Palm trees in my yard

Growing up in New Jersey, all I wanted was a palm tree in my backyard. There are countless pictures of me in various places on this planet hugging palm trees: Las Vegas, Savannah, Australia. I contemplated getting a palm tree tattoo, but then I realized they're kind of ugly if they're not stuck in the ground.

I went to sit on my front porch today, on an 80+ degree day in April, and I looked up. I haven't looked up since I moved. And I realized I have not one but two palm trees in my front yard. I think that still counts.

There were a number of things I was supposed to do when I moved to California. I was supposed to start eating healthy and working out more. I was supposed to join a softball team. I was supposed to go to as many shows as I could. I was supposed to make new friends, seeing as I left most of my old ones back on the East Coast. I was probably supposed to learn to make chicken without the use of a George Foreman grill.

But today, when I was done writing and needed a break from my brain, I drove to Yogurtland. I have become obsessed with yogurt since I moved out here because they're on every corner, worse than a Starbucks in Seattle or a Dunkin' Donuts in Boston. Not only that, they're self-serve and come complete with cookie toppings. It's like heaven by the ounce. I didn't even go there on purpose. I just got in my car and when I saw it, I stopped. It seemed like a good idea. I hadn't eaten dinner yet.

On the way out of the store, I looked up. There was a line of palm trees along the boulevard, right in front of a boarded-up grocery store. The sun was setting, a hazy shade of pink that probably wanted to be orange but couldn't because there is so much smog in this city, so it decided to look purpleish instead. And I stopped. And I thought, I can't believe this is my life.

There are palm trees everywhere. It feels like a vacation but no one's making me go back to reality yet. All the people who grew up here probably think I'm crazy. They'd probably remind me that I was two steps away from a ghetto or that plenty of states have palm trees or, hey, I'm not on vacation. I, in fact, have a job and bills to pay.

But to them I'd say: I have a palm tree. In my front yard. Two, in fact. And I can't believe this is my life.

Remembering Phil: Seven Years Later

Seven years ago, Philip Augustin died. There's a chance you don't know that name, but if you grew up with him in West Orange or went to school with him at George Washington University, he's impossible to forget.

His name came up today when I was hanging out with my friend Jasmine, who I've known since high school, and we also spoke about him the first time we were catching up when I first moved out here. Years before Barack Obama was sworn into office, everyone in town used to say Phil would be the first black president of the United States - and West Orange was not a small town. Everyone loved him. He had the biggest personality. He could make anyone feel comfortable and like you were his best friend. He always had a story to tell and a smile on his face.

When Jasmine and I speak of him, we do so with a sense of sadness and confusion. Phil drowned in the Tidal Basin in Washington, D.C. He yelled something to his friends before jumping in the water, though what those exact words were was never information released by the police. Anyone who knew Phil knew he was afraid of the water, so it never made any sense. Because the situation was so strange and untimely, and because everyone had such faith that Phil would be someone truly important some day, rumors that drugs or alcohol were involved spread, but nothing had even been proven, but Jasmine and I wanted to know if anything else had ever been revealed about what happened. She had been close with the family, and I, like everyone else from high school, had nothing but good memories of him. A classmate, one of his best friends, had created an online memorial for Phil (http://rememberingphil.blogspot.com), a place for family and friends to write what they were feeling and speak to one another about what had happened. I looked at the site right after it was created, but I had forgotten about it until Jasmine and I stumbled upon it this evening.

My most distinct memory was from 11th grade, when we had to act out a chapter from The Great Gatsby for an English class assignment. He was over my house, I think because we had to grab the camcorder so we could film this great work of art we were about to produce, and he immediately sat down at our piano, which no one in the family ever used anymore, and started playing. Then he had a full conversation with my parents. He charmed them like no other, and that wasn't even his goal. He was just being Phil. And I remember my dad saying, "He's a good kid. You should bring him around more often." And he was a good kid. He was a good friend to a lot of people.

But this memory wasn't in the "Remembering Phil" blog. I never posted anything, though I distinctly remember looking at the site and writing my thoughts down, and I could swear that I had posted something. What is there is a quote from my friend Kristine, a direct piece of an IM conversation we had after we found out that Phil had passed away. She wrote, "I was talking to Emily Krauser. She said this to me: 'My way of viewing death, personally, which I know is different for everyone, is that you never go before your time. So it sucks because he was only 20, but look at how many people he impacted. I really believe he did what he was supposed to do. And I think it’s the only way I can think about it – because then I know he did achieve something. And he did – he touched all of us.' It’s hard for me to think that Phil’s time was up, but it does help to think about how he touched us all. Reading everyone’s comments helps me realize this too." To this day, I don't know if that's what I really believe, the whole theory on someone's time being up. I think it's what I said then, and what I have said about others who have passed away since then, to make myself feel better. To give death, especially an untimely one, some meaning. The strangest part of all was that Jasmine had said that exact same thing, about believing that G-d has a plan for us and knows when to take us from this world before something bad can happen, just before we came upon the blog. It's different for her, as she's very spiritual. I don't really know what I am. I just know I have lots of thoughts on lots of things and lots of worries and lots of feelings on top of those lots of thoughts. And I want to believe what Jasmine believes and what I've said in the past, I really do, but at the same time, I have a lot of trouble with the idea.

What we both do believe though is that someone can have a presence in your life. She asked if I ever gave the distinct feeling that someone was watching me or in the room with me, and I actually woke up feeling that way yesterday morning; in fact, I shot straight up out of bed with that exact feeling. I knew who it was then, but like a dream, the fleeting realization was gone by breakfast. But as we discussed Phil, as we tried to figure out if anyone knew anything more than what had been written about or said seven years ago, we both felt like, somewhere, he was watching. A lot of people loved Phil, and he probably has a lot more important people to watch than the two of us (or at least more entertaining people), but I can't really shake that feeling. I'd bet that Jasmine can't either. I don't know what it means, but it is rather reassuring to think that things do happen for a reason (that is one concept I've always believed in with no doubt at all) and that maybe there was a reason we spent so much time thinking about Phil tonight. And maybe, just maybe, there's a reason we spend so much time thinking about everyone in our lives, whether they're with us or not.

You wouldn't know I have writer's block from this babbling blog post.

I'm a writer. I just need some inspiration.

I have plenty of thoughts. I can ramble on about any subject to no end, so much so that I often forget where (or why) I started the conversation. I just drove across the country by myself. I should have a million things to say. I took a thousand photos and, supposedly, picture is worth a thousand words, so why haven't I been able to string together one thousand of my own words?

When people ask what I do, I tell them that I'm a writer. And I am -- I was a magazine editor for four years. I wrote plenty and can describe Justin Bieber's hair with many intriguing adjectives (but I'll spare you). I'll start stories or outlines here and there, but I haven't finished them. I have a couple of stories that I wrote for Fiction I in college that I'd love to turn into full-length novels, but I haven't. Why not? Am I scared? Have I convinced myself that I was too busy when I was working three jobs in New Jersey or that I can't do anything on the West Coast until I'm settled in? Are these the same procrastinating excuses I use when I don't want to go to the gym and think the yogurt shop next door looks much better than an elliptical (trust me, it does).

I spent two hours in a Borders today that's going out of business. I started with 15 books in my hand, but I whittled it down to two (Now I know why Borders is going out of business - an Amazon.com search made me realize I could get half of the books for all of $3 online. Sorry, Borders.). I love book stores and libraries. I find hints of inspiration in them, even when I don't write down a single line for months after. Joan Didion is brilliant. Tom Perrota is hilarious. Chuck Palahniuk is insane. How are they inspired? What makes them want to sit down and write? Are they real writers, wired differently than me?

I hope that's not the case. I want to be a writer. I want to sit down and write a book. And no way in hell will I let that moron of a barely successful nature writer who visited Ithaca my senior year be right when he said I was the only one in his lecture class whose name didn't have an author's ring to it (Listen, Mister So-Important-I-Can't-Even-Remember-Your-Name-Author-Man, as fun as it must be to write about how many rings line the stumps of every dead oak tree in your backyard all day, most people have a pen name anyway. Feel free to go trip over a twig.)

Maybe this blog will be just what I need to get rid of my years-long writers block. Or maybe I'm just trying to give you a babbling blog to read. Or maybe I will finally really write when I'm settled into Los Angeles - at least, once I've bought a desk. Or maybe I'll come up with a thousand excuses instead of a thousand words.

Or maybe I can look at it this way - at least I finally wrote something again.