snowy New York

 

 

i've been sick for nearly a week with the stomach bug that's going round and have barely left the apartment, but for the really necessary things.

waking this morning to an absolutely white carroll gardens was such a treat--for all the fuss about the snowstorm a month ago, it's been a pretty snowless winter here in new york and this texan really loves a white winter. i took a twenty minute walk as the snow pummeled down (and then promptly had to take a three hour nap), but it was totally worth it. something about a blanket of fresh snow that makes it feel as though the world is taking a deep breath and so i can too.

i hope everyone has a happy (and healthy) weekend.

(and that spring is just around the corner).

xo, meg

...

Don't you get it? She's the house! She's the plain white shutters, the sparkling glass windows, and the perfect white picket fence. She's the ordinary stuff. But you...you're the red door. And when people come by, yeah, sure they see the house. But for some reason, they always end up looking at the door. It's always in the corner of their eye. You can't ignore a red door. And the house is nice, hell, the house is perfect. But then there's that door. It's almost painful to look at. You're the door. | Chuck Palahniuk  

so many questions

here's the thing.

i want to know everything.

i want to know which side of the bed you sleep on when it's just you. and how you take your coffee--or your tea--or your oversized glass of orange juice. i want to study how your eyelashes cut the air when you look down and learn the movement of your fingers across the sunday times. i want to count the ways in which you laugh--in which i can make you laugh. i want to know how old you were when you first felt the sting of heartache--were you seven, ten, twenty-one? what was her name? the color of her hair? what was the first lie you told? the last? tell me about the first time you made love--the color of the morning-after as it angled into the room, as it cut across her back. tell me your first great loss. your secret shame--the thing you think makes you damaged in that irreparable way. teach me how to undress you from across a room. how to settle and silence your chaos. teach me to clear a space for you. always. let me love the cracked and dirty and fatally-flawed version of yourself. tell me if you believe in past lives and why. is there an image that feels older than yourself? i want to know what you cook and how you cook it and if you play a record while you do so. i want to know if there is a room in the apartment that is better for dancing than the others. tell me what you get from the corner store night after night. does the man behind the counter know your name?  i want to know if there is a color to your grief. is it a wooly overcoat heavy on your shoulders or a shadow that stands a perpetual ten feet back? i want to know what you're most afraid of--not what you say you're most afraid of, but what is too terrifying to even utter aloud.

i think you think i want too much. that i demand too much. that i...expect too much.

that you'll never be enough to fill the space of all my wants and needs.

and i want to shake you. tell you you were enough for me that first night we met. and you've been enough every day since.

it's not a question of enough or not enough. it's a question of wanting to know more. of wanting to sit with your hand on mine and have that be everything.

image credit unknown

Trading in New York for Boston (just for the weekend).

 

 

skiing at Killington in Vermont. cheering on UVA at Boston College. Tenacious D at House of Blues. late night at Chau Chow City (something to do only once...check it off your Boston bucket list and be done). 80's night dancing at 6B. and a Sunday morning brunch that saw about three or four different seatings.

I am going to need a few days off after this little getaway.

The thing is, every time I visit my brother in Boston...it gets harder to leave. Such a beautiful city, so much charm.

waiting for morning

i used to think i couldn't sleep next to the men i cared about because i was afraid they'd leave.

it took some time to learn that i wasn't so much afraid they'd leave as utterly excited that they would stay, and night would turn to morning, and i'd wake to two coffees and a shared newspaper and a filled silence.

and it was that excitement that kept me from sleep, stretching the night forever in front of me.

so i'd lie there, eyes open, like a child, whispering,

wake up, wake up, i'm ready to play now. 

image by Emma Hartvig