In & Out
A poem(ish) for 2025!
In: purple (still), plaid (still), swans (still), dining alone at the bar.
Out: unkindness, the expression ‘I/we/he/she/they did a thing’ in reference to anything.
In: grasshoppers.
Out: cockroaches.
In: piles of books on the floor, clue, other mysteries of all kinds, dark red stones.
Out:
In: morality, genuine aspirations, salt cellars, feather dusters, leeks.
Out: I don’t know, whatever there is that doesn’t make you happy.
In: anything, as long as it’s not evil.
Walking home from dinner tonight the stars were out, which they almost never are here. When was the last time you were walking home from dinner in New York City and you looked up and you could see the stars? I can’t think of a single time that’s ever happened to me (in 27 years, as of recently), until tonight.
It was a January 2nd miracle. That’s what I texted you, to make sure that you might see them too. The stars!
In: stars, looking up at the sky just in case.
The visible stars made me think of the seagulls on Christmas Eve.
In: seagulls.
On Christmas Eve a flock of seagulls hurled themselves into and through a hard wind over the Williamsburg Bridge. We had woken up that morning in a cold room with whipped cream sheets. I refuse to open up my radiators. Much to my delight I could see through the opening in my curtains that there was snow. Real snow like a childhood dream, like a white Christmas, like falling fat and light and making cushiony the metal slats of my fire escape.
In: snow, obviously, even when it turns to slush.
I only mention the snow really because who doesn’t love snow, but also to say that later, when I was driving towards the Williamsburg Bridge, after I cried sweet and silly saying goodbye to you for five days, the snow was not so fat. And by the time I turned onto Delancey Street, the snow had stopped.
In: crying sweet and silly.
On Delancey, there was just the white, whisping sky, and the white salt asphalt. And against the white, grey world, a flock of seagulls.
And I will never cease to wonder, when I see a seagull in New York City, why there aren’t more of them. Why is this island city not completely overrun by seagulls? Why are there not more seagulls here than there are pigeons? We’re talking about a bird reputationally famous for ripping food straight out of peoples’ hands (no child is safe!). A perfect fit for this city in every way.
In: pigeons, by the way, and I don’t care what you say.
It blows my mind, which means that every time I see a seagull in New York City, which once you start looking for them, really isn’t that rare after all (but still rarer than it should be per my reasoning as outlined above), my mind is blown. Shock and awe. Anything can be a miracle if you let it be.
Which brings me back to these specific seagulls—the ones over the Williamsburg Bridge on Christmas Eve. They parried the wind, danced the wind, and they cried to me, “Rejoice! Rejoice! You were born today,” which I was, and I thought, I am born today, and the world is born today and every day over and over again, another birth.
Then tonight the stars said to me the same thing (rejoice, rejoice!), and it made me think of the seagulls, and I felt glad to speak the language of the seagulls and the stars, even if only in fits and starts.
In: birds in general, clearly, rejoicing, looking up at the sky just in case.
2025: the year of the birds, and specifically, pigeons