I'm so sad.

I found this umbrella in our stairway, and I've been using it for a little while now. The day I found it, I literally fell in love with it. It made my heart smile every time I was under it, and the rain became an incredibly enjoyable experience. Everything was romantic. Everything.

I know I'm making a big deal about an umbrella, but I don't think you understand.

I loved going out in the rain under that thing. I've only used it about 3 or 4 times, but each time, I was incredibly, inexplicably happy. I swear to God it was like being in love for the first time. I didn't even realize the euphoria was there. I didn't even notice a lack of gloom. I just know that it made the air around me lighter.

It was a big umbrella, not one of those dolty totes; it had a curved handle, like a cane, and opened up smoothly. It was big and light and lavender (purple's my favorite color), and it had Gouguereau's First Kiss (from the elbows up) around the edges in the most, perfect, complimenting, serene pattern.



Today, I was walking around Greenwhich village -- in itself an incredibly beautiful area. I was wide eyed and light-hearted, I had a tough start to the day (at an ungodly hour nonetheless), but it was ending beautifully. I had just finished seeing Banksy's exhibit in New York (if you don't know who he is... gasp! Google him, please), and was topping it off by getting deliciously lost in the west village with a friend who didn't mind walking aimlessly in the rain with me. I was smiling, I was taking pictures of flowers and wet red leaves, I was awed by windows and wide wooden doorways and the secret gardens that threaded the neighborhood. I was delighted when I saw a couple on a Vespa turn the corner of a small, intimate, cobblestoned street with red brick buildings, white trimmed windows and bright green vines. I struggled against the wind to take a picture of them at a stoplight, the beauty its backdrop, but I missed the opportunity. We picked a direction to turn and I rounded a corner to see the Hudson River; I got really excited. It was the pier, gray and gloomy, but I wanted to stop by before we got on the train.

We began walking towards it, and the wind picked up. Fast. The rain intensified. And suddenly, a huge gust left my umbrella in an upside-down J shape. I stared at it, open-mouthed. Literally, it died. And I swear, no joke, at that exact second, my happy mood died with it.

It was completely unsalvageable. Dead. Broken. It punched me in the forehead before it flipped over and died. I had no words. I had to throw it out. It was so hard, but I laughed at my sadness over an umbrella and left it next to a corner garbage can on Bleecker street.

I'm so sad. I thought I'd be able to come home and find another one online. We continued walking in the now-light drizzle (Jesus had his fun), and I don't know. The rain, even in Greenwhich village, had lost its appeal. I was silent for a while, and I remarked that I suddenly didn't like the rain anymore. It wasn't as fun walking around without the umbrella. I let my hair get drenched, I didn't mind so much; I kissed my friend goodbye and went home.

I thought I'd be able to find it if I searched hard enough. When I went online, I couldn't find a damn thing. Not one thing. I began to panic. I asked my father where we got the umbrella. He told me that Grandma and Grandpa had brought it to America with them from Korea. He said that it was over 15 years old, and they didn't even make it anymore.

Oh god. I'm so sad. You don't understand.

I knew I should have brought it home, I knew I could have gotten it fixed or at least held on to the top or something, I could have but I didn't, and I just left it there. I left it there even though something in me tugged at my hands really hard and told me not to. There was no reason to keep it. I let logic win this once. And now I'm never gonna see it again. Grandma and Grandpa, man. I didn't know. I had no idea. Maybe it was the love that was felt under that umbrella 15 years ago that my soul recognized and lifted towards. I don't know. I'm just so sad. Like I really think I'm heartbroken over this. Shit.

There's no other way to explain it. My vocabulary isn't even willing to turn over eloquent words or stories.

I'm just so, so sad right now.

Edit: My friend had snuck a picture of me while I was taking footage of the Banksy exhibit. He was nice enough to send me an RIP email with the image after I expressed my ridiculous sadness. Edited for identity privacy.

Inhale: Nostalgia

New York's been feeling that "seasonably" chilly weather lately. I busted out the wool winter peacoat (which, by the way, just will not do when winter actually comes around), and huddled against the brisk (with a very hard "k") air on my way to the train station. Happy late fall, everyone.

I smiled to myself when a memory of my best friend suddenly flashed into my thoughts. It was during the most furious fury of winter last year, and we had both arrived to work at the same time. We acknowledged each other with glances behind our scarves, leaned against the elevator walls. Our hair was mussed, our cheeks bleached by ice, our knuckles taut and windburnt. We stood rigidly beside each other, bodies still braced against the cold. I flapped my arms like an excited wooden soldier.

I studied her silence, which was unusual. Her eyes were wide, her features stunned and soft. We stepped onto our floor and not one word had been spoken between us yet. "You okay?" I finally asked. "You look dazed."

"Huh?" She blinked a few times, and her eyes cleared. It's like she had just realized I was there. "Oh. Yeah, it's that..." She paused. "Every time winter comes around, I'm always so... shocked." She rubbed her hands over her cheeks, her shoulders relaxing into their natural state. "I mean, every time!! My memory can't be that bad, can it? I don't understand -- winter happens every year!" I laughed hard. "Somehow I forget, and I'm always surprised. I don't get it," she murmured to herself while we parted ways.

So true. New Yorkers tend to drop all memory of our turbulent, recurring relationship with abusive, unforgiving Winter once Summer comes around with its gorgeous bare shoulders and greased-up chest. Mmmm. We get all heady and hot and then BLAM! Gone are the grumblings of cracked skin and ice, gone are the mornings spent prying ourselves from the comfort of blankets into the cold tile of a workday, gone are the infinite stretches of darkness where sunlight only happens while we're indoors. Summer's here, and we embrace it with eager, naked, hungry limbs.

Misery? What misery? Today is a brand new day! I am on fire! Look, bitches, cleavage! A NY summer is always an enveloping, sexual, and passionate experience, one that touches upon the possibility of forever, wrapped in sweat and happiness and fun without consequence.

Until, of course, that moment when it packs up all its shit, kisses you on the forehead while you sleep, and leaves.

Oh. Its Tuesday. You wake up shivering, vulnerable, and bewildered.

What just happened? Did we miss the signs? The weathermen warned us for days, spoke of this breakup for a full week, but we didn't listen. It's not even in our realm of reality. I mean, what the fuck is 50 degrees? What does that even feel like? What is this "cold" you speak of? We have to underdress to be reminded. Cruel.

Yesterday while getting ready for work, I glanced at my peacoat and laughed. Silly rabbit. It's October. Peacoats are for pussies! Ha, ha, ha. I wore a thick turtleneck under a thin trenchcoat -- as one ply as they come -- and threw on a light fall scarf. Stepped outside with a spring in my step, smiling into the sun.

Five minutes past my house, I was gritting my teeth. That sneaky little bastard named 46 Degrees jumped out from the shadows and raped me as soon as I turned the corner. I shivered all the way to work, shivered all the way to school, sniffled all the way home.

Okay, I got the message. Today I wore my peacoat. (Summer, why did you have to leave me like this?)

All jokes aside, a small part of me likes this weather. It's a liberating kind of crisp. The air is light and clean. You don't get to feel that very often, especially in the dense human and steel thickness of midtown. (PS: Goodbye midtown death trap! T minus 8 days till I leave the company I've been working for for the past three years.) Especially when it's paired with sunlight, I feel like I'm in a balloon.

I missed my connecting train, so I decided to walk the rest of the way to my job. I climbed out the subway and waited in line to ascend the stairs to the sidewalk. To the left and right of me, lighters went off. This, actually, was the whole point of this post.

I, LOVE, the smell of cigarettes and winter. Love. Something about that light air and smoke combined just... reminds me of all the goodness of my past. It reminds me of getaways I never had. Of quiet conversations on cabin porches during twilights in Maine. That never happened, but that's the feeling I get when the smell hits me.

I've only been not smoking for a year now. You've got damn near a decade of memories to battle with. I can't help it. My high school afternoons (and, admittedly, mornings too) were spent with cigarettes and good friends outside. My happiest moments just happened to occur in the cold. While smoking. Don't ask me why.

Look. I'm standing by the warm outdoor vents at Julliard, lightly dressed (real coats were expensive), with my New York Breakfast of Coffee and a Marlboro Light. I'm laughing hard and gesturing wildly. Classes are going on across the street (where my high school was), but I'm completely oblivious to the time. There, I'm reading a book with my back against the wall and my ankles crossed before me, Past Tense sleeping on my lap while it snows heavily around us. I'm absently petting her hair, we are sheltered by the buildings overhead. Or, there we are, having conversations on the Lincoln Center bridge (which has since been demolished), one of us exhaling other memories in frustration or hysterical recap. I think it was the happiness I felt that kept me warm at the time. It seems like winters nowadays are getting colder.

And Paula. Paula, with our early morning rituals and wide smiles, though in true Russian fashion, she always seemed to be frowning or deep in thought. Paula, with our Washington Heights rooftops and lead pencil drawings, sarcastic conversations held in completely serious tones. Central Park adventures: our blurry snow angels and delapidated snowmen at the first fall of white sprinkles, slapping snowballs onto each others chests to wish holiday cheer and firm tits upon each others souls. Making friends with local street musicians: Trick with the cowboy hat, and the bass player with the dreads, and that one night with the jazz guitarist (or was it the saxophone?) and some of their groupies too; Dro and Tuni and that woman with the orange hair and dark eyebrows that sold paintings a few feet away. She snuck liquor into her coffee cup. Clasping hands to hearts as songs were dedicated to us, while we linked elbows and staggered in laughter. Paula, who was always defined by her cigarettes, her coyness, and her piercing blue eyes. I miss her when I feel this weather, miss her most when the smoke tickles my nostrils slyly. She was always cigarettes and clean, crisp air. For some reason, things were just more romantic with her. I wonder what she's doing now.

Texti Bitionist

is sorry, for a lot of things.
And for nothing at all.
Erf?

I feel like there are conflicting states of mind today, but I don't know what they are about yet. Something's forming. Like enemies crouching on either side of a river scoping the other out. This state of dissonance is at a level where it's... peaceful. I'm very peaceful today, but I can't ignore the undercurrent.

Maybe it's just a bad vibe. Is something going down?

Hm. *Fidgets mildly.*

Back to work I go.

Update: I got a call that day, and a new, wonderful job was offered to me. I guess it wasn't something malicious after all. It was just a reocgnition of a change in the air. Yay.

Touched.

The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers."

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Closing the "blog"

Or whatever you want to call it. Compared to the ones I used to have, this is just a scrap-paper pile. Rereading my old entries make me cringe and scroll forward. That says enough.

I've realized that there are two different types of people in the world. Those who actively take part in their own emotional development, and those who sit back and let it come to them (or, possibly regress from it). Those who actively take part are always about growing, getting better, getting stronger. Once a flaw is recognized, they take steps to observe it, consider it, and if possible, correct it. They put themselves in positions where they can grow in maturity, or excel at something, to move on to the next step.

Those who let it come to them... I don't know, really. I'm just figuring this out. But the differences seem to be set into our bones, and very hard to break, if possible at all. For all I know, it could be in our genetic makeup (I compare myself to my brother all the time, and our habits reflect our opposite parents), it could be in our environment (which, if consistent throughout the forming of self, is pretty much permanent). But it's made me think twice about succumbing to my urges to give advice, lecture, get frustrated at, etc. Sometimes people just can't. It's unfathomable, and reaching for something is a process more than an impulse. I have to forgive them that.

I can't expect everyone to be like me. I can't expect someone to nod at an opportunity or solution and immediately grasp at it, because their thought process doesn't immediately follow the idea of taking the next step. It never did. Who am I to demand that from them?

Moving on. Ta,

PS: The Habit is pretty much removed from my core. I'm down to barely revisiting it, and even when I do, I don't want to anymore. Quitting is a process too, and I'm very very done with him. Our souls recognized each other and fit; it's a pity that we weren't able to do the same. Oh well, what can I do.