I'm writing from a little stone cottage in an old English town next to Oxford. Steve is playing cello upstairs. I feel grateful, and sacred, and detached from time. I want to remain for a while.
Breathless
Cloud Atlas expresses something I've always felt. A picture of life as a long evening, punctuated with pinpricks of unbearable beauty. When I pause and see it in its entirety, I start tearing up.
1.
I went to Alex G.'s house yesterday and I was surprised to see a grand piano in his living room. We were supposed to talk, but instead we spent the next few hours playing piano, no words exchanged. I haven't had this much fun since I got here.
Maybe the eight years I spent practicing was all so that we could play together that afternoon.
2.
Midnight sun in Iceland. Dithered light, clean and cold, green field dotted with white geese, we ran and laughed and chased them into the sky..
3.
Ultrasound sprint in Mill Valley, a cottage house among redwoods. Thomas makes us spaghetti; we eat it by the oscilloscope.
He had not eaten for a whole day, had not slept for two nights, had spent several hours half-dressed and exposed to the frost, yet he felt not only fresher and better than ever before, but quite independent of his body: he moved without his muscles making any effort, and felt capable of anything.
Tolstoy, Anna Karenina
My mind feels different, electric under extreme pressure and temperature. In between thoughts about wires, lenses, cavitation, dipoles, it occurs to me that this is fine, I could do this forever.
4.
Adil's birthday. Dancing in the house.
5.
Glacier national park with Glenn. A ranger informs us the trail is closed due to a bear attack. I'm certain it's a terrible idea, but Glenn's face is awash with excitement and we hop the fence.
The next two hours—top-of-our-lungs, guttural yells. Heart pounding, fearing for my life, we're yelling as loud as we can so that the bears, wherever they may be, will move out of the way.
After two hours of yelling and hiking, Glenn becomes self-aware, says "we sound like crazy people." I laugh so hard my stomach hurts.
6.
In between Taiwan and Ludao there's a ferry. Violent waters. The reviews are full of mentions of seasickness, but I dismissed it as commentary from lesser people.
It's my idea to take this boat with Adil and Brian, and two minutes in we're doing 10-meter waves, pitching 20 degrees every roll. Brian and I fall silent; it takes all of our brainpower to not throw up.
The next hour is a silent battle for our lives. I'm dying, but also deeply grateful. I can't believe I get to experience this with you. Adil and Brian are people who will spend most of their lives upright relative to the ground, and it was because of me that we spent two hours sideways.
7.
Chiang-Kai Shek memorial, large open square at night. Lay down, stone cold against my back, above us only sky.
Home
I wrote a letter when we first moved in to 1805 Broadway, the empty house was so daunting I was despondent.
That first night, I went and slept in a closet, partially because it was the only reasonably sized room, and partially to hide from the enormous responsibility we had taken on.
It's wonderful to re-read this letter, because between then and now the house has taken on its own light. When I spend too long away, I start to feel uncomfortable.
The feelings I most remember:
— coming back from a long trip and sinking into a story with Aayush, Alicia, Adil — Adil coming downstairs, ruffled, after a long day "let's get dinner" —
Books
I read Salinger, and for some time I lived in a delirious fever of good words.
I started reading again this year. The secret was to treat myself like a really dumb animal: leave books everywhere, so that they were within arm's reach. Whenever I was bored, I gave up.
In reverse order of starting: