losing farther, losing faster

Everything is wrong.

It is wrong to go, it is wrong to stay. Wrong to hope, worse not to.

I went on a date last night. With the Pilot, erstwhile pen pal from Hobe Sound, flier of cargo planes. Divorced father of three. He talked me into it really, he made the leap from casual drinks and Where In The World Have You Been? to seafood dinners on the waterway. Blackened grouper and hog snapper with hollandaise. Drinks on a dock, ring games in a tiki bar—and one very blustery moonlit stroll on the beach chasing night crabs. It was nice (but it wasn't a disaster.) It was not the same. No trains collided in my thought bubble. The earth kept right on earthing.

It was wrong to have spent the better part of this month in exile eating my feelings. I come back to New York chubbed up on my own cooking. I come back on an afternoon plane with a suitcase full of summer clothes.

Don't ask me what the hell I plan to do with my life, but I have balls in the air. Balls to the wall. Balls between a rock and a hard place. If it were not for the generosity of the people I love, I'd be out on my lily white Irish [expletive] in t minus . . . No, really. How much longer can I make a makeshift tripod out of my failing sea legs and all this kindness? I am in a borderless country with no currency to repay my favors. So I cook for people. I take out the trash. I try not to cry every day.

I return to the Tour d'Ivoire, a little worse for the wear. I cross my fingers for that killer railroad apartment at the end of this tunnel. To scrubbing kitchen counters like my life depends on it. To dancing every night. And to finishing those samples. Daily and with dedication. In the library. Because I'll want to be out of the way.

If I've learned anything from you 2010, it is that the world can (and likely will) come crashing down around you. It's only a matter of when and how loud the din.

a bird may love a fish, signore, but where would they live

Oh how time flies when we are a mess. Can't sleep at night, so you sleep all day survival mode.

Yoga helps. Yesterday I was complimented on my pigeon (salamba kapotasana). I wandered around with a pocketful of prana all afternoon.

But then again, this march forward. Days, weeks—a month passes. I haven't done much here except drink coffee on a humid balcony until my heart starts racing or the sun sets. I've made some meals, written some dreadful poems, sat in the recesses of my own panic until my fingers pruned. I've run the gamut a few times over, come to some conclusions and changed my mind. I feel at home here. I am lost. I belong in New York?

No one ever told me life would be comfortable, but surely some people wake up in the morning without feeling their chests constrict. I look around at Normal and I start to resent the hell out of myself, every melancholy moment of me. Where is my quiet cocktail by the pool? Where is the day I don't doubt every decision I make?

Hell, don't feel sorry for me. I chose this. Remember? I said I was happy living out of a suitcase. I said I never wanted to own anything or love anybody every again. And I don't. I do.

a poet's guide to courtship

What do I do when I cannot write? I read.

Needless to say, I've been doing quite a bit of that. Poems, mostly, snippets of them running ticker tape through my head, which feels a bit like Times Square before a matinee. Which is to say: hot. Loud. Insufferable.

Yeats, that old dog, cheated on his wife and died of ripeness. But still he had the nads to write "Never give all the heart"—and bully for him. His reason:

". . . for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss."

The audacity of his advice to young lovers, the men who come calling with their toolboxes full of torture devices, astounds me. Thank you, Billy Butler, for legitimizing the age old tradition of head games and heart wrecking. The Ophelias of the world plug their noses and practice drowning.

A little advice to those listening: We the weaker sex do not prefer to be left in the dark by the phone.

I once thought I could sell a dating manual for men that would fit onto a business card. One side would say simply: "Man up and state your business." The other would read: "Decide what you want and then be there. Do that."

That is all we want. To know. Think of all the angst you could eliminate, the analysis of actions, the overanalysis of tone. I have a hundred women behind me. You are not special. We do not fall automatically in love. We are not immediately obsessed, monogramming towels and tote bags.

You are not special because you are a man and I am a neurotic creature. You are special because you are special to me. But I can live without you. My brain was born for other, bigger questions and I resent the space you take with your flimsy indecision.

I, we, do not need you to make the world any harder. So spare us the decade of drama from kiss to kiss. Declare your intentions and be done with it. Any passionate woman worth her salt will not shy away from certainty. For chrissakes, it will give her a chance to breathe and be herself.

Dorothy Parker said it best. "I should think it would be so sweet to be sure."

To tell the truth, I'm humbled and a little humiliated by my own inability to break the cycle. I've been down here for eighteen days now, with nothing but space. The precious commodity of time was mine for the taking and I have next to nothing to show for myself. A string of wasted days. Nights undersleeping, mornings oversleeping and nightmare after nightmare.

Right before I left, I bought myself a card, one of those inspirational messages printed in block letters from Barnes & Noble. And it says: "This is your world. Shape it or someone else will." I suppose that's what I'm most afraid of here. That I'm allowing someone else shape my world for the worse.

the other side of insomnia

On the dream train last night, there were helicopters crashing overhead, buses falling from the sky, and a semi that drove off a building to erupt in flames below. Flames I had to run from. Sprinting along the top of this train—which was moving through a metropolis—too slowly to outrun the perils and projectiles.

This comes only a few nights on the heels of the sailboat crash with the pontoon planes and the giant rock. The lover who left me howling in the hallways while he danced with everyone but me.

Something tells me I ought not sleep alone.

hello cruel world

You've been unkind this year, and you know it. I can only hope you know what you're doing.

Because I wonder. Through the bombardment, in the acid drizzle on the arid ground, there have been trail markers. Haven't there?

And haven't I followed them? I cut and I ran. I put the moving van behind me. I quit my job. I disinfected, showered, boiled. Folded, laundered, packed. I ran away and danced. You said go; I went. You said no and I turned tail. I drank your little bottle of yes. I closed my eyes. I leaped.

I'm beginning to think we're in Acting 101, doing trust falls, and you're the skinny kid with the dirty sneakers and the smelly pits. Your arms outstretched, your palms sweaty, you give every outward appearance of wanting to catch me, but your bony elbows are no match for my weight and don't I look foolish? A little stupider every time I fold my arms across my chest and keel backwards.

And yet, bruised everything, bruised ego, I continue. I scan the horizon for mirages, perch like a yogi on the mountain, blur my gaze to the future, listening to every wayward wind current for direction.

So far it says: love while you can. It says: write faster. It also says: be careful or it all goes up in flames.

It even says: Brooklyn . . . something about tuna and Mies and tea.

The odds ought to improve eventually.

portrait of the artist

Oh, lead me to a quiet cell
Where never footfall rankles,
And bar the window passing well,
And gyve my wrists and ankles.

Oh, wrap my eyes with linen fair,
With hempen cord go bind me,
And, of your mercy, leave me there,
Nor tell them where to find me.

Oh, lock the portal as you go,
And see its bolts be double….
Come back in half an hour or so,
And I will be in trouble.

-Dorothy Parker

every time it matters all my words desert me

When everything else fails, and we are left to pull our pieces back together, all misshapen with superglue, we turn to food. Some cook, some eat, others mainline Doritos and marshmallow Fluff.

I cook. I chop and pinch and sully pots. I stand before a hot surface and make sense out of so many disparate somethings. Form something tangible, taste-able, out of a bag of chaos. The whole process comforts me: fish market, grocery store, recipe book. Cutting board, spatula, sauce pan.

Tonight it was simple. Halibut Livornese, zucchini and summer squash. Served with rosemary grissini, truffle sottocenere and champagne. We sat on the deck and took stock. We ate our feelings, whatever they happened to be.

My September sojourn has presented me with this orgy of options. I have no answers for you—or anyone. But I can say this: I am sitting still. Listening for the frogsongs as they come, obeying what signals I am sent, trudging across finish lines and spinning my idle wheels.

When I can't think what to say (or think, or write), I use the kitchen. Take out the olive oil and basil and build something. That something never lasts, but a task is a task. A meal is a meal—structure made and dismantled.

I become secondary, with people to feed. And that feels good. Because otherwise, I revert to mooning, to melancholy, to sitting on bar stools tracing question marks across the room.

I don't know what to make of him, of me, of any of this. So I make dinner.