there’s a tremble in me this morning, this week.

if you’re in the United States, you’ve likely also noticed something — in the air, on the news, inside your bones.

it’s one of those moments where time betrays us, rearing and warping back on itself. March touching March, it seems both too soon and impossibly long in coming. our idea of “year” collapses, a baffling scrum of too many too-big things. how could twelve months carry so much? how could we?

52 weeks ago, New York City had nearly half of the country’s Covid-19 cases, but most of us didn’t…

hello, friends.

happy new year.

it’s been precisely a week since the first day of 2021, which also happened to be the first day my partner and i spent in our new home, an arrival we eagerly awaited after months in an apartment that had become physically and emotionally stifling. the new place is awash with eastern sun, a stone’s throw from my favorite park, and cradled in a sturdy, post-war building on a quiet, leafy street.

my new “backyard”

currently, i am sitting cross legged on a stool — one of just three pieces of furniture we have left after the move…


sending you extra, intentional warmth this week, from my pocket of the void to yours.

so. like many, my partner and i recently cancelled our very tentative, but dearly-held plans to see family for the holidays. it was a decision that, despite feeling inevitable for weeks now, still stung.

in fact, it was “triggering,” reviving old feelings of entrapment and dread. it seemed to send my spirit hurtling back to March of this year, to those first, grim months when the walls of the world were suddenly collapsing in on us, the most familiar and precious things — city…

what a week.

do you feel different?

i feel different.

no, the relief is not total — there’s still a vindictive lame duck in White House, plumbing new depths of disgraceful and potentially dangerous behavior. there’s disappointment and sobriety in fact that over 70 million Americans voted for Trump — not to mention many of his acolytes, including multiple candidates who openly support QAnon. and of course we know that no single leader or party can offer complete or instantaneous solutions to the entrenched problems that face this country — and no election can substitute for ongoing, grassroots work.


hi there.

it’s late morning on Friday, Nov 6, and i’m exhausted.

i’m sure that goes for most of us, of course. nevertheless, i think there’s value in taking our own, personal travails seriously, in accounting for the individual ways we’re struck by the moment, the world, in which we live.

so, taking a cursory inventory of my personal weariness, i find: a body weakened by a week of poor sleep and superfluous adrenaline, a mind numbed by a deluge of ballot-related updates and speculation, and a heart heavy with the un-surprise of an electoral map once again revealing a…

something unusual happened this week. for only the third time in the past eight months, i Took A Trip.

it was nothing extravagant — only a two-day jaunt upstate. my partner and i, having recently acquired our first-ever car (a used Prius, as per our demographic cliché), made reservations to camp in the Catskills.

something else unusual happened. i let myself get excited.

as i wrote last week, i have trouble allowing myself to “get my hopes up.” i too often preempt myself with disappointment, hedge my bets with pessimism.

“okay, now, this is really too much.”

i couldn’t even begin to tell you how many times i’ve said or thought these words in the last year. in the last four years. each time, i consider the irony, the absurdity, the grief in the fact that the words mean a little less each time — undercut, like a nation’s confidence in a compulsively-lying leader, by the accumulating weight of self-evident contradictions. by which i mean, i’m still here, even after so many blows, so many declarations of “too much-ness.” …

when was the last time you got exactly what you wanted?

i ask because this year, it seems to me, has been one defined by disappointment, dismay, outrage. at the best, it seems, we are “surviving,” enduring the long slog between let downs, offenses, fears. we are “getting by,” it seems — the tone i hear tends to be both valiant and glum, an admission that none of us is living the life we want, but hey, at least we’re healthy/housed/sane.

and i’m glad to hear those caveats, the at-least-performative admission that privilege does, as ever, play a role in…

i’ve been rained on a lot this week. it’s one of the many ways the pandemic has rendered my life more elemental — with most indoor spaces still closed in New York City, “going out” has never been so literal. as a result, i find myself more attuned to the inflections of the weather than i’ve ever been, at least in my adult life. i begin each day standing at our broad, Eastern-facing windows, trying to read the clouds, even lifting the window to stick a few fingers into the air, just for a taste. …

Sarah Aziza

Lost Boy learning to be Wendy. i love, i read, i need. i write, i dream, i wander. i try, i try, again.

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