It is summer in New York, officially, which means I must put away my broodiness and write something cheerful. I find it unfortunate that I am not able to readily pen the beauties of life; perhaps the reason is that I am too busy enjoying them to write about them.
My room is quiet.
You wouldn’t think so, living in the city, but it’s true. With the exception of the occasional rumble of the local train, coursing the rails from Harlem to Downtown Manhattan, every dust particle floating through the air hangs on the absence of sound (can you hear Simon and Garfunkel playing softly in the recesses of your mind right now, because I surely cannot). There are tombs noisier than this.
“Don’t date anyone for at least a year.”
This piece of advice is given to men and women who are recently divorced. I’ll admit that no one said this to me exactly. “Take your time,” they said, “you’ll find someone who adores you. Someone who really loves you. They’re out there, and when you find them, you’ll see the difference between what you had and what you’ll have.”
On a Window into Divorce
Here we are: closer to the places I’ve wanted to arrive. Let’s get our hands dirty, shall we, in the miry substance of sticky relationship talk. I can’t promise that we’ll all come out clean, but I can promise that things might be a little better—for us both.
If you don’t want to read me get some shit off my chest, then it’s probably best to stop here. There you go. You’ve been warned.
We are often bereft of the actuality of things: the real facts, true and tangible, and it is also true that moments occur when we are the gatekeepers of the information that might give someone else insight into the vulnerabilities alive within. I want to speak a little bit to that.