building some things.

I have a friend who's not so much a "friend" as someone I've met a few times and whose company I've really, really enjoyed. She is bold, and she is brash, and I know via her Twitter account that she's deeply immersed in welding lessons.

I have another friend, made through mutual acquaintances, who has gone to Peru for an indeterminate period of time to concentrate on her writing and on not being in New York for a while.

A third friend, this one being one of my closest, is preparing for her first child and looking forward to a future where she and her husband are able to raise him and still have adventures. (Some people with children pooh-pooh this idea, but those who've grown up this way know its possibility.)

All around me, people are Doing Things, and I watch and I get jealous and I get inspired and I hope to do some things myself. Mostly it feels like I'm always standing still with a whirlwind around me, never doing enough, but all I really need is to make little dents here and there. Without a manifesto, without an organization, without much of anything except the brains in my head and this undying gusto for everything, I feel like I'm actually doing so.

I don't know if I'm entitled to that right, but I'm taking it for what it's worth. Given that, I don't think it hurts to hope someday to take that trip or to weld some shit or to have that baby, because it's the hope that gets you to the fact.

Also I'm really sleepy.

a smile

in the form of a fond memory

i can't explain it.

"I can't explain it though I have to try."

It's a simple line from a lovely little Jenny Owen Youngs song, and somehow I find it sums up my general state of mind quite simply. I'm working right now on a story about a boy who was born with a peculiar sort of body. Every muscle and tendon is made up of a string or a songline, every organ is fleshed out by musical tones. He tunes out the world unwittingly because his entire brain becomes an internal orchestra when he least expects it.

Probably it will end up being a stupid story, but there are bits of it I'm quite fond of already. In the beginning, the boy is standing next to his mother looking out the Rockefeller Center windows at his mother, who starts to ask him a question about what he wants for lunch. He doesn't reply because all he can hear is the crashing symphony that accompanies the skaters. It is silenced when he realizes the noise was all in his head.

There's something here in the notion of private language that I can't help but fall for every time; even though my favorite philosopher makes the argument that at the end of the day there is no such thing as a private language, it's still wildly compelling to think about. For all of our idiosyncratic feelings and emotions, at the end of the day the only things that matter are the ones that are communicable.

I think about this kind of stuff a lot, and as we launch this summer, it's foremost on my mind because right now it feels time for new projects and new distractions, and we here who crave cake and love life are feeling it most. Yesterday, we ate some of the greatest carrot cake I've ever tasted at a goodbye party for a friend, and the vibrancy of its flavor clashed with the dull irritation of farewells and we kind of wondered exactly what it all meant in terms of where we'd net out.

There's a great deal to be said for the unknown, but it's remarkably funny to think that we can't say it until we've experienced it and beaten it down into something communicable.

loving life, in hypercolor

i. I love springtime; I love chicory coffee; you probably don't know it, but in the summertime when I start to feel unhappy or lonely, I love going to Central Park and walking around the Reservoir as many times as it takes before things feel better and a Jamba Juice is ultimately required. I said yesterday that 80% of what goes on in my life happens in my head; this is why I'm so tired all of the time.

ii. And as that summer approaches and I start to think about how my heart bursts every time I get near a beach, I'm excited, too, to think that one of my nearest and dearest may be coming back to the fold. There are really exhilarating moments in my life, most of which take place in bars, where every word becomes a new discovery and a whole new set of creative ideas overcome you. It used to be easy to come by, back in the days when I spent half of my time in philosophy classes and the other half with my head in the clouds; these days, it takes a good friend to jog it out of me. Christiana could not be planning her arrival at a better time.

iii. And in other news, I've finally come around to the wild, wonderful ways of My Morning Jacket. Who knew?

the simple days

"A ballerina dance on their toes. They dance gracefully. I want to be one."

Humans are born with the desire to roam the earth. We crawl, then walk, then run. All in an effort to move further away from where we came from: from home. I know firsthand the thrill of what changing ones surroundings can do for ones heart. And now I also know that staying home and letting others go can be it’s own fantastic journey. Because when you let go of something, you make room for something else entirely, something you never expected. Something that makes home seem like it’s own unexpected adventure. A trip where new treasures are found around every old corner. Where the world, in all it’s complexities, come right to your doorstep. Because in the end, the power is not just with those who go away, but also in what they leave behind.