Category: favorites

A love letter to a city

I want to love like loving a city
Like soaking in the ocean, the parks, the energy, the sounds
And knowing that city will contain grunge and turmoil
Construction causing sleepless mornings
And nights filled with a spectacular set of stars
So that even the darkness
Lights up my eyes
So that even the light pollution
From the building that quiets the stars shows people dancing, and chatting,
and watering their plants.
I want to tip the saxophonist of my dreams
To sway with strangers and play percussion with my feet
With all the traffic and crowds and dozens of stories sitting on a patch of grass,
dozing off on Dizengoff
with bottles of store-bought beer, and ripped jeans, and a concrete fountain.

I want to love like a city
To walk through the noise and then
One Friday,
Get flavor-packed coffee and walk to where I can inhale freshly cut grass
And an ocean with five different blues
Forget my sunscreen once then
Burn my scar so badly it may never recover then
Recover then
Forget my sunscreen and play chicken with the afternoon sun all over again.
I want to sing to God on the rooftops, sunset glowing
Until Shabbat sets in and fills its peace.
I want to feel five different blues and learn how to paint them
To write them instead of fight them and learn each of their names
So that one day I can greet them like old friends on the boulevard, with the sun
Squinting through the trees and still
I’ll smile at them as I pass.

I want to love like I love this city
In exhilaration and heat
And joy, tea steeping,
Falling deeper and over again.

I did not know my heart could take this

To feel this pain, to feel so viscerally
Alive.
Not despite, but because.
Not with you but it was
So beautiful and heart rendering all at once.
I’m feeling it all at once
And I’m standing, still.
I didn’t know that my heart could withstand
With standing still in the presence of blazing, searing flames.
“Try me,”
It says. “You’ll see. Go for it.
You’ll be amazed.
I’ll make it through.
I’ll take a beating and keep beating
And beating”

And by the salty air I’m breathing, still,
Not despite
But because
I opened my heart to you.
And it was fire
So beautiful it drew my heart to speak:
“Try me.”

nodding terms

Hey there.

Who have I been these past 7 years?

Whoever I was, there was a chance I was never going to be able to access her again. The server for my blog crashed a few months ago, and along with it could have gone a ton of writing that was my lifeblood, my fingerprints of the moment, my access to who I’ve been.

Spoilers: I got the writing back. Breathe. It’s all here now. Feel free to dig it up and make merciless fun of my melodrama (whether it’s from 2011 or 2018). Compliments and other comments are welcome too! While I can’t guarantee I won’t delete anything, I will try to be kinder to my writing.

But imagine. Put yourself in the shoes of me with a crashed blog. It’s been a strange 7 years, and I’m finding myself less and less capable of accessing who I was before now. It’s been deleted, all that writing, and I don’t know whether I’ll ever be able to access it again. My roots, my past, the stuff I’ve forgotten and I don’t know how, because it’s me, it’s all me.

Which of my past selves did I care to preserve? I wouldn’t destroy any of them voluntarily, the same way I can’t throw out the ribbons I get with gifts or receipts from a night of adventure, the same way they might be useful someday. I can’t quash their potential. But what if they’re taken from me? The server crashed, my oldest blog posts might all be gone, the ribbons and the papers are in a potentially fatal fire. Do I go in to save them?

Continue reading →

habitat, or, spring break

So this is home in New Orleans:

new or built
on contrast rhythms.

Poverty rhymes with candy-colored houses,
iron, swirly painted gates and window cover grates.
In this home
is destruction
and construction and
the highest incarceration rate in the world,
so they say
sky and baby blues
sunflower yellows and
cherry reds

(Who are we to be here, and who are they?)

They said,
Before the flood
we would not leave our homes.
With no insurance
and our wrinkles, we gathered
our things would be gone
if we returned.
We prayed.
“I survived Betsy,
and I’ll survive this.”

In a home for Doris,
86-year old woman in the 7th Ward,
we fill in nail holes with hummus.
Every cab driver warns us not to go here at night.
All day we roar along
with power tools and music from the early aughts.
Those of us who know what we’re doing have done this before.
Those of us who do not
thought we ought
and start to build a part of the porch fence.
We accustom to the site, the sound of the angled saw,
level and drill and begin to see
a house being willed from ground. Continue reading →

‘out, damned spot! out, I say!’

Red circle with a crisp white number through
Notification center, sans serif
THIS MIGHT BE HIM and yet, you don’t know if
Left unread, the upper left disrupts blue

It’s not as if you killed someone. Instead
You sit there wondering if the like you’ve spun
Should merit this encircled, glaring “1”
Replay his words as you get into bed

Sleep will come whether or not you know
You tell yourself, but you believe it not
Then simply out of need to nix the spot
A soldier, and afeard? Your face aglow

On your side of the room, the rest is dark
Messages hidden from what they may be
And as the narrow number turns to “3”
With ringing heart you reach for scarlet mark

sensation and perception

**Inspired by the dedication and bios in my psychology textbook. Names have been changed.**

Dedicated to my friend and colleague Drew Johnson

-Jeffrey B. Isaacs[1]

Most people thought Jeff and Drew both resented titles, but neither Jeff nor Drew ever saw it that way.

“The thing is,” Jeff once tried to explain at his East Campus suite’s party in the ‘80s, “that what we see is never truly as we see it. We go through life calling things as we perceive them, not acknowledging, for example, the work of our eyes nor tricks of light!” The Barnard student he was talking at nodded. Jeff noticed her aqua-lined, hazel-flecked eyes dart above his shoulder to the guy behind him. “So when we call someone ‘friend,’ for example, we know that that’s true from our point of view, but not necessarily from both sides. That other person may not agree. That’s the best metaphor I can think of…” Jeff smiled. “As an English major, maybe you’d be able to do better?”

She made eye contact with Jeff and smiled politely back, as if to say, “Yes, I could do better than a young Steve Buscemi doppelganger.”

Drew’s luck was not much better at the University of Washington. His eye contact was always deemed creepy. Drew tended to shrug it off – he saw no reason to settle down in college anyway.

By the time both Jeff and Drew had acquired their respective undergraduate degrees, they both chose to pursue a PhD at the University of Michigan. Jeff joked to his acquaintances that instead of experimenting in college, he chose to pursue a graduate degree in experimental psychology. Drew could not make this joke because he did indeed study experimental psychology in college, although he had made variations of this joke in the past.

Between Jeff and Drew, the joke totaled two well-meaning chuckles and one well-meaning smirk.

Drew was neither short nor tall. His hair was light brown then, and he had much more of it, although he never let it grow too long. He was intensely thoughtful though rarely quiet. His irises were grey when he wore his grey shirts, and blue when he wore his blue shirts. When he wore his black suit with a white shirt, his iris pigmentation was anybody’s guess.

Drew wore the suit to make a good impression on his potential roommate and mostly so that he would have something to talk about regarding perception. Allison had said this guy studied engineering and psychology, but Drew decided to skip the research on robots and rely on their common ground.

The two met in a café on Bonisteel Blvd. Both noticed that the other smelled of awkward, hotel-brand, “spring fresh” body wash. Jeff had decided to wear his brain tie, the blue one with the inaccurate but charming map of the cerebral cortex.

“Hello,” said Drew, extending his hand. “I’m Drew. Pleasure to meet you.” Continue reading →

stories from the underground

This piece was part of a project I did for a UCL class on the history of the book. I wanted to explore how much people’s lives impact the texts they annotate — I also annotated a book of poems from the London Underground as the characters I created. Spelling and grammar were according to the Brits. Here are some of my favourite stories from the project:

Story 2: Tim Robbins

Tim hoped the reflection in the Tube doors wasn’t accurate. Was his tie really so crooked? Should he have put on a tie to begin with?

His flat mate, Stan, had told him not to. Said he’d look like a business wanker. ‘But I am a business wanker’, Tim insisted. Stan said he saw no reason to have her learn that on the first date.

Jessa had said the tie was a good move. It made him look ‘So cute!’ she said, though apparently not cute enough for Jessa.

Cologne was probably a bad move as well. Jessa said this girl works in a gallery in Brixton. Do girls who work in Brixton like cologne?

Tim wasn’t sweating but he felt like he was. He felt his tie tightening around his neck as the car filled up at Waterloo. The Banker Wanker, that’s what this girl will call him when she talks to Jessa. Jessa will just laugh and say, ‘He’s so cute, though!’

Tim pulled at his tie. Is cute meant to be an insult nowadays?

He took a drink from his water bottle, and of course it went down the wrong pipe. A stranger with blue hair asked if he was okay. Her voice was a bit soft, kind of like Jessa’s. Tim caught his breath. ‘Yeah, I’m er, I’m fine’, he said, closing his water bottle. He looked down. ‘Hey’, he said, ‘does this tie make me look like a banker wanker?’

The stranger laughed. ‘Maybe a bit, but in an okay way. It’s kind of cute’. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small white leaflet (‘Well of course she’s crazy’, Tim figured) and said ‘Hey, would you mind helping me out with something?’

Continue reading →

of thought

I’m really sorry but

I’m not completely with you now

 

Look at that blue! the sky is glowing

More stars gleaming

over my tiny head at night

My train has brightly

S

l

i

d

off the tracks and off the cliff

flipping through the icy air!

falls, rolls down a grassy hill and

bumps along the dirt and rocks,

 

Then whirring! through the ocean and

past the gleaming treasures, shimmering under water

waves hello (hello!) to the lists of lists I tend to jot

then into black abyss it shot…

 

hello?

 

It seems I’ve lost my train.

the girl

5ish o clock in Spoon in Edinburgh, Scotland.

Lights dimmed, wood tables, rose saucers, light jazz, and leather sofas.

3 friends, 4 pots, no pot.

Warmed by the bittersweet blood orange tea, the scotch whiskey tour from before, and the sun through the hills. Adventuring (the way I want) and soaking in (the way I need). Sitting in Spoon and writing like Rowling. Taking off my oversized dad sweater, keeping it nearby.

All the while, knowing there was magic written here. Knowing that right now — right now — is how I want to be.

last night: 5220

Last Night.

Hey, what would you do if you knew you only had one more night in your house?

I would sit on my couch in the living room and light a fire in the fireplace, cozying up with a good book or my homework as my mom works on the couch across from me. There would be snow outside and I would have just come inside from playing in it. I would look outside at the tracks I made and measure how much snow has fallen based on the clean pile on the porch table that looks kind of like a huge cake.

I would make Wacky Mac and invite over all of my friends, the ones who are off living their lives in Israel or doing grown up things.

I would turn around the couches and pull down the screen and host a movie night. It would be Star Wars, maybe. Or maybe Miracle. I’d forget that I never actually liked the movies and remember that I loved the movie nights.

I would light the Chanukah candles by the windowsill and look onto the street and press my nose against the window to distinguish between what was outside and what was reflecting from inside.

I would sit in my den at the little plastic table as Fievel: An American Tale played for the fifth time, and I would color a really great picture for my babysitter who left three years ago.

I would go under the covers of my babysitter’s bed and watch PBS on her crinkly TV, home sick from school.

I would sit at the kitchen table in my pajamas as the sun streamed through the windows, basking in the rays and feeling the ice cold tile floor on my feet. I would sit there until the rain started, until I could hear it against the windows on the ceiling.

I would sneak down to the kitchen for a nighttime snack of crackers, or maybe an apple with cheese.

I would sit on the kitchen island counter with my cousin and friends and crack the marble all over again. It would be an accident, because we’re not the types to be able to crack a counter. It would follow a great night. Continue reading →