11/22 - Stopping to look in a window
As I passed the shed, I stopped to look in the window and there, just visible through the dusty glass I could see it: a small scrap of paper tucked into the sill and I could even make out what it said: "The blanket we laid on when we watched The Northern Lights."
1/23 - When we left for...
When we left for Cambden there wasn't even time to grab cigarettes.
11/24 - Write about a bathrobe
Hesitantly, he slid the liquid silk kimono off his shoulders, and stepped daintily into the tub.
"No more excuses, Dan—I'm really ready this time. I mean it." "Great," said Dan. Let's start with putting your nose in and blowing bubbles."
11/25 - Who could imagine
"Who could imagine a place where you can't get chicken wings?" said the pinkish American bellhop, shaking his head.
"Yes ma'am, the French are funny that way, especially about chicken." He opened a binder that held an assortment of menus, searching for one in particular. When he found it he handed it to them, but still seemed distracted. "Not where I'm from. You can get chicken wings everywhere. And they're cheap, too, sometimes even free with a pitcher of beer! Spicy ones, regular ones, all kinds." The man stared off into the distance as if he could taste the Frank's sauce. "But as for where to get the best Coq au vin, I highly recommend Le Cinq, just over on Avenue George."
11/26 - Write about back alleys
Back alleys are only good for three things: finishing cigarettes, stealing kisses, and running from bad guys.
11/27 - There is always more than one silence
When you've been in a relationship long enough you know that there is always more than one kind of silence.
11/28 - Write about being a long way from home
Dear Jon,
Can you send some socks? The moths got to mine and I only packed two pair. Planning on Damascus by the 20th. Civilization is sporadic these days so some more cash and few more packs of jerky and those cranberry things I like would be great, and an extra book to pass the time. Maybe a dirty magazine? You know how lonely the trail gets. You're the best.
-Arctic Fox
House plants. I kill them. Every time.
But the thing is, they almost always trick me into thinking I won't. They have this uncanny, almost sentient way of knowing exactly how long to stay alive, often a substantial period—weeks, months, even years!—in order to falsely lure me into complacency. So long in fact that I get comfortable in my success, cocksure, occasionally investing in even more house plants that eventually, most certainly, meet the same fate. They die.
But before they do, man, they thrive! Lush, bushy foliage convince me of a nascent green thumbery, a newfound knack for interior gardening that had, clearly until now, eluded me. Those other plants? Duds, lemons. But this one, this little beaut, this gorgeous, hearty thing, it will be the plant that LIVES!
How considerate it is, allowing me this fantasy, along with the time and space to master its exotic, finicky ways: the need to water just enough with the exact right cadence, and letting me fall in love with the way it goes just so with my decor.
But then I notice a slight tinge. Just a hint of color, the tip of one leaf, hardly a bruise, and dread descends. No, no, no, not again! I think. I was so good this time! I watered it! There was ample window light! I didn't even go on vacation!
To anyone else this plant might look very much alive, a picture of health, but I know what's coming. It'll take months for that yellowing to spread but slowly, surely, some flesh-eating plant plague takes over and the drying, cracking, and shedding begins. From there it's only a matter of time. Often, I don't wait for the rest; I put the poor thing out of its misery and dump the whole clump in the trash, dirt and all, woefully mourning my efforts and vowing more diligence with the next attempt.
So what is a girl to do? When does this dying begin? Is it when the last leaf falls...or when that tiny malaise first sets in? Is it, as I have before feared, upon the first missed watering? Or what happens after, when an over-saturation tries to make up for lost time, the fussing and over-plucking that follows an unintentional, momentary lapse in attention?
Or, worst of all, my deepest anxiety: could it be sooner, the very first moment I bring that damn, ill-fated vine across the threshold of my home, the second I reach for the flora in the supermarket, still plucky and hopeful, unwittingly doomed for an abridged life of interment?
Despite my cruel, murderous tendencies, I remain committed to the cause: airy feng shui.
How does one know when you belong to a place?
Is it a feeling like love? Does it come in a rush, a flush of recognition, like the first time you lock eyes with your soul?
Or is it a more growing affection, subtle and sneaky, so that when you wake up one day you feel like you're whole?
Were you born with this feeling? Did you inherit this earth? Does a sense of it pull you back like a tide?
Or are you tethered to it, a burden, by obligations, blood, and time?
Maybe it's nostalgia that grows and keeps you, like moss on a tree. Or perhaps it's just the place you landed, after floating adrift on the sea.
Perhaps you're home changes season to season, this year's nest to roost. You'll move to where the grass is greener, but hang your hat under a temporary roof.
Maybe it's the feeling of kinship you need, attachment to your flock. Or the landscape itself that possesses your skin, your bones, your teeth—the mountain to your rock.
For some home is no place at all, but simply where they build their fire. Because warmth doesn't need need a hearth of brick and stone, it's not just where we retire.
It's where familiarity and family breed belonging, and time builds trust. A place can change you like love does, or simply kick you out if it must.
It's tough to say what it is about a setting that becomes part of you, but what I know, is that while you figure it out—it often becomes so.
