i’m in portland again, where i always dread returning until i’m off the plane. then it feels like home. i’ve spent all day in my pajamas, kicking myself for not stealing a t-shirt to sleep in while it still smelled like you; padding around in the quiet a/c of the house i grew up in. this place is full of things i forgot i needed, like lush green firs and blueberries in the fridge.
how to write about the last ten days, which i haven’t written about at all— like most radiantly happy periods of my life, it gives off a light so bright that i can hardly remember it except in fragments. i came home from france to a person i love. i spent my days in my old college town & in new york city, where i met a dizzying array of people, some of whom already seemed to know my name. i cooked dinner every night and had sex twice a day, and showered every morning at eight or nine. i was in my first group show out on cape cod, and i sold two paintings on opening night.
it was that and it was a lot of other things, like sleeping in and missing our ferry to boston, by which we were secretly pleased until it ruined the rest of our day. or before that the morning you left your favorite jacket on the train at harlem and 125th— the nicest thing you’d ever owned, you said, and i wanted so badly then to buy you a new one and that night i didn’t mean to burn dinner but i did and yet — it was learning again and again the rightness of this, for now, so unexpected still four months out stumbling on perfection, and the two of us twirling down the streets of provincetown as the sun sank into the sea.
it is already a grand project to be alive and human; to be alive and human with someone else is perhaps a failure that i am always in the effort of trying. it rained, hard, two days in a row: on the first, you biked home in the thick of the storm, and at the door i took all your wet clothes from you and gave you a towel and put you in the shower. on the second, i was caught; i thought i’d missed the most of it but still, i darted under other people’s umbrellas. i smoked a cigarette outside grand central.
i think a great deal about my wants; they are simple. mostly they revolve around new york city and writing there. they involve some measure of love, too. and when i was in france everything seemed impossibly far away and simply impossible. and even now it makes my chest tight to think of how perfect it all was, how i felt so happy and lucky i wondered if i was cheating, and how when i came home— to you, to anyone— it felt as though i had come into a windfall of possibility, of good things.
1:04 am • 23 July 2014 • 11 notes
i looked really cute today and a lot of cool things happened!!!!! life is great
12:44 am • 16 July 2014 • 10 notes
my life is so boring and it’s great—
today i dropped off a’s watch to get it fixed, bought us toothpaste & a 9v battery to fix the smoke detector, wrangled train tickets to the cape, bought myself a nice skirt and a copy of a book i need to review for FS, and now i’m sitting in my old haunt on chapel, reading and drinking honey ginger tea. i have a few freelance assignments i need to get done, a few pitches to send. last night i hung up my shirts and unpacked the rest of my things, and i dunno, i don’t think i’ve ever liked anything as much as i like this
2:45 pm • 14 July 2014 • 11 notes
homecoming, new haven, early july
sometimes i dread events like birthdays or parties or homecomings because you always build them up in your head: the golden aura of your lovedness fizzling out; the empty room, the quiet car, or no one waiting at the train station; the tiny gap between what is and what you’d expected. there was no sign, no flowers, a messy bed. i’ve gotten off enough planes with air in my chest.
still, i’ve left home often enough; in some ways, when i left portland for the first time i left a place that i haven’t been back to since i was seventeen. and i’ll never have it again, not the way i once had. i moved into my first apartment around this time two years ago, and i’ve left it too. it’ll never be mine again.
when i got back to new haven from paris, where i spent a rainy week after finishing my job in southern france, i caught a cab and gave the driver your address. it wasn’t the first time i’d done this, and i’ve forwarded two packages to you already, but there was still a thrill around it, unmoored as i am. it took me a few minutes to find the keys you’d hid but soon enough i let myself in. i poured myself a glass of water. in your room, the letters i’d sent you were fanned out on your desk. the bed was made; i took off my travel clothes and fell asleep on it without undoing the covers.
what a homecoming this was: i hadn’t figured out how to turn on the air conditioning; hadn’t really considered it. you found me asleep with my glasses half-on, sweating in my underwear with a copy of the goldfinch next to my head.
i think about all the times i’ve come home: how strange it was the first summer back from college, something in me loosed and sharp and glittery; how, over the years, arriving in new haven started to feel like coming back to the only place i belonged; how when i left in late may i wondered when i would next feel at home again.
i am still uneasy in this apartment: it is not mine. i tread quietly, i close doors gently. but i know where everything is: the salt, the dish soap, the extra paper towels and toilet paper, the sugar and the tea. it’s not home, nor are you, nor is this city, really, anymore. but it is a safe place, and a lovely place, and of all the places i’ve slept this past six weeks, a little longer, i have never been so content as i am here.
6:13 pm • 11 July 2014 • 7 notes
i have four different plant oils on my body rn and i’m eating dark chocolate w sea salt so basically just waiting to ascend
7:04 pm • 8 July 2014 • 6 notes
“Sagittarius: If you’ve been struggling, if things have all been a little strange, the pieces are going to fall back into place this week. Your brain can make sense again; your world can become whole. This is a week for live in green summer brightness; this is a week for living in warm summer air. This is a week for seeing yourself in the streets and the clouds and the trees, it’s a week for recognizing your own face in the mirror again. You can return to yourself. You can find your way. You can feel at home.”
— my horoscope at therumpus is 100% the thing i needed to hear today / i believe in lucky numbers omens signs and spirits stars and sage and groups of birds
6:15 pm • 7 July 2014 • 10 notes
*starts typing blog post about how anxious i am and then slowly deletes it one character at a time*
4:59 pm • 7 July 2014 • 9 notes
Anonymous said: Why do you want to be famous (someday, if not now), and do you like attention? This isn't meant maliciously, just coming from someone who doesn't feel comfortable when put into the spotlight, trying to understand those who are.
i write and i make art (lol “art”) so it would be pretty counterproductive for me to want to avoid attention. art and writing are only meaningful when they happen in conjunction with a kind of reader/viewership. i’m not the kind of person who makes things and doesn’t want them to be seen, although i respect these people. i like sharing work i make. i want people to read what that i write. for me these crafts are about self-reflection of course but they’re also the things i extend into the world.
i suppose i’m not interested in being a reclusive artist. nor am i interested in being famous for the sake of being so; that would be stressful. but it seems to me that making good work & being recognized for it in one’s field is a pretty fine place to strive for.
11:29 am • 5 July 2014 • 4 notes
strawberries & brie
i thought about it for a little while today and i think for now i want a simple life with a few good things. i am not interested in going to grad school right now nor am i particularly interested in anything glitzy. things will come in time, whether it is fame or love or money. i want to be quiet in a sunny apartment somewhere in the city, with a succulent that won’t die and a shelf full of books that you helped me build. i want to work on my writing and my paintings and drink lots of water and not be depressed this winter. i’m trying very hard not to compare myself to others. i don’t need to be first or famous. i have been flashy enough already. this is not to say that i refuse to win or devour. i am just not interested in doing it in a loud or violent way.
7:17 pm • 4 July 2014 • 15 notes