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The Church of Sunday Night in November

your departure seems like it has to be final this time and i can’t stop crying. i feel like the ground has opened up below me, that everything is going to stay dark and cold, and what is the point of such love and warmth—the feeling i had hoped for (prayed for) for such a long time–only to have it go away again. the loneliness is a lot worse now, worse than it was before, because i thought we were each other’s reward for all our sadness, all the struggle before we found each other. you’re the last person i should be saying it to, but it’s your embrace i want (all that would make me feel better) and i’m an inconsolable small person right now. an inconsolable small person with a new manicure because I thought I would make love to you with these new short purple nails. i press send here but it’s always to you that the lost love is heedlessly, helplessly traveling. the pain, jesus, the pain is terrible. will this venus retrograde never end.

The Church of Miscarried Moments

I had this dream about him last night, about our first real date when he was dressed up and I was too, cufflinks and heels and pomade and lots and lots of red lipstick and spicy cologne. A dream of a swank event and his wide smile and my gap-toothed grin, of a midnight midtown walk and drinks in a secret bar we stumbled upon when most everyone was asleep. I dreamed that instead of flattening ourselves on two different sides of the cab, we came together–not, as it really happened, with me leaning timidly against his chest but with us kissing kissing kissing as the car soared high above the city, a kiss that didn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. A kiss we could trust. Me climbing on top of him, he reaching into me, buttons unbuttoning, zippers unzippering, fingers and mouths everywhere on a bridge hurtling us somewhere better–somewhere I wouldn’t panic just when the going could get good, somewhere he had plenty of time and inclination, somewhere no one would jump off, somewhere we could flourish together. It was a dream of the we that didn’t happen, and it was tough because things felt so sweet and got so sour. Waking up was brutal.

It’s Always Something

Sunday, on the precipice of a new moon and the Jewish New Year, I woke at 4 am, early even for me. Cool air drifted through the window and rain pitter-pattered against the glass as I lounged in bed, draped in an autumn mumu and reading my second Gilda Radner book in two days. I’ve been pretty open about how hard I’ve been finding life, so the peace of that moment was sweet.

I’m not entirely sure why Gilda’s been giving me so much comfort right now. I’ve been reading and watching everything about her and I think partly it’s her guilelessness coupled with that intense mischief. Her intelligence and sense of the absurd were palpable, but so were her huge vulnerability and empathy–it was all wrapped in an enormous, childlike glow. Not a childish one, mind you for by all reports she was eminently kind, and children rarely are. (People who think children are born kind are fooling themselves; kindness is always a learned trait.) But Gilda was surely childlike: playful, present, boundlessly, bountifully enthusiastic. So much so that her voice was extra-raspy and her limbs extra rubbery, as if excitement was constantly stretching her limits. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy