I feel like I’ve invited all of these people to a party in my apartment—people from as far away as Rheinland-Pflaz and Worcester—and then, under pretense of replenishing a cheese plate, snuck out through the back door. I’m not sure what all of you have been doing with Trybecca while I stopped posting. I expect some of you re-read older entries; others, gone in search of a more esteemable hostess, one who doesn’t put olive pits back in the bowl, or top off unfinished merlot with shiraz.
Which is what I feel like I’m about to do. For the past few months, I’ve been sipping on a dry unbalanced blend with a tart finish, distributed by a shady and cheap vineyard known as “Summer Camp Start-Up.” I didn’t like the taste and I didn’t want to keep drinking, but it’s no easy task, standing up, walking away. Because you’ve already had a lot.
Since turning 30, I’ve been on a blurry trajectory, not realizing I couldn’t see clearly because I was f’ed up on Boss wine. Or whine, really. At some point, you internalize your co-workers, you become the place where you spend 40 hours a week. I caught myself storing a vintage of anger. I was aging it, turning it over in the dark.
Then, last Tuesday, the first tornado in over 100 years touched down in Brooklyn. I still wonder if my emotional state brought it on, somehow lassoed the sky—I was on my roof that night, crying to The Bearded Whorl (whose name is Dan—I’ve decided he gets his real name), allowing myself a thorough outpouring. That night, wind wracked the city, the streets flooded. Curled up in his arms, I dreamed (in color) my heart was an ark I was offering up as waterproof refuge to…raccoons. I suppose that speaks both to strength and weakness—to survive, but to survive sealed off. To rescue masked creatures.
I waded to work the next morning only to discover that my desk, which happened to be directly under a number of minute and asbestos filled holes (like how you puncture a jar lid so a lightning bug can breathe?), not to mention a potted plant, was underwater. Computer destroyed, documents buried beneath a thin layer of soil, I decided I couldn’t stay.
(Yes, that was my Sufjan Stevens CD.)
The Job Gods had delivered the wet threat I couldn’t. It became painfully obvious that I was not just tidying up and salvaging camp surveys, but boxing up my belongings. I dried off the office Polaroid, borrowed it over the weekend, and took happy photos of me and Dan. I let the camera teach me to live in the moment.
Dan moved back this morning to the Midwest, to a wrap around porch and an unpolluted air. I miss him. Do, and will. But I’m excited about the Fall. Besides submitting poems, I’ve been reading James Merrill, drinking white wine mid-afternoon, and working through the particulars of my new employment. I’ll be personally assisting a well-known poet. And as long as she doesn’t pull over to pee in a ditch with me in the car, she has to be better than Boss:
Then again, I’m an odd duck for snapping that picture.
Welcome to the 8th month of Trybecca. My new job officially uncorks the first week of September. Until then, I’m still in the summer camp business. Nothing to do but stare at the dregs of my current glass, try and predict the future. What do you see?