Lessons from Icarus
Just another WordPress.com site#40: city a + city b = city c
As I settle to write this post, I sip my hot tea and listen as Mumford & Sons flirt with the bangs of the heater. The result is lovely. A comfortable blending of sounds that remind you that you’re home. I finished dinner a short while ago; butternut squash ravioli in a nice parmesan sauce. I picked it up today on a little jaunt to the grocery store where I also bought some orange juice and Coke. I occasionally have a little craving for Coke…a craving that’s never shared with Pepsi. At Home Depot today I finally bought a couple curtain rods so I can quit inadvertently flashing the janitor across the way. Since my desk sits by a window, the curtains should help the heater keep me warm tonight as I write and the temperature continues to drop. My apartment is rather lovely right now. The lamps emit a nice glow and a warm cinnamon scent emanates from the candle flame dancing on my kitchen island. In the next hour or so, before I drift away to a comfortable sleep, I’ll probably do my second session of pilates for the day.
And in the background, as has been for the last couple of days, a running televised commentary will remind me that this is not just a lazy Saturday.
An article in The Atlantic noted how, for some of us in New York City right now, today has been amazingly normal. Very true.
The reports coming in are devastating. Much of lower Manhattan remains without power and I have friends not only entering their second night of darkness but also displaced by flooding. Like many in the city, I can’t return to work until the power is restored. And we have all seen the images coming in throughout the surrounding area.
I spent this day doing the only things that I knew to do. If I didn’t think too much on it, it was just another weekend. Literally blocks away from me the reality is so vastly different: it is clearly a displaced weekday struggling to regain its footing.
One thing that I thought a lot about today as I strolled through Duane Reade and watched traffic move along the Queensboro Bridge, is how easy it is for people to dismiss that which does not directly affect them. The worst things in the world can go on around you but, unless it actually punches you in the face, it can be astonishingly easy to simply keep on going.
Why is that? I know why…but, I don’t all the same.
A few years ago, the town of 9,500 people where I went to high school was overwhelmed when the nearby river flooded. For a few days, the town was an actual island. While I experienced flooding as a child, it had never reached this magnitude. Homes were destroyed, cars were underwater, pets were abandoned. This is an area of farmland. An area where the average yearly salary equals the monthly of some of my friends. Five years later, portions of the area still struggle to rebuild.
And none of my friends on the east coast knew anything about it. Sure, they saw the weather and the headlines but, understandably, nothing tied them to the area…nothing demanded anything more than a passing nod of sympathy. They couldn’t actually speak of it. And who’s to blame them.
More recently, Nashville was among the hardest hit when flash floods rocked the south. With the exception of hurricanes, it’s among the worst natural disasters to hit the US. I followed that story intensely from my Korean home and struggled to explain to my co-workers why this story was so upsetting for me. But, understandably, it wasn’t in their frame of reference. Google “We Are Nashville” for the blog post and videos. They are gut-wrenchingly beautiful and show the desolation of the city while also conveying the city’s resiliency.
We have all heard about Katrina and I’m sure it will be a lifetime at least before our memories of Sandy begin to fade. I spoke on the phone with a friend today who mentioned that, perhaps, given that this has happened in New York City, more serious attention will be given to climate change. Perhaps.
There is the part of me worrying about my friends, frantically sending out texts and messages when my mind stumbles upon someone else I’ve not heard from. I spent a lot of yesterday fretting over the homeless guy who spends the bulk of his time a couple blocks from my apartment; wondering if he made it somewhere else okay. And, of course, there is the part of me that cannot turn the television off…even though, luckily, the story has not changed much since last night.
And then, there is the part of me that falls back on it is what it is and life goes on. But, then again, it’s easy to say that while sitting in warmth, sipping tea and basking in the soft glow of a lamp after a nice shower.
Soundtrack: Pandora’s melodious blend interjected with ABCNews.
#39: Feel the music tickle your toes.
Why do we assign meaning to objects…events…words…people? Why do we solemnly hold onto things until death does, in fact, part us? Why do we feel the need to leave things to another? Why is the validation that all that brings so incredibly meaningful and necessary?
Lately, I have found myself conversing with a woman soon to be eighty. She knows that statistics say she will be dead in the next ten years. “Probably from cancer,” she states rather matter-of-factly as she bites down on a peach.
As she approaches this inevitability, she is packing up her life; shelving that which does not matter and sorting out that which does. It’s the process of assignation that I find quite moving.
The meaning we assign to life ultimately has nothing to do with anyone else. It truly is for our benefit and ours alone. We hold on to our memories and display our mementos so fervently that, sometimes, it’s rather easy to forget that they will one day fade and recycle into humanity’s fabric – becoming just another thread dancing its interwoven dance with another.
As I look at scrapbooks and photo albums nestled snugly in perfectly sized boxes under my kitchen island, I wonder who else might care about them. And will it matter if anyone else does? Not to be cynical; I cherish dearly what I have from family members both here and no longer but I don’t expect mine to matter to anyone but me.
I wrote my first will as a child. Nothing major, of course. Even then, I didn’t exactly own much of monetary value. Regardless, there was a sense of urgency that I made sure my life was in order. Certain mementos to certain people, naturally. I left orders for the grand party that I want as my funeral and instructions that all of my writings be burned. Photos and letters could be returned to the sender/taker if they so chose but, otherwise, burned.
And now, my tiny apartment is filled with meaning. Nearly every painting, book, photograph, utensil, even clothing, conjures up a memory…good, bad, they are all there. A great night in that dress, a beautiful line in that book, an irreplaceable experience captured in that photo…they all matter so much. But maybe it is because they matter that I know I have to – and will – let them go.
While I am not plagued with the memory of Luria’s mnemonist, I do remember life as one long film that I can start and stop at will. Conversations from childhood might have happened this morning and memories are so bright and vivid they might as well be paintings on my wall. My memory is cyclical and the way I see time…I see where my life started and one day I will see where it ends. And all the while, time and life dance through and beyond me.
I cherish my conversations with her. I’ve come to realize that every minute of our time together is quite lovely. And one day, for whatever reason, this experience will end. And while I don’t know what tangible element will remain, that the conversations and time spent have existed at all are, perhaps, all that matter.
Soundtrack: Of Monsters and Men…and can I just say, I’m totally digging that I’m hearing them everywhere now. Rock on.
#38: Today is never yesterday.
This morning, Death greeted another. As he does every minute of every day.
And like he so often does, he submitted no cause, no indication, no whisper of a hint that he was waiting in the wings. As is his way, he seemingly had no regard for the ripple effect that today’s conquest is already having.
Perhaps the most frustrating part of him is that he only allows for one-sided conversations. Regardless of the pleas, he silently stands. It is futile for us to spend too much time questioning… arguing… demanding. But yet, inevitably, he must contend with a barrage of emotions that may never be mollified.
Death gives life its meaning. That is true. He truly has worked out one helluva deal.
We unfold onto this planet. We set a course for ourselves. We assign our values and distinguish our truths. We define our lives accordingly and exemplify that which we hold dear. We interact. We learn. We love. We smile. We cry.
Then one day, Death pulls our straw.
And that is it.
Peace is a good thing. Being ready to greet Death is a nice feeling. But, sometimes, his presence can still be upsetting. Maybe someone wasn’t ready. It’s not to say that they never would have been. But maybe they just weren’t yet. Maybe those he left behind weren’t ready. Although his omnipotent presence is what we sign up for when we breathe our first breath, it takes some people a little longer to realize that.
I stood on the subway platform this morning as a duet sang “Imagine” off-key. I paid them no attention. And then, a voice began belting out “Let it Be.” A guy had asked to sing that one song with them. I would have never pegged him for a singer; yet his voice was so rich and beautiful. As soon as it was over, he left.
And through my tears I could smile.
Soundtrack: The fan.
#37: Perhaps losing can be lovely too.
I believe I’ve lost a journal.
A journal that nestled by my side as I explored forgotten temples, sailed through rivers I’d never realized existed, and documented experiences and paths I may never take again.
I’ve spoken about this to some people but I don’t know that I’ve noted it in this blog. My initial move to NYC culminated in a clouding of my being…for lack of a better phrase. Though the experience was beautiful in countless ways, the signification of going through JFK security heading to parts unknown just over two years ago cannot be denied.
This journal documented a beautiful experience that will never be recaptured in quite the same way. On one level, I cannot believe it is not sitting by my side. How did I manage to lose something so precious?
On another level, it’s perfect. It’s absolutely beautiful. Every story in the journal was not lovely. And, the only contact info scratched into its pages belongs to people I met along the way. It covers the last couple of months of my time in Asia and the bewilderment of my return to NYC. Whoever is reading it now…I don’t know what they do with it.
But it covers a time in my life that was perfect. Perfect in every way because, had things not happened the way that they had, I would not be sitting here in the state that I am.
A part of me wonders where it is. But that wonderment is almost in an unaffected, detached way. As though, I’m looking at an aspect of someone or something that I am greatly intrigued by, but, nonetheless, disconnected with. It was in the past, you see. And I will never recapture any moment documented in that journal. Reading the narrative that I wrote is almost more out of curiosity, in a way.
And, I must admit, there was a time when losing this journal would have devastated me. When I was thirteen a role of film documenting a class trip was inadvertently destroyed and I was despondent. Those photos were proof that the experience had happened…it wasn’t enough that we had lived it, the photos provided the validation – without them… I’m not quite sure what I thought it meant, not having them. But, it did upset me for a while.
So, now, as much as I do want to locate this journal, I am almost just as intrigued by my not having it. The thought of it simply existing somewhere, in someone else’s hands, in a recycling bin waiting to transform to tell someone else’s story…I love it all.
Soundtrack: Silence…lately, that has been rather lovely. And, it is quite beautiful that my NYC apartment achieves that.
#36: Birthdays are your own time.
“But even now, you see, I’m remembering, and what I’m remembering doesn’t have to do with what I felt, but what I remember. … Maybe all you can remember is the memory of it…remembering, remembering it.” (Edward Albee, Three Tall Women)
When I cry, the usual shade of my blue eyes becomes even brighter. Not quite the crystal ice blue that is the rarest of the rare. But, perhaps tears bring intensity to all of our eyes.
In my early twenties, I was in a production of Three Tall Women; a role I believe fate destined me to play. Cast as a twenty-six year old confronting the realization that the best moments of my life had already passed, I faced off against my future, “wiser” selves. My character, “C”, spent the entire second act struggling to comprehend that her idealistic worldview may, in fact, just be an unattainable ideal.
This role affected me deeply. Primarily, I suppose, because I share my character’s defiance against the idea that life must unfold beyond our control, that acceptance and contentment equate happiness. It never has made much sense to me.
It is now that time of year when I step back for a moment to take stock of my life…toss a glance over my shoulder…and then hop, skip, leap on ahead. I think about where I’ve been…where I’m going.
Exactly one year ago, I was enjoying my last week nestled among the rice paddies of Korea…starting to move on mentally to the year ahead. In a few days time, I would be traipsing through the Palawan jungle as I kicked off the next chapter. A year later, to say that I am happy with how I chose to spend the past 365 days would be a gross understatement. It was beyond beautiful.
And now, sitting at my computer, looking out at the city, there is nowhere in the world I would rather be than right here…struggling to keep sleep at bay as I finish these last sentences. I remember my eleven year old self relaying how fabulous my future life in the Big Apple would one day be. With a quiet smile, I’m happy that I’ve not disappointed my younger self.
The tears dancing in the corners of my eyes are there a little for pride, a little for joy…and a lot because I’m an insomniac who gets loopy when in desperate need of sleep.
Soundtrack: the really odd noises of my refrigerator
#35: Maybe a story is just a story.
I’ve been thinking a lot about a guy who spends time under the bridge near my apartment. I’ve been seeing him for months and, I suppose, instinct and attribution should say that he is homeless. At least, that seems like the requisite assignation.
He sits under the bridge with a red carry-on roller suitcase. He is nestled on a pop-up chair/stool. He is nearly always deep in conversation with an invisible conversant.
Simultaneously, he does not panhandle. His sneakers always look on the newer side. He is dressed warmly. He often has clear bagged fruit resting atop his suitcase. He always has just a hint of a five o’clock shadow.
I’ve walked by him countless times in the last six months or so. When I see him, I wonder who he is and how he found his way here. Why did he stake out this particular spot? How did he find it? Why is no one else ever here?
When I don’t see him, it’s a mixed blessing. I like to tell myself he’s somewhere lovely but my thoughts turn to concern. Is he safe? Is he warm? Is he full? Why is today different than the last time I saw him?
A month or so ago, I stepped out of the subway and began the short jaunt home. And there he was. Quickly coming towards me, pulling his suitcase hurriedly behind him, my neighbor under the bridge sped right past me. Presumably to the metro. My mouth hung open. I was stunned.
Where was he going? Was he heading “home”?
I already knew that his bridge spot wasn’t his bedroom. He actually always looks like he’s just heading out for an overnight trip. And I’ve never seen him there at night.
I wonder if he leaves from somewhere lovely with his rollaway. Does he kiss his wife and kids and promise them something when he returns? Does he know something might not be right in his head and he comes to the hideaway under the bridge to release it all? Does he spend hours striving for normalcy knowing that, eventually, he can settle on his stool and converse full-on with the annoyances lurking amongst his peripheral vision?
I think about that scenario a lot. Maybe it makes me feel better. Maybe it doesn’t.
Maybe I should just ask him.
Soundtrack: Just silence. Sometimes that’s nice too.
#34: Be your own luck.
I’m not the biggest believer in luck. We make our own way in this world…that whole, “life is what you make of it” is one of the most beautiful statements I’ve ever known.
That being said, the mania surrounding the recent Mega Millions prompted even me to buy my first ever lottery ticket. I didn’t exactly know where one buys such things. I figured gas stations but, in New York, they’re not exactly on every block. As I walked through my neighborhood around 7:30 pm the night of the drawing, I figured the news store with the overflowing crowd had to be my stop. I walked in feeling like a complete neophyte. Anyone who looked at me could tell I was green. While everyone around me scratched and calculated like seasoned Gamblers Anonymous attendees, I quietly stood in line a bit in awe. I was clearly not in my element.
When I approached the counter, the man looked at me expectantly. Except, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. Everyone else was huddled over their forms fervently setting in motion financial security for generations to come.
“I would like a lottery ticket, please.”
Obviously…why else would I be standing there. He looked at me.
“I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never bought one before.”
He did not need this explanation. My awed expression completely gave me away.
He asked how many. I told him that I had four singles…but no idea how much a game was.
The man next to me stared. It seems that I was interrupting something important.
“$4…four games. Here.” He handed me a sheet of paper with numbers.
Good. Four games meant that if I happened to win, I could split it with my three siblings. They could reimburse me for the $1.
Not to spoil anything here but, I didn’t win. Shocking but, you know how these things go.
I suppose if I’d won, I could have beaten a friend’s travel record…except that would mean taking time out of architecture…not something I’m up for right now…and putting my few belongings in storage…gracious. Other than that, I would have paid off my student loans and those of family members. Then…I don’t really know. Upgrading my apartment would mean furnishing it…which would mean having to buy random things…and then figuring out what to do with them when I set off for a new adventure in a couple years. And that’s not a very lovely thought.
Good thing I didn’t win.
Soundtrack: 7 Mary 3…kind of forgot how much I like them.
#33: Balance the blue.
Orange
Bending turning call it out
Love is a feeling I may not hold
Enigmas sing from root to cloud
Unearth the measure of which you cry
Bare your soul yet cover your mouth
Learn to laugh and sing out loud
Unleash your freedom yet hide your eyes
Everything passes without a doubt.
lm 1999
Always thought I would one day write a novel but have found that I just can’t sit still long enough. Gracious. Actually these were lyrics…but, you know, same thing.
Soundtrack: Let’s go KY!!! (Sorry, Kansas…more of a southern girl.)
#32: Hold the mirror higher.
This has been one of those weekends where I’m really loving my life, despite the sore throat I’m fighting. I get that this is a common theme but, you know, it is what it is.
I don’t always know what to make of things; probably another redundant statement for anyone who’s read more than a couple of these entries. I just love the unfoldings that constantly happen. I love turning an expectant corner and being greeted by something new. I love that every minute, every day, every thought, every emotion is purposeful.
This weekend has been one of seeing friends in motion. Seeing them move their lives forward, sometimes nervously excited but nonetheless happy and ultimately ready, is a beautiful thing to witness.
Friday I returned to Billyburg to catch up with an old friend on the verge of wildly exploding musically. We’ve been friends since our days upstate and I’ve watched him do nothing else but breathe and glow with passion and drive this entire time. As a nineteen year old, he told me he would change the world with music. He remembers that statement slightly sheepishly but I have always thought it beautiful. And seeing him return from SXSW, surrounded by love, opportunity and the full understanding that anything is possible, I still have no doubt that he will.
Last night’s dinner found me sitting across from another friend who has also done nothing but follow his own road. Life’s recently presented a couple changes for him and it’s quite fascinating to see the excitement and energy with which he moves forward. He, like other friends, seems to know nothing of impossibility. Pretty much everything he has he has created. And he daily sees the rewards. I love it.
The latter half of the week was spent with an old high school friend on a path of evaluation and redefinition and it’s thrilling to think of where the next few years will find her. And, the precursor to last night’s dinner was a birthday party for a dear friend. With a new love, she’s journeying across the Atlantic to start a new chapter. Like many of my friends, she rolls with life as it presents itself. I’m a little sad that she’s moving but thrilled for what’s unfolding for her.
Like the one you decide to take on this journey with you, I think your closest friends ultimately mirror your approach towards life. I know that my nearest and dearest often do and I’m positive my face shines just as radiantly as theirs.
And time to head out!
Soundtrack: Random assortment of past faves including MGMT’s Time to Pretend & Kids…love, love, love!
#29: Let’s make it worth it.
Whitney Houston’s death sparked an interesting conversation last night.
An element of sadness inevitably accompanies the realization that someone’s physical presence is no more. We’ve all experienced that moment when we’ve realized that no matter how much we wish it, no matter how hard we may will it, no matter how strongly we pray to wake up and realize it’s all within our mind, from this moment forward that person is gone. We’ll never touch him or her again. We’ll never hear their voice. We’ll never share a laugh alongside them.
One of my friends posted photos of his visit today to the World Trade Center Memorial. I haven’t been. As much as I don’t believe in striving to make sense of life, I don’t believe I can handle that visit yet. I went to the site years ago and fell apart upon seeing the name of someone I had known; my final spring at college I walked from Rites of Spring and starting laughing as I looked up and saw my friend walking towards me. As he came into the light looking at me, I realized that his confusion was based on me calling out a name other than his own. That’s when I really realized Ted was gone.
Last night’s conversation centered on the choices we make in life and what it means when those choices directly contribute negatively to our death.
I’m not passing any judgment on this woman who died. I can’t begin to fathom what her life was like. And I’m not even going to begin speculating on what brought her to the well publicized drug state she and the world found her in over the years. That whole “until you’ve walked in someone else’s shoes”… And she’s a mother. That’s just rough.
But sometimes it’s hard to not feel a tad more pain over the death of someone who had done nothing but show up for work. Who did not choose a path of self-destruction but a path of honest self-fulfillment instead.
Recently, a story caught my eye in the NY Times. A woman was stepping into the elevator when it suddenly shot up; crushing her to death in the process. One of last night’s conversationalists happened to be a friend of this woman. Understandably, the fact that Whitney Houston had just died didn’t produce quite the same reaction from her as it did for a number of my facebook friends.
We don’t get anywhere productive questioning the fairness of life and death. And we don’t get any closer to understanding the when, why’s and how’s the more times we ask.
I don’t know. The longer I continue to live this life, the more questions I have and the more questions I dismiss. Let’s just go. Rock on in full force.
Soundtrack: Randoms at the Grammys, Adele and the kick-ass Florence + The Machine. My God.
Lessons from Icarus 