Archive | Church Matters
On Friday, my dear childhood friend Ana and I met up for the first time in years so we could mourn Prince together in person. Spike Lee held a massive Fort Greene The Church of Liser the Tailor
The longer these primaries drag on–the longer everyone soap-boxes and no one listens–the more I find myself hiding from social media and, gasp, reading paper books and writing in paper notebooks. These days, that qualifies as “going off the grid,” which I find hilarious given that only a decade ago going off the grid entailed living off the land, modern amenity-free, and growing a very big beard, regardless of your gender. This is also hilarious given that Brooklyn is now crowded with the facial-hair equivalents of Unabombers, Paul Bunyans, and Motel the Tailors. (A glimpse into various ancestry; what ho!) What’s most hilarious: Apparently I am channeling the spirit of Andy Rooney.
The Church of Mark Morris & Noels Past
Yesterday morning I woke to a clean house. This may not be a big deal to some, but because I live and work and often cook at home, and because I was not raised to be Martha Stewart (or even Erma Bombeck), things can get fairly psychotic by Friday of every week. I used to loll around the apartment the whole weekend, too oppressed by the mess to address it. Only on Sunday night would I finally lumber to my feet and grab a sponge–and then just because I couldn’t face a new week with the detritus of the last one still holding me hostage.
There was nothing especially restful about the cycle.
Something shifted in me this year. I suppose I should say, “I shifted something in me” because overall I underwent an enormous growth spurt, and it is my observation that adults only experience growth when they pursue it rather than passively await it.
The upshot is that, no matter how tired I am on Fridays now, I straighten up my house before I go to bed. It’s the least I can do for Future Lisa, who deserves to exist unfettered by the squalor of Lisa Past. So now I clean the way you’d fold a beloved child’s clothing: with concentrated fondness and a profound patience. If I want an iteration of me to thrive in the soft, sweet order for which I clamored as a little girl, I’ve resolved that I must carve out that space. Continue Reading →