TO KNOW ME IS TO LOVE ME

     I rolled over to turn off the 6am alarm that buzzed loudly against the glass-topped side table. The stiff bed granted me a sound nights sleep despite the drinking I had done during dinner. I laid there for a moment before getting out of bed and ducking my head low to avoid hitting the angled ceiling I had crashed into the night before. The age of the house we had been staying in, though built in the 1800’s, did not show it nor sound like it. The old wooden bedroom door did not creak when I opened it nor did the oddly sized stairs when I descended them. I had risen without a sound.      I have been in the habit of waking up early to go for walks in the morning. I think of them as a meditative practice. Every morning I get up and meander through the park or walk-about the streets of the upper part of Manhattan. Mostly the west side but I sometimes ventured east. I walk for an hour or so. The morning light is different. The noises of the city are differen...

     As H made a breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast I sat on the deck drinking coffee out of a handleless porcelain tea cup.  Having the same breakfast you would have in the city but made on one of those white 90’s electric stoves in a well seasoned cast iron pan and served on the plates you had eaten off when you were a kid somehow makes something as simple as scrambled eggs taste amazing.       I could see the water through the trees, the strong morning wind making a rough impression on its surface. It would be a great day for sailing. 10:30 am      We went out to buy materials for dinner. Windows down, sunroof open. H was driving fast testing the turbo of his Volvo sedan on the straight away of an empty country road. We blasted  Bizarre Love Triangle . I imagined being in a shiny convertible sports car: red, something Italian. Driving in the 80’s, hair flying back with the wind, and hearing this song over the radio. We sa...

     I regretted staying out as late as I had the night before. On my parents last night in the city, we had an incredible time at my usual omakase spot. Drinking sake and Sapporo and, at least on my part, enjoying the reactions of my mother trying three different types of Mackerel sushi after speaking at length of her distaste for the fish. Afterwards going to Commerce for another round of drinks. It was the perfect set up: we walked in and were greeted by the regular suspects and sat at the largest table within the bar which had been left unfilled despite the crowded Friday night room; as if they had been waiting for us. I introduced my parents to the friendlies that came up to our table and with great spirits we drank and laughed and I told my tales of Antigua. But I had other plans, so around 10 I said goodnight and goodbye and went home to change.      Turns out making plans to have a crazy fun night never sets you up to have one. This morning I got up...

     I have been rereading Murakami’s  What I Talk About When I Talk About Running .  One passage stood out to me, which it must have stood out to me in an initial read as I had dog-eared the bottom page–something I do when I don’t have a pencil and want to remember. Towards the beginning of the book Murakami quotes Mick Jagger saying “I’d rather be dead than still singing ‘ Satisfaction ’ when I’m forty-five.” He then points out that at sixty Mick Jagger is still singing  Satisfaction . This book was published in 2007, so Mick Jagger is now 81 and is most likely still singing   Satisfaction .  The point being that many people often can’t see themselves at an older age. Myself included.      When I was 17 I would tell my friends that I never wanted to grow old. That I would go as far as killing myself at 40 to avoid aging. In my senior year of high school I truly didn’t see a future for myself. I had no idea what I wanted to be, wha...

     When I first started writing, writing seriously, I did so because I thought I was forgetting. Forgetting my childhood, forgetting important memories. Forgetting everything about myself. I felt like I only recalled the bad things. But I knew there were so many things that were good—good things, bad things, funny things, and sad things. Things that made me who I am. When I write I remember.  Tomorrow I turn 30. I wanted to write down what I’ve remembered:      I remember daycare. I remember peeing myself in my favorite dress on the sidewalk in the playground because the caretaker wouldn’t let me go inside. I remember the nursery rhyme characters on the outside of the building. I remember one worker who later became a cashier at the Safeway by our house. I remember nap time and never napping.      I remember kindergarten. Frosted animal crackers, the puppets on sticks we’d use to point at the calendar. The boy who gave me my first vale...

  7:25 pm      A dazzling watercolor of hot pinks and dark purples. Gliding through the streets of the West Village, taking glances as I rode by the masses of people on the streets enjoying the warm spring air and looking up in awe at the first truly beautiful sunset of the season. I wanted to be in one of the bustling restaurants. I wanted to be with someone.      I kept on towards the West Side Highway, entering the bike path. The river water undulated in a vibrant slurry, reflecting the striking pink and orange horizon. Myself, the people I passed by, and those who passed by me—we had all been suffused by the marmalade sky.      I crossed to the east side at 59th. The warm air was comforting. The ride was smooth. I was firing on all cylinders with only two miles left to spare on my bikes meter. The limestone buildings running the length of Fifth Avenue shone bright-white against the sapphire sky. Windows gleamed with the night, my ref...