New Easy Meetings - Ch 1

My friend said, 'Oh, wow, look at that guy.'

He had suddenly arrived, a tall, blue-eyed, sandy-haired stranger in a dark suit jacket, underneath which peeped a crisply pressed white woven button-down. He pulled anxiously and anonymously up to the bar for a covert craft beer. He was not entirely fair-haired but he was significantly light-eyed, bright-eyed.

His manly beauty required a double take.

This level of attractiveness, from head to toe is rare, anywhere.

We caught eyes. I smiled, thin lipped, polite, keeping my distance, not my way.

I am much friendlier than this but his stress was arming.

He appeared, quite obviously, angsty.

I said as much.

'Are you alright?'

He seemed taken aback, albeit graciously, unaware, clearly, of his own demeanor.

'Yes,' he said warmly in his thick, well-studied German accent, 'Yes, thank you I'm fine."

But I didn't really buy it.

My friend regarded me with raised eyebrows as if to say, 'what a stress case.'

We both pondered the 'is he on coke or speed' possibility. His stress level seemed that high but his outward appearance didn't align with that at all.

He went away momentarily only to return to our sides with a forced smile, at which point I asked, 'What's up with you? You seem so upset.'

And then the unload began.

The person in the suit coat and pressed shirt came alive then. He told us he had this job, this job where he had to analyze the economic psychology of a company and determine what was working and who had to go. And he hated this. This was his daily torment. He was wracked with guilt on a daily basis. About who he had to fire. About their family and their lives.

Of course, he decided that knowing me would somehow alleviate his pain.

I gave him my number.

if i was filthy rich from writing filth...hmm

When I was 25 or so, I thought certainly I'd be famous by now. I just had this 'feeling' that I was meant to be famous. For what, I don't know. Acting maybe. During my delusions of grandeur phase when I was a size 2 with a head full of pissy vinegar and no wear on my tires. Yeah, then.

But I had met so many famous people in my younger years I sort of figured I'd turn out to be one of them myself. Possibly by association but, in my hopeful brain, ideally by talent.

Now, as I've spent much more time being alive, that's pretty much the last thing in the world that I want. It's not that the fame itself would bother me, it's that I no longer see it as any kind of necessary validation for who I am in the world - the way I once did.

Yet here I write this semi-private blog that's fairly hard to find online. It's hard to find because that's how I like it. But, all the same, I'm absolutely tickled when someone actually reads it. And even more pleased when they tell me they like it and I can tell they're not lying.

I feel, even in some miniscule way, that something I feel or express is noticed or matters to someone. And I like that.

I am in the fourth month of living in the Bay Area. I am a total newbie in every way but it feels right.

Berkeley reminds me of Cambridge, MA. I get that. The buzz of intellectualism and some of the same architectural simliarities makes me feel right at home. Oakland reminds me of Los Feliz circa 1997. I'm no longer afraid to buy gas down the street or even go in and buy a water or a Slim Jim (yeah I actually bought one of those recently, how gross I know) from behind the bullet proof glass. I smile at people as I come and go. They smile back. I could be in Boston, Jersey, Indiana. With a sparkling, hilly view.

San Francisco, however, is like nowhere else I've ever lived or visited. In my humble opinion, I think it is the most beautiful city in America. From the elegantly Bay spanning bridges to the crooked and steep streets, from the iconic buildings that define the foggy cityscape to the more intimate structures that mark the inner heart, it is a city that pounds with uniqueness with so much beauty that no one, and nothing, can take that away from it.

I don't care if I'm ever famous, living or dead. I just want to do something worthwhile while I'm here. Sometimes I think I could make a pretty penny writing some craptastic sex book like that hideously written (not even that shocking, sorry) book 'Fifty Shades of Grey.' Dude, anyone who has ever glanced into the nether regions of the interwebs can find much deeper, darker filth than that. So I'd be rich, quite possibly famous, but embarrassed at how it happened to be so? Or would I, lollygagging and being massaged endlessly from my private hut in Tahiti, care at all what anyone thought?

I'd actually only be in Tahiti for short stretches. The rest of the time I'd be traveling and touring and reading and learning and teaching and listening and....being. The idea of just...being is so wonderful to me. And by being I don't mean sitting around and eating and lying on the couch. I really mean...BEING. What a gift that would be.

Should I do it? My mom always used to say why don't you just become the next Danielle Steele? (I think some of her stories, particularly when I was in my formative years, were pretty entertaining, albeit full of romantic slop). Here I am, living in her city (well, 11 miles outside) and I think, hmm, why not. Not to be rich. Not to be famous. But to see if, maybe, just maybe, I could.

After all, I can always write a 'real' book later, right? I mean, lofty literature can wait. Tahiti is calling.

And New Zealand after that.

And Hong Kong after that.

And....

Dear Orlando – Part 2 (An overview of some of my favorite places),

It's true.

The five years we spent together were pretty sweet in many ways….

I really appreciated all the wonderful things I saw and experienced, the incredible people who fell into my life, and the happy places I frequented with them.

Here are some of my favorites….and I thank you for keeping these places alive. When you mix the right people with the right places, magic happens. There was magic, in one way or another, in each of these places for me. And no, none of that magic had pixie dust on it or was in any way related to Disney. My experience was an authentic Orlando experience, the one the tourists don't get to see, the one that's worth moving there for, or staying for, or, eventually, leaving but leaving with a warm and full heart.

This is a little tribute to you, Orlando. Thank you for the magical times. I hope we have some more.

In no particular order:

Blue Door – Santiago huckleberry candles (for: imparting irresistibleness via a convenient wax tub that you ignite in your home in order to create optimal appeal for someone you'd like to seduce at some point), Hudson jeans (lending a buttshape to the buttshapeless), tie-dye hair ties ($1 each)

Jewelry – Be on Park – I pretty much want everything in there.

Sandwiches – Sandwich Bar, Pom Pom's

Best server – Dee-lite at Pom Pom's – sweetest girl ever. If you don't know the reference to Dee-lite, look it up you child.

Coffee and people – Stardust Video – this is the best feng shui spot for freelancers – I got more work done there than anywhere else

Best coffee – Stardust Video – perfect every time. The ratios are beautiful. Mathematicians would find this breathtaking. Like there's jesus in every cup. But there's not. There's just several long haired beauties behind the bar making the goodness.  And one willowy, beautiful short-haired one, Emily. Go there. Get some.

Second best Coffee – Drunken Monkey – although no one is drunk and there are no monkeys. Sometimes the people are not so nice and the service is maddeningly slow. But the breaktfast burrito things are very good and it has really decent vegan stuff. Oh, and pure cane sugar soda pops in glass bottles. Tasty and refreshing. None of that corn syrup shizznit.

Vegan Stuff – Ethos. Yum! I love the bruschetta. It's the best $5 vegan lunch in town.

Used Cds, irreverent cards – Park Ave CDs

Italian food – Armando's in Hannibal Square. Slow service but calm down. Pretend you're in Europe. The owner is Sicilian. The food tastes as if it is. So relax. Yeah, it's a little slow. But what's the rush?

Best local place with wonderful people – Maxine's on Shine – beautiful wine list, delicious everything, amazing desserts, sweet owners, fun vibe, great locals

Best Dessert – Maxine's on Shine – get the caramel buttercream cake. I'm not even a sweet tooth person and this is one I absolutely crave!

Best Vietnamese – Little Saigon – great food, really friendly, no atmosphere but who cares, good food

Best massage therapist/healer – Kathleen Quinlan

Best dive bar – Hideaway. They never heckled me even when I wore my Patriots jersey. It may be a dive bar but the peeps in there have class.

Other places to hide – P.R.s in Winter Park, Burton's

Best sushi – Amurra

Other good sushi – Shari in Thornton Park, Lola's in College Park

Best Park Ave fun – Prato – the food is a little overrated, but here's what to get: order the meatballs (there are only 3 so don't bother to share, make it your order alone), share (or not) the salad with the cheese and the apples or pears (lunch and dinner are different), and then just enjoy the décor and the pretty people. They have a garden on the wall, folks. A garden. Their typeface is beautiful. Their logo is modern. Like it for being a cool place to be.

Best yoga studio – Orlando Power Yoga. Hands down, downward dog down, heart open. Whatever. This is the best yoga studio by far. One of the best I've been to in the US. I used to go to Full Circle but when Louis left, it just wasn't the same. OPY is a wonderful place.

SUP – and best yoga studio on a paddleboard – Paddleworks. Go there. Get on the water. Get all stretchy. Be outside. Laugh. Tip over, maybe. Wonder why, the next day, your sides ache. Because you just had a bass ass core workout without even noticing! Try this one if you haven't already!

Best burger – Ravenous Pig – dude, it's amazing, plus it comes with stick thin truffles fries served in a pint glass. Yumtasticness. I recommend ordering it without the bleu cheese. Not needed. 

Runners up – Johnny's Fillin' Station, Graffiti Junktion

Best colorists – Hira Anees at Dolce Vita, Jay Johnson at Nube Nove

Best stylist – Hira Anees ( her cuts last and last, she's meticulous and wonderful)

Plants, flowers, pots, inspiration – Palmer's

Best old school steak and 70s retro bar – Linda's La Cantina – just awesome. Get the steak without the bacon. It's better that way. And be sure to eat in the charmingly lit sunken bar with the strange pond thingy. You'll feel like Lonnie Anderson might sit down next to you and ask you to buy her a martini and light her smoke. 

Best cupcakes – Rhapsody Bakery – seriously, right? Vegan ain't my thang babay but these are delish. No joke. I'm a butter girl and these are just to die for.

Pom Pom's also does cupcakes the traditional butter way and are also divine. But Rhapsody has just a little more magic in there, I think. Not sure what it is exactly.

Best away from it all bar – The Imperial – good wine and craft beers – plus the furniture and décor is all for sale. So it's good inspiration. A moveable feast. A living, breathing Pinterest explosion of desire.

Best music venue – The Social

Second Best – The Beacham

Best pizza – Anthony's

Best margarita – Hillstone's (the BEST margarita anywhere. Ever. Maybe even in Mexico)

Best house painter – Ananda Walker – amazing, fast, affordable, responsible – what more can you ask for? Call this girl. She's amazing. Email me for her number.

Best sweet treat – Chocolate covered popcorn on Park Ave. – seriously addictive. They also have chocolate covered bacon popcorn. No joke. I have not tried it. It was on back order. It's on back order every day. The people come. The people eat. The people wait. I'll have to get back there when I visit.

That's it for now.

Orlando, I miss you. I really do. Actually, I really just miss the people I went to all these places with (and yes, I know I just ended a sentence with a preposition).

Keep being fun.

I'll be back to visit.

Much love,

Jess

a love letter to orlando - part 1: stardust coffee

dear orlando,

thank you for five 
{mostly good, often trying, bewilderingly strange, incredibly confusing, laugh-filled, sleep-filled, sleep-deprived, overworked, underworked, raucous, boring, crazy, wonderful} 
years....

now that i've described our relationship fairly adequately, let's move on.

i'd like to focus on the good things. an old romance will do that. as you gaze back at it, all you can see are the pretty parts, the soft, hazy sweet moments that made the time worthwhile.

so, with that in mind, i'd like to thank you for all the yummy goodnesses, the prettying up places, the sounds and the sights.

and i'll just start....in the middle...kind of like life. just...NOW.

the dust

i wish i'd discovered this place much earlier in my tenure...but, at least i discovered it. that place is stardust...

look close, the wall art is always enticing. like drawings of girls in granny panties.

i spent a lot of time sitting in that little room with my laptop, tapping away on my MacBook. i was able to focus really well here, unlike so many other places i tried. as a freelancer, this really made all the difference. and it got me out of my house. and i loved the familiar faces.

this is where i sat for my Skype job interview.

and this cat. i put a mustache on the cat at one point. or maybe someone else did.

beautiful. and good.

and the coffee....the coffee is really the best in town, in my opinion.


Oh, and did you know...the movement TWLOHA all started in florida...

here in CA i see people wearing these tees everywhere


yes, it began in melbourne but the movie was filmed in orlando...on my parents' street actually. i was out running one day and ran by the set.

kat dennnings as renee

here's jamie tworkowski and the real renee

i never knew how common this was until i learned about it living in Orlando

this is just the first installment in my love letter to orlando.

there's so much more to come.

it is a complicated relationship.

so there's a lot to it.

come back for more. i'll be adding to it very soon.

xoxoxo

all my love,

do you realize?

Oh my darlingest world of wonders.

My house has never looked so fine. Painted, stained, cleaned, beloved. My house never looked so fine until the day I locked it five years later and said farewell.

As for me, I am feeling ever so fine. I am sufficiently exfoliated, highlighted, toe-painted, and naturally bedazzled in healthy glowingness.
Cheers to you, oh you sweet Origins products. (Or their placebo effect. It's all the same to me).

'Did you ever look so nice?' ask The Samples all these years later.

Gosh if I know.

My dear friend so-and-so (who calls it 'creepy' when I secretly write about him in my blogs as if I would ever leave any identifying marks, whatever, I have to have SOMETHING or SOMEONE to write about, to inspire my trivial musings, right? Right? Oh f-off you so-and-so and deal with it. Go get flattered by it or something).

...oh yeah, what was my point? My dear friend (who calls me creepy to my face for writing about him in my blogs and yet reads them several times in pure enjoyment) says that he can ever remember how old I am even though I've half-told him a thousand times or more. Perhaps it is our desert expanse of digit difference that scares me and that he, in turn, finds comforting. Thumb suckage. Mama? Dunno. Who cares.

Anyway, oh thee darlingest world of wonders, here I have landed.

Upon a hilly landscape with a sunny clear, and yet muted, view of my new life.

In Oakland, California.

It's always this way, isn't it?  Clear, yet muted, from one moment to the next.

This is the greatest gift actually.

In the getting lost and subsequently getting more lost while seeking to find - you realize that you are constantly living - IN THE MOMENT.

Wow man.

I mean, seriously WOW.

How often does that happen?

How about like... almost never? I mean, I'm no Buddha or meditation guru. In shavasana, while lying there listening to Ben Harper's rendition of 'Beautiful Boy,' everlastingly grateful that I'm no longer sweating wet blazing bullets onto my yoga mat and holding some crazy ass pose with all my might and concentration and will and love and breath; in shavasana, I am thinking about some guy's beautiful kiss, or whether I should make guacamole later with that overripe avocado on the counter, and oh damn, did I remember to put the wet clothes in the dryer. Shit like that. I can't just lie there, all peaceful-like, and focus on my breath. Oh hell no.

But move me across the country - with only a few possessions to claim and garments to cover my naked body and a fancy pedigreed, longhaired, fur-log barfing diva 'tude cat (with a sweet soul) that I shoved under the seat in front of me for seven long hours - and hey, check it out,  I'm right here, right now, in a way I wish I could live more often.

I suppose it's a bit of survival mode kicking in. Of course it must be. I sleep like a log. I wake up easily. I am energized by endorphins and newness. It's like a fantastic high, I guess. Only it feels much, much calmer than I've felt in a while. My expectations are not grandiose. They are realistic and real and true and not generated from an ego-driven place. Because I focused on this sense of wellness, I willed it into being, I prayed for it. (Yes, me, who isn't religious, I prayed to the universe, on my knees, and into my pillow at night, I prayed for change, for a better life).

Within these moments of feeling undeniably ensconced in a sense of being a stranger in a strange land, I am quite peaceful. I get what that feels like to experience all that's around me. Surely, this is for the first time so it's hard not to notice. But, what's key is to remember what it FEELS like to experience things for the first time: their sounds, their shadows and light, their beauty and ugliness, smell, taste and touch, and revel in all of it. Just let it wash over me in a wave.

Can I learn to do this all the time?

With practice, maybe.  A lot of practice.

May I encourage whoever may be reading this now: in your apartment or house, look around at all that's familiar and see it like you've never seen it before. It's like how you feel when you return home from a long trip away. Everything's familiar and yet it's all new again.

Life can be this way, I believe.

It just takes opening your eyes. And that beating bloody ceaseless thing in your chest. Feel that. Breathe into it. And don't forget that your life is finite. As The Flaming Lips remind us 'Do You Realize?"

So do you?

I do.

Welcome to this new world of awakeness. Welcome. It feels pretty alright to be aware. I'll try live in this moment - as long as I can.

Time for a project

Sometimes when the world around you isn't cooperating, it might be time to delve into a project.

This always seems like a brilliant idea at the time.

Thing is, the world around me has not been cooperating since, oh, I don't know, February? So instead of fighting it, I'm grooving on it.

If the lights are still on, somebody's home, and there's food in mah belleh...well then...what am I complaining about? Right?

Right.

So, I take this little house I've been living in for the past 5+ years, and I tell it: oh little house, oh sweet little dwelling, it's time for your makeover. It's time to make a sweet new debut.

Here's what we call 'before.' A sad little window that overlooks the air conditioning unit. Neglected. Unloved. But now patched and ready for help (see?)

What makes this all better is a Benjamin Moore beauty called 'Blue Nova.'

This is not a mere painting experience. This is power washing. For days. Scraping. Sanding. Staining.

And a snarky Himalayan peeking out by her Booda Dome litterbox domain (gross girl, get away from there!) freshly painted porch door.

And this effort is all about all the little things that make my heart sing.  The details. The subtle charms that made me stop curbside and want to buy this place on the spot.

 The winding wisteria that blooms beautifully and overtakes the house and, therefore, must be tamed like a wild beast. The winding bark is at least 25 years old. Who am I to take it down? It owns me and not the other way around.

This is my favorite tree on the property. I love this tree. Everything else (except the wisteria) could go and I'd be happy.

This is a pleasant shady spot perfect for cooling off and taking a power washing or painting break.

So that is my life at this juncture. Helping my home be a little prettier.

This is just a start. More to come. It's about to get a lot more beautiful.

Group

When I think about family, I think about a lot of things. Sure, dysfunction and shitty old patterns or habits springs to mind. But so, too, does, love. More so than anything, when I think of family I think of love.

Love that's unconditional and true. And family makes me think of people who know you so, so well. Better than anyone ever could. And even if you don't like each other all the time, invariably, through all your troubling trials, you accept each other. There's nothing else like that in life. There are no other people like that in life. Well, there are very few things – or people - like that in life, I should say.

When I think about my family, in particular, I think it's sad that my father and I don't speak. I think it's sad but, for now, I find it necessary.

When I think about my family, in particular, I think it's amazing that my mother and my stepfather and my brother and his boyfriend came to help me work in my yard and on my house this past Memorial Day weekend. Without even the slightest hesitation. They just showed up. To help me.

This touched me. Deeply.

I remember all the times as a family in New Hampshire – before the majority of us moved to Florida – when we gathered for morning coffee as often as we could. When I lived just twenty minutes away – or even an hour away – we did this pretty often. And we jokingly called it "Group" (as in 'group therapy') and later we called it "As New Hampshire Turns" (because it was funny and because there were some very intriguing tidbits of drama that made it so). We even made a Christmas card with this name as the soap opera title, giving each of us a character in our dysfunctional 'play.'

In all honesty, these coffee mornings, these 'sessions,' if you will, bound our family tighter together, helped us grow, molded us all, each of us, uniquely, during this period of time. And it did so in a way that years past had also done but in an entirely new and different fashion. Some of us were older, yet perhaps not wiser. Some of us were young, but our souls were old and wise. Whatever the case, we learned that we had a new language to speak, one that was full of secrets, yet so full of brave honesty in the same breath, one that cared and dared to speak the truth. We were there for one another. In all the seasons. For every coffee morning that was simply about inspiration to get through the day. Or for every coffee morning that was all about something much deeper. What meant the most, I think, was that we all knew, without question, that we were there for each other.

I'll never forget these times.

My siblings never will either. It was a special time. An era, really. One in which the three of us were single, unencumbered by any sort of relationship and pure of thought; we were blank slates, ready to share and discover. It was an unusual, amazing time. Not that it was perfect or idyllic. Because, certainly, there were fights between us. Mistakes made. And silly disagreements between our parents. And, every once in a while, some needless drama, too.

Our grandmother died one summer when we all happened to be living back at home. While it was only for a few months that we all lived in that house, those months were intense and telling. As divisive as it seemed to be and perhaps felt to each of us at the time, it was, in fact, unifying. I don't think any of my siblings would disagree with that statement. It was terribly sad that our grandmother had died, although it had been within the natural order of things, it was still sad, and yet, it was freeing for our mother as their relationship had been so strained in life. She was finally, finally, able to let it go and find peace. And her pain was our pain. And her peace was our peace, too.

I believe that we all grew and changed and bonded with one another more fully during that time. It allowed us to realize the power and the strength and the unconditional love of our family and to carry on stronger than we had been before.

Today, we still do this. Here in Florida. Me, my parents, my brother Bob. The pets. Whoever wants to be there. But there is someone markedly and hugely absent. Rich.  It's as though we've relocated to a warmer climate but nothing else has really changed. We moved here for our various reasons – jobs, mostly – and other opportunities that have or have not manifested for us as yet. But someone we love is profoundly missing. Has been missing for a long, long time.

We've tried our best to recreate 'Group' or 'As NH Turns' in Maine or even back in NH, but it's been hard. Life and its circumstances get in the way. Work. Children. Families. Daily stressors. So many things can challenge the core of a family.

Rich. You are missing. We miss you. We miss your wisdom. Your wit. Your intelligence. And reason.

You are a father now. A husband. A man with his own thriving business. Whatever you do, you are our hero in so many ways. We are proud of you. We love you. And we miss you.

We miss you. 

From Florida to New Hampshire, at some point this week, or even tomorrow, we'll have coffee together and we'll think of you. As we always do. As we always are.

Me Hawk. You Chipmunk.

I'm in denial.

According to some accredited individuals who've assessed my personality,  temperament and tendencies, apparently I am a commitment phobe who runs from intimacy. Awesome. It hurts just writing that much honesty down. It's not actually true. At all.

Yes, I got married once. Divorced once. And yes, everything was my decision. (I must have some pride here, no, I wasn't 'left' – no, it doesn't matter and no, it would not make any difference if he'd left me). Still, it's like that freshman year mishap – the terrible GPA you get from being a loser that first year that prevents you from ever graduating summa cum laude – where you want to say: I really AM a summa cum laude student. I really, really am. But I made a mistake. Please don't punish me for it. Please.

Too late missy.

I hate that. Because I really tried. I really, really did. And anyone who knew me then…truly, anyone who knows me NOW…knows that I tried. I don't blame him for it.  I don't blame myself for it either. I'm just sad that I couldn't make it work, that I didn't have whatever it would take to make it good.

My mother says, repeatedly, like pressing a pre-recorded button, and I can hear it in my head:

'Jess, you just need to find the guy you want and just GO FOR IT. Just go after him.'

Really?

Go after him?

Really?

I'm not that girl. Everytime I've ever tried to put myself out there it's a big, chubby, awkward and embarrassing fail. In fact, I'm so ill-equipped to do this that I'm like an uninvited guest at the party. Pretty girls in pretty dresses scowl and wonder: where did that…that…awkward…clumsy…dork…come from? And why is she big-eyed and preying on my man?

Truth is, I've been the chipmunk my entire life. The chipmunk is my comfort zone. That's when the steely-eyed hawk spots his prey: me.

He swoops in and picks me up in his expansive wings, holding me captive in his gnarled, sharp claws. And takes me off someplace very unsafe.

I just sit there frantically gnawing on my many nuts, storing the chewed up stuff in my cheek pouches, looking around, but pretty much easy prey. That's it. I just do that and bam! Hawk finds me. It's been this way ever since I was a young, young mickamunk (what my brother Rich called chipmunks before he could speak properly). 

I haven't met someone in a really long time who made me feel freaking giddy. Giddy. Giddy UP. Like a stupid kid on a goddamn pony. 

"Your eyes are open," he said, mid-kiss.

Oh no.

I kiss with my eyes open apparently. I think I must be afraid if I close my eyes that I'll lose my balance and fall over. (Nope, that's not true at all. I just really liked his crazy hot face.)

Yep, damnit, I kissed with my eyes open. And he caught me. OK, so there was a kiss and it was good and it made me dizzy. High school dizzy. (This is a very high bar, I can't recall the last time I had high school dizziness from a kiss with ANYONE).

But I was so uncool.

My friend Will used to tell me: "You are the coolest, hottest freaking girl."

Pause.

"But only when you don't give a shit about the guy."

And I'd be like "And when I like the guy?" (which was rare). He'd roll his eyes and say, "You lose all control. You just show all your cards. You're pathetic."

Yes, it was mean of him to say. But fuck, he was so right. Because it was so annoyingly true.

And here it is, some five years later since Will observed my 'pathetic' hankerings that led to nothing, and I'm still the same. 

My mother is wrong. Just dead wrong on this one.

I give up.  I'm going into infinite hiding.  Those of you who know where I live, feel free to come on by and knock on my door. I'll be home, most likely. Me, my chipmunk self, and the cats. Chilling. Dorking out. Hoping there's a really great amazing hawk out there. A really, really good one this time.

for my old friend

The moment I saw the obituary on his Facebook page, I thought it was a Facebook joke. You know those stupid gimmicky bullshit spam things that people pass around online: 'click here to see how you'll die' and you put in the requisite personal info and then you get this tombstone image with your name ' Here lies Bill Smith 1979-2042 'and some supposedly humorous epitaph: 'Run over by alien crossing ocean while eating squirrel sandwich. ' You get the idea.

That's how the world has become right? One big fat fucking joke I guess. Except this time it wasn't. It wasn't a joke at all.

When it really sank in, though, when I looked at his handsome face and familiar smile beaming off my computer screen, when I read the painfully surrendered words of acceptance that his mother wrote, when I realized it was so fucking true and real and final it made my stomach ache in a way I can't explain. And that's when I just fell into this deep, immediate despair.

And in that despair – in the pacing I suddenly needed to do in my small house, the frantic pacing I did while I processed this end to a life, while I cried those honest, wet tears that hold you captive, his whole life, and mine too, flashed before me - I began to look back, back, back.

It was like some part of me that I'd held onto all these years - some part of me that I could call up and revisit, someone who knew me when I was so young, someone who I also knew when he was so young, before the inescapable damage of the world weighed heavily on our souls with it's burdening angst but also it's overpowering joy, when our lives lay out before us, this big, amazing thing to be lived and we were just beginning it – that part of me, that part of us, was just now gone. And it had been gone for several months. I just didn't know it.

The thing is, it wasn't gone. It was just encapsulated. The way you put something in a newel post for a century. All tucked away like a diary or a scrapbook. The way life happens in your mind. Pockets of the past stored up there like a grandmother's sweater in your brain. All you have to do is go up there and root around in the pockets and you'll find them all. This life, this person, now had a beginning, a middle, and an end. I was just so unprepared for the end.

He was my friend. My lifelong friend. And he was one of the purest friends I've ever had.

When I say pure, I mean we were never lovers. We never even kissed. We were just true friends, first a boy and girl, then a man and woman, friends. It is true we both liked one another in a 'more than friends' way. But it was always at different times. During highschool, I liked him but he liked Annie Leef. (Which made me not like Annie Leef. She seemed fake and you could tell she bleached her upper lip. I couldn't think of anything else bad to say about her. Just: how dare she.) Then he liked me but I was infatuated with Sander Robinson. (Which made him make fun of Sander Robinson for any reason he could find. Usually something like:  what do you see in that kid? Guy is a total 'squid.') Then, a few years later, I liked him but he had a summer love out in California. Then, more years after that, he liked me but I was fully into the idiocy of my twenties by then. We were just never in sync that way. And we weren't meant to be. We were just meant to always be friends. I'm glad that we had that innocence, that we had a pure and true love for one another. That is a pretty rare thing.

We met at Proctor Academy, a small private school in New Hampshire, when I was 13 and he was 15. I can't even recall how we met only that we were always friends. I was a freshman and, as he informed me, therefore a 'boeuf' while sophomores were 'squids' and all I knew was that I just wasn't cool. But he made me his friend. And he never let me down. Sure, he teased me, and made fun of me for being young and unaware, but he also loved to come to my parents' house for weekends and he got me stoned for the first time in the Blacksmith Shop at school. It was underground and dark and interesting and he was always making things down there. Not a lot of students hung out there. So it was kind of our place. He made me an iron key in that shop, too, something I probably still have in the attic of my parent's house in Maine. I remember when he gave it to me. It was a gift. No big deal because that was his way. But his eyes said differently. He was just a giver.

Every May 3^rd, every single May 3^rd since 1987, he got a phone call from me. "Hey Matt, it's the official Coke Holder, Happy Birthday." I was the 'official Coke holder' because one time he asked me to hold his soda for him while he zipped up his parka at the Duke's Den (the snack shack type place where you could get junk food and sodas on campus) and when I went to hand it back he shook his head and smiled that huge smile of his and said, 'Nope, from now on, Jess, you're the 'official Coke holder.' Uh huh, I get it. I'm your little kid-sister type personal slave. Because, I'm sure, at that point, I was the one with the crush. His eyes were that crazy blue that draw you inexplicably in and I'm sure I looked at him like a little whipped sap. I mean, c'mon I was only a kid. And at that point, he knew he had the power. So that was that. Official Coke Holder for life.

When I think back to my years at Proctor, I remember so clearly the hill between the dorms and the dining hall, and when I was walking by myself up and down that hill I would listen to my Walkman. It was a Christmas present from my parents and it was the smallest Walkman they made back then. I was listening to Peter Gabriel repeatedly. All the students at Dartmouth were blaring his new album out of their windows and I remember feeling like one day I'd be one of them. In my mind I was becoming one of them already, practicing to be an adult. That hill would get slippery with ice from so many students going up and down it all day and it was treacherous and windy. I would hold my body tight and prepare to fall each and every time. I never fell but I was always ready to fall. That hill sort of embodied my adolescent self-consciousness. Always ready to fall.

I remember the strange sense of loudness all hidden in the silence at dusk (do you know that sound? Simon and Garfunkel defined it best and it all made sense to me in my adolescent pangs of insecurity.) It seemed to call out from the purple-blue gray skies when we were all returning from a long, satisfying, red-cheeked afternoon of skiing. I remember the sheen and gleam of new fallen snow and only one sound in the near infinite stillness:  the crunch of boots underfoot. Some of the most profound moments that defined my heart to this day, were moments when I was alone, crossing campus at night, seeing warm lights an people moving inside buildings and the glowing moon overhead, and things like simply looking out across at the stunning expanse of fresh snow in all it's glittering mystery. So much gratefulness can exist in these small moments if you let it.  The total awareness of the tenuousness of this life can give you so much during these reflective solitary times.

Orchids have this same sparkling in their white petals. Have you seen this? It is absolute magic. It is a perfect visual language. Snow has this very thing. And snow holds onto it, keeps it, protects it, speaks it, all winter long. All you have to do is watch and listen. And when you live in this climate, when it seeps into your soul, when you live within this precarious dance of death and rebirth, when you witness your own life unfold in periods of deep slumber and vivid consciousness, the intricate details form a world that lives inside you for your whole life.

Every time we had a chance to catch up, usually on the phone, he was recovering from some kind of accident. He was, always it seemed, dancing with the devil, testing life, pushing it, living it in a passionate, full way that most people wouldn't and don't . But it was his way, his journey, his life's blood. It's what he loved. Whether it was racing Ducati's at 125mph or extreme skiing or (in his mother's words) existing with ' that willingness to take a risk, to dare' whatever it was that fueled him at the time, Matt was happy just living life to the fullest in the way he knew how. I know he almost died once before. He was in the hospital with so many broken bones. Motorcycle accident as I recall, although I can't be 100% sure on that. All I know is that it was bad, whatever it was, and it was a close call. We weren't always in constant contact but we were never that far off from the major events of our lives.

When I was at acting school at Emerson College in Boston in 1993, he wrote me a simple postcard. It was no big deal. Just a chatty postcard from a ski trip to Crested Butte, Colorado, from one friend to another. He invited me to come ski with him, even offered to loan me the money to get out there. Then he said in typical humorous Matt style, better yet, get your parents to pay. But I knew he'd fly me out there. He asked me to come be with him so many times over the years. Looking back, I wish I'd taken him up on more of his amazing invitations. I think of the experiences I could have had.

I've kept that little postcard with me all this time. In fact, I've always known exactly where it is wherever I've lived. When I was in New York, it was on my fridge. In Los Angeles, it was tucked into my blue velvet journal. When I lived in Philadelphia, it was in the stereo drawer. Here in Florida, it has been in my office, second drawer down. It's always been with me.

All this time. Matt's familiar handwriting. A postcard to me. A nineteen-cent stamp.

My aunt came to visit this week and she offered to help me organize my house a bit. She's a genius at organization so, of course, I jumped at the chance for her help. So we started going through my books and papers. She suggested I give at least some of my books away but I love my books and just can't get rid of them. So she started stacking them to arrange them better. And, among the stacks, there was this old, hardcover coffee table book, something I hadn't looked at in years and years. It was given to me by my grandparents, when I was far too young to appreciate it.  The book is called 'The Musicians' by Sempe. Sempe, if you're unfamiliar, is the artist/cartoonist whose work appears regularly on the cover of The New Yorker. It is iconic and often comedic.

So I flipped open the very old, very unappreciated book with its torn and curled dustjacket that has been carried from place to place for decades. Immediately inside was a piece of still-fresh-looking academic notebook paper. It was the beginning of a letter. 'Dear Matt' it began. I couldn't believe it.

Just a couple sentences. That was all: 'I had such a great weekend with you. We need to relive the 'Blacksmith Shop days' but I guess we can do that when I come visit you in August…' Here was an unfinished letter that just lay there, frozen in time. Just waiting for me, for this week to open up this old, old book and stumble upon it.

There was no date at the top, nothing but my unmistakable handwriting that was indicative of me at around age 14.  Why was I seeing this? Why now? Why? I can't help but wonder. It's as if he's speaking to me even now. Like God put that old Sempe book there for me to see. Like God said, he's still with you. Matt is right here. He's here right now.

Some people, like postcards we pack up and take with us wherever we go, some people never leave us. Matt will never leave me. Even though he's gone now, even though his life was cut tragically short, he lived his life the way he wanted to, the way he needed to. And even while miles and time separated us, we were never far from each other's thoughts. I carried his memory, his spirit, simply embodied in a paper postcard, from place to place, through the journeys of my life.

As my mom and I both remarked while walking the beach just today, 'He had a look in his eye, didn't he?'

'Yes, he did.'

'What do you think that was?'

"He was so handsome, so wonderful, so right there with you…but…'

'There was a thing apart. Right? There was something about him, a look in his eye, that was…apart somehow.'

'I know. Apart. That's it.'

'Yes. Like he wasn't long for this world and he knew it.'

Like he wasn't long for this world and he knew it.

There are so many more memories of him that I have, the usual stuff I guess, details that aren't all that important. It's who he was, what his soul was about and what he meant to me that I hold dear. His face I can clearly see, his walk I can see, he walked like he was on air, he was somehow just not even tied to the ground. He had this weightlessness, this contagious energy like he was going somewhere. Anyone who knew Matt knows exactly what I'm talking about. He was always moving. Always searching.

When people die young, they are always young.  He'll never be sick or old. He'll always be beautiful and handsome and full of life. And as sad as it is, it's a reminder that your own life can be gone just as suddenly. And it's so important to remember that each day is the only one you have. That's what I will try to remember when I get caught up in some stupid bullshit going on, when I'm short-sighted about a work disappointment or some guy I liked who treated me like dog shit, or being annoyed by someone who takes too long to order their damn latte at Starbucks. It's easy to forget how good you have it when piddly stuff gets in the way. But it's so, so, so important to be grateful. So important to be grateful. Gratefulness affects every part of your life – and makes life better for everyone you ever touch.

And, after all, when I look around, this is all pretty damn good. This life I have is pretty good.

Matt has always been with me. I've tucked him into old books and journals, packed him up and moved from place to place, kept him alive in papers, in letters, in photos. He is one of my soulmates in this life. And he is not just a memory of when we were young and all the things we went through. His life is an entire world inside my heart. 

I was discussing the whole omnicient POV with my stepdad tonight, how it rings so freaking wimp ass FAKE if at first you choose the first person and then you switch to the third....because you suddenly lose your gumption, chutzpah or, let's be honest BALLS, to say it (whatever it is) that thing you intended to tell in the FIRST PERSON. If you suddenly reach down and find your pants empty of courage, sorry but you can't just, like, you know...switch. Because when you're the one inside looking out, so intimately, so closely knowing so much as you do in the FIRST PERSON and then suddenly you make yourself the puppeteer, commandeering the entire world, well, we, the viewer, your audience...we can FEEL it. It's just not that easy to back out of the close up and deep down.

So please don't be a wimp and switch. Stick to your perspective and have the courage to live it out that way. The way you saw it initially. (He's writing a play, a musical theater play - is that what you even call it? - a 'musical theater play' - it's a Broadway-y thing). Mom and I say he's the one with the gay gene because even my gay brother doesn't like 'Smash' nearly as much as he does. (I like 'Smash' don't you? It's good.)

I tried this recently. I wrote a shocking, E-Hollywood story type deal about my own life. It felt great. Cathartic. Beautiful. Kind of, well, I hate to admit, but damn well written and like nothing else I've read. Except maybe The Glass Castle. Is my head puffed up with vanity? I assure you it's not. It's just that not a lot of people can tell their tale and not hide their tail between their legs for the rest of their lives. And not that I'm comparing because I'm not. (F you, man, I never said I could sing. Never. But I always said I could write). So yeah, this whole raw confessional was, in the end...just...too...much. I sat there and read it, quietly, serenely, wishing for just one moment that I could be like Augusten Burroughs, that I could dare to be that daring. But I knew if I published it, or wrote the whole story, that no one would ever hire me again. I'd have to be rich before I could tell the tale. Fearlessness and foolishness are, perhaps, one and the same. I want to be fearless but I can't give up my anonymity and the love of my family for a story. Not even a gloriously crazy true one.

So that brings me to this: SAY SOMETHING. As much as you can. Say SOMETHING. Or just shut the f**k up. Nobody cares. Because you're boring. Vapid. Uninteresting. Why don't you stretch your soul as far as you can, Gumby doll. Stretch. Yearn. Be uncomfortable oh thee, yogi guru chaturanga dandasana, whale-donkey pose inventing (striking largesse combined with pure idiocy and innocent confession (this pose hasn't been invented yet because no one has been that brave in their soul openness as of this writing)...

Gumby, where are you? Faking poses? Soliciting the girls? I can't blame you. Why would you want to stretch that far? What's the point? You stretch too far one way, you're a Kardashian. You stretch the other way, you're a mythical artist of profound inspiration. But how do you know which way to bend?

What a world we live in.

In the interim, I'll be living in the first person as often as I dare. It's much tastier here. More flexible. Sweatier. And infinitely more spontaneous. As covered up and bullshi**ty as it is.

Love. And love you more. You're the best one. The bestest one. The beautifulest one.

What do you need to hear?

Chronicles of The Fur: The Ryan Years

PART ONE

The Beginning

____________________________________________________________________

The ad read:

Share spacious penthouse in ideal Soho location with screenwriter. Great sunset views of lower Manhattan off expansive patio. FEMALE ONLY. Serious inquiries only. Contact Ryan at 212-000-0000.

Translation:

Spacious penthouse = decent sized top floor

Soho = the pimple on the buttcheek of Chinatown

Screenwriter = unemployed artist (parents pay rent)

Expansive patio = your standard no-frills roofdeck

Female only = sheer genius

Sheer genius? Yepper. That's a fact.

My brilliant, devious, strategic-minded, and incessantly girl crazy friend Ryan placed this ad in the Village Voice not because he was actually looking for a roommate. Not even close. He placed this ad for one reason and one reason only: to meet girls.

And this is how Ryan and I met. I was one of the many girls who fell prey to his tantalizing ad. After a great conversation with Ryan on the phone, I felt comfortable enough to go see the place. I brought a friend with me just in case he was a serial killer, of course.

After passing the flies, feral street cats and pungent fish stench that signifies the back end of Chinatown, the cab pulls up at this sparse institutional building on Grand Avenue. There's not much else around. I look at my friend and she shrugs back but I somehow still have hope.

The apartment itself is actually pretty cool. And Ryan is pretty cool. He offers me a drink. I take some coffee, ask to see the room. Somehow he evades this question for a bit. We end up laughing. For several hours - and for so long that my friend has to leave. And I feel strangely comfortable enough to let her go on her way. This Ryan character is funny as hell. He's trying out this Judy of Time Life fame headset he just bought off an infomercial so he can make calls hands-free. And he's talking like Judy now in a plasticky high-pitched voice, gesturing effeminately, the whole nine. Keep in mind, this is 1994 and we don't have cell phones. Or caller ID. Or any of that other stuff. We have answering machines. We have basic cable. Robin Byrd on Channel 35 is our late night free porn. And Time Life infomercial items are vastly entertaining.

We make small talk and then we make some big talk. About our career aspirations. He's a writer. I want to be an actress. Or something like that. But I'm a writer, too. I mean, that's what I went to school for – but who knows, I'm young, I have time to figure it all out.

So in the fairly large living room that does, in fact, have a pretty stunning view of the Statue of Liberty, Ryan has created a 'room' for the supposed roommate. It's your basic Crate and Barrel screen adorned with a Moroccan looking shawl and with a single bed tucked behind it. Is this a joke? I say as much. That's when he looks earnest, serious, and somewhat offended and says, "This is New York, Jessica. That's a decent space for someone."

There's a moment of silence while I stare at the makeshift room. We both stare. Then, like the punchline of a joke, I look at him with a face that says: "I call bullshit." This is a look that makes him laugh. And then really laugh. Clearly, at this point, we've bonded.

He suggests we grab drinks in the East Village. We hop a cab. The cabbie is Indian. Ryan whispers just loud enough for me to hear him mocking the poor guy in some crazy fake Indian accent, mumbling something about 'veddy much curry." I shush him but the laughter continues.

That night he teaches me the lure of dirty martinis and PEI mussels served in fancy copper pots by beautiful NYU students. He tells me about the woman he's seeing who's, sadly, in the middle of a divorce. Her name is Devora. He's in love. I ask him why she's getting a divorce. He just points at himself. I shake my head, "Homewrecker." And he says, "I'm doing her a favor."

From that day on, Ryan and I are inseparable. And my life will never be the same.

because i need to

Outside the rain pounds on the pavement like a slick black snake slithering all the dirt and heat of the day down the street. I watch from the window while I wait for his car to pull up.

I hate his car. It's the one and only thing I can't stand. I feel annoyed by it, embarrassed to be seen in it, and worse of all: really angry at myself that wow, I really am that much of a superficial bitch.

I just have a thing for cars. And good, well-groomed, taste. Taste is not subjective. It is not. I apologize for this but it simply is not. But I do not apologize for what I can't unknow about taste and couth and quality cars. Just like I'd never date a guy who wears a gold chain or tighty whities and who knows nothing, not one thing, about philosophy. Quote "cogito ergo sum" and we may be onto something.

I keep checking my face in the mirror, fiddling with my hair, wondering if this is the right shirt and if I have time to change. Is lavender my best color? Shit, these shoes are old. His shoes are always perfect, his Brooks Brothers shirts are impeccably pressed, his whole look from head to toe is just studied fucking perfection. I barely iron. Sometimes skip wearing bras. Panties are worn on an as needed basis. I wash my hair with European frequency.

We are so different.

I feel like cancelling suddenly. Pulling off these clothes, slipping into tiny shorts and a tank top and running out into the warm rain in my little yard and letting it drown this feeling. Then go back inside, wet and new and alone. Whatever this is – this all dressed up and fucking waiting – makes my skin itch.

Hurry up fucker before I change my mind.

The thing is, once I see him, see his face, smell him and touch him, I forget my own mind. My friends don't see what I see. I sometimes think all I see is sex. And sex isn't so much sight as it is smell. I get up close and breathe him in and I get as wet and slick as this rain coming down. I say I'm not in love. But I know I'm in love. In some way.

A car pulls up fast. It's black and shiny with those new blue-tinted headlights. This is a cool car. I squint out from a corner of the window, hiding from view. It is an Audi. A brand new one. Who is this?

I recoil into the wall, there's not enough time to close the shade. Will they see in?

The knock on the door is friendly, not threatening, yet insistent. I'm scared to answer. Did he get a new car? Does his car now match his handsome face, his colorfully preppy, beautiful clothes? What then? He'll be too good for me then. His car keeps him humble and normal. As shitty and ugly as it is.

"Sara!" a voice from the behind the door calls, "Open up, it's Jim!"

His best friend.

He's alone. Slightly wet. In his work clothes still. Usually so polite, Jim just walks right in without my inviting him.

He grabs my shoulders gently. His face is pained.

"We've got to go. Now. "

His next words come out one by one, agonizing and slow.  All I hear is:

Ben.

Accident.

Hospital.

The drive is strangely quiet save for the rain falling hard on his car. The new leather smell inside is almost too much. Heady and foreign.  

Spirits. In the material world.

The doves were released, one by one, from behind a black coat, momentarily cupped in large, male hands and then tossed into natural flight, while I watched, still and silent, from my bed.

From my bed, in the midst of an illness, I watched them. My night was comprised of inescapable insomnia, coughing and delirium. And not the good kind of delirium that some people enjoy.

Still, I have to wonder, why doves? Kind of a cliché if you ask me. A symbol of peace? Oh come on. So what were they? Real doves? Who's to say? In the almost darkness of my room, they just went…flying. Softly. Silently. Where they were flying wasn't really important actually. Their existence at all was what mattered. That - and my still and silent lying there and witnessing their escape. Their beautiful, transformative migration to somewhere other than here.

In my near sleep, I saw men with wings like Icarus draw swords on horseback ready to fight. I saw children gaze at the roots of tremendous swaying trees, swaying too - and waiting for something. I saw the fertile, curvy bodies of naked women full of want and need and angst. And, in the same breath, oh yes, please, let's have some tea.

Then I remember that I read my friend's fortune in his cup of strong Turkish coffee after dinner earlier that evening. I saw those things in his tiny, yet manly, of course, cup. Those things were not here in this room. Was my imagination soaring? Of those who claim manic episodes, I wondered if, perhaps, this could be the calm, quiet, subdued version. Another part of me thought, nah, I was just seeing things. I should have found that disturbing, I guess. But I didn't.

Before bed, I did not take melatonin. Or klonopin. Or Ambien. Nope. I just took me. The same way I do each and every night. A hefty dose of imagination. That is my curse. My undoing. But, also, maybe my salvation.

I've lived in homes with spirits. Several homes. With several spirits. And they always find me. Even my non-believer brother suddenly believed. After years of making fun of me and my 'senses.' One day, she visited him while he slept in that room, too.

I've lived here in this house for five years now and this was my first encounter, if you can call it that, with anything even resembling a spirit entity. For a home having breathed in and out on this earth since 1923, it seems strange for no spirits at all to remain. And it is also strange that I, attuned to these things, have sensed so little here. Certainly nothing sinister. Nothing that comes up from behind and makes me run. Like the ghost in the carriage house I once lived in - on a glamorous and expansive, but now somewhat desolate, estate outside Philadelphia. That chauffeur was still there. Just like the old blue gas pump that sat collecting dust in the garage that, at one time, housed the fancy cars he drove for the wealthy family in the main house. The chauffeur, in his somber black suit, watched me. He watched me bathe. I'd catch a glimpse of him in the mirror and just as quickly he'd vanish. He watched me brush my hair. And get dressed. And eat breakfast. And laugh. And cry. I could always feel him. All the time. Jeff, always rational, never could. But Jeff was also strangely creeped out by the Titanic-size boilers beneath the house. He'd never go down there. Never.

At my family's home in New Hampshire during high school - a 10,000 square foot historical property – built originally in 1780 and later added on in 1930 – came with the usual history of deaths of many who were laid up for Protestant viewing before burial, including the accidental death in the attic of a 12 year old girl. Even there, I felt little. My parents physically moved the house back onto the property and gave it a proper view and an entirely new foundation – and I can't help but think the spirits (if there were still any residing there) fled during that time. 

But, then, later, after I went to college, my family moved to an even older home a few hours south– a charming Colonial built in 1760 – and that house was positively teeming with ghostlike energy. Part of the house had been destroyed in a fire and rebuilt many years before and when I was home visiting I would feel the need to tear up the stairs as if I was being chased. The first night that I came home from college, mid-winter in the dark, I was shown an old drafty room, and told it was mine from then on. It was typically bitterly cold, and my sweet mom had done her best to make it hospitable – with freshly washed down comforters and warm, clean flannel sheets and cozy throw rugs and candles – but still, as I drifted off to sleep, I'd feel….her.

This presence of a woman.

Her face. Her breath. A ghost's face right up close to mine. And I'd feel her every night the moment I switched off the light in the pitch black dark. I knew she was really there when, heart pounding, I'd flick the light back on and she didn't go away. More than once I sensed a weight on the bed, as if someone was sitting there beside me while I slept.

In the silent terror, part energy, part imagination and something altogether unexplainable, there's also some strange magic in these experiences too. Like you've been chosen. Unless you've felt it, you just don't know. As for the doves released from behind a black overcoat just last week, well I can't be certain that it wasn't purely my imagination running on overdrive, or something else. The fact that they were doves somehow calms me. Peace doves. White. And pure. But still. What has my imagination unleashed? Or perhaps my sense of the spiritual has been reawakened. I've always had it. And I welcome it now. Again.

Or maybe this house, after all this time....all this time that I've lived here....maybe this house finally trusts me.