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.

Underwear

     My dear friend Jessi told me that sometimes while she was living in New York, instead of doing laundry, she would stop at the drugstore on her walk home from the subway and simply buy a new pack of underwear. I imagined her walking around the city with crisp Fruit of the Looms and their empty packets sprinkled around her bedroom, bills of $5.99 mounting but not as fast as all the small joys she experienced not trudging to the laundromat.

     As I did the math on the train home last night, I realized that I, too, was about to join the Jessi Club.

     Except I decided to invest, given my current rate of buying new underwear once every five to eight years. In a convenient twist, I got off the train early and walked directly into Bloomingdales using the underground station entrance like a cosmopolitain goddess.

     I was not embarrassed that I was shopping for underwear nor worried about being caught looking at images of shirtless men for too long, both memories of adolescent back-to-school shopping that I am happy to report are no longer things.

     I was not prepared, however, for the mark-up of designer underwear.

     I knew that I would be spending more than $20. I knew that the price would probably be around $25. I knew that if I thought the price should be $25, the real price would be around $30. But as I held up the first 3 pack of men’s boxer briefs, I saw it: $59.95.

     I would like to take a moment of silence for all the things one could buy with $59.95.

     As if discovering a new universe, I had a field day prancing through the Bloomies men’s underwear section like a field of overpriced daisies, picking each one only to plant it back in its place.

     The best, bar none, were the packs of single Versace trunks packaged with an image of a spray-tanned Adonis model in soft technicolor lighting, with no price to be found.

     “I’m not buying this, but how much is it?”

     He scans the thing.

     “Sixty-five.”

     In my mind I could only imagine gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey considering such a preposterous preposition. Then I questioned how gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey could drive an entire market. Then I thought of the Venn diagram of gay men in New York and Italian men in New Jersey, and how the only definitive commonality would be single packs of $65 Versace underwear.

     “These are the clothes you wear under your clothes,” I kept mumbling out loud in horror.

     I rode the train home in silence, with three pairs of Calvin Klein cotton stretch trunks, and a receipt for $42.50.

Forced Fun

     Swaddled in a fleece blanket on my couch in Queens, I exhaled in relief as I witnessed the technicolor tragedy that was a rainy Times Square on New Year's Eve.

     I refrained from the drinking game of taking a sip every time Ryan Seacrest said, “But the rain can’t dampen the spirit of this crowd!” In part because I would be toasted after half an hour, and also because it’s hard to bring oneself to drink when the camera pans to sopping wet Japanese tourists looking like they collectively just lost their first born.

     The occasion of New Year’s Eve is less of a holiday and more of a midnight mass sponsored by Planet Fitness or Moët (depending on what party you’re at). The level of prescribed fun confined to such a strict timeline rivals few other rituals. There’s no other night specifically designated for you to wear a black minidress and overpay for taxis.

     As the ball began to drop, I realized that I had yet to open my bottle of Martinelli’s Sparkling Cider bought specifically for the occasion. In a frenzy I scurried to the fridge and ripped off the top wrapping.

     “18, 17, 16…”

     Other silverware clinked as I grabbed the bottle opener and quickly popped the top off.

     “13, 12, 11…"

     I poured an overly-fizzy champagne glass.

     “9, 8, 7…”

     Phew, I was going to make it.

     Ryan encouraged me to get my glass of champagne ready as I raised mine to the television in ceremonial compliance.

     “Happy New Year!”

     I took a sip of my sweet bubbly. I was so relieved that those poor people could finally go home. I was so grateful that I was already there. I wondered what other feelings I could evoke or conjure as I stared down the barrel of 2019.

     The camera panned to Christina Aguilera’s face with a piece of wet confetti stuck plainly to her forehead, and I felt nothing.

An Ending of Sorts

     The last essay of 2018.