Of Twigs and Concrete. @jkatherinequartararo-blog - Tumblr Blog

Sprigs of rosemary.

Sometimes you accidentally let nine months go by without updating your blog. In those nine months you moved twice, ended a relationship, read essays in front of a room filled with people for the first time in six years, went through two tubes of Ruby Woo lipstick, rang in 2015 in a small, well furnished apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, reconnected with an old friend in Detroit, applied for two research grants, submitted essays to 15 lit journals, got an acceptance email from one of them, watched McCarty’s cove freeze over, the sand resembling the surface of Mars (you imagined), watched drifts of snow pile up in the corner of your roof, watched the sky darken at 4 in the afternoon, felt the crunch of powdery, soft snow under boots for days, accepted the fact that there isn’t a good latte to be found in Marquette, then you said goodbye to that barren wasteland of a scenic tundra and hopped a plane to Portland, OR in early May, hopped in a car bound for California just a few days later, ate tacos in an alleyway in Oakland, drank whiskey in an old Italian speakeasy in San Francisco and now you are typing all this from a coffee shop in SE Portland, your transient home for one more week. The sky is overcast and you can’t stop pinching the branches of rosemary that poke out from the gardens. You consider filling your bag with sprigs to remind yourself of the early morning walks, these beautiful grey mornings.

Waiting for the tide to come in at the lake; adjusting to midwestern life.

Marquette is beautiful. Marquette was an epic drive in a Uhaul truck to reach, all the way from Maine to Brooklyn, and then on through New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Ohio and five miles across the narrow Mackinac Bridge to the Upper Peninsula. Now Marquette is oatmeal for breakfast and cups of coffee next to the lake and waiting for the tide to come in. But there are no tides at the lake. There is no way to orient myself with the lunar cycle here. I will have to find other ways of solidifying this midwestern existence. How does a water sign set up their days and know when to have breakfast and lunch and dinner if there is no tide?

Life is pleasant but it moves in different ways. The colors saturate in mid-afternoon. The streets require no maneuvering, just meandering. I stroll quietly from one end of town to the other and wonder what life feels like inside the slightly varied houses. I take note of the ones I like the best, the ones with the wrap-around porches (but not enclosed front porches because as Farah pointed out those ones restrict daytime sunlight in the front living room), the ones that have a second and a third floor, the ones that have front lawns comprised of native flowers instead of grass, the ones whose flowers are especially fragrant. I take note of which of the houses have corners of their lawns that provide a sense of privacy, preferably in the form of a large Hemlock tree, and which of those houses face the sun and are not blocked by trees, and which of those houses sit near the top of a hill, and which of those houses seem as though their interiors likely hold some nooks, some secrets.

I learn that Lake Superior has the largest surface area of any freshwater lake in the world and has seen 350 shipwrecks, one of of which occurred during a routine trip, when 26,000 tons of iron ore were bound for Detroit, Michigan from Superior, Wisconsin. I notice a vacant looking grand building, which turns out to have originally been designed as a Christian Science Church, though now the grass has grown up in unruly patches.

I take note of all of these things and I feel out the most scenic streets. There is a point along Front Street when North becomes South and I have just made it past the highest point, and mountains become visible in the distance. The lush greens poking out from the old brick building downtown. I imagine there must be a similarly placed town somewhere amidst the hills of Austria. It must smell nice in the summer, though I don't know how Austrians feel about wraparound porches.

Adventure to Playa Flamenco. (Where's my water bottle?)

At 7:30 in the morning the sun began its climb over the mountains to my right. I curved around yet another bend in the dusty road, felt the sweat drip down my back, and watched one large ominous grey cloud move slowly along the cerulean blue sky.

It was our first full day in Culebra, a small island just off of the mainland of Puerto Rico. A beautiful early May day. I'd set off alone an hour prior, while Farah continued to sleep. Whereas I inherited my father's trait to rise with the sun and set out adventuring early, Farah is someone for whom vacation is a time to allow oneself the luxury of sleeping in and moving at a leisurely pace. As a compromise I would have a morning walk all to myself, since quiet solitude also helps to restore my spirit, and then return with coffee and breakfast at a reasonable waking hour. I set off with a small illustrated map we'd grabbed at the ferry dock. According to the loopy lines and cartoonish figures on the glossy map, Playa Flamenco, repeatedly ranked one of the top beaches in the world, appeared to be about a 30 minute walk.

I walked down Calle Escudero alongside the Ensenada Honda (a large cove), past the construction sight where local men smiled and turned their heads sharply. I walked by the short haired black dog, sprawled in the street alongside the sidewalk and made sure he was still breathing. All clear. My throat was already parched from lack of water, a grievous mistake considering that when I'd left the hotel the temperature was in the high 70's, forgetting that unlike Brooklyn, there isn't a 24 hour deli around every corner. I made a slight left at the fork in the road and continued along 251, with a small airport landing strip on my right. I felt the temperature rise and the minutes pass as the road stretched on endlessly in front of me.

I took note of the cheerful array of small, brightly colored houses a good number of which were crumbling in some shape or form, and yet still showed off three shades of pastels. I passed by a lot on a sloping hill filled with cars and trucks, all missing wheels and doors and one giant trailer that lacked a front cab whose side read, "Texas Mexican Railway". Behind it rose varying shades of thriving, lush green foliage. That contrast between decaying and vibrant would punctuate much of Puerto Rico.

I passed a royal blue food truck advertising the most mouth-watering sounding juices parked and locked up in a dirt driveway. (No one else wants a fruit smoothie at 7:00 in the morning on Culebra?!) Chickens and roosters roamed free and I trudged the steep incline of yet another hill, at the top of which I was finally able to glimpse a spot of turquoise far in the distance, and thank goodness at the bottom of all of the hills. My spirits lifted right along with the rising temperature. Flamenco Beach was within reach!

I ambled down the hill as quickly as possible considering the increasing heat and my lack of water supply. The dry patch that previously occupied the space just at the back of my throat now felt like the Sahara Desert was running throughout the interior of my upper body. I passed old tires painted robin's egg blue and filled with bright red flowers.

I turned one last corner and saw the the sign welcoming me to Flamenco Beach. Golf cart parking was just to the left. To the right, behind some palm trees lay the most pristine and tranquil stretch of turquoise water I'd ever laid eyes on. I threw off my white canvas sneakers and ran ankle deep into the light, clear water. The solitary grey cloud was rising just behind the mountain along the right side of the beach, and behind the cloud the sun fought for its chance to make an appearance. It felt as though all the sky were parting in order that I might fully appreciate this small stretch of sand.

I then promptly collapsed under a palm tree and waited for the breath to come back in my lungs before making the trek back to the hotel room, stopping for coffee, breakfast sandwiches and the largest bottle of water Culebra contained.

Now to show Farah Playa Flamenco, though not without first renting bikes and drinking a gallon of water of course. And where is my SPF 55 face lotion?

A very, very cold day in Berlin.

It's hard to keep perspective. It's hard to know that things will change. It's hard to accept the impermanence of our moments, especially when we are faced with days that experience highs of 16 and lows of 9 once the wind chill is factored in. How could a person remember the feeling of warmth on a day like today?

Two months ago a sweet friend, and kindred wanderlust spirit, said some words that helped me to get through a particularly cold few days abroad;

"Oh Jenna! The feeling of being utterly alone in an unfamiliar place! This is such a priceless thing you get!" How could I have remembered what comfort and stability and safety felt like on a day when the pain of a person leaving was so fresh? When things still stung. The words that follow are the words the preceded that pivotal shift in perspective. (otherwise known as a very, very cold day in Berlin)

…

You think you are just going to Norway. You think you are just going to Sweden. You think you are just taking a little trip and you come home to some rotten tomatoes and a cup of coffee left on the table and things have spoiled, and need to be thrown away and you just said goodbye to a person who has very quickly taken up space in your heart. But you said goodbye to them earlier this morning and everything is just where it was two weeks ago except you are not the same, and you do not fit in this room, in this little life, secluded from the rest of the world. How do you go back to your old life when you're a new person?

Sadness you can put in a drawer and deal with later. Sadness is something you can hold in your hand and then put in your back pocket until you're ready to look at it. You can put it in the bottom of your bag, amidst the loose change and the receipts from subway rides in Stockholm. Sadness is manageable, this is far more expansive.

We spend so much of our lives trying to be comfortable. We stay so comfortably numb, we bundle under blankets on the couch while wearing two layers of socks in the winter, we turn on loud and obnoxious AC units in summer, we lay on beds with the right ratio of firmness to softness and we try to find comfortable resting positions for our necks. We spend so much time attempting to stay comfortably numb that it can come as quite a shock when the biting wind of Stockholm hits us in the face and when the despair of coming back to our temporary flat in Berlin a single lady creeps into our chest and steals our breath.

There has to be some type of faith that when you step outside into the intense and forceful wind of Norway that you won't be blown into the black ocean as you walk along the cement jetty that juts out from the rocky coastline.

....

Now to remember that not only is warmth inevitable, but so too is employment.

Which way is the canal?

That was all I needed to ask the man that stopped in front of me on the street in Stockholm moments after Farah and I stepped off the express bus from Arlanda Airport just after 5:00 pm last Monday night. Apparently the large map I held opened wide and my tired eyes conveyed utter confusion.

I'd made sure we exited the bus one stop prior to the city center, at St. Eriksplan in order that we might be slightly closer to Ebba's apartment, our airbnb stay for the next two nights. I knew that we needed to head down Sankt Eriksgatan in the direction of the canal after which we would turn right onto Fleminggatan, at the end of which we walk straight through a park and up a hill. (For a city I would quickly learn was filled with hills and small parks the directions were both oddly specific and endlessly vague)

"Can I help you?" the man asked.

Which way is the canal echoed somewhere in the recesses of my brain. At the forefront all that came clearly into view was, I can't remember the name of her street! Only that is at the top of a hill. The top of a hill at the end of a park? I can't ask this man where the house on a hill is.

I knew that all I had to do was ask, "Which way is the canal?" and I would have my bearings. My brain forgot the name of the street Ebba's apartment resided on. My brain forgot the name of the neighborhood Ebba's apartment resided in. Neither of those pieces of information were necessary in this moment and yet my brain could only focus on them. I was unable to speak the words, "Which way is the canal?"

I stuttered out the broken fragments of the sentence,"No, that's o.k."

"The hostel's that way," the man said patronizingly before he and his companion continued on.

I am not totally and helplessly lost. It just so happens that I woke at 5 am in order to be on time to a 7:50 flight to Trondheim, Norway. It just so happens that after checking the bus schedule the previous day I learned the earliest Number 1 bus would not come until 6:22 am which was too late. That meant we would start our day with a 30 minute walk. I had one small map I'd grabbed at the airport when we'd arrived on Friday and it seemed as though it would be easy enough to navigate the small northern Norway coastal town of Bodo.

We watched a storm come and go all weekend long. We watched the rain and the hail and the epic clouds and the wind that pushed over a sign post. We walked out along a cement jetty and hoped we wouldn't be blown into the black ocean beside us. We watched the clouds roll in and fade out again and then while it was still pitch black this morning at 5 am we roused ourselves. We thought maybe the rain was clearing as we stepped out but as we began our walk along the dark street the rain drops started in. I could see no street signs.

If there were just a few street signs I could have led us no problem. I couldn't see them though and the raindrops were collecting on my glasses. The rain drops were collecting in my sneakers. I chose them because I thought they would be more comfortable than my black ankle boots for the early early morning walk but they are not waterproof like the ankle boots.

We trudged along while the wind whipped us with salty ocean spray and we came to a street that Farah thought seemed correct but I wasn't convinced. I insisted we continue along and we continued along until we could continue no further since we'd reached the end of the road. The violent, heaving ocean, sputtering cold salt water was just to our right. We missed the street.

I hated being wrong when I was the one holding the map of the tiny town. I hated being wrong that early in the morning. We arrived to the airport parking lot soaked and I apologized for making us walk for so long in the rain and the cold and as we approached the front door the Number 1 bus pulled up.

The day continued with finding out our flight from Trondheim to Stockholm was cancelled, (after we'd already boarded) and that we'd have to take an extra flight to Oslo before we could be connected to Stockholm. I was forced to follow signs directing me to gates and counters and bathrooms and terminals and I could sense things blurring a bit in my brain.

Things blurred so much that when faced with the lines and letters on that folded up piece of paper my brain did not recognize those symbols as being streets with names.

I'm not just a silly, helpless tourist. Please don't confuse my overwhelming exhaustion with incompetence. I've just been in transit for 12 hours and that takes a bit of a toll on a lady's ability to read maps.

Could you please just tell me which way the canal is?

It's very pleasant here.

"Where are you from?"

"New York."

"Ah! The big city! How are you liking Berlin?"

"I like it quite a bit."

"What's the biggest difference between New York and Berlin?"

"Oh well I haven't been here that long, but there's a slower pace here. It's still a big city, but it's much less frantic. The architecture is also much more beautiful. It's very pleasant here."

"Ahh, slower paced. Are you here for a bit?"

"For a few months, yes."

"Well have a good time! And enjoy the sweater!"

It was the longest conversation I'd had since arriving in Berlin last last Tuesday afternoon. Earlier this afternoon the nice red haired man pointed out a mirror I could have tried my flea market find, a grey sweater with two pockets near the bottom front, on in but I explained that was far too much effort. I'd only been wandering around the MauerPark Flea Market for about 15 minutes and already the crowds had my patience wearing thin. It was nice to talk to other human beings though.

For the most part I like the quietness of my days. It's nice when the signs and posters and words float over my head, the German incomprehensible. (save for a few words) It feels nice to be in a place where I don't know which direction I am going, where I don't know what is around that corner, what is down that alley, where those cobblestones lead. I know which lane is for bikes and which is for pedestrians. I know that Germans actually wait for the green walk sign at stop lights. (a cute little green figure moving briskly) I know how to say "hello", "thank you", "goodbye", and "please". I know "nächsten" means "next". "Nächsten bahnhof" means "next station". I know to listen for "Treptower Park". I know to turn left onto Bouchestrasse when coming back from the train. Left onto Bouchestrasse and right onto Kiefholzstrasse. I managed to catch the fall foliage.

It is very pleasant here.

Live Recklessly. Take chances. Move to Berlin.

"I'm not telling you to make the world better, because I don't think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I'm just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try and get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment. And if you ask me why you should bother to do that, I could tell you that the grave's a fine and private place, but none I think do there embrace. Nor do they sing there, or write, or argue, or see the tidal bore on the Amazon, or touch their children. And that's what there is to do and get it while you can and good luck at it."

-Joan Didion's commencement address in 1975 at the University of California at Riverside.

For my own commencement speech I sat under a tarp in pouring rain on a well manicured quad in Boston and listened to Mitch Albom go on at length as to why it is that having money should never be the ultimate goal in life. All I could think was how the only way Albom was able to speak with such authority was because he himself had managed to accumulate a large sum of money over the course of his life and therefore had the privilege of seeing both sides. He assumed all I wanted was to leave that leaking tarp and begin my quest for power and consumption, or at the very least acquire a stable checking account and a 401K. Mitch didn't consider that fact that some of us might never aim to have a large sum of money. Some of us wanted simply to know how it was that we could take our small creative aspirations and give them a place in the world. Where could they exist? Where could they thrive?

I took it as some kind of terrible omen that the day of my graduation it rained. The day only worsened when my purse broke crossing the street in the North End. I came home to my apartment in Allston and laid down for a nap. I thought I was supposed to have it all figured out. I thought I was supposed to have a nice little plan but I forgot to make one and it was raining.

Today though, today I walked along Macon Street, from Nostrand to Marcus Garvey Boulevard and a little girl cartwheeled in the park while the sun shone brightly overhead, even though the weather report said rain all day. There was even a perfect little patch of sun streaming through the thick green leaves onto the bench I'd chosen in Tudor City Park on my lunch break.

Even Joan Didion thought it had all been written when she started out. Even Joan Didion took time figuring out what she was. It's not easy is it Joan? But we are not meant to simply endure it. We are not meant to open credit cards and watch our hair gray. We are meant to live a little recklessly. We are meant to live in it. We are meant to take some chances. We are meant to up and move to Berlin when the opportunity presents itself.

Autumn in Berlin.

A bathtub in Brooklyn.

Maia stepped into the last bit of space in the cream ceramic tub, the sixth female now to enter. Cold water gushed from the faucet and we all giggled at the silliness of this scene, a crowd of ladies squished into a tub in Red Hook, trying desperately to cool ourselves. The temperature inside the apartment was stifling since our sweet and gracious host, Tess, had chosen to bake spanakopita, a gesture that required turning the oven on for an extended bit of time. I'd strolled down Smith and Court and then Henry Street in Cobble Hill, the brownstones cheery and quaint. Light raindrops came down as I neared the BQE, where I took an overpass walkway up and over a labyrinth maze of highways below, the skyline of Lower Manhattan just visible beyond the chain link fence.

This group of women didn't all know each other but were held together with various strong links. An old childhood friend of Tess', three college friends, and myself. I'd only just met Tess several weeks prior. Our mutual friend and fellow dinner party guest , Alex, had brought us together to see the Great Gatsby, a disappointing experience which we countered with a trip to a small speakeasy in Red Hook.

I'd almost skipped the night as I was "tired" after work, a term that has become an involuntary response. I look forward to collapsing into a pile of pillows and blankets, and closing my eyes to restore some of the strength that is depleted from me as I move about New York. The city is dense with odors and noise, which are only further intensified with the now pulsing summer heat.

It has become standard for me to note the time, (nearing 10:00?!) and think that the only way to restore myself is to move quickly home, rinse the grime off with a quick shower, scrub the dirt off of my feet and slip clean and new into a pile of freshly washed linens. That night I assessed what "tired" really meant. As the words came out, I thought about how my eyes weren't stinging with sleepiness yet, my shoulders weren't hunched over from exhaustion. I was not actually tired and yet the time was past 11:00!

"You know what, I feel fine. Let's go to that speakeasy!"

Sometimes my mental exhaustion requires physical movement. The mental exhaustion wears me out more than anything here, and it is so easily misinterpreted as physical tiredness. Lethargy, grogginess, all indicative of a physical deficiency, yes?

I wrongly have been assuming so for some time now.

I must sleep in a little later, I'm tired. I must go home and get into bed, I'm tired. I must lay down. I must lay down. I must lay down. There is too much rushing around me outside. Things are quieter when I'm sleeping. Things are quieter when I'm laying down.

The four of us piled into the back of a cab in Chelsea just outside of the theater and proceeded to watch the lights of New York pass us by. We were let off on a quiet street along the waterfront in Red Hook, where behind an unassuming side door lay a bar whose decor made it feel that I'd just been transported as much in time as in physical distance. Dimly lit, brimming with antique nautical kitsch, and smelling of sea salt and mildew. With the irrational force I've come to expect of my infatuations, Red Hook and its intoxicating smells and sights gripped me tightly.

Back in Tess' apartment, the six of us munched on perfectly golden brown spanakopita with tzatziki and I worked hard not to melt into the oversized green velvet chair which seemed to be beckoning my drooping limbs into slumber. My nerves have been frazzled the past month, an unnamable anxiety that grips me in sticky sweats at 3:30 or 4:00 in the morning. Anxiety that is relentless, regardless of deep breathing or peppermint or lavender oil, like a hand clutching my ribs. Anxiety that has popped up in the form of finger twitches (index, thumb, and ring finger) and erratic heart beats.

We sat in the living room, talking about fertility concerns among women. There is a pervasive fear that a woman's fertility begins a drastic decline in her early-mid 30's and yet that myth of a ticking biological clock, one that turns black and falls into an abyss at age 35, is actually based off of data collected in 1800's France (?!), according to an article read recently by Madeline. We talked about how in actuality it is the lifestyles we lead these days that sucks us dry, leaving us worn out and listless at 35.

"You have to do what keeps you vital," said Tess. The sentiment rang particularly heavy and true for me and my drowsy body.

As we cleared away the plates from dinner Alex stepped into the bathroom, whose entrance was directly off of the living room. Several minutes later she poked her head out, a childish grin across her face, and motioned for me to follow her inside. There Alex had filled the tub with several inches of frigid cold water. I placed my feet into the water whose icy contrast to the heat sent shivers up my spine. We leaned against the beige tile wall and let the cold seep it's way up.

"How are you these days?", asked Alex.

"I've been feeling off, but I can sense a change ahead. I'm on the cusp of something."

We stood there in our layers of billowy black, my toes numb. Moments later Tess, Sophia, Madeline, and Maia joined us. We laughed more. How silly. How silly!

I felt replenished. I felt restored. Despite the lingering sticky film on the back of my neck, I felt cleansed and content. Cleansed and content in a bathtub in Brooklyn.

It is only a matter of time.

"It is only a matter of time."

It is only a matter of time.

That is what mildly empathetic, consoling doctors and nurses say when the foreseeable end is near. We note the seconds and the minutes and the hours (and hopefully the days and if we're very, very lucky the weeks); all punctuated by signs of "life" that in no way resemble the previous 98 years of living this woman has done.

So many hours until the next pill.

So many hours until the next meal (Flossy doesn't like the food at the nursing home, it all tastes like cardboard and sawdust to her)

Until the next bath.

Until the next bed changing.

Until the next visitor.

Hopefully Flossy will recognize the next one.

It is only a matter of time.

It has always only been a matter of time, whether a nurse in a dismal Southern Maine nursing home points it out or not. It has always only been a matter of time but that is not what this change in health marks.

Things have always been a matter of time, something Flossy herself was painfully aware of after losing both of her sons as well as her husband. Flossy was good at filling the time though. Flossy was good at keeping busy. Flossy passed time in the garden pulling weeds and tending to the peonies (her favorite), sorting the linens, folding the tin foil; all silly tasks to a nine-year old watching their eccentric grandmother bound from one side of the house to the other, offering up date bars and ginger ale.

Now though, her stationary, bed-ridden days leave no time to busy herself with washing the linens and baking the bread and dusting the piano in the front room. Now Flossy has nothing to do but face that realization head on.

The nurses can prop her up to a comfortable sitting position with the aid of a few extra pillows (though she claims they are sometimes too rough with her), and the doctors can adjust her dosage of morphine, but what happens when you have 98 years of healthy movement to replay through your mind while you watch your body slowly deteriorate, looking out a window to a parking lot and a few trees?

It is only a matter of time.

It has only ever been a matter of time.

What then?

"We may win this year. We may lose it all. It is not going as well as we thought. Posterity, anyway, does not know everything. The simplest operation of life-voting in a booth, filling out returns, remembering whether or not one has just taken a pill-are very difficult. Jim leads an exemplary life, and I can't cook. As is clear from the parking regulations, however, there are situations in which you are not entitled to stop."

-Speedboat by Renata Adler.

What then?

Spring is here and so are a new crop of dresses and pants and blouses and a new color palette to choose from; mint green and peachy-coral. I need whitening tooth paste, chewable vitamins and mint green nail polish from the drug store. I need vegan probiotics and flax oil from the health food store. I need floral leggings and a peach blouse. A barrage of images follows me around New York City, plastered on giant billboards as I exit the f-train at Broadway-Lafayette and meander over to McNally Jackson on a bright day that I have willed to feel like spring, but whose chill causes my hands to freeze up. Pictures of how I would one day like my hair to flow, but I've recently cut it all off so it won't flow for some months.

What then?

Then I meander through McNally Jackson, picking books up and putting them down. Just as my hands have regained all feeling and I'm ready to head outside again I pick up a book whose back cover says, "A journalist negotiating the fraught landscape of contemporary America", which I misread as "Africa" and take home believing I'm about to begin the tale of young female traveler. What awaits me inside those long out of print pages are the words of a beautiful writer, a woman who clearly had just as difficult a time processing all that went on around her. (since the actual location for much of the book is the same city I currently reside in) Her words hit me, her words catch the pace. Those beautiful words, and their crisp simplicity.

Say I get the mint green polish? Say in two weeks my teeth really are four shades whiter? Say in three weeks my body has more vitamin C, and an increased level of good bacteria? What then? What then?

Renata understands that the real point is not what next?, but rather; what then? What then? She understand the subtle difference in tone between those two questions. One has a hint of blind optimism, as assumption that something more fulfilling is just around the corner. Ignore the unsettling knots that whisper, "what then?", their underlying cynicism creeping in just as we settle into a new apartment. Ignore the knots that settle in just as we are swiping our metro card at 42nd street, (we are probably just sore from our long days and the constant wear of concrete on our feet) while the rain drops trickle down in late afternoon, despite the fact that no one said anything about rain today. What is that you are feeling after you've reached into your bag of groceries and pulled out a minneola and a banana for the old woman sitting at the top of the steps to the Hoyt-Schermerhorn station? Did that help anything? How do you help anything?

What then?

Sometimes it's not clear while you pant and sweat, running through Boerum Hill on your way to Trader Joe's on Court Street, why it matters that the sun is a striking mix of blue and grey, but you take note of it anyway and store it away to process later.

What then?

Then sleep.

Then a new day.

Then a chance to make sense of it all tomorrow.

Three second intervals.

I looked at the calendar and said, "Your days are numbered."

The first joke to make me laugh from the only comedian to perform at Open Mic night at Pete's Candy Shop last night.

In a few days I will have been back in New York nine months. Nine months seems like an eternity, yet it's really just a collection of 24 hours chunks. Nine months may as well be a day. If I can't find time for things in a day, nine months won't ever be enough.

A year wouldn't be enough.

Five years wouldn't be enough.

A lifetime wouldn't be enough.

I learned during Jack Hitt's one man show several months ago that the present only lasts three seconds. If the present only last three seconds, then that's certainly a lot of past to be living in.

That's a lot of past to be recreating for oneself.

No wonder I'm constantly living in the past.

Recreating moments.

Days.

Weekends.

A trillion three second intervals.

What an interesting way to think of a life.

Three second intervals.

Is this information liberating or terrifying?

Three second intervals.

What do I want my three second intervals to be filled with?

What do I want my days to be filled with?

What do I want my life to be filled with?

Three second intervals.

About the length of time it takes to write this sentence.

History.

History gone.

......

I spent a lot of Berlin time looking at calendars and planners. I looked at all of the days laid out in front of me and thought about how I would like to fill them. How will I fill you? With what things?

With what feelings?

With what accomplishments?

So many days.

So many cycles of breakfast and lunch and sleepy nights and drowsy mornings.

......

I don't know how to make room for someone else in my life.

I don't know how to clear a spot for you.

Empty a shelf.

Put your thoughts right there.

Let me move those books, you can stay right there.

You call just to see how my day was and all that comes out is, "I went to work. My friend dyed my hair." How do I explain that I thought about calendars and days?

Girl you know you gotta watch your health.

I just want someone to look into my eyes and tell me girl you know you gotta watch your health.

In an effort to watch my own health (while I wait for someone to look into my eyes and say the words to a favorite Grimes song I've been listening to on repeat the past several days) I decided to forgo coffee. I'm ready to have it out of my system.

I had the sense that it was perhaps not the best for me after a manic day at Swallow Cafe in Bushwick on Monday. It was a day in which I had every intention of being productive. I had a bit of a lingering headache as I walked out into the drizzly morning on Metropolitan Avenue. The headache was the remnant of a mild migraine brought on by some chili pepper flakes in the red lentil soup Lauren and I had made the previous night. I turned right onto Morgan Ave. and passed along blowing pieces of debris as giant trucks barreled by. All the while the right side of my head continued to throb. It's not until the right side of my head is throbbing that I think about how nice it is to not have the right side of my head throbbing. I should always be grateful to not have the right side of my head throbbing.

I sipped the drip coffee quickly. I just needed my caffeine fix. The coffee and soy milk entered my body quickly, quickly, quickly. The headache began to subside. Slowly, slowly I was feeling better. My body had what it wanted and now it was doing what I wanted; thinking/typing/editing/typing. I was feeling so productive that I decided to have cup number two of coffee. If one cup made me a functioning human then certainly another cup would only increase that productivity...?

I had the first few sips of cup number two and felt things begin to go awry. An anxious energy filled my limbs. My muscles began their attempt to crawl out of my skin. My heart pumped giant gushes of blood straight out in bursts as though operating from a recessed chamber, hollow and cold. Everything reverberated around it. The blood had a reverb. My fingers twitched, I tapped my feet, my heart beat faster and yet all I could think to do was head straight home and take a nap. All of this energy was escaping me in strange waves, not in some manageable way that allowed my writing to take shape. It slipped out in a big pulse here, and there. Here and there. Sleep and a large glass of water felt like the only ways to bring myself back into balance.

The day was slipping away in waves.

I hurried quickly down Morgan Ave. I promptly laid down on my bed, closed my eyes and resolved that when I awoke I would go for a run and starting tomorrow I'd put my coffee drinking days behind me.

Tuesday morning greeted me with a misty haze, mirroring how my insides felt. 7:00 felt an ungodly hour of the day to be awake. What purpose could anyone have for being up this early? I shuffled to the subway, swiped my metro card, tried a second time and solemnly waited on an empty bench.

The entire day passed and I felt fuzzy and cloudy, as though there were cotton balls filling my brain. Cobwebs and hammers filling my brain, and the blood pumping so fiercely through the vein in my forehead I thought it might burst. An entire day spent in a hazy, foggy cloud where large spans of time fell away in chunks and then those hazy chunks were tempered with moments of the utmost sharp intensity. An intensity so strong, so forceful and so vivid that the pain rung in my body for minutes. It reverberated. The pain reverberated. The reverb. The reverb.

Why were people asking such inane questions?!?

Why was everyone determined to push me to the brink of my own sanity?

WHY IS EVERYONE FILLED WITH INANE QUESTIONS?

WHY AM I FILLED WITH LOATHING?!

Oh right, the caffeine withdrawal.

The caffeine withdrawal.

You're supposed to remember rock bottom, yes?

This is my rock bottom.

A Tuesday afternoon at the Aveda in Grand Central, talking to one woman about shampoo that simply will not listen to the words I'm saying while lighting crashes in my brain and I try to maintain my composure. I want to vomit.

I want to close my eyes.

I want to dissolve away.

I can't feel awful forever can I?

I can't feel awful for always can I?

This has to get better, yes?

I wake the following day, headache still there, but its intensity fading. I massage peppermint oil onto my temples, sip roobis tea, and hope for the best. 2:00 hits and suddenly the vein in the right side of my head can't be felt. I'm talking to a guest and no pain is overtaking me. I feel alright. It's subsided. The pain has finally subsided.

Just like that I'm a functioning human again.

And now I'm going to enjoy a chocolate chip cookie before I quit sugar too.

I crossed the Atlantic, but I forgot to stretch my legs.

"Travel is a transition, and at its best is a journey that begins with setting forth from home. One of the problems I had with travel in general was the ease with which a person could be transported so swiftly from the familiar to the strange, the moon shot whereby the New York office worker, say, is insinuated overnight into the middle of Africa to gape at gorillas...A train journey is travel. Everything else- planes especially- is transfer, your journey begins when the plane lands."

-Paul Theroux

Agreed Paul. There is a distinct lack of coherence with flying.

The plane moves at 547 miles per hour, entire states pass by in a matter of minutes, and I've never felt more restless than right now while hovering thousands of feet above land. A metal tube moving through the air at nearly 600 miles per hour and I am confined to a foot of space that becomes even smaller when the man in front of me leans his chair back to settle in for a nap. The plane moves at speeds of upwards of 800 miles per hour while I remain in my small seat next to the window.

None of that movement feels like it entered me. None of that movement feels like it became a part of me. All of that movement simply rushes around me while I read my book, and type in a notebook and steal glimpses of the movie the girl next to me is watching. My t.v. screen went blank 10 minutes into the eight hour flight and the sweet older German flight attendant tried her hardest to fix it, though it remained black for the duration. She understood that it wasn't being able to actually watch one of the terrible movies I wanted, but rather it was picking a terrible movie, having it confirmed that the movie was in fact terrible and then proceeding to nap through the remaining 3/4 of it that I craved.

I look out the window again and again. The darkening sky is a blanket of clouds. When I finally see lights down below I nearly convince myself I can see Bri and Dan's house on Shelter Island. The other lights must be the horse farm next door. A minute later the inflight map informs me we're actually just passing over Maine.

That was a place I felt every street, every turn, every corner. That was a place that held so much weight for me that it feels nice to be floating effortlessly overhead. Gone in a second. Just a blip. Just a blip in the sky. Is Maine the blip or am I the blip? I feel the hours peel back as we travel West.

We touch down at JFK and I am dehydrated, depleted, and exhausted. I crossed the Atlantic but I forgot to stretch my legs.

Cold and grey and bleak.

On January 16, Rikki and I giggled across the room from each other in her cozy apartment in West Berlin. We were overtired. We were over caffeinated. We needed a nap. In my Lonely Planet guidebook this entire trip would have fallen under the description, "cold and grey and bleak".

As Rikki and I sat opposite each other, through the two large windows we watched what was previously timber wolf grey (a warm grey tone used as a Crayola crayon since 1993) fade to dismal charcoal (a color that represents the color of burnt wood).

Travel ends up being this way to see what Wednesday afternoons look like across the world and what the toothpaste aisle looks like at the organic grocery store down the street across the world. It is a chance to see all of the shades of grey a Berlin January has to offer.

It is a way to see what a Wednesday afternoon looks like when you've had a late night at a former power plant watching a Canadian band with some Swedish friends, and now you and your friend slept in, for which you still partially blame the jet lag. Your friend pokes fun about your tardy mornings since last summer you were always known as the early riser. With similarly unruly curls and sarcastic senses of humor, you both poke fun about a lot of things and your similar temperaments were a large basis for your quick friendship.

You only leave the house that Wednesday to search for close-by, overly sweet breakfast pastries (you still have yet to fathom how the bulk of Europe appears to function just fine in the morning subsisting on a single croissant). You find some at a turkish cafe nearby. You learn that Berlin has a large Turkish population and you enjoy the small cookies that get dunked in the strong coffee. The pastries are just a minor detour from the real errand at hand, which is bringing Rikki's printer to be fixed. You turn the corner and see a sign announcing the shop is closed until 3:30, (!?!?!) so you continue along to the organic grocery store where the list includes but is not limited to: milk, trash bags, and black tea.

You peruse the toothpaste aisle, looking at all of the consonants whose placement still means nothing to you and chuckle at the poster with several grazing ponies. You head home feeling slightly defeated, or perhaps that's not defeat at all, maybe it's just frost bite mixed with jet lag. You make some ginger tea, lay down on the sofa/day bed, giggle for what feels like hours, wonder how it's possible this lovely lady is so far away most of the time, and eventually close your eyes for a much needed nap.

Funny to think that entire day would simply be lumped under the generalization "cold and grey and bleak".

#cold #grey #bleak

Tuesday night in Berlin.

"It might be said that a great unstated reason for travel is to find places that exemplify where one has been happiest. Looking for idealized versions of home-indeed looking for the perfect memory."

-Paul Theroux

One week ago today Rikki and I walked in the 20 degree weather along Warschauer Brucke over the train tracks below into East Berlin. We trailed behind her bearded Swedish friend, Tomas, and his two sturdy friends to Berghain, a former power plant that now operates as a club on the weekends and a show venue during the week. I'd met Rikki when she subletted a room in our Brooklyn apartment this past summer. We'd bonded over the difficulties of making a career in writing while sipping iced coffees outside of the corner bodega/laundromat one sticky June afternoon. When she flew back to Europe last August I told her I'd see her in Berlin, and I meant it.

Three and a half weeks ago the urge top hop a plane and cross the Atlantic hit (it seemed the only appropriate way to set the tone for an adventure filled 2013) and I remembered my dear friend Rikki in Berlin. Fours days later, the time off cleared with work and the plane ticket cleared by my credit card, my flight was booked. (!!)

The intense cold hit me hard when I stepped off the plane two days prior. New York was having what by most accounts could be considered a mild winter. (which isn't to say that there wasn't still that day of frigid cold, where the wind threatened to knock Page and I into the East River as we strolled the Williamsburg waterfront)

This cold was aggressive. It attacked any exposed and vulnerable bits of flesh. It was particularly relentless towards the small gap where my jacket sleeve ended but my gloves had yet to begin. After more than four minutes outside I could feel the fingers of my left hand begin to go numb, first just the tips but then full-hand paralysis would kick in. The plum H&M gloves I'd chosen back in November were a nice color accompaniment to most outfits, but their thin construction did little to protect my hands from the effects of a ravenous cold front in the north of Germany during the third week of January.

We ventured out last Tuesday night anyways. Rikki and her friend Ruth, a conservative looking blonde with glasses who it turned out designs leather fetish wear (specializing in leather corsets), gave me some necessary background info on Berghain. The club is open 72 hours on the weekend. It's been rated one of the top ten clubs in Europe. There are NO photographs allowed inside. Also, when going on the weekend Ruth prefers to show up on Sunday mornings.

When we arrived at the sprawling concrete building set against the River Spree and a large, sparse dirt lot, Tomas led us straight to the front of the large queue. Tomas was on the list and in order to be allowed in with him, one of Tomas' friends would need to introduce us all by name to the doorman. He only knew Tomas and Tomas' husband Dan by name.

"This is Ingrid," he said as I passed by.

Tomas' other friend allowed us to bypass the giant coat check queue. With our hands freed from the burden of mass layers of winter wear, we roamed the cathedral-like space. While most cathedrals aren't usually made of concrete and metal, they are generally regarded as evocative, and Berghain quickly stirred things in me. We walked up the large metal staircase that led to the second floor where the first band, Zebra Cats, had already begun to play.

Tomas' husband Dan, a native Californian with a thick grey beard, led us to the bar where I ordered a non-alcoholic beverage called, Club Mate. Rikki described it as, "very Berlin, you will either love or hate". The remark made me think of how I describe my home state of Maine's most well known carbonated beverage, Moxie. I hate Moxie. Club Mate, however, has a mild, sweet flavor (the drink is a base of yerba mate tea, a slow-release form of caffeine) with only a slight aftertaste.

We sat on a large swing suspended in the center of the smaller side room the bar was located in, and passed the night surrounded by a hazy cloud of cigarette smoke. I could feel it entering every fiber; into the billowy black blouse I wore, into each strand of hair, into my fingertips. The stale odor hung from the swing, it hung from the giant ceilings. The threat of second hand cancer didn't bother me in the least while I enjoyed the music, the company and the beautiful space. I could wash the smoke off in Brooklyn.

When the show finished we rounded up our coat check tickets, gathered our belongings and headed out into the light snow coming down. A pretty blanket of white snow. A snow that became even more picturesque as we crossed the Oberbaum Bridge, a medieval looking structure with brick towers. I felt content.

Berlin seemed made for concrete cathedrals and a late night dusting of snow, even if the walk was long and my feet were tired.

#berlin #Rikki #cold night #tired feet #long walk #it's o.k.

Bright and clear and blue.

Fire is favorable to the dreamer if (s)he does not get burned. It brings continued prosperity to seamen and voyagers, as well as to those on land. Dreaming of big fire: means a convenient and safe journey for sailors & travelers and success with awards for writers. To dream of fire means either cleansing and purification. Strong roots are not destroyed by fire, and spring forth in the cleared land after the fire is over. Disease, overgrowth, weeds, predators, and pests are all destroyed by fire, leaving the new growth free to prosper, nourished by ash and able to receive sunlight more abundantly.

Last night I dreamt I sat in the backseat of a car with Angel and a girl whose name I can't recall. We were heading back to Brooklyn. The day was bright and clear. Bright and clear and blue. I sat watching the grey buildings roll by. Far off the tall buildings of Manhattan could be seen. Their distance made them appear small, but there was a reassurance at their existence. Yes, almost home. Almost home. I noticed a small puff of smoke above Brooklyn. Did anyone else see that smoke up ahead? The driver seemed unfazed, and we continued along. More cars spilled onto the highway. Was that cloud of smoke growing?

As we closed in on the gap between us and the smoke it was hard to sense how far back the smoke was coming from. Our driver seemed certain that we would pass through it easily, that it couldn't be that large. I felt a distinct pang of fear at what would happen once we drove through. What happens if there's no other side to come out of? What if the smoke swallows us up? Wouldn't it be safer to drive around? Find another route? Pull off at a diner and have a cup off coffee and some chocolate cream pie until whatever was causing that giant, billowing cloud of black smoke calmed down?

Our driver decided no. He felt it was the best option. He felt it was the only option. No other road would take us where we needed to be.

When I looked up the black smoke was mere feet in front of us and with it, something I hadn't noticed before, bright orange flames. I held my breath and closed my eyes again. I hoped the windows were all up. I hoped we wouldn't be suffocated. I hoped everyone else in the car thought to hold their breath.

I opened my eyes and a haze of grey surrounded us. We were ascending another bridge and the driver assured us all that he could see blue sky ahead. Several minutes later we were greeted with blue sky. We had made it through. I was still breathing just fine. I didn't suffocate in the backseat.

And then I woke up. And now it's a bright and clear and blue day in Brooklyn.

#Dreams are crazy.

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