chapter 32: the trees

Today’s one of those sun on your shoulder-iced coffee-sneakers and an evening walk-kind of days in New York, and I thought to myself at lunch, “why not write to you.” It’s not a Monday, but that’s okay.

I’d rather not state the flat-out obvious (it’s been a while have I died), and plow right on to the news: I’m feeling good. I’m actually satisfied right now. What about you? How have the last couple of months been for you?

Every day on my way home from work on these commonly slush-ridden, hail-storming evenings, I walk past a park: it’s surrounded by a towering black-iron gate, and the garden is covered in snow: yellow snow, brown snow, black snow, vomit snow. But along the garden’s perimeter are tall, gaunt tree stalks. They’re hunched, like they’ve been bearing the weight of a cold, dark winter for too long, and they haven’t had the chance to express themselves in months.

I’ve felt like those trees for a while: hunched over my desk littered with menial tasks, silencing myself creatively for fear of exposing my lack and insecurities, trivializing myself into the size of a shrub.

It’s an awful feeling when you make yourself small – when you let your fears rock you to sleep and surrender. But all winter long, I’ve told myself, “It’s just your season. The season will pass.”

And slowly, like the unraveling of the first bud of a baby stalk, I think… I might… be opening.

Thanks to a recent submission deadline for screenplays, I’ve actually written a good chunk of mine and sent it out. And what fortitude it took: the screaming matches between my fears and my passions continued into the night. But with the forced intervention of a deadline, the two were coerced (momentarily) to extend an olive branch so I could do my job – which is merely what I think I’m meant to do on this earth, which is write and hope that it resonates with people.

But perhaps it’s the silence of their screaming that’s letting me write to you today. When fear doesn’t try to suffocate passion, there’s a quiet space made, like the cleaning of a sock drawer or kitchen cabinet, for inspiration and encouragement to come in. I’m so grateful for this. (May it last through the night may it last through the night).

And I’m actually in love, guys. And it’s not that fucked up-can’t have you but want you-why is life so hard-is this good for my writing but bad for my health-kind of love. But an actually supportive, warming feeling that also helps keep the fears at bay, or at least, joins me in solidarity to fight them. Eleanor’s a special person, and it helps to be with someone who paints and understands the vulnerability of creating while juggling a job, but she does her own thing and has a talent I cannot comprehend. She still lives across the hall, though we do enjoy our sleepovers.

I’m reading a great book called “Story” right now – have you heard of it? It’s commonly coined the “Bible of screenwriting,” but its advice on creating a story and maintaining a structure align with writing a book, plays, etc. In the first couple of pages, it states that when we go to see a movie or a play, and the lights go down, and our reactions are hidden to the world, we’re free to feel how we want to feel – which is why we pay lots of money and invest our time to see them. That liberation in this world is a rare, rare beast. But beyond this point, it also mentions how there’s a grave misconception when it comes to movies and theatre and books: we don’t put in the time and effort with these pieces to escape our lives, but rather to find them – to discover our flaws and our desires in the characters we meet. We watch and read these pieces so we know we’re not alone.

So we know we’re not alone. Isn’t that brilliant? That we ride the escalator to theatre 4, shell out $18 on a movie ticket and some Raisinets, just to be reminded for two and a half hours that we’re not alone.

And in the writing of these pieces – when you’re the one endeavoring to write the book, the movie, the show – that’s truly the story behind your story. You write to reassure and connect with others and let them know, “Hey, you’re just like me, and I’m just like you. We’re gonna be okay.”

I can’t wait to walk by the park today. With the first 60-degree day in New York in months, I know what I’ll find. Where there was once yellow and black and brown snow, there will be grass. And where there was gaunt and hunched trees, there will be buds. And that’s the thing about the seasons: just when you think that nothing has happened and all is dormant and nothing is moving forward, life suddenly appears, having waited for its moment to blossom, and you come alive.

chapter 27: i’m back

It feels good to be writing to you again. I missed it.

What took me so long?

Let me explain in as simple and honest a way that I can.

For a while there, I found myself kind of paralyzed when it came time to write to you. I think I felt like I had to deliver something great every week. Like I had to make my life into something exciting enough to deserve to be told and shared with you all.

And each week, I only had seven days to do it. Seven days between my next post to carefully package a story with all the tragedy, triumphs, confusion, arousals, love, and fury of a life well lived.

But I’m just me, Doug in NYC, and I know that the only one pressuring me, was me. Do you know what I mean? I hope so.

You’re a special audience. You’ve got questions and witty comebacks, real anecdotes about your lush lives – the best and the worst – and you share them with me in this journal. Each thought you share is such a gem of a gift, I thank this lovely internet for the chance to receive it.

But, I guess you only receive if you give, and that’s the only time it’s really satisfying. So I’m back to giving.

Now where was I?

Oh yes…

chapter 14: the new year

Every year, around the end of December, I spend a good deal of time looking out the window. Like a house dog. “Reflection” is what they call it, but it might as well be coined “Digging A Hole To China With A Utensil,” because once I start “reflecting,” I don’t stop, and I don’t really get anywhere, and my mind and back starts to hurt.

I’m not where I was last year, which is a good thing, I suppose.

Last year, I was toiling with the fourth draft of a short film, doing some freelance film-editing jobs, and cleaning the kitchen for my mom after dinner.

This year, I have my own kitchen. And I haven’t touched a script in months, but I paid for this sandwich I’m eating.

How do I feel?

I feel pretty afraid, actually.

I am looking at my life and feeling kind of frightened by how easy it is to succeed at the things you don’t care about, and how hard it is to thrive at the things you do.

They like me at my job, and they pay me for it and they think I do it well.

But if my salary was connected like an IV to my heart, I’d be banking zero at the job and millions at the script.

But that’s not how life works. It rewards you in the places you least expect it to, and it’s frightening to think that life doesn’t notice if your “heart’s not in it.” In fact, the only one who notices is you.

When Eleanor and I went up to the Empire State Building at 1am, we didn’t speak. We ran out to the freezing observation deck and looked out at the skyscrapers and traffic lights and rooftops and bridges. We reflected in our own quiet way.

In the cab back, we still didn’t speak. And when we went up the elevator to our floor, there was silence.

Eleanor: Goodnight, Doug.

Me: Goodnight.

I walked the five steps to my apartment and shut the door and looked out the window. I considered Digging The Hole again, but passed. Instead, I put on my pajamas and laid in bed and looked up at the ceiling.

Maybe Eleanor felt the same way I did that night above the city: small. 

But in a good way. Because if we’re really that small, imagine how tiny our thoughts are.

And if our thoughts are tiny, our fears are, too.

chapter 10: hit man

Ever since the holiday, it’s felt like a rippling, red-and-green-striped tidal wave has crashed through New York, and I’ve become swept up in it. My nights have been spent at work until 9pm, trying to stay focused and seemingly interested and capable in an industry I know nothing about, all while dusting remnants of nacho chips onto my keyboard every time I type.

Every time I think I’ve finally mastered something, the task suddenly gets harder and I’m proven wrong. It’s like thinking you’ve beat the boss at the final level of a video game, until he suddenly hurls a grenade you’ve got to learn how to dodge. Life stays interesting.

But does it really?

Sometimes I worry that I’m becoming this one-note person – someone who’s just his job, losing sight of his creative sensations and urges, who doesn’t look up – reach upwards – long enough to grasp what living is.

Why have I not seen Eleanor? I didn’t get her number. And I don’t have Facebook. In fact, I don’t even know if she’s back from the holidays. So now, we’re thrust into this 19th-century relationship where encounters are dictated by fate, not text. And since I’m working so much and hardly home to knock on her door, fate has yet to make its appearance. But why hasn’t she knocked on my door? Or maybe she has – and I’ll never know. “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it…”

The good news: there’s been an addition to the family.

Meet: Sir Hunter Green.

He’s a modest three-feet-tall, stocked with colorful lights and a stuffed reindeer ornament I got at the Union Square holiday market. The lights were too long so I laid the rest of it on my heating vent. I’m not very crafty.

Sir Hunter and I have been listening to Christmas music all day while I’ve laid in bed watching Damages. Have you seen it? It stars Glen Close and Rose Byrne as ruthless lawyers in New York doing illegal things to bring ‘justice’ to the world. The moral of the entire five-season story: trust no one.

And now the lesson has started rubbing off on me. Have you ever noticed that about TV shows? When you become so committed and attached to them, these people become your friends and their outlooks become your own. You’ve got to choose wisely, you know.

Now I’ve started questioning everyone’s intentions: is that guy with the love-struck girlfriend secretly texting her best friend? Did my friend leave last night’s party early to feed his fledgling drug addiction? Did the waiter steal my credit card number to pay off a hit man to kill a roommate who knows his darkest secret?

You see, I don’t want to question people’s motives. Navigating life is hard enough without having to dissect every moment like a Salinger book. But yet – there’s an air of ‘mystery’ that the questioning brings, like there’s some underground scandal I’ve discovered, and should be sitting in an oak-paneled room with a cigar, plotting how to avenge ‘the bad guy.’

I’ve lost it. Have I lost it? Has my life become so humdrum that I’m assuming the thoughts of TV characters? I don’t want to be someone who spends his nights and weekends escaping to a show because his own life isn’t fun enough to watch.

Time to make things interesting.

chapter eight

Being in a woman’s apartment is a very peculiar thing. There are only three reasons a single, 40-year-old man would ever find himself in a single woman’s apartment: 1. he is going to sleep with her 2. he is hoping he’ll sleep with her or 3. he is plumbing her toilet.  

With the exception of number two, I am unsure which is happening between Eleanor and I. Sitting on her couch, with a view of the Empire State Building, it felt like we fast-forwarded several dates. And yet, glancing at her her unmade, ruffled bed, the tilted artwork, and the crumbs on her kitchen counter, I am pretty sure there’s a clogged drain somewhere in that studio that’s in need of cleaning. But you can never be too sure. 

Eleanor: What are you thinking about?

Me: What do you mean?

Eleanor: You just got quiet there.

Me: Oh. I got distracted by your art.

She smiled and looked up at the painting hanging above her bed. It’s of a woman with a very small head on a half-exposed body, sitting in a robe at a small kitchen table. She’s holding a glass of water with lemon, and peering out.

Me: Did you make this?

Eleanor: Yeah, last year. For a class.

Me: It’s beautiful.

Eleanor: Thanks.

Me: What is it of?

Eleanor: A woman, in a kitchen.

Me: What’s she thinking?

Eleanor: I don’t know. 

It surprised me that she didn’t know. Aren’t artists supposed to have intent? But then I thought of the Mona Lisa. Can Da Vinci explain her smile?

Me: She’s a mystery.

Eleanor: I guess. Or maybe she is just confused.

Me: Confusion is mysterious.

Eleanor: It is.

Then we sat in silence. It felt heavy, and I had to make it stop.

Me: Hey, have you been to that new Italian spot across the street?

Eleanor: The one with all the noise?

Me: Yeah.

Eleanor: Nope, I haven’t been yet.

Me: Want to go?

Eleanor: Now?

Me: Sometime. Next week? When I haven’t ordered Thai.

Eleanor: Yeah, let’s do that, that sounds fun.

She said it in a really nonchalant, very cool way that made me wonder if she was uninterested or trying to compensate for getting nervous. I do that, too, sometimes. I compensate.

Me: Great. Well, I’m glad I stopped by.

Eleanor: Me too.

Me: Have a good rest of the night, drying your clothes.

Eleanor: Good night.

Me: Good night. 

She closed the door, and I walked five steps and opened and closed my door. After drinking some water, I put on my pajamas, brushed my teeth, and got into bed. 

 And I thought about the woman at the kitchen table. How she sits there above Eleanor’s bed, day and night, clutching that glass of water, and peering out. Maybe she’s confused. Perhaps she is mysterious. Or maybe she’s the luckiest painting in all of New York.

my sixth chapter

So after Eleanor left, I rinsed the wine glasses and worked out.

The gym I go to is on a corner, and the front of it is all windows, facing a busy avenue full of traffic and dimly-lit restaurants. Sometimes, when I’m lifting weights at night, I like to look out the window at the couples sitting in the restaurants, drinking cocktails and laughing over dishes of guacamole or bruschetta. I wonder how long they’ve known each other, what they’re talking about, if they’ve had sex, if they’re happy. And then, when I start to worry that they can see me watching, I turn and face the other way.

Yesterday, my mom and dad visited. They saw the wine glasses in the sink and asked if I’ve become an alcoholic. When I told them I had a friend over, they were skeptical. Sometimes my mom likes to rub it in that most of my friends are married with kids and, thereby, too busy to spend time with me. This was one of those times.

I debated telling them about Eleanor. About how nice and attractive I think she is. How she’s a graphic designer but also a painter, and how she takes the stairs on weekends.

But then I’d have to tell them that she lives across the hall, and then they’d probably call me ‘lazy.’ Because only the laziest person in the world dates the girl across the hall.

I’m really not lazy, though. I keep my eyes open for someone new. I like to observe people when I’m out to eat with friends, and when I’m at a party or other social function, I do talk to women. Sometimes they talk back.

When people ask why I haven’t met someone yet, I used to say that I’m too busy pursuing The Arts and living at home with my parents. But now that I’ve moved out and gotten a job, I think I’ve got to think of a new response.

Maybe I’ll say ‘chemistry.’

Chemistry is one of the hardest things to find. There’s a warmth to it, you know? I really believe the temperature rises between two people when they’re talking and have chemistry. It’s like all the molecules in the room sense what’s happening between these two people, and so they zoom over to witness and marvel at what’s taking place.

When I see couples embracing in the street, I smile, because I remember that warm feeling. Sometimes I want to tap them on the shoulder and tell them that this is what they’ll never forget. But that would be intrusive.

Most of all, I think I’d like to thank them. Because when they’re standing there together, I swear that, for a moment, that feeling that they feel passes along to me, and I feel it, too. It comes rushing back. And just when I’ve had a moment to savor it and let it really warm me up, it quickly disappears, and I keep on walking.