thetalkingbrain

[thetalkingbrain]

The all-knowing writers room

We find ourselves at the final scene with the young protagonist (me), in her coming of age of story. I am standing by the light switch in my living room. The camera sweeps across the room following my gaze to the window, peering out into the city. We catch glimpses of the protagonist’s apartment where we’ve seen the plot of the movie unfold. Effortlessly chic, lived in and cozy with a stunning choice of paint color for the walls (I’m just reading off the script). My eyes look off into the distance and my facial expression conveys that I know life’s challenges will never cease, but whatever crazy hijinks I get into next, I’ll make it through. Maybe even have a little fun along the way. I hit the switch and the credits roll.

When a movie is over, I like to think that the lives of the characters we just spent the last 120 minutes with carry on. Where one story ends, another begins and in this indie film, my new story begins with me heading to bed, opening a book for 1 minute and then deciding to stay up 2 extra hours watching episodes of Grey’s Anatomy I’ve already seen. Against all odds, I will still be unwaveringly invested in the professional and romantic endeavors of these incredibly fictional doctors. 

Regardless of a pandemic, I watch a lot of TV. Drama, Comedy, Romance, Action, Thriller, Reality TV.  Apart from the movie Saw or anything like it, I will watch most anything and probably enjoy it, if not for it’s quality than for it’s distraction. I am the key demographic for binge-watching culture. I find it superbly thrilling to get caught up in the whirlwind of someone else’s story. I like to learn from their mistakes and feel inspired by their adventures. At this point, I’ve watched so many period pieces, I’m certain that if I touched a rock that hurtled me 200 years in the past, I’d blend right in.

Lately, watching my beloved TV and Film has felt more like watching home movies. I wax nostalgic for dates I’ve never been on, parties I’ve never been to and covert operations I have not been trained to execute. I no longer panic when I see characters living their lives completely maskless and have reached the point where I get jealous of the character who is framed for murder after a crazy night of partying. At least she got to go out!

As the entire world started seriously heeding the warnings of a new deadly coronavirus, one of my first orders of business in preparation for the pandemic was to watch the movie Contagion, with Gwyneth Paltrow playing patient zero. When I was presented with the premise that a highly infectious virus from across the world could make its way onto the bag of Garden Salsa Sun Chips I purchased at my local grocer in Logan Square, I demanded answers. Listening to podcasts of reporters and scientists sharing cold hard facts gleaned from years of real life research and reporting on pandemics was not enough. I needed to really see how this thing was gonna play out and found solace in Matt Damon, playing our everyday citizen and father, and in Kate Winslet, our dedicated epidemiologist who is sadly taken by the disease she was studying. I’m not saying I didn’t understand the importance of the CDC before this movie - but I won’t deny that it helped. 

Ultimately, I was not as prepared for the pandemic as I hoped I’d be from a single viewing of a movie about a similar yet not real event made 10 years ago. I was not prepared to become a member of the TikTok community. I was not prepared for Contagion’s fictional conspiracy theorist and narcissist, portrayed by Jude Law, to be played out in real life by the President of the United States. I wasn’t prepared for the fear and how it would paralyze me. I wasn’t prepared for the numbness. I wasn’t prepared for so much death and so much grief. I wasn’t prepared for civil unrest and the brutal realization that as a white person, I have so much to learn, and could be doing so much more. I wasn’t prepared for what it would feel like to lose my identity, slowly and quietly. These character development moments in film are usually much less drawn out and expressed via montage or a solemn monologue. 

Despite knowing that movies aren’t real life, I often feel like I’m living in one. Contagion was a movie, but now I’m living in the movie Contagion. It’s like instead of a God, I’m relinquishing my fate to an all-knowing writer’s room.  And while some days, in these times, it feels like my writer’s room is on strike, leaving my life to play out in re-reruns, I have to believe there are new episodes on the horizon. A new feature film to be premiered. An academy award nomination to be snagged for best me playing me in the leading role of my life!

In this moment of my movie, I am not a player - but instead, a viewer and a cliché,  watching my life as it passes me by. And when I see the light switch flicker off and the credits begin to roll, I stay in my seat and wait. I watch name after name travel from the bottom to the top of the screen - who knew it took this many people to make my movie? As the words on the screen become sparse and the darkness of the room becomes a soft glow, I linger just a bit longer, eyes glued to the screen, thirsty for just one more scene to give me a clue as to what might happen next. 

[thetalkingbrain]

Dance prodigy wannabe.

Standing outside the dance studio, I felt exhilarated by the unknown. Those few moments before it all begins, where the outcomes are limitless. There was a strong chance I was going to look utterly ridiculous.  There was also this fantasy playing out in my head where I might actually be really fucking good at this. If this beginner to intermediate hip hop dance class required shoulder shimmies and a textbook executed stanky face, I was bound for glory.  But until the dancing started, I could only imagine what would happen next. So when the class began and the choreography ensued, I had the most thrilling 60 minutes of learning to let go.

After the first 10 minutes of class, our very passionate choreographer, Terry, cut the music and told us that “no matter what, when the music started we should be dancing.” Get our money’s worth. Doesn’t matter what it looks like, we chose to be here, so don’t hold back. So I tried, and with each swag-less dance move, I gained a little more rhythm. After each 8 count, I would turn to my friend Sarah and the other dancers who also chose to be in the back row. We’d lock eyes and share crooked smiles as confirmation that we were all in this together. At minute 10, I needed the affirmation from those around me to say, “We all look a little silly right?.” At minute 40 I started to realize, “who gives a fuck?”

I spend most of my time thinking I’m never doing enough. It feels like sometimes I’m so deep into my own life that I can’t see what I’ve even done or where I should be headed. When big life events happen to people around me - it’s my reflexive urge to believe that I should be on the same plane as them. I take a blinking glimpse of my own timeline for a moment and think, “It’s all wrong. Look where they are.” When you’re unsure of what you want, the idea of what’s next is so hard to envision and it becomes so overwhelming.

I signed up for this class for two reasons. Number one, please defer to the fantasy listed in the first paragraph regarding being a hip hop dance prodigy. And number two, I wanted to do something outside my comfort zone. It was an experiment, because honestly, I’m not even sure where my comfort zone is anymore and I’m not entirely sure when I’m stepping outside of it. There are moments when I’m fairly certain life is mainly uncomfortable. And the real secret is to actually seek out where you can step into the comfort zone. I want to be comfortably uncomfortable. Is this a thing?

And yet because I’m craving change in my life, I’ve been seeking out that free falling sensation that comes with making a decision but not necessarily knowing what comes next. I feel like right now I’m less so falling and more just incrementally dripping through molasses. And I know I want to be moving faster but I can’t. Like in a dream when you’re trying to run away from something or punch someone but your legs won’t move and when your fist hits the target it’s soft and weak.

I’m trying to relish this in-between feeling. Where it feels like nothing is happening and everything is happening. Be it with my job, with love, my friends, my family, myself - there is so much magnificent space to explore and to grow. There is also room to grow scared and let the uncertainty of what is next paralyze me. Sometimes it does. And then sometimes the space for exploration takes me to a new plane of how I connect with the world.

Near the end of the dance class, I’d started to really get a rhythm. It all felt so new, there was a real positive energy in the room and I just loved the sensation of everyone moving together. And while the music was still blaring before Terry reset the song, I turned to Sarah and screamed, “I feel so alive!” On the word “alive” the music cut out. By this point, I was on such an endorphin high, I was incapable of feeling embarrassed. Sweat dripping down my neck, hair sticking to my face, about to perform this 20 second dance routine with strangers and for strangers - I was alive. Very much alive. I was out of my element and I was certainly going to forget one of the moves. But I had a willingness to fail I haven’t felt in a while.

I feel stuck. And in trying to get unstuck, I try to envision all the paths I could take. Hypothesize what could have been or will be. All it takes is a decision, calculated or spontaneous, to set in motion a new path. Whether a person chooses steadiness or taking a leap, I want to allow myself to be inspired by others. While also acknowledging that there are times when it’s okay just to admire.

With an optimistic and melancholic acceptance I know that change is imminent. And there is a beauty in the impermanence of things. I am certain that I’m the first person to realize this. When I make my many “next decisions” in life and when decisions are thrust upon me, I will assuredly be filled with a multitude of doubts. And when that happens, I’ll remember catching the reflection of my sweaty red face in the mirror, in the final minute of class. I’ll share a crooked smile with myself that says, “we might look a little silly - but also, who gives a fuck?”

[thetalkingbrain]

My people.

[thetalkingbrain]

Life after Love Island.

The premise: over the course of 8 weeks, between 10-12 people live in a villa in Spain, “couple up” with one another, go on dates and have to sleep in the same bed. While people do have sex (do bits) in the villa, a kiss (a snog) is also a very big deal. One of life’s many paradoxes. Over the course of the 8 weeks, couples can “re-couple”, new islanders are introduced to the villa, at some point there’s a separate villa called Casa Amor and the public votes daily for their favorite pair. Those with the least votes are then in danger of being “dumped” from the island weekly. And if you make it to the finale, the public votes for their favorite couple that will win 50,000 pounds. And even then - only one person from the couple will randomly pick the envelope with all the money in it and gets to decide if they’ll share it with their partner to answer the ultimate question - were they in it for the money and fame, or, as the title infers, for love?

Knowing this, the reader may be as surprised as I was to find that I learned some important lessons about myself and humanity by watching this show. I took a very immersive approach to what I’m referring to as my research of Love Island -I watched it in the morning, on the train to work, after work, getting ready to go out, in the bathroom, in the bedroom. This show became the mechanism through which I reflected upon my journey through love thus far. In this show, I began to see a lot of parallels to the real world of dating I could empathize with, and also so many men with six packs.

The entire plot of the TV show is first dates. Then people talking to a camera and to one another, analyzing their experiences. It’s here that I found my first parallel. Although I am not oft to be found wearing a bikini thong around my apartment or calling women “birds”, if you change the villa to my living room and a bikini thong to a reasonable pair of cotton briefs, you’ll find me hashing out every detail of all my crushes and dates with my friends. I saw a part of my experience in a group of people on the other side of the pond.

In Jack and Dani, the cute redhead and group mom who cries at everything, and the dad bod office supplies salesman with veneers he purchased in Turkey, I see my parents, who met in high school, my friends who met in college, or tried online dating once and ended up immediately falling in love. Jack and Dani were only with each other the entire show. They are the story I cling to when I think about “it happens when you least expect it” and “when you know you know.” These lucky bastards have already found each other, and in all the ways that I’ve been trying to meet people. And now, they have a reality TV show, Jack and Dani: Life after Love Island. OBVIOUSLY, things are going well and they’re going to be together forever. Right?

There’s the player, Adam-who’s built like a God and is always “keeping his options open.” There’s the incredibly hot girl, Megan, that makes the other beautiful girls insecure because all the guys want to be with her, but she’s also insecure. There’s Laura, who’s 29 years old and is always talking about what it’s like to be “older.” I’m 27. That was upsetting. There’s the gorgeous dancer, Samira, who’s really funny but just seems to be unlucky in love. And then there’s the “nice guy”, Alex, who’s medically too pale to be on a show where they spend all day in the sun. Which is ironic because he’s a doctor. Alex is that guy you find a lot of people cheering for but you don’t understand why and you feel bad about it. But he somehow makes it the semi-finals, without ever successfully dating anyone on a show where that’s all you do. And he goes through an ugly phase of trying on the arrogant confidence of Adam, the player, and ends up calling a girl a tease because she doesn’t like him anymore. Misogyny is not a cute look, Dr. Alex.

Most of the women on the show have had work done. And yet I find their openness about it quite endearing. I find myself wanting to find healthy ways to feel beautiful and feminine and glammed up without feeling ashamed of it. I’ve had moments where I’ve felt afraid to embrace my feminine side, for fear that I would have to sacrifice other parts of me that maybe didn’t fit under that same category of characteristics. But after watching incredibly hot people take on challenges where they have to eat a bunch of fruit and then transfer that chewed fruit into another person’s mouth who then spits that chewed up fruit into a smoothie cup to get their cup filled up first, I feel like I CAN truly embrace all parts of me across the socialized gender spectrum.

I had this thought about 25 episodes in: If these gorgeous idiots can date, then so can I. It’s not easy being vulnerable, but it’s doable. It used to be that going on a date was the hardest part. Right now - it feels like just getting to the date part is laborious. And I get frustrated by that and tend to turn my frustration into a joke, because if I’m not laughing about it, I’ll probably keep it bottled up for a bit and then cry in the passenger seat of my mom’s Subaru Crosstrek on the way home from shopping on Thanksgiving weekend. Which honestly, was a great place to cry and a great person to do it with.

In this riveting, 56 episode social experiment, I found both entertainment and inspiration. Watching these people try each other on as partners 24/7 was like taking a crash course on all the worst and best case scenarios I’ve experienced or hypothetically lived out in my mind. Except instead of my voice - it’s narrated by a very sassy scotsman. On Love Island - you have to confront whatever is happening to you head on. You are trapped living with the people you’re dating and you either have to work it out or leave and miss out on your chance to win 50,000 pounds…and fall in love!

Maybe it’s a reach to pull so much reflection from a show that imitates such a microscopic version of reality. And maybe, definitely, fame is part of the allure for joining such a show. But art imitates life, and we’re all just working with what we got to find some answers. On this journey through life, love and self discovery, it’s sometimes hard to remember what I’m doing anything for. And you know what, I may never know. But I have no plans on giving up, and I’m sure as hell not getting dumped from the island. Because as it turns out, I don’t want to be one of those jerks who misses out on the grand prize. Whatever it may be!

[thetalkingbrain]

The hummus that brought me home. 

[thetalkingbrain]

Birthright.

When I arrived in Israel, one of the first things our tour guide said to our group of 20-26 year olds of varying Jewish descent and practice was, “Welcome home!” After he said it, I didn’t really feel much. It would’ve felt in-genuine for me to tear up or feel a sense of relief and belonging. At the airport before boarding our flight, El Al airlines performs a light interrogation with rapid fire questions about why you are visiting. And when the flight attendant asked what holiday I would be celebrating next I replied with “ummmm” then named the next two Jewish holidays I could think that weren’t Hanukkah and followed that up with a shrieking, “you know, whichever one of those comes next!” So I was feeling like a bit of a fraud and interpreted that welcome as more of a “make yourself at home” scenario, and I was still going to take my shoes off at the door.

The moment he said, “welcome home” I remembered the 9 miniature candy canes my brother and I had taped on to my Menorah for the Christmas episode of a web series we were filming. I could visualize the stickiness of the small peppermint sticks haphazardly slanted and melting from the heat of the sun on the windowsill. Broken and defeated in their sacrilege. It wasn’t until I tried my first taste of Israeli hummus that I thought, “Welcome home indeed!”

It’s not uncommon that I let my gut do the feeling for me. Since I would be gone during Christmas, it was my every intention to consume all of Christmas via my mouth. When I got home on December 27th, after 18 hours of traveling and a stomach ache that made me believe there was enough gas in my intestines to fly me to and from Israel again, I ate D’Amato’s pizza, shrimp with cocktail sauce, a small dish of my grandma’s linguine and clam sauce, and a piece of chocolate that used to be the entire wall of a candy house. As my Grandma Diane would say, all I wanted was “just a taste,” but of literally everything. If I was going to miss Christmas, my stomach sure as hell wasn’t going to.

I was really nervous to leave home during the holidays. I hold adventure in one hand and home in the other. I get pretty emotional thinking about about how much I love home, in it’s many shapes and forms. And I have ironically spent a lot of time thinking about and fearing loneliness. And that kind of worry can leave you in pieces. So, while skeptical of exploring only one side of one story of my identity, Judaism, it ended up being an exciting step in my path towards wholeness. All these little pieces I thought I needed to leave behind are all essential parts of my entire entity.  The holidays in Chicago are stupid important to me. So if I was going to miss it, I thought I better make it worth my while.

Sometimes after work, I’ll get off a stop early on the train and run some errands, exercise or proudly return or pick up a new book at the library and I’ll walk the last mile home. The past few times I’ve walked home, I am delightfully reminded of a dance studio that hosts sessions in the evening. There’s usually either a small exercise dance class or just one guy dancing to music that I can’t hear. And they’re all dancing their hearts out - lights bright, shades open. Some people have their eyes closed, cheeks rosy with hair matted to their necks and foreheads. While others are focused intently on the instructors next move - the leader of the choreography moving with an infectious, unapologetic energy.

I will admit, I find great joy in seeing not so great dancers, dance with immense passion. But that’s the kind of dancing that is often more inspiring to me than watching an incredibly skilled performer. I feel a lightness in seeing and feeling that boundless commitment to something. The less energy I exert on trying to figure out what something is, and just letting it be, I feel freer. I feel whole in it’s purest form.

So over the course of 10 days, with a best friend and 48 Jewish strangers, I dove in. Sweat dripping down my brow, focused intently on the next steps from the leader at the front of the class. Creating memories with new flavors of falafel, hummus, brisket and an almond spice mix everyone kept telling me was supposed to be cooked with rice but I proceeded to eat like trail mix.  I meditated early in the morning and participated in discussions over Jewish identity, even when I didn’t feel qualified to do so. I tried to get to know EVERYONE - which was exhausting, and humbling and exciting. I cried in front of people, a practice specifically reserved for my therapist, watching Parenthood or when I’m drunk enough that just feeling makes me sob. I had a freakin’ Bat Mitzvah in a cave on the top of Masada. I let Israel be an opportunity to think about my mom, who I think of often, and her jewish parents - who I hadn’t thought about in a while.

I was able to bear witness to a unique pride and patriotism to a country and a religion that while seemingly a part of, I knew nothing about.  And while my extroversion often begs me to participate, I would often find myself standing back just to listen. It’s a rare opportunity to be surrounded by a unanimously welcoming and inquisitive group of people. So especially when I was tired, which I was from literally the moment we landed, I learned that sometimes I need to sift through my veil of skepticism and listen to hear and not to respond.

Then, I returned home. I walked out in to the numbing winter air of Chicago and got into the back seat of the car where both of my parents had come to pick me up. We squeezed hands and shared clumsy over-the-seat hugs and they said to me, “Welcome home.” And I teared up a little. After admiring and analyzing and dissecting the pride of Judaism in it’s many forms from both Israelis and Americans, with two flooding tear ducts, I became overwhelmed by that same pride and dedication I admired so much. I didn’t need time away from home to know this, but I was so grateful for the space to deep dive into one part of a complex and loving whole that makes all of me. And as we sat around the kitchen island, catching up on what I missed and what I had learned, I took a generous slurp of my mom’s homemade Beef Shank Stew from the annual Lazzeretti holiday party and thought to myself, “Welcome home indeed!”

[thetalkingbrain]

Screens.

I recently went to a concert where aside from parent chaperones, my friends and I were amongst the oldest cohort attending. We were easily identified by our shared expressions of thrill and shock. By the 21 and up neon paper bracelets donned on our right wrists. By the fact that our hands were holding beers and not phones. And that the only glow of light on our faces came from the stage and not a screen. Between each song, sang more by the audience than the artist, I waffled between amusement and amazement at the difference 10 years can make. I was selfishly thrilled to see that my phone addiction did not compare to that of a 15 year old’s. And felt lucky to have been raised in a generation where I could at least remember life before cell phones and Facebook.

Life has become a series of screens. A screen for the news. A screen for my calendar. A screen to check Facebook while I watch TV on the other. A screen for romance. A screen for friendship. A screen that blinks and buzzes and refreshes itself.

There was a part of me that judged the kids who couldn’t put their phones down to enjoy what was right in front them. But then I had a flash of my life a day prior, sitting at my desk at work, flipping between instagram on my phone, to twitter on my desktop, to CNN, to New York Times, to my email, to my G-Chat, to my Facebook, back to Twitter. My hands typing in the names of websites before my brain even registered that they were doing it. This was my tween at a concert equivalent in the modern age. Scrolling through feeds of news and gossip, hoping the screens would tell me something and provide me with answers to things I needed to know. In the process I end up inundated with a cluster of words and information not relevant to where my true anxieties lie.

I never thought I was the type of person who would want to see what Honey Boo Boo looks like right now. But according to the algorithm that learns who I am through systematic data collection of my searches and site visits, I’m exactly that person and that is information I need to know. It only took 5 separate link suggestions via multiple social media platforms before I caved and just took a look. What does Honey Boo Boo look like now? Older. And me, much less wiser.

I read articles into excess because it’s all at my fingertips. Articles about the election. Articles about war. Articles about racism. Articles about love. I enter questions that have been spinning around in my head into the search bar and expect an answer. And I will often get 3 million in under .785 seconds. I know that we are addicted to the immediate gratification that our screens give us. I know that my news feed is catered to my beliefs and fake news exists. I know that copper cups mixed with alcohol creates a poison that is slowly killing us all. Information is a passcode away. I feel like a hypochondriac doctor. And after entering all my symptoms, according WebMD, I just might be. And I also might have cancer. I know too much and over diagnose my symptoms. I know the cure is less screens, but then where would I look to avoid direct eye contact with strangers and my peers?

I’m not a person who has mastered the internet. I forget that you can learn just about anything on YouTube or Wikipedia. I’ve been online dating since 2013 and still feel like I’m missing something. I don’t know the line between speaking out and speaking to much. I paralyze myself with overthinking, afraid of who I’ll offend with my words while equally self conscious about how my silence will be judged. It feels like we are stumbling through a hellscape of gifs, links and limited character counts. Instagram posts of a blogger’s favorite brunch spot captioned with a comment about the meal and also sending out condolences to victims of the Las Vegas shooting all in one breath. And just beneath the thought that is bookended with “#stopthehate” is a stream of comments exclaming “Yum!” and “We gotta go there!”. The U.S. president tweets his entire stream of consciousness on the same platform that shares listicles of “must do’s” in your 20’s, and Tasty videos on how to make cheese stuffed cinnamon buns. Instead of creating change with action, we are saturating the landscape with words and hitting “enter.”

I know why I judged the teens at the concert switching between SnapChat and their various live feeds. Because it reminded me of the hollowness that the internet can create. How your identity can get lost or be a lie. Because it often makes me feel powerless and alone. Because no one should Facetime a friend at a concert when the other person is just sitting in their car and that car-person would clearly benefit from turning off her phone and just listening to the actual album.

Life has become a series of screens but it has always been a series choices. Choices we make that can hurt or better ourselves. Choices we make that can hurt or better our communities. Choices we make to find love and friendship. Selfish choices. Altruistic choices. Choices with implications greater than us. Life before screens is a thing of the past, so I need to make the choice to have the screens work with me not against me. There has to be a balance between when to charge your phone and when to let it die. It’s in that balance that we can find the right words and the opportune moment, to write, to share, to post, and speak up when it truly matters.

[thetalkingbrain]

Mature. 

[thetalkingbrain]

Too old for this.

This month I will begin my second year of therapy. It will be my third year living in my house in Wicker Park. And this will be my fourth month having my bed lifted off the ground, hoisted up by a black metal frame I bought on Amazon by recommendation of a friend. This drastic spatial change of my room’s small landscape and my decision to see a therapist have been, to date, some of the greatest victories in my early adulthood. These accomplishments coming in close competition with successfully guessing what to file on my tax forms when starting a new job, and where to find the routing and bank account number on my checks without googling it first. 

And yet, in the light of such grown-up achievements, I’ve also found myself in a cab on my way back to my house in Wicker Park after a night out, praying that I make it through the final turns. Letting a quiet “thank you” escape my lips, as the road becomes vertical, the front gate a labyrinth of jagged keyholes, and the back-steps the place where I decide to vomit. Take a breath. Then vomit again.  And while this necessary, albeit gruesome task, effectively lifts my nauseous burden, creating space, much like my bed frame did for my room and therapy for my mind, one can’t help but beg the question if I might be getting too old for this.

Is this a fair question to ask? Are we not allowed the occasional reminder of our limits?  Learning old and new lessons from the humbling repercussions of overindulgence.  One of the greatest beauties in life is doing what innately feels good. And I’m not sure age always dictates that.  Given the painful depths of my hangovers and newfound appreciation I have for the time to run errands, I understand the natural progression of the physical body and priorities. But when will I be “too old” for late nights. For eating too much. For not cleaning my room. How long before “too old” becomes “too late.” To try something new. To change careers. To discover new artistic passions? Such mentalities have us racing a clock that never stops but we can never predict its pace.  How much time do I have to discover what I’m good at? Find my dream job? Change my mind, and find another dream job? Is there such thing as too old and too late?

I’ve become obsessed with these questions and obsessed with creating change in my life, in order to remain present, vigilant and sponge-like; taking in every new experience with an open mind and a hunger for more. I’m reflective to a fault and could over and out think the most ponderous philosopher. I struggle with the fear of boredom and how easy it is to get lost in your own mind. To not always know if I need to lay in bed all day, or go for a walk.  It boggles my mind that you are YOU your whole life, and you will still not always know what is best. I am exhilarated and exhausted as I am constantly trying to get to know me.

With my various meditations of therapy, exercise, comedy and writing, I have prized moments where I clear out the chaos and see that most of my fears and doubts are because of expectation. Expectations from myself, expectations from others, and the expectations I perceive to be from others. Where I should be and how age can define me. With clarity, I can view those thoughts and expectations from the across the room. I find a way to silence the doubts and take risks. Sometimes I come out from the other end of a decision, entertained at how the doubt once scared me. And sometimes I’m in the midst of my choices and can see those same thoughts and doubts as they come pouring out of me, beneath the staircase in my backyard.

There are things that we can be too late for: movies at the theater, dinner reservations, getting into Breaking Bad. And there are things we can be too old for: reading without glasses, running without stretching, attending a concert that is 17+. But even these things are what we make of them. I am a million different Paulines and I intend to discover a million more. It should not be our age that defines where we want to see our lives go next. Turning 25 is the first sign of frost on the tip of the iceberg that is life. And no matter the number of candles on my cake, there is no better time to practice taking risks than now.  I hope to never be too old and never feel it’s too late. And to occasionally breach that puke-worthy limit, that has me racing to the back door.

[thetalkingbrain]

Lucille’s family recipes she mailed to me after our conversation on the plane. 

[thetalkingbrain]

Lucille

I didn’t used to be such a nervous flyer. But with a blend of getting older and the fact that I turned on my New York Time news push notifications on my smart phone- disaster seems a moment away. I don’t have to look far beyond my Facebook feed or my phone’s home screen to understand that the world is in turmoil. My own country is in turmoil. My city is in turmoil. And the scariest part beyond the terror itself, is that I don’t know what to do to stop it, which is a feeling manifested in helplessness and guilt.

This particular trip began with a canceled flight. We boarded our rescheduled flight late after a 3 hour delay. It was myself, and my close friend and coworker Lara. Lara was sitting at the window seat, and I, the middle seat. We began prepping my ipad to share headphones and watch Interstellar- a movie I had already downloaded from a previous flight to New York. The irony of watching a movie about space where some sort of aircraft is constantly crashing does not escape me. But any distraction was welcome.

Just as we hit play, a very small, white haired woman, with a white glittery purse, and a black scarf with silver studs wrapped around her head, was escorted to the aisle seat next to me. Before we even met her, we were able to glimpse at her ticket, and know that her name was Lucille.

Lucille was frantic and near tears when seated. Mumbling prayers to God under her breath, leaning hastily into the aisle making sure that the rest of her family was on the plane. We learned later they had been traveling for over 17 hours, after returning home from her grandson’s wedding in California. They had all made it on to this flight after several cancellations and standby lists.

After she calmed down, I felt a light touch on my left arm, and heard a “Sorry girls!” from Lucille. What then ensued was an hour long conversation with 88 year old Lucille from Auburn, New York. Lucille is funny. Sharp. A writer. A cook. A mother and a grandmother. A strong believer in God but wasn’t imposing about it. She made it clear it was what she believed in for faith but understood it wasn’t for everyone. She told us she writes letters to the editor of her local newspaper “because I have a lot of opinions.” She used to run her her own clothing store and now runs the jewelry shop at her retirement community. She grows garlic, basil, parsley and mint on the window sill in her apartment because “everything is better fresh.” She told us if we can, to never live with our in-laws, if we were writers to write a little bit every day, that no matter how old you get to always keep a positive attitude. And most importantly, be sure you end up with someone that makes you laugh. She said this a number of times. There even came a point where she stopped the conversation and individually pointed at myself and Lara and said, “You are unique. You are beautiful. You are one of a kind.” After she had finished pointing at me, I began to tell Lucille that she too was all of those things. But she stopped me halfway through and said, “I know! But stop. Let me finish what I’m doing here.”

Near the end of the flight our conversation slowed. Lucille closed her eyes and Lara and I went back to our movie. A few minutes later, I felt a familiar light touch on my arm, but instead of hearing Lucille, I saw a $10 bill slide across my tray table silently. Lucille was already prepared for me to say no and would NOT accept a return. “No! I want to do this! Do what you want with it! You beautiful girls get some coffee! Pay it forward! I don’t care!” I finally gave up and put the $10 in the breast pocket of my green flannel for safe keeping.

The landing of the plane was a little bumpier than we would have liked. I dislike the take off more than I do the landing, but this one had us pulling against our seat belts. I turned to the left and saw that Lucille had put both of her arms up against the seat in front of her to brace herself for the landing. When the turbulence subsided, Lara asked, “You okay, Lucille?” and she quickly responded, “I haven’t been ejected yet!” Holy shit, did we laugh. Shortly after, we got off the plane and our goodbye to Lucille was as brief and seamless as her welcome. But we had a delightful reminder of her spirit, in the form of a $10 bill in my pocket.

1 plane ride and 48 hours later I was walking down Hubbard street near the river, wearing headphones on my way to dinner. As I approached the bridge, I passed a homeless man leaning against a pillar. I couldn’t hear what he said if he said anything at all, but saw a hand holding a cup extended outwards. As I walked passed, I felt a magnetism coming from inside my bag, emanating from Lucille’s $10 bill. I heard Lucille’s demands in my head and felt the delightful urgency to pay it forward. To spread some of the magnificent love she had shared with us, in any way that I could. I took out my headphones, turned back around and handed the $10 bill to the man. “Here you are sir! Have a great day,” were the only words that I could choke out.

As I turned around, I tossed my sunglasses back on as I felt the tears crest over my eyes. I wasn’t overwhelmed by my own good deed. I was overcome by the beauty of a small action. A small action that was a ripple of another. I felt so lucky to have sat next to Lucille and rediscover the magic of serendipitous human connections. A reminder to remain open instead of closed and watching the same movie for the second time. I’ve had $10 bill in my pocket before- but she made it feel special. She gave it urgency. She gave it meaning.

How easy it is to forget that each person we pass are their own universe. They are living a life unique to your own whilst sharing the planet with you. And if we open up our hearts and our minds- we can learn another person’s world. We can see what they see. All we had to do was listen and engage with Lucille to feel her presence. To take a precious glimpse into a completely different life. And then to have the opportunity to have her become part of our universe and to pass her energy along is a rare and beautiful thing.

I’m not sure if the current state of our world is the current or the ongoing-but I’m listening now. Lucille said it best: each day and each person you meet is unique, beautiful, and one of a kind. I’m afraid we don’t say that enough, to ourselves and to one another. Change in this world comes from action, from speaking out. From big actions and small actions that are equally brave in their own rite. And when it comes to changing our world and making it a better place- I want to say more. I want to do more. I want to learn another’s universe and I will gladly share mine. Now is the time to enjoy every moment. To act. To speak. To share kindness, compassion and love.

In such a small window of time, flying 30,000 feet above the ground, Lucille left an impact on me. She reminded me that the greatest beauty in life is our connections with others, our willingness to share, and our willingness to listen. At 88 years old, I was inspired by the openness of her mind to still be willing to think in a different way and learn something new. She evoked an urgency within myself to make sure I’m awake for the life that I’m living, to create a space to welcome someone or something different than myself, and most importantly, whether it be with a friend, a boyfriend or a stranger on a plane, to be sure to end up with someone who makes me laugh, and to share the joys we do have in this life.

[thetalkingbrain]

[thetalkingbrain]

For Franklin.

There’s light muzak playing from the speakers of the high ceiling-ed Italian restaurant.  Autumnal decorations, earth tone colors, and small pumpkins sway above our heads, hung by translucent twine, creating the illusion that the pumpkins are simply floating. My stomach goes from twisted to churning, and I’m all of a sudden overwrought with an urgent sense of hunger.  It starts to occur to me how long it’s been since I was supposed to eat breakfast, and it feels as though my skin is sucking just a little bit tighter to my bones, as my stomach beckons nutrients.

Browsing the menu, my mom asks, “Ron, what’re you getting?”  A moment of silence passes over the table, and I go from gazing at the flying pumpkins, to a single descending tear rolling down my father’s nose.  He whispers a tight lipped, “Unsure.”  My mom and I both reach out to him and my mom declares, “Let’s hold hands.”  She smiles and  giggles a little, because it feels a little foolish, but we all grab each other’s hands.  Gripping fingers over stale bread, and packaged whip butter, we find some release and comfort as all of our eyes begin to well up.  “It’s about more than just the dog,” he says. We answer by gripping each other’s hands tighter and nodding our heads in agreement.

It will always bother me that tragedy, death and loss are life’s reminders that time is fleeting. There is a dark, fascinating beauty in the light of a difficult time. And there’s a gorgeous strength that we find in ourselves and the people we love when we need help or need to give it.  And it’s never about that one thing.  It’s a domino effect of reminders, thrusting reflection into our faces without consent.  We are caught contemplating and weighing our values.  

The value of passion comes up for me.  To me, life is about passion and fulfillment. I don’t want to be repeatedly reminded that time is fleeting and not take action. I don’t want loss and tragedy to be the thing that tells me that there is no time like the present.  No time like now to be comfortable with who I am, or to say “I love you” more.  To call more.  To text more.  I don’t want anxiety spawn from chaos and frenzy to be the thing that beckons me back to mindfulness.

Working at the cheese shop, there was the busy season and the off season.  During the summer and winter holidays, every day you had to be on. You showed up to work, knowing that from minute one, cheese and sammies would be flying off the shelves. You had to be on point.  Caffeinated. You had to know which questions to ask, which cheeses to grab and what buttons you had to press to get customers the spreads they needed, the bread they needed, and the salami they needed to get them out the door, all the while with you and a smile on your face.

And then there was the off season. Where the threat of malaise loomed.  Where the minutes crept and you’d probably have eaten more cheese than sold cheese most days. And I remember, my manager at the time, saying “the worst thing you can do for yourself and your team is to lean into the lazy passage of the day.” I have a clear memory of standing in the shop, between the cheese case and the olive bar, getting the store ready and realizing that I had already taken at least five minutes longer for every task that would usually take me only a moment. I had let go a little. The slowness and ease of comfort and predictability became numbing, and I’d get lost in my fuzzy thoughts.  Tumbling down day dreams and distractions.  So much so, that if a customer did appear, I’d be frustrated with them, for demanding my eyes to refocus, instead of remain limp and glazed.

It’s impossible to live every day and every moment unequivocally present.  I’m striving for more of the over all experience.  But just like in anything that we practice with genuine intent to succeed, it gets easier.  And incrementally, we are more awake for the life that we are living. We aren’t caught off guard when a pillar of our foundations is struck. We aren’t left stumbling to pick up the pieces of something broken, when someone is sick, hurt or gone. We are found gripping on tighter to the things we love.  Feeling grateful instead of regretful for everything we’ve done.

This kind of foundation can give us confidence to find passion that fulfills us and excites us. I don’t want a reminder to pursue something I love, I want to be in the act of doing so.  And this kind of excitement is contagious.  It’s something we feel and want to share with others.  And for me, in the light of life’s daily toils, and growing adult responsibilities, with passion, I am reminded to maintain a child-like wonder of the world we live in.

Passion is what drives me.  I’ve started to revel in the type of excitement that keeps me up at night. Because some nights, I’ll feel sad, or alone, and my mind is left awake to explore these feelings-obsessively and relentlessly.  But when I can’t sleep because of a creative thought, or because of something I get to experience with people I adore, I’ll go swimming in that kind of adrenaline. Every time I have an improv show, I’ll often be up for hours afterwards. And as frustrating as it is to know how tired I’ll be tomorrow, it’s such a thrilling, natural high.  There is an indescribable sensation of satisfaction and refreshment in this restlessness. It’s a reminder without loss or sadness that I don’t want to be numb and slicing salami.  I want to be tingling from head to toe, in the dead of the night, eager for the sun to rise.

Under the floating pumpkins to the tune of a light saxophone solo, we let go of each other’s hands.  What at first felt silly, became a meaningful moment of release and recognition. It can be about the dog.  And then it can be something more.  It’s sitting on the kitchen floor, with the whole family together, late at night and unexpectedly, finding different ways to say goodbye.  It’s about friends, flying in from all over, to give a hug and to simply be there for each other and for you. It’s about a phone call, that may be brief, but a significant fragment, as part of a lifelong conversation.

As we place our orders of minestrone soups, chopped salads, and house-made meatballs, I discover that with out pause, the world has asked out of kindness and not with choice, that we forge on.  Soon the pumpkins will become snowflakes and us all a little older.  It’s with morbidity we accept that time may be fleeting, but it’s with joy we can acknowledge that the present is always right now.

[thetalkingbrain]

Bagel for one

I’m lying in my room in the dark with my eyes closed eating an everything bagel with cream cheese.  Amidst the hum of the air conditioner, you can hear my aggressive chewing, and deep, heavy breaths between sighs of content.  There is something so luxurious about eating in your room in complete darkness-no judgment, just nourishment.  In pure darkness, I can focus all my senses to taste. Sesame. Garlic. Cheese. Salt. No need to worry how loud each bite is, how lady like my nibbles are or whatever “everything” seed is in my teeth, on my face or in my hair.  I am darkness and darkness is me eating.

This is all aside from the fact that an hour before, I thought I was going to be falling asleep next to a man.  Sure-that would have been lovely.  It’s nice to feel wanted, to experience intimacy, if only for a fleeting moment. Maybe on a different night, if my mind was in a different place, this would have felt sad.  But I very honestly did not.  And on this given evening, I was happy just the same. I feel at home, horizontal, humming to myself while polishing off a savory snack-plus I’ve never been very good at romance.

As I get older, I find myself in more situations where there are couples and there are me.  And despite my best efforts, I form a complex.  It’s kind of inevitable. I love the idea of romance, and sharing the world with another person, but I just haven’t met that person yet.  Of course I want it, who doesn’t? I flow through a cycle of guilt trying to rationalize my feelings.  I’m surrounded by so many people that I find home, love and joy with every day. But for some reason, I get that feeling. The idea that I need more and as soon as possible creeps in and takes over my brain.  Or that I need to explain to people why I’m single and all the strategies I’ve put in place to rectify this problem. I’m busy.  I’m focusing on myself right now.  I’m too busy focusing on myself.  I’ve downloaded eight dating apps and hung a flag on my bedroom window that represents solitude and despair.

All the dating apps are a different reality for me. My taste in men is wildly different on the internet than in real life.  I swipe right to mostly muscles and mohawks. Athletes and bankers.  Button ups and gelled hair. I’m embarrassed at how intrigued I am when I see that someone played a sport in college, is conventionally handsome and looks like they make a lot of money.  It’s very fantasy driven, and makes me feel like I’m taking risks I usually wouldn’t.  And when someone actually has a real dating profile, shares their interests and personality traits, and we match and he messages me, I panic and don’t say anything.  I convince myself he’s too available. I only swiped right to make sure that he would swipe right for me. I feel ambushed by the message and conclude that with my luck, he’s probably a murderer. One guy messaged me, and I never responded and several days later he asked me “why are you on this if you’re just going to ignore me?”  My internal response was, “great fucking question”, my external response was then deleting said app.

I am notably surrounded by a lot of loving couples.  My parents, for one, are high school sweethearts and have been together for over 30 years. I’ve never seen two people more in love.  Most all my best friends are in loving, committed relationships with men I truly adore.  They were before or have become some of my best friends too.  And these relationships make me so happy-I love seeing my friends in love, being respected and cared for, pushed and challenged.  And they are outstanding examples for the type of love I want to have some day.

With all of this love surrounding me, only on my worst days do I let the beast of comparison get me to doubt myself, my choices and my journey with love.  I’ll find myself drowning in my own self-doubt, rehashing any near-romance I had, wondering why I wasn’t the one, why it isn’t my happy ending?  I am breathless from all the chasing I do running around in my head, going over redundant lists of potential wrongs I committed, trying to catch the answer for my perpetual relationship status.  It becomes the most ridiculous game of “Why am I not in love yet” which is a game I made up and is really sad and you shouldn’t play it.

When I talk to other people playing this awful game, I see that debilitating urgency in their eyes. I can feel that toxic thought in their hearts and their minds that they’ve let themselves believe that if someone is there to call them “boyfriend” or “girlfriend,” it defines their worth. The rationalization that this needs to happen now and then I will be okay. But that urgency takes the magic out of it.  What’s the fun in frantically searching for something that doesn’t just appear?  And you can’t make it appear.  That genuine affection you feel for someone is not something we can feverishly pull out of thin air.

I have this dessert fantasy. It’s that one meal I always desire and think about but rarely ever order. A chocolate brownie sundae. I want to one day, to have before me, the warmest, chocolate brownie with the creamiest, vanilla custard, and taste the best dessert pairing I’ve ever had.  I want the warmth of the brownie complimented by the chilled cool custard in one majestic bite after another. And even though I so badly want this right now and always, I’m not going to just shove some sorbet with a graham cracker down my gullet because it’s the closest, most available treat for me. I’ve never liked sorbet and that doesn’t start now because everyone else has decided on their dessert. Fuck sorbet. I don’t want it.  Settling for sorbet and a cracker would leave me wanting, empty and with a bad taste in my mouth.

It’s hard to talk about the other side of romance, or dating without approaching the line of self-loathing, or clichéd, mollifying statements about self-love and how there’s just not anyone good enough for me, because I’m so amazing.  But dating is hard, and it’s nice to talk about it sometimes.  I am a very forthcoming person, so being coy, playing hard to get and flirtatiously rubbing someone’s arm are all clumsy to me.  And I don’t realize I’m in a rush to get better at “it” until someone else has “it” or reminds me how much they want “it.”

With all this in mind, I finish my bagel and take a deep breath, as the last tastes of salt, pepper, garlic and whipped cheese escape my pallet.  I smile, thinking about my day, about how delicious that was, and how sometimes it’s funny the way things play out.  What little details can make you feel whole and accomplished, or disappointed and small.  It’s really easy to find things wrong, but it’s more fun to find things that are right. I make the decision to think about all the “rights” and approach my slumber delightfully content. Find your bagel, find your bed and enjoy that luxury-one of life’s many.  As my eyes grow heavy, the excitement builds for the adventure of another day, for what new passions I will find, and for one day, when love finds me.

[thetalkingbrain]

The Words.

Alarm. Snooze. Repeat three times.  Alarm. Stretch.  And just like that I begin.  Blank screen, blank page, idle hands.  I wait for the words to pour out of me.  On the train.  As I walk. Eyes closed pretending to sleep. The words lay dormant in my mind, hiding in my thoughts.  I take notes-little ideas, big themes-potential.  

I look up at the sky and breathe in through my nose and audibly out through my mouth.  I feel something-inspired?  My mind meanders as my body moves, fighting silence.  Ear bud left.  Ear bud right.  Close my eyes one more time, letting my eyelids linger a while longer, blanketed over my eyes.  One more deep breath in and out my nose.  Cold in.  Hot out.  I smile.  There’s that feeling again. Happiness and contentment?  A twinge of melancholy?  The image of a depressed watermelon pops into my head. 

I’ll think the words are about to overflow out of me, and then they disappear.  The last bits of a lozenge dissolving on your tongue.  A bubble as it bursts.  A thought you just had slip sliding away.  

Now I’m on the train. Standing, sitting, motionless but moving.  My body temp rises.  Did I put deodorant on today? “My sweaty subway adventures.” “My B.O.’s lament: an apology to my fellow CTA patrons.” 

There’s no reception underground, so I take out my book and open it to a random chapter.  It begins with a trip to an ice cream shop, a confession of love and a commentary on aging.  “Achoo!”-from the man sitting in front of me. “God bless you”-I say. I wonder about the origin of that phrase and the universal etiquette when someone sneezes.  Weird.

I see him slightly turn his head over his left shoulder.  Maybe to grab a glance at the stranger dealing out God’s blessings. ”The significance of kindness-the power of a positive interaction.”  A little annoyed at how dumb that sounds, still feel good about it’s meaning.

I step outside, above ground.  Sunglasses on.  Strut through the city.  Feeling empowered. Feeling sexy.  Feeling damp.  My long skirt is wet from stepping in a puddle and now I have to hold it up as I walk.  How quickly I go from glamorous and powerful, to wet and ridiculous.  “Things considered cool-breakers: stepping in a puddle, food in teeth, fly down, tripping, chasing the bus.” Will add more as they come.

Restlessness.  Later.  On the couch.  I sense the words creeping.  Electricity in my veins.  Not sure I want to find them right now.  I elect to find a distraction.  Food.  Ice cream.  Evening bike ride.  I meet a friend at the Tastee Freez.  I feel hungry, excited, guilty, nostalgic.  Cookie dough.  Brownie cake.  Swirled together.  I feel the thirst that comes from ice cream and the cold burns on my tongue.  I feel something else-a stomach ache?

I bike home and let silence win a moment.  The words trail behind as the wind muffles my ears and my legs pedal me home. “Pauline!”  The sound of my name stops me and turns me around.  The past and present greet me.  Old friends, new circumstances.  

All of a sudden the words barrel toward me.  I’ve stopped but the car behind me hasn’t and I’m rear-ended with an abundance of things to say.  I feel something.  Nervous?  Silence is not an option and I can’t stop talking-words tumbling out of my mouth and into the air.  Sentence.  Punch line. Question.  Listen.  Sentence.  Punch line.  I finally catch my breath.  Make plans to make plans.  The words pitter. I think i’ve just made up a condition that most definitely already exists.  “Conversation phobia.”  

Now I’ve stayed up too late.  Filling the darkness of my room with the light and lives and words of other worlds-fake but real.  For a moment, my own.  “I’m tired,” I exclaim, as more of a command than a sensation.  I turn off the light.  Lay on my back.  Lay on my side.  Lay on my stomach.  Stillness.

I inhale a deep cold breath through my nose.  Warm audible breath out of my mouth.  I smile.  I feel something.  Inspired?  Paragraphs begin to build in the notebook of my brain. Instead of dissolving on my tongue, or bursting, evaporating into the air, the thoughts stick.  And I can’t ignore. I flip the light. Grab a pen.  Dry.  Grab a pencil. Sharpened.  And just like that, I begin.

[thetalkingbrain]

“Think left and think right and think low and think high. Oh, the thinks you can think up if only you try!”-Dr. Seuss

I’m waiting for the bus. I usually have headphones in but today I’ve decided to not drown out the world but to submerge myself into it. I will myself to hear all the sniffles and coughs of strangers. The crunch and whoosh of the cars and buses as they drive by. Maybe even hear the light buzz of someone else’s music humming loudly through their ear buds. I love listening to music when I’m on the go because I feel like I have my own little soundtrack to my life. I imagine my life sometimes as a scene or montage in a movie, and whatever song is playing is what the audience would hear as the adorable but clumsy protagonist drops her mitten on the ground and spills coffee on her jacket as she tries to swipe her bus pass on the way to work at the cheese shop. It’s the beginning of a wonderful story as the quirky but passionate girl tries to find her way in the big city while eating copious amounts of cheese. But today, while still adorable and quirky, there’s no soundtrack, no storyline, just my life as it’s being lived. I board the bus and as I walk towards the back, the bus starts moving again and I am propelled forward a little bit and grab for the nearest pole and end up slinging myself into the nearest seat. No matter how many times I get on the bus, I’ll never be prepared for that jolt, and it’s always a “cool-breaker.” I’d like to think it’s always a smooth looking transition from standing to sitting, but the four people I whack with my backpack on the way down would probably beg to differ. I settle in to my seat. It’s amazing what comes up when you’re not listening to music or a podcast. I pull out my bus book-a series of short essays written by the female American Playwright, Sarah Ruhl. I don’t know much about writing a play or about Sarah Ruhl, but I love one, how intellectual that sentence makes me sound, and two reading the little snippets she has to say about life, theater and writing. I crack the book open to a random chapter, and begin to read with the squeaks, hums and voices of the bus and world around me as my soundtrack. I’m not saying every bus ride is peaceful, but I’m pleasantly surprised that today it is. The chapter is entitled, Plays of ideas. And as I get ready dive in, I get stuck on the third line. I read it three times. “I do believe that thinking is an overrated medium for achieving thought.” I read it the first time, and something sparks in my head, but I don’ t know what. So I read it again, “…thinking is an overrated medium for achieving thought.” And by the third time, I’m showered with light as the bulb above my head begins to glow. And the irony is that I start thinking like crazy. I spend a majority of my time over-thinking. I feel like everyone, most vehemently me, is constantly thinking about something-our next move, the next the detail, how to find love, how to keep love, what to eat for lunch, where and how we see ourselves in this world. That’s so much, but it’s always whirling around in our heads. It’s that idea that there is always something more we can be doing. It distracts from the “now” and has us in the “then.” I’m often paralyzed by the “what if” and I lose all ability to make a decision or own up to one I’ve already made. Sarah Ruhl’s quote falls under the context of ideas for theater, but it’s relevant as hell to life. We think of that word we couldn’t recall earlier during a meeting while mindlessly cooking dinner. We find clarity and peace when we go for a walk or run after a stressful day, with only the birds chirping or the snow crunching at our feet. We find inspiration from a line in a book we were reading just for fun. We find out a little bit more about ourselves when we stop looking so hard. I’m sometimes scared of my thoughts. It’s often here I discover my weaknesses and insecurities. But lately, I’ve decided to listen a little but more. I often times write them down-because when you see what you were so afraid of on paper-it’s not so bad after all. I’m not saying I’m going to stop listening to music on public transportation. I’m not insane. But every once a while it’s cool to listen to the city and let my mind wander. I’ve started to become less and less afraid of what might come up. The world can be isolating and overwhelming, but when I let it be the beat that I walk to, I feel a little more connected and a part of all the chaos. Achieving thought can mean an idea for a novel, a movie, a project at work, or newfound self-reflection. I find that most of my unhappiness stems from thoughts I deny that I know are true. It’s so easy for me to block out the world, escape into my own, but even there I’m usually lost. Every time I acknowledge a new thought, I grow. And every time I just accept where I am, instead of trying to discover that place, I become a little less lost in the world, and a just little a more found.

[thetalkingbrain]

"Home, why I keep returning."-David Byrne and Brian Eno

I have this incredibly vivid memory of a moment I had in kindergarten.  I had just nearly completed another miraculous half-day at school learning letters, reading stories, following the big cheese, crossing off another day until my reign as line leader would prevail once again.  And in my excitement, I made plans.  My best friend Luke invited me to go over to his house after school to play and of course I accepted!  His house had two guinea pigs, a sweet playroom and sugar cereals.  The bell rings and I rush out the door to ask mom if I can go home with Luke instead.  But it’s not mom that came to pick me up, it’s dad!  A rare and awesome occasion that my dad could come and pick me up and I’m so thrilled to see him, but blinded by my excitement for Cap’n Crunch and small caged animals that I still ask to go home with Luke and of course he obliges.

            And as I step into the car, I feel the pang.  It starts directly in my heart and creeps towards my tear ducts.  To this day I can still feel it in my veins, feel my muscles clench and my eyes well up.  I can still see his back as he rounds the corner and feel this overwhelming guilt and regret.  “Why didn’t I walk home with him?” I’ll ask myself.  He never came to pick me up.  We could have had a glorious walk home.  Eaten a delicious snack together, father and daughter. 

            Who knows what memory does over time but I have never been able to let go of this day and the pit that develops in my stomach every time I think of it. I told my dad this story a few years ago, and he laughed, told me he didn’t even remember that day, and only brings it up now when he wants to playfully poke fun at me because he knows I’ll immediately feel guilty.  I don’t know if any amount of time will pass where I won’t feel the all-familiar twinge in my brain, turn of my stomach and quiver of my lip.

            I have this same feeling when I crave home, wherever that may be.  Call it the Sunday Blues, nostalgia, the backlash effects of a bad hangover, but I get it all the time.  I crave something I can’t quite explain.  It’s like trying to think of a word or a thought, and it’s on the tip of your tongue and yet you can quite literally feel the idea or word slip away into the abyss of your mind.  As I get older, this feeling manifests in different ways.  Post-college, I have this immense passion to expand my horizons, unveil my independence and reach that place I’m destined to be while battling with this childhood desire to have my mom tuck me in and my dad sing me “Bye Bye Blackbird” when I can’t sleep. 

            Sometimes when I return back to this memory, and see my dad just as he turns the corner, I think of love.  Quite honestly, I think about love all the time.  Maybe I didn’t feel quite so much regret and guilt at the young age of 5, but over time, as the world enlightens you and jades you all at once, during moments when I’ve had this craving for love and comforts I can’t quite describe, that image would arise and I’d feel that guilt-that regret of not appreciating it when I had it, whatever it was.  Looking back now, of course I’d choose a lovely stroll with my father over Fruity Pebbles any day, but alas, I was only in kindergarten, and we only had cornflakes at our house.  Love is so fascinating because it comes in so many different forms, can make you happy, make you feel lonely, it can complicate some things and be the solution to another.  But without a doubt in my mind it’s something that everyone wants to give and receive.

            Love is sometimes synonymous with nostalgia for me.  I’ll have these moments when I’m with my family or friends and we could be doing something totally ordinary or it could be some crazy spectacular event, and I’ll just take a step back, and feel this overwhelming sense of fortune, happiness and then an almost sadness. I’ll be flooded by the immediate desire to retain everything that’s happening and this urgent fear that I’m not appreciating the moment enough before the moment has even passed.  Maybe that’s where that regret and fear comes from.  Love is amazing and powerful and so freakin’ scary to lose and sometimes we can’t even believe that we have it.

            As much as I think about love I think about moments.  The desire to constantly be in one is thematic for me.  How I see it, to be present leads to appreciation, which can lead to love and happiness.  My dad has no recollection of this event and for all I know it never happened, but for whatever reason it seems to be seared in my brain.  It could be that at the old age of five, I was already feeling nostalgic for the good old days.  Or maybe the mind just works in mysterious ways, and as I learn more about myself, and love and loneliness, this image just seems to come to mind.  Whatever the reason may be, I can use this event as a lesson in the futility of regret, the power in love and the importance of appreciating the now without fear of the future.  Love can be amazing and love can be scary but is altogether wasted when feared.  And as much as we crave to change things in the past or seek a comfort we once knew, life is constantly changing, time is always moving forward, and inevitably so are we.