I want to write about tonight but it is late and I am tired. I want to write about Stonewall, about the cop car that sat there and I wanted a brick to throw for Stormé and Marsha and Sylvia. I want to write about the silver fox I met at the bar, who first captivated me with her existence, then her words, and finally her embrace. I want to write about standing inside The Stonewall Inn, absorbing the history of the iconic place, and meeting Max and Amy and Ronnie while I drank a Manhattan, not because of the city we are in, but because it was Hawthorne’s drink and I am standing in The fucking Stonewall Inn. I want to capture the fierce pride I feel, the depth of grief and despair I feel for our elders and ancestors in the community, for the hope and resilience I feel in the rebuilt bricks and boards around me. I want to write about coming here to New York, away from my child, away from my responsibilities, to recharge and rest and read and write. I want to write about all of this, and I will.
For now, though, I am still more than tipsy from the bourbon, whatever it was that the bartender poured. I’m still high on the strong hug from an attractive woman at the bar, the one who toasted my wife with me when she heard the news. I’m still soaring on the time I get with a close friend who lives too far away, the simple peace that her presence brings with her utter lack of bullshit and unwavering acceptance.
I vibrate with the movement of the subway underneath us, the boards of this apartment creaking as they shift under my feet, wide enough to feel the space between them with a single footstep. I hum along with the dull cacophony of Alphabet City, the moan of lovers behind the surrounding windows, and the coo of pigeons tucked among the crevices of the concrete.
I can’t help but absorb.
The AirBNB my friend found is incredible. It’s like living in a thrift store that was curated with the love and attention of prop masters who have lived in various countries for over a hundred years, and never leaving empty-handed, but always with a deference to the history and solemnity of the items they took with them. Nothing in here feels forced or removed. It feels like a home, more than any rental I’ve been in. This apartment – the furniture, the copious oil paintings, the myriad of knickknacks, tchotchkes, and keepsakes – this is a den of passion and love for art and travel and love itself. There is nothing duplicated here; there is nothing mass produced aside from the garbage cans and what we bring with us. One urn is filled with canes of different heights and handles, one cabinet with salt and pepper shakers. The hats might not match the collection of hat boxes, but they exist harmoniously. The Tiffany lamp with its embedded peacock and cast grape leaves, the busts of iron and plaster and marble, the stacks of vintage suitcases and steamer trunks that tower to the high ceilings; all of it, a labor of love and devotion and joy in the evolution of beauty through over two dozen decades.
I am here to rest and relax, enjoy the company of my friend and experience what I never thought I would in New York City.
I have been struggling lately – we are about 80% unpacked, hitting that spot where the motivation runs out and it’s hard to figure out where Random Thing, Exhibit G is supposed to fit into our new lives. It must, somewhere; right? We packed it up, thinking it important enough to take with us, so it must be so.
I have been yearning, deeply, since recovering from my health scare. Having your mortality breathing down your neck like that can have that affect, I’ve heard. I am desperate to be held and touched, and keening to spend my time devoted to the craft and practice of writing.
I had an author event last weekend, and two wonderful friends joined me to help me sell my book. I almost hit my goal of 15 copies, selling thirteen – and sort of considering the goal hit anyway, as at least two people promised to buy the electronic version to suit their needs better. I felt alive there in a way that felt familiar but still sparkled with new energy.
But I have been out of sorts since leaving the event, carefully packing away my author self and slipping back into the heavy – if comfortable – body of myself as mother, employee, and exhausted. It wasn’t until this week’s therapy session that I realized why it felt like I had gone from feeling so good, so high, to bleeding from my lip as I lay facedown after falling.
This is the time of year I DO devote myself more to writing. It’s when I take my annual retreat – a handful of days away from my kiddo, away from chores and responsibility and adulting, and take myself out into the world in order to focus inward. I’ve been jonesing for it, my body remembering that it’s time to get away even when my brain needed a lot longer to catch up.
Thankfully, this trip was already planned. It was supposed to be a reading retreat – books and tea and snacks, and a few excursions, from somewhere beautiful and unfamiliar. Something to break through the ruts that a hard winter bore down in us, a reminder that we don’t need to stay stuck. We can do more than exist, more than survive, more than tune out and follow where our feet are already pointing.
It’s become so much more than that.
I am reading – currently, an anthology of Indigenous dark fiction (it’s terrifying and immersive, and I highly recommend it). I’m also writing – I’ve added a couple thousand words to my latest book on this trip so far, and I’m only halfway through (both the book and the trip, so, plenty of space). I am resting, I am relaxing and rejuvenating. What I wasn’t counting on was the combination of comfort and inspiration.
The way the light comes through the windows in the morning in a way I’ve never seen before, the Persian rugs that remind me of my childhood home. The paintings and piano that stood in my mother’s living room next to blankets made from southwest sunsets and parasol collections to rival any cottagecore Pinterest board. These are collections, not clutter, and arranged in a way that make this a home, that invite the visitor to sink into the velvet couch cushions and allow themselves to drift.
This makes me feel, somehow, like my dreams are still there, still waiting, still possible. From the little ones of having a space for my tarot cards that doesn’t end up full of other stuff, to spending more time and energy banging away at a keyboard in the enjoyment of writing. In a few days I’ll return home to chaos, but this trip has been a much-needed reminder – I can have this. I can create this sense of home and peace and joy, I can prioritize my home and my peace and my joy.
My friend bought flowers for the apartment her first day here. The tulips are overblown now, stems elongated and the blooms reaching all around like a slow-motion firework. In looking up this place and its history, she decided that the person who curated this amazing place was definitely the kind of person to have fresh flowers here at all times, and she was right. Before I leave, I am going to buy another bunch or two from one of the vendors who use them to color the street side of their open market. I want to give to this experience, even though I know I am taking far more away than I could ever hope to repay.
This certainly isn’t the first time I’ve had to go away to come home to myself. Maybe it’s because this winter was insipid and hellacious by turns, and I’m just burned out. Maybe it’s because those gray days are ending, and I’m simply ready for the color to come back. Maybe I’m just finally fully accepting that the dreams I had, when it included H and Oscar and a homestead in Vermont… those dreams are gone. And, that’s OK. Our family looks different now. Shit, I look different now, and I’m still working on coming to terms with that.
Dreams change, but that doesn’t mean I can’t still follow them. And with a stop on the way including a best friend, a stack of books, and a gorgeous escape in the East Village, I’m ready to see what happens next.
Queer Mama Rising 