My parents spent the 1970s on communes: first, a shared house in Boulder; after that, a “self-realization fellowship” in Paonia, Colorado; then the Spring Hollow farm in Tennessee, with a dozen other couples. They were out to save the world, or at least themselves. Peace, love, and understanding.
New York Times
“Crown Heights,” I say. Inevitably the next question is: “How do you like it?” You would think this would be straightforward, easy to answer, but it’s not. Not for me.
You can watch two men stand on at the edge of the platform. You can hear them call to the man on the tracks. These men, who do not know each other, could be calling to a child. The man on the tracks was once a child. The man on the tracks is like a child. He is lost. You don't know why he is lost. None of us know. This will matter later. It doesn't matter now.
I need you to say yes to me once more. I need to spend the afternoon on your couch, my body draped over your body, binge watching Party Down all over again. I need to spend the night in your bed, my head on your chest until we reach the point of sleep and I let you be. Instead you say, “All I know is that I want to talk to you. Can’t that be enough for now? Can’t we leave it there?” and I say sure, fine, because I no longer trust you, because not hearing from you is better than hearing from you. Because you are a net loss
Four years ago, a woman I love—a friend who felt sisterly and vibrant—died of breast cancer. She was 33. I feel like I must spell it out: thirty-three. I want to paint it on a brick wall in the middle of the night. I want to wear it like the scarlet letter A. I want every billboard to read two numbers: 3 and 3.