Sweet Fat Yes

Earlier tonight, sitting here in the dark, before this glowing screen, I raised my head and saw, outside—tan, and warm, and somehow plump—a gorgeous, gorgeous moon. Instantly crushing on the Universe, I sat here bewitched remembering where we are.

We are living on Earth. Every wonderful, irritating, ordinary thing that happens to any of us during a day is happening on a pretty blue sphere spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning through a dark and mysterious sea of nothing.

There is something about seeing the Moon—knowing it more intimately, more quietly, than the Sun—that reminds me that this ground below me—knowable and sure—is actually the surface of ball I am stuck to somehow, and above me, over my head, higher than my roof, past the tallest building around, above the clouds, and past the air, there is a sweet, fat moon, then other things, and then nothing.

Outside, without anything built or growing above me, I reach up and touch the Universe.

Jerome, mid-30s, MTA transit worker, NYC 09MAY07

Varsity Aesthete: What is beautiful to you?
Jerome: Something new and different.
VA: How do you react to beauty?
J: Stare, fantasize, imagine.
VA: How often do you experience beauty?
J: I don't know.

Beauty is Different

Sometimes, when people list what is beautiful to them, that list gets corrupted by what they merely like. When something is “beautiful”, the key difference is the transcendent quality of the reaction to it.

Yesterday, I was reading one of my own lists from 1997, and this corruption is evident. Beauty has a slowing, contemplative power that listing won’t often support. It’s so easy to be distracted by good feelings, get lax with my criteria and realize I’m so totally in love with the world. I might start with “the ocean” recalling times spent floating in it and the sense I had of being part of something enormous, powerful, sparkling and delightful, and a few lines later find myself writing, “Strawberry Mentos” because they’re, you know, really, really good.

“Strawberry Mentos” is the clearest anomaly on my 1997 list, but there are many entries that don’t truly fit. In my defense, my whole sense of this project and of myself was so different then. I was spending a lot of time alone and outdoors, and was just often in a woozy, dreamy state in general. Those Mentos weren’t actually beautiful, but I discovered them at a time when everything was lofty and elevated and special, so they easily made the cut.

Comedian Eddie Izzard does a great bit on the word “awesome” that is useful here. “Awesome” used to be a word with deep theological connotations. The idea or presence of God was awesome. It struck fear—all-encompassing, fully glorious, thoroughly humbling fear—into the hearts of men. Izzard complains specifically about the use of “awesome” in marketing copy (“Awesome!”), but whenever we say someone’s party was awesome, or their haircut is awesome, it’s a very different usage than the original. With beauty, word usage is important because if you aren’t clear you can end up moony-eyed and overly sentimental in a hurry. The difference between liking something and thinking it’s beautiful is that the beautiful thing will alter your state, even if only momentarily, sending you beyond yourself and into it.

Living in New York City, getting to see the sky in full is rare, so when, on the waterfront, or an outdoor subway line, I find myself with a clear view of the sky and am really open to its presence, my heart beat changes, and small thoughts fall away. I find myself thinking about the unique expansiveness of the sky, and how I want to lay under it for hours and hours and lose myself contemplating its endlessness. Alternatively, when it’s, say, really nice and sunny out, I can, you know, note that and go about my business. I’m not mesmerized by it or internally transported anywhere. It’s simply nice out. I’m really happy, sure, but there’s not the heavy take-me-from-myself-and-into-what-you-are that true beauty elicits.

This is an exciting distinction. I’m not so interested in what people like. I’m interested in what sends them and in their ability to be sent. I’m interested in their vulnerability to beauty.

On Hotness, Part One

I’m a leg man myself, and Regina Spektor is wrong.

A few weeks ago, we had the first glorious days of new, good weather here. Downtown Manhattan, the aesthetic capital of this great nation, parades beauty like pigeons and litter year-round: it has nothing to do with you, it's not a big deal, and it's fucking everywhere. Everything changes though when the weather becomes kind and we can wear what we like. That’s when the 10s come out, and, in this city, the 10s go up to 11.

As I strolled along that week, Spektor's Summer in the City was on repeat in my mind, and it's not cleavage, cleavage, cleavage. Summer in the city is hamstrings, hamstrings, hamstrings.

As a woman, I feel such one of the cool kids when I see men struck dumb with delight as the bold and beautiful strut past, and, in those days, I saw much pedestrian traffic stall in the presence of the hot-pantsed and shiny-legged. The best was two men walking down the street, one ancient and struggling with a serious cane, his companion bopping slow alongside him, young and able-bodied.

Here comes a 10 in shades, a chic black top, killer killer khaki hot pants (tailored cuff!) and the legs and gait to match. At first, Able Bodied is just basking in the passing eyeful with Struggling Cane at his side wrapped up in his all-too-familiar physical drama letting the 10s of the world pass him by, as usual. It's too good a show though, so Able Bodied stops him and gently turns him around saying, “Come on man. You can’t miss this.” A noble companion. She passes and they stand there, off track and male gazing with abandon.

I felt so good seeing Struggling smile through his difficulties, that moment so improved by a glimpse of a woman he will never be with. I loved, too, that Able knew it was worth disrupting Struggling’s flow to share the hotness.

This kind of scene romanticizes the objectification of the female body for me and brings up all kinds of inconvenient questions. I will not bore you with those questions.



*Jessica Alba, by Terry Richardson for GQ cover June 2007

Who Broke My Window?

"I told the truuuuuuuuuth!" Give me chills everytime. Beautiful.

Standing Ovation

Standing ovations are heavy. The performance is over, applause has begun, and I often find myself assessing my cojones for the boldness to be first out of my seat. Some tight-fisted little thing in me says I am weighing the critical merits of the performance when what I actually am is chicken and facing a tragic glitch in my constitution.

I recently saw Stephen Petronio's work onstage at the Joyce Theater and absurdly faced this dilemma. At turns sexy and powerful, accessible yet deliciously opaque, Petronio's dancers and choreography answered the nagging "Why dance?" with more grace, pathos and sex appeal than I've ever seen before.

So why wasn't I first out of my seat when the applause began?

Because I find it difficult sometimes to be open and generous with my love. It's a small and rotten thing this feeling and requires an almost physical redirection of self to make the shift. The times I feel most beautiful are when that wrenching shift isn't necessary to let out the words "I love you", or "Thank you" or "Bravo!" and I am free enough inside to pour love out.

UPDATE Since writing this post, I've found myself markedly more open with my love. Lots of good things are coming together, and that's part of the change, but writing through this helped a great deal

A Thing of Beauty

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.
-John Keats, 1818