Grace.

During one of my visits to New York, I had a really good conversation with D. Marcos about how life doesn’t have to be about swimming upstream in order to be different. And just because you swim downstream with the current doesn’t mean that you’re not special. We had a silent moment that made us feel very wise, and then he ruined it by saying, "Of course, it’s much better to swim sideways...sort of across the current." And I laughed because that was the dumbest thing I’d ever heard.

Kirsten asks: "Does writing about being lonely in your life kind of keep you in that place?" I don't know. It sort of does in the way that thinking about being lonely makes you lonely. Thinking about loneliness makes me feel like I have a brick in my stomach, and then I feel like crying. Because bricks in stomachs is a sad, sad thing.

Is loneliness a choice? Does loneliness necessarily translate to being miserable? Is misery a choice?

There are some people who are very happy being miserable. The trick is convincing them to change their lives just enough to see that they could be happier from another perspective. Being lonely is kind of comforting. At my loneliest, I was never actually alone. I packed my schedule so full of activities that I nearly ran myself into the ground. And I was exhausted by the end of it all. The first few steps towards feeling less lonely actually required me to spend some real alone time. Just me and myself.

I hated it. I felt like a caged animal, and I kept reaching for my cell phone and checking my email. I couldn’t sit still. I would go out several times during the weekdays, and I’d party all weekend. I’d sleep till noon, then wake up and feel lonely all over again. If I didn’t have plans for a Saturday night, and it was already 5 PM, I’d sink into a depressed stupor. Part of this was a direct result of being single in a city full of couples, doing couples things. Part of it is because I didn’t know how to make friends–after 16 years of attending public schools in one way or another, I was actually unable to make close friendships. For the first time, I didn’t have the luxury of seeing friends in my dorm, or in my classes. I actually had to go out there, and cajole (it felt like it sometimes) people to like me. Once, an intern at work told me, "The problem with you is that you don’t kiss ass. You’re just too straight forward and real. You have to learn to kiss some ass, and then people will like you better."

I had to relearn how to formulate friendships. Friendships with single males was easiest. But these "friendships" always turned into messes, and they became emotionally draining. Then, friendships with females were on my "to do" list (but only those not in relationships because there’s nothing more annoying than talking to a holier-than-thou female in a committed relationship who can’t help but pass judgement on your every decision). Finally, I made friends with a few couples; the cool ones, not the clingy types that can’t pry their lips off one another long enough to carry on a conversation with a single person. The hierarchy of people to befriend was still only a distraction.

Even with some good friends in my life, I was still lonely. And I wrote about it. Sometimes on this blog, sometimes in emails to friends. I’d call my childhood friends in Minneapolis all the time. And I annoyed the hell out of them. I think this period in my life was the quarterlife crisis phase, and I don’t know exactly how I emerged from it, but I know exactly what forced me into it: fear. I was afraid of being alone. I was scared of never finding that one person to spend my life with. It terrified me to the point of near emotional paralysis. I couldn’t actually solidify new friendships in part because I was selfish in how I talked about my (at times) neurotic problems. Instead of people asking me "How are you?" When they’d see me, they’d ask, "So, what new drama do you have in your life?" I think I lost a lot of credibility as a person during that phase in my life. I hate to think that I became a source of entertainment to some of my acquaintances, and I am not proud to admit that I would talk to just about anyone about my problems. I thought that I could make friends if I could just be honest enough. And after I’d dished out my latest, I’d feel really gross all over, sort of like I had just had a binge and purge session with a tub of ice cream, a liter of Dr. Pepper, and a pound of salami.

What people didn’t know was that I was in the darkest place I had ever been in my life. I’m really sorry to bring in Smashing Pumpkins, but I’m going to anyway:

"Emptiness is loneliness, and loneliness is cleanliness
And cleanliness is godliness, and god is empty just like me
Intoxicated with the madness, I'm in love with my sadness"

(Sorry again for how trite it is to quote song lyrics. Especially moody song lyrics. Because they’re totally not deep... just pretentious. Anyway, sorry.)

At that time in my life, I was so miserable that I actually didn’t feel like unpacking my bags and boxes after I’d moved into my parents’ house. I had moved in because I had nowhere else to go. The break up left me completely isolated from acquaintances I had spent a year building up. I lost my domestic base. No matter how unhappy I had been in my relationship, I think if he had asked me to come back that first month after the break up, I would have gone back. Like an idiot. But he didn’t ask me to come back, thank god, and I was able to get out of that puke green haze of paralyzing misery that requires a mother’s care. I cried to my mom at random times. I ranted about men to my dad. I swore I’d never make the same mistake. I kept flying back to Minnesota because I thought my childhood friends could help ease the pain. I lost a ton of weight and stopped eating a large portion of the calories I should have been eating. I lost a ton of hair. Almost right away, I started blogging.

Which brings me to Kirsten’s question: Does writing about loneliness keep you in that place?

The answer is no. Writing about loneliness is a way of reaching out. It’s a way to show people the darkness inside of ourselves. And it’s a way to release the fears we have inside. I was so scared of being alone for the rest of my life that I couldn’t be alone even for an hour. I would start having small panic attacks and then my mood would oscillate from deliriously happy if someone called me to utterly devastated when I got stood up.

I kept blogging. And I eventually became happier. Maybe I started writing about other things first. Or maybe I kept writing about being unhappy longer than I actually was. (I now realize that I was very depressed, and quite legitimately so.)

One of my friends said to me a while ago, "I’m glad you’re back to your normal self. You just weren’t like you for a while." I wasn’t myself at all, in fact, so I’m glad that someone noticed. There just wasn’t anything anyone could do for me. I had to do the heavy lifting and pull myself out of loneliness by the bootstraps. But writing about loneliness helped me through it, and I made some good friends as an unexpected result.

I’m not sure if this is the kind of answer you were looking for, Kirsten, but whatever you do, don’t stop posting on your blog. And don’t take down the things you write. You’re very good at being honest, and I love reading what you have to say. There’s a reason why I’ve listed your link under "Wise People."

And now, I’m going to try to listen to my own advice and not delete this post because I feel like I’m taking a big leap in explaining my mental state over a significant period of time. For anyone reading who may remember talking to me during this time in my life that I just described, I hope that some of my behavior makes sense now.

I spent the day at my parents’ house gossiping with my mom in the kitchen while watching her make holodnik, yet another beat-based, Russian soup. If an outsider were to have listened to our conversation, they wouldn’t have understood half of what we said because we spoke in Runglish. That’s the norm when no one is around. Okay, even when people are around, we still speak this hybrid language. Dad washed the car in the driveway, and later I took him for a "walk." I rode my bike, and he sped-walked to keep up with me. I’m a very lucky person to have my parents in my life this way.

I want to write about how happy I’ve been lately. I met a man who makes me happier than I’ve been in a very long time, and it’s hard not to speak in hyperboles, not to use words like "Ever"... or "I’ve never been happier." The minute you do, you start wondering if that’s true, and that’s not the point. Time changes things. Time heals all wounds, as cliche as that is. But time dulls happiness as well. So that’s a very bittersweet way to say that I guess I don’t remember how hurt I have been or how happy. All I remember is what I carry in me as a basic need–the desire to be close to someone. So close that when I think of myself, I see the other person too.

But I want to speak in hyperboles, because I remember how many people have made me laugh hysterically to the point of snorting, or losing control of my bladder. The answer? Not many. Maybe one person... until now.

When I was younger, I was a fool. I didn’t know any better, that’s all. I thought that these types of relationships aren’t that hard to find, that they come and go and come again. I learned my lesson the hard way, that when good people come into your life, you do whatever you can to keep them in your life. I have no regrets. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve just learned that life isn’t too long, and you only get so many chances at happiness.

When things are good, I don’t want to write. Just like when you’re happy, you don’t call your friends to brag about it. Why not? Because nobody wants to hear what cute thing your boyfriend did or "we this we that" every other word. I wonder why I’m writing a blog sometimes. And then, I inevitably come back to it. I write something cryptic in a secret code to myself, then close my eyes, and then open one eye a tiny bit and click "publish."

I’m going to keep writing, but hopefully more honestly. I just need to find a good balance between being honest and revealing too much personal information. I’m not sure if anyone is still reading this, but if you are, I want to re-post something I wrote a while ago. It was written about someone I hadn’t met yet. The person was just in my mind. But I’m there now... my fantasy came true.

Posted on December 13, 2006:

I love the sound of a refrigerator starting. You’ll be lying on the couch in the living room, the sun streaming in through the windows, warming you up like a cat on the windowsill, and you’ll be pulling the throw up to your chin, exposing your feet. One foot rubs the other, you turn on your other side and bend your knees. Now, your backside is hanging off the couch, your face is to the back cushions, and you’re breathing your own recycled, humid breath, taking in as much oxygen from those warm exhalations as you can, breathing through your open mouth. Then, the fridge turns off and the kitchen clock starts ticking louder, and your breathing back moves up and down with the ticking seconds.

I love watching you sleep that way. The you that I haven’t met yet, the you I would love enough to get another blanket for so that your feet won’t be cold, the you who would surprise me by wrapping your arm through the inside of my thigh, pulling me towards you and then to further melt me into vanilla sugar, the you that would make room for me on the couch beside you. And now my face is up against the back of the couch, breathing upholstered air, and your warm stomach fits just right into the small of my back, and your lips brush up against my neck.

The clock tick-tocks and the fridge turns on again.

Neither of us are perfectly comfortable, limbs are starting to go numb, parts of me are boiling, other parts are freezing, your back is cramping up and your right sock has somehow turned around so that the heal is on the ankle, and I know how much you hate that. But neither of us move. The sun has shifted and leafy dying rays flow in through the windows. You whisper into my neck, "Where would you like to go for dinner?" And I stroke your forearm with my hand and answer after a few seconds, "Why don’t we stay in tonight? I’m happy here."

I once said to my ex’s mom, "You have to cut out toxic people from your life." And she almost blew a fuse. She was the kind of woman that would fight with her mother-in-law in public or in private, over the phone or in person, over something important or dumb. I didn’t understand why they kept at it like two hungry dogs. It embarrassed me beyond belief when they started fighting at my parents’ house. And I didn’t get it until after my ex and I broke up: those two needed each other. Their toxicity somehow excused their base behavior (if you’re into puns or chemistry, you might’ve caught that pun, sorry).

I probably first heard that thing about toxic people on Oprah, to be honest, but that phrase has stuck with me ever since. It turns out that there are two types of people: those who can make a clean break and those who can’t. And then I guess there are those who think that they’re being nice by staying friends with toxic people, and then they second guess themselves, "Well, maybe he’s not toxic, because he doesn’t really mean it." But then why do you feel like such shit after seeing him? And why do you feel sort of dumb for having tried, yet again, to ignore that nagging feeling that he is, in fact, toxic, just as you had thought.

I’ve always had trouble letting go of people. I kept holding on to friends even when I knew I should’ve let them go, for my sake and theirs. So, I guess that’s what adults do. They make decisions that are going to bring a positive influence to their lives.

***

I miss writing. I just haven’t had the time recently, and I haven’t made time either. But, that’s the thing with these crafty things–they wait for you until you’re done being a bitch, and then they welcome you back with clean, white pages and sharpened pencils. Even pens with those rubber finger grips.

Would you believe me if I told you that I remember the first time I saw a pen with an eraser? It was in Russia, about 1988. I was five years old and my aunt from Israel came to visit my family. She brought me a pencil box, and something completely unheard of: an erasable pen.

I remember that bubble gum was also scarce. My dad once went on a business trip to Moscow, while we lived in Minsk, Belarus. And I asked him, "Dad, can you please bring back coffee flavored gum?" Weird, I know. But he did! I was so thrilled. Gum (regardless of flavor) was a rarity in the Soviet Union.

***

I’m all over the place.

Vomit poop fart sneeze cough.

Ha.

Ever done all of these at the same time? Oh god... I can’t believe I just typed that. And now, I’m clicking "publish."

Click.

***

The right side of my bed smells like you.

Letting the door announce that he’d arrived
(knowing full well the hinges creek the way they do),
He loudly stomped his feet,
Left the snow melting on the wooden floor, defiantly
He entered his own house, an uninvited guest
Burdened with bitter shame and too much pride at once

Fighting the urge to breath some air into the smoking fire
(in case he did not stay long)
Losing the weak fight within himself,
He placed another log onto the smoldering flames
It was still his home, his still,
Not yet a house in which he once belonged
He took a seat, exhaled, began to thaw,
Unwilling yet to climb the stairs

He sat on the bench he built their first year in that house,
Remembering the wooden shavings, sap on his hands,
The smell of pine,
Let her come down the stairs!
Undressing only the topmost layers: Scarf, woolen mittens, hat
Things that could be put back on with ease
If she descended and told him to step once more into the blue night and not return

Onions, cabbage, artichokes: she made a stew for supper from their garden 
Cold dinner on the table, pots and pans unwashed,
Her slippers at the bottom of the stairs
“Tell me the truth,” She’d said, “Talk to me. Speak without regret.”
Yet he couldn’t keep his eyes from hammering a jutting nail,
And so his lips spoke silence            

“I’d rather chop an onion,” She exhaled,
While covering her face with dried out hands,
“Those sorts of tears sting less.”
He did not comfort her,
Did not remove the onion peals sticking to her elbows,
And at a certain moment,
The timing was no longer right.

A number of factors have been keeping me from blogging lately. Namely, a DVD set of Freaks and Geeks, a hectic time at work, and a very, very, sexy man.

I'm sorry.

I promise, I'll try harder next time.

I found this quote on Stephanie Klein's blog. She didn't write it, but it's in the comments section.

"I believe most of the time a man knows within the first month of spending time with a woman whether or not he would be willing, no matter how inconvenient for him, to have his world turned upside down for her."

I like the imperfection of amateur art. Rows of stitches looser in some parts and tighter in others, as if the man drawing double yellow lines on the road fell asleep and didn’t notice the lines were intersecting. Paint unevenly mixed; some darks too heavy, some lights too airy, texture too harsh, the grain too sandy. Lyrics too much like a children’s poem, notes played unevenly, the timber of the voice all wrong. That’s not the point. Perfection is an irrelevant concept in this realm. Imperfection can be a conscious choice.

Without that choice, I would fear to put a pencil mark on a blank page because it would ruin the perfection of the empty page itself. Unopened boxes of oil paints used to collect dust in my art drawer. I’d set up the canvas and the paints, and stare at the box of colors, terrified of opening them up for fear of ruining that which I hadn’t even started yet.

Creative types who perform art on command have reached a point where perfection pays. Professional writers, artists, dancers: trained to perform at a certain level, and yet very much restricted by the expectation of quality, and marketability. For the audience’s viewing pleasure, for the reader’s insatiable curiosity, for the bottom line.

Sunny, Saturday afternoon in January. We sit around a table at a paint-your-own pottery place. It’s my birthday. Mom and dad, Natty and me. Big ceramic fruit bowls take up most of the table and mosaic tiles are scattered all over, soon to be assembled into a picture frame. My bowl will be perfect, I can already tell.

Next Sunday rolls around and I’m there to pick up my creation. During the firing process, a piece of the enamel chipped off. It’s in a very visible place, and there’s no way to conceal it at this point. Part of me is disappointed, but part of me falls in love with my bowl a little bit more.

It’s never been about perfection. Instead, it’s always been something that my hands crave, like salted sunflower seeds or puppy chow. The feeling I get when I make something is like watching butter melt in a sauce pan, or mixing dough with my hands, squishing it between my fingers. Then, eating the dough raw or licking the bowl. It just feels right.

In cooking class in 8^th grade, I got a “B+” for the cookie unit because my chocolate chip cookies weren’t perfectly round. I laughed so hard when I got that grade that, to this day, that memory still makes me smile. The teacher was in her 60s. Gray hair, librarian glasses, a clean apron each day. The perfection of how she fit into that scene is what makes this memory even more vivid. I couldn’t think of a better cliché.

I wrapped presents for over two years in college as a professional gift wrapper. I could assemble a box, and wrap an extra-large men’s sweater (with a bow on top) in under three minutes. And yet some people still complained that I didn’t put enough tissue paper into the box, or I put too much in, and the box was too small, or the bow was too big for that size box. I’d reopen the box, and fix the “mistake” I’d made. Some art is meant to be criticized and improved. And some art exists simply because of the pleasure that comes from creating. Some days, I just want to get my hands dirty and play in the mud, and I’d like to hear someone’s argument that I’m not doing that right.

Criticism stings. Criticizing something that doesn’t want to even be seen half the time only makes that thing retreat into a protective shell, like a turtle’s head.

Partly, it’s my fault, I know. But partly, it’s just not okay to take a crayon out of a two-year-olds hand because she’s not drawing the hair on the stick figure correctly. And the anatomical proportions of the nose to the ears must surely be ignored, because bringing that to the attention of a two-year-old might have devastating consequences. Big, elephant tears.

These words are lyrics to a song
They're easy to remember
And the song is not that long

They speak of silly sticker eyes on trash cans
And a happy couple holding hands
They sing of car rides down the coast
Reading the Times, the Herald, and the Post

She bought some shoes
He took a test
Followed a trail for miles
Then drank some tea and stopped to rest

These words are lyrics to a song
They're easy to remember
And the song is not that long

These words are records of some days
They came and went
(how short each hour spent)
Moments turned to memories
Two kids, a city map, some car keys

Wincing through windy city streets
The couple sitting side by side on subway seats
Blocks of buildings reaching tall heights
Making kissy-face at crosswalks and red lights

These words are lyrics to a song
They're easy to remember
And the song is not that long

Arms wrapped around her, waiting for a train
He sang her something sweet, something with a good refrain
That song about honey and sunshine on a cloudy day
And what can make you feel this way

He napped in sunlight on a quilted Sunday afternoon
She covered him with a blanket, slowly turned the pages of her book
(for fear of waking him too soon)

These words are lyrics to a song
They're easy to remember
And the song is not that long

Take care of the minutes
Because the hours take care of themselves
He holds her hand in sleep
She misses him until he wakes

These words are lyrics to a song
They're easy to remember
And the song is not that long