driven by quiet fire

Sometimes, I feel such ownership of New York. Sometimes, when the city is bright and thin and golden, I stretch out into the thick center of it, the heavy of abundance of this city, and invite it in. Sometimes it is more than I can take, there is no space for everything here. More times this city is hard and heartless and heartbreaking. More times it is chaos and urgency and inequity and the weight of those who have unto those who do not is hefty and real. More times, even in the comfort of my wide, Brooklyn streets and aging, dark trees I cannot see enough emptiness in front of me to quiet the quick pulses within.

the identity of despair

Goddamnit.
On a lark (read: performance-anxiety-writers-block-complete-lack-of-creativity) I attempted to shuffle through the random ticker of

blogs

(still.hate.that.word).

Jesus. Oh god. Please no. Please lord whose name I take freely in vain, tell me a life of Cat of the Day pictures and tricycles and Christmas trees do not, under any circumstances, await me or I will end it all immediately if not sooner, really. Not that there's anything wrong with gratuitous cat shots and endearing stories about visiting the pumpkin patch on your way to buy Johnny's First F-ing Douglass Fir.

I'm just not a very endearing kind of person.

Nor am I, apparently, any kind of unusual. We all, every single one of us, just want to express ourselves, man. We just want to put the clutter of our brains into the neat spaces of letters and paragraphs.

Kitty-fucking-cat pictures and all.

some kind of genesis

So there’s this girl and she's basically solely and exclusively responsible for this entire fucking project. She has no idea what she’s done and I have no plans to tell her (given that she actually seems like a really cool human and I don’t want to make her eat bleach or similar). I have no idea how I stumbled across her blog. I think I was obsessing over our future fantasy world trip and surf adventure when I came across the entry she wrote after traveling across the world with her husband status-post their wedding. And it was one of those “wow I bet if we were ever in the same place at the same time we’d probably be friends but instead you’re some random person on the internet whose life I live vicariously through and just barely and only through a weak sort of imitation but I can’t tell you that because then you’d think I was some kind of crazy internet stalker” kind of moments.

So anyway.

So anyway, I thought, alright then. If you’re going to actually go on said surf/graduation/sprout launch expedition and global adventure of a planetary scale before committing to your stethoscope, a for sure cringe inducing mortgage and whatfriggenot, then you’re going to need a place to keep track of it all. So, voila.

Sadly, we aren’t traveling anywhere (unless you count my husband's trip to Hanover, New Hampshire or spending Thanksgiving in Sag Harbor) any time soon. As of this moment, the genius half of this operation has interviews at Columbia, Dartmouth and perhaps Puerto Rico and Rutgers.

In other words I will either:

1. End up pushing a stroller on the Upper West Side on my way to Mommy & Me Yoga and bitching about my nanny
   
2. Shovel snow, horse shavings and sheep shit, drive a Tundra, a John Deer and actually say things like Git Er Dun. Exclamation point.
   
3. Shop at Costco
   
4. Get yelled by nurses at in Spanish and Tagalog

Anyway, the point is I never wanted a blog. I’m embarrassed to even say the word.

Blog.

Gross. It sounds like the bastard child of British beer and something a frat boy would talk about leaving in a toilet. Really. Its unnecessary.

However. I came across this chick's blog (and for real it's a blog, yo. With fucking gumption) and here I am, all blogging and shit.

Generally, I become uncomfortable when nouns turn into verbs. It fucking creeps me out.