Time walks past me on the street
At a constant rate
We wave and say pleasantries
Sometimes
Sometimes I look the other way
Pretending I didn’t see them
Time never touches me
For my skin is drawn to the Earth
As Gravity is always touching me
It longs so to hold me forever
In Gravity’s presence, outloud
I curse them while Time passes
They look the other way
Pretending they didn’t see
But when my heart is bleeding
And Time passes me on the street
It always slows down
And passes me a stitch
I take long walks, bleeding out
And Time passes me often
Gifting me, one by one
The stitches to mend my heart
Consider the Romantic Pragmatist's Diary /
To be clear, this is an entirely fictional and hypothetical scenario.
As a deeply pragmatic individual, who lives and dies by things only that are real and not imagined, it is my greatest strength to consider all possibilities in any given situation in which all facts are not decidedly known. Some might call this "the benefit of the doubt,” but I have no doubt, only considerations. It might actually be more accurate to say that I have only doubts, considering that such considerations are often at odds. I find it quite entertaining to entertain completely opposite realities as being equally plausible. This way of living may or may not induce tremendous pain in me, but I have yet to find a way out of this kind of living, though I have tried (though perhaps not hard enough).
Say for example, you were to send a handwritten love letter in the mail to someone confessing your love to them. Some people might tell you that this is a romantic gesture. But as with Schrödinger's cat, this gesture can be understood not at all. It could be romantic, or (more likely in my opinion) it is merely the transfer of information utilizing one of our founding father’s most beloved institutions that often goes underutilized (that being the United States Postal Service for which we are all deeply indebted to Benjamin Franklin).
You might alternatively consider this gesture to be the work of an absolutely insane lunatic. No human person in their right mind would ever think to confess their true feelings to someone else, let alone in debatably illegible writing. Especially when the receiving party has muddied the waters by doing exactly as people do: sending terribly mixed signals (for four months). As a true human being, they have no choice in the matter but to have behaved this way. Except when you consider the possibilities of free will. Must man behave in terribly confusing and contradictory fashions? Or could it just be possible for us to have evolved into creatures capable of true clarity of feeling? And that those feelings might be translatable into words or even actions? Preposterous. Unless…
Unless there is some element of clarity that has been lost on me. It is certainly possible that I have missed something to consider. It is equally possible that the error in miscommunication was not an error by the sender of signals, but by the receiver. Am I to consider myself so blind? It is certainly just as likely. My father has always liked the phrase “are you picking up what I’m putting down?” Perhaps what this former lover put down is not the same thing I picked up. Perhaps what I put down is not what they picked up. If they would only reply to my letter, I might have a chance to know. But who’s to say that even then these muddy waters would become clear?
In all the weeks I’ve waited for reply (it’s been eleven, embarrassingly), I’ve considered Schrödinger's cat. Benjamin Franklin’s great vision of the United States Postal Service has not always been perfectly realized. "Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds." Such idealism, and yet I wonder... Did my letter not make it? Did their reply get lost? Or worse yet, they have not replied at all. Perhaps they never will.
It would be overly romantic to entertain a feeling of hope in this position. It serves me only to consider all the possibilities. Though I do wish I could choose the emotional experience I’d like to be having while I wait. It would be wonderful to choose an experience of total emotional neutrality until the reality can somehow be known. But that is rather idealistic, which I am not (as far as I know). I would say there is not an ounce of romanticism in me, but that would not be a full consideration of the possibilities. There may be corners of my heart which I have yet to spend enough time with to know whether or not I could possibly be a romantic person. Perhaps much like the cat, it is equally possible that at this very moment I, simultaneously, am and am not all of the following things: deeply pragmatic, deeply romantic, completely unfazed, and entirely heartbroken.
For clarity, I did not exactly write the words plainly “I love you,” in this letter. I admit to fearing the unknowable truth of how such a confession, in debatably illegible handwriting, might be considered by the receiver of my letter. Perhaps the most pragmatic thing would have been to say it outright in plain words, but they might have mistaken me for an absolutely insane lunatic. Or they might consider me frighteningly romantic, putting pen to paper like that and being so bold as to be plain.
(For clarity, and this is simply and inarguably cliche, this person is unlike anyone I’ve ever known before. Considering the possibilities of them feels more impossible than a usual prediction of people. All the considerations I’ve considered before are based on data amassed from interactions with the hoards of regular people out there. I’m encountering what I believe to be an unusually unique person. The only prediction model I might even consider considering would be fed from data collected only from myself. Unfortunately, if I were to run the model with what I know of myself, I’d be able only to consider all the possibilities. All I might come up with is that they are as confused as I am.)
I have avoided the mailbox for some time. The cat may or may not be in there. It is equally true and possible only up until the moment I open the squeaky little door, and find the lonely junk mail that keeps our hardworking people of the United States Postal Service heartily employed.
Snow Angels in the Cemetery /
The other day I made snow angels in the cemetery across the street from my house. I got the idea by accident. It was early evening just as the sun was lowering in the sky. From my kitchen, I could see the pinkish-orange glow hit the tombstones on the hill, making long shadows on the untouched snow. A storm with big flakes had come in a day before and coated everything with over a foot of bright, reflective snow. I felt called to the cemetery. Such a funny sentence, but accurate. I had been called to the cemetery once before by a huge full moon in early October. It pulled me out of the house at nightfall without a thought or jacket or a care in the world. I don’t think I even had my watch on.
This time I suited up. Jeans, sweater, mittens, boots I could tuck my pants into, my dark blue winter coat, and an old orange hat. I walked down the street a ways, looking for a somewhat cleared entrance. I found what I thought were two bunny trails in the snow and picked one to follow. I might have concluded these were not bunny trails when they appeared to stop at the first tree, but it took me to the second to conclude that I had not been pretending I was a bunny, but instead, much to my disappointment, I had been pretending I was probably a squirrel. Either way, I found it sweet to see so clearly where life had passed by the tombstones. Living things, myself included, could be traced moving through decades, even centuries, one foot at a time past these markers.
The snow was so glittery in the sunshine. I kicked through it and the tiny bits I displaced would glide over the smooth top of the remaining, glittering even more as they moved. I got tired of wading through the snow and gave way to the impulse I always have whenever snow accumulates—I plopped down flat on by back, arms spread wide. It did not occur to me at this point that a snow angel in a cemetery would be funny. It did not even occur to me that I would leave evidence of my temporary resting place, it was only when I stoop up that I laughed. My position, with my arms spread wide, and the impression of my head made big by my puffy hood, gave my imprint in the snow a kind of crucified look. Especially in its placement among some very grand headstones and obelisks, it looked like a kind of significant omen.
While lying there I thought about other times and places I’d laid like this. I stared up into the blueness of the sky, a very pretty shade. I took in the tops of the pine trees that hung over me. At least three airplanes flew over. I concluded most people in this cemetery had never been on an airplane, and probably lived and died before they were even invented (it’s an old cemetery). Human flight would be like magic to them. I also worried that I might alarm someone with my position on the ground. Someone living, I mean, so I didn’t stay down long.
Once I stood up, saw my imprint and laughed, I decided it was time to walk back home. It felt a shame to disturb the snow, but it’s impermanent anyway. As I walked it occurred to me how funny it would be to make full-body impressions in front of headstones, but it also occurred to me that that would be disrespectful to the dead. That’s when I settled on snow angels. I was compelled to stop three times on the walk back. Each time by invitation from a beautiful open patch of snow, none too near as to be mocking or referencing any particular gravesite. All in all, I found them very funny.
I hope my snow angels might bring a smile to some stranger who happens to pass them by. Perhaps they might trace my steps and conclude that I followed the trail of a squirrel to start my haunt. But I hope they mistake me for a bunny.
Thanks, Tyler /
It’s been a strange evening spending time in my old neighborhood. I met my good friend for a dinner I couldn’t afford at a French restaurant I’d never been to (because I couldn’t afford it). I had a drink at the expensive bar I used to work at down the street, lucky to still get the employee discount from my friends who still work there.
And now I’m walking out of my old local haunt, disappointed to find that I’m still thinking about someone who’s let me go. Disappointed that there was no one inside interesting enough to distract me from the fact that after several months of no contact, I still don’t want to get over the curly haired boy I accidentally fell in love with over the summer. Doesn’t help that we met playing pool at this bar.
I didn’t play particularly well tonight. My two friends either left early with a girl or stayed late preoccupied by a girl (both nice girls, no bad feelings there whatsoever). And I cut my hair into a cute little pixie cut recently, which I do like, but in public sometimes people ask me my pronouns or stare at me for too long. I wonder if I look as appealing as I used to. Even before I cut my hair I’d been mistaken for a lesbian with some regularity, usually by women. I’m now wondering if men are drawing this conclusion as well… I’m drunk, but I hardly realize.
Two of the smokers on the street catch my attention, so I stop to talk to them. We played a few games of doubles earlier and I liked talking with them, they’re funny. We’re riffing and laughing and one of them tells me his friend who works at the bar (one of the guys I’ve never seen before) thought I was cute. I freely offer my new insecurity concerning my hair and suddenly there’s someone else in the conversation, a tall blonde guy who’s sort of charming despite wearing his baseball cap backwards. Everyone feeds my ego and tells me how pretty I am. They assure me that none of them, all men in their twenties or thirties, assumed I was a lesbian. It’s reassuring, but it also feels like a lie.
The tall blonde goes as far as to take my hand in his and spin me around flirtatiously. He then kisses my hand and tells me again how pretty I am. (What I really am is a sucker.) He introduces himself as Tyler. The two funny guys are going back in to keep playing pool. I try for an exit as planned, but I’m easily convinced by Tyler’s insistence to also go back into the bar and keep playing. It feels good. Attention always feels good when you’re the middle child.
We walk through the bar to the pool tables, the crowd has thinned out. It’s quite late. Tyler flirts with me and I flirt with him. We find seven bucks between us and I go to the bar to get us a beer while he gets quarters. The bartender already knows what I want, so our exchange is fast. It feels like what my friend had called earlier “the good old days.” Like I’m at Cheers, but I know I’m not.
Tyler’s all smiles as we share our beer. I’m all smiles too. I make a joke and he laughs and puts his arm around me. It feels really nice. We’re close enough it feels like he wants to kiss me. I make another joke, and then another about him having a girlfriend and he corrects me. He says he has a fiancee. I’m drunk with a beer in my hand. I didn’t even want another beer, even if we’re sharing it. I ask him, for real, You’re engaged? He says yes. I’m know myself to be naive, so I ask again. He says yes again. He asks me if that’s a problem. I ask him why we’re sharing a beer. Why he’s flirting with me so hard and why he put his arm around me. He replies so earnestly, like he almost actually believes this to be completely innocent: “I just wanna play some pool.”
I recoil. I’m drunk and I’m mad at myself. What an easy mark I am. And how infuriating to know that there’s a woman out there who trusts this man when she shouldn’t. I ask him how his fiancee would feel if she saw him with me. If she knew he was flirting with me, kissing my hand, telling me I’m pretty, and putting his arm around me. I’m reeling. His reply is something akin to a verbal evasive maneuver. I hand him the beer we’d been sharing and I tell him he should really think about his life. I walk away and get my jacket without looking back. I walk out and see the last old face I remember from the good old days, the bouncer at his post by the front. Nice to see you Shack. And thanks, Tyler.
I’ve been listening to a lot of 69 Love Songs by The Magnetic Fields. I am, in fact, a chicken with my head cut off. Thanks, Stephin Merritt.
On Putting Rocks in My Pockets Part II /
the present is a gift you can open every second of your life
though many among us are too embarrassed by the gesture
we desire attention elsewhere, the pressure to be great
the expectation too high, that we might not show enough gratitude
such a distraction, such a thought, is sure to make it all come true
and thus we waste our days and seconds
ever fearful they might find us out
ever fearful this gift we fail to open will be stripped of us
but I hope that I soon can be among those who fear not
I desire each day to unravel the ribbon and open the box
read the card attached and feel genuine tears form in my eyes
even if the items inside leave much to be desired
because after all
they say it's the thought that counts
Sat Sept 3, 2022
The above is a poem from my typewriter. How considerate of me to write the date at the bottom of the page so I can transcribe this artifact with a timestamp. I wrote this aspirationally when I was struggling to remain present and feel particularly connected to my body. I’ve been afflicted in my life with a kind of wild imagination that can send me anywhere at anytime, running through all sorts of outcomes and scenarios. What’s worse is that at every turn, sigh or slight, I feel the emotions of these experiences as deeply and earnestly as if they were real.
In a way, it is as if I am always playing pretend, whether it’s on in the background or front of mind. It might even be fair to describe it as compulsive. All in all, I consider it a kind of beautiful curse that cuts me with both sides of its blade. This trait is the definite origin of my affinity and aptitude for filmmaking, but I also see how it operates as a feeding ground for anxiety and depression.
It’s a beautiful idea to be present. It’s also a beautiful thing to experience when you can. I’ve observed that many things have grounded me over the years, and at times of trouble I seek them out. Things like tiny bugs, little spots of color in unexpected places, strange reflections, beams of light with weird origins, single flowers growing in terribly inhospitable places, and of course, rocks. At times I’ve been struck by the grandeur of huge rocks in canyons, surprise rocks in the garden where you’ve been digging, or small crystals in shop windows.
Last spring my little sister asked me what my favorite idiom was. I had to first ask her to define an idiom. Once it was clear, and I moved past the embarrassment of my ignorance, it took me a mere moment to answer: happy as a clam. I think it’s just darling. How sweet and silly and ridiculous a phrase. In the time that’s past since then, I’ve taken to noticing when I use idioms on a regular basis. Through my research I’ve discovered that I do utilize my favorite one with respectable frequency, but there is another I’ve been favoring as well: a stone’s throw away.
In a recent effort to attract me to the present moment, I have devised a plan. I shall put rocks in all my pockets. They will be there to help visualize a mental exercise I’ve been experimenting with. It goes like this: “The world is only as big as a stone’s throw away from me.”
In my mind’s eye I image a stone in my hand and how far I can throw it. (I played third base and shortstop on my middle school softball team, so I probably have an outsized belief in my own adult ability to throw a stone pretty far.) As much as I might be able to throw it far across the street or down the block, I can also choose to toss it closer to me. From its landing place, with me as the center, I draw a circle in my mind, and that is the limit. That is how big the world is.
What the Dead Flies in My Room Taught Me About Love /
The other night while failing to fall asleep, I was compelled to sit up in bed at two in the morning and write the following story. Inspired by true events.
“For I swear a week there was a fly about my windowsill, the one just above my bed. It was hopelessly trapped. I had at times opened the blinds and it might for a while buzz about the room, always finding its way back to its perch, so near freedom, the outside world—the greenery, the fresh air, the promise of a short life well-lived for any fly. I found it remarkable that a fly should live so long. At one point I attempted to aid it in grand escape.
On a perfectly fine day, sun shining, not too cold, I opened the window for some number of minutes. I watched it wander much like my thoughts did and yet it never made its way out. Two other flies nearly came in together (very loudly) and startled me. Still it couldn’t locate the exit, so close, so vast an exit… When a wasp tried to come in that’s the point where I closed the opening. I could only lead this fly to water so they say.
More days passed and the occasional buzz did persist. And then, so late one night it was early in the morning, I observed between my blinds a small, crushed body. At some point it would seem I had inadvertently brought about the demise of my fly, and yet I don’t remember noticing a lapse in the buzzing. I could not imagine any investigation of the crime scene should produce evidence of the time of death. I was surprised though to notice red at the site. I don’t believe I had been aware that flies contained blood. Mosquitos, yes, though not their own, but flies I had never imagined.
Life went on as usual for me. I hadn’t much considered the continued buzzing until some days later, when, again so late it was morning, I discovered a second body. I switched on the light of my bedside lamp and there it was, belly-up in my path on the floor. Like this was some kind of noir-thriller, and I’m the innocent detective who’s somehow gotten mixed up in something much bigger than I could’ve imagined. Evidently, I had not noticed a lapse in buzzing. Some detective I am…
Before all of this there was another fly. Weeks ago. It was warmer then. When I opened the window to let him out I had accidentally trapped him further down and between the two glass panes. I worried he wouldn’t figure his way back up, but he did. And after a while he flew out the window.
For all this I can say, there will always be another fly.
October 30th, 2am”
Since these events, I have seen the emergence and death of yet another fly.
On Putting Rocks in My Pockets Part I /
Like many people, my life has been enriched by the yearly ritual of bringing my winter coats out of storage to discover whatever the past version of myself left in the pockets. You can always count on crumpled receipts and unused napkins. Sometimes it’s half-eaten granola bars, the occasional loose Benadryl, or my favorite lip color that I’d been “looking for.”
There’s something special about finding things in your pockets. It’s like a magic trick in which you are a lone magician with only one audience member. Some years ago I left five dollars in my coat on purpose so it could make me happy later. It worked so well I’ve considered storing larger sums to someday make my day. Pockets can also be a good place for secrets, housing things like condoms or tampons. It would be very embarrassing to be seen with these items in your bare hands, exposed to the elements, on display for prying eyes who need not know your body has functions that require accessories. Of all the wonderful things you can forget about in your pockets, the best thing I have ever misplaced in there is a rock.
This rock has been in my pocket since 2017. I had been living paycheck to paycheck in New York City for about a year when I called off work one morning and put on my favorite now very beat-up jacket. I felt horribly guilty about this, and I never called off, but that day I hand an indescribable need to be out-of-office. For no particular reason, I could not take myself to a place where I was constantly infantilized while doing the work of three people. (When I left they hired two people to replace me, so that’s something.)
I went for a long walk and let the wordless part of my brian take over, allowing my inner monologue to rest. In my heart I had been meditating on the nature of my general dissatisfaction with life. This feeling had been brewing within me for some time. I was on a tiny stretch of beach at what is now Marsha P. Johnson State Park when I settled on what it was. I took a small rock in my left hand, it fit perfectly between my thumb and pointer finger supported by the middle, like it was molded from my grasp. I fiddled with it and looked at the city across the river. So many lightbulbs. So many rooms. So many people living their lives and getting by and here I was too, just like them, an ant on an ant farm.
The nature of my life at that time, and what I had to do to change it, materialized quickly. This was a realization that occurred abstractly. I felt it and understood it in my bones without a single word ringing in my head. I was not doing what I had come to New York to do. I had moved here to make movies, to meet people and build a career. I hadn’t done any of that. My life was consumed by my office job and the friends I’d made to blow off steam from it. I had built my life around work, financial stability, and passing friendships. I had walked far away from what I actually wanted. I put that rock in my pocket and almost immediately forgot it was there. Sometime later I quit my job and refocused all choices in my life to serve my intention: the very simple desire that I have to make movies.
I have always struggled with object permanency. It’s the kind of running family joke that’s especially funny because it’s extremely true. The instant something is no longer in my hands, it is as if it never existed. It is a daily occurrence that I, at some point, cannot locate my glasses. It doesn’t help that I often choose, for unknown reasons, to place items in odd places no one would think to look for them. Obscure shelves, strange corners, areas of rooms I would claim never to have even noticed before. And in this way, life is always exciting. The little plastic castle is a surprise every time, and so is the rock that’s been in my pocket for eight years.
It’s very easy not to notice it in there, tucked deep into the crevice of the sturdy and unusually large cotton pocket of my fall/spring jacket. I can keep small books in there actually. It can comfortably house a beanie if I get too warm or want to have one on hand just in case. It’s an especially great jacket for when you don’t want to carry a purse but still need to truck many items around without looking too bulky. And the pockets are designed strangely. They’re very square and have a sort of flap about the bottom. The inside seams are especially thick in the pockets too. Such a thing as a small rock can easily be lost without ever leaving the garment, and given the nature of my mind, it’s no wonder this rock would so often not exist.
It is a true comfort to find it each time. Like a magic trick. I hold it between my fingers, like it was molded from my fingertips, and I remember that day on the beach.
A Blog For No One /
This is a blog for no one. I guess that means it’s a blog for me. I don’t anticipate a world in which anyone navigates here, or even if they do, I don’t imagine a world in which they would read this far.
I watched a Ted Talk recently that made a disappointing, though ultimately effective, argument for the creation of things. I have long defined myself as someone with an “incessant need to create,” and yet that drive has been weakening for some time.
Yes I make movies, but that process is long and has become bogged down with the pressures of financial instability.
So here I am. Writing a blog for no one but myself. To freely and without pressure of any kind, create for the sake of creating.
A link for no one: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CDs2d3dJtYk