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This year, it seems like everybody is moving out of this building. It's a nice building, old, prewar, in brownstone Brooklyn, so it comes with the usual quirks of the architecture. But it attracts really young tenants. New York landlords love them. They come, pay the higher rent, leave and the rent increases again.
But it makes me sad to see them go. I got attached to their music. The glow of their garden lights. Talking in the stairwell. Through the windows.
I was lonely when I woke up this morning and realized I wouldn't run into them anymore. But this evening, I went outside to sit on my stool, read Martyr! and eat some berries.
The next-door neighbors were out. They have a son, who must be two now and he's learning how to walk up and down the steps. He practiced and practiced until he got tired and then he looked over and saw me! I waved! Said hi, buddy! He hid behind the banister! I peeked over and saw him! He hid. He peeked over and saw me! And we continued like this for a few minutes until it was time to go in.
Then I met friends of one of the new neighbors. He's a boy. The friends are girls. I like what that seems to tell me. Potentially safe. They were waiting for him to come outside. So, we talked about Martyr! and complimented each other’s shoes, and expressed how nice it is to have an endorsement for my new neighbor. He came out and they left and walked toward the train.
A few minutes later, the guy who picks through the trash and recycling came by. I like him because we share a fondness for bikes. Sometimes we start talking about our favorite streets, and where the road work is and what potholes are annoying. I don't know his name. It might be Michael. Anyway, I waved, but didn't say anything. And he looked up and asked, "are you moving?" So, I said "No, I'll be around." And he said "good. We need good people" and I said, "I do my best" and he said, "see you" and I said "drive safe" and he said "I do my best." And went on his way.
And all of it was so lovely I could have cried. The tree shook and I could see every leaf in high definition. It was all almost too much. So maybe, I'm recommending renewing your lease, or maybe I'm recommending talking to the people you meet in the world, or maybe I'm recommending sitting outside, eating raspberries until somebody talks to you.
Jul 2, 2024
Related Recs
I plant catnip and potatoes on the rooftops of the city that lives in my chest, two small pots per ledge, their roots cramped, curling inward like fists. I force them to suffocate. I watch as their leaves yellow and curl, not out of malice, but out of necessity. There’s something about watching something struggle to live that feels honest. The skyline here isn’t real, not exactly. It's built from memory, scaffolding of places I loved once and forgot twice. Still, I look out from the edge, eyes scouring the metal bones and glass spines of buildings I invented. And I wonder: Can anyone see me?
Would they, if I let one toe slip past the ledge? Would the silhouette mean anything to anyone but me?
I tell myself you’ll visit. That you’ll stand beside me, close enough to breathe in the scent of dying herbs and know what I meant by planting them. Maybe you’ll even pretend to like the catnip. But the world, the world, you know how it is. Men ruin everything. They turn good things into threats, into warnings. And because of them, I can't see you like I want to. Not without caution. Not without fear.
I hate them for it. For ruining us before we even began. For taking my access to you and replacing it with conditions.
So I wait. I wait for your knock on my door like prayer, and every time you come, I open. I always open. I don’t say it, but you should know, I would burn the whole city for you if you asked. I would uproot every pot and split the sky open just to hand you the sun in shards.
But I only have two pots. I want three. I want a hundred. But sometimes two is already too many, and no one else knows that.
Come to the rooftop. Even if it’s just to see the wilting leaves. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.
Jun 24, 2025
The sharp scent of rain tumbles clumsily in as you tease window-hinges wider with the pads of your fingers. A siren trails close behind, uninvited, sears your eardrums, dies off down the block.
Your neighbors are arguing again. Laundry, loans, lack of commitment… like yesterday, like the day before.
You think it would be suffocating to wrap yourself up in someone else’s sheets.
It’s five o’clock. Leaning against the sill and flicking the radio dial with one recently manicured nail, you tune into the local news. Roaring wall of static, then calm conversation between two anchors bubbling up through an old set of Panasonic loudspeakers.
You are feeling incomplete today, like yesterday, like the day before.
Rigatoni boils in the kitchen. You check the leftmost cabinet and find strawberry jam, unopened. You check the cupboard and look over a tub of tahini, a collection of canned soup, and a stack of pie tins. You check the counter, behind the cutlery. Finally, you check the fridge, ducking down to see only your own brown-eyed reflection in one last — now empty — jar of Prego. Your shoulders dip.
You slip on white sneakers, not-so-white-as-they-once-were. Why did you try to paint the front door? It is peeling now, ugly like a fledgling losing young feathers. Flecks of buttery yellow dapple paisley carpeting.
The great outdoors wait for you at the bottom of a cramped stairwell with twin light fixtures, both broken.
A sky like an old sweater is draped above Brooklyn, ready to wring itself out again at any moment.
Once around the block, rubber soles brushing damp cement, you walk briskly. At first you fling yourself against the humidity, then become self-conscious and adopt a slower pace as you near the corner store.
Two dollars, sixty cents. Like last week, like the week before.
You and I, we are looking down at our phones and stumble into each other, halfway home.
It is no one’s fault.
You recognize me from somewhere, you say, and feel like a bad person for lying. You have never seen me before in your life. I ask for your number.
That night you eat too quickly, knowing you’ll wish you’d saved some leftovers.
I come over once, then again.
We go out for dinner at tacky restaurants, where art deco posters from the nineteen-thirties have pinned themselves up in scattered flocks across worn-out drywall and the menu is printed with strange font on laminated placemats. The appetizer sample photos are unnerving; the bruschetta cowers like a scared animal awash in excessive camera flash. I make a joke about it, and you laugh.
We order dishes to share. The food is always better than I expected, but not quite as good as you wanted it to be.
You don’t mind.
We talk for hours.
We agree, ballpoint pens are better.
I hold you, and the ten p.m. bus pulls you out of my arms and through the dusky streets, past crowds and utility poles.
I hold you, and we rhyme our steps. Burgundy is around us in the leaves and in the dirt. You wear a coat I gave you.
I hold you, and we swat flies out on your porch. The days are getting shorter.
I hold you, and we watch blu-ray CDs you found on sale. Soft light from the flatscreen plays across your face as you fall asleep. I keep the movie on a little longer.
I hold you. In December, we bring a blanket to Long Island and listen to the sound of snow falling on the dunes.
You call in sick for work too often.
I hold you, and you know my callouses well.
We share the same sheets; we are wrapped up in each other.
I hold you, and kiss your hair.
You smell like candied oranges.
The afternoons eat away at one another. Dishes pile like uneven layer-cakes in your kitchen sink, crested with suds.
You say you feel uninspired.
Now we argue about laundry, and the sounds of your unhappy apartment are heard through half-open windows.
You shout, eyebrows furrowed like the pages of a book. A white plate soars from the grip of a trembling hand, misses an upturned chin, and interrupts us with its shattering.
This time, it’s different.
Sleep escapes us ‘til the sun is already planted on the easternmost rooftop.
I hurt you the way I learned to, and stay awhile, but don’t know why I stay.
We sink into sweet, heavy things: the saxophone in “Charcoal Baby”, shared creamsicles on hot Saturday evenings.
I see you less and less, and remember less and less of you.
Will I see you next week?
Yes, if you text me.
You forget,
just like we’d both hoped.
Sep 17, 2024
hey hey!!!!!! i’m so glad youre here! i went on another run tonight. let me tell you about it. my knee hurts, i tweaked it last night, but i started nice and steady. i like to run at night, often late, so a 1 am run is not out of the ordinary for me.
i usually take a road by my house that leads out of town until the streetlights stop. if it’s not yet sunset, i’ll go another mile or so along the road before turning back at nightfall. on my lucky days, the sky paints itself rosy, and wisps of clouds turn alight with oranges and reds. that, juxtaposed against the brightest blue imaginable makes for a pretty picture to distract myself from whatever pain boils in whatever part of my body. i have endometriosis, so oftentimes when i work out, i’ll cramp in ways that would humble a god.
so i enjoy watching the sun tuck itself into the ground. my favorite part is undoubtedly the brilliant magenta color that only comes if the clouds are at just the right elevation. after the sun drops to wherever it’s needed next, and the rest of the sky’s blues deepen, ultimately saturating the ochre hues right along the horizon, i turn around. show’s over, i gotta get home.
but, when i’m out past 11, and the sky is clear, the farthest point is where i stop and turn my head to the heavens.
i’m lucky to live on the edge of a national park and in close proximity to total darkness. the stars here are fantastic. many nights, i’ll wander a little off the road and lay down to stargaze. the faint outline of the milky way, precious cosmic glitter; i’ve loved all of it since i was little.
anyway, tonight, i got out to where the street lamps ended, but something stopped me. i took off my headphones and just stood there, listening. i gazed up, stunned by the beauty of the stars. after more than a few minutes spent in awe, i saw something small trot across the road behind me. its tail was unmistakable. a fox, silent as night, the first one i had seen since i was a child. it sailed through the trees by the road, pausing every so often to smell around or investigate a patch of ground. it’s always shocking to me, how quiet it gets out there. even the wind, that slices right through my two jackets, makes no noise. unmistakably eery, probably sacred, and known only to me. i am so incredibly fortunate. it’s the kind of thing you find when you disregard everyone entirely; having an idea, and executing it, no thought to if it’s fucking insane or not.
i continued back along the lit road, taking a detour on a dark offshoot to elongate my run. the stars shone there too, but near the end of the street the shadows configured too darkly, the trees lining the sidewalk felt as if they were entombing rather than accompanying me. so, i called my brother and breathlessly caught up with him, as i turned around once more to make my way home. and i saw a shooting star!
so there. fox and shooting star. because i was a pussy and didn’t press my luck during one of my (admittedly questionable) daily habits. i love them! i’m going to keep them in my brain like a keychain. a fox and a shooting star jingling next to my house key. isn’t that lovely.
Oct 27, 2024
Top Recs from @florinegrassenhopper
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No screen Sundays. If I want to listen to music its CDs or radio. If I want to watch a movie, no I don’t. If I want to see a friend, I will make plans with them on Friday or Saturday to meet up. As a result, I read more, write more, and sit with questions like “did Citizen Kane‘s 50 year winning streak in the Sight and Sound critics choice survey end in 2012 or 2022? When did Stephen Merritt come out? Whats the etymology of Whitsun?“
This is something that I have practiced off and on for many years but I’ve been doing it every week since December and I love the way that it just allows me one day of true freedom and rest.
Jan 22, 2025
Mar 3, 2025
My calendar this year has 52 of these week at a glance pages but I don’t think that way. So, I've been inspired by Ross Gay’s Book of Delighs to start recording the little moments and sensations that bring me joy throughout the day. An analog pi.fyi, if you will.
heres some of what I have so far:
- Waking up to the sound of my upstairs neighbor‘s footstep. It sounded nostalgic. Felt like company.
- Strawberry jam
- feeling tender for strangers: their lips, nail colors, their small wrists. Thinking of all the lives we hold gently.
- A young girl bought an LP at the bookstore just before I left. She stroked its cover with love
- Green tiles —the mint shade always makes me think of Jancie
- Charlie’s little bop and punch dancing to some German language punk
- lunch with Katherine, curry Brussels sprouts
- small talk at the photo studio. The photographer's brother was named after their dad, stole his identity, bought jet skis.
Jan 13, 2025