Fear of Brooklyn and lapses in language

I was anxious about returning home for winter break far in advance, and my fears have been mostly confirmed. Between October and December I only came to Brooklyn twice, the first time being for my mother’s double mastectomy. That week was full of whirlwind pain and strife for her and worry for me, multiplied by the brutal grief I was experiencing over the end of my relationship. The second time was for thanksgiving, during which I was in the most emotionally run-down state I have been in recent memory. The idea of coming to the city again was just gutting. I’m not sure how to characterize my feelings about home right now, because I am trying to be well—to take walks, be around friends, and write every day—but I don’t feel loved in Brooklyn. I feel afraid and purposeless. I am walking into a fresh hurt all over again by returning here after months of virtual isolation. The walls of my childhood bedroom are haunting and everything I own seems to brush up on sore places inside me. At times my family seems to be playing an endless game of hot potato with a bundle of misery and bitterness. Being on the train has been making me paranoid, and the little wonders of life I used to observe, collect, and illustrate (like swans in park ponds and basins, or the vibrant yellow Q train symbol charging down a dark tunnel) make me ache. My presence here seems unwelcome, as though the neighborhoods of my own borough held council and decided I should be disowned.

If I didn’t have New Paltz to return to, I might be inconsolable. Up there, potential is sprouting within a crazy interconnected web of people I've stumbled into. I joined a collective called the Eddy and we are beginning to plan a (hopefully!) huge, beautiful event for Earth Day. I have been dreaming of ways we might make an interdisciplinary, self-generated library of environmental writing and art for the event and keep it as a growing collection. Knowing that I will contribute to that, and to other projects and workshops and things, is like a precious touchstone for me. I'm grateful, too for school itself and the chance to study. I am going to be taking two English courses and two studios next semester, a near-perfect schedule that still promises challenge (welding! 6-hour bookmaking! So many essays!) There’s also my great hope to spend time outdoors very frequently in 2024, my goal being a walk on the rail trail from New Paltz to Kingston (around 13 miles). I walked to Rosendale one morning back in September. I get restless sometimes, and my prevailing desire is to move. Not to run away exactly, but to be in self-driven motion. To carry myself somewhere, have a look around, and get back to work. 

Writing has taken on new importance in my life. I'm journaling every single day, and doing creative work, but I wish I were a better writer. There is so much I want to communicate, (whether or not anyone cares or pays attention) but fail to and fail again. I was thinking the other day about how I struggled for years to adequately express gratitude—felt mainly for my immense luck to be loved and to love so much—and I spent a lot of time trying to pin down the words that could get across a feeling that was elusive and special. I don't believe I ever truly succeeded, but that effort is important to me. Now when people ask how I am doing, or want to catch up with me, I get caught in this hitch where I don’t know how to be honest about what has happened or how I am feeling. My vocabulary seems too constrained. I haven't found the right words to talk about my experiences from a year ago, let alone the ones I have today.

When I spoke at Sound Your Truth (the event that got me involved with Eddy at NP) back in October, there was this moment where I snapped back into reality from a haze after hearing myself wail, “It’s indescribable! I don’t know how to describe it!” So strange to take the stage, ostensibly “having something to say,” only for that something to be “I don’t know what to say”. With that admission in the air, I took a deep breath and read my poetry aloud for the first time as an adult. I think acknowledging the frustrating, throat-closing limitation of our words can itself be a meaningful expression. One of my professors recently told me that I am very language-based in my development of visual art. She suggested that I try to let unformed ideas come out through sketches before saddling my thoughts with any sort of description. I wonder if her assessment might be true of me beyond art class—the idea of leaving anything wordless is scary. I can’t imagine myself creating anything but ugly and ineffective messes if I don’t “think things through” (in words). I wonder if some of the reality that I can’t translate into writing might be clearer in whatever unskilled, unsightly picture I would physically render. 

Speaking of, I’m hopeful that the writing momentum I’ve built over the past few months will continue and strengthen. There’s a short story I dreamt up with an entire plot and world attached, but I haven’t bitten the bullet and attempted to draft it yet. How do you choose the single string of words and images that best represents an imaginary reality, an entire three-dimensional world? It’s overwhelming to consider and I am not sure I have the focus needed to accomplish it. (Though writing about it here makes me want to try). Writing fiction has always been brutal for me. Maybe it’s comparable to making art without a legible concept; the whole thing feels too undefined. A journal entry or poem comes more naturally to me because they are grounded in earnest observations and feelings, even if they aren’t written with technical accuracy. I am a bad liar! Of course fictional work is a genuine creative expression though, it's "created". I want to believe that I will free up my hands and head a bit this year and try to make any sort of thing I’m drawn to make.  

Returning to where this started, I need to admit there have been some happy moments in Brooklyn (and Manhattan). I met the man who says, “Stand clear of the closing door, please,” during one of the MTA's holiday nostalgia rides. Yesterday on a walk I encountered a sticker on a signpost that read “LESBIAN WALKING CLUB,” and it felt like a welcoming, hopeful message that was kindly left for me. I am going to try to attend their next walk. Also, I saw Poor Things, my first movie since the summer, and it was surprisingly awesome. And there’s more: a very giggly dinner at Corthaiyou, the enduring generosity and care of my friends (why does this always surprise me?), the consistent relief of returning to the Beatles when I am in need. My view from the second floor of the Central Library: flakes of snow like huge joyful wet kisses falling on the same stretch of Eastern Parkway that lined my weekends as a toddler. Ignoring these glowing gifts of peace would be as untrue as omitting the real sense of horror I've had recently.

On that same walk yesterday, I wandered through Prospect Park. I passed spots that made me long for simple summer half-days spent picnicking. I watched a billowy swan drift by one of those places, and pressed a hand to my sore chest. At the end of the Great Lawn, I entered one of several stone arch tunnels. It looked the same as it did 15 or 16 years ago: crept-over with ivy, lightly dim inside, and perfectly constructed to amplify the small voice of a child running ahead of her parent. 

Endale Arch in Prospect Park c. 1890
 Prospect Park Alliance Archives/Bob Levine Collection.