Death makes no sense
except to people who have passionately loved life.
- Cioran
There is something immensely beautiful about death and the grotesque. It’s the quiet dignity of a still body, the tragic song of blood and bones. And everything that reminds you of your own mortality, at once stirs discomfort in the pit of your stomach and inspires a desperate worship.
Sometimes it’s simply the soft fur of a taxidermic creature, eyes glazed and glassy with a body frozen forever, that provokes a silent appreciation. That’s a large part of the appeal of Obscura (my favorite store of antiques and oddities store in the East Village), all the hidden treasures and histories of the past tucked beneath dark aesthetics. When I chanced upon the Morbid Anatomy Library (actually while fact checking for TimeOut), I knew I had to pay it (and my love of all things morbid) a visit.
I wonder if I’m falling out of love with New York.
Maybe it’s the man I passed while walking the same route to the same internship (it should be glamorous but how glamorous is it, really, sitting inside all day in front of an outdated Mac in too dim lighting and rereading the same blogs to alleviate boredom?) whose umbrella got scraped and broken by a postal van driving too close, and him screaming “fucking faggot!” at the driver and walking off, anger steaming from his shoulders in this miserable October rain and drenched pavement that splashes dirty rainwater that soaks into jeans and fake leather boots.
Maybe it’s taking the same lines at the same times on the same days to the same stops and making the same walk through areas I’ve already memorized. Maybe it’s feeling the same frustration as the L train chokes through its tortured route from Bedford to 1st Ave, circling the same never ending construction around Washington Square, watching the same tired performances and skate boarders and vendors pepper Union Square.
Maybe it’s the oppressive roommates, 25 or 29 or 30 and living in the same Brooklyn apartment with a shitty job (waitress, bartender), still slugging through school and spending weekends at home with only the noise of her TV or a boyfriend without a job, their voices a constant terror and reason to stay in my room (or leave the place as often as possible). The fear of becoming them, their sad repetitive lives, their endless complaints and pains and same old answers to the same old questions (how are you? Good. How was your day? Long, I’m so tired).
Maybe it’s Joan Didion or Meghan Daum’s essays on leaving New York. Brilliant writers who described exactly how I’ve felt the little tidbits of New York, envisioned the same romantic future I do. Instead of Daum’s 104th street apartment with the wood floors, my dream abode is on West 10th Street, with its brownstones and archway of leaves that I’d fallen in love with the very first time I walk down it, and still marvel over even after the hundreds of times down that same path.
read more…
It’s not winter but it feels like winter. Not winter from a snow globe and warm fires and soft layers but that different sort of winter. Distant, cold, tender. Winter in breaths of air frosted on windows, on fingertips and eyelashes that quiver with the wind, and the welcoming of the caress of warm air, indoors, anywhere. Fumbling for keys and misplaced pens and notebooks and adjusting this and that. But it’s fall. And I know, I know, I write about it a lot, too much, but I can’t help it–it’s in the air, the room, the covers on my lap, the words falling from countless pairs of lips.
Lately I’ve been preoccupied with the idea of “pretty” writing–language for language’s sake, songs for the loveliness they provoke, experiences because they match the versions played in my head. I’ve been dreaming in other worlds too, complex and vivid, and terrifying, most of the time, ghosts of little children and vengeance and blood spilled on board ships–it just sounds bizarre, explaining it, but in those foggy moments in between dreams and consciousness, the full potential of these dreams come alive. And I hardly want to wake up. Not waking up from nightmares, really? Yes, it is like watching the most absurd surreal horror films in my own sub conscious. And there is beauty in the morbid and terrible.
And what else. Lately I’ve been trying not to play the aggressor-so to speak. Letting things happen, and not worrying if they don’t. Of course since picking up that approach lots of (unexpected) things have started happening. And I’m going to have to remain vague, for now, anyway. Vague and abstract. My old friends. Sing, muse, of these impossible to capture thoughts that drift, shadows fluttering across my eyelids before bed, bitter sweetness that sinks in between my lips, tinting my teeth. Sing of the burning eyes and a heart that won’t stop shaking for whatever reason. Sing and sing and make it go away, like my broken headphones, my broken phone.
It’s easy to forget how easily disconnected I can become, one little technical error and I’m without contacts, without constantly reachable friends. It’s just a minor thing, of course, easily fixed, but it’s a nice reminder. I know, this season sends most people tottering toward another’s hand, fingers laced together and heads nestled on shoulders, two shapes on one bed and lips that mingle, but I think I like it just as well alone. Even without headphones, or a working cell phone. Without distractions and just this, embracing this, the dreams and the thoughts and the visions and the sensations that cling to my skin.
I spent much of today looking at photos of wonderful apartments and fighting the screaming ache in my stomach for somewhere better, somewhere I could call my own. It’s going to be a while yet before I can afford the apartment of my dreams, but for now, I can plan and imagine and fantasize.
It’ll be an airy brownstone, with brick walls and one wall that is a bookshelf, and bookshelves underneath the stairs (the stairs will be a narrow metal spiral staircase to a rooftop with a few of a skyline!). I’d have a Rococo era couch with robin’s egg blue cushions and ornate gold corners, and a glass coffee with copies of Lula and The New Yorker and strange little antiques and teacups.
There will be Christmas lights strung across each wall, and clipped in between on one side will be photos and on another side, scissors and skeleton keys will hang and when it gets really windy they’ll quiver and tinkle against the brick behind. Then there would be the couche so soft you’d fall into it and never want to get up with luxurious blankets
in the softest pastels.
There’d be lots of paper lamps hanging overhead and candles that flicker from end tables and shelves. There’d be a kitchen with a display of exotic teacups and wine bottles and tall dark wood stools that surround a small square dining room table.
There’d be bedroom with a fluffy bed, all white and falling into it would be like being swallowed by clouds of cotton candy. There’d be a canopy and big windows and curtains that match, usually pulled back but sometimes closed with the light just peeking through, a silken glow. There’d be a closet and a wall that consists of mirrors and a shelf with books and journals and strange little dead creatures underneath dusty glass orbs. On the walls there’d be sparse wonderful art prints and typography posters and at the foot of the bed, curled, sleeping, there will be a darling old english sheep dog named Sebastian.
For now, I’m stuck with what I have, and it could always be worse, lots worse, so I’ll make do with my mini photo wall and compact closet and comfy bed until next time.
What does your dream apartment (or house) look like?
Thao with the Get Down Stay Down-When We Swam
I’m walking, I’m walking, walking to the subway station, walking to my next class, walking with coat wrapped and scarf knotted, walking with a destination and pavement blurring beneath my steady heels. And then there is this. And I’m walking with a swing in my step, a sway in my hips, a leap in each movement of the feet, and there, my shoulders are shifting of their own accord, my body twists so and so. I’m walking and it has become dancing.
Suddenly I’m dancing under a bright sun, dancing with a smile and each step on the pavement sprouts a new golden yellow flower that spills to the sky, each breath in and exhale into pretty brilliant colors, rays that spin and dazzle. With a jerk and a nod, a wink and a shrug, I’m stepping and dancing and laughing, and oh, bring your hips to me, oh oh bring your hips to me.
+read in a park (self explainatory and wonderful)
+go for a walk! Pick one: bring a camera and take pictures of every little detail you notice, the frayed edges of a leaf, the etching on a bench, or leave your cell phone and camera at home, and walk for the clear air on your skin, the blue sky and the trees, the call of the birds and sounds of the city.
+take a class! Since you’re already involved in school and learning, you might as well take it further and tackle a few subjects not on your academic calendar that you might enjoy. How about picking up a dance class, yoga, drawing, screenprinting, cooking? There are a ton of fascinating classes in subjects you might never expect and now only will you learn something new, but chances are you’ll have lots of fun and make new friends, as well.
+strengthen friendships! Be it someone you haven’t talked to in a while or someone interesting you’d like to get to know better. Take a chance, invite them to lunch, or an afternoon at a museum, and remember why you wanted to befriend them in the first place.
+stylize! This is probably my favorite season to dress for, and with the variable weather you’ve got plenty of options when using the sidewalk as a runway. I especially love cardigans and coats with bare legs and flats/Oxfords, loose scarves in tie knots over vnecks, summer dresses with tights and a jacket–instant transformation and utter loveliness.
+shop! On that note, prep for the winter ahead and play with new ideas and habits with a few new indulgences. Be it delicate or bold new necklaces, eco-friendly and elegant notebooks with fine tipped pens (I have an affinity for Muji pens and if you can get your hands on any, the Uniball Signo or Pental Hi-C, all in .38mm), luxurious bath products and lotions that you can pamper yourself with.
+go out! Not only is the weather gorgeous, but (especially if you’re in the city) this is a season abundant in events and festivities, exhibit openings or extravagant parties, film screenings and concerts a plenty. Take advantage of your energy and desire to leave the house. (I swear it’s not just my internship talking: TONY has got a ton of wonderful events and things to do, New Yorkers, and I hardly want to miss any of it.)
