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  For Dulcie, Felix, Amiya, Chameli

  To my family and Sarah, and to hurrying home

  I just had this one image of Jack Nicholson holding a pink balloon.

  —POLLY PLATT

  1

  Heart Museum

  THERE’S an emoji on my phone that I’ve never used, of a shell-pink tower-block building with blue windows. Smaller than an apple seed, crumb-sized—if that—it stands six stories high. Six windows going up: three square, three rectangular. I counted them and double-checked because extra-small things bring out the extra-small person in me who sometimes even triple-checks things; who still chances certainty might exist in asking, “Promise me?”

  This emoji is further detailed with a letter H—pink too, but more or less magenta—that hangs on its front and is matched in size by a pink heart floating above the building’s extension; like a shiny Mylar balloon escaping into the sky. The building’s roof is maroon, and an awning, also pink, shelters its two-door entranceway. Unlike the “house” emoji, for instance, this one has zero greenery: no shrubs, no tree. No landscaping. Just a stand-alone building that, until recently, I thought stood for “Cardiologist.” The H and its accompanying heart were an expression of, in my mind, heart hospital. Or heart doctor. And not, as I later discovered while scrolling through an emoji glossary online: “Love Hotel.” I was sure the building stood for all matters having to do with that four-chambered, fist-shaped muscle we carry—that carries us—with constancy. That beats—did you know?—more than one hundred thousand times a day.

  Imagine that. Even when we’re pressing snooze and rolling over in bed, folding ourselves into our covers and postponing the day’s bubbling over, and soon after notching cold butter on warm toast, or later coming to a halt as we bound up a flight of subway stairs only to stall behind an elderly woman whose left leg trails behind her right leg—one leaden step at a time—even then, when time decelerates and the relative importance of our lives, of our hurry, undergoes a sudden, essential audit; even then, our heart never stops.

  Even when a name I’ve long ignored—blotted from my mind in order to safeguard some good sense—pops up bold in my inbox. Even when I notice three consecutive missed calls from my father and, as if metronomed by doom, fear the worst, my heart does not stop beating.

  Even when I hear a sound or count footsteps following me at night, or spot two rats darting from a pile of trash, or hold my breath as Lisa Fremont climbs the fire escape to Thorwald’s apartment while Jeff anxiously sits guard in his wheelchair, watching with his binoculars from across the courtyard. Even then. Even Hitchcock. Despite pure movie fright—how it skewers me—my heart doesn’t stop.

  Even when the cab all of a sudden breaks and jerks forward. When anything lurches. Careens. When “Think fast!” trails the toss. When my leg involuntarily twitches and I sense I’ve lost my balance, only to wake up having dozed off. Even when I watched Man on Wire, bewildered as to why anyone would perform such a stunt. Eight passes back and forth. A quarter mile up.

  Even when a thought springs fresh in my mind on the subway and solves an essay I’d just about abandoned. On the rare occasion my subconscious welds, language has a gift, I’ve learned, for humiliating those luminous random acts of creative flash into impossible-to-secure hobbling duds. The best ideas outrun me. That’s why I write.

  Even in June 2011, when my roommate and I paused Game 4 of the Heat–Mavericks Finals because: CRASH! The sound—the loudest, most intense crinkle—traveled from my bedroom at the front of our apartment, which faced the street. We’d only lived there, on the second floor, maybe two or three months. As we walked slowly down the length of our long hallway, I noticed my window was broken, the glass veined. A single hole in the bottom corner. Flattened on my floor near my bed were the pummeled shards of a bullet. Some kids on the street, my neighbors later told me, had been playing with a gun. My heart clamped and didn’t recoup for days. I slept on the couch, not out of fear—I don’t think—but because, no matter how diligently I swept, I kept finding slivers of glass on my floor. They seemed to suggest it’s okay to be someone who is slow to move on.

  Even when pointe shoes flit down the stage like muffled hazard. When a fur coat slides off a woman’s bare shoulders. Or when a kiss on my neck obscures all clichés about kisses on necks and I am no longer human but merely an undulation.

  Or when Mariah pleats a litany of notes into “Vision of Love.” When her finale crests and becomes tendency. Even then, my heart upholds.

  Or those first ten seconds of “Man in the Mirror.” Right before Michael sings, I’m gonna make a change, and those early notes sound like crystal snowflakes falling on sheets of sugar. Or my favorite: the undervalued “Who Is It.” Jealousy’s anthem. How it thumps. How it’s obsessed. Paranoid. How it’s frantic enough to summon past jealousies, no matter how beyond them you think you are. “Who Is It” is a maze. It’s the sound of being stuck in one. It’s the pursuer feeling pursued. Betrayal can debilitate but it can also animate. It’s how even at one’s most suspicious, the heart speeds up—ticks, twitches, is a grenade—yet never stops.

  Or when I meet someone new who loves a movie just as I’ve loved that movie; who speaks at such a clip about it—tenderly, contagiously—that I forget to speak at all and smile like a fool because, now and then, meeting new people isn’t so terrible.

  Even when the ATM reveals my bank balance unsolicited. When a stranger’s ringtone is the same as my morning alarm, waylaying me with acute dread midafternoon. When life’s practicalities knock the romance out, and money, time, sense syndicate my passions into bills, deferred goals, and all the boring bits.

  Even when a buzzer-beating shot bounces on the rim. When Steph sinks a no-look. When Kerri Strug landed her pained, team-winning second vault at the 1996 Olympics and I watched with my eyes half covered, sitting on the floor of my aunt’s Atlanta home, not far from the Georgia Dome.

  Even when I’m startled by an object flying in my periphery. Dust. Refracted light. Anxiety’s UFOs. Or when a GASP! is disproportionate to why I’ve gasped, my heart continues, as ever, pulsing toward its daily quota. More than one hundred thousand times a day. Eighty beats per minute.

  Even when I stand naked in my room after a long day of stupid letdowns, when I consider becoming a woman who screams or hacks off her hair, or tosses her purse instead of hanging it. Even then, when nakedness can’t undo the day, when my heart is lodged in my throat and my whole body falls limp—my whole body like my left wrist when I fasten my watch with my right hand. Limp like that. Even then, when I feel completely poured out and defeated. A Dyson in the desert.

  Or what about the day MCA died. My heart seemed to chasm because the Beastie Boys were—I’m not sure how best to say this—one of many attributes, albeit a critical one, that firmly positioned me as a younger sister. They were the music my brother listened to
with his door closed. The CD he wouldn’t let me borrow. Still now, on those hot summer days when the sun lacquers Manhattan storefronts into something aureate and amber-rich, when the air is impenetrable, blistered, and rank, and when brick tenements on Ludlow evoke whatever decade speaks to your nostalgia, my brother’s copy of Paul’s Boutique comes to mind. What I perceived back then in its cover art was the possibility of New York, New York: a city so in possession of itself that I fathomed an entire kingdom in those five-by-five inches.

  Even that winter long ago, when I was running late to a holiday dinner at my friend’s apartment, clueless as to where I’d jotted down her new address but feeling somehow lovely because I was in a hurry, wearing tights that cinched my waist like a secret tension under my shift dress, and bell sleeves that gave me extra wingspan to sail around the corner. Mid-scramble, my then-boyfriend rattled off my friend’s street name from memory, without even looking up from his book, as if he’d been to her place before. Even then, despite the wrench of good instinct—that queasy wave of it—of learning young that having a hunch is, like so many female facets, both misery and boon. Even when I said nothing because Why start something? he’d say. Is there anything less clear than an accusation made when you’re running out the door? When those fault lines inside of us quake on account of all that is built up and unkempt between two people in love—on account of perceptiveness and wariness resembling in tone. Even then, when I felt tremendously sad in my lovely dress, my heart did not stop.

  Even when I’m caught off guard by a lathery shade of peach on the bottom corner of a painting at the Met, as if being reminded that I haven’t seen all the colors, and how there’s more to see, and how one color’s newness can invalidate all of my sureness. To experience infinity and sometimes too the teasing melancholy born from the smallest breakthroughs, like an unanticipated shade of peach, like Buster Keaton smiling, or my friend Doreen’s laugh—how living and opposite of halfhearted it is. Or my beautiful mother growing out her gray, or a lightning bolt’s fractal scarring on a human body, or Fantin-Latour’s hollyhocks, or the sound of someone practicing an instrument—the most sonically earnest sound. Or how staring at ocean water so blue, it leaves me bereft. In postcards, I’ll scribble “So blue!” because, what else?

  Or even when I hear a recording of Frank O’Hara recite “Having a Coke with You,” gleefully anticipating him saying yoghurt, saying flu-o-rescent orange tulips.

  I listen

  to him and I would rather listen to him than all the poets in the world

  except possibly for Dorothy Parker occasionally and anyway she’d hate that

  Or the first time I saw Jackie cry. It was December. She was moving to San Francisco, so we spent the day strolling around midtown, stopping at the Rockefeller tree and pointing up at its peak, curious as to how it stood so big. Wondering how trees are made to look immovable once they’ve already been displaced. In Bryant Park we talked about manatees because I’d recently seen an ad in a magazine to adopt one. “For the Holidays,” the ad proposed. “Nature’s Precious Treasures.” Jackie and I both agreed how naturally forlorn manatees look—like underwater shar-peis stuck in some forever torpor. Like they’d already surrendered themselves to their endangered fate. For half a block we pondered adopting one and sharing custody, because when friends move away, what else is there to talk about? Nothing material feels very good. I walked Jackie back to her studio in Woodstock Tower and watched her pack some boxes and determine whether she should leave behind a lamp. I considered taking a pair of purple three-pound weights she was getting rid of. Would I use them? Probably not. But they were purple. And talking about taking them was yet another way of not talking about Jackie leaving. I teased her for deciding to schlep a rusty step stool across the country. She insisted it held sentimental value. It was clear to us we were both in slow motion, appreciating the other person for little reasons, refusing to say goodbye, formally. When I finally did leave, in haste, I realized I’d forgotten my earphones on her bed, and when I hurried back from the elevator and knocked on her apartment door, Jackie answered in tears. Together, in that moment, we could have probably adopted a hundred manatees. Easy.

  I’ve felt infinity too, late in my twenties, when I discovered a word in English I’d only ever known in Bengali. Or when I spot, with hours still left in the day, the moon’s hazy thumbprint. How the moon enjoys debunking the day. Or when I clutch my Playbill as I exit the theater, regretful that I don’t see more plays. I’m so vitalized in those seconds—all set to gulp more, to not speak but to stand under the marquee bulbs and grab the arm of my companion as if corroborating impact—that I’m certain, if I wanted, I could walk home from West Forty-seventh, across the bridge and back to Brooklyn. That spiked measure of awe—of oof—feels like a general slowing, even though what’s really taking place is nothing short of a general quickening. The sheer, ensorcelled panic of feeling moved. Infirmed by what switches me on but also awake and unexpectedly cured. Similar to how sniffing a lemon when I’m carsick heals.

  Or marveling at the bull’s-eye patterns in a malachite cross section, or the dystopian blots in burled wood, or a dragon fruit’s Dalmatian-speckled insides. All these things temporize me. It’s what Annie Dillard describes in her memoir, An American Childhood. Parents who experience pause from “the unnecessary beauty of an ice storm coating trees,” while their kids—who “bewilder well,” she writes—are simply looking for something to throw. Like when I zone out to cake batter marbling with food coloring in the mixer and my friend’s children whom I’m baking with are only concerned with licking the bowl.

  Being wowed by fruit or cake batter, I should add, yet fairly sure I’m okay with never seeing the Grand Canyon in person, ought to disqualify me from ever writing about wonder. Then again, maybe that’s why I’m drawn to wonder: it pays no attention to priorities.

  Before I was old enough to discover it was myth, I assumed goldfish were, over time, the architects of their alleged short-term memory. That they’d tailored their recall to fight the tedious circumference of a fishbowl—preserving their sense of wonder by forgetting they were swimming in circles. No matter how lackluster its surroundings, within seconds, all was new again for a goldfish because it had figured out how to repair its sense of spectacle.

  There should be a word for the first listen of a new album that is perhaps not great, but good. It’s catchy, carries pathos, is mood modifying. It’s destined to hasten you out the door or score your next cab ride as you cross the bridge. It prompts texts after last call. It resuscitates teenage residue and threatens emotional relapse. An album that, upon first listen, discovers a new, hallucinatory wilderness: a pink desert, pewter trees, emerald skies, clouds that sprint by. Or conversely, an album that singes your periphery. What’s left is what’s in front. Your frame of reference is shot and you are temporarily the most suggestible person alive. An operative.

  Is there something to be learned from fast tenderness that wanes just as fast as it forms? Unsophisticated idolatry. A brief devotion to pop songs with nowhere lyrics that repeat one word over and over like a hymn written in neon-tube lighting.

  There are movies like that too. So many. Wherein I leave the theater thinking I’ve just been privy to a masterpiece, and the next day perceive all of its holes, or worse, all of its recycled wiles. I deserve the disappointment. I’m a chump for voice-over and montage, Crewdson-lit suburbs, and all the women in the history of film who’ve flopped facedown onto beds like possessed slats of wood. I am duped by eye contact in a bar that cuts to the morning after. By odd, intensive but unthinking dance moves that approximate aerobics and clinch, for me, what’s charming about a character’s nature. I can’t help it. Follow shots at a house party, where two tertiary characters are having sex in the bathroom and the lead is a lost boy, barely nodding hellos because he’s looking for, not the nearest exit, but the balcony, the girl. These movies in which the characters are so caught up and submerged, they may as well be living u
nderwater where the glow is bleary—where sound gurgles and the world recedes.

  Despite everything the movies accomplish, despite these bouts of wonder and alarm, when my heart races, dimples, is weary and deflates, it never exhausts. How is that possible? How does it maintain? Stays going. On and on. It’s percussive. It refuses to emote with me because it’s uniformly at it.

  I am—if it’s not already clear—disinterested in actually remembering, since I last learned in school, how the heart does what it does. How it pumps blood, carries blood, effects that lub-dub sound. I’m in no hurry to understand its inner workings. To wrap my head around how it keeps us alive. To do so would require that I render obsolete all those microscopic people who live inside my heart, for instance. Who blow bubbles into soda and set up homes inside our TVs—seeing what we’re seeing, only backward. Who build cozy homes under floorboards. Those guys who, of course, don’t exist. Those tiny people who, as a child, I elaborated on in my mind because it was far easier to make sense of how stuff worked if a thumb-sized human was at the helm. These tiny people turned me on to ingenuity—the essence of awe, or at least my relationship to it. They kept the world feasible.

  They were, for example, the characters in Mary Norton’s The Borrowers; a series of books I don’t remember reading but on whose illustrated covers I imparted my own stories. If I recall, the Borrowers used matchboxes as kitchen benches, a spool of thread as a chair, a postage stamp as decorative art. The Borrowers were, I made myself believe, living among us: snatching up my spare buttons and refashioning them as tabletops or winter sleds. I presumed they made bouquets out of broccoli and laid brick with my brother’s Legos, and savored the smell of nail polish just as I did with fresh paint or gasoline. They repurposed our excess was the point.

  They experienced the world, I supposed, as I experienced going to the movies: that flash of amazement petitioned, in part, from feeling small in the presence of bigness. In having to arch my neck and fall in with whatever celluloid projection might scoop me up. Like Fantasia’s candy-colored bucolic scape. Flirty, fun Centaurettes. The scherzo humor of meddlesome cupids. Pegasus and his family of winged stallions sailing through clouds and diving into crayon waters. A choreography of mushrooms. Of spinning-top bellflowers and heavy-lidded, red, puckered fish. The whole Esther Williams of it all. The ostrich ballet. Like pirouetting feather dusters; their paddle feet in fourth position. Or Mickey’s broom. How it splintered into a nightmarish army of brooms. How the crash of cymbals, rolling waves, and buckets of water sent me into a panic. Fantasia was, in hindsight, my first experience of art’s all-overs. Of feeling like a casualty to cartoons. Still today, those eight animated segments reify the blunt noise of my childhood anxieties.