late sunday night wine at Lelabar, where we joked with the tatt-ed bartenders about Christian Bale and Richard Gere sightings.

old friends in Williamburg (or, arguably, Bay Area) plaid shirts

dancing at midnight to Sara-fucking-Bareilles, yeah you heard me

brownies for breakfast

the last warm days - soaking it up on the rooftop, watching manhattan not move, for once

walking over the brooklyn bridge with one of my favorite people in the world after stuffing our faces with chinese food

blue moons by the hot tub

when the Greek guy who manages the deli downstairs invites you to drink wine and eat packaged sushi, say yes

art shows

banana smoothies

hiking in the rain to ruins, then dancing underneath the awnings

blue eyes, i don't care

just kidding, i unfold before you

meditating amongst modern art

reading during sunset

meeting semi celebrities at coffee shops without knowing it

honey bee, come close to me

this may not be paradise, but yes you can't help but wonder

anything pumpkin. or apple. or butternut squash.  that's right, i said it.

this weekend, i developed an overly obsessed attitude towards the things below.

for some of them, i think it's a combination of "what the f, why is it 50 degrees already?" (i am used to 95 degree Septembers) and "oh my god this means that i will be hibernating soon for the winter time).

- vacuum insulated containers (fuck yes, i need a vacuum insulated tumbler to add to my collection of insulated water bottles. for when i don't want to mess with a lid and all) and also insulated lunch containers since i'm too poor to buy my lunch and it saves. you. SO MUCH money.
- Milo Greene, Sylvan Esso, She Keeps Bees (see my all-over-the-place spotify list here)
- calling it an early night so that i can retreat home and actually have time to listen to music, comb through my feedly subscriptions, and drink hot tea (assumedly, out of one of my 57 vacuum insulated containers)
- raw cashews
- eating dinner on the rooftop, while watching the sun set
- candles (but none of which i have lit, yet)
- really functional bags so that i can carry at least 3 extra layers of clothing "just in case" it gets cold throughout the day



today:

- the rain this morning
- woke up early and walked to a coffee shop in the rain underneath the MoMA sky umbrella that i bought the first time i ever visited NYC over a decade ago
- two irish men at another coffee shop i was hanging out at shared their rosemary sea salt chocolate chip cookie with me
- yoga class. savasana.
- sat facing Broadway a block away from Union Square to people watch. then i walked to one of my favorite bookstores and wandered aimlessly in complete bliss for an hour
- the rain turned into the most perfect sunset
- ate M's delicious quinoa paired with some sushi while watching the sunset
- early day tomorrow. but i never mind, because i absolutely love what i do.

today:
morning walk before my shift. the weather has already changed.
swallowing self doubt, body shame
rays of sunlight while sipping on a cappuccino. slowly learning to love coffee, in every good way possible.
the hotel doorman yelling out how he loved my smile
busy shift. long hours. good food.
lady blue at the end
eating way too much birthday cake
raspberry puree in my prosecco
veuve clicquot.
eating way too much hummus
walking to the W 4th stop
pacing
magazine covers
coming home to a party
listening to angus and julia
tired. happy.

When they told you that your body is a temple they failed to mention that your skin is what keeps your haven safe. I can see inside of your window eyes and I can see that your so-called sanctuary is caving in. That the stones that once kept you safe, that once held you up when there was no trace of strength inside of you, are starting to collapse around your fragile body. You think that no one can see the pain inside of you, but I can see that what took you so long to build, what has now bruised your hands and left you to fight alone, is failing you now when you need its protection the most.

If it’s true what they said, that your body really is a temple that should be treated with the highest form of respect, than they must have never been through the great storm. The storm that came so suddenly but still has yet to pass, even when the skies have cleared and the sun has revealed itself to you. It’s still alive, still burning, still full of the energy that you have always envied since you first learnt of it’s true power. But I promise, you warrior that has seen struggles that not even the bravest of men could face, that what the great storm has left behind will someday dry up. Even if someday is months or years away, your skin; your shelter of protection will soon heal.

One day you will be able to start building yourself again. You will come out of this war with blood on your hands, but this time it won’t be your own. This time you will laugh in the presence of your own misfortune and you will thrive from their memories of the long and tiring journey that once seemed too impossible to complete. I promise you that one day you will be able to speak of the great storm without your eye like windows forming a monsoon of its own. I promise that one day you will look at your battle scars and you will be able to say with confidence that you survived. That in the end, you came out of the storm as a hero.

"A letter to your self-doubt," - Colleen Brown

"The Buddhists say if you meet somebody and your heart pounds, your hands shake, your knees go weak, that’s not the one. When you meet your ‘soul mate’ you’ll feel calm. No anxiety, no agitation."

— Monica Drake, Clown Girl

From the commencement speech Steve Jobs delivered in 2005:

When I was 17, I read a quote that went something like: "If you live each day as if it was your last, someday you'll most certainly be right." It made an impression on me, and since then, for the past 33 years, I have looked in the mirror every morning and asked myself: "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer has been "No" for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.

Remembering that I'll be dead soon is the most important tool I've ever encountered to help me make the big choices in life. Because almost everything — all external expectations, all pride, all fear of embarrassment or failure - these things just fall away in the face of death, leaving only what is truly important. Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose. You are already naked. There is no reason not to follow your heart.

got hit with nostalgia, a wave, out of nowhere, while crossing the street at 52nd street.

“You know, they straightened out the Mississippi River in places, to make room for houses and livable acreage. Occasionally the river floods these places. “Floods” is the word they use, but in fact it is not flooding; it is remembering. Remembering where it used to be. All water has a perfect memory and is forever trying to get back to where it was. Writers are like that: remembering where we were, what valley we ran through, what the banks were like, the light that was there and the route back to our original place. It is emotional memory — what the nerves and the skin remember as well as how it appeared. And a rush of imagination if is our “flooding.””

- Excerpt from “The Site of Memory,” Toni Morrison, What Moves at the Margin: Selected Nonfiction