aniston’s face wash, Stephen Curry’s water filter, and Tina Fey’s credit card. What could possibly go wrong?

     My lone point of pride lies in my ability to resist the packs of gum and tabloid magazines at the grocery store checkout counter. While I may take a lingering glance at the headlines, I know there’s no way to justify spending $5.95 on what is essentially twenty pages of the internet. And as for the gum, that remains in that special category of inevitably reoccurring expenses I can’t afford to assume right now, right next to Uber rides and food delivery.

     Any habit, given the time, becomes expensive.

     That’s why having only one product per season, one message at a time, is perfect for me. I will gladly hold my mouth wide open to catch the runoff at the bottom of an unfathomably extensive trickle-down chain of market research. That way, I don’t have to think about what kind of beer I like. I am told.

     And sometimes being told what I like is the most satisfying option of all.

Breaking News

     This just in. We are getting reports. Let us go now to the scene. Sparks were flying. Bullets were flying. Insults were flying. Stay with us.

     The shock value of breaking news dissipates considerably when news is constantly breaking. I have come to view the daily updates more as honks and sirens blazing faintly outside my window as opposed to a fire alarm inside my apartment. The danger is out there. My living room furniture remains unchanged.

     Amidst the chaos of modern communication, the deterioration of integrity has become one of the few constants. The majority of national discourse now mirrors the dignity of a live feed of the happenings at the Port Authority. More urine found in the corner. The investigation is ongoing.

     What is shocking now?

     Breaking News: A mother who never admitted her faults decides in quiet moment on long car ride to admit to her daughter that she was wrong.

     If nights staring at my bedroom ceiling feel most like the truth, the broadcasting of human tragedy feels like some brand of violation. So much of it amounts to little more than shreds of scrap meat thrown to my inner hyena named Fear. Why can't I stop eating?

     The most compelling detail is that everything is happening at the same time.

     The most shocking news of all would be that everything is here.