Bravery, always bravery.
I used to be so brave. Taking chances, saying yes, just going for it, whatever it may have been. The older I get the less brave I seem to be. I recognize the dangers and the risk and find it more appealing to settle into safety than to march into the exhilarating unknown. I miss the old me, at least that trait of hers. I don't know if it was being away from my family that allowed or forced me to be brave, but I certainly felt braver, better in New York. I miss walking through Greenwich Village at dusk. I miss getting off the 6 at 77th Street and walking to work while gawking at the storefronts I couldn't afford to even step into. I miss meeting friends for drinks or dinner or both (usually both) and walking with a smile because I knew I was in for a great time and because I was already happy, so happy. Happy just to be there, happy to walk, happy to be a pretty young woman, happy to know I was a small particle of the magic fairy dust that made up that crazy place. A tiny knob in the massive machine, but a knob none the less, a part of the whole beautiful fucking thing.
Julia Stoz
Am I less brave now because I'm not there? Because I am in LA? Because I am in my hometown? Because I am near my family? Perhaps some of all of those but I also believe it is because I am older. Doubtfully wiser, but I do believe more aware and weary and cautious. Probably safer as a a result, but, unfortunately, sadder. The sparkle has gone and the magic seems to have all warn off. I am happy to be with my family, but miss adventure. Miss being out and about. Miss conversations with intelligent people and dates with good-looking men and late nights out and doing it over again and again. I miss it all. I feel that was a better version of myself. Perhaps that isn't completely true, but it feels true. Part of me believes it has to be true, because certainly this cannot be the best version of myself. I am wasting away. I believe balance is best and the key to the best possible life. I hope to go forward and have a balance of the life I led in New York (hopefully back in New York) and what I live now. Family first, always, but priority for myself as well. My true self. Which I fear I cannot be here. I am not happy here so I cannot be my true self here. Despite all my superficial and bratty complaints about Los Angeles, which I am aware are abundant, I know deep in heart, in my soul, that this is not the place for me. I have known for a very long time. I shouldn't feel bad or shy away from that, but rather fight to use this to get me where I want and doing what I want. I want my family to be okay. But I think they will be happiest if I am happy and productive and flourishing. All I want is to make them proud, truly proud and not obligatory parental proud.
Film Still from A Royal Affair (2012)
I want to stumble upon this one day as I'm riding the subway home after a long day of work. Heading home to my compact but elegant and comfortable condo in Cobble Hill where my handsome husband is waiting with dinner he picked up and Chet Baker playing and wine breathing in a decanter. Where we will have intelligent and funny and meaningful conversation. Where I will speak to my parents before getting ready for bed in which I will recount all my blessing and be so grateful it will bring me to tears as I share with my husband how I read this note and it all came into fruition because I worked hard and believed and made it happen.
Painting(!) by Zaria Forman
