1. and 2.

it would seem there are two things i cannot bring myself to write about.

1. theatre

2. the only man i've ever really been in love with

i'd like to write about both. i attempt to write about both. often. but the words simply do not come.

i was going to try. just now. to give theatre a little whirl. to put some words into the air.

so i sat down to my computer. looked at the blank screen. looked a the rough draft i penciled into my moleskin yesterday. got tired. and decided to take a nap instead.

yup, a nap at seven o'clock.

will try again. later.

my spot in the city.

this morning ruby (my 18-month-old friend) and i attempted to escape the desperate throws of a dying winter by passing our time in the american museum of natural history.

ruby's favorite bit is the giant giraffe in the gift shop.

mine is the set of windows just off the dinosaur exhibit on the fourth floor. you can sit on the benches there and see nothing but the green canopy of central park and light. oh, the light! sitting there i find it impossible not to love this city.

(ps: ruby helped me type this post. she's quite adept with the space bar.)

when i saw you i fell in love,

and you smiled because you knew.

romeo and juliet

on having my picture taken.

before beginning:

this is a continuation.

of a story.

about ned.

ned being my nasty,

little eating disorder.

more info here.

sarah, myself, carolyn, and amanda

i thought it was about weight.

my anxiety about having my picture taken.

i thought it was about the weight.

thought it was that the pictures reflected what i couldn't admit to myself.

that i was fat.

i thought that was it.

but it wasn't. not really.

we were out on saturday night. my friends and i.

i with my little camera nestled deep into the folds of my go-to-black-bag (which has finally reached the critical point of looking just-worn-in-enough {but i digress}).

yes, i with my little camera. i who knew it was there. i who wanted to take it out. but couldn't.

until amanda (my infinitely wise roommate) asked where it was and began to do what i could not.

and it was there, in the bar on saturday night, perched on my stool, with prosecco in hand, that i stared at that little camera screen and declared, oh, i look like an adult.

but that wasn't quite right. that wasn't exactly what i meant to say. what i meant to say was, oh, there i am. that's me. that's me, happy. huh.

illumination ensued.

i realized it was not the reflection of fat i feared.

it was that i couldn't find myself.

it was that i saw instead this girl who was so sad. this shell of someone i once knew.

but now, after all this time, i am beginning to see the picture in its entirety. and it is one of such happiness.

yes, yes, i still see the bits and pieces--of course--my disappearing eyes and brand-new-renegade-cheek-mole (an audacious little thing it is!). but i can see beyond those things. beyond what i like and do not like.

and suddenly there i am. an adult (or so it would seem). and a happy one at that.

go figure.

so you think that you're a failure, do you?

well, you probably are.

what's wrong with that?

in the first place, if you've any sense at all you must have learned by now that we pay just as dearly for our triumphs as we do for our defeats.

go ahead and fail. but fail with wit, fail with grace, fail with style. a mediocre failure is as insufferable as a mediocre success.

tom robbins

via.