falling out of it.

It strikes me that no one really talks about falling out of love. We speak around and about the moment something breaks. We speak of betrayal. Of the line that divides before and after. But we do not talk of how if often happens just as you fell in into it: slowly, steadily, decision by decision, gentle realization after gentle realization, unfolding and unfurling.

I suppose it is a restructuring of sorts. An alchemy of transforming memories from sharp shards to heavy, rounded stones that you then submerge in the murky waters of doubt. How it is second look after second look, choosing to put an end to the excuses you once made on his behalf. Excusing how he remembered nothing. Not a damn thing. And how that made you feel small and unimportant. How there was that time standing in front of the fridge that you watched as he pulled out a bottle of white wine. I don't know when this was opened, he had said. I don't know if it's still any good. How in that moment you chose not to say: It was two weeks ago. With me. You opened it with me, two weeks ago. His non remembrance, a betrayal. A small line. And your silence.

How you must decide to no longer gloss over the fissures. How you allow the angular nature of the narrative to elbow out a new story. More true than before. And less true too.

Because you know why he couldn't remember and you can't fault him for that. Sadness does funny things. Tricks of light and the mind and its memory.

The thing is--what keeps resurfacing--is the memory of that time he fell asleep his full face pressed up again the side of your cheek and you weren't sure how he could even breathe. It was such an act of defiance on his part. An act of affection for a girl who never slept all tangled legs and arms, but kept to her side of the bed. And for that little rebellion alone, you will love him. But you must choose not to love him now. So you tuck that away. For a later day when your own face is pressed into the valley of a different neck. Not better, but different.

And how falling out of love now is learning to accept kindness from others. From the man who does remember--the man with a memory that rivals yours--the terror and excitement this incites. From the man who takes the time to respond despite his busy schedule, who fills the mornings with an offer of coffee or tea. The man you sleep soundly next to because you're not afraid that at any moment he might disappear.

image via.

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the blue umbrella

it is in the spring that new york turns wet.

wet and gray.

it is a different sort of wet than winter. a different sort of gray. it is a hazy weather, peppered by the most glorious and vibrant sun-drenched days.

i didn't understand spring till i moved to new york. didn't love spring until i lived here.

i think there is no more beautiful sound than a steady rain tapping and knocking at the window. i remember a particular night as a young girl being awoken by it. turning over to watch it stream down the diamond-latticed window. how i fought that night to stay awake, just to listen. but sleep won and i fell under.

each spring i watch as new yorkers around me become enraged by the constant showers. the gray and the mess and the inconvenience of it. (inconvenience. what an unimportant word. sometimes i think the word of manhattan is convenience, which is almost entirely why i want nothing to do with the place. no, that's not true, the word of midtown is convenience. i'll happily take the rest of the manhattan). i watch as new yorkers are undone by the rain and i want to say, it happens every spring. every spring we get rain like this. why are you surprised? we have a short memory for weather here. it helps us survive.

but as others loft curses and epithets skyward i rejoice. i love the rain. i have always loved the rain. i think it's the texan in me. the texan who understands the progression of that odd mix of black and green as it moves in and fills the air. the texan who craves the low-roll of thunder. the texan who thinks few things more beautiful than lightning illuminating a low, wide sky, if only for a moment.

i was explaining this recently. sitting in a small french gastrotque in the west village, my blue umbrella poking from my purse. i was explaining this deep, guttural need for rain when mid-sentence, the man across the table, leaned right in and kissed me. the kind of kiss that is unhurried and easy, having almost nothing and everything to do with the subject at hand. and when he pulled away, my fingers still on his beard, he looked at me, pursed his lips, settled back in his chair and said, i interrupted you, what were you saying? something about rain, i trailed off. there are some things i like even more than a thunderstorm.

image credit unknown

 

South to Brooklyn.

Riding the A train downtown, I think, not much more of this. Today I will pull the money from the bank, today I will sign a lease, and in ten days I will move to Brooklyn. No more frustration at looking up in hopes of seeing  the 125^th street  station, only to be greeted by the yellow stripes of 145^th. No more inching past 135^th. No more gypsy cab drivers who stand at the mouth of subway offering rides and sidelong glances that distill my womanhood to nothing more than curves and cutouts. No more nine-flight escalators stuck behind the person too lazy or too tired or too indignant to walk down. No more of the slow and silent panic that waiting for the A train in the bunker that is 181 elicits.

And no more of the crowded elevator up to the street when riding the 1 train late at night. No more listening as men speak in a langue they wrongly assume I cannot understand.

I have lived in Manhattan for eight years now. It is a number that both alarms and amazes. Eight years.

In ten days this will change. In ten days I will fill a truck with only the furniture that will fit into a small studio apartment and I will hurtle south. To Brooklyn. The southerner in me appreciates this. Victory by degrees.

It is a quiet place—quieter, at least, abundant in trees and coffee shops, and I am undoubtedly, indubitably, indefatigably in love.

With the beer garden across the street and the Catholic church around the corner and the small restaurant that upon entering my father declared like a small pub in London.

I’ve spent eight years in New York searching for a home. Not just searching for the place, but the meaning of the thing. The meaning of the thing at this in between phase in my life when home is not the people that I’m with—no parents, no husband, no children—because it’s just me. For the time being, it’s just me. And home is…

Undefined. Or unanswerable. Or undiscovered. As of yet.

I don’t know if Brooklyn will feel like home any more than any place before it: 66^th Street, 104^th, 80^th, Washington Heights. But the word of the place—the word of the little pocket I’ve fallen in love with—the word of the neighborhood I’ll soon call my own—I’m pretty sure it’s my word.

And that’s something. 

my manhattan: open windows, fresh flowers, locally sourced food, and the best chocolate chip cookie(s).

linking up.

via.

scarlett johansson gives the skinny on her healthy body and body image. (i liked her before but she just went way up in my estimation). 

good advice for anyone. (not just grads).

i adore this blogging space. (can't wait to make a new space in a new apartment).

popped collar and pure joy. heaven.

soon i'll have my own little window...

few things make me happier.

if you're in NYC and need a place to eat--i've got a new favorite.



off to sign a lease on a new apartment today. totally terrified in the best possible way. happy friday!