Summer Nights, New York | 2

Sunday, June 22

Tonight was our dance party in your apartment. The iPhone was our disco light, the iPad our DJ. The four of us with our unrhythmic swaying and pumping and twirling. It didn’t matter though, we were dancing in the dark with our eyes closed. 

Our four-person dance party. I think you were dancing because you were drunk. Maybe you were dancing because it felt better than not moving at all. I couldn’t really tell. You? You never dance. I didn’t even think you were capable, much less wanted to. Me? I dance every day. I was dancing because I was shaking off all of my demons of the day.

The only way to get rid of them at the end of the night is to make it so hard for them to cling on. Hour after hour their claws dig in deeper, making their home on my shoulders. By the end of the night, my shoulders are so heavy with their weight, because they are not light creatures, I need to dance them out with all my might. I think you could have been doing the same. You were dancing with the same determination and vigor.

All four of us moved our feet and swayed our arms, bumping into one another. The music was fast, then slow, then so fast we could barely catch up. Years of friendship tangled in a sea of arms and legs moving together. Three childhood friends and me. I just met you a couple of years ago, but because I grew up in the same neighborhood, too, I was welcomed all the same. I shared the same boredom only those who grew up in suburban homes but dreamt of city streets knew.

And so we kept moving. We were no longer confined to strip malls or church on Sundays or high school proms. We shook those demons off. The ones that tied us down to a past that’s no longer relevant.

When we tired of dancing, we felt energized to stand. I could stand tall, then, because my shoulders were bare, though they were raw with claw marks. Doesn’t matter, though, let the blood run and the wound sting. 

The moment we stopped, the apartment became too small. On the fire escape, we shared stories and confessions as only cramped spaces designed for emergency situations could elicit. We talked of meaningless sex, but I don’t really think it’s ever meaningless, but maybe that’s a conversation for another night. We talked of past relationships, because what else do you talk about that’s of meaning? Relationships hurt and they leave you burdened by their existence and extinction. They’re the types of demons that never go away; they only become more kind.  

Tonight was the night of many confessions, whether we meant for it to be or not. The others went back inside and it was just us two. I could barely shake off my demons, I couldn’t handle yours, too. Not right now. We stood there together, still, and swallowed the silence until our bodies could move again. The demons took advantage of our hesitation and perched again on our shoulders, their weight somehow exponential to what it was before. They dragged again, heavy once again. 

The weight didn’t matter though, because tonight, this night, we danced!



Summer 2013 small The words are all there, in my head. I write and rewrite, edit, scratch out, erase the words, but it all happens in my head. When I sit down, the words have all disappeared, and I’m left with eyes open wide and a frown on my face.

Writing is difficult. I never, truly realized just how much discipline it takes to sit and form coherent thoughts onto paper, especially with the constant push-pull from other priorities. Life is demanding. Even laundry and dishes can be just as important a task, if not downright imperative, as turning in that strategy memo at 11:59 pm.

The hardest part of writing may be because, for the purpose of this blog, I’m trying to recall and recapture memories distant and faded. With the hustle-bustle of every day life, holding onto memories has become something slight out of grasp. I’m trying my hardest to embrace life, to experience the moment, but as one event spirals into another, the limitations of time forces me to forego reflecting on those moments past.

How are you supposed to hold onto the past when the present is so…present? These days, I find that going to bed at 1 am and waking up at 5 am is still not enough time for me to do all the things I want to do in a day. And it’s not that my life is so busy, or the things I’m doing are that pressing, but it’s just that everything is amazing and everyone is wonderful. (Chuckle.)

My self-entitled “Summer of Self-Incubation” is almost half over. I keep finding new things to work on (go figure…), but this blog has just re-emerged on the top of the list. Memories are important –  even if I can’t keep them all.