Same Thing

     Do you ever do the same thing over and over again? And sometimes it feels great and other times it feels suffocating? And sometimes you look forward to it and other times you dread it? And sometimes you wonder if maybe you don’t really have to do it and other times you know that you absolutely have to do it? And sometimes you are so grateful that it’s something you get to do and other times you are so resentful that it’s something you have to do? And sometimes you want to never do it again and other times you want to do it forever? And sometimes you’re unsure if the feelings you have around it are actually about it and other times you know precisely that your feelings around it are definitely about it? And sometimes you hope it will be different and other times you hope it will never change?

     I do.

Unofficial

The unofficial beginning of summer, the best type of beginning.

So Beautiful

     Wouldn’t it be amazing to be so good looking that people think you’re catfishing them? (For my parents: “Catfishing” is when one steals photos from other people on the internet and claims them as their own, constructing an alternate online identity in order to win the heart of another web-based suitor who would otherwise be “out of one’s league.”)

     My experience of online dating, however, has been consistently real, with absolutely no question being brought to the possibility that my looks may be those one would willfully select. My face screams, “I wouldn’t, like, choose this, but this is what I got!”

     There is a part of me that imagines having a catfish boyfriend as a fabulously indulgent experience, appealing in the way that eating Twizzlers Pull & Peels after every meal seems gleeful in the abstract. After all, all they do is respond quickly, tell you how amazing you are, and send you gorgeous photos of semi-nude, semi-famous Instagram personalities.

     But it is an experience that, I’d also imagine, is painfully hollow. The Catfisher must be consumed by some force of guilt, and the Catfishee must grow weaker under the weight of such willful ignorance. It’s bizarre to conceive that one person's beautiful images can set the stage for such deep interpersonal angst.

     But I have no worry that my photos are in such danger. I’m real, baby. I wouldn’t, like, choose this, but this is what I got.

Springfield

     In New York, success is having a laundry machine in your home. It is having a linen closet, some outdoor space, and a spare bedroom. It is facing south, being close to transportation, and receiving packages without worry.

     Nearly out of the question is a car with dedicated parking, a home gym, and homeownership. Even fewer can aspire to several bathrooms, a kitchen island, and full-size appliances.

     The ultimate dream is the standard of living of Springfield, Ohio.

New York

     New York is a city I lauded for a long time, and I am relieved to live here now. But I don’t buy the “center of the universe” theory. The center of the universe is wherever one can find a deep breath and a curious mind.

     I get that in New York, but I’m sure it’s happening in Toledo.

Productivity

     Do you ever get distracted by the internet? There’s so much out there. Like, so much.

The Report

     It feels like one of those shows where the wife has been suspicious that her husband has been cheating for a long time, so she hires a private investigator. The private investigator finds out that he has been cheating. And then she gets really mad. And I keep sitting on my couch like, “Yeah girl, we all knew.”

Spring Break

Nothing

Sick

     It’s not until you have a stuffy nose that you remember how easy it was to breathe.

     It’s not until you need a bathroom that you remember how amazing it was to have one.

     It’s not until it starts to rain that you remember how nice it was to be dry.

     And it’s not until the music comes on that you remember how much potential was living in the silence.

Progress

     I’ve been doing pretty good. I’ve made it to the gym every morning, had a green juice with every breakfast, and invested in a new moisturizer that is already paying dividends.

     Last night, in celebration, I poured myself a gin and tonic. Joey ordered pizza. I demolished three slices, half the cheesy bread, another gin and tonic, three marbled cookie brownies, and a full glass of milk. As I watched RuPaul’s Drag Race with my high heels dangling over the coffee table, my attention waned as my stomach full of food and booze sank me deeper and deeper into the couch. I woke up at 2:00am with all the lights on.

     Two gin and tonics is one and a half more than I should be having on a school night.

     Progress is a slippery slope.

Mess

     You can always tell how much of a mess I am by how clean my room is. When the feelings become too much, I find myself tidying, getting rid of that old thing and placing that thing I like in just the right place.

     One weekend I was feeling so low that I cleaned every inch of the apartment. Not checking my phone once, I woke up to a general sense of dread and quickly began working my way through the stack of old New York Times on my chair. Once all was in the recycling bin, I decided to clean off my desk, which turned into the floors, the countertop, the stove, the toilet, the bathroom floor, the bureau, the fridge, the dish rack, the cabinets, the television stand, the windows, and the top and bottom shelf of the end table which both have nothing on them because I have already gotten rid of everything that doesn’t spark joy.

     Every time I completed a task, I spotted the next one in grateful anticipation. “Oh, I could do that, too.”

     Every new surface was an opportunity to bring order to my external world, an aspiration that felt irreconcilable in my inner world.

     On the walk back from the gym that evening, I noticed trash on the sidewalk like I never did before.

     A styrofoam cup printed with cheaply designed graphics of steaming coffee mugs was stuck squarely atop a fence post, pierced through its bottom like the Dixie cups seen at vigils on long white candle sticks.

     I picked it up with the tips of my fingers placed gingerly on its edges. Upon seeing an old coupon flyer floating on the sidewalk, I noticed my urge to swipe it up as well. I was out of control.

     “This is not my job,” I said aloud.

     I turned, pacing slowly back to return the cup to its place atop the fence.

     When I walked by the next day, it was gone.

One Hour Late

But I'm here.

Dust

     Have you ever noticed the dust around the edges of things you haven’t moved for a while? You do such a great job tidying, and though everything has its place, there’s still a thin layer of dust on shelve corners and bureau tops.

     No matter your cleanliness, dust accumulates. I remember hearing that dust is really just particles of our own skin that settle from the air as we shed them. Do you think that’s true?

     Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

     It is actually quite comforting to think that after all this, I’ll turn into something so light and so airy that the slightest breeze could just sweep me away. Imagining my dust-body swirling through the wind like the leaves around Pocahontas’ hair sounds like a fate better than most.

     But I don’t want it on my desk right now.

A Winter Without Snow

     In New York, it has been a winter without snow.

     Like a tea bag without a string.

     Or a flower without petals.

     Pancakes without syrup.

     Or a joke without a punch line.

     As much as I complain about trudging through the thick white powder, I miss waking up to the surprise of a winter wonderland. I miss, “It’s Snowing” being the lead story on the news, and the entry-level reporters having to extrapolate on the street.

     I miss the precautionary run to the grocery store, the checking of the Weather Channel, and the company-wide email urging “caution” and to “stay home if you need to.”

     It seems much to ask, given the drudgery I know it causes so many. I am sure air traffic control, building supers, and traffic cops have found little issue with the dry winter.

     And in truth, I am lying. This morning I woke up to a dusting, a thin layer just thick enough to cover building roofs.

     Which only made me think of how little snow I’ve seen this winter. And made me want more, more, more.

Brevity

It's rare.

A CVS Kind of Love

     Will you go to the CVS? Will you buy me a heart-shaped box of chocolates, a giant teddy bear, and a bouquet of red roses wrapped in plastic from the street vendor on your way home?

     Will you already have made the reservation? Will you choose the wine? Will you have bought me a Hallmark, and whip it out at dessert?

     Will you remember the date of our first meeting? Will you remember the song that played? Will you remember the food we ate, and that place we went after?

     Do all of these things, and I will love you. A CVS kind of love.

     Or just be with me, basking in silence, and I’ll love you forever.

Attention

     I love the moment in Lady Bird when the high school counselor says to the main character something to the extent of, “I really appreciated your essay. You clearly love Sacramento.”

     “I suppose I just pay attention,” She says sheepishly.

     “Isn’t that the same thing?” The counselor offers, “Love, and attention?”

     I always cry at that part.

     The time that exists between the moments I am thinking about the past or the future seem oddly rare given the fact that the current moment is my only certainty to consider. I am often married to the idea that peace, solitude, and abundance are things that can only happen in the future if I put my head down now and do “the work.” It turns me into a bit of a chipmunk in both philosophy and practice, constantly storing more nuts and jumping anxiously at small disturbances.

     The ever-elusive joys of an artistic practice are those “things of the future” that bring me the most angst. There is a wide gap, and sometimes endless space, between the doing and the reaping, the investment and the payoff. There is no guarantee that what I make now will serve any other purpose than calling my attention to the exact moment in which I create it.

     And maybe that, alone, is enough.

     But I don’t love that.

Taxes

     Would anybody excited about tax season please stand up? Suze Orman says that you should never look forward to receiving a refund, because that means you've essentially given the government a year-long interest-free loan. She also says that you should be grateful every year you pay more in taxes, because that generally means you’ve made more money. But gratitude is a word seldom used in the same sentence as “H&R Block” and “our tax guy.”

     Does anybody out there take a leisurely stroll with their partner down to a cute office on Main Street, happily greet their accountant and sit down for an insightful session in which clarity is gained around the roll they play in contributing to the integrity and sustainability of the United States?

     (No.)

     Death and taxes. Both live in the same part of the brain. “Have to…”

Hot Water with Lemon

     Recently I’ve been drinking hot water with lemon, a quotidian attempt to replace the coffee that speeds up my heart.

     Feeling both rich and poor, I grab a whole lemon at the grocery store as if I’m holding a secret, knowing I’ll get at least six cups out of this one. Day by day I slice it, setting the single wedge on the countertop, rind down, while I wait for the small pot of water to boil. It spills out over the edges of the mug almost every time I pour it over the sink, and I think, “We should really get a kettle,” as I wipe off the mug.

     You’d be surprised how much flavor a little lemon wedge can add.

     “I just want to be a writer who drinks hot water with lemon,” I used to always say to myself.

     Dreams really do come true.

Government Shutdown

FIX IT.