the habit of being

For future reference:

Cosmopolitans and appletinis. A 40-hour workweek. Paying the $100 overdue DSL bill. Catching up on my student loans. After a three week hiatus, diving back into my practice with daily yoga classes, sore and happy. Falafel sandwiches with Abaseh. Submitting the petition for retroactive withdrawal from Spring 02 NYU classes. Being accepted. A birthday party. A baby shower. A play, and dinner after with the actors. Deciding to sign another year lease. Being In Charge. Sneaking out of posh Dupont Circle condos at three in the morning. Walking home, unafraid. Not being worried about having enough to pay my rent. Another negative pregnancy test. Cheap pedicures next week? Tickets for Bjork in Brooklyn? Jivamukti while I’m there? Each breath as a new beginning? The Pillow Book, and a reinactment with Rilke and a green sharpie. Poetry fading into my skin for days. An hour and a half laughing on the phone with my mother, just trying to say goodbye. A day that could be any day and every day. Presents to buy. A letter in the mail with no return address, postmarked California: $15 and a note saying “You are so beautiful. Thank you for being a miracle.” No idea who sent it. Lying together on my floor. Sleeping together on my bed. Waking up rested and happy. I’ll call you. I’ll call you. I’ll call you. Email me! Finding someone as still as I am. Finding somewhere to go on Fourth of July weekend? More books to read. More complications. More fullness. Forgetting the sponges, but remembering the diet Coke. Open a savings account! A postcard from my grandparents in Alaska. Letters from my father; I still need to reply. A cupcake from my boss. The champagne we never drank. He photographed me in front of a yellow building, and left his camera in my bag. This Might Be Something Serious. I haven’t worn this much eye makeup since I was fifteen. Telling the Condensed Whole Story to a yoga teacher in the dim light of the Tranquil Space office (a shoe-free environment). Telling it over tofu to a 35 year old man. Telling it to the ceiling of my basement apartment, where I’ll be living for another year. Telling it to you. Making lists in the Special List Notebook. Five hours of sleep for thirteen hours of work. Knowing everyone in the room. Unreal.