88 days/89 nights

I had this awful dream last night, or this morning, that you told me you didn't love me, you loved someone else. You were my lover and my trainer; you were training me to be a gymnast. You were trying to get me to do a release move, something very high in the air, and I was just swinging so high in the air above water, and I couldn't let go. You got angry. I told you I was too scared, it was too high, I couldn't let go. You disappeared into the bowels of the ship and when you came back you said so many mean things to me, that I was weak and you had never loved me and what we had together was fleeting and meaningless. You said that you had found a woman who was brave and real to love. She was there too, and though I don't remember what she looked like, I remember her cruelty. It felt like when I was a child and people used to make fun of me for being a little bit chubby, or wearing pants that didn't flare quite enough at the ankles, or having bangs that stairstepped down my little forehead.

I wake up crying and the sun hits my face and I slowly realize it was only a dream. I think of my high school philosophy teacher, who said dreams were more a reality than our waking hours. Dreams, like all the times I built you in my bed, bringing a pillow close to my face and remembering when your blue eyes glowed back at me as we fucked. I try my hardest to remember, to re-create their explosive sheen from so, so long ago; I graze my lips across the surface of the pillow and remember how you kissed me, the breath that lingered between our mouths. I think that’s when it happened, when we exchanged those pieces of ourselves, whatever this thing is that makes me invent you time and time again, that haunts and thrills me. My gymnastics coach once took my 10-year-old pointed foot in his hand and looked at me and told me I would be in the Olympics some day. He was wrong; I never made it to the Olympics. Instead I got real sick and spent a summer in the hospital and missed a vacation with roller coasters and, much later,  thanked God for keeping me alive.

I close my eyes and pull the pillow even tighter to me. I don't mourn the back handsprings or cartwheel beams or my Olympic dreams, but I do still thank God for life. I have no reason to love you, except that I have every reason not to, and of all the dreams I've had of you, this was but one. The open road reveals itself to me, and I drive on.

i shoot the lights out

I woke up this morning and I had a headache and my whole body hurt. Two nights ago I rode a mechanical bull in fishnets and sequins; I wasn't even drunk, I just wanted to do it. I stayed on for 55 seconds and I have a big bruise on the inside of my right thigh, but it was fun. Kanye West's song 'All of the Lights' was playing, my favorite one on the album, and it seemed like a sign, an appropriate way to round out New Year's Eve, begin 2011. The thing about that song is that Alicia Keys and Elton John both sing on it, but their parts are tiny and they're not credited. I didn't know until later. The thing about riding a mechanical bull is that no matter how hard you squeeze your thighs together, you're going to fall off. It's inevitable.

Patti Smith once said about New Year's Day, so as today, the rest of the year. Meaning whatever you do on that day, you will do for the rest of the year. I don't know if it's true though, and it makes me anxious. I slept until 1:30 on New Year's Day and then showered and put on a full face of makeup and sat around watching a movie and just nothing particularly interesting happened. Then later before dinner we were all talking about resolutions and sort of went around in a circle stating them as fact. All I could say is I want to make more money in 2011. Which is true, but really what I want for 2011 is to do more than I talk, and to start surrounding myself with doers, weeding out the talkers. I felt bad all day yesterday because I can tell 2011 is going to be a year of difficult decisions.

When 2010 started, I had no confidence that it would be an amazing year. I didn't think it would be bad, it's more like I didn't think about it, I just moved forward and did stuff and then amazing things started happening. I did a lot in 2010, produced a lot of work, and I'm happy about that, and I feel thankful. But in its aftermath I feel a pressure that I didn't expect to feel. I'm trying to force myself to be positive going into 2011, but in a way it feels false. My dreams are bigger than ever, so the pressure follows suit. Last night we went dancing and it was so crowded and hot and a large man stepped on my little toe and it hurt really bad and I limped home alone and thought, what if I never make myself stand out.

I don't think this year is going to be bad, but I can feel that it's going to be hard. I believe in my purpose and I will do anything to achieve it, and when that's your starting point, you know it's going to be hard, people are going to get hurt. I'm not a good diplomat. Someone once told me I seem to care about no one but myself, but I think that's just a burden ambitious women carry a lot of the time. Is wanting to achieve a dream fundamentally selfish, and is being selfish even a bad thing, or is it a mindwash? My dreams are my dreams, but it's not about me crossing a finish line. There is no finish line, it's a basic truth about art, it just keeps on going.

Change is coming, I feel it. All I have is my faith, and the knowledge that I can use lessons learned thus far to deal with things yet to come. And a belief in myself and my purpose. I don't really have resolutions for 2011, because resolving takes time and we're only two days in. My only thought so far is to be brave, but careful and smart, with myself and with others. Things have to change, not because 2010 was bad, but because it was so good. And because things always have to change. That's a given, the challenge is to avoid becoming a monster.

Sometimes, I really just want to be a grown-up

A lot of the time, I ignore adulthood like it's optional. Like yesterday when I got home from work, as I walked up my stoop I pretended like my mailbox wasn't there - kind of like when you see an old friend but he doesn't see you, and you really don't want to talk to him for whatever reason, so you just walk quickly and sort of turn your head the other way as you pass by - because if my mailbox isn't there, then there's no way I could have any mail. And if I don't know I have bills to pay because there's no physical evidence presented to me that proves their existence, then basically they don't exist. Very solipsistic, yes? My high school philosophy teacher would be so proud. My parents, not so much.

Or how I still keep my kitchen well-stocked with things like Cocoa Krispies, mint chocolate chip ice cream and sandwich stuffs. And I don't hesitate to eat a big bowl of said Cocoa Krispies on Saturday mornings, burrowed into my covers and watching 30 Rock, which is just the grown-up version of morning cartoons. Or how I really still believe in magic. Or how I openly squeal when I see adorable babies or puppies on the street, and count amongst my most favorite films Finding Nemo and Edward Scissorhands. Oh, and not forgetting how I will openly cry at such films every single time I watch them.

But my deepest, darkest secret is that sometimes I really just want to be a grown-up. I know I'm still young and living in Manhattan, which is sort of like everyone's dream, and I feel so blessed to be able to run around the most amazing city in the world with my beautiful friends doing stupid stuff and and making art and paying more money than one should ever pay for drinks and pizza - but late at night, when I take the M15 bus uptown toward Harlem, I feel old. Not because I'm tired, or would rather be in bed by 11, or that I sometimes drink V8 - though all these things are probably true - but because of what I want.

All I really want is to meet the man I'm going to marry and start growing up beside him. I want to call him from work to see how his day is going and then - because he's a writer, clearly - I want him to tell me about his amazing idea for an essay or a story or a play. I will tell him I'm having a shitty day and that my hair looks like ass, and he will shush me and tell me how pretty I am. Then I want to go home to our adorable apartment and find him there, cooking dinner and listening to his favorite new album (TBD). I want to drop my bags on the floor and walk over to him and he will kiss me across his arms while he tosses veggies in a wok. I want to hear the sound of him sizzling in the air as I plop down at my computer to read the essay he told me about earlier. I want to cry as I read, and then I want to go to him and wrap my arms around him from behind as I rest my wet cheek against his back. He will stop cooking and turn around, wrapping his strong arms around me as he picks me up and carries me to our bedroom. The veggies will burn.

I want to wake up beside him every morning and laugh because he fell asleep on his notebook again and he has little spiral imprints on his cheek. I want to reach over and move it for him, and I want to hear him grumble sleepily in protest before he rolls over and wraps his arms around me. I want to sigh because I know he will be asleep again within a few seconds. He is. I want to slip out of the bed and start making my own coffee - something I've always so equated with adulthood, which is also why I've never done it - and while it brews I'll sit down at my computer and open it up and see his essay again. I want to write him a sticky note and press it to the screen: When I was 24, I would sit on the bus and dream about you, whoever you were. Now you're here, and turns out the universe is way better at making this stuff up than my brain was. Want to have babies? Yes/no? Circle. I love you.

Back on the M15, it's 3 a.m. and I realize I've started crying in real life. I laugh at myself and wipe my eyes. I get a text from my friend that may or may not be legible. I text her back. I remember that I am so, so young. I remember that I have dreams that need achieving. I remember all the art I want to make, all the goals I've set for myself.

My stop comes. I push the doors open and get off. They slam behind me as the wind whips my hair and dries my eyes. I walk home, alone, but happy.

I ignore my mailbox again.
I probably eat a spoonful of ice cream. Or several.
I pull out my computer and crawl into bed.
I start writing.
I smell coffee.

This post was partially inspired by my new favorite blogger, Peter DeWolf, who regularly writes letters to his future wife. Prepare to swoon, ladies.