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[18 Dec 2013|04:09am]
THIS IS AN ACTIVE JOURNAL (MOSTLY FRIEND-LOCKED)

JOIN THE F-LIST EASILY (GET AT ME IN COMMENTS)
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selfies [17 Apr 2017|11:12pm]
[ mood | alive w impossible plans ]

-- gets really excited @ sight of cookbooks on a too-high shelf (implication: nobody needs to use them anymore)

-- gets a weird thrill from having hands covered in dusty drying potting soil while using laptop

-- spends too much money on a svadhishthana-"themed" candle, having never purchased such a thing, shrugs/lights/meditates/shrugs again/returns to pragmatic evening business

-- delights in a seemingly withering plant having massive root structure

-- back hurts so much, but considers canceling doctor evaluation to study for professional exam

-- et cetera

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[26 Mar 2017|11:26am]
[ mood | delicate ]


One wakes up without having fallen asleep, seeking to recapture the shreds of pleasure of the other in oneself.

-- Mathias Énard, COMPASS
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a few itemz [15 Mar 2017|10:35pm]
[ mood | thursday yet? ]

1.
After years of practicing yoga I caught my reflection in the window while washing dishes last night and FINALLY understood how to unfreeze my shoulders. Have been carrying my arms on my back like backpacks for, like, 15 years? There is so much tinyhuge work to do within one body. Kinda dazzling.


The goal of the practice is to realize (literally, to make real) a state in which the mind is present at any point in the nervous system. Am not there -- far from -- but am experiencing the beginning of this within musculature and it is fascinating -- the accessibility of it -- how easy it is at literally any moment to bodyscan and evaluate which muscles are working that need not be working (hunching, tensing, stretching). I am an anxious person, physically extremely so, not in a twitchy sense but in the sense that my natural state at any moment is for more than half of my body to be taut and frozen in place for fear of being OUT of place. Even as I write this I am leaning with one ass-cheek on my kitchen chair and a swerve in my spine held carefully still -- why?

WHY.

What the fuck am I rabbit-freezing from? Constantly? My whole life?

2.
Trying to use less plastic bc recently learned that the garbage island in the middle of the ocean is not so much an island as it is a microbead slurry of amorphous size and depth, which is infinitely more terrifying and digestible, and therefore worse. Gave me a think about doing a month-long challenge, in the vein of Whole30 (I did this in Dec, forgot to write abt it kinda), the goal being not to acquire or use or dispose of (? not sure which) additional plastic.

I think a plastic diet would have a similar effect as a very wholesome literal diet, on account of necessitating the very fresh and planned-out w/r/t food.

3.
Went to a reading/chat tonight between this guy and this guy moderated by this guy. I expected Goldsmith to be the standout among the three, and I've had a crush on Jaronsinski for ages so an easy win there, but it turned out that the dark horse of beautiful insight, poetry, philosophy, cheekiness, off-the-cuff loveliness and literal hubba-hubba was Kishik.

HOW CAN WE STOP THE FLOW AND GET SOME KIND OF COUNSEL FOR LIVING

...was a thing he said, in passing, which I found very beautiful, and wrote down immediately in capital letters, in my brand new iPhone, which I had acquired thirty minutes before, and still had the plastic cover slip including sticking-out-tabby-part stuck on, because I am a fucking cartoon.

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woof [15 Mar 2017|07:24am]
me: *wakes up abruptly at 2.30am*
nightmares that accompany personal loss or heartache: hiiiiiiiiiiiii
me: *wakes up abruptly at 3.30am*
nightmares that accompany personal loss or heartache: missed u
me: *wakes up abruptly at 4am*
NTAPLOH: how u been girl

me: *wakes up at 6, stumbles to feed dog, foregoes running to sleep an extra 20, sleeps an extra 50*
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i felt that this was coming. hey davi remember i told you i felt it was coming? [21 Feb 2017|11:00pm]
[ mood | opal ]

I don't know if it will stick, but I have started a writing project that is massive in scope. On Friday, stoned and drunk, I was flipping through a photo series on Nat Geo. I can't describe the feeling -- best I can offer is to say it was like having a layer of my brain peeled back, finally, and being allowed to look in at some kind of opalescent nougat within, and being comfortably and confidently aware, suddenly, that there was a sprawling environment in there rippling with a new set of characters and a very tangible sense of place, an environment that could hold and unify the handful of novella-length unexplored ideas I've held for the last decade or so.

I had a very loving conversation with Tia the following day, needing first a gut-check ("I think this is a good idea, but I might have been stoned," I said. "It's a good idea, isn't it. Ah fack now what.") and then encouragement ("One doesn't get these moments of early passion often," she said, speaking from experience as a person who has had them, speaking from experience as a person who perhaps is worried she has lost them for good, the way one worries when one has produced great work but not for a while. She has written scenes that seem to have shot on a gruesome sunbeam straight from the glowering heart of the gothic South. When she's good she's very very good. "Please ride it out and choose to participate in it, at every moment it even seems remotely possible, without judgment") and ultimately needing realtalk about process ("I don't remember how to write," I said, "and the thing that has always stopped me has been fundamentally not understanding how something the size of a novel is actually, you know, MADE. How do you get enough stuff in your head in the first place to even squeeze enough of it back out? And in what order? What?")

But now I feel none of that pressure; for whatever lucky reason, it seems to be a place I enjoy thinking about, transportive and ripe. One thing she said to me that I found extremely moving and motivating: "Who else is there?" As in: yes you have the scene or the set of characters or a circumstance, but who and what all ELSE went in to making that come about? Not the tenant or the landlord but the city developer who sold the property in the first place. That sort of thing. That's where the richness comes from. So I find myself sitting on the subway like a kid retreating to an imaginary place, wandering around to find the elseness of it all. And sitting down to record my findings without judgment or pressure. It is a really fabulous and foreign feeling.

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yesterday [05 Feb 2017|10:48am]
[ mood | on. the. RAG. ]

went to variety to try to finish a o scott's book about criticism; it was freezing there so only stayed about an hour. continued reading on the sofa. canceled yoga attendance. remy crawled into my lap and we napped. canceled a date in which a kind person who really likes me was going to cook me dinner. spent the afternoon feeling relieved ("another evening where i don't have to explain myself!"), and cooking all the vegetables in my kitchen together. at the bodega, where i almost wore my slippers, young cousin told me the vegan ice cream i was about to buy cost $10. "$10?!" i shouted. he showed me the non-vegan ice cream, "this is $3." "you guys are killing me," i said, "but thanks." could he see in my eyes that i didn't have $10 to spend on ice cream? i put it back in the freezer. i spent an hour or two doing mindless work while watching tv, to make the cube life easier next week. poured myself some rye. poured coffee into it to make it unsad. mourned briefly the loss of video i took that morning of the sun bleeding in thru my blinds. (phone froze right at the end, restarted, video had not saved). wrestled with remy for a while in the studio, then laid together watching tv on the floor. took remy for a walk. texted sam a month too late, "pictured: person who is still kind of embarrassed for falling asleep on you at new year's and took a month to say so, ugh." the last few days i've been thinking about him. near the end of our walk, thought i could race remy so said "you wanna run?" and we took off, careening around bushwick, running beautifully together for the first time ever, no stop and go, just sprinting, eating up whole blocks together. when i got home, realized that my phone had fallen out of my pocket somewhere in the footrace. went back out to retrace my steps, leaving an icy trail of "idiot"-shaped underbreath mutterings behind me in the blue black night. found the object right where the race started, was surprised by how cold it was lying on the sidewalk, how cold it stayed for minutes after when held in the hand, how it continued to make my hand cold. at home poured another drink, got high, watched tv on the couch. woke up at 1.30 to remy running in alarmed, a raccoon screaming in the back yard, fighting with the cats. blurrily considered my phone: a benign response from sam ("ha ha, no need to apologize. it was a fun party!" -- oof, message received), and an update from the not-date about swapping the stories of grandfathers with his israeli crew and some not-quite altercation with the cops. to bed, to bed, to bed.

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fashion blogging [24 Jan 2017|07:55am]
[ mood | will she wear earrings?! IDK!!! ]

ladies n gentlemen may i present 2 u yr NORMCORE PRINCESS 2017:
-- YES! she stayed up past midnight working
-- YES! all she ate yesterday was coffee, puttanesca and tequila
-- YES! she has terrible heartburn and a puffy face
-- YES! she woke up so depressed she couldn't move
-- YES! she is oddly determined to go to work anyway
-- YES! she is wearing that bulky bland sweater that no one ever complimented except that amazing poet she briefly slept with in 2014
-- YES! she is wearing those Eddie Bauer mom jeans she is convinced do nice butt things on the first day out of the wash
-- YES! she does not intend to take off her red rainboots once she arrives at her desk
-- YES! YES! YES! HERE SHE COMES

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[12 Jan 2017|06:48pm]
[ mood | turning on ]

dream:
i swim beneath the statue of liberty. she is not mounted on an island but directly into the water itself, bridge-like, four pronged base like the eiffel tower, copper green grey, so large that from beneath she blurs and fades beyond the limits of my vision, so elegantly looming that the moment of swimming beneath and looking up erases all sound and replaces it with the yawning roar of infinity. i swim back along the pillars of the subway line that now skims a wide akimbo angle of the upper bay and hudson, fast as a hummingbird, begin mentally writing to myself, think: "i fly home, eager to tell you."

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"alone as a smallish woman" [31 Dec 2016|12:21am]
[ mood | biggish ]

To round out the year I rearranged my apartment. It's a tricky thing to do alone as a smallish woman, but we are resolute creatures and over many years of alone-living I have learned a little bodily cleverness and a few techniques (slipping towels under the feet of cabinets in order to be able to drag them across the painted floors, half-slipping discs lifting sofas and crab shuffling a bizarre ballet w the upstanding upright chaise-rendered-twirling-dance-partner) -- physics and a good sense of balance, my friends, physics and a good sense of balance, and a crushing sense that you may be moving furniture alone for some time, yet -- RE-SO-LUTE --

There is a little satisfaction in doing it and making all the adjustments alone. When I sat down on the sofa again I scanned the room and had the same tickle I had when my father asked me to catburgle his garage -- as in climb in through a smashed window and contortion my way over his saw bed and haphazard tools -- to unlock it from the inside. And I did it, ignored the offer to lay a towel over the broken glass, just looked at where to land limbs and apply weight and then did that: danced across the obstacle without a misstep.

There is also, too, a crushing sense...

In the re-arranging I assigned the spare room (née bookmaking studio, née WFH office, née grad school office, née couple-dom den, née recording studio and game playing zone, née empty-shell-of-soured-relationship turned dog-bedroom): now it's a home gym. Of sorts. Minimally. A treadmill ("Please, please take this from my basement" -- Mom), some blocks and bolster. Hung art wherever possible, literally, hung or propped against wherever there were already nails or gouges, trying to cover the swiss cheese Andy made of my walls trying to install things without measuring twice.

Then I slowly jogged 1.7 miles without leaving my apartment. I plan to do this nearly every day. Eventually not so slowly and perhaps farther. I'm studying my gait but not overthinking it. Traction and technique and habit are the goal. The lighting is such that I can vaguely see my shadow and thus check and improve posture, but otherwise canarying is impossible.

What else. The dog's health and happiness in 2016 was my backbone. We have really gotten to quite a place, and I feel there is a deep communication different from our first year together. I mean this without anthropomorphizing -- just that I can read his ever tinier and tinier tells and anticipate need, mood, reaction. What I love and what delights and terrifies me is the idea that perhaps he feels exactly the same way about me, not just in the knowing and learning each other way, but in the calling them 'tells.' We are coming to know one another's interior. We can fend off whole fusses with a conversation of looks and small gestures.

I think I'm going to try to scramble together a funny trivia game for the party tomorrow night, burn up the end of this little stoned flurry of watercolor thinking.

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[25 Dec 2016|11:48pm]
i like the idea of starting resolutions early. the idea of just having some ideas and acting on them. dates and magical thinking be damned. for this reason i have been running on a treadmill at my folks' place, and am bringing one back to BK with me for my spare room. i think one of my goals this year will be not strength or endurance, but repair. a thoughtful and gentle effort which combines yoga with running to reinvigorate the semi-frozen (frosted?) IT band in my right leg. it's never a problem on the mat, always a problem when running. so i can only assume it will get worse as i age if not cared for now. the remnants of a sprain. i watch my parents navigate their home stricken by spasms from various ailments flaring. my father near tears as his hip and leg nerves scream. the mood shifts that accompany pain. i won't have it. i believe i can fix it, restore full function, and this may put me in shape to become a gentle runner by next year, and then learn how to jitterbug.
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mundane update [17 Dec 2016|12:23pm]
[ mood | intermission ]

Was meant to be driving to Chicago today; trip delayed (til likely Monday) due to ferocious ice storm. The older I get the more I am a safety nerd. So I'm left with this weekend of complete and total unplanned cushiness -- in a way it feels more like a vacation than anything I've ever done. A vacation before my vacation.

This morning I sulked in bed flipping thru the weather assessments along the route I was meant to be driving... then got up, bundled up, retrieved the dog food from the packed Jeep (all the pleasure of car ownership during a winter storm, minus the driving part!), knocked over a bunch of poorly stacked drywall and tile getting into the basement to retrieve a shovel, then put this Chicago-bred back to work doing a deep shovel out of the stoop, front walk, alley walk and driveway while the fluttery accumulation turned into a freezing downpour. Once I was thoroughly soaked, I figured it couldn't get worse so I brought Remy out for a bit of snow leaping and munching before it all completely iced over. He is a nuclear joybomb in the snow, just an exponential amplification of peppermint confetti in his brain. Our pre-school aged downstairs neighbor also leapt around with us, throwing snowballs (my dog's ideal form of fetch -- all of the enthusiasm and excitement of a ball thrown, no burden of identification and retrieval once it lands). He is tuckered after only a few blocks. While we were doing that I had last night's leftovers roasting in the oven for breakfast and a coffee gently cooling on the counter. My coat is still drying, but it felt as good as can be. The vigorous activity curbed the crankiness a bit.

Now I think I'll clean my bathtub while Tony finishes up laundry & then go put on all the softest things and spend the afternoon watching movies and getting high. This week overall was a long string of serious rejections -- sexual, professional, financial, environmental -- and I feel more stubbornly resolved than ever to make the best of things.

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[10 Dec 2016|10:19am]
Thought the hardest willpower moment was going to be holiday treats, thought I'd proven my mettle when a basket overflowing with chocolates was delivered to my desk from one of our rep teams and I peacefully distributed it among our team and didn't look back. But then this morning I come back from a long romp at the freezing park having not eaten or coffeed, and walk upstairs into the hallway's fragrant steaminess and open door pan clatter which always means Reg is cooking with the intention of filling lots of bellies.

"Girl!" she shouts from the depth of the kitchen, "You wan breakfast? Mea make roti."

"Oh my god," I moan. "I'm on this diet and I can't eat anything good." We chat a little in the hall from our open doorways, she hollers in to Devina why you can do that? We supposed to do that! I laugh and coax the dog inside to the water dish. We chat more. Devina turns 21 next week, once again I'll miss her birthday party at the mandir by being on the road to Chicago. Every year of neighbor life I'm sadder to miss it.
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[05 Dec 2016|08:31pm]
[ mood | sparkling, despite ]

I asked Duncan to pick up apple cider on his way over yesterday, because I had a pot on the stove stockifying the carcass of the txgiving turkey, and apple chips baking, and I felt like mulling to round it out. It required a hunt (unintentional; I made it hard, "no alcohol, no added sugar plz!") and he arrived after scouring a few unknown-to-him stores with two bottles of Martinelli's sparkling. ("Because if I learned anything from Passover, it's that one bottle of sparkling cider is never enough.") I smiled at this (am still) and pretended the spices laid out on the counter were from another cooking project.

We drank one bottle playing Gin Rummy. Our seventh date. Today I came home after a truly miserable embarrassing-mistake-that-haunts kind of work day, and the thought of the kindness that went into the bringing of this second bottle brought my glass of it to par -- as a take-the-edge-off stress-relief thing -- with every "SAVE ME!" glass of wine I've ever poured after a work day. I can hear his deep tumble of a voice & the good rich timbre of the bashful joke backing it.

Something startling in this. I started this diet (I'm doing Whole30 this month) with the intention of solidarity with my dad, who had heart surgery the day after Thanksgiving. I thought it would be good to work into our relationship, and good to cut my sugar addiction before the hols, so I wouldn't be the bad influence when I went home to Chicago. A secondary curiosity was seeing the financial/caloric impact of my drinking. A third was taking a more earnest and clear approach to this cozy & people-filled time: not experiencing it all through the lens of indulgence but seeing and feeling it all plainly. Already there have been small discoveries about food and thinking, and I think this one (that kindness remembered and consumed can be as good as wine) is especially nice.

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[24 Nov 2016|12:06am]

remy whirling in sunlight, 2016
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that's a new one [16 Nov 2016|03:10pm]
I took the back stairwell at work and froze paralyzed by the sound of a woman shrieking, couldn't tell if positive or negative, and a loud man voice, couldn't tell from where, ambiguous seeming distress coming from seeming all directions, above floors and below floors, echoing as if coming from me, the inside of my skull calling from the PTSDepths a complete audio replay of my own screams from being assaulted on my way home a few years ago.

Then piff! over like nothing, able to distinguish the shrieking as a protest against teasing, internal screams silenced abruptly, me standing in an empty stairwell white knuckling the bannister and heart racing.

And back to work.
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thought upon staring into one another's eyes in our first moment alone in 2 weeks [15 Nov 2016|08:04pm]
[ mood | just us 2 now ]

How convenient and lucky is it in These Times to be able to store your whole heart in the container of a dog

(Each morning when I leave I kiss him on the forehead and say out loud, "I love you more than life itself." His daily reply, in a look, "Thank you for entrusting me with this cargo; I will make it bigger and brighter while you are gone today.")

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[15 Nov 2016|06:34am]
I dream about refugees. At first it's a simple abstraction of life and narrative with the ends twisted funny, but after not too long the city infrastructure around us goes from weird dream logic to grim and beige and torn full of holes. There's a girl and we're hiding her, or caring for her because her parents are dead. We aren't fleeing, but there is scrutiny. We're attempting normalcy, but there is a growing risk and dread. She is either shell-shocked or too young to understand, so the work of preserving some stability while shielding her from the real situation chars my heart. I wake up to a dark and rainy morning feeling like I have not slept at all.
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parallel play [09 Nov 2016|07:11pm]
This morning on a grey street corner my best friend and I embraced. She was bound for the coffee shop, I was bound for the office. She is looking for work. I give my hours to an agency in the Financial District. We have been sleeping beside one another in the same bed like kid sisters for just over a week, talking into the night, carefully keeping one another level. Mitigating each other's growing anguish. In the middle of the night she gets up to open the window wider. I pull my extra blanket in tighter around me. In the early bruised hour before dawn I am up while she sleeps. I run the dog around the park. Make the breakfast. I am the parent figure in the morning, I see her up and off, energetic and focused, ensure she doesn't fall victim to the siren of depressed daytime sleeping. She is the parent figure at night, cooks and feeds me if I work too late, consoles and comforts, alert when I am weak, allows and demands that I rest, evaluates and holds my heart when I appear on the edge of slipping.

I asked her to come stay with me because I wanted to take care of her. Because I needed help to take care of me.

November 9th in the morning on the corner we embrace. "I love you," she says quite clearly. I raise my head from the crook of her shoulder and keep my arms around her. "You're my favorite America," I say equally clearly. Commuters, witnessing this, hesitate. I get the feeling it is a good hesitation. A balm some of these people needed to see performed in this black moment, to be reminded that it is available to them, too. That it is good to share fear publicly and share love publicly and louder.
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notes after a date (not about the date) [05 Nov 2016|02:22am]
the way that smart men talk about weed for lolz makes me want to scoop my eyeballs out with a mellon baller

real content coming soon; i am revitalizing my writing practice in an effort to end the year roundly.

and goddammit i will do the handstand. i will. i am running out of time but i will. the new mission is to ask for each perspective at the studio. i have been studying there in addition to practicing.

here's what i liked today: the dalai lama -- 'We should start each day by consciously asking ourselves, “What can I do today to appreciate the gifts that others offer me?”'

i liked it because it was divorced -- not even divorced from, but of another sphere entirely -- from all the co-opted language. about gratitude, sweetness, magic... all these big ideas that ring hollow the more your distant people yammer on about them without substance and substantiation. i think when people bother me from here out i will ask some version of this question. tony, the rudest and yet best person i know, suggested it's impolite to tell people they're boring to their faces. and just when i was getting comfortable telling strangers they were (using other words -- but just barely). so instead this may be my last effort to relate -- in what way did you appreciate -- what gifts in others can you recognize? this is not what the dalai lama intended by imparting this gentle approach to bending the world -- i hope to soon be more receptive to his real intention. for now i am a frustrated brooklyn woman. working on a few things.
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