Dear Binda,

The rain has not stopped so I’ve decided to go to the movies to see the Spike Lee movie. I have to admit, it was the lady in the laundry room, in our the basement of our apartment building, who convinced me to watch it. She was in there, when I came in, with my dirty laundry. She’s an early bird so she was already folding her clothes, and it wasn’t even seven a.m. yet. She said that she’d read an article in the New York Times about global warming. I didn’t want to hear it. She usually talked about pleasant things like her dog and her son’s BBQ restaurant out in Austin.

Her short, sweet, anecdote made the think the world was ending. Whenever I think the world is ending I want to do these things (and these are things you are well aware of, first hand):

1. Drink
2. Have sex with strangers
3. Disregard all propriety and do whatever the hell I want.

Basically it feels like stepping onto a fun rollercoaster,the kind with small dips and twists, without ever going upside down. But these sorts of rides are frowned upon by other well-meaning adults. You’ve told me to my face, that I’m childish.

So my compromise, without the extreme of ending up naked in some man’s arms with Heinecken dribbling from my mouth, is to watch Spike Lee’s latest rendition of racism.

He’ll present it in an entertaining and informative way. I’ll be in the dark, during this roller coaster ride of his crafting.

But I’ll still feel childish, Binda.

He had a weather-beaten look about him. He wasn’t going to look handsome for long. The situation was assessed and it made sense to all involved that he should go into television instead of movies. Everyone was making something in television; surely someone would hire him.

Someone did. He went on to do great roles. The one he was most noted for was the one where he seemed to not being paying very much attention to anyone. This was sort of the whole plot of the show. That introspective look on his face, his ability to convey tsunamis of stories and grief–all while looking extremely sexy–was a great big draw.

The show lasted one season. Fans were incensed and wanted more. They petitioned on social media. He ignored everything. So it was a great big suprise when he wrote a book. A book about birds of the Pacific Northwest. “So it turns out,” he wrote in his Preface. “I wasn’t ignoring everything.”

Dear Binda,

Your work scares me. I read your piece about the fileting of philodendrons and it compelled me to put down my knives. I’m into mortar and pestles now. I mushing things together–blending ingredients of spices and pungencies. No assembly required. But I do have to taste what I’ve blended. Don’t we all, I suppose.

Dear Binda,

Thank you for sending the birds. As you know, I suck at listening to people. Birds are so much easier to listen to. I have no idea what they are saying. But I’m listening. You send them regularly. The ones who speak so well. Who sing like dessert without the guilt. Biblical birds. Dancing birds. Singing birds.

I should have you stop sending them. I should be able to find my own, befriend my own. But you know where to look, how to look, why a particular one matters. You know why the catbird meows. You understand a robin’s boldness. You empathize with the hawk.

Maybe a pet bird is the way to go. When I suggest such a thing you laugh and say “It takes one to know one.” Yeah. I guess so. But that doesn’t stop me from wanting to befriend them. Birds are almost, kinda, just like friendly people, now that I think about it.

I guess nice people can be put in cages too. You take their singing at their word, but you can’t really, really, know what they mean.

Dear Binda,

I LOVE that you love your mother. I know: almost everyone loves their mother but I’m lucky enough to hear you speak of her in that way you do. I’m always in the right place and time to hear those things.  Last week, you told me a secret about her and it bugs me that I want to tell people. But I haven’t told. I guess I just have to take it one day at a time.  It’s only been three days.

Last night, after we got back from Jupiters for drinks I ran into a lemon loaf cake with my name on it. It was delicious. It was like feasting on your secret. It wasn’t enough to satisfy and so I ate a meat pie, then a large family size bag of Skittles, followed by two cans of hard cider. I’m bloated this morning. I’m farting out my sense of loyalty to you.

Finally I just had to take a moment and think: If this is how I feel about your secret, then what must YOU be going through. How are you dealing with this?

I’m sorry I didn’t ask you, until now. I should have. Instead of listening and asking, I was feasting and farting.

My girlfriend announced she was pregnant.  I was ecstatic. For some reason I had to capture this on video. I picked up my phone. She started crying.I started to put the phone down, out of respect, I guess. But at the last minute I just started to keep rolling film. She broke down quietly. It had been a long week for her.

Later we showed this footage to our son.

He was horrified. He couldn’t understand why crying was so important to adults. He said they did it too much. He claims he hadn’t cried since he was three.

I tend to believe him. Kids today don’t cry. I think it’s because they are happier. They’ve done so much recently. The world is a safer place. I like being alive and don’t worry that much. Maybe that’s why we showed him those old photos. My wife and I were feeling nostalgic, for the Good Ole Days when there were things to cry about.

It was a beautiful morning. It was so sunny that I walked yards through the park without seeing anything but white light.  This can be dangerous if you don’t know your territory. But I did, don’t worry. I know Central Park. It’s my orgy, my toilet, my dining spot, my meditation retreat. It’s a zoo. Birds, squirrels, raccoons running wild. Dogs off their leashes until 7 a.m. It was the perfect morning.

And then I saw a man, dressed for work, carrying an umbrella. I didn’t like that he knew something I didn’t. I was irked by his preparedness.

Earlier that morning I couldn’t get out of bed. I’d woken up from a dream that I was in a car with friends and we were driving to my boyfriend’s funeral. In reality, my boyfriend is fine. That’s what makes dreams like this so debilitating. No umbrella.

You can’t hide. This is where you live. In New York.

When you can’t sleep, this is what you should do: what you’re doing now. Sitting up, fretting, jiggling your foot at the end of the couch, thinking of water, then friends, then your next kitten, and the utter humilation of people finding out that you have not figured out too much.

“You seem to have life all figured out,” your best friend told you a few years ago, when you first landed in New York. You have never spoken to that friend again. This has happened a few times. A friend says the wrong thing, and you are sure they didn’t mean to. But you stop calling them. You haven’t officially cut them out of your life. No major pronouncements here. You just stopped picking up the phone and calling him. You know he’s still out there. You have other friends who have spoken to him. They all say the same thing. “He doesn’t talk much.”

Maybe he’s figured out life. I feel like the people who are the ones you don’t hear from have figured it out. And they don’t want to share the secret. So they don’t say much.  Those who don’t know are the ones are the ones who share–and they are always charging for it. Maybe your ex-friend is charging and you don’t even know it. So you call him. Out of the blue. He’s glad to hear from you. He’s still got nothing to say.And you have to force yourself not to say anything either, because he who speaks first….as the saying goes.

Another five years passes since you’ve talked to him. One of your friend calls you to tell you that your ex-friend has died. Cancer. You sigh loudly.

You call his widow.

She tells you everything.