almost ten years later. (a pseudo-political op-ed. skip over as desired).

in



i was sixteen years old, sitting in first period world-history when news of the first plane hitting the tower came.

and i laughed.

because it was outrageous--unfathomable. and i was sixteen. and terrified. so i laughed.

the world had ended. in that moment, some version of all that i had ever known, ceased to be.



last night, the news of bin Laden's death came in. via twitter--yes, certainly this is a different world in more ways than one.

i don't own a television, but i opened up the new york times live feed in my browser and marveled that modern technology would allow me the convenience of watching the President's address. live.

and as i waited for the President Obama and his speech and some directive as to how i should be feeling, i thought:

tomorrow, i might wake up, and it might be a new world all over again. and that might not be a good thing.

what will the aftermath bring? what repercussions await us here?

am i glad that a man pumping so much pure hatred into the world is gone? of course. is there a sense of sweet relief? i think so--maybe just a little.



truth be told, i don't know as much as i should--about any of this. about the politics or the conflict or why some decisions are made and others are not.

i appreciated Obama emphasizing that we are not at war with Islam, that Osama was not a Muslim leader.


however, it was the following that unsettled me:


and on nights like this one, we can say to those families who have lost loved ones to al-Qaida's terror: justice has been done. 








justice has been done.




(i'm gonna let that hang there. in the air. for a minute).






i understand the sentiment. i understand what was trying to be said.


and yet...

 an eye for an eye?


there's this line in macbeth--perhaps my favorite in all of shakespeare. macbeth murders the wife and children of macduff. and macduff is urged by another to change that grief into anger and to avenge the loss of his family. to bring about revenge on the bloody and ruthless macbeth.

and macduff turns around says: he has no children. 


and those four words, those four words say it all,

there is no equal justice.



justice has been done. 






justice has been done?

there is no. equal. justice.

it does not exist.



in the immediate wake of september 11th i remember being particularly upset by images of people around the world taking to the streets to celebrate and cheer.

let us not be those people now.

i would like nothing more than for a wave of the unity that overtook this country following that fateful day in september to return. but let us not be those people cheering in the streets. let us not be shortsighted. let us not lose sight. let it not be one more death that incites that within us.

let us quietly bow our heads, give thanks, and go about working for change and unity, as opposed to assuming it is our right. let us, as americans, lead by example. let us practice that too-often-under-utilized wonder-drug, humility.








(please do note, these are my opinions. we are all entitled to our own. keep that in mind.)



it is may, today.

in ,

it was over a month ago that i saw noah and the whale in concert. which means it's been more than a month that i've now inundated you with videos and posts gushing over my love for them.

it was the following song that did me in. that called out to the very deepest part of me. maybe it's the roundabout reference to hamlet, or the gospel undertones, or the simplicity of it...

but as my friend dion says, it is my jam.

so in honor of may and my great hopes for this month i offer this one (my very favorite) up to you:

day by day, old joy, comes back to me. 





let it be a good month.


ps: (in search of the very best {and inexpensive} letter pressing company to print this quote in simple dark blue or black lettering on a white background. thinking it will look really great in a giant frame in this new corner room i so love. any ideas of good people to contact?)

happy end of the week!

in

it just past 6:30 in the morning. i slept for little more than four hours--it's one of those days i'm hoping to be home by 6 simply so i can crawl into bed and call it a day.

so for now, my bed may not be made but i leave you with this.

i keep coming back to this video--i'm not even sure i love the song. but the group of people, the setting the little black boots...there's something there.


the room, following the (non) move.

in ,

smooshed bed

my front porch

mug and journal

magic carpet




somehow a headboard seemed important before. a crown for the bed--a talisman of something grown-up, adulthood, if you will.

the bed is smooshed against the wall now. no headboard. up and off to the right hangs my framed casablanca poster, placed there because there was already a nail and so, why not? and somehow this somewhat careless arrangement works. seems just as it should.


i wasn't terribly careful arranging this space. i pushed my bed into the one corner, the bookshelf into the other, placed the dresser against the not-to-be-used-french-doors, and stuck my desk just where i knew it would go: between the windows. as for my reading chair? it swims in this space and i wouldn't have it any other way. i pull it this way for mornings and push it that way for late evenings and let it rest between bookshelf and door for much of the rest.

as i sit here typing this a mug sits on the ledge of the window next to my bound leather journal that tells the story of the end of high school into the much of my first year at college. i've been going through it of late. marveling at the pure drivel that is most of it and sending up multitudinous prayers that no one ever finds it. in reading it so much feels familiar, cyclical to life now. this is...humbling, to say the least. because i feel like a different person. am i not? am i the same as i ever was? eighteen all over again?

i don't think so. some thoughts and feelings are bound to reverberate for much of my life, but i feel like i've come out of some period of darkness transformed.

this transformation is its own struggle, or, well, challenge. i feel new. and different. and while at times exhilarating, this newness is also terrifying. here i am, twenty-five forced to reacquaint myself with the world and my surroundings as a changed person.

the thing is, in this new room, it all feels possible. is it possible for something to be more than you ever imagined? is it possible that i know this already? that the space is charged. holy, even. i swing the double doors open, i pull up all the blinds, i open the windows, i watch the river. i press my feet into the patterned wood floor. and this, all of this, makes the A train bearable. the neighbors are slowly learning my name and i am slowly making friends with their dogs. the coffee shop is still on the corner, an irish pub is opening across the street, and the trees are in bloom, pink against the palisades. slowly, i'm coming round to this life in new york. slowly i'm forgiving myself. for feeling like i've not done enough-- come far enough. slowly i'm learning the only person i have to reckon with is myself. slowly i'm persisting, making goals, learning to say yes. inch by inch there is life in this room, in this neighborhood, in the city, in myself.

yes, slowly there is life. and i am in love with it.