Wednesday, March 2, 2016

Today I wore a dress I keep meaning to retire; I always end up wearing it when I'm out of clean clothes. I bought it from H&M in 2007 for like $23, it's served me well. I came home to find an Anthropologie catalog in the mail, I tore through it in the elevator and decided I want, all the dresses. All the shifts. Everything is, $168 and up.

Today I broke a hundred dollar bill my mom gave me for my birthday; I bought a $4 chocolate bar and ate it in one sitting, writing my book.

It's not that I don't care about the elections. It's that I feel helpless in the face of what's happening in the country and the world. So I focus on my book and my business; I write and I walk, I look inside all the shop windows, I take pictures, I get another coffee, I be nice to the baristas and cashiers. I wash my clothes. I wash my hair. I frame the collage I made last night, my matting is laughable but I don't care. I make another coffee. I write my book.

Monday, February 29, 2016

Yesterday, in a Minnesota conference room, I spilled a cup of coffee on the carpet. One of the catering staff caught my eye. "No children or animals were hurt," I said, throwing napkins at the problem. The man heard me -- looked at me -- but did not laugh. In that moment I missed New York keenly. Happy to be back.

Maybe it landed later and he laughed for a long, long time. Maybe I'm not funny at all.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Writing a book, is like if someone gives you a thousand business cards to alphabetize, except that they are not business cards, they are moments, and you are ordering them not according to the easy alphabet, but according to certain elusive properties that cannot be named, only discerned, as in, by a medium.

So you start – you have to start somewhere – and you keep at it, and almost every moment you touch, multiples into several moments, so that soon, you are working with ten, then a hundred thousand moments.

And your shoulders are covered in a latticework of tightening leather belts, except they are not your shoulders, they are your trapezius muscles. Your traps, because they trap all the unordered moments, a tension exacerbated by writing, but which only writing can cure.