2024

It was perfect because it was mine

Last December I could not hear my thoughts. My breathe would catch in my throat. I remember walking to my office, too caffeinated, carrying three too many things in my hands and lugging more groceries in a red Trader Joe’s reusable bag.

I took my break that day on our velvet loveseat. I opened Instagram and posted a picture of myself with my curly hair. I wrote “Felt beautiful and happy." Then I promised myself to deactivate all my social media accounts before the New Year.

I did. It was nice. My screen time went down. I watched January creep by through thin icy gusts and took more baths to shake the cold off.

I wrote to all of you. I started a note in my phone of what each month I would write about. I did not want to have any resolutions. I instead gave myself new responsibilities to myself that would inspire joy.

So I went back to dance class. I twirled alone to Donna Summer. I watched the Pianist then the Piano Teacher then the Piano. I visited Film Forum twice. I bought a shirt on eBay with the Allegra MD Purple Logo on the front.

I T-shirt dried my curls and scrunched them.

Silently I sunk back into books. Through Mary Gaitskill’s essays I felt home again. Within her weird world I read essays that told me to give a fuck. To listen to my elders when they speak of the music of their youth. To not judge that fear of failure lingering in my throat. To welcome critique of films or practices.

I wore suits because I wanted to and because I looked sharp. I learned to tie a tie and stole 2 Bill Blass ties from my Dad and older brother. I found a gorgeous book of Armani Editorials and lusted at the Aldo Fallai images. I tongue in cheek thought I Will Show You Boys Who Is Boss.

I went to work at 9am and blew smoke from my mouth through subzero wind then saw my coworker then went to bed. Then did it again. And again.

I paused somewhere in February and said I want to go to Italy this summer. So I did. I planned the flight. I stalked the Island of Ischia. I realized I could make some art there too.

I looked at some art residencies. I reconnected with a Napoli local. I asked to join her summer program. I invited my friend to join me on the trip.

I bought pink tulips. I wore red gloves.

In Spring the ground opened up again and life sprouted. I felt good. I watched iris bulbs escape from sodden earth. I walked past Jefferson Market library to see if, and when, they might reopen their doors.

I put both hands on the barred gates to look through to the Magnolia tree.

Will you bloom soon?

Started to use a French comb to create volume in my hair. I emulated Claudia Schiffer.

I celebrated my 25th birthday with Samantha and Brian at Odeon. I wore the Vivienne Westwood light yellow knit dress that I love for its resemblance to sunshine.

I visited Untemeyer park and paged through Irene a beloved photo essay book. I drifted off like she did, into the dawn of Spring.

I bought flowers and large branches for my apartment.

I planned a Corrine Day photoshoot with Dylan.

I wore some Prada Sport in sun showers and bought some Brandy Melville blue cotton pants.

I drank a fuck ton of Ito En tea. And with Maya, saw a children’s concert at Carnegie Hall that brought us both to tears.

I whisked myself away to London for a 2- week summer voyage.

In Italy I danced and ate to my heart’s content. I strung party lights from Amelia’s backyard to celebrate Antonio’s 55th birthday. I learned enough Italian to speak to everyone in broken sentences and say Guarda to get Antonio to move the sausage plate from the way of the housemade key lime pie.

I returned home to steam. To vibrating pavements and brow sweat. Depressive fogs and a creeping August sadness.

I felt fresher in September. Reinspired. I wore my Navy Armani suit JFK Jr style.

I talked to you all. And put my hair in updos. I visited my friends at CO Bigelow.

I watched the Norwegian maple next to Nana’s turn yellow. I waded under it like boats to dock eager to hear its siren call.

I found myself confused to be a woman who is so rich yet so cash poor.

I posed nervous for digitals for my agency in Black bra and underwear.

I flat ironed my hair bone straight from the salon on East 4th street.

I put dangly earrings on and gave out candy to the neighborhood kids whose fists are no larger than limes. I lost my voice talking to them all. From the stoop of my neighbors, where Brian met us, with Matt. To buy more Kit Kats when we ran out. Where I put the Jack-o-lantern bucket on top of my head to signal our candy shortage.

I wore my white feather fluffy December jacket that is not warm. I dangled a Pannettone from my fake Mombasa bag to eat with warm coffee shared with Hannah.

I shoved 2 sandals in my coat pockets as I rode the 1 train to Lincoln Center. So that I could wear flats with my Todd Oldham gown and throw the heels on only as I arrive to the Opera with Kenza.

I watched the first snow pile onto my leggings. After I finished a 13 mile run. Tears I spat out from the child part of my womanhood because I had never run that far before. Because I felt proud of myself.

I played Genesis by Grimes, on the curve of the Central Park 11th mile in the Half Marathon. I felt my legs heavy like cement. I cried again with joy.

Because it was beautiful since it was mine.

Just as all of it is, and will continue to be.

My world, a series of moments strung together with song.

How my life is a sum of all of its parts those parts colorful, streaked with bright chalks.

How even the bad parts are worth remembering with jest. As I watch that old anger sink like a stone. Into the earth again.

Because yesterday’s fear has no home here. Honey, I know that now.

I cannot tell you it has all been roses, But I can tell you it has all been mine.

Because I looked for it in the places of myself I had forgotten about.

And when no one watched I danced. I sang to myself on the street. I shadow-boxed on my runs to the beat of a snare drum.

This year was mine.

It was something to behold and I wanted to hold it, close, in that place within myself that only I can go.

And it was perfect because it was mine.

And the drunk wishes of my hopes well they landed just fine.

I wrote what I wanted.

I asked for what I needed.

I said quietly please come true and I will make a believer out of you.

I wrote through myself.

I wrote to believe myself.

I wrote with all of myself.

I did it to bear witness to my life, to feel what it is that happens to me and know, for once that as my Step Grandma says, there is nothing that I lack.

That despite robust savings, a 5-year plan, how lucky I am to have enough. To tell you all things. To walk.

It is December again. I am in the black swiveling chair at my office on a Sunday afternoon. Nothing sounds but the dull hum of the air conditioning. My hand has cramped. But can I tell you a secret?

I can hear my thoughts again. And I am happy.