Tonight after cleaning up the detritus of Sunday dinner, I saged myself, took a salt bath, and went downstairs to pay my respects to the blood moon eclipse from my stoop. All around me, couples were fighting. Granted, I live in Williamsburg, melodrama central. But even for my neighborhood, it was a bit much. One couple was fighting at the corner, another was fighting in front of a parked car across the street, yet another was fighting right in front of my building. That third couple stopped their yelling for a second to stare at me when I settled in on the stoop, the “Do you mind?” hanging over their head in a cartoon bubble they didn’t utter aloud. (Millennials make for unusually passive-aggressive New Yorkers.) Continue Reading →
There are moments when I feel I am nothing but the small clerk of some hotel without a proprietor, who has all his work cut out to enter the names and hand the keys to the willful guests.–Katherine Mansfield
I came across this in Tracy Daugherty’s Joan Didion biography, The Last Love Song, which I’ve been reading thirstily and disdainfully. I don’t mind the anonymity the quote describes, but I’ve been flashing on it as I’ve been watching the day turn to night. Sun’s turning all kinds of neon bruises that’ll disappear with her grand exit, permakitten Grace and I are admiring from the kitchen window, and there’s this feeling–immense, bottomless–of all of us passing through each other without leaving a dent. What’s interesting is how completely I’ve come to accept this. It’s not sad, not really. It’s just the fourth dimension, slicing through our existential chatter.