breaking it.

in

a lovely, young, german fellow has been staying in the apartment the last few days.

a friend of a friend, we offered him housing for this part of his trip.

he'd been planning to come to the east coast for quite some time and was meant to be accompanied by his girlfriend, but as he said, we broke.

they broke.

they broke it.

i marvel at these words. this language. and wonder if it's ever been so succinctly--so perfectly put. if truer, more piercing words exist to describe the end of...well, whatever it is that ends. because often it's not love. nor the individual. it's the time and the place and the tennuous meeting of...well, of whatever it is that meets.

i think back on all those great loves in my life. and of all the times i broke it. not very many, as it turns out. and of the times it broke before it even began. was i meant to fight for it? to stake a claim? to simply ask?

i don't think so. because i was so close to breaking, myself.

and i did. and i broke. and i needed to break. by myself. alone.

and i'm so glad that i did. because i love how i've managed to put myself back together. my beautiful humpty-dumpty fault lines both hidden and exposed, creating texture and life.

but now i wonder if it's too late to ask? to say yes, i loved you, i love you, and i refuse to let you break this. or if you do, i come bearing super-glue.

i do believe in marriage and i marvel at people's amazement of that--because don't we all? or at least, don't we all want to?

i believe no more courageous of an act exists. the last, great form of rebellion as liz gilbert pointed out her second book, committed. 


i don't know if it's possible. life-long love and commitment--the kind that never breaks. after all, we are human. but know this: i believe that things once broken can be restored. and i wake each morning with a humble thanks for that very fact.

tina fey's prayer for her daughter/book club selection

in


First, Lord: No tattoos. May neither Chinese symbol for truth nor Winnie-the-Pooh holding the FSU logo stain her tender haunches.

May she be Beautiful but not Damaged, for it’s the Damage that draws the creepy soccer coach’s eye, not the Bea......uty.

When the Crystal Meth is offered, May she remember the parents who cut her grapes in half And stick with Beer.

Guide her, protect her
When crossing the street, stepping onto boats, swimming in the ocean, swimming in pools, walking near pools, standing on the subway platform, crossing 86th Street, stepping off of boats, using mall restrooms, getting on and off escalators, driving on country roads while arguing, leaning on large windows, walking in parking lots, riding Ferris wheels, roller-coasters, log flumes, or anything called “Hell Drop,” “Tower of Torture,” or “The Death Spiral Rock ‘N Zero G Roll featuring Aerosmith,” and standing on any kind of balcony ever, anywhere, at any age.

Lead her away from Acting but not all the way to Finance. Something where she can make her own hours but still feel intellectually fulfilled and get outside sometimes And not have to wear high heels.

What would that be, Lord? Architecture? Midwifery? Golf course design? I’m asking You, because if I knew, I’d be doing it, Youdammit.

May she play the Drums to the fiery rhythm of her Own Heart with the sinewy strength of her Own Arms, so she need Not Lie With Drummers.

Grant her a Rough Patch from twelve to seventeen. Let her draw horses and be interested in Barbies for much too long, For childhood is short – a Tiger Flower blooming Magenta for one day – And adulthood is long and dry-humping in cars will wait.

O Lord, break the Internet forever, That she may be spared the misspelled invective of her peers And the online marketing campaign for Rape Hostel V: Girls Just Wanna Get Stabbed.

And when she one day turns on me and calls me a Bitch in front of Hollister, Give me the strength, Lord, to yank her directly into a cab in front of her friends, For I will not have that Shit. I will not have it.

And should she choose to be a Mother one day, be my eyes, Lord, that I may see her, lying on a blanket on the floor at 4:50 A.M., all-at-once exhausted, bored, and in love with the little creature whose poop is leaking up its back.

“My mother did this for me once,” she will realize as she cleans feces off her baby’s neck. “My mother did this for me.” And the delayed gratitude will wash over her as it does each generation and she will make a Mental Note to call me. And she will forget. But I’ll know, because I peeped it with Your God eyes.



april was nutty for me. so there was a pass on this month's book club--with easter and passover and moving and the like. but we'll start back up (fear not) in may. and i figured why not read something totally different...so...bossypants it is. i mean, after all, what's not to like about tina fey. and that prayer...isn't it something? a little sampling of the book to wet your appetite. 

loves.

in

in transition

i love the way the headlights traverse the buildings on the opposite side of the hill late at night. scanning and searching--so hitchcock-ian.

i love watching the barges float past. the proximity of the water both soothes and excites. i love the little white caps that poke up in the middle of the river. and the rivulets on the roof of the building across the way. they look suspiciously like the sugar cubes i used to build castles in grade school.

i love empty rooms in old apartments. the transformation of sound in the space. the creak of the floor, the vacuum of air. the holy quality of a charged space in transition.

i love those rare and lucid moments when i know--deep in my core, i know--that everything will be fine.

i love forgotten snippets as told by old journals and the smile that creeps into that moment of remembrance. i love how much i thought i knew at eighteen and how little i know now.

i love owning my mornings. my mug with a little blue m stenciled on. and the music that allows me to believe, for the hour before i begin the day, that i'm in paris roaming and rolling and frolicking and falling in love.