the air outside smells like black pepper and an ex-boyfriend’s cologne. it’s “obsession" by calvin klein and i can’t tell whether it makes me nauseous because of its familiarity or its sickeningly musky aroma. there is a woman sprinting across the street, moving as if she’s running for her life. i am unplugged, as i have been since leaving work where, just a few minutes ago, the 11 month-old baby i care for took twelve clumsy steps in a row: a new record. 

i am without an ipod, a book, or a pad of paper. i am not jotting down ideas, learning lyrics, or losing myself in someone else’s story. i am walking short distance between work and the subway, between the subway and home, and i am paying close attention. it is spring now, although the weather stubbornly refuses to acknowledge the date. on april twenty-fifth of two thousand and twelve, it is neither sunny or rainy, neither hot or cold. babies are howling and several men turn to look at pretty girls’ asses as they walk by. i catch snippets of conversations between teenage girls and women carrying their heels as they head home:

”[…] fourth martini, i said fuck this shit and BOUNCED,"

"maybe he’s, like, grounded or something. i think he has a D in math,"

"mom? mommy? MOMMY CAN I PLEASE HAVE… "

they are unaware of my intrusion, of the fact that their stories, both public and private, are finding their way to my ears. i did not intend this, did not purposefully set out to soak up secrets, but here we are.

i turn the corner and head for home, where i know i will sit down, pour myself a glass of wine, and begin to write.

there is a soundtrack that accompanies my life in its current state, one that accurately and poignantly reflects the highest of the moment’s highs and the lowest of its lows. it is these sounds that creep into my dreams at night, reminding me of the events of the previous days and illustrating how completely and suddenly things can shift from one moment to the next.

the careful and steady beep… beep… beep… of the monitors in the hospital. the soaring refrain of the guitar solo written by the man i love as it bursts through the speakers in a basement venue. the ringing in my ears. the clanging of the pipes in my apartment as they throw themselves angrily against the walls. 

there is rarely silence, as i take comfort in the presence of such a commandingly consistent auditory landscape. it is during the silences between each event that something tangibly shifts: the beep changes pace, it slows, it’s time for more pain killers or another dose of nausea medication, and the moment comes crashing down around me. i’m forced to take a breath, to look around.

in the hospital, all visitors wear masks and gloves so that my uncle’s newly hatched immune system (a gift from my father’s donated bone marrow) will not be contaminated with any of the germs we may have gathered while outside the boundaries of Sloan-Kettering, a cancer hospital on the upper east side. when entering my his room, we must sanitize our hands, slip on the appropriate garments, knock on the door. this covering up of our faces creates a sad and strangely beautiful phenomenon: we must all communicate with our eyes. our irises, eyelashes, pupils and corneas are our only tools, as our noses, mouths, chins, necks, facial hair, dimples, teeth, and other distinguishing facial features are shielded by hospital-made paper and plastic. we cannot touch andrew with our skin, only through the thick rubber of the gloves. it’s suffocating, this desire to press my hands against my uncle’s face and hands, this need to touch this person that i care about, someone who’s hurting greatly, and being allowed to do so only through a layer of manufactured material. putting my skin against the skin of someone else at will is something i never realized i was taking for granted. 

as a result, for the past few weeks, i have tried to make myself acutely aware of skin-to-skin contact with other humans: the gentle pressure of a woman’s forearm pressing against my thigh on the subway, the tight protective hug my mom gave me before leaving for the airport at 5:30 in the morning, the quiet assurance of my boyfriend’s arms around me as he sleeps. these moments of contact are pressed into the pages of the last few months and the soundtrack, ever-changing and always relevant, accompanies them dutifully.

the beep. the echo of the speakers. the ringing in my ears. the silence in the room and the hope in everyone’s eyes as we look up at the bag containing platelets, stem cells, white blood cells; the ingredients of new life.

we are up in the air. i can feel your elbow brushing against mine. your eyes are closed but your left hand stays safely on my right knee. 

you feel far away sometimes, but not right now. your lips are parted just so, and i know this means you’re heading towards sleep, towards dreams.

it’s you and me up here. 

i look out the window. we’re surrounded by clouds and all i can see is grey. just below us is Everything: the air, treetops, concrete, commuters, taxis and trains, babies in strollers, pollens, teenagers writing songs.

below us, people are sitting in traffic, pushing down their cuticles, talking on the phone. i press my left palm to the window and watch as the stencil of my skin takes form and slowly evaporates.

i shift my weight. we’ve come through the clouds and the earth below us is carpeted with geometric swatches of green and brown. there is still snow on the ground, even though we’re tumbling headfirst into summer. 

i recognize this nowhere place, this location that lies between here and there. it’s where we found each other, i think. our paths crossed: you, on your way to somewhere, and me, heading dutifully somewhere else. we met unceremoniously in the middle, in the pregnant pause between elsewhere and home. 

home, 

which is up in the air in this nowhere place, because

home

is wherever you are.

it’s astounding how quickly and completely things can spin out of control. in one moment, you’re standing at the top of the world and in the next you’re stranded on the street, screaming at the top of your lungs.

we humans have the capacity for incredible progress as well as massive destruction. we are constantly in control of our fates, juggling them in a way that continuously negotiates the fine border between morality and insanity. we are not only able to wreak havoc on our surroundings, we are literally handed the tools: education, technology, electricity, weapons, chemicals, our own hands. we place incredible faith in each other: we trust that all others will follow the rules, will stick to the plan. we trust each other to respect the limits, to take care of each other both through our actions and in the urges we actively repress.

every once in awhile, someone steps outside the boundaries, identifying themselves as a person capable of Doing Something, whether that thing is big or little, inspiring or devastating. the attack on the twin towers was, at it’s conception, someone’s eccentric harebrained fantasy. so was martin luther king jr’s assassination. so too was the invention of penicillin, the building of the great wall of china, the egyptian pyramids, the english language. gandhi was one of us, as was adolph hitler, as is barack obama, as will be my children, my children’s children.

we are limitless, intrinsically capable of great revelations and horrifying turmoil. it is our potential that ultimately unites us; it is the force that keeps us turning, spinning, pressing forward and continuing on.