Hellooooo? :: echoes ::

Is anyone actually reading this version of my blog?





((The "real thing" is on Myspace.))


tk

Ya.

Just finished compiling my course reader/book selections for Latin American Lit.
12-week course. In addition to the reader, I'm ordering One Hundred Years of Solitude (Márquez) and Death and the Maiden (Dorfman). And for pure joy and inspiration: The Book of Questions (Neruda).

I have more material than I can use, probably, and that's OK. I'm all about flexibility in the plan even (especially) when it means doing less in order to do more.

I'm actually starting to get excited about the results after months of feeling anxious about how much I don't know, and looking forward to finding out what effect my choices will have on the students.






:: Table of Magical Contents ::


Jorge Luis Borges
"The Garden of Forking Paths"
"The Circular Ruins"
"Funes the Memorious"
"Borges and I"

Julio Cortázar
"Axolotl"
"Letter to a Young Lady in Paris"
"A Yellow Flower"
"The Night Face Up"
"Continuity of Parks"

Clarice Lispector
"The Chicken"
"The Imitation of the Rose"
"The Smallest Woman in the World"
"Preciousness"

Luisa Valenzuela
"Dirty Words"
"The Best Shod"
"The Censors"
"Sursum Corda"
"The Gift of Words"
"Vision Out of the Corner of One Eye"
"Legend of the Self Sufficient Child"
"All About Suicide"
"Cat's Eye"

Selections from The Stories of Eva Luna by Isabel Allende
"Prologue"
"Two Words"
'The Schoolteacher's Guest"
'The Gold of Tomás Vargas"
"Clarisa"
"Tosca"
"The Little Heidelberg"




The Magic and the Real
"An Act of Vengeance" :: Isabel Allende
"Sophie and the Angel" :: Dora Alonso
"Culinary Lesson" :: Rosario Castellanos
"Park Cinema" :: Elena Poniatowska
"The Tale of the Velvet Pillows" :: Marta Traba







WHEW.

in a nutshell

All-day / multiple-day music festivals are fucking exhausting, especially when I happen to see three bands in a row that play music I can dance to.



If I never saw tie-dyed shit ever again in any form, I would die happy.



The 80s are over, people.
So are the 60s, surprisingly enough.
Don't make me break your ironic sunglasses, dude, and choke you with the fucking hairband eclipsing your hippy forehead...right after I put a pair of scissors to your long, flowing hair...or your blond dreads. You look homeless, not stylish.

And no, you can't have a sip of my water. I actually do believe you have cooties. And lice. And probably a flea circus.

.

.

.

I am back on my bike after a very long hiatus. It's literally kicking my ass (and my knees' ass).

On the way back from the festival tonight, my pedals stopped turning. Super. When I shifted gears, the screw on the rack I just put on my bike got stuck in the chain. What the hell? Apparently, I need a smaller screw than the one provided. I know this because a professional biker and an aspiring mechanic happened to be right there when I came to a forced stop. He tried everything he could under my bike's front light. No go. Finally, he tried a last resort before he gave up and sent me walking myself and my bike home: maybe he could unscrew one side of my back tire, loosen the grip the chain had, and get the screw out of that mess. Yep. That was the trick that sent me riding home without switching gears on hills. Ridiculous. Add to the list of things to do: take the bike in for a rack fitting to see if I can use the one I already have and just get away with changing the screws.


OK that was more than the nutshell version.

.

.

.



My apartment is a mess. I blame the free pass I got to Outside Lands. And the fact that
I haven't felt like cleaning or putting shit away. It will need to to get worse before it gets better.



.

.

.





I go back to work tomorrow. I'm not ready. And I don't mean it psychologically. I don't have all my shit together that I need to have together for Tuesday. What a fucking awesome department chair I am turning out to be.


.

.

.


Three birthdays this week. Ah yes, November and December are cold months. I already know I'm going to suck at a timely delivery of presents.


, , , , ,


I got a summons for jury duty in the mail. Fascinating. I've always wondered about them. But, uh, excuse me?...Don't I need to be a citizen to help your honor pass judgment? Let's see that green card, first, INS.º















º Inertial Naturalization Services, not to be confused with Internal Naturalization Services.

OOF.

OK so I am behind in the NYC blog, and I don't know when I will ever catch up.
My priorities are shifting.

15 minutes before I left BK for the airport, I found out from my dad that my sister will probably need to have her uterus removed.


. . .


I don't even know what to say. I don't think that this is the time to express shit in words.

A little perspective.



So in true Pelagic fashion, I'm drowning my worries, my awkward transitional time in hedonism and diving right into being back at one of many homes by meeting up with a badass friend I miss in my life for breakfast tomorrow.


It's time to rebuild, stronger than before.






(So live.)

Once again.

Winding down. I am running out of energy to make an effort to go out and do things. Staying in is not the best comfort either when it's not your own room/apartment.

I need to write a blog about the last few days, esp. yesterday.
• Sharon Jones and the Dap-Kings awesomeness
• my phil- and misanthropic tendencies
• Blue Note--fits right in with the above.
• goodbyes and old shit (I think I wrote about this one years ago; I'll have do dig into the archives)
• waterfalls



Today's plan:
• laundry...whenever I get myself out the door
• lunch...ditto
• kill time until my Chocolate Room date doing I don't know what. Suggestions? Call/text.

Skipping the Caribbean Night show at Wingate Field. Don't feel like standing in line for half an hour and carrying a lawn chair they encourage you to bring.


Tomorrow is my last day.
• Mail shit.
• Have brunch with Josina.
• Then, nothing in the works. Once again, call or text if you got anything. I am free from 1 or 2 pm on.

August 14

I'm late on this one because my compooper crashed right when I was about to finish the post, so we weren't talking yesterday.



So...


Apparently, at about 3 am while I was talking to Michael half asleep, we made plans to go boating in Central Park. Alas, I woke up thinking we were meeting for breakfast. I had the place picked out and everything. It was only when he began walking towards the park that I remembered: right! Boating. Not pancakes. Shit.




Such a good time (after I picked up a bite to eat until I could take myself out for brunch). We went into every little corner of the pond that we probably weren't meant to go near, including a little too close to some turtles and under a bridge to a spot where the pond abruptly stops being a pond and becomes green sludge. Maybe it wouldn't have been so abrupt if either one of us was good about looking behind us to see where we were headed.

I love Michael because he can be as whimsical as my imagination: when I pointed to a corner of the pond that was taken over by a tree and mused "Oooo! it would be so amazing to be able to squeeze in there and be right under the tree!" Michael didn't waste a second: "We're going there!"







So we went under trees and over rocks and found the most beautiful, green-shaded spot in the whole pond...






and watched our boat make beautiful trails in the algae...



...right after which we watched a building burning, a trail of black smoke. This is the second fire I am witnessing from water (see photos from July ("T e m m u z" album). Interestiiiiing.




Meanwhile, we came up with a new money-making ploy. I think we might have a new business idea for whenever it is that I move here. $25 per person for a 10-minute ride on this thing, 4 people at a time. Do the math. 9 am to 2 pm should suffice. Does one need a license to "drive" a tethered balloon?





Afterwards, Michael took me to Jacques Torres and bought me edible and potable spicy chocolate. ♥ He's for keeps.

When Michael split, I took myself out for lemon ricotta pancakes, which I shared with my neighbors who were greedily eying my food (because I'm that nice. . . sometimes). I'm for keeps, too.


Next, Brooklyn Museum. The exhibit I wanted to see was no longer there, and I had already paid, so I checked out From the Village to Vogue: The Modernist Jewelry of Art Smith and went back through the Amer exhibit once again (I'd already seen it in April or June).

Modern Cuff Bracelet:



The Reign of Terror (this is wallpaper with multiple dictionary definitions of "terror" underlying the pattern):




The museum ultimately was not a disappointment: while no one was looking, I got to sneak a peak into a new exhibition that was in the process of being installed, saw some Kara Walker pieces and got some photos. Notice a pattern here. I am a bad museum goer...or, I'm very good. Depends on how you look at it and how you feel about rules.


I stayed in at night; it was kinda nice to get some alone time again.

Got no plans today. None on Monday until the evening. None on Tuesday.

W. T. F.







Guess I am starting to get a little drained from being on the go for so long.

Don't tell anyone.

August 13

• Stan's Place.
• Stendhal Syndrome, II.
• Adventures among the medieval armor at The Met.
• Back in the LES for burlesque that doesn't suck.


I took myself out for brunch. Chicory au lait (only because my waitress was cute—otherwise, I would never have drunk decaf coffee: waste of water). Beignets. Already blogged about that. Moving on.


I went to The Met from there. Everyone had been telling me about the Turner exhibit, so I started there, knowing full well this isn't my kind of art. I was right. It isn't. I used my Stendhal Syndrome strategy: walk right on until a piece stops you.

I moved on to the photography exhibit. The early moderns are more "me." Gawd, I love some of Atget's and Cartier-Bresson's prints. I love Walker Evans' subway photographs.


Water Lillies, Atget



Versailles, The Orangerie Staircase, Atget



Hyères, France, 1932 , Henri Cartier-Bresson




Mexico, Mexico City. Calle Cuauhtemoctzin, Cartier-Bresson



Der Fotograf [The Photographer], 1931, Willi Ruge




From there, on to the Superheroes exhibit.

Then, the bookstore, where I saw a postcard of the painting that taught me about Stendhal Syndrome in the first place yyyyeeeaaaars ago. I thought the painting was in Paris or Italy. Apparently, it's here in NYC. I asked a guard where I might find it, expecting the guy to look at me with "How the fuck am I supposed to know? Even if you knew the title of the piece or the artist's name..." but he knew exactly what I was talking about.


And there it was. And there she was.


And there was I, again, having the same intense reaction to the painting. Shortness of breath. A smile and tears right below the surface. Nearly tangible tightness over sternum—like love.


Then, 15 minutes until closing time, I went up to the roof to see the Jeff Koons sculptures.

Coloring Book






Balloon Dog


..






Sacred Heart








When the museum was closing, guards began nagging me to stop photographing stuff (the photos above are not mine) and get in the elevator and leave the museum. So I did.

I mean, I did get in the elevator.

Then, other people who were in the elevator and I began walking towards an exit. I ended up following a guy who was walking in front of me, then lost him. Suddenly, I found myself alone, wandering galleries and looking for an Exit that wasn't cordoned off.

This is funny, I thought. I am alone in a closed museum and no one seems to care. You would think someone would have seen me via some camera tucked in somewhere in here. I walked past the medieval armors, resisting touching anything lest whoever was watching me on camera appear out of nowhere and begin yelling at me.


But no one came. I kept walking and looking for an/the exit.


—Hello?
— . . .
—HELLO???


Eventually, a door somewhere opened and out came a bunch of guards getting off work. I quickly walked over to one of the ladies.

—Hi. Excuse me, where...
—Oh my god! What are...?!? Oh god. What's your name??
—Tilda.
—Tina? Who left you here?
—No one. Why is she talking to me like I'm five?? She's at least five years younger than I am.I was with the last group coming from the roof, then I lost everyone else, and I've been looking for the exit, wondering how come no one was seeing me on some camera or something...
—Oh my god. Come this way. I'm so sorry.


She grabbed my arm and began walking with me...while still holding my arm.

—Um, excuse me. You don't have to keep holding on to me. I want to leave. You can just point me towards the door.
—Oh. Sorry. There it is. I'll come with you. God, so sorry.
(She reaches, then pulls her hand back, remembering.)
—It's OK. I see the exit; I can go from here, thanks. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't touch anything.


She doesn't let me go solo. No way she's letting me out of her sight now. I realize she and other guards can get into serious trouble because of me. She's freaked out. As I'm walking out the door, I hear her talking to another guard, "There was a straggler..."


I think this was the most thrilling museum experience I have ever had anywhere.




At night, I went with my temp housemate et al to a burlesque show at the Slipper Room . Glad it didn't suck. The best thing about the whole thing: The Wet Spots. You can see a video of "Do You Take It?" here.


The worst thing about the whole thing: looking for a bite to eat, ending up at a Mexican (?) restaurant, where I had the most bland, untacolike taco ever.


...Reason 1 to stay put in SF for a bit longer.

Distance.

I try to remember what it was like not to rely on email to communicate with people, what it was like to have to yell into the receiver so that a relative in Israel could hear me. The distance between us seemed so much greater then. I think about the times when we didn't have voice mail or call waiting and how I kept trying a friend or a relative until I didn't get the annoying busy signal and until the person I was calling returned home from wherever she was and picked up the phone.

I can't remember if I was able to get on with my life for a couple of hours before I tried the number again or if I went back to the phone every five minutes until the person picked up. I think it was the latter. How did I get to be this way?

Not being able to get a hold of someone has always unsettled me. I used to write this off to the times I was cheated on, but now I'm remembering it goes farther back. Much farther.

I think I was driven by Persistence. Stubbornness against the odds. Wanting to connect with the people I loved who uprooted themselves while I was young. Not "abandonment issues," no. I didn't feel abandoned. I just had a hard time with the growing distance between me and the people I love.

I still do.

Ah, the possibilities...updates coming daily if not hourly.

Comments & volunteerism welcome.
99.8% of these are just a brainstorm of possibilities.

tk


August 8
• Take a long ass time to get out of the room into the world. It's OK. You need the alone time. It's been a while. √
• Post office. Mail the gitana's card already or else she'll call you "Whore" or something. And mail that other stuff, too.
• Explore the neighborhood...sans camera today. Oof. (My back still hurts too much to carry my camera all day.)
• Sylvia's with Debbie.√
• Kamau's show. Or rather, the show Kamau directed. 9 pm.
• Smalls. Bliss.

August 9
• 2008 International Yo-Yo Open & N.Y. State Yo-Yo Contest with special performance by Peelander-Z! TIME: 11:00am
• D e l i c i o u s n e s s.





August 10
• Regina Carter & Simone

• Smalls: 10:30 & 12:00 AM - Spike Wilner with Ryan Kisor & Joel Frahm


August 11
• The day begins with lunch with Josina. Then, the world's our oyster. Weeeee.




August 12
• I scored a free ticket to see Eliasson's waterfalls exhibit from a boat right around sunset. Awesome.
•Time permitting: Movie Nights on the Elevated Acre: "Manhattan." free Jill Scott show and I'm double booked. Such is New York.

August 13
• Jimmy Delgado y Orquesta featuring Renzo Padilla. 7 pm; Wagner Park

August 16
• Battery Dance Company presents: The 27th Annual Downtown Dance Festival.
TIME: 1:00pm
LOCATION: Governors Island Chase Plaza (Nassau & Pine) The Lawn at Battery Park (State & Pearl)


August 17
• Blue Note: Latin Side of Herbie Hancock featuring Conrad Herwig with special guests Eddie Palmieri (yes!) & Randy Brecker.

August 19
• Smalls special show: Kurt Rosenwinkle group.


August 20
Back to SF. Sigh.





Things to squeeze in there somewhere:

• Smalls and other various jazz joints. (At some point, with Doc Long. Yes?)
• Kicking a Dead Horse at the Public Theater
• Pretty Ugly—630 Greenwich St B/w morton and leroy (bookmarked)
• PS1= that was then, this is now (bookmarked)
• "Click! A Crowd-Curated Exhibition" Brooklyn Museum
200 Eastern Pkwy (at Washington Ave) 
Prospect Heights, Brooklyn | Map
Subway: 2, 3 to Eastern Pkwy–Brooklyn
•Tetsumi Kudo
Andrea Rosen Gallery
525 W 24th St (between Tenth and Eleventh Aves)
• The Bourgeois Pig
• BK promenade at night.
• Good times with Joselin.
• More good times with Jamieson.
• Doing whatever Michael and Lauren want to do.
• Reunion with Debbie the fabulous & Brandon my graduate.
• Turks being Turks fun with Ays(h)e & Sinem.
• Arepas! Preferably with :: mcp:: and preferably more than once.
• the zoo, the aquarium, something.
• Batch. Cupcakes. Oh yes.
• The Metropolitan Museum of Art (bookmarked)
• Bobo: Bobo's Mead (?? not sure, but it is bookmarked)
• Prospect Park.
• Botanical Gardens.
• getting lost—intentionally and otherwise; location to be determined upon being found.
• Haiku moments will be photographed; words will be duly noted as usual.


...and nothing and no one is set in stone.

...until I can.

Once again copying and pasting from an email.
(Sorry, sister. You give me too much fodder for your own reading pleasure.)


It's 9:23 pm.
Today was a wasted day, and wasted days depress me.
Most of the day, I was so frustrated I couldn't even cry. Or eat.


If I had the energy I would make a long gratitude list. Instead, I will just put down what would be on top of the list this evening.

My mom has a saying—any problem you can solve with money is not a problem. And today, thanks to a steady paycheck, money I had in my bank account saved my ass. I really have no problem to bitch about when you think about it.

Of course what's getting me down is less the money waste and more the time wasting and the spirit crushing.

Well.

I moved to the US to get the education I wanted; I got a huge amount of financial aid to do just that. Upon graduation, I CHOSE to live in the US; I wasn't seeking political asylum or running away from an abusive family member. I am not an illegal immigrant who can't make waves or even get simple healthcare with fear of getting busted and deported. I have shit loads of free will and agency. I really have no problem.

I have a place to sleep in tonight in Istanbul. A home. Not a problem.


I'm exhausted, yes. But I'm also grateful.




Some shit is so obvious it takes writing it down to realize what a luxury it is to be frustrated with the squeaky mechanics of my immigration process.

I, on the other hand, cannot.

I'm writing this post for me: I have been keeping record of all the red tape shit I go through, esp. while traveling. Most of this won't make sense to anyone including me, and it is not even an interesting read. But I do have friends on here that like to follow my adventures in Absurdia, so I'm keeping this post public. Feel free to skip on to the next thing you were going to do on the interweb.




On my way from NYC to Istanbul, I had a minor scare: the woman at the counter checking me in looked at my passport, saw that I had no British Visa and that my US visa had expired and that I travel with only an INS-issued document that will let me into the country. She wondered for a second if there would be a problem with my connecting flight in London. She checked with a superior, a process that took long enough to make me anxious, and she came back what seemed like hours later, with good news: since it hasn't yet been six months since the expiration of my US visa, which is when I applied for a travel document instead of renewing my visa (a much more painful procedure), I would be allowed into London Heathrow. None of this BS about the six-month window made sense to me, but since I got the answer I wanted, I didn't care. Absurdity only annoys me when it threatens my ability to travel.



Yesterday, in a panic, I finally thought to check when my US visa had expired. Still within the 6-month window? Yes. Whew. I didn't know what I would have done if it had been more than six months.

Today, the first blow came when I asked about how much an upgrade would cost. With my bad back, the thought of having to sit for so long on two different flights was depressing, and I thought I should probably do what is so un-me while I travel: pay more to be more comfortable. Apparently, because I bought my ticket online through some internet page, I don't get to upgrade. Fine. I had booked aisle seats; I'd just have to make sure I get up and stretch more frequently than I would like.

Then, the woman took too long looking through my passport. She went to a superior. They began looking through paperwork. When they came back, I wasn't worried: I told them about the whole 6-month thing. No go. For some reason, on the way back to the US, the same thing doesn't apply. London won't let me in.

—Even for a connecting flight, even if I never leave the airport?
—Even then.
—But I have a travel document&183;
—The problem is not with your entry into the US. You just can't go through London without a transit visa or a US visa.
—But I don't need a US visa. I am OK to get back into the US, so what does London want from me? What do I do now?
—You need to go to the British Embassy and get a transit visa.
—Um, today? Oof.


All I have to say is thank goodness for free wireless at the airport. I checked at the ticket counter first to see if Turkish Airlines and the Star Alliance had any direct flights to NYC. Yes. For about $3000 one way. No thanks. I got online and began looking while frantically instant messaging with my parents. Right when I was about to resign myself to paying a fortune to fly direct to NY, we came up with the idea of flying to just anywhere in the US. Turned out I could buy a ticket to Chicago for about $1400. In the meantime, I was having mom check with THY over the phone to see if she would find anything cheaper than what I was having online. Right as I was about to commit to the Chicago ticket, mom found a ticket to NYC that wasn't showing up on the compooper of the woman at the airport's ticket counter. She found a seat that went from costing $2600 to $1500 within a matter of minutes, made the reservation, gave me the confirmation number, and I bought the ticket from the ticket counter at the airport. This shit has never made sense to me. What I understand is it's all about timing and persistence while hunting.

So. $1500 later, I have a new ticket to NYC for tomorrow.



As mom pointed out, this is partially my shithead lawyer's fault. She had told me that I didn't need to go through the trouble of renewing my work visa in the US since I now have a work permit card and a travel document and I could travel abroad and get back into the US no problem. Technically, she was right. I can get back into the US. I just can't go through anywhere else to get home.


I'm getting so tired of this shit. This is why I have a hard time with Americans who have the privilege of traveling abroad so easily yet don't, especially those for whom money is not a big obstacle. I mean, my friends who visited me this summer just showed up in Turkey with their passports and that was it. I can't imagine what that would feel like—to see a good fare online and just buy the ticket without worrying about whether or not I would be able to get a visa to that country, to whom I would have to sell my soul to get the paperwork done quickly... I understand now that some people are just not into traveling. They look at it as a choice you make to put yourself into uncomfortable situations in places where you know no one, where you do not speak the language or understand the culture. So I think I understand a little bit more now why some of my friends are not into traveling. It makes sense. If you like being comfortable, traveling abroad somewhere is probably not going to make you happy. Me, I like being uncomfortable...while traveling, that is, not before traveling. And I'm jealous of people who never have to go through the patience testing processes that certainly take the joy out of traveling, at least for a while.


Well.

As we say in Turkish, and as my dad reminded me, there is a favor in everything—as in, everything happens for a good reason. I don't know what the reason was. Maybe it's not for me to know. But with each such experience, I'm getting less and less satisfied with this explanation.


I want a green card already, dammit.

She can f l y !

It was Snir's 8th birthday yesterday. We went out to the beach and did a little photo shoot.

The girl can f l y!












She can also take a damn good picture.












I wished Moshe could see her now—he'd be smiling as wide as ever, his dimples in sync with his eyes.

The Magic and The Real: not just for fictional characters.

Yesterday was my last full day in Israel.

I spent most of the day on my way to/at Moshe's grave, alone. I didn't expect to "hear from him" again this time. This time, I just wanted to talk to myself in his "presence" more than anything.


I woke up a bit anxious today. The next trip is days away. I'm almost ready to leave here, but I'm not sure I'm ready to be in NYC.

So I woke up first with a song in my head that has since escaped me. Then, with thoughts about Hancock (which I saw last night with my cousin Darya), wondering if I have known a Hancock (spoiler coming right now; look away until the next paragraph if you care): less the superhero/immortality bit, more the wecannotbetogetherandnothurteachother part. You're flattering yourself, I thought, so I compromised. OK, so maybe it's the Icannotbewithyouandnotgethurt part that resonates within me. (I certainly don't think I'm someone else's timeless love. I'm undecided on whether or not I would want the position if it became available.) Then, disquietude? apprehension? tension? Heaviness-in-the-chest pain. I'm holding shit in. That pain.

The bus ride to the cemetery was painful: more tightness in the chest (and a bad back). I couldn't wait to get to the cemetery to have an excuse to let shit out—however I was going to.


Finally, alone time…I think.





I'm not going to write about it all here. I will say this: in the two hours or so that I spent just sitting by the grave and providing a feast for the stealthiest, weirdest looking mosquitoes I've ever seen, there was a time when I couldn't help but hope for another word, without even knowing what the question was that needed a response other than the pain in my chest that I didn't and still do not fully understand. When I wondered about the ribcage tightness, that sternum knot, I did perceive a word (that's the best way I can put it), yet I think it came from inside, more from within my ribcage, less a resonance that settled into my brain from I don't know where.

Open.


Open? Is open an adjective or a verb, a state of being? Open what? What's open? Open how? Fuck.

...as in, I'm actually amused by the oracular nature of the little voices in my head ribcage. It's just so fucking tk—my own inner voice, which is supposed to make sense to me out of all people, is a voice that confuses its birthmother. Like a wise gnome once said, "sometimes the way [my] mind works is God's own private mystery." What can I say? I love me.

At a standstill and not sure what the hell was going on in my mind, I did what any sensible person would do. I pulled up a chair under the tree in front of Moshe's grave, sat down, took my book out of my bag, and began reading. When I truly love someone, I find immense peace if not bliss in sharing space in silence.

There is something about reading all this Latin American fiction in preparation for the class I'll be teaching this fall that's been at once amazingly soothing and amazingly provocative. No pornography could turn me on like these stories and novels do. I mean, ddddaaaaaamn; the amount of passion the writers and their characters express in all sorts of ways takes my breath away.

These are the things I thought about sitting across from Moshe's grave, reading my book. I wondered how come so many people often shut down or shut themselves in or let doubt supersede passion when they see what was once imagined suddenly appear before them—sometimes, in the form of someone whose only desire is to live passionately (my tendency is the opposite—I believe only too willingly that an imagined possibility can become reality), how come many if not most people don't do everything they can to create magical realism in their lives. Because it ain't just for fictional characters, people; we can render our lives possibly magical, too. I truly believe this. I think we get bogged down by having to pay bills, by scrutinizing shit and trying to do the healthy, logical thing rather than say Fuck You to ol' logic and do whatever the fuck we're passionate about. And the saddest thing is probably people's losing touch with their own passions.

And that, my friends, is why I wouldn't blame anyone for dreaming.
Not even myself.




I pondered all this some more, sitting there, reading yet another fervent story by a Latina. I was calmer, but the chest pain was still kind of there. I had an idea. I got up, traced Moshe's name engraved on the tombstone onto the two blank pages at the end of my book with a pencil, sat back down. It occurred to me that living passionately comes at the cost of heartbreak. Sometimes I hurt, sometimes I get hurt, and most of the time, the two happen simultaneously. And you know what? If I wasn't before, I am OK with that now.

I could indulge all those should haves and could haves, but fuck, sister, what's the point? What I've said and done could have been no other way. My wordy emails, my lengthy explanations as well as my silences, my keeping secrets (maybe even from myself), my rushing into things as well as my taking things too slow…my mistakes: they're all perfect in their imperfections. We get to fuck up; we get to make mistakes. It's a privilege we have. And rather than resent it, I choose to embrace my fortune.

Today, despite all the things I am still confused about, despite my realization that I know very little right now, I think I understand what "So live" means a bit better. It's about acceptance and making peace with myself. It's about tending to a broken heart with compassion whether it is mine or someone else's. It's about writing this hippy dip shit out without editing too much. It's about opening up without being afraid of what or whom I might lose if I do, realizing the most valuable things I could lose are my honesty with myself, my integrity, me.

It's about not being afraid to have enduring faith in honest, unabashed love. Doesn't it always begin in our imagination?




And that, my friends, is why I wouldn't blame anyone for dreaming.
Not even myself.










(I feel more ready for NYC now.)