BECOMING

B E C O M I N G .

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AND THAT’S ALL. IT HAPPENS AND THEN IT’S OVER, ALL A LITTLE TOO GRACELESSLY. THE CITY DOESN’T CARE WHETHER YOU STAY OR LEAVE. PLACES ARE CRUEL AND LACK MERCY IN THAT WAY – THEY TUNNEL ON WITHOUT YOU; REGARDLESS OF HOW MUCH LOVE YOU TOOK IN AND GAVE AWAY WHILE YOU INHABITED THEM, HOW FIRMLY YOU LEARNED TO PLANT YOUR FEET AND SQUARE YOUR SHOULDERS.

WHAT WAS ONCE SO PERTINENT STARTS BECOMING A FARAWAY FIGMENT OF YOUR IMAGINATION, SOMETHING DREAMED UP AND BLURRED OUT. ALL THAT’S LEFT AT THE CLOSE ARE FRAGMENTED SLIVERS OF MEMORIES OF THINGS THAT WE ONCE THOUGHT WERE GIANTS. THAT’S HOW WE SURVIVED: WHEN WE WERE AT OUR SMALLEST AND HAD NOTHING ELSE, WE MADE EACH OTHER OUT TO BE MOUNTAINS.

HERE, WE LEARNED HOW TO REALLY BE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD. TO KICK AND YELL AND FIGHT FOR A PLACE. THAT’S SOMETHING WE’LL INEVITABLY TAKE BACK, THOSE LESSONS THAT ARE ROMANTIC TO SPEAK OF IN RETROSPECT BUT HURT LIKE HELL WHILE THEY’RE HAPPENING.

BECAUSE USUALLY DISCOMFORT IS JUST THAT – UNCOMFORTABLE. THERE’S NO PROFUNDITY OR GRANDIOSE LESSONS WAXING POETIC IN THE SHIFT. BUT THE SOLACE, FUNNILY ENOUGH, SITS IN THE INCITER ITSELF: WHAT CONTINUES TO SPIN STILL DOES, AND WHAT IS LEFT UNEXPERIENCED CAN’T BE SEEN AS LIVES UNLIVED. THERE AREN’T TWO VERSIONS OF YOU FLOATING AROUND, WAITING TO EVENTUALLY COINCIDE. YOU’RE STILL YOU, NO MATTER WHERE YOU ARE.

THIS IS HERE, AND NOW, AND NOW, AND NOW.

(EMAIL FROM MY JOURNALISM PROFESSOR BACK HOME)

(FI R ST C L ASS PAPER W I T H T EAC H ER ’ S N OT ES, AU G U ST)

"I’M IN A

AN ASTUARY KING / CAVE, YOUR COMFORT UNBURDENED AND BECO

I’LL KEEP T AND ALL / OMING”

on a rare drear y and stor m -str icken sunday m or ning in los an g el es , i real i zed

that i had hit a w all, feeling m y ow n insig nificance throug h an d throu g h. that

nig ht i saw bon iver at the hollyw ood bow l, w here he played hi s n ew es t a l b u m, 22, a million in its entirety (one that's become a deeply profou n d pi ec e of a rt to m e and has, per haps blasphem ously to some, helped me i mmen s el y i n my

spir itual jour ney), and i saw the w ay that som eone could ta ke thei r b l atan t obscur ity, poig nant questions of faith, and plays at G od to c reate s omethi n g

that still drew the masses to listen closely, even in the pou r i n g ra i n . i t rem inded me that, as ver non sing s in the song 8(circle), t he u n b u rd en i n g

inevitably leads to a tr ue becoming . or it's like my jour nalism profes s or w rote to me that sam e nig ht in response to a pretty despondent pa per i 'd ha s ti l y

tur ned in: " leah, the unburdening is not a burden; it is rather a b ec kon i n g to those in pain tow ard a door w ay you have found to the other s i d e."

in that song are phrases like “astuar y king ” (a likely combinati on of the g reek

ter m for star, ‘aster ’, and estuar y, a m eeting point betw een b od i es of w ater,

representing the dichotom ous relationship betw een divinity an d hu ma n i ty, or more per sonally, g od and our selves) and sentim ents of d epa rtu re: "i c a n

leave behind a har bor.” it's descr ibed as " part love letter, p art fi n al res ti n g

place of tw o decades of searching for self-under standing l i ke a rel i g i on . and the inner-resolution of maybe never finding that u n d er s tan d i n g ." i'm only 20, i don't know much, but being here in new y or k c i ty w r i ti n g

my hands stiff and r unning around w ith people that i love a n d c r yi n g my

g uts out and doing it all w ith the most impressionable, w hol es ome hope i n the w or ld, is the beg inning of that becom ing . i'm here, an d i 'm b reathi n g in deep, shar p breaths of this unfam iliar yet promising a i r. i t fi l l s me

w ith Life, and i never w ant to forg et the w ay thing s are here an d n ow.

n o ve mbe r 17 1 1 : 47 p m

t o d ay aft e r wo rk i p o p p e d my earbuds in and started playing phoebe br idg er s’ “strang er in the

a l ps” ( t h e o nly album i’ve be e n listening to these days). r ig ht as i stepped off the subw ay at

m y st o p, t h e so ng “sco tt st re e t ” collapsed into its final repr ise w here phoebe repeats the line, “a n yway, do n’t be a st range r,” as i w atched tw o kids w ave frantically at the train w ith the m ost

d eligh t e d t iny face s, wit h wh o i assume w as their mom standing over them. she w as w aving too, b u t h e r e ye s lo o ke d far mo re so mb er. the subw ay zipped aw ay in less than a second, but not b efo re i caugh t sigh t o f t h e p e rso n they w ere sending off, w aving back before disappear ing into t h e dark t unne l sixt e e n fe e t unde r t he g round.

i w at ch e d lady bird wit h h annah t o nig ht. a constant stream of tear s rolled dow n my face throug hout t h e e nt ire film. wh e n it e nde d, we both slum ped there and cr ied until the lig hts cam e on. w e

w alke d t o t h e p rince st re e t st at io n in the biting cold, then sat in silence side-by-side on the s u b way wit h o ur o wn earbuds in, both listening to phoebe br idg er s.

l ate r t h at nigh t , we st o o d in t h e k i tchen, hannah using scissor s and a butter knife to pr y open

a s o up can ( we do n’t o wn a can o pener ) w hile i ate ice cream out of the carton on the counter, p l aying t h e album fro m my lap t o p. like kids.

t h ere ’s no o ve rarch ing mo ral o f t h e stor y here, but it ’s taking me by sur pr ise how these subtle, m undane mo me nt s h ave be e n filling me w ith ever y emotion on the spectr um. probably because

i ’ m realiz ing t h at t h e reaso n we ’re even here in the fir st place is because w e pow ered throug h a

t o n o f e mo t io nal t urmo il, made p ain ful and bold attempts at reconciliation, and had the audacity t o ke e p dreaming big dreams e ve n in dreadfully small tow ns w ith small, dem eaning people.

“ I

G U E S S

I

P A Y

A T T E N T I O N . ”

“ D O N ’ T Y O U T H I N K T H E Y ’ R E T H E S A M E T H I N G ? L O V E A N D A T T E N T I O N ? ”

d ec emb er 1 2 1 2 :0 3 a m

t yp ing t h is as a disheveled mess in m y uber pool hom e. tonig ht g abr ielle and i to a s ted to n ew

y o rk o n t h e rooftop of her east villag e apartment and clinked g lasses w ith the stac ks of l i t- u p

skyscrapers of manhattan behind us, then sought warmth inside and talked all about home and

h ard wo rk a nd per sonal g row th and the music industr y and really ever ything on t he s pec tr u m. i co uldn' t have predicted this fr iendship, but i couldn't be m ore g lad it happen ed - thi s i s n 't

go o dbye , either to you or the city. i believe in us and am ver y proud of how far w e've c ome.

t rack wit h me here. w e came up w ith this hor r id analog y about how new yor k c i ty i n you r

20' s is like a hell pore face mask – you slather it on g enerously and then i t even tu a l l y h arde ns o ver tim e, and as you pull it off you're scream ing bloody murder a n d tear i n g up and alm ost reg retting doing it in the fir st place. and after you finall y remove i t

co mp le t e ly, it's not immediately w ondrous and miraculously healing - it's s ti l l i r r i tated and re d. b ut then you m oistur ize, g o to bed, and w ake up in the mor n i n g feel i n g

de e p ly cleansed. even still, from the outside, it doesn't look like much to ever yon e el s e - maybe a little m ore g low y, but m ostly the sam e. yet you your self know that you 've

unde rgo ne a painstaking , purg ative thing , and the lack of ex ter nal ackno w l ed g emen t

do e sn' t in validate any of it. you're purer, and you're better, and you' re d i fferen t.

(M I CAH ’ S R ECOM M EN DATI O N L I STS )

AND I WALKED I WALKED OFF

OFF YOU / AND AN OLD ME