1. The ocean and sky so blue you can’t tell the difference, looking out from the rise of Point Loma Blvd three days after my sister was born.
2. My man bringing me a cup of coffee in bed early in the morning when I’ve just come back from New York and the sunlight is rushing in through the window behind him.
3. Language – an infinity of tonalities and forms.
4. That melancholy in the grey of mid-fall when the air smells like metal and dryer lint and you’re lonely walking through a neighborhood where no one is coming to greet you and then the Hasidic women in clusters, the Puerto Rican teenagers, the skinny NYU students smoking outside the library, the jazz quartet in Washington Square Park, some combination of sweatered and work-booted subway riders makes you feel totally alone but alive, part of something bigger – the city – the story in your head – some kind of music – and then if I know what’s good for me, I go to the library and write it down, watching the lights come on uptown, above the trees, the seasonal, colored pattern of the Empire State building.