I’ve recently gotten a slew of followers (how!!!!!!! you guys are awesome!!!!! *forehead kisses for all*) so I’ve decided to do a lil “about me” for you nuggets to get to know the girl behind the blog:
Brenda is an eighteen year old living in Manhattan studying “philosophy and literary theory” at NYU Gallatin. She likes to read poetry and stay up late at night. An optimist, Brenda believes in maxi skirts and flannel. She is still on the quest for the best chocolate croissant in New York and aspires to meet a mole person. Her favorite activity is a toss up of napping and eating Vietnamese food. Istanbul is her dream destination. She is an ENFP.
I would love to get to know y’all… my ask box is always open…
just reblogging myself just because
The world was the world of a magical realist today. Even the mundane took on new shape, new substance. Two white feathers fell while I walked down the street. Everything simple became a metaphor for everything so beautiful for me, the world dripping in a different kind of matter that permeates everything, even molecules — even atoms. Skin and mortar; bricks and flesh.
A view of a life presented in fragments. “What do we see?” A question presented in my writing class that I repeat to myself daily. The surface question. Skimming every senses — (as if seeing means touching, as if seeing means smelling and tasting, as if seeing is the embodiment of everything that we feel, that we know to be true)
At my yoga class at noon, a woman started to weep softly, deeply, her arms stretched over her leg — her face pressed into the mat. The instructor didn’t stop, only instructed us all to let go, to let go of it all, to release all of the negative energy inside of us through the tension in our body. Breathe out the tension. Breathe out the pain. Let your tears run dry on the floorboards because after the session we will mop them all up. Breathe in, the woman said. Breathe out, she instructed. And we all did. And no one looked up to know who the woman was. We kept our heads down, stretching into our hips; silently acknowledging how beautiful weeping sounds; how satisfying it must be to be let go of all of your inhibitions in public. (Furtively I glanced up, looked around at the room around me — the only one too curious.) The sound of her sadness echoed, wailed, and faded out. We all exhaled further, deeper into our spines.
With Brenda sitting outside at Argo Tea, we laughed and talked childishly and wildly, our voices getting louder and louder and our syntax crumbling around our ankles — replacing conversational prose with likes and buts and ums and sounds, mumbling our way through our own minds. The woman sitting at the table besides us turned around, looked at us, and said: Would you two please stop talking so loudly? She was angry, frustrated at us. Never have I ever heard the word ‘like’ used more in one sitting. We apologized, our heads down in shame. But she was intrigued by us and we intrigued in her. We ended up talking for so long that the sky faded into dark. She graduated from NYU in the class of ‘49. She had nieces and nephews our age who spoke delightfully. She married a man in the sixties at the time when everyone wrote novels about espionage. She had known him for three months. At their honeymoon, he spoke so many languages that she was sure she had married a spy. I told her about my plans for the summer — of Nepal, of Iceland. Brenda told her that I had written a book about poetry. I explained to her what I tried to convey through The Anatomy of Being and she gave me ten dollars and her address and told me to drop it off at her house soon. A conversation that began as a misunderstanding turned into a relationship, into a promise, into her number that I seemed to know even before she gave it to me — that I can still, for some reason, recite now by heart, hours later. (So much like a phone number of my mother. So eerily similar that I could rattle off the numbers before she even said anything.) We’re going to Tea & Sympathy with her sometime soon. This is how you meet strangers. You aggravate them and then win them back.
At the end of our conversation the sky began to turn darker, darker, black. In the course of a minute the entier white plains above us was dark. I was suddenly too cold. People looked up in confusion. Colors are never supposed to change that rapidly. I had been watching, through the end of the conversation, as the sky was pulled towards us as if on the back of a car. And when we said goodbye to Selma — the stranger / the new friend — the puddles of grey began to wring themselves out over us. Scaffolding to scaffolding we ran, and then through the storm we walked calmly. The first downpour. I forgot what rain was like, Brenda said. The first drops on the asphalt. The smell of the pavement. April showers, I couldn’t help but think. Flash storm. Quietly I read myself an old poem I had written about a day almost like this but not quite, so many months ago. It was so surreal, the way the sky turned against us, as if it had been carrying water in it, pregnant, for months. How the water broke. How everything was being reborn.
My glasses were off and the city was a million little smudges. The rain kept falling. Inside, we draped our clothes over furniture and my bed and the radiator and made tea and warmed our skin up again from the inside out.
Organic pauses between studying for French, studded with conversations that meant so much because we both felt as if finally someone got it. “When experience flows away, what is left?” is something close to the last lines of Charles Nicholl’s Borderlines. And what is left? I never remember conversations but remember instead the unnatural very natural light of the common room, how we discussed love and language and words and ourselves and religion and god and faith in a way that made sense. The kind of conversation I had been craving for months now — the realization that I had missed it, that I had missed a new bud of thought, of idea, blooming between two people. How much you can admire another human being for being so much a human being.
And then the british boys, naked in my bedroom. Drunk. Coming out of the bathroom with their bare butts. How we giggled like little schoolgirls.
FUC;KGJFA U ARE AWESOME AND AMAZING I LOVE YOU SO MUCH UGHHHH I FEEL PRIVILEGED BEING IMMORTALIZED ON YOUR BLOG UGHHHH
yo beach house just gets me
all the time
especially in the pre-morning hours
yes i exist!!! but then in a few days i’ll enter another comatose state. then i’ll come back again.