Morning- sunrise over the Queensboro bridge. Skyline coming into view. City wakes, or persists, one of the two. Or both.

breakfast, because it's never too early for pie.

Or Dark and Stormys.

Tonight, musical whimsy. Staying up to work, and taking dancing breaks in between.

I fall in love every time we meet

Sam Smith



Queen B. 7/11



never drop that alcohol!

movement and breath,

caramelizing and red wine and Puerto Rico and lemon bars for his mom and frothing and whipping (the eggs, of course) and Xiomara and Dickens and Herbie Hancock and other such activities.

"stop being restless"

gratitude before the day dedicated to it. 

There is risk in connection 

notes from the weekend.

---

12 string guitars and music becoming faith itself, becoming a dimension we could stand on, and oxygen we could breathe. (more on this later)

kendrick lamar on the subway and secret smiles. tap dancers and hope.

cold hands, shaking in his arms, or maybe i was just shivering at the smell of cigarettes between lips.
throwing credit cards in the air, birthdays being the excuse.

real targets don't exist, but hearts do. so aim there, please.

deepest chocolate cake, coconut milk, claiming you don't like it but eating it anyway
and memorizing rap lyrics on the long way home.
dancing downstairs in restaurant kitchens (dear health inspectors, grade THIS).
all black everything.

creme brulee in white paper bags, plastic spoons.
sneaking bites of butternut squash straight out of the oven.
racks on racks on racks
burning my mouth,
it's worth it anyway.

the winter brings a deep feeling of isolation, even when i'm surrounded by people.
solitary
solitude
solidify
sojourn
and you are not around to hold me when the cold settles on my skin

i talk about brass and woodwind
we make jokes about things we can blow on.
lately i haven't been able to breathe enough to blow.
carry on.

the bartender breaks a glass while making the drink he bragged about. the air smells like orange slices and white teeth.

i worry about him touching my back when it is moist with the sweat from running to get to where he is. to get there faster. to see the smile in his eyes faster. life is too short to walk.

"i'm nervous to dance with someone who dances so well."
"how do you know i dance?"
"i've never seen you walk anywhere. you never walk, you dance across the room and down sidewalks."

late night concerts and hands on waists. beer spilled on my jeans. he bought us a round to apologize.
the crowd throbbed and smiled together.
long train rides. legs on legs on legs. looking into eyes. breaking rules.

arguing about the existence of wild turkeys in Taiwan.
time is relative. 
early morning runs. long, lazy afternoons. looking in the direction of the world where i know you may be. wondering if you see me too.

love as a dimension
love transcending time and space
perhaps the past is a canyon you can walk into.

i cannot believe in love. i need to walk farther into the canyon to find it again.


Do not go gentle into that good night

“The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know. No more time, no more potential. The privilege of ruling things out. Finishing. Knowing I’m finished. And knowing that time will go on without me.

Often I believe I’m working toward a result, but always, once I reach the result, I realize that all the pleasure was in planning and executing the path to it.
It comforts me that endings are thus formally unappealing to me — that more than beginning or ending, I enjoy continuing.”

Oh geez. I found my Christmas playlist  from last year already.

Today, the cold came. Though it did so with warning and fanfare, still I found myself unprepared.
I could not feel my lips.

yet, I smiled anyway.

J instructed me on the difference between chives and jiu cai. 
We sampled apple cider home-brewed with cloves. And pondered the sugar content.

Then, R came over and we roasted some acorn squash together.
Then he casually sharpened my knife with the bottom of a ceramic bowl.
It was sexy.

He told me I am one of the most deceptively guarded people he knows. I slowly realized that perhaps this is true.
It's been a while since my face has appeared here, and I don't let anyone see my room.
I pretend my heart is a fortress and stand forlornly wondering what to do when someone tries to scale its walls.
Mostly, I adore mystery, so perhaps I preserve it in myself.

I lost all of my spices and my teapot and tea leaves during the last move, but I vowed to rebuild my collection.

"The lack of height made me kiss your neck."

Recently, I've been listening to many songs about falling asleep- coincidentally during a time when I find it impossible to do just that.

- san francisco (by om). my quiet little version of lost in translation. 

Only now, after midnight, do I find peace to sit down and write.
Only now, after midnight, do I feel warm.

Muriel Rukeyser, on the root of our resistance to poetry

“However confused the scene of our life appears, however torn we may be who now do face that scene, it can be faced, and we can go on to be whole.”

One sweltering New York afternoon some years ago, I was sitting across from a dear friend several decades my senior as I mentioned, with the matter-of-factly, arrogant naiveté of someone who does that sort of thing, that I didn’t care for poetry. Without missing a beat, she began reciting e.e. cummings in the middle of that bustling Manhattan café. And just like that, everything changed — this was the beginning.

But even though Joseph Brodsky believed that poetry is the key to developing our taste in culture and James Dickey wrote that it “makes possible the deepest kind of personal possession of the world,” my reaction that summer Tuesday was far from uncommon — as a society, we seem to harbor a strange resistance to poetry, a stubborn refusal to recognize that it contains what Wordsworth called “the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.”

It’s a resistance that “has the qualities of fear.” So argues the magnificent Muriel Rukeyser in the 1949 treasure The Life of Poetry (public library) — a wise and wonderful exploration of all the ways in which we keep ourselves from the gift of an art so elemental yet so transcendent, so infinitely soul-stretching, so capable of Truth.




- via brainpickings

"The journey is my home." - Muriel Rukeyser

Notes to remember by- the epic NYC food and drink adventures of me and ML:

- Random Japanese Curry that made the top of his head sweat (Curry-Ya)
- Japanese barbecue (Gyu-Kaku)
- David Chang's culinary greatness. Twice so far. (Momofuku Noodle Bar)
- Flushing Dim Sum with the best name (Asian Jewels)
- Pretty amazing pate with figs. Dim light, wine, pear salads, flickering candles. (YN)
- My favorite neighborhood speakeasy cocktail bar (Dutch Kills)
- My favorite neighborhood restaurant all around-  with hands down the best servers (none of whom are native New Yorkers) (LIC Market)
- Mediocre Midtown tanmen where tipping is not mandatory (Riki)
- French food paired with the best wine. Escargot and amazing bread. (Amelie)
- Charcuterie, bourbon, live jazz. and hush-hush rendezvous. (Analogue)
- No one can officially say they reside in NYC without having tried these. (Doughnut Plant)
- Overrated but immensely popular, partially due to proximity to the Highline. (Cookshop)
- Of course, my very own. (Ellary's Greens)
- Rustic, underground, and the best pear almond upside-down cake. with vanilla gelato. (The Smile)
- The onion rings are to die for. Oh, yeah, and there are burgers. (Bareburger)

"I have rarely desired an end

to my desires."

—  Kathleen Graber

Geez.

“So if you want to argue for an alternate interpretation, you have to do the real work. You can’t just drop a quote and say, “I think this means X.” You have to acknowledge, “Many listeners might think this means Y; I think it means X and here’s why.” If you ignore the context in which listeners encountered the moment, you lose your authority (because your readers are gonna be like, Um, did you not hear the rest of the episode?). Arguing for a non-status-quo interpretation is basically the core, central move of critical writing. I love it. You just have to actually do it.”

—

Jaime Green: The Problem With the Problems With Serial 

it rained and poured today. so like any normal person would, we went to get noodles and coffee / pomegranate white tea. 

Everyone should live in China at least once.

tonight after my real restaurant shift, i had a lovely french dinner and the server tipped me after i broke a champagne flute and offered to clean it up. oh, life.

MUSIC!
These are a few songs from my running playlist for my first 4 mile run since the accident. it was along the San Francisco shoreline (of course, now that it is 34 degrees in NYC, no more running). huzzah!

- We Own it - 2 Chainz, Wiz Khalifa
- Wagon Wheel- Darius Rucker
- Trumpets- Jason Derulo
- Timber- Pitbull, Ke$sha
- This is Gospel - Panic! At The Disco
- Sonsick- San Fermin
- Holy Roller- Thao & the Get Down Stay Down
- Best Thing I Never Had- Beyonce
- All About That Bass- Meghan Trainor (OF COURSE)


and, guys, I am (still) in love with these:

- Countdown- Beyonce
- Take Me To Church- Hozier
- Stolen Dance- Milky Chance
- I Choose You- Sara Bareilles
- Ride- Lana del Rey
- Sweet Jane- Cowboy Junkies


You can see the whole list on Spotify. In the future, I will try using Jog.fm to figure out some beats-per-minute-optimized songs. but until then, I will be that girl bounding down the Embarcadero mouthing "Killing me sooooooftly" to Beyonce. Don't stop, get it get it.

good remedies for broken hearts are hard to come by. as i learned last night, follow any or all of these instructions for a recipe to success:

1. hug her. longer than it feels like she wants to be hugged.
2. feed her homemade white bean stew with pork
3. promise a massage but when you run out of time then give her something better (conversation, you dirty mind!)
4. put a bear hat on her head, first because it's warm, and second because it's silly
5. make her laugh
6. tell her she should cry if she needs to
7. hold her when she does
8. make her laugh again
9. take her to the grocery store
10. look for dried persimmons, because b*tches love persimmons
11. buy beer instead when you can't find dried persimmons
12. drive her home and kiss her on the cheek

chilly sunlight and then a 30 minute train ride. sitting with the soreness in my eyes from sleepless nights, filled with something inarticulate and larger than what can be described by the spoken languages of this particular world.

Relevant lyrics blasting in my ears. Other lyrics being written in my heart.

nuance.
onion.
sightglass.
how did you get to be so smart at such a young age?

my day with sunrise, sweating it out with udon, a walk in pacific heights lusting after house furnishings i never knew i needed, green smoothies, and a visit to four barrels.

my night with avedon and penn. hot tea. blankets. sweatshirt. 

"We seem to reserve a special rage in this world for those whose ability to be unafraid in pursuit of something new extends beyond our own. We begrudge them their strange friends and strange experiences under the guise that we find those things to be dangerous or unclean. But really we resent those people because their courage reminds us of how common and terrified we feel inside. Bravery is a virtue people revere in dead soldiers and then turn to disparage in someone extending her hand to a weirdo." - On Kindness, via medium

There is this moment after you've spent the last thirty minutes on the Q train underground thst suddenly it feels like you come up for this beautiful gasp of air, with a breathtaking view of the bridge. Seriously never gets old.

via cass

louise gluck. you're killing me, so good. title poem from her new book.

"But what really is the point of the lighthouse?
This is north, it says.
Not: I am your safe harbor."

passed a street sign outside a bookstore in Chelsea today. it was advertising Louise Gluck's new book of poems, Faithful and Virtuous Night.

"When the train stops, the woman said, you must get on it. But how will I know, the child asked, it is the right train? It will be the right train, said the woman, because it is the right time." 

today. half hour long walk through the perfect autumn weather.

and then this happened- yes, mr. david chang's hand at "al pastor" and "shrimp & grits"

thank you new york city, for bringing me a taste of the south.

let's have tea.

hour-long walk through prospect park. oh! the leaves

finding his leftover haemul pajeon (korean seafood pancake) and eating it while walking through the leaves

feeling the particular beauty of real seasons changing. in every sense of the phrase.

crushes of the moment

- Thao and the Get Down Stay down- Live at Bonnaroo Spotify Session
It's too hard for habits
My patience is done with me
I want to live in times that touch
I want to stay when my temper beats

Holy roller roll over me
I'm looking for something else to see
Lasts so long
Hurts so bad
But I want love in the aftermath
I want love in the aftermath

- sometimes late at night i secretly connect my iphone to the speakers in the big exercise room at the gym and dance to Sia's Chandelier

- love it or change it

- sweet potato or butternut squash on toast. yeah ok, cliche autumn menu, so sue me

- golden delicious apples

- uncle earl's the last goodbye and black-eyed susie (yes, i totally work out to bluegrass music)

“Though on the boat I write, I shoot. On the boat let’s face it I’m held. In its waves, its vagueness, in its water. I see only water. Water doesn’t answer. No land ahead. Just water. So my dilemma shrinks to secondary and abstract. How will I live. I want to stay in this primary thing that moves.”
— Eileen Myles, “The Importance of Being Iceland.”

I had the pleasure of meeting Om this weekend, and in the short 15 minute conversation I had with him I could see why is he one of the most influential people on the internet (and maybe off the internet, too).

He didn't make small talk. He cut to the chase and asked me what I was doing in New York City, and what I am looking for in life. He looked into my eyes and said that I didn't look content here, that he saw that I am a Texas girl who loves the open road and skies.

While that may be true, I spent the rest of the weekend reflecting on what I am doing here, really. I do believe that here, all paths intersect. If you want, you can find nothing here- and if you want, you will find the world. New York City is what you paint it to be, whether it be sadness or desperation or hope or anxiety or stillness.

(I also had the pleasure of attending the L.A. Dance Project performance at the BAM. Aptly, Millepied's piece played upon the themes of "Stay" and "Go")

Why did I stay here? I am obsessed with how people connect in a place as anonymous and dense as this city. The sometimes superficial intimacy that happens in public without hesitation or thought. The profound roots that grow from only the most stoic passions. As cliche as it is, I am here as wide-eyed witness to these connections and dreams. And when you go toward where you look, you will find yourself there faster and with less struggle than you initially anticipated.


--

As a more lighthearted postscript, my friend Nate of Gigzolo posted this article the other day. The title is a bit misleading, but I am taking some of her lessons learned to heart. So yes, though I find myself resisting, I will believe in love again. I will start to travel again. I will say yes to the men who ask me on "real" dates, though they be few and far between in this city. I will break down. I will stand up. I will be nicer than I want to be. and I will take photographs along the way.

On the train to go apple picking. Gripping on the last edges of autumn!

today, S. sent this to me

Concerning the Atoms of the Soul
by John Glenday

Someone explained once how the pieces of what we are
fall downwards at the same rate
as the Universe
The atoms of us, falling towards the centre

of whatever everything is. And we don't see it.
we only sense their slight drag in the lifting hand.
That's what weight is, that communal process of falling.
Furthermore,these atoms carry hooks, like burrs,

hooks catching like hooks, like clinging to like,
that's what keeps us from becoming something else,
and why in early love, we sometimes
feel the tug of the heart snagging on another's heart.

Only the atoms of the soul are perfect spheres
with no means of holding on to the world
or perhaps no need for holding on,
and so they fall through our lives catching

against nothing, like perfect rain,
and in the end, he wrote, mix in that common well of light
at the centre of whatever the suspected
centre is, or might have been.

Blissed out from a beautiful autumn day hiking through the Catskills with beautiful people.

My knees and feet hurt, but god, the color of the leaves, the light, the way the woods smell after a good hard rain. Hot chai rooibos at the top of the mountain. Tons of peanut shell tossing afterwards.

dammit, Sara Bareilles. you're killing me.


Manhattan

You can have Manhattan
I know it’s for the best
I’ll gather up the avenues
And leave them on your doorstep
And I’ll tip toe away
So you won’t have to say
You heard me leave

You can have Manhattan
I know it’s what you want
The bustle and the buildings
The weather in the fall
And I’ll bow out of place
To save you some space
For somebody new

You can have Manhattan
Cause I can’t have you


You can have Manhattan
The one we used to share
The one where we were laughing
And drunk on just being there
Hang on to the reverie
Could you do that for me?
Cause I’m just too sad to

You can have Manhattan
Cause I can’t have you

And so it goes
One foot after the other
Til black and white begin to color in
And I know
That holding us in place
Is simply fear of what’s already changed


You can have Manhattan
I’ll settle for the beach
And sunsets facing westward
With sand beneath my feet
I’ll wish this away
Just missing the days
When I was one half of two
You can have Manhattan
Cause I can’t have you

Every single day I have a plethora of things that I want to write down. I have notebooks strewn all over my desk, and meanderings recorded on various apps and web note-taking tools. It may be haphazard, but I believe that the point is just to WRITE. So I try to remove the obstacles of being strict with myself on organization about what goes where, and what thoughts should be kept in which places. Sometimes this backfires, and I end up writing nothing at all because there is no focus (much like this blog, ha). But I'll gladly accept this issue in exchange for the freedom that I feel.

Today I walked home, got into my robe, lit a candle, and made mint tea. I sat down and began to write, and organize, and think about some projects I want to start on.

As a Gemini (yeah, okay, tease me about believing in astrology but seriously sometimes it is spooky), I am flighty and easily distracted. I jump between projects a lot. a LOT. (You have no idea how many blog posts I write that go unpublished because of this). But I think in the end, the passion that comes with it all is what pushes me through to get the important things done.

In the middle of it all, as I curated playlists, reviewed some of my photos on flickr, created project plans for stuff (ugh, talk about the creative and business sides of me crashing into one!), I received a surprising email from a former professor of mine. He was requesting a photo of mine to use for a personal project. After all these years, I wondered why he reached out to me.

He originally requested that I send him something that already exists in my archives. I toyed with this idea, but I offered to shoot something specific for him if he preferred.

His response made my heart flip.

This is something I think isn't shot in a shoot but is found in a mood, if you know what I mean, and I thought of you because you're a connoisseur of moods.

Sometimes you go through life wondering if anyone understands your purpose, or what you strive to do. With art, with writing, with music, with your every day presence. I was floored that after all these years, M captured one of my core artistic intents in one simple sentence.

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 

Home.

Evening:
an overdose on strawberry rhubarb jam and bread (which isn't necessarily the worst drug to OD on),
long chats over ginger and fiji tea,
followed by a long train ride to Park Slope
an endeavor into cooking with achiote
and a 2-hour-long wait for the rice to be ready.
filled in between with sea salt chocolate,
lemon echinacea,
lime flavored tortilla chips,
and bad salsa out of a jar.

while listening to old gospel songs and learning how to lindy hop for the 87th time in my life.

this time it will stick.

finally, radio jarocho at barbes.

Relentless change, in a good way.

(how to change everything about your life in one year)

Repost from Matt Mullenweg:

1.  Understand what people need.
2. Address the whole experience, from start to finish.
3. Make it simple and intuitive.
4. Build the service using agile and iterative practices.
5. Structure budgets and contracts to support delivery.
6. Assign one leader and hold that person accountable.
7. Bring in experienced teams.
8. Choose a modern technology stack.
9. Deploy in a flexible hosting environment.
10. Automate testing and deployments.
11. Manage security and privacy through reusable processes.
12. Use data to drive decisions.
13. Default to open.

That sounds like a list anyone creating something online should follow. Would you guess it’s actually from the US government Digital Services Playbook?