The stillness of August has left me frozen. It sometimes feel as if the wretched sun cooking the concrete streets and blasting us with the stifling heat also has this magical power to stop time altogether. Stepping outside feels like existing in a world where time has slowed down, and you feel it. You feel like every second feels like a minute, and every minute feels like an hour.

This is it. This is the last of the summer where what’s mine is mine. And I treasure so much of it. I cherish the moments sitting in the park for hours with a book, reading while idly stroking Beezus’s kissing spot, the little brown diamond right above the center of her eyebrows. The excitement of spontaneous food excursions or seeking refuge from the heat by escaping to museums. Lazy days with friends at home, feet propped up on coffee tables, armed with snacks, chatting for hours while the film we were meant to watch continues on without us. Hikes, or walks through the city that feel like hikes, stretching on forever, our legs and voices aching afterwards. Bouquets of flowers from the farmer’s market that need a vase. Fresh fruit that needs to be broken into with that first bite. A cat that needs the warmth of my body to nap next to. These moments of mine will soon feel stolen. By him. By myself.

The last bits of this month promise so much change, and I’m not quite sure if my most will be enough to keep up with it all. Perhaps this will move me in ways I never knew was possible; lighting a North Star I never knew was there.

But first, I know that there are goodbyes to be had. Versions of me I worked so hard to build and have clung on to, ready to let go of me before I’m really ready. Moments slipping too quickly between my fingers, but slow to forget. Perhaps I’ll spend the rest of my life wishing for them back. But for now, I will try my hardest to open my eyes wider, take it in even more, bask in these glorious rays. Before the changing of the season changes everything.

This morning, during my walk with sweet Beezus, I was reminded over and over again how my life is so good. And I wanted to share a few things I’ve been especially grateful for lately.

1. How persistence has allowed me to prevail whenever writing starts to feel like a chore, and I finally feel myself craving it once again. And now, whenever I make out a sentence that is pure and true to me, it feels like relief, like a release, and not grasping at everything to find something to put out there.

2. How recovery from pain is a reminder of the support that surrounds me. It remains solid and powerful, like layers and layers of thick concrete, unable to be penetrated.

3. How my little family makes me feel alive and joyful, and I get to start my days enveloped in their love for me. I am acutely aware of how lucky I am that I spend the first moments of every morning giggling about dreams and inside jokes with my partner, and the last moments of every night getting back rubs so my thoughts can slow down and make room for slumber. And every moment in between caught in laughter.

4. How my dog keeps me grounded. Even when I’m stressed from work, or anxious from the world outside, as soon as I sit with her and slowly pet her soft little head, I feel anchored by her desire for nothing more than a few minutes alone and still with just each other. And these pauses are the memories I want to keep forever.  

5. How my home is my home. As soon as I enter through that front door, I feel immense relief that I am here. I don’t need to be anywhere else, or act like anyone else. Simply being here and being me is enough.

Weaving in gratitude throughout my day has allowed me to thrive in a world where headlines grab you and shake you to bits, and people grab you and shake you to bits. I am not just existing. I approach my days with optimism and humor. One day, maybe tomorrow or maybe a decade from now, I will look back and remember how these are the good old days. So why not make them just wonderful now?

I am moving in a month. One month. And I can count on being a frazzled mess for the foreseeable future. Not just because my home is going to feel like an upside-down mess, but also because I’m about to move to a whole new neighborhood where I have to recreate a new familiar. Gone are the days of tapping my foot to the jaunty tunes practically flying from the Piano Man in Washington Square Park while I work on my needlepoint for hours. Gone are the days of strategically moving from bench to bench in the Jefferson Market Library Garden, trying to grab the seat with the best shade. Gone are the days of walking Beezus by Mr. Laughter on Hudson and Morton, drawing inspiration from the cat’s totally Zen approach to everything and everyone.

My first encounters with this neighborhood of mine are not memorable; mainly because I was still fresh in Manhattan, and the chaotic flow of this city was terrifying, making every moment feel almost like a rushed blur. There are very small bits of scenes that I try to hang on to, like the time I sat on the bench with my friend in Father Demo Square while he ate chocolate ice cream from Grom. Everything about that moment felt so foreign to me then. Or when I stood absolutely still for a good hour in front of Christopher Street Station, trying to figure out the madness of that intersection, convinced I was forever lost.

But something changed when Asher and I moved into our first apartment—this tiny little thing on Christopher Street where natural light refused to seep in. This change certainly didn’t happen overnight, but gradually over a couple years, until it became very clear that I was in too deep. The chaotic nature of this neighborhood, of this city, transformed into the kind of energy that electrifies me every time I step outside my building. The bustle of Father Demo Square no longer feels foreign, and became a frequent meeting spot for many friends. And though that forever-puzzling Christopher Street intersection still baffles me, even after living here for six years, I’m now an expert at making a wrong turn appear intentional.

My every day revolves around the spirit of this neighborhood. Every morning, I wake up to the sunlight and the leaves on the trees outside, serenading with each other to create such lively shadows. The chirps of the birds join in to make it feel almost musical, and I have the pleasure of watching the whole performance from my bed. My dog and I walk the same streets, letting our minds wander and imagine as our eyes linger over the aged brownstones and cracked sidewalks. I have my spots I frequent almost daily—where I go to get the warm baguette for lunch, the tree with the best shade to lean against for picnics, my favorite Chinese spot, my other favorite Chinese spot that’s way more affordable, the list goes on. And even though it is strictly prohibited for New Yorkers to learn their neighbors’ names, I have my people here, my tribe. I greet the same neighbors almost every day, say hi to the same neighborhood dogs, visit the same store cats. I know the things that matter to the people around me, and I know how they care—often checking in on each other through small gestures that feel like just enough.

So many beautiful and wonderful things happened during my time here—the time Asher and I ventured out in the middle of a blizzard and found refuge in this new-to-us bar where he became so obvious and clear to me, the day our baby cat came into our lives, glorious afternoons soaking in the sun on the rooftop, countless outings with friends filled with laughter, and ending dinners with a short walk home while he holds my hand.

But the most wonderful thing about this neighborhood is the feeling of home—pride in belonging here because I worked so damn hard to carve out this place for myself. Of feeling like, yes, I’m enough simply because I’m here, I’m me. I never realized how much I craved that feeling, and how every other place I’ve lived before feels like a place I needed to live through to get here, to this exact spot at this exact time.

West Village, I’m just not done with you. I don’t know if I’m ever going to be done with you. If I could live here forever—and whatever is longer than forever—I would. It’s been six magical years, and my heart still swells up with joy every time I walk outside. I’m still captivated by the beauty of the streets, the faces, the scenes I see every single day. I still feel like there’s still so much more to uncover about you, and six years is just not enough. But it’s time for me to move on. And even though I will learn to love my new neighborhood, create new spots for myself, meet new people, etc., I also know there will always be a piece of me aching to be back here with you. To come home again.

We kept going back to it. The first time I showed the listing to Asher, two months into our apartment search, he scoffed at the price. The second time, a couple weeks later, he ran across the listing and asked me if I wanted to see it. I shrugged it off—I told him I didn’t feel any sort of way about the apartment, so we both forgot about it. The third time was after a heartbreak over our dream apartment, and we both agreed to attend the showing because, why not? We didn’t have any serious prospects at the time, and it was on the way to another apartment we were already planning to look at. It was just a matter of convenience.

My first thought as we entered the apartment was that it was just okay. It lacked all of the personality I yearned for in a home (elaborate crown moulding, walls of built-in shelves, etc.), and it wasn’t in our dream neighborhood, but it had a good layout, decent-sized rooms, and a washer/dryer—a first for us in New York City. Asher and I sped through each room, giving it each a quick glance, and considered our options. Would the second bedroom work for an office that will eventually transition into a nursery? Could we work with the smaller-than-tiny kitchen that was basically just a hallway? Is there enough natural light in all the rooms? Even though we were satisfied with all the answers, we were still, at best, lukewarm about the space. Perhaps it was because we were still cradling a broke heart over the loss of the last apartment. Perhaps we were just looking for the impossible at that point. We were just anxious to move on to the next showing.

But we kept going back to it. We kept talking about how convenient the location is, a stone throws away from our favorite parks and public transportation. We talked about how nice it would be to have a wood-burning fireplace, especially in the dead of winter. We reminded each other of how the living spaces and bedrooms were bigger than what we hoped for, giving our little family more room to grow into. And as we continued to revisit this “just practical” apartment in our conversations, our imaginations started transforming the space into something else.

Suddenly the living room wasn’t just a square empty room with scuffed walls. We filled it with built-in shelves, lined the walls with colorful art, refinished the fireplace façade, and placed our couch front and center where we can share our nightly bowl of popcorn while the fire cackles gently in front of us. The kitchen wasn’t just cabinets and appliances squeezed into a hallway. It took on a rustic charm, with sage green cabinets for a brighter space that felt connected to the many plants on the windowsill. Reclaimed wood shelves replaced the cabinets and wrapped around the walls, giving the room a more designated feel while also maximizing storage space to display our collection of spices, mismatched plates, and vibrant yellow cookware.

Room by room—we begin to picture the space with our treasures. We started telling the stories that will eventually fill this home, stories that have yet to be written, but are already there. Our sweet dog, Beezus, chasing the sunbeams around the apartment every morning, trying to find one that lasts just long enough for a quick nap. Our precious cat, Princessa, stretching out on our bed, kneading her little paws as Asher gives her chin rubs. And hopefully one day, a family of three, snuggled together on the couch, sharing a pizza, our cheeks flushed with the excitement of the day.

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All four Krupniks sat in the study, in front of a roaring fire in the fireplace, with a huge pizza on the big coffee table. Strings of cheese dangled from their chins. A Beethoven symphony played on the stereo. Outside, the wind howled and a tree branch tapped against the side of the house.

“Isn’t this great?” asked Anastasia’s father. “Isn’t this the best of all possible worlds? Don’t you feel as if you have absolutely no problems on a cozy night like this?” —Lois Lowry

via

Here’s the thing about Nicole – she is an artist through and through. She is constantly inspiring and looking to be inspired. Once she is interested in a project or a person, she is more than invested, she becomes passionate. And her passion is undeniable, it’s loud, it’s potent, and it is apparent in everything she takes on. This kind of loyalty to her creativity never wavers, which makes it impossible for anyone to not form an equally amorous relationship with her work. And to her, obviously.

Amazingly enough, this precise conviction makes the vulnerability in her work even more raw, more rare, more relatable. And this is truly how she inspires. Nicole also never shies away from asking for more, asking because she wants to know more, and simply asking because she is curious. And this is how she looks to be inspired.

We met when she approached me after liking something I said in an email, and I was immediately drawn to her. We shared similar backgrounds, interests, and sense of humor. But that’s easy. It was how open she was, how she seems to embrace you with her whole presence, and how it was obvious that kindness and genuine curiosity is a driving factor for her – that’s hard.

You mentioned that you often pare down your collection. Which books survive the purge every time?
The paring is unintentional! We lose a lot of books during moves or when we’re traveling. The one book that have survived every move, every travel, is the Folger’s edition of Hamlet. I’ve had this very copy since high school, and it has all of my notes from every time I read it. I write in all of my books, which I think might horrify some people, but what I love about that is I am able to track what I think about books, especially pieces that have so much richness that every time you read it, you get something different out of it. Hamlet is my Bible, my divine text.

Are there any other books that even come close to Hamlet for you?
I did this same practice of record keeping in Frankenstein. I wrote a lot of notes in there, especially since I really adored the class I was in – I was taking a Romantic Literature class. It started with my obsession of Romantic Poetry, which is where I realized how much of an empath I am, and how much I am very expressionist, especially when it comes down to just me as a human being and what makes me feel like a human being. From there, I enrolled in a Romantic Literature class, and when I first read Frankenstein, I was like, “Wow, this is an incredible long-form piece of art!” Because just the way that the creature speaks was honestly in some of the most beautiful prose I’ve ever heard. My original copy of Frankenstein was borrowed and not returned, but this copy that I have right now was taken from the medical lounge at Columbia, and I love that someone else had written in it. It reveals a whole other chapter, a whole other version written by someone else.

Can you expand on what makes Frankenstein feel like art for you?
What I really love about Frankenstein is just how many metaphors you get out of it, and I just mean purely Dr. Frankenstein and the creature. We know from Mary Shelley’s biography that her mother died at childbirth, and that Mary Shelley herself also had miscarriages so childbirth for her, creation for her, has always been traumatic – something that’s very painful. So when you look at Dr. Frankenstein and the creature through those lens, and you think about what personal history Mary Shelley could have been drawing from to create that, and how she might then attribute that to the metaphor of her creating Frankenstein as a creative baby, or even how anyone creates a creative baby, the list goes on for the number of ways you can interpret the doctor and the creature. And I think it’s from that original richness that we have so many derivations of Frankenstein as we know now.

What’s the best book recommendation you’ve ever gotten?
Paper Menagerie by Ken Liu. Besides it being short stories, I have not read another author who so expertly interwove traditional Chinese folklore and future technology, but all while doing so in a way that keeps the characters grounded, realistic, and relatable. His stories haunt me, and I mean it in a way where my soul is haunted. It stays with me.

What is the book you recommend the most to people?
I recommend Kindred by Octavia Butler because it is just so well done. I also feel like it’s one of those books where you have to hand it to the writer for the pacing. The way that she’s able to craft drama and action and really grip you from the beginning all the way to the end is so artful. It’s also really fascinating how there’s the aspect of the time leap that’s never explained, and how when you read it you don’t care. To me, the time jump is merely a device that enables this thought experiment to take place. And really the story is about this thought experiment – what if you’re an educated black woman in the 70s, and you were suddenly transported to deep south slave era? What would that be like? For an unexplained reason, the jumps in time start to become more frequent, so she starts to have less and less time in the present world before jumping back again, which accelerates the plot even more. It always keeps you on the edge of your seat that way.

How do books inspire and influence the projects you work on as a filmmaker?
Because Ken Liu is able to accomplish so much through short story form, sometimes his stories are literally a four or five minute read, I take note of the amount of content he is able to pack into something so short. It really inspires me and opens my eyes to what I can create using short film. It reminds me that I can have that level of depth in my visual storytelling and my scripts. If he’s able to do it in just a few pages, there is a way that I can do it in a 10 page script. I also really like taking note of how he structures his stories, and I try my best to learn from that. I do think of myself as a technologist and a creative, and I combine those two in filmmaking. And seeing that Ken Liu has done that in a short story form, he shows me that I can do it, too.

Describe your relationship with books in one word?
Transcendental – because when I get in, I get in deep.