honesty is the best policy

That last post was kind of a lie.

I mean, not the part about being really thrilled that my life involves things like watching Regina Spektor’s painted red lips hover near a microphone in a studio crowd of 20. Not at all. That part really does make me more tired and more happy.

But the truth is, it’s been a rough few days — so rough and tear-sodden that I feel silly painting hearts and rainbows onto my little corner of the Internet. There have been a great many public cries (you probably saw them, if you dared walk down Sixth Avenue or take the 6 train or stop in any Duane Reade in the city yesterday) and a great many hours spent reading Jane Eyre by flashlight when all normal people on this side of the Atlantic were sleeping soundly. I wish my secret sleep trick was potent enough to hush up those waves of anxiety and fear and generally-awful-feeling-in-the-pit-of-your-stomach that seem to accompany every jolt along my futile little effort to figure out what I want to be when I grow up, but alas, it seems you need prescription medicine for that. And stronger stuff than I’ve got.

Anyway, I’m getting on with it, and by that I mean, listening to a few things that make me cry harder (in a good way? maybe?) and reading a few things that make me say “buck up, Rach. this life really isn’t so bad.”

Here’s one of the former. (Oh Regina, your full, unafraid singing voice and your gentle, meek speaking voice and your hair were so, so lovely last night.)

And here’s one of the latter. (“Never believe that an hour you remember is a better hour…Passed years seem safe ones, vanquished ones, while the future lives in a cloud, formidable from a distance. The clouds clear as you enter it.”  Beryl Markham, West With the Night.)

PS – Yup, still reading blogs from 2009. Told you I’m always the last one to the party.

PPS – On with the wedding stuff soon, I swear. (Who knew you would be so desperate for me to babble on about flowers? Anything’s better than this whining, you groan. Bring on the marital bliss for chrissakes. And now I have you right where I want you, and I’m happy to oblige.)


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