Here's the Thing
"Having it all" is just a hamster wheel with good branding.
I love the idea of "having it all", it’s so romantic and dreamy. New York makes it feel possible, maybe that’s why I love living here so much. It’s part of it at least, I'm obsessed with the idea of "all". I always want more of everything.
But the weird thing is, the more I consume the hungrier I get. So I unhinge my jaw to take in more but it's exhausting, draining even. And I wonder if wealth is inherently draining? Is monetary wealth draining? Millionaires, please report back. As a non-millionaire but as a very wealthy person of free things (which I can confirm are the best things), I am massively in love with all of these things and still feel like I need more.
It’s only draining when I stop for long enough to think about it. Most of the time I don't though. I'm just in it, and my heart is usually dancing and backflipping and joyfully crying.
But when I do stop for long enough to think about it, all the joy turns to fear because I see that I’ll never have it all. I'll miss many moments that aren't coming back. Moments that were never even mine, and I'll miss them anyway as if there were ever a chance that they could be mine. I get jealous that they weren't mine because “why couldn't they have been mine too? Why wasn't I invited...”
...because I think that's what the fantasy of “having it all” is in reality. The more I see, have, and feel— the more there is to see, have, and feel. Every experience is a door, behind it is a different world that houses countless other doors, and I have to fight the urge to fling open as many as I can because I’m afraid that I'll miss something. When I fall into a flinging frenzy, I only end up missing what’s right in front of me, because there is no end. There is no such thing as opening all the doors. There is no such thing as "all".
On Saturday I felt the illusion of "all" creep up on me at a reading of Bernadette Mayer's second printing of Memory (Siglio Press) at Unnamable Books in Brooklyn. I went because the effervescent and permafabulous Dorothea Laskey was one of the readers and posted about it on her Instagram. If Dottie was going I knew it had to be good, even though I'd never heard of Bernadette. I didn't know what her style was like or even what Memory was. When I heard entries from the book read aloud and saw some of the accompanying photos, I was catapulted into a poetic style that was totally different from any form I'd seen or considered before, but it felt familiar. It sounded like something I'd trained out of myself a long time ago, something that I thought required too much of other people's patience if I wanted to be considered a palatable person.
Memory is a dream-like series of photos and journal entries of experimental poetry that spans over July, 1971. A single month displayed in 336 pages of words and photos. The story of how Memory came to be, in all of its iterations, sounds like a dream in itself (read and hear more about it here) but it's no wonder that this expansive collection turbocharged my hunger; a legendary project that has grown for 53 years and continues to branch further and further, came from the dense seed of one month.
Thankfully I didn't have time to spiral down a rabbit hole of Bernadette's entire life, collected works, contemporaries, etc. in hopes of relieving the burning sensation of "all" that came over me. I had a birthday party to get to. The birthday of an absolute favorite friend who I only have big experiences with. The big experiences that look like this (sent to me by the birthday girl herself):
It made me feel good about downsizing "all" with "more". The right kind of “more”.
Current favorite
In other news, I’ve been performing this piece a lot lately at poetry readings. I don’t really know what it is. Sort of poem, sort of story. It’s a little too long for open mics clocking in at around 7min, but it’s a really fun experience to share with an audience.
BUSHWICK
Our blind date was arranged by someone who described him to me as "upandcoming". I fought to keep myself whole through the vaporizing inadequacy I still felt while autopiloting my way to the locale of our meet-blah. A dingy café with an annoyingly broad selection of obscure teas for a place with no AC.
I sipped his company with forced patience through gritted teeth, the same way I did with the yerba maté he ordered for me. Trying to make sense of the whole experience, I summed it up as something that was needed more than wanted. An unsavory rite of passage that I'd deferred for as long as I could, before moving toward the patronization I hoped to achieve someday. One that would keep distance between us.
I judged his every move as the product of a rootless and undirected creature, having nothing together in the worst way. The people who described him to me as an artist didn't know him or his medium. They knew only enough to stake the prior claim, they "always knew", just in case he ever showed up at Christie's.
And here I was, the pawn in a periphery experience of those I saw gliding through the plush and gilded world I knew I was destined for. Because who really wanted to be around the grunge until it became an artistic choice? Or the holes in the wall before they came with a Michelin Star? None of us, that's who. They'd abandoned a world that survived on art as soon as they could. As I hoped to do soon.
Until then, I'd be a tether inconvenienced and he'd be my host who had nothing better to do. He was nothing more to me than experience I needed to have in order to mine for later production. I was sure the sentiment was mutual, there was no other reason for him to be with me.
We drank, ate, teased, fought, fucked, came, went, slept, woke, spoke, listened, but mostly ignored-- letting each moment fade quickly as if sprayed through an atomizer. Still, I could feel our moments together adhere to an untold story that would present itself in a frame or on a pedestal much later. Always from his perspective.
I knew from the beginning that his success was closer than mine. I resented him for it while selfishly needing him, then resented myself for using him, all while praying for his success as one adjacent to my own. Desperate to break such a sordid cycle, I’d dabble in and out of self-actualization but continued to relapse while he mostly went out.
I never knew where he went, most of the time I didn't care. But on my better days, I'd stay up and wait for him hoping to catch glimpses at 4am before he poured himself into bed. In those few minutes, he was the "someone" so many people could see he might grow into someday if he ever cared for long enough to get there.
These 4ams would be the closest I'd ever get, we both knew I'd sooner die than stay long enough to be part of it, and he didn't seem to mind at all.
I think he always knew that I couldn't simply be with him. I couldn't conceal such palpable nonbelonging. My entire being refused his company, I tried and failed to force myself into comfort. His presence was like an inescapable, unflattering mirror that held a reflection of myself that I couldn't stand to sit with.
He'd come by to pick me up, and I'd stare out at him through the peep hole in my door for a long time, delaying every moment I could before coming face to face with my harsh reality. His existence was a reminder that I was still a tether, residing in no world of my own. I'd been in The City long enough to experience many worlds, but not long enough to find mine.
I'd eventually open the door and scour his face looking for bits of something I could hold onto, it only made me hate everything more. We'd sit down at a bar and my skin crawled watching him stir his sweaty whisky sour with his pinky. I'd notice his floppy beanie and felt my stare curdle into a stink eye. He held onto one knee and swiveled himself back and forth on his bar stool, I angled myself away from him while diving too far into his every mannerism. My seething pooled. I refused to absorb any part of him, fearful that it may infect me.
But the distance I forced between us didn't keep me from him as much as it kept me from myself. I planted myself where happiness could never exist, as far away as I could from any shred of intimacy with him. I didn't come near my own joy for long enough to see that I liked his floppy beanie, or to order my own whisky sour. I could have loved the view if I'd ever turned to face him.
Instead, I remained cocked like a pistol, ready to fire judgement on any answer he gave, and left without saying goodbye.
I wish I'd told him that I liked his beanie.
I wish I'd tasted a whisky sour from his pinky.
I wish I'd asked more questions with soft curiosity and let his answers flower.
Instead, I'd kept myself locked in my car and stared at him out of a dirty windshield. Certain that he was the mess. Only now that we've parted can I see how much life was there that I'll never have another chance to live. No, those memories are reserved for those who walked with him instead of driving by.
Schedule
Here's where I’ll be and what I'm most looking forward to.
Features noted with a 🌻
Friday, April 19 | 7pm | NYC and Livestream | : Poetry Unplugged with Morning Edition WNYC
Saturday, April 20 | 7pm | Fiction Bar | : Estia Variety Show (featuring my wonderful friends, Emme de la Sol, Ra Le Bu, and Ross)
Sunday, April 21 | 2pm| Brooklyn Music Kitchen | : Inspired Word Poetry Hour featuring Anne Keyes, Obando, and me 🌻
Thursday, April 25 | 7:30pm | Columbia University, Dodge Hall |: Creative Writing Lecture with Tony Tulathimutte
Friday, April 26 | 6:30pm | Triad Theater | : Kitty & Gelisa
Sunday, April 28 | 7pm | Fiction Bar | : There’s A Lot to Unpack Here, hosted by Cierra Martin, featuring me 🌻
Tuesday, April 30 | 7:30pm | Livestream | : Poetry & The Creative Mind, poets.org virtual gala
Thursday, May 2 | 7pm | 127 Eldridge St, Lower East Side, NYC : Hot People Read Poetry Open Mic
Friday, May 10 | 7:30pm | House Party Cafe : Glass Bullet Sound Open Mic, hosted by Blair Wxtch and Butterfly Haus
I hope to see you somewhere!
aMORE,
Izzie