Another Saturday, another barbecue. What a lucky feature of this apartment! A backyard is a rare amenity in Brooklyn, so maybe that’s why our parties are so well attended.

I wake up feeling a little homesick. There is a tightness in my chest, spurred by a dream of being in the fields with my sisters. My parents aren’t doing much better at handling their untangling, and I am profoundly ill-equipped to manage the mediation.

I check my horoscope: ”What taboo is it high time for you to break in a discerning way?”
Excellent question, Rob Brezny.

This gathering will either assuage or underscore my sadness.

I decided to throw myself directly into the busy that goes into hosting: sweep the floor, hide the clutter, buy the propane.

“I’ll be on poop duty!” Krissie says.
Dolly, Krissie’s dog, tends to do her business across every inch of the yard.
“Ok, I’ll get the projector set up,” Mercedes says.
One night in May, after many bottles of wine, we cracked open some white paint and painted a sizeable makeshift movie screen on the brick wall that flanks our yard.
Tonight’s showing: Spirited Away, a Japanese animated film about a little girl stuck in a fantasy world.

The three of us do these tasks in perfect harmony. Something myself and my two sisters never managed to do.

I am feeling a tinge anxious about the possibility of the Hull guys attending.

At around one, the guests begin to trickle in.

“Hey! Jimmy!” Krissie calls from the kitchen to the figures who’ve just entered the front door.
We’ve left the door unlocked with a sign on the door that reads: “BBQ, come on in!”
Jimmy is Krissie’s former guitar teacher who looks like a punk rock Kramer.

I greet Jimmy from the sink as I shuck some corn cobs.

But, my attention is drawn quickly to his companion. Equally tall, but broader. He has large, deep-set eyes that seem to see things out of everyone else’s view, darkness encircles. He’s wearing jeans tucked into sturdy, weather-worn work boots. A red bandana sits tied around his head. His intensity is magnetic, and I can’t keep my eyes off him as the two tall men make their way to the backyard.

“Who is that guy?” I ask Krissie.
“I don’t know. But, I like his hipster lumberjack vibe,” she answers.

The party gets into a rhythm. People show up with various beverages, and the fridge is brimming with bottles and cans, we make room by sacrificing week old vegetables and soon to be expired dairy products.

Donnie has crowned himself grill master, and every time a round of meat is done, exclaims, “Hot dog! Who’s hungry?” Regardless of the type of meat being served.

The Hull crew eventually shows some time after sunset. I pretend not to notice Jake saunter in and continue bonding with Charli over our shared vegetarianism.
“Thank you. Yeah, I love this veggie burger recipe. Super easy, I can give it to you.”
“No, I haven’t been to Food Swings yet, but I’m not a huge fan of pretend meat.”
“Oh, I love Souen. We should go sometime.”

I’m annoyingly aware of Jake’s movements as he eventually makes his way towards us. I start to feel warm in the face and begin to panic over how I will handle this triangle. Though, I’ve vowed to keep my lips and hips away from his.
Oh god, he’s looking this way. Please don’t approach us, I pray to myself and start furiously avoiding eye contact.

“Happy Birthday!”

I, Jake, the crowd, look to see Mercedes standing, framed by the backyard door, holding a cake. The light from the kitchen behind and the glow of the candles radiate around her. Hark! My birthday angel, here to rescue me from impending awkward doom!

All, on cue, begin to sing. I sigh and take my dutiful position before the flame sticks in the cake and blow. Out with this breath, I expel the cobwebs of this past year, the heart heavy sad and I make space for what I hope will be a better, lighter year.

Mercedes ushers the cake to the picnic table for cutting and serving. I follow with some plates she’d staged near the grill.

“Why is it people are only happy on their birthdays?”

The lumberjack is now by my side, offering his help, while evidently pontificating the meaning of birthdays.

“I’m not only happy on my birthday,” I say.

“What else makes you happy?” He asks.

He’s strange in a way I find charming. But, I’m also irked that he is pulling me into this intimate conversation while surrounded by so many people whose eyes are, thanks to the cake serving, on me.

Someone makes a toast, and I take the chance to break away from his gaze,

“What is up with this guy?” Charli, who is sat across the table, seems to say to me with her eyes.

Well, at least I’ve lost Jake, I think.

I finish my cake, strawberry shortcake with clotted cream and lemon zest, and arbitrarily pour the remaining half of a bottle of sparkling into the cups scattered around the picnic table. As I stand to reach the furthest cup and precariously tip the bottle, to allow the last drop to trickle out, I spy two figures a few feet away in a dark corner of the yard.

I turn to Charli and nod, covertly to the corner.
She looks, then snaps her head back. Her eyes widen to indicate, yes that is Jake and Krissie over there sucking face.

We lock our eyes together for a minute, transmitting our secret discovery through eyebrow twitches.

Then we both break out in simultaneous laughter. I feel all the previously held anxiety and tension dissipate.

Mercedes comes over. “What is so funny?”
“Hey, isn’t this movie called Spirited Away?” Charli nods to the wall where now the little girl is talking to a witch with a mole for a third eye.
“Yes, why?”
“Because so are Krissie and Jake.” Charli gestures to the lovebirds in the corner.
“Oh my… “

Now we are all rolling. In the midst of our fits, Charli says, “Don’t look now, but here comes Daniel Boone.”
I wipe my wet laugh eyes and, in spite of instruction, turn to look.

Indeed he is headed straight for us like a man with intentions. He plops down on the bench next to me, much closer than rules of social engagement would call for, but I don’t move away.

“I really hope I see you again. Happy birthday.”

And before I can even answer, he stands up and walks out.

This exacerbates us, and we nearly fall to the ground cackling.

I’m 25 today. A quarter of a century, ¼ of a 100.
I multiply my experiences by four in my head.
And cast a wish for a future full of:

– a steady income stream
– health
– creative flow
– travel (Paris please!)
– good sex

I spent the day in Soho, window shopping with Beatrice. From Edith the Machinist to Opening Ceremony we each compiled a list of all things most coveted. On mine: vintage leather slouchy boots with nailhead studs, a pair of Judy Rosen jeans, a wildly expensive rabbit ring with black diamond eyes. The shop person turned out to be the designer, a soft-spoken ginger with a nice beard and kind eyes. I swooned a little when he slipped it on my finger.

We stopped for lunch at Gitane. My mom sent me $100 for my birthday, so I treated.
I could have, should have, saved it, considering the state of my bank account. But, eh, you only live once.

“Don’t look now, but Marc Jacobs is here with his hot boyfriend.”
I waited 30 seconds, then turned.
He was wearing his signature frames and a vintage Mickey Mouse tee under a tweed jacket, one size too big.
I felt in that moment proud that I was someone who dined at the same places a famous fashion designer did.
I resolve at that moment to get back to my art, start taking pictures again. I say this out loud to Beatrice so that she can bear witness. She agrees to hold me accountable to this.

We spent the rest of the meal rating the staff on a scale of dirty dog to dreamboat. The day was clear and bright, fall’s chill was just beginning to nip. We shared Moroccan spiced olives and oranges accompanied by a bottle of prosecco.
We toasted to my new year and to all the inspiration and soirées on the horizon.

Made it, at last, to this infamous, waterless pool. Charli was correct, it is rife with roving-eyed men.

Krissie: “Oh, here come those sexy boys from Hull.”
Charli: “Has my makeup melted off? You’d tell me, right?”

I want to share in their enthusiasm, and I try to muster some for at least one of these men in my scope. But, I’m. Nope. Not dazzled.

But then, Eureka! He saunters up and sits right next to me, nearly in my lap. He has ‘the bad one’ written all over him — literally, he is covered in doodles: guitar frets, flames and one that reads: “bad to the [picture of cartoon dog bone].”

“Hey, I’m Jake.”

The way he says this. Bells and whistles.
Like how the smell of freshly baked cinnamon rolls makes your mouth water.  Psychic secretion.

Oops, I think later, as we make out under the harsh glow of my porch light. Is this the guitar player? The one Charli was swooning over on the phone?

I tell myself I’ll abort mission before anyone’s pants hit the floor.

One thing is for sure, this place is pulsing with an unyielding, creative force.

Everyone keeps drinking Pom juice because it squashes free radicals. I have a hunch none of them know those radicals aren’t the same that nag and scratch at night, keeping them from their creative source.

I’m back in this New York groove!
I welcomed the grouchy cab drivers and the smog. I could have kissed the filthy ground! Bring it on, potholes and unnecessary honking!

Energy abounds, all the way to the marrow of my bones.

I said farewell to all those ghosts today, and now I’m at the airport terminal, tears rolling down my red face.

Dad didn’t make it easy, looking so vulnerable at the passenger drop.
Mom hid any disquiet she held under warmth and hope.

I’ve spent so much time trying to escape this place, and now here I am about to return to a life of my design and craving the one I inherited.

It’s Utah’s birthday today and I decided to celebrate with a walk out to the slew, a ten-minute stroll from the back porch of home/dad’s house.

The ground was baked and since all I had on were Chuck Taylors, that was a lucky thing. But, had the ground been wet, as in spring or fall, I’d have been glad. Rain brings the ideal wading conditions for hosting the Blue Herons, a rare and somewhat spontaneous visitor. Deluged banks bring colonies of these pale blue creatures and to witness them gliding overhead with their canopy-sized wings pumping slowly, is a beautiful thing. They settle in elegantly and perch, with protracted necks, as if posing for a picture. They stay like this for one maybe three days. The rarity and unpredictable nature of their occurrences make them all the more wondrous.

On this outing, though, all I was to find, along the bank of the river was a mosquito casino. Apparent survivors of the crop dusting raids that still occur frequently in summer months out here, in spite of irrefutable evidence that it is cancer. I could have sworn these mosquitoes were dancing in a sort of celebration.

Change has a different rhythm here than in the city and at this moment, there is comfort in that. These expansive habitats molded my interior world. Blankets of open land, boundless sky, uninterrupted visibility to humbling mountains.

I sum up these recent disturbances in the continuum I took for granted to be my life and I try to capture as much as I can of what remains.

I’ll go here often when I need a break. In my mind, I mean. I’ll recess my consciousness and revisit this sensation of solitude, encircled by so much home, by all these living bodies expressed in their unfettered way. I will recall my instincts and breathe a little easier.

Jerry invited me to a party in the canyon last night. I managed to borrow my mom’s car and made my way to a house I’d never been to before.

I was surprised to see some of the CTR contingency had been invited. Having seen their boyfriends off on their missions, they were evidently killing time with the party set.

“New York? Wow, I could never live in a city like that. Is it scary?”
There it was, that trademark squeaky clean intonation that made me squirm.

“Who invited them?” I whispered to Jerry.
“Soph, don’t be such a snob, they’re cool.”
I grumbled quietly, then excused myself outside when someone mentioned a smoke.

I shimmied through the narrow opening left in the sliding glass door, onto the deck where the crowd had gathered.  I leaned on the railing and winced as the dry wood whimpered under the weight.  Relishing a private moment, I took long and contemplative drags while I surveyed the faces and compared them to faces in my new city — less nose, more ink, otherwise the same.

“Aaron, you’re back! Buddy, what’s up?”

Shaded by the crowd and distance, I narrowed my attention to verify this Aaron was the one I knew.  It was.

It had been nearly four years since I’d seen him.

It was our final spring break as kids, and we’d set our sites on a piece of Mojave. The unspoken agreement that we all shared, the expectation for some, and the worry for others, was that instead of stopping in St. George, as planned, we’d heed a call to cross the border less than two hours south. We always did.  The whole bunch of us would pile into one cheap hotel room and christen it by lining up shots of booze — purchased from the bottom shelf — on a skateboard. We’d roll the board back and forth, focused on saving every drop. Eventually, we’d spill out into the night on foot, under the influence of the strips incendiary charms and the shots, worth every drop.

Not Aaron though, Aaron was “straight edge” — no booze, no smoke, and no meat. His high was natural, slightly enhanced by Mountain Dew.

Not that he was a bore. In some ways, his abandon bested any of us.
He would approach anyone, eat any combination of things on a dare and couldn’t wait to test out the vulnerability of nether reaching tree branches above swimming holes.

No, his particular abjurations were the product of a religious upbringing; Aaron was a good Mormon boy.  A devout Holy Spirit lover, through and through.  Well, save for the fact that, to our fortune and to his church’s probable dismay, Aaron preferred the company of Gentiles, aka non-Mormons – a confounding definition for any Jew – to his ‘Brothers & Sisters’.

That spring, we all knew a calling from up on high was en route. See, Aaron was 18 and like so many before, would soon make his way to the MTC (Missionary Training Center), where he would learn how to preach the Book of Mormon’s gospel in Spanish for his missionary work in Mexico City. These details were yet unknown, but we all intuited this a farewell journey.

The deck crowd was now gathered around Aaron, peppering him with questions. His curtly answers beckoned my scrutiny.  From my distance, I did my best to scan his face for its characteristic mischief.  To my chagrin, all I found laid across his brow was flat obedience.

I can’t say I was surprised.  But, I quickly knew I couldn’t muster the courage to face him, after all this time, and I slipped out before he could see me.

On the drive home, I began to place memories in order. Me, Jerry, Nate and Aaron in Jerry’s Acura headed down I-15. Nate, a bawdy, caustic type fella, insisting all the while that we go to this strip club he likes.

“His selling points?”
“The decor is pretty classy.”
“The clientele is respectable.”
“The dancers are hot females who are in charge.”
“The music doesn’t suck.”

Having long ago declared myself a feminist,  I felt obligated to remind everyone that this outing was “absolutely, not for me.” But, Nate can be convincing and so can the incantations of Sin City.  So, sometime before midnight I was canned and showing my ID to a bouncer at Deja Vu.

Soon, I was audience to a woman, no older than me, undulating to Nine Inch Nails. Right about then, I realized Aaron had joined us. He was looking on expressionless, while Trent Reznor cued our girl to gesticulate like an animal.
“Are you ok?” I asked.
He just nodded, not making eye contact.
A few moments later he slipped outside and concerned, I followed.

When I found him under a buzzing spotlight in the parking lot, between two cars doubled over and sobbing, I rushed to his side.
“It’s ok, nobody needs to know you were here. You haven’t done anything.”
“I’m not like those men in there.”
I can see he is red in the face, omitting an emotion that I can’t quite place.
“I mean, I know, but also some of those men are just, boys,” I stammer.
“If it makes you feel better, I feel like I’m also betraying myself in there.”
“I will never be like those men.”
The truth in his words pierced the quiet of that parking lot.

The rest of the night deteriorated like they tend to in Las Vegas: blackjack tables, sweet sticky cocktails, a fever dream of lights and gaudy carpet, cigarettes, late, greasy food.

The next day brought down the wrath, and we peeled out of Nevada like salvation lay at the border. In silence, we drove northward. I spent the first hour, or two focused on locating my equilibrium and reckoning with the excise imposed on my soul in the backseat. Jerry and Nate took turns driving. Aaron sat beside me, eyes fixed out the passenger window. When we stopped at a Denny’s in Cedar City, Aaron was the one to break the silence, turning to me in the back seat he whispered,

“We all know that God allows evil to exist in the world.”

“Huh?”

“I feel better now.”

“I’m glad for you, but I still feel like roadkill,” I groaned.

“Sophi?”

“Yes, Aaron?”

“I love you, and so does Jesus.”

He left for Mexico City a year behind schedule and in between slipped deeper in love.

Talked to Mercedes and Charli today. Made me homesick for NY, which is a weird sensation.

“We miss you!” Mercedes declared.
“Come back please!” I heard Charli holler out.

“You’re on speakerphone, by the way. When ARE you coming back?”

“I miss you too! I am not sure about a return date, but I need to figure it out ASAP. The longer I’m here, the more I fear I’ll never leave, and I cannot stay here, all the salads are made with iceberg lettuce,”I joked. “Tell me, what is new in Brooklyn?”

“Oh, you know, summer stuff: beach, oysters after the beach, lots of iced coffee, trying not to melt —it’s starting to get muggy! The fig trees are blooming, and the snap peas I planted are starting to look ripe.”
Mercedes has bucolic yearnings and satiates them as best she can in the city.

“We’ve been hanging out at McCarren pool during the free concerts on Sundays, it’s a lot of fun. There’s a frickin’ slip-n-slide! Aaaand lots of cuties to peep.” Charli chimed in. Her yearnings are much easier to satiate in the city.

“Oh right, yes, they are so fun! We had a barbeque after last Sunday’s Les Savy Fav show. I made a berry pie with fresh basil that was really nice. Krissie brought over some dudes she met at the pool, and we whooped it up till dawn.” Mercedes recapped.

“I have my eyes set on the guitar player,” added Charli.

In the distance, I heard our creaky door swing.

“Oh. Shea just got here. Oh, and he’s with Mike.”
“Hey, guys. I’m talking to Sophi.” Mercedes called out.

Suddenly, I heard Shea’s vowel stretching Cali accent.
“Sup babe, how’s Mormon country?”
For some reason, I was sure he wasn’t wearing a shirt.
“In a word, arid. How are you guys?”
“We’re cool, just picking up some guitar strings I left here. Heads up, Krissie thinks she’s getting some chickens for the backyard. Gonna come home to some real chicken shit.”

“Oh, yes, Krissie found a chicken coop on Craigslist that she almost bought. I told her the soil is too toxic and we’d have to build out a whole platform and cage. Plus, I think Josie might murder them. You know she’s a huntress.” Mercedes explained, referring to her lioness-like cat.
I look over to my grandma’s porch and recall her, all the years of my childhood, sweeping up chicken shit.

“God-damned chickens keep pooping all over my porch!”

She hated those chickens. I loved them, or rather, I loved going out into the orchard with my grandpa and gathering eggs. They never laid eggs in the coop, rebel chickens. They’d nest everywhere but: the young elm trees, the tool shed, the old bus. We’d take extra care to examine the weight and heat from each one, indicators of life inside. You were wise, Grandpa Jed taught me, to leave one egg behind to ensure the hens would roost there again.

“But, how great would it be if we had our own fresh eggs?” Mused Mercedes.

“Ew. I’m not cleaning up any of that chicken shit, no way, yuck,” sneered Charli.

We ended the call with wishes for a swift reunion and promises to keep me up to speed on chicken and boy developments.

I plopped my body down on the island of grass that made up my grandparents lawn. To my left, rusted wagon wheels sunk half-way in, a supporting trellis to my grandmothers pink and yellow tea roses. The horizon vast and at this evening hour, the sky had begun its pre-show, the blues yielding slightly to the gradually retiring sun. A warm-up act for the main event: sunsets over the valley.

The grass was a bionic green in the low angled sunlight. A color I’d come to know and expect here. I lay for a very long time in the healthy blades, inhaling in gulps, the pungent earth. I could feel the warmth of the soil radiate up, out, and through me. A sincere urge to dig my nails in and pull the earth around me like a fur throw overwhelmed. Instead, I relished in the dander and pelage as I relented my corpse to the ground.

I watched several episodes of SATC tonight to try to un-fuck my brain and remind myself that I live in NYC, not here. But, holy hell that show is unrelatable. If Carrie is blue, she buys shoes; I meanwhile spent half the day chasing down a $300 check from a freelance gig from four months ago, that may or may not come. Then there is the rotating cast of bedmates, I mean no, thank you to some man-child (looking at you M. Big) who uses his money and LIMOUSINE (really) to lure women into his ambiguity. But, yeah, to be honest, I haven’t been on a proper date

since I moved to Brooklyn.

Oh and don’t even get me started on the crop tops and Carrie’s unreal abs.

I’m left with the feeling that New York City has forgotten me, all the burgeoning energy is mounting just the same without me. Meanwhile, I’m here, in the land that time forgot.

The worst of it is, five episodes of outfits later, I’m convinced I need a whole new wardrobe and have no means to produce the funds or the lifestyle to condone one. Given the current state of things, I’ll have to settle for the archives of my mom’s closet — I’m pretty sure there is some acid-wash denim ready to be revived in there.