I'm reading a book about love right now (I actually JUST told you about the book, but whatever) and each morning I step on the train I get lost in a world driven by heartbreak, by love, and by absolute emotion. Just when I think I've felt every tone of this thing called love, I read another chapter and my world shifts on its axis. For example:
"My brother and I used to play a game. I'd point to a chair. "THIS IS NOT A CHAIR," I'd say. Bird would point to the table. "THIS IS NOT A TABLE." "THIS IS NOT A WALL," I'd say. "THAT IS NOT A CEILING." We'd go on like that. "IT IS NOT RAINING OUT." "MY SHOE IS NOT UNTIED!" Bird would yell. I'd point to my elbow. "THIS IS NOT A SCRAPE." Bird would lift his knee. "THIS IS ALSO NOT A SCRAPE!" "THAT IS NOT A KETTLE!" "NOT A CUP!" "NOT A SPOON!" "NOT DIRTY DISHES!" We denied whole rooms, years, weathers. Once, at the peak of our shouting, Bird took a deep breath. At the top of his lungs, he shrieked: "I! HAVE NOT! BEEN! UNHAPPY! MY WHOLE! LIFE!" "But you're only seven," I said."
Now, you might not find that paragraph all that compelling, as you don't know who Bird is, and your heart hasn't expanded three times it's normal size (if you're going to rip someone off, it might as well be Dr. Seuss) since meeting Bird via book, but it gets to me. It gets to me like a punch in the stomach. Will and I actually agreed over text message yesterday, in true two-person-book-club-form, that The History of Love is in many ways shamelessly taking advantage of our emotions.
THE POINT IS--- I've been thinking a lot about love.
And yesterday-- I received love. Love in the form of a package postmarked Seattle from my dear friend, Lo. (Lo of Movie Monday fame.) In a brown-paper-wrapped Derby Game box from the 50's I found the following treasures:
*a children's book published in 1973 entitled 'Do You Know About Stars'
*10-15 Kinder toys from Lo's personal collection
*a t-shirt with the words 'I left my heart in New York City' embroidered on the front (didn't we all?)
*a rock to befriend Papa Rock, my childhood rock who still sits on by bedside table and might be my only childhood position to travel with me to 7 different apartments as a sort of security blanket (not as weird as it sounds. Well, maybe as weird as it sounds.)
*a pin from the 1939 New York City World's fair that her grandfather gave her grandmother in 1939 AT the World's Fair
*and a dvd of Lo explaining it all.
It wasn't just a package, it was a little world. I little world where I can escape, between palm trees and aliens; stars and pet rocks. A world that takes me away of my current reality which is an extremely delicate balance of laughter and tears; dancing and falling. This gift is love physically felt-- across all the middle states between New York and Washington (both of those states often have the word 'state' after them, isn't that a neat connection?) and between cell phone calls and gchat conversations. Thank you, dearheart. I love my gift.