I made it. That first year in New York City is officially behind me. One year, two boroughs, two apartments (as of June 1st it will be three). This time last year, I was following behind a big yellow Penske truck in my Ford Explorer, with my cat all drugged up in the back seat and my boyfriend flipping through New York songs on the ipod. I got goosebumps as we crossed over the George Washington Bridge and when we pulled up to our little apartment on 116th Street and Pleasant Avenue, I knew I was home.
Things, of course, changed. I finally found a job (which I have full intention of leaving ASAP),the boyfriend became the ex, I moved to Brooklyn, my oh-so-positive outlook on the world became a little jaded, and then overtime a bit more positive again, I spent my first Christmas ever away from my family, I failed at most every plan I had made, I succeeded at things I never even knew I wanted. I think, perhaps, it was the quintessential first year for a twenty-something in New York.
I think it may be time to move on from this blog. I started it a year ago to chronicle my misadventures in becoming a New Yorker and my new role as a domestic goddess. At times it read like a Park Slope blog (and if you have ever been there you would know exactly what I mean). Overtime, I found my voice as I lost myself in the topsy-turvey universe of a prolonged break-up. I shared my loneliness and anguish on it when I was adjusting to those first few weeks of living in Brooklyn, while the snow piled up outside and the cold cut me through to my bones. I expressed my frustrations, my darkest moment, my fears. And with the support I received from the people that read my posts, I realized that maybe I could make my love of writing into something more.
I feel like I am such a different person now than I was back then. That first night sleeping on the futon with a cool breeze creeping its way through the window and pigeons cooing in their sleep on the roost, I knew I was so ready to begin my life with this person, to start a family, to settle down. Honestly, had he decided to stay with me, I probably would still be in that place. But he left and gave me the opportunity to realize a different reality for myself. I am 23. I am young, smart, pretty (perhaps a little vain), and I live in NYC. The world is at my fingertips. Why wouldn't I take advantage of this moment in my life?
Now, as summer approaches again and my vitamin D levels return to normal, I am finding less reason to use this blog as an outlet. It helped me get through the longest winter of my life. But I am ready to move on. It is time.
I survived year-one. I had some really good times, some really shitty times, I made a few great friends, I saw the Pacific Ocean, I laughed a lot, I cried even more, I stumbled home drunk. I lived. What more could I ask for?
To be evermore cheesy, I'm going to close my last post in a quote. In the words of Matt Berninger from The National: "Now there's no leaving New York."
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Better late than never.
I always have the best of intentions. On the other hand, I am a self-proclaimed procrastinator. I will admit it--I am too lazy, too distracted, too scared, too awkward, too [insert other excuse here] to do most of the things that I really intend to do, for better or for worse.
That being said, this post was meant to be my Easter special. (I even put it on a jump drive and carried it across the country with me. See? Intentions.) I was too thoroughly distracted by nature and new friends to take the time (all three seconds of it) to copy and paste this from its Word document into my blog. Oh well, better late than never. So Happy Late Easter and all that jazz.
That being said, this post was meant to be my Easter special. (I even put it on a jump drive and carried it across the country with me. See? Intentions.) I was too thoroughly distracted by nature and new friends to take the time (all three seconds of it) to copy and paste this from its Word document into my blog. Oh well, better late than never. So Happy Late Easter and all that jazz.
Finding God in a Smudged Mirror
The auditorium heaved with bodies in motion—swaying to the music that reverberated off the walls, pulsing with the rhythmic chant emanating from the chest of the man that stood at the center of it all.
Her hands were raised, palms up, elbows perpendicular to the stained red carpet. As she swayed, her body collided with others, moving to the beat that guided them.
A seventeen year-old boy with cropped blond hair, zits and freckles grabbed her right hand with his left and laid his right palm on her forehead.
“Hummanah nah nah, groudy hagh gah ress ka la.” The meaning of these words were unclear to anyone that heard them, but the intention was obvious. Tears rolled out of her eyelids, darkening her otherwise pale cheeks with black, soot-like mascara.
“Oh yes, God. I hear You, Lord. I open the eyes of my heart.” With that her knees began to wobble and she bobbed up and down, fighting the urge to fall. Another man came to her and placed one hand on the crown of her head and another at the small of her back.
“Creday dumu lolo crea. Gloor belave foregod Jeremiah.” Another set of hands found her head and her right shoulder. Her body went rigid as her hands dropped to her sides, palms facing forward. The chanting gained intensity.
“Doublay doo karmakarm goddar creday dumu lolo hummanah!” She felt the blood leaving her head and rushing to her extremities and then back again. Her body tingled and she shuddered violently.
“Rah sah sah goor, rah sah sah groudy hagh!” Her eyes rolled into her head as another hand touched her diaphragm.
“Gray may Yahweh juisay gloor belave!” Fireworks exploded in her ears as her body quivered and fell. The eight hands lowered her to the ground slowly, where she lay panting.
Years later she would experience this feeling repeatedly as her various lovers licked her cunt till she came. “Oh god, oh my god,” she would cry out as her hand pushed against the headboard and her body writhed with pleasure.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Resolved
When I was 18 I escaped to Europe under the cover of night. I landed in rainy London at eight in the morning without a
friend, a plan, or a direction to walk in. I spent my backpacking time perpetually lost and in doing so, found what I had been looking for all along: myself.
I've spent the past few months lost, confused and without direction. I got bogged down in the mire that is New York City. I spent Monday through Friday at a job I hate. I spent my evenings drinking whiskey-gingers in a constant rotation of bars where I have come to recognize the regulars by face and name. I spent my weekends hiding in my bedroom from the life I should be living, but haven't had the resolve to obtain.
Getting the hell out of New York last week reminded me that there are other options out there. I may not be starting law school in the fall, but rather than wallowing (which is what I have been doing, woe-is-me), I should be looking for way to spend this next year being productive and happy. I think the first step towards this is finding a new job, whether that job is in NYC, Boston, Seattle or anywhere else in the world that I can be gainfully employed and contented. I think that is enough of a goal to tackle for now. I know that if I set too many goals for myself I am going to get overwhelmed and give up. Baby steps, right?
friend, a plan, or a direction to walk in. I spent my backpacking time perpetually lost and in doing so, found what I had been looking for all along: myself.I've spent the past few months lost, confused and without direction. I got bogged down in the mire that is New York City. I spent Monday through Friday at a job I hate. I spent my evenings drinking whiskey-gingers in a constant rotation of bars where I have come to recognize the regulars by face and name. I spent my weekends hiding in my bedroom from the life I should be living, but haven't had the resolve to obtain.
Getting the hell out of New York last week reminded me that there are other options out there. I may not be starting law school in the fall, but rather than wallowing (which is what I have been doing, woe-is-me), I should be looking for way to spend this next year being productive and happy. I think the first step towards this is finding a new job, whether that job is in NYC, Boston, Seattle or anywhere else in the world that I can be gainfully employed and contented. I think that is enough of a goal to tackle for now. I know that if I set too many goals for myself I am going to get overwhelmed and give up. Baby steps, right?
Friday, March 20, 2009
New endeavors
It's been nearly a month since last time I wrote here. I apologize to the few (3, 4?) readers that I have! I've started working on a new project, and when I'm not sleeping, at work, or drunk (well, sometimes when I'm drunk) it is the only thing I work on. I figure, if law school is out, I might as well try my hand at one of the many secret aspirations I have.
That being said, below is a short snippet of what I have been working on. It is rough and very first-drafty, so please disregard any nonsensical sentences.
Chapter 4
He kissed the ridge of my collarbone, the part that made me inherently asymmetrical. I let sleep take me under.
My feet stuck straight out, off the edge of the gray leather bench seat in the back of my mom’s 1978 Buick LeSabre. I was wearing pink sparkle Jelly sandals—the type that inevitably give your toes huge blisters even if worn for only a few moments while playing—and a yellow sundress with an attached apron that was embroidered with flowers and bunnies.
Maynard was sitting next to me on the bench, wearing navy blue shorts with a starched red and blue plaid shirt tucked into them. My mother had put us into our Sunday best. It was hot, and our chubby legs stuck to the seat.
We watched buses pull into the depot and unload passengers and cargo. Every time a new one put on its signal to turn in from the two-lane highway mom would start smoothing her dress and examining her lipstick in the rear view mirror.
“Sit up straight, Peggy, your father should be here soon. Maynard, stop fidgeting.”
“Mama,” I implored, “I’m thirsty.”
“Mama, I’m hungry,” Maynard chimed in.
“You two better stop complaining or I’ll tell your father when he gets in,” she snapped fiercely at us. “We will eat and drink when he gets here. You two are such messy children, you’ll spill all over yourselves and daddy will take one look at the likes of you and will turn around and leave again.”
The minutes ticked by and the sun passed overhead. I watched the shadows it made out of the gas pumps and pretended they were monsters coming to kidnap Maynard and me away to some enchanted world where we would be hailed as royalty.
The sun sank below the pinewoods on the west side of the freeway. The shadows stretched out across the pavement and slowly crept across the car, enveloping us in darkness.
“Any moment now! Your father will be here any moment!” Mom’s voice was becoming panicked. Her shrill reassurances were far from comforting.
She got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Her lightweight cotton dress blew in the breeze and outlined her small frame. An attendant stepped out of the small convenience store that doubled as a waiting room and started pulling the steel shutters on the outsides of the windows shut. Mom dropped her cigarette on the pavement and toed it out.
“Now you two stay here, I’m going to go ask that man when the next bus is supposed to come in.” She reached in the open window of the Buick and grabbed the keys out of the ignition.
As we peered over the front seat we could see her gesticulating wildly at the stooped elderly black man. He kept shrugging, looking sincerely apologetic and utterly exasperated at this tiny woman with hugely teased hair. I desperately wanted to go grab her by the hand and bring her back to the car, but the child locks were on.
An eternity passed as she turned from the man and walked back to where we were frozen. I could hear Maynard’s heart beat quick and arrhythmic. His jaw was set tight. Mom climbed into the car and placed both hands on the steering wheel. She hunched over and began to shake.
“Mama, when is daddy going to get here? I am…” Maynard grabbed my arm to quiet me.
She turned the key in the ignition and the Buick rumbled to life. “He’s not coming, baby. He’ll come tomorrow. He’s not coming today. We’re going home. He’s not coming.” She kept repeating “he’s not coming” as she pulled out of the bus depot and onto the interstate.
“But why, mama?” I began to cry. I was still standing on the floor of the car, watching her.
“He loves me! He. Loves. Me!” She shrieked the words, both a promise and an accusation. The red hand of speedometer increased to 60. I was thrown back into my seat with the inertia. Maynard slid over to me and buckled my seatbelt.
Mom was now sobbing. Trees flashed by too fast for my eyes to focus on. “He loves me! He’s not coming! He loves me!”
“Peggy look at me,” Maynard was gripping my hand across the seat. “It will be okay, he will come home.” Tears streamed down my face and my chest heaved.
“He’s not coming!”
And then it happened: she veered to the right. We flung forward against our seatbelts, my hand still wrapped tightly in Maynard’s. Glass shattered and metal groaned under the impact.
A snap. A sharp pain. I screamed.
That was her first attempt.
When I awoke, my bed was stained with sex from the night before and sweat from and my nightmare. I instinctively reached up to my collarbone and ran my fingers along the knob where it had long ago been broken.
Aloysius was gone—I never kicked him out like the others, but he never stayed.
That being said, below is a short snippet of what I have been working on. It is rough and very first-drafty, so please disregard any nonsensical sentences.
Chapter 4
He kissed the ridge of my collarbone, the part that made me inherently asymmetrical. I let sleep take me under.
My feet stuck straight out, off the edge of the gray leather bench seat in the back of my mom’s 1978 Buick LeSabre. I was wearing pink sparkle Jelly sandals—the type that inevitably give your toes huge blisters even if worn for only a few moments while playing—and a yellow sundress with an attached apron that was embroidered with flowers and bunnies.
Maynard was sitting next to me on the bench, wearing navy blue shorts with a starched red and blue plaid shirt tucked into them. My mother had put us into our Sunday best. It was hot, and our chubby legs stuck to the seat.
We watched buses pull into the depot and unload passengers and cargo. Every time a new one put on its signal to turn in from the two-lane highway mom would start smoothing her dress and examining her lipstick in the rear view mirror.
“Sit up straight, Peggy, your father should be here soon. Maynard, stop fidgeting.”
“Mama,” I implored, “I’m thirsty.”
“Mama, I’m hungry,” Maynard chimed in.
“You two better stop complaining or I’ll tell your father when he gets in,” she snapped fiercely at us. “We will eat and drink when he gets here. You two are such messy children, you’ll spill all over yourselves and daddy will take one look at the likes of you and will turn around and leave again.”
The minutes ticked by and the sun passed overhead. I watched the shadows it made out of the gas pumps and pretended they were monsters coming to kidnap Maynard and me away to some enchanted world where we would be hailed as royalty.
The sun sank below the pinewoods on the west side of the freeway. The shadows stretched out across the pavement and slowly crept across the car, enveloping us in darkness.
“Any moment now! Your father will be here any moment!” Mom’s voice was becoming panicked. Her shrill reassurances were far from comforting.
She got out of the car and lit a cigarette. Her lightweight cotton dress blew in the breeze and outlined her small frame. An attendant stepped out of the small convenience store that doubled as a waiting room and started pulling the steel shutters on the outsides of the windows shut. Mom dropped her cigarette on the pavement and toed it out.
“Now you two stay here, I’m going to go ask that man when the next bus is supposed to come in.” She reached in the open window of the Buick and grabbed the keys out of the ignition.
As we peered over the front seat we could see her gesticulating wildly at the stooped elderly black man. He kept shrugging, looking sincerely apologetic and utterly exasperated at this tiny woman with hugely teased hair. I desperately wanted to go grab her by the hand and bring her back to the car, but the child locks were on.
An eternity passed as she turned from the man and walked back to where we were frozen. I could hear Maynard’s heart beat quick and arrhythmic. His jaw was set tight. Mom climbed into the car and placed both hands on the steering wheel. She hunched over and began to shake.
“Mama, when is daddy going to get here? I am…” Maynard grabbed my arm to quiet me.
She turned the key in the ignition and the Buick rumbled to life. “He’s not coming, baby. He’ll come tomorrow. He’s not coming today. We’re going home. He’s not coming.” She kept repeating “he’s not coming” as she pulled out of the bus depot and onto the interstate.
“But why, mama?” I began to cry. I was still standing on the floor of the car, watching her.
“He loves me! He. Loves. Me!” She shrieked the words, both a promise and an accusation. The red hand of speedometer increased to 60. I was thrown back into my seat with the inertia. Maynard slid over to me and buckled my seatbelt.
Mom was now sobbing. Trees flashed by too fast for my eyes to focus on. “He loves me! He’s not coming! He loves me!”
“Peggy look at me,” Maynard was gripping my hand across the seat. “It will be okay, he will come home.” Tears streamed down my face and my chest heaved.
“He’s not coming!”
And then it happened: she veered to the right. We flung forward against our seatbelts, my hand still wrapped tightly in Maynard’s. Glass shattered and metal groaned under the impact.
A snap. A sharp pain. I screamed.
That was her first attempt.
When I awoke, my bed was stained with sex from the night before and sweat from and my nightmare. I instinctively reached up to my collarbone and ran my fingers along the knob where it had long ago been broken.
Aloysius was gone—I never kicked him out like the others, but he never stayed.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
These things are true.
I know it would be easy to return to Atlanta. I would slide back into the South without a hiccup, my friends would welcome me home, my job would rehire me, my old bartenders would pour me drinks for free as if I never left. I know this.
I know I would wake up every morning, yawning and stretching and it would smell like sunshine. Even when it rains, Georgia smells like sunshine. My cat would try to trip me on my way to the coffee pot and he would sit patiently outside the bathroom while I shower and then drip dry as I brush my teeth. I would make idle conversation with my roommate in the kitchen about the day's plans, the latest Atlanta gossip, maybe we would agree to meet for a drink after work or plan to make dinner and watch bad television in our pajamas.
I know I would drive to work, even though I could walk, and if it were New York I would walk; thirty blocks isn't so far. I would sit at my desk and listen to the hushed conversations of my coworkers. I would take lunch outside under the white billowy Bradford pears and swat at flies as they try to feast on my peanut butter sandwich and my browning skin.
And on the weekends, I would wake up and go to brunch with whoever was awake to join me. I would sip on cup after cup of coffee with cream, no sugar and eat runny eggs and cheesy grits. In the afternoon, if the weather was nice, I would go to one of my favorite bars with the large sunny patio and drink beer and laugh and work on crossword puzzles or my latest craft project till the sun began to set.
Easy.
Safe.
Comfortable.
I would be home, and it would be as if the last year was simply a dream that fades to a distant memory with the rising sun.
I know I would wake up every morning, yawning and stretching and it would smell like sunshine. Even when it rains, Georgia smells like sunshine. My cat would try to trip me on my way to the coffee pot and he would sit patiently outside the bathroom while I shower and then drip dry as I brush my teeth. I would make idle conversation with my roommate in the kitchen about the day's plans, the latest Atlanta gossip, maybe we would agree to meet for a drink after work or plan to make dinner and watch bad television in our pajamas.
I know I would drive to work, even though I could walk, and if it were New York I would walk; thirty blocks isn't so far. I would sit at my desk and listen to the hushed conversations of my coworkers. I would take lunch outside under the white billowy Bradford pears and swat at flies as they try to feast on my peanut butter sandwich and my browning skin.
And on the weekends, I would wake up and go to brunch with whoever was awake to join me. I would sip on cup after cup of coffee with cream, no sugar and eat runny eggs and cheesy grits. In the afternoon, if the weather was nice, I would go to one of my favorite bars with the large sunny patio and drink beer and laugh and work on crossword puzzles or my latest craft project till the sun began to set.
Easy.
Safe.
Comfortable.
I would be home, and it would be as if the last year was simply a dream that fades to a distant memory with the rising sun.
Friday, January 30, 2009
From My Bedroom
Bright yellow light spills out of the window and down onto the fire escape below. Dark figures move about inside the cozy apartment--a man and a woman painting the walls of their new living room from dirty grayish-white to deep marigold. They just moved in and boxes are covered by a tarp in the middle of the room. They look happy, young and in love.
As I sit idly on the windowsill in my bedroom, I can't but help to wonder how long they will last? Will I be here to watch them when they eventually return everything to boxes and leave?
New York City has turned me into an unintentional voyeur. I catch glimpses into the lives of my neighbors every time I lose track of the sentence I am working on and gaze out my window, across the street, into their open windows. When I lay in bed at night I can hear the hum of life going on about me: the incessant drone of a television set, my neighbors making love, screaming at one another, carrying on idle conversation. I discretely observe their daily dramas and rituals from the safety of my bedroom. I feel I know many of these people in a profound way that only the deaf or blind could truly understand.
I share a paper-thin wall with a male who I've never seen, though I am intimately aware of the goings-on inside his bedroom. Lately he has had a cold and his coughing wakes him up at night. Since I moved in, I've heard him bring a girl home only once. He hushed her when she got too loud.
As I sit idly on the windowsill in my bedroom, I can't but help to wonder how long they will last? Will I be here to watch them when they eventually return everything to boxes and leave?
New York City has turned me into an unintentional voyeur. I catch glimpses into the lives of my neighbors every time I lose track of the sentence I am working on and gaze out my window, across the street, into their open windows. When I lay in bed at night I can hear the hum of life going on about me: the incessant drone of a television set, my neighbors making love, screaming at one another, carrying on idle conversation. I discretely observe their daily dramas and rituals from the safety of my bedroom. I feel I know many of these people in a profound way that only the deaf or blind could truly understand.
I share a paper-thin wall with a male who I've never seen, though I am intimately aware of the goings-on inside his bedroom. Lately he has had a cold and his coughing wakes him up at night. Since I moved in, I've heard him bring a girl home only once. He hushed her when she got too loud.
Upstairs, the neighbors walk with heavy downtrodden feet. I listened to them argue the other night as I was getting ready for bed. I went to sleep listening to her sob. I know that type of cry--anguish, despair, hopelessness.
I wonder if they see me through my open window, if they can hear me stumbling into my bedroom at night drunk again, talking in my sleep, flipping records in my record player. I wonder if they have made up stories of my life as I have of theirs: rich and sorted and inevitably much more exciting than reality.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A Conversation of Sorts (Abridged)
Last night, despair boiled over into anger and anger into rage. I knew I shouldn't do it, but I called him. I had to yell at him. I wanted to make him hurt. I wanted to make him see what he had done. Not satiated with message that I screamed into his voicemail, I started typing furiously into IM.
Him: Geez.
Me: You don't have the right to "jeez" me.
Him: That was rather intense.
Me: So?
Him: Okay.
Me: What you did to me was rather fucked up. And its easy talk to you angry. So this is me talking to you angry.
Him: Fair enough.
Me: You're a fucking coward.
Me: I hope you're beginning to miss me.
Me: I hope you realize what you threw away.
Me: I hope when you fuck other chicks you think about me and know that you will never have the chance to break me ever again.
Him: I haven't been fucking other chicks.
Me: Right. I'm sure you also haven't been going out. You've probably been staying home, sad. Right.
Him: No, I have been going out with [a friend].
Me: And what does [he] do? Make out with bitches and fuck them. And you get drunk and do it too.
Him: I do go and get drunk. I have yet to make out with any bitches and fuck them.
Me: You shouldn't lie to me. Well, actually I suppose it doesn't matter. You spent the last 7 months lying to my face, pretending to love me.
Him: I'm not.
Me: You were just to big of a coward to leave.
Me: You fucking killed me. I hope you know that.
Me: It was completely unfair to give me that good last week. It was cruel to spend the night and then leave. Give me false hope.
Him: I'm sorry.
Me: No you're not.
Him: It was selfish and I am sorry.
Me: You can't deal with me. You couldn't even say happy birthday.
Him: You told me you didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Me: So for once you're giving me what I want?? When its convenient for you.
Him: I thought it would be unfair to call you on your bday.
Me: Unfair? Hahaha! God! If you only knew.
Me: I am a tattered wreck of a woman. You took everything.
Him: I don't know what to say. You obviously despise me right now.
Me: Despise isn't a strong enough word.
Him: I'm sorry.
Me: And you get to return to the way things were in Atlanta, and I and New York become distant memories that you are happy to forget.
Me: Have I made you cry yet or are you just annoyed?
Him: I think you're succeeding in what you're trying to do.
Me: What do you think I'm trying to do?
Him: Make me feel like shit.
Me: That's an added benefit, indeed. But mostly I'm just attempting to release some of my anger, it's easier when it manifests itself as outward rage rather and inward anguish. I'm taking advantage of this moment of clarity.
Him: Fair enough.
Me: You should feel like shit though. You were my best friend. And you took my family away from me in a matter of moments. And my dog. And now I am empty.
Me: I wont bother you any more. If you ever decide to speak to me that's your decision. I won't lie and say I'll be more pleasant, the resentment I feel is going to last a really long time, and the fact that I stupidly am still in love with you doesn't help that.
Him: It's ok, I don't expect pleasant.
Me: Good because you don't really deserve it
Unfortunately, yelling at him, trying my hardest to break him, didn't make me feel any less damaged--it rarely does. Now I just feel guilty for being cruel. I don't think I've ever sunk that low, been that mean. But now I can feel the bitter harpy in me beginning to take over, slowly rising to the surface, making my blood viscous and my skin leathery.
Him: Geez.
Me: You don't have the right to "jeez" me.
Him: That was rather intense.
Me: So?
Him: Okay.
Me: What you did to me was rather fucked up. And its easy talk to you angry. So this is me talking to you angry.
Him: Fair enough.
Me: You're a fucking coward.
Me: I hope you're beginning to miss me.
Me: I hope you realize what you threw away.
Me: I hope when you fuck other chicks you think about me and know that you will never have the chance to break me ever again.
Him: I haven't been fucking other chicks.
Me: Right. I'm sure you also haven't been going out. You've probably been staying home, sad. Right.
Him: No, I have been going out with [a friend].
Me: And what does [he] do? Make out with bitches and fuck them. And you get drunk and do it too.
Him: I do go and get drunk. I have yet to make out with any bitches and fuck them.
Me: You shouldn't lie to me. Well, actually I suppose it doesn't matter. You spent the last 7 months lying to my face, pretending to love me.
Him: I'm not.
Me: You were just to big of a coward to leave.
Me: You fucking killed me. I hope you know that.
Me: It was completely unfair to give me that good last week. It was cruel to spend the night and then leave. Give me false hope.
Him: I'm sorry.
Me: No you're not.
Him: It was selfish and I am sorry.
Me: You can't deal with me. You couldn't even say happy birthday.
Him: You told me you didn't want to talk to me anymore.
Me: So for once you're giving me what I want?? When its convenient for you.
Him: I thought it would be unfair to call you on your bday.
Me: Unfair? Hahaha! God! If you only knew.
Me: I am a tattered wreck of a woman. You took everything.
Him: I don't know what to say. You obviously despise me right now.
Me: Despise isn't a strong enough word.
Him: I'm sorry.
Me: And you get to return to the way things were in Atlanta, and I and New York become distant memories that you are happy to forget.
Me: Have I made you cry yet or are you just annoyed?
Him: I think you're succeeding in what you're trying to do.
Me: What do you think I'm trying to do?
Him: Make me feel like shit.
Me: That's an added benefit, indeed. But mostly I'm just attempting to release some of my anger, it's easier when it manifests itself as outward rage rather and inward anguish. I'm taking advantage of this moment of clarity.
Him: Fair enough.
Me: You should feel like shit though. You were my best friend. And you took my family away from me in a matter of moments. And my dog. And now I am empty.
Me: I wont bother you any more. If you ever decide to speak to me that's your decision. I won't lie and say I'll be more pleasant, the resentment I feel is going to last a really long time, and the fact that I stupidly am still in love with you doesn't help that.
Him: It's ok, I don't expect pleasant.
Me: Good because you don't really deserve it
Unfortunately, yelling at him, trying my hardest to break him, didn't make me feel any less damaged--it rarely does. Now I just feel guilty for being cruel. I don't think I've ever sunk that low, been that mean. But now I can feel the bitter harpy in me beginning to take over, slowly rising to the surface, making my blood viscous and my skin leathery.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Time
It feels like its been a lifetime since I last saw him, last spoke to him. Is it really only January 17th? The below freezing temperatures tell me it must still be winter, maybe winter of next year? Time couldn't possibly have passed that quickly, but could it really only be three weeks? Time is playing a cruel joke on me, dragging on this way.
The weekend before he left, we got our first real snow of the winter. It was a Friday and my bosses decided to move our office holiday party to an earlier luncheon so we could all get home before the storm had time to wreak its full force of havoc. I tapped my foot impatiently under the table, trying to endure the painfully awkward conversation. It seemed to last for an eternity.
By the time we left the roads were already slick with slushy ice. It was all I could do not to fall, my black leather boots were not made for snow. Resisting the urge to run, I made my way with a coworker through the precarious sidewalks to the train. I lied when he asked me if I was going downtown.
"I have to pick up some things that I left at the old apartment." Really, I was going to spend the night. I knew my coworker wouldn't approve.
When I got uptown I had to have him buzz me in--I had already returned my set of keys. The dog nearly knocked me down out of excitement, I hadn't seen her since the day I moved out. As I glanced around the apartment, it looked precisely the way it had the day we moved in--boxes piled high around the periphery of the living room, the carpets rolled up leaving the wooden floor barren, the bookshelf empty of its contents. For a moment it was easy to believe that this was day one, we were beginning our life together, not the last time I would sleep in that apartment, not the last time we would be whole.
As the snow began again to drift slowly to the earth we decided to take advantage of the last few moments of daylight and put the leash on the dog to go outside to play.
The park was empty, the fresh snow completely undisturbed. The streetlamps had already come on and were throwing orange shadows across the white blanket. We walked in silence as the Elliott bounded back and forth, snapping at the snow with her teeth, jubilant at the freedom we were momentarily granting her by letting go of her leash.
I broke the silence by launching a snowball directly at his head. He dodged it by jumping back and it broke across his thigh. We noisily darted throughout the park, hurling snowballs at each other, laughing at the dog as she tried desperately to jump to catch them in her mouth.
It was so easy to be with him like that. It felt so right, so complete. It made it impossible to remember why I was now living in Brooklyn, why he was moving back to Atlanta.
He told me late that Sunday night, after I had returned to Brooklyn and he was safely away from my wrath, that his parents were to drive up the next afternoon, to pick him up and take him back to Atlanta. He asked me to have dinner with them that night.
I had debated with myself all day, the inside of my mind resembled a battlefield, bodies strewn about, dismembered and ragged. The side of me that lacks the gene for self preservation had won out to that point, and I resolved to make the trek uptown to dine with my once would be family. I am a glutton for torture.
I called him on my way to the train, when he didn't answer I wavered in my resolve. He called me back nearly immediately, but it was long enough to go over the list of reasons in my head why I shouldn't meet him. I told him to call me when he was done running about with his family, already resigned to going home to sulk in my loneliness. Really, I couldn't bear saying goodbye to just him, let alone him and his parents at once. The thought was unendurable.
When he called, I made an excuse not to go. He offered instead to come to me once they were done, weak as ever, I accepted. I sobbed on my bed when we hung up, for once not caring if my roommate heard.
I clung to him that night, never letting our contact break for even a moment, savoring his scent, the heat that rolled off his smooth skin. I barely slept, drifting in and out of consciousness, content to just be in the crook of his arm, the place I felt safe, terrified that the night would end too soon and he would leave. Leave this apartment. Leave New York. Leave me. Forever.
What a cruel joke time plays. The moments of pleasure and tranquility pass with the blink of an eye. The days of numbness last a boundless eternity. The nights of anguish, never ending.
The weekend before he left, we got our first real snow of the winter. It was a Friday and my bosses decided to move our office holiday party to an earlier luncheon so we could all get home before the storm had time to wreak its full force of havoc. I tapped my foot impatiently under the table, trying to endure the painfully awkward conversation. It seemed to last for an eternity.
By the time we left the roads were already slick with slushy ice. It was all I could do not to fall, my black leather boots were not made for snow. Resisting the urge to run, I made my way with a coworker through the precarious sidewalks to the train. I lied when he asked me if I was going downtown.
"I have to pick up some things that I left at the old apartment." Really, I was going to spend the night. I knew my coworker wouldn't approve.
When I got uptown I had to have him buzz me in--I had already returned my set of keys. The dog nearly knocked me down out of excitement, I hadn't seen her since the day I moved out. As I glanced around the apartment, it looked precisely the way it had the day we moved in--boxes piled high around the periphery of the living room, the carpets rolled up leaving the wooden floor barren, the bookshelf empty of its contents. For a moment it was easy to believe that this was day one, we were beginning our life together, not the last time I would sleep in that apartment, not the last time we would be whole.
As the snow began again to drift slowly to the earth we decided to take advantage of the last few moments of daylight and put the leash on the dog to go outside to play.
The park was empty, the fresh snow completely undisturbed. The streetlamps had already come on and were throwing orange shadows across the white blanket. We walked in silence as the Elliott bounded back and forth, snapping at the snow with her teeth, jubilant at the freedom we were momentarily granting her by letting go of her leash.
I broke the silence by launching a snowball directly at his head. He dodged it by jumping back and it broke across his thigh. We noisily darted throughout the park, hurling snowballs at each other, laughing at the dog as she tried desperately to jump to catch them in her mouth.
It was so easy to be with him like that. It felt so right, so complete. It made it impossible to remember why I was now living in Brooklyn, why he was moving back to Atlanta.
He told me late that Sunday night, after I had returned to Brooklyn and he was safely away from my wrath, that his parents were to drive up the next afternoon, to pick him up and take him back to Atlanta. He asked me to have dinner with them that night.
I had debated with myself all day, the inside of my mind resembled a battlefield, bodies strewn about, dismembered and ragged. The side of me that lacks the gene for self preservation had won out to that point, and I resolved to make the trek uptown to dine with my once would be family. I am a glutton for torture.
I called him on my way to the train, when he didn't answer I wavered in my resolve. He called me back nearly immediately, but it was long enough to go over the list of reasons in my head why I shouldn't meet him. I told him to call me when he was done running about with his family, already resigned to going home to sulk in my loneliness. Really, I couldn't bear saying goodbye to just him, let alone him and his parents at once. The thought was unendurable.
When he called, I made an excuse not to go. He offered instead to come to me once they were done, weak as ever, I accepted. I sobbed on my bed when we hung up, for once not caring if my roommate heard.
I clung to him that night, never letting our contact break for even a moment, savoring his scent, the heat that rolled off his smooth skin. I barely slept, drifting in and out of consciousness, content to just be in the crook of his arm, the place I felt safe, terrified that the night would end too soon and he would leave. Leave this apartment. Leave New York. Leave me. Forever.
What a cruel joke time plays. The moments of pleasure and tranquility pass with the blink of an eye. The days of numbness last a boundless eternity. The nights of anguish, never ending.
Friday, January 9, 2009
Stranger
I stood alone in a crowd of people. Tiny glass lanterns hung from the high ceiling, throwing a dim auburn glow throughout the room. A woman somewhere close was guffawing loudly at the comedian on stage. Bald, with thin wire glasses and a great bushy beard, he was poking fun at Southerners--a right I granted to him solely because he was raised in Roswell, Georgia, the neighboring town to where I spent the first seventeen years of my life.
The woman's bellowing laughter was strange and alien, perhaps a little too loud to be appropriate in a room that small. I glanced around me uneasily, wanting to hush her, save her from the embarrassed stares that were sure to come. It settled upon me slowly, like a fine layer of dust coats the black veneer of a grand piano, that the noise was emanating from the depths of my chest.
So this is what it used to sound like when I laughed real laughs, without force or pretense? I considered. How long it must have been since I last really laughed to forget the sound of my own voice!
I woke up this morning exhausted, eyes glued shut from sleeping in my contacts, body sore from another restless night of running after him in my dreams. I grabbed the billowy blue towel that my mom gave me for Christmas off the hook attached to the back of my bedroom door and stumbled through the dark of the apartment.
The woman's bellowing laughter was strange and alien, perhaps a little too loud to be appropriate in a room that small. I glanced around me uneasily, wanting to hush her, save her from the embarrassed stares that were sure to come. It settled upon me slowly, like a fine layer of dust coats the black veneer of a grand piano, that the noise was emanating from the depths of my chest.
So this is what it used to sound like when I laughed real laughs, without force or pretense? I considered. How long it must have been since I last really laughed to forget the sound of my own voice!
I woke up this morning exhausted, eyes glued shut from sleeping in my contacts, body sore from another restless night of running after him in my dreams. I grabbed the billowy blue towel that my mom gave me for Christmas off the hook attached to the back of my bedroom door and stumbled through the dark of the apartment.
Butters circled at my feet, blinking up at me in the sudden flood of yellow light as I flipped on the switch of the overhead lamp in the narrow kitchen. I started a pot of coffee and staggered forward towards the bathroom. I focused on the floor, stepping carefully to avoid the floorboards that groaned in protest whenever my feet found them.
I caught a flash of something in my peripheral vision--a figure moved in the corner of the room, lingering near my roommate's bedroom door. A scream ached in my throat, muffled though as I slapped my hand to my mouth. A stranger was standing in my apartment, looking at me, equally startled--her hand to her mouth in surprise.
I deliberated quickly, still trying to clear the crusty glue from that clouded my vision while I scanned the room for an object to defend myself with. I scrutinized her face, looking for malicious intent and found her doing the same.
As the fog of waking up slowly dissipated, realization crept up from behind and engulfed me in its cold embrace. I was looking at myself. It was my reflection in the big framed mirror that fills the wall between my roommate's room and the bathroom.
I had been avoiding mirrors, not wanting to see what others seemed to take pleasure in reminding me of. "You look tired." The dark grayish-purple circles that rimmed my eyes, sunken and without feeling. "You've lost weight." The bones that were beginning to slightly protrude from my hips, bones I haven't seen since college. "You're look stressed." My lips in a permanent grimace. My shoulders pulled up and forward. My brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"
Angry at the mirror for giving me such a fright, for exposing what I was becoming to me, I walked into the bathroom to shower, attempting to wash away the memories of last night's dreams and the haunting image of my reflection.
I caught a flash of something in my peripheral vision--a figure moved in the corner of the room, lingering near my roommate's bedroom door. A scream ached in my throat, muffled though as I slapped my hand to my mouth. A stranger was standing in my apartment, looking at me, equally startled--her hand to her mouth in surprise.
I deliberated quickly, still trying to clear the crusty glue from that clouded my vision while I scanned the room for an object to defend myself with. I scrutinized her face, looking for malicious intent and found her doing the same.
As the fog of waking up slowly dissipated, realization crept up from behind and engulfed me in its cold embrace. I was looking at myself. It was my reflection in the big framed mirror that fills the wall between my roommate's room and the bathroom.
I had been avoiding mirrors, not wanting to see what others seemed to take pleasure in reminding me of. "You look tired." The dark grayish-purple circles that rimmed my eyes, sunken and without feeling. "You've lost weight." The bones that were beginning to slightly protrude from my hips, bones I haven't seen since college. "You're look stressed." My lips in a permanent grimace. My shoulders pulled up and forward. My brow furrowed. "Are you okay?"
Angry at the mirror for giving me such a fright, for exposing what I was becoming to me, I walked into the bathroom to shower, attempting to wash away the memories of last night's dreams and the haunting image of my reflection.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
In the night
DISCLAIMER: I realize the imagery expressed in the below entry may be graphic and disturbing. Please note that I am alive and don't actually want any of the below to transpire, I am simply venting in a healthy manner versus any of the physical manifestations that I could use to cope such as those listed below.
The holidays are over. I managed to survive mostly unscathed--only falling to pieces in the pitch black of the night except for a moment when a sob managed to escape my chest while sitting on my best friend's boyfriend's black leather couch. I quickly recovered composure and pretended to not have seen her concerned sideways glance.
In the night, I imagine running and jumping, arms outstretched in a graceful swan dive off my roof. I imagine falling and the exultation that sears through my heart as I look out over the city that has taken everything from me. I imagine it would be perceived as a grand, poetic gesture when my bones liquefy upon impact with the broken, pockmarked sidewalk. I pray to still be conscious as my skull shatters on the concrete. I want to feel everything.
In the night, I imagine taking a box cutter and carving lines into my legs, hips. Scarring a trail of destruction, mapping the agony that weighs on me daily. I imagine sometimes cutting a little too deep, perhaps deep enough to bleed a little more, faint. The brilliant crimson liquid pouring from my veins, staining the floor, permanently leaving my mark in this ugly room in Brooklyn.
In the night, I imagine walking down the desolate street I live on to the bar five blocks away and drinking till I don't hurt. I imagine a man offering to walk me home and then proceeding to slowly torture me in the deserted park on the way home. I imagine that I don't even beg for death, I beg for pain, for him to be slow and meticulous in his brutality.
In the night, I dream restlessly. I am chasing him, screaming at him to look at me. But he is always a step ahead, deaf to my pleas. My voice never even actually loud enough for him to hear me, muffled and hoarse like I ate sand. I am too slow to catch him, my feet disproportionately enormous and weighty.
In the morning, when the sun has risen and my dreams begin to fade into distant memories, I know always I must go on. Any other decision would be selfish, cruel and cowardly.
The holidays are over. I managed to survive mostly unscathed--only falling to pieces in the pitch black of the night except for a moment when a sob managed to escape my chest while sitting on my best friend's boyfriend's black leather couch. I quickly recovered composure and pretended to not have seen her concerned sideways glance.
In the night, I imagine running and jumping, arms outstretched in a graceful swan dive off my roof. I imagine falling and the exultation that sears through my heart as I look out over the city that has taken everything from me. I imagine it would be perceived as a grand, poetic gesture when my bones liquefy upon impact with the broken, pockmarked sidewalk. I pray to still be conscious as my skull shatters on the concrete. I want to feel everything.
In the night, I imagine taking a box cutter and carving lines into my legs, hips. Scarring a trail of destruction, mapping the agony that weighs on me daily. I imagine sometimes cutting a little too deep, perhaps deep enough to bleed a little more, faint. The brilliant crimson liquid pouring from my veins, staining the floor, permanently leaving my mark in this ugly room in Brooklyn.
In the night, I imagine walking down the desolate street I live on to the bar five blocks away and drinking till I don't hurt. I imagine a man offering to walk me home and then proceeding to slowly torture me in the deserted park on the way home. I imagine that I don't even beg for death, I beg for pain, for him to be slow and meticulous in his brutality.
In the night, I dream restlessly. I am chasing him, screaming at him to look at me. But he is always a step ahead, deaf to my pleas. My voice never even actually loud enough for him to hear me, muffled and hoarse like I ate sand. I am too slow to catch him, my feet disproportionately enormous and weighty.
In the morning, when the sun has risen and my dreams begin to fade into distant memories, I know always I must go on. Any other decision would be selfish, cruel and cowardly.
Friday, December 26, 2008
My favorite four-lettered word is not "L-O-V-E"
Fuck.
Fuck is a good word, a solid word. A word that covers most all parts of speech--noun, verb, adjective. I've been using this word a lot lately--at least in my head if not out loud--New York is finally beginning to seep into my skin as I find myself stomping rapidly down the sidewalk, weaving my way in and out of the crowd thinking, "fucking tourists!"
I don't quite understand why certain phrases using "fuck" developed. But I sometimes find myself, almost gleefully, spouting them off in tandem, particularly "what the fuck". For example, what the fuck was I fucking thinking moving to New York 22, jobless and with a boy who has a history of leaving? Equally good, although perhaps less applicable in all situations, are "how the fuck?" and "why the fuck?" Phrases such as these are exceptionally effective when used in quick succession: Why the fuck did I think New York would ever be a good idea? How the fuck did I plan to survive without a job or a backup plan? I must have hit my head hard and suffered some brain trauma, that is the only possible way to explain what the fuck I was thinking! See? It's good, right?
And of course, there is the ubiquitous "fuck you". Shout it right now as loud as you possibly can! Doesn't that feel good? Although, now my coworkers are looking at me like I may have officially lost my mind. So now to each of them, "Fuck you, you and you!" Fuck you is really fun when the person you are screaming it at doesn't expect it--you get to watch the range of emotions flitter across their face--at first doe-eyed and incredulous, then crestfallen, then livid. Try it on a perfect stranger on your way home from work tonight. It's fun, you'll see. Congratulations, you have just effectively ruined someones day! Its a glorious feeling isn't it?
To those assholes in the subway that are obviously newly in love and canoodling on the seat in a way that verges almost on pornographic, I scream, "Fuck you!" To that bitch down at the end of the bar that is talking loudly to no one in particular about the boy that she is pretty sure will ask her out any day now, "Fuck you!" To that prick on the subway every morning that leers at me like he's seen me naked before, "Fuck you!" I dare you to approach me, I dare you to ask me out, you will see what happens--you will become what the Italians like to refer to as a castrato.
Fuck is a good word, a solid word. A word that covers most all parts of speech--noun, verb, adjective. I've been using this word a lot lately--at least in my head if not out loud--New York is finally beginning to seep into my skin as I find myself stomping rapidly down the sidewalk, weaving my way in and out of the crowd thinking, "fucking tourists!"
I don't quite understand why certain phrases using "fuck" developed. But I sometimes find myself, almost gleefully, spouting them off in tandem, particularly "what the fuck". For example, what the fuck was I fucking thinking moving to New York 22, jobless and with a boy who has a history of leaving? Equally good, although perhaps less applicable in all situations, are "how the fuck?" and "why the fuck?" Phrases such as these are exceptionally effective when used in quick succession: Why the fuck did I think New York would ever be a good idea? How the fuck did I plan to survive without a job or a backup plan? I must have hit my head hard and suffered some brain trauma, that is the only possible way to explain what the fuck I was thinking! See? It's good, right?
And of course, there is the ubiquitous "fuck you". Shout it right now as loud as you possibly can! Doesn't that feel good? Although, now my coworkers are looking at me like I may have officially lost my mind. So now to each of them, "Fuck you, you and you!" Fuck you is really fun when the person you are screaming it at doesn't expect it--you get to watch the range of emotions flitter across their face--at first doe-eyed and incredulous, then crestfallen, then livid. Try it on a perfect stranger on your way home from work tonight. It's fun, you'll see. Congratulations, you have just effectively ruined someones day! Its a glorious feeling isn't it?
To those assholes in the subway that are obviously newly in love and canoodling on the seat in a way that verges almost on pornographic, I scream, "Fuck you!" To that bitch down at the end of the bar that is talking loudly to no one in particular about the boy that she is pretty sure will ask her out any day now, "Fuck you!" To that prick on the subway every morning that leers at me like he's seen me naked before, "Fuck you!" I dare you to approach me, I dare you to ask me out, you will see what happens--you will become what the Italians like to refer to as a castrato.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Home
I'm sitting on the hardwood floor in my new bedroom. It's small--too small for the amount of stuff I've accumulated in the years I have been living on my own. I'm mostly unpacked. There are some things still in boxes that I have finally decided I can live without--things that he pushed hard for me to get rid of before we moved here, things that I fought hard to keep. Ironic that now that he's gone, I am willing to part with them, at least they will only be at my mother's house, waiting for me to collect them when I am ready.
He...he will be back in Atlanta. My home. The South, where I spent the better part of my adolescence planning my escape; Georgia, where I came of age during the cool humidity of a summer's night; Atlanta, where, at age 20, I finally felt at home for the first time in my life. Yet, it is the one place I feel I can't consider.
So, here I am...not wanting to stay, unable to leave. Fleeting thoughts of rainy Seattle cloud my mind (it's as far away as I can get without leaving the continental US). But instead I find myself in the northernmost neighborhood of Brooklyn, sitting on the tiny sliver of floor that separates my bed from my dresser from my bookshelf. I realize this place will never feel like home. It will always occupy that transitory space that is post-him and pre-who-knows. And I know all I can do is wait for that moment when I find somewhere that I can again call "home".
He...he will be back in Atlanta. My home. The South, where I spent the better part of my adolescence planning my escape; Georgia, where I came of age during the cool humidity of a summer's night; Atlanta, where, at age 20, I finally felt at home for the first time in my life. Yet, it is the one place I feel I can't consider.
So, here I am...not wanting to stay, unable to leave. Fleeting thoughts of rainy Seattle cloud my mind (it's as far away as I can get without leaving the continental US). But instead I find myself in the northernmost neighborhood of Brooklyn, sitting on the tiny sliver of floor that separates my bed from my dresser from my bookshelf. I realize this place will never feel like home. It will always occupy that transitory space that is post-him and pre-who-knows. And I know all I can do is wait for that moment when I find somewhere that I can again call "home".
Monday, December 1, 2008
Away
First blog in months. The last one was the aptly oh-so prophetic, "Can I Count the Ways". Ha.
I'm not even going to begin to explain where those past few months have disappeared to. Perhaps in not doing so, all is explained already, through the layers of assumptions forming as you read this.
Friday, our sick, twisted little experiment in love and domesticity will lay ruined at my feet--characterized by piles of records, books and clothes waiting to be neatly stacked into moving boxes. I will, no doubt, have to climb the last set of the stairs to the roof regularly to be able to catch my breath. This apartment is crushing me.
Lately, this place that I knew instantly was meant to be home has filled with a thick fog of despair, resulting in the disarray of an otherwise tidy existence. Dishes go unwashed. Animal hair piles up in the corners and under furniture, every now and then becoming a tumbleweed moving slowly across the floor in the draft. I can only stay here as long as I can keep my mind distracted. As soon as my hands become idle, I feel myself slipping deeper into the fog. I need to focus.
My volume has two settings: numb and searing. I alternate between the two without repose. Violent images of breaking things, tearing down these walls that constrain me, flash through my head, only to be met with an indifferent yet reproachful chuckle coming from my subconscious at my absurdity. It's different this time.
Last time, two years and some loose change ago, it felt like someone took a bag of sand and flung it into my chest as hard as they could. I was left breathless, lifeless. A piece of me was removed forcefully and violently while I tried to recover from the initial hit. I groped in the dark, trying to reclaim what was rightfully mine, but it was already gone. The hurt did not go away despite the vast attempts I made to make it disappear or at least dull. I didn't breathe for months.
Until one day, laying in a green field under an ancient oak tree, a light Autumn breeze ruffling the leaves, when he came back and with him, my breath. The ache slowly subsided, till it became a distant memory--rehashed only in nightmares that left me lying awake, damp with perspiration.
I believe I always knew it wouldn't last. I believe that I kidded myself for two years after that sunny day in the park. I believe I was aware that love would really never be enough. That I would never be enough. But I pretended. And I was happy.
He gave me hints all along. A few short weeks before we moved here, he already talked about moving elsewhere--San Francisco, Germany. He talked about going to school in faraway places. Places I would not be able to follow.
Still, the hints never prepared me for actually hearing him say it. And when he did, it was like someone had again taken my breath away with the heavy velocity of a flying sandbag. My world, my seemingly perfect little world that I labored to build, crumbled under the weight of his words. I tried to salvage what I could, but realized I was grasping at straws and finally let go.
The ache, this time, dull and dilute, nagging at me every time I let my brain wander. It reminds me of what I always knew, especially when he pulls me near at night, especially then, when I am more alone than ever before.
So I don't let my mind wander. And as moving day draws near, I find I don't even have the time to let it travel down the paths it chooses. I'm leaving Pleasant Avenue, my little block with trees, church bells, school children and nuns. I'm leaving Harlem, where you can hear the city's heart beat in the dark of night. I'm leaving Manhattan, that famed island that I, and many others, have held on a pedestal for so long, only to be disappointed.
I'm not even going to begin to explain where those past few months have disappeared to. Perhaps in not doing so, all is explained already, through the layers of assumptions forming as you read this.
Friday, our sick, twisted little experiment in love and domesticity will lay ruined at my feet--characterized by piles of records, books and clothes waiting to be neatly stacked into moving boxes. I will, no doubt, have to climb the last set of the stairs to the roof regularly to be able to catch my breath. This apartment is crushing me.
Lately, this place that I knew instantly was meant to be home has filled with a thick fog of despair, resulting in the disarray of an otherwise tidy existence. Dishes go unwashed. Animal hair piles up in the corners and under furniture, every now and then becoming a tumbleweed moving slowly across the floor in the draft. I can only stay here as long as I can keep my mind distracted. As soon as my hands become idle, I feel myself slipping deeper into the fog. I need to focus.
My volume has two settings: numb and searing. I alternate between the two without repose. Violent images of breaking things, tearing down these walls that constrain me, flash through my head, only to be met with an indifferent yet reproachful chuckle coming from my subconscious at my absurdity. It's different this time.
Last time, two years and some loose change ago, it felt like someone took a bag of sand and flung it into my chest as hard as they could. I was left breathless, lifeless. A piece of me was removed forcefully and violently while I tried to recover from the initial hit. I groped in the dark, trying to reclaim what was rightfully mine, but it was already gone. The hurt did not go away despite the vast attempts I made to make it disappear or at least dull. I didn't breathe for months.
Until one day, laying in a green field under an ancient oak tree, a light Autumn breeze ruffling the leaves, when he came back and with him, my breath. The ache slowly subsided, till it became a distant memory--rehashed only in nightmares that left me lying awake, damp with perspiration.
I believe I always knew it wouldn't last. I believe that I kidded myself for two years after that sunny day in the park. I believe I was aware that love would really never be enough. That I would never be enough. But I pretended. And I was happy.
He gave me hints all along. A few short weeks before we moved here, he already talked about moving elsewhere--San Francisco, Germany. He talked about going to school in faraway places. Places I would not be able to follow.
Still, the hints never prepared me for actually hearing him say it. And when he did, it was like someone had again taken my breath away with the heavy velocity of a flying sandbag. My world, my seemingly perfect little world that I labored to build, crumbled under the weight of his words. I tried to salvage what I could, but realized I was grasping at straws and finally let go.
The ache, this time, dull and dilute, nagging at me every time I let my brain wander. It reminds me of what I always knew, especially when he pulls me near at night, especially then, when I am more alone than ever before.
So I don't let my mind wander. And as moving day draws near, I find I don't even have the time to let it travel down the paths it chooses. I'm leaving Pleasant Avenue, my little block with trees, church bells, school children and nuns. I'm leaving Harlem, where you can hear the city's heart beat in the dark of night. I'm leaving Manhattan, that famed island that I, and many others, have held on a pedestal for so long, only to be disappointed.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Can I count the ways?
I find myself sometimes getting really bogged down in the daily humdrum of chores, shopping, cleaning, etc., to the point that I lose sight of why I do it all in the first place. My mom still does it time to time, even after having been married for over a decade (I am reasonably sure that every single one of us does this from time to time). Sometimes all I need to do is recollect and reflect on all the reasons that I love that certain someone...
So in a sickly sweet to display of affection that may very well bring you to the point of regurgitation, here is my list: (Please avert your eyes if you are easily made queasy!)
So in a sickly sweet to display of affection that may very well bring you to the point of regurgitation, here is my list: (Please avert your eyes if you are easily made queasy!)
- Your hands, and the callouses on your fingers and thumbs from playing the guitar, working out and riding a bike (I feel they are very demonstrative of you overall).
- The way you dance...because I feel a little less silly of the way I dance when I'm dancing with you.
- Your bellybutton.
- How you really honestly care about my sisters and my best friends and you never ever are jealous of my relationship with them.
- How you can put up with my serious case of the crazies and still let me snuggle when we go to bed, even if you are still a little angry.
- Your sincere attempt at a moustache.
- The way you smell.
- Your family.
- How you are way more technologically savvy than I am.
- Your deviated septum, which I see every time I hug you because I am just that much shorter than you.
- That you challenge me--on my beliefs, my ideas, my taste in music.
- Your insatiable love of garlic...(and spinach, and enchiladas).
- That you make me feel comfortable and safe.
- That you are stubborn as shit sometimes, just for the sake of being stubborn.
- That you finally accept that sometimes (okay, most of the time) I really just like watching bad TV, and you leave the room and let me get my fix without a battle.
- The million and one back scratches and foot rubs that you provide.
- Your ears that still have the holes in them from when you had plugs back in high school.
- That my chest still gets tight and my palms a little sweaty when I think about you.
- A million other little things that make you--from your eyebrows to your elbows, all of your absurdities, your kindness, your silliness, your heart, your toes, your hugs.
Sunday, October 5, 2008
As the leaves begin to fall
I woke up the other night to a cold wind winding its way through my apartment, leaving my arms and shoulders covered in goose bumps. I shrunk down into the warm ocean of blankets, intertwined my legs with the much hairier pair of my boyfriend's and smiled to myself. Autumn had arrived.
Autumn has forever been my favorite time of year. Growing up in Georgia, we always started school in the dead heat of August. My legs would stick to the blue plastic seats in the unbearably humid trailer that functioned as a classroom to alleviate some of the overcrowding. By October though, the oppressive weather would begin to lift; a crunchy frost would coat the grass in the dark mornings; leaves, already browned because of a decades-long drought, would begin to float off the trees and turn to mush on the lawn. As a child, Autumn meant lightweight jackets, Jack-o-lanterns, toasted pumpkin seeds and Thanksgiving. It meant getting to see my Papa Don and spending time sitting on the counter as my mom made dinner--the smell of spaghetti permeating our house.
As I got older, the onset of cool weather often signified that some change was coming. After the divorce, my dad met his first new wife in the beginning of Fall at a restaurant called Barnacles and married her the following winter on my 11th birthday. My mom remarried the next September in a tiny chapel in the Appalachian mountains. When I was seventeen, Autumn brought a new state and a new university. When I was eighteen, Autumn meant dropping out of school and purchasing a one-way ticket to Europe with no plan of return.
Two years ago, Autumn brought me back together with the bf on a cool crisp day. We came together in the long stretch of park next to my old apartment, pumping our legs hard on a pair of rickety wooden swings that hung by yellow rope from two tall, ancient oak trees. The higher we went, the less we could remember about why we parted ways to begin with. Within days I was back in that happy place, in the crook of his arm, where I could smell his warm skin and where everything wrong with the world no longer existed.
Autumn, I realize, is my season of renewal. It is the time that I create new friendships and reestablish relationships that I have let falter throughout the year. It is a time of intellectual reawakening and new projects. It is the time where all decisions that will affect the outcome of the following year are made. Most of all, Autumn is a season of love and family, and that will never change.
Autumn has forever been my favorite time of year. Growing up in Georgia, we always started school in the dead heat of August. My legs would stick to the blue plastic seats in the unbearably humid trailer that functioned as a classroom to alleviate some of the overcrowding. By October though, the oppressive weather would begin to lift; a crunchy frost would coat the grass in the dark mornings; leaves, already browned because of a decades-long drought, would begin to float off the trees and turn to mush on the lawn. As a child, Autumn meant lightweight jackets, Jack-o-lanterns, toasted pumpkin seeds and Thanksgiving. It meant getting to see my Papa Don and spending time sitting on the counter as my mom made dinner--the smell of spaghetti permeating our house.
As I got older, the onset of cool weather often signified that some change was coming. After the divorce, my dad met his first new wife in the beginning of Fall at a restaurant called Barnacles and married her the following winter on my 11th birthday. My mom remarried the next September in a tiny chapel in the Appalachian mountains. When I was seventeen, Autumn brought a new state and a new university. When I was eighteen, Autumn meant dropping out of school and purchasing a one-way ticket to Europe with no plan of return.
Two years ago, Autumn brought me back together with the bf on a cool crisp day. We came together in the long stretch of park next to my old apartment, pumping our legs hard on a pair of rickety wooden swings that hung by yellow rope from two tall, ancient oak trees. The higher we went, the less we could remember about why we parted ways to begin with. Within days I was back in that happy place, in the crook of his arm, where I could smell his warm skin and where everything wrong with the world no longer existed.
Autumn, I realize, is my season of renewal. It is the time that I create new friendships and reestablish relationships that I have let falter throughout the year. It is a time of intellectual reawakening and new projects. It is the time where all decisions that will affect the outcome of the following year are made. Most of all, Autumn is a season of love and family, and that will never change.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Weekend Outlook
I am procrastinating.
Actually, I'm not. I really have no work to do today, I have checked my messages, answered emails, shuffled paperwork, gone on a coffee run--all of which took a whopping 20 minutes. So now I am sitting here half-listening in on a conversation my coworkers are having (one just mentioned the word "mulatto", apparently we are back in 1950 when that was appropriate), reading the Times, and scanning my daily blog-roll.
All this political posturing, economic upheaval and general uncertainty about the universe in general has me thinking. I sometimes wish the economy would just fail, fail, fail--at least that would wake people up and make people say something must happen (I am trying to avoid using the term "change" because it has been so obnoxiously commandeered by both political parties. We are so complacent that already, in the midst of a financial crisis the likes of which most of us have never seen, we are expecting a government that has already managed to screw things up royally to be able to fix the mess that they created by using the same means that created the mess in the first place. Ugh! I am bored of hearing the "who knows better how a fire works than an arsonist." Don't we realize we are calling our government a bunch of arsonists? Shouldn't that clue us in that something is really, really wrong here?
Enough of that tirade. Apparently there is a group of kids in Queens that are building huge stereo bikes and partying wherever they ride. It makes me wonder where my youthful creative self disappeared to? People in Queens are trying to ban them...I understand how it could be a disturbance, but can't we simply embrace their creativity and dance with them?
Despite the crummy weather, this weekend's outlook is good. My wonderful anthro-geek friend, Belly, is coming up from Atlanta to take on Manhattan with me. I am really looking forward to drinking cheap red wine and talking about all the things we have missed in each other's lives since I left Atlanta. Also, next week is Rosh Hashanah, Jewish new year, so I get Monday afternoon, Tuesday and Wednesday off because I work for a Jewish organization so Belly and I are going to go up to Boston to visit Em. It will be the trifecta of hot anthropology girls!
By they way, I'm thinking about adding a new tattoo...I am really in love Mark Ryden, so maybe I'll get one of his pieces. Any votes on a specific piece?
Actually, I'm not. I really have no work to do today, I have checked my messages, answered emails, shuffled paperwork, gone on a coffee run--all of which took a whopping 20 minutes. So now I am sitting here half-listening in on a conversation my coworkers are having (one just mentioned the word "mulatto", apparently we are back in 1950 when that was appropriate), reading the Times, and scanning my daily blog-roll.
All this political posturing, economic upheaval and general uncertainty about the universe in general has me thinking. I sometimes wish the economy would just fail, fail, fail--at least that would wake people up and make people say something must happen (I am trying to avoid using the term "change" because it has been so obnoxiously commandeered by both political parties. We are so complacent that already, in the midst of a financial crisis the likes of which most of us have never seen, we are expecting a government that has already managed to screw things up royally to be able to fix the mess that they created by using the same means that created the mess in the first place. Ugh! I am bored of hearing the "who knows better how a fire works than an arsonist." Don't we realize we are calling our government a bunch of arsonists? Shouldn't that clue us in that something is really, really wrong here?
Enough of that tirade. Apparently there is a group of kids in Queens that are building huge stereo bikes and partying wherever they ride. It makes me wonder where my youthful creative self disappeared to? People in Queens are trying to ban them...I understand how it could be a disturbance, but can't we simply embrace their creativity and dance with them?
Despite the crummy weather, this weekend's outlook is good. My wonderful anthro-geek friend, Belly, is coming up from Atlanta to take on Manhattan with me. I am really looking forward to drinking cheap red wine and talking about all the things we have missed in each other's lives since I left Atlanta. Also, next week is Rosh Hashanah, Jewish new year, so I get Monday afternoon, Tuesday and Wednesday off because I work for a Jewish organization so Belly and I are going to go up to Boston to visit Em. It will be the trifecta of hot anthropology girls!
By they way, I'm thinking about adding a new tattoo...I am really in love Mark Ryden, so maybe I'll get one of his pieces. Any votes on a specific piece?
Thursday, September 18, 2008
What a glorious day!
Behold! On this day, the 18th day of the ninth month in this otherwise not-so-good year 2008, a glorious event transpired! CRAZY GOT THE AX! No one really knows why yet. It was towards the end of the day and while doing my best to look busy I heard a ruckus. And then a "Don't let her leave the building!" I nonchalantly wandered over to the filing cabinets see if I could catch the action. Alas, Crazy had already gotten to the elevator and was on her way out.
Speculation ensued. Tomorrow will be a good day.
Speculation ensued. Tomorrow will be a good day.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Secrets
When I moved to New York I promised myself that I would be honest with people that I knew and met, and more honest to myself. I've worked on this to some extent, but every now and again I find myself saying something...or not saying something that I later reflect upon and question why I said or omitted that something.
Emily always tells people, when introducing me (and by introducing me, introducing the stories that surround my existence), that I am an exaggerator--that there is always truth to my narratives, but that she never quite knows the extent of those truths. Its something that I've done as long as I can remember, and I suppose one could analyze it and say "Well you know, her father was a pathological liar," or "She's from a broken home," perhaps that is true, but the fact of the matter is is that I am simply a story-teller, I am a creator of fictions and of worlds beyond my own, any attempt at explanation comes up short and is irrelevant.
As a child I had a hard time distinguishing between reality and the world I invented around me. I credit it to an overactive imagination. When I was three, Michael Jackson was my imaginary friend and he had to have a seat at the dinner table. I would pitch a fit and deplore anyone that dare took his seat. When my dad left, I invented another world in which mystical and terrifying things did actually exist, but only I could see them or hear them. I escaped the real and really intense trials and tribulations of my ten year old self and fled into a world that I controlled, manipulated, loved.
As an adolescent I no longer invented worlds for myself to live in. But I expounded upon the one in which I was present. I played out the story lines in my head with the people that surrounded me. With ease, rehearsed lines, that I had practiced a million times and perfected in my mind, would roll of my tongue.
As an adult, my audience has mostly been myself. I create narratives to justify my actions, to provide excuses, to yield explanations. I think sometimes that it is much easier to be honest to others than it is to be honest to myself. If I ever am to be able to answer the questions that have been plaguing me so as of late, I need to be utterly, painfully, excruciatingly honest to myself.
I am no liar. I am an inventor, a creator, a story-teller, an omitter, an adult with the same overactive imagination I had as a child. What I say is truth, or at least truth as I experience it because we all create our own realities.
In the spirit of honesty and truthfulness, here's a small list of secrets I'd like to divulge.
Emily always tells people, when introducing me (and by introducing me, introducing the stories that surround my existence), that I am an exaggerator--that there is always truth to my narratives, but that she never quite knows the extent of those truths. Its something that I've done as long as I can remember, and I suppose one could analyze it and say "Well you know, her father was a pathological liar," or "She's from a broken home," perhaps that is true, but the fact of the matter is is that I am simply a story-teller, I am a creator of fictions and of worlds beyond my own, any attempt at explanation comes up short and is irrelevant.
As a child I had a hard time distinguishing between reality and the world I invented around me. I credit it to an overactive imagination. When I was three, Michael Jackson was my imaginary friend and he had to have a seat at the dinner table. I would pitch a fit and deplore anyone that dare took his seat. When my dad left, I invented another world in which mystical and terrifying things did actually exist, but only I could see them or hear them. I escaped the real and really intense trials and tribulations of my ten year old self and fled into a world that I controlled, manipulated, loved.
As an adolescent I no longer invented worlds for myself to live in. But I expounded upon the one in which I was present. I played out the story lines in my head with the people that surrounded me. With ease, rehearsed lines, that I had practiced a million times and perfected in my mind, would roll of my tongue.
As an adult, my audience has mostly been myself. I create narratives to justify my actions, to provide excuses, to yield explanations. I think sometimes that it is much easier to be honest to others than it is to be honest to myself. If I ever am to be able to answer the questions that have been plaguing me so as of late, I need to be utterly, painfully, excruciatingly honest to myself.
I am no liar. I am an inventor, a creator, a story-teller, an omitter, an adult with the same overactive imagination I had as a child. What I say is truth, or at least truth as I experience it because we all create our own realities.
In the spirit of honesty and truthfulness, here's a small list of secrets I'd like to divulge.
- Sometimes I really want to throw away all ideas of grandeur and saving the world and open a small bakery and help my neighbors get happy and fat on baked goods.
- When I am not thinking about opening a bakery, I am thinking about running away to Montana, buying some land and starting a farm, cows and all.
- I am really terrified of men and the potential physical, mental and emotional harm and duress they have the ability to cause.
- As an adult, I unconsciously bite my lips and chew my mouth to shit when I am stressed or nervous. When I was little I pulled my hair and all my eyelashes out.
- I really really miss Atlanta. But for some reason I think that I can't go back, that going back would be admitting I failed.
Saturday, September 6, 2008
Every Office Has One...
...a completely insane, verging on the point of schizophrenic, definitely bi-polar, employee. My office's insane person just happens to be one of my supervisors. FUN! Without going into gruesome detail (lest she come upon my blog and decide to track me down, gut me and take on my identity) I will just say after a particularly harrowing experience with her in which she made me and my direct supervisor both cry (what a way to come back to work after an awesome trip to Boston!) that I almost quit. However, rather than quitting and letting Crazy get the best of me, I decided to fall back on the age old therapeutic process of baking. Here's the recipe I came up with--a little sweet, a little tart, just what I needed to survive the rest of the work week.
Raving Mad Rhubarb Muffins
1/3 cup honey
1 cup softened butter
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 1/2 cup flour (for one of those cups I used whole wheat flour)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
2 cups chopped fresh rhubarb
1 cup sugar
2 tbsp cinnamon
1/2 cup oatmeal
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Combine flour, baking powder and baking soda in large bowl. In another bowl combine butter, sugar, honey, salt, vanilla, and cinnamon until well mixed. Make a well in the dry ingredients and add the wet ingredients. Mix lightly. Add the sour cream and stir until thoroughly incorporated. Add milk as necessary to bring the mixture to a cake batter consistency. Fold in chopped rhubarb and oatmeal (add nuts if you like). Pour into a well greased and floured muffin pan (or use muffin tins) and bake for 25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.
Raving Mad Rhubarb Muffins
1/3 cup honey
1 cup softened butter
1 egg
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 1/2 cup flour (for one of those cups I used whole wheat flour)
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
1 cup sour cream
1/2 cup milk
2 cups chopped fresh rhubarb
1 cup sugar
2 tbsp cinnamon
1/2 cup oatmeal
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Combine flour, baking powder and baking soda in large bowl. In another bowl combine butter, sugar, honey, salt, vanilla, and cinnamon until well mixed. Make a well in the dry ingredients and add the wet ingredients. Mix lightly. Add the sour cream and stir until thoroughly incorporated. Add milk as necessary to bring the mixture to a cake batter consistency. Fold in chopped rhubarb and oatmeal (add nuts if you like). Pour into a well greased and floured muffin pan (or use muffin tins) and bake for 25 minutes or until a toothpick comes out clean.
Wednesday, September 3, 2008
Escape
"Hey sister!"
"Hey! What are you doing?"
"Oh I'm just on a bus right now, headed up to Boston for the weekend."
-Long pause-
"Um...are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
"Huh?"
"Really, are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
-I look around-
"Uh, yeah. There's one sitting behind me."
"Don't fall asleep!"
"What?! You're so weird."
"No, really. Some Asian guy beheaded and ate a man on a bus in Canada a few weeks ago. Keep an eye on him."
Oh sisters. And so my vacation began.
After the mismatched shoe incident, I realized I needed to get the hell out of dodge. I finally stopped making excuses for not going to Boston, knowing that if I didn't do it soon, I probably never would. So I bought a bus ticket to go see my oh-so-dear and slightly deranged best friend, Emily. Oh can I count the ways I love her? She's perpetually late, likes to pick arguments, totally nuts...and all that makes her absolutely endearing. Despite the chaos that generally surrounds her, she brings peace to my weary soul and reminds me that I am still young.
"Hey! What are you doing?"
"Oh I'm just on a bus right now, headed up to Boston for the weekend."
-Long pause-
"Um...are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
"Huh?"
"Really, are there any Asian men sitting near you?"
-I look around-
"Uh, yeah. There's one sitting behind me."
"Don't fall asleep!"
"What?! You're so weird."
"No, really. Some Asian guy beheaded and ate a man on a bus in Canada a few weeks ago. Keep an eye on him."
Oh sisters. And so my vacation began.
After the mismatched shoe incident, I realized I needed to get the hell out of dodge. I finally stopped making excuses for not going to Boston, knowing that if I didn't do it soon, I probably never would. So I bought a bus ticket to go see my oh-so-dear and slightly deranged best friend, Emily. Oh can I count the ways I love her? She's perpetually late, likes to pick arguments, totally nuts...and all that makes her absolutely endearing. Despite the chaos that generally surrounds her, she brings peace to my weary soul and reminds me that I am still young.
One of the best things about living in New York is the plethora of public transportation. In addition to local MTA buses and subways, there's MetroNorth which goes...well, north, and there are a million buses that will take you to Philadelphia, DC, Toronto, Boston, even Atlanta (if I ever felt like sitting on a bus for 20 some odd hours). Boltbus offers $1/one way trips to most major cities (you have to book way in advance), the Fungwah (aka the Chinatown bus) offers $15/one way trips to Boston even if you book the minute you decide to leave. So Friday afternoon I hopped on a Fungwah and escaped to the way less hectic, way more Irish, neighborhood of Jamaica Plain.
Em is currently dating an Irishman who reminds me completely of a certain someone who I gallivanted around Europe with (perhaps it is simply the accent) and who has a lovely house right outside of Boston with a lovely deck, a lovely yard and a loving--though slightly obnoxious--Pomeranian. At this point, she has all but officially moved in with him (she still keeps most of her stuff at the apartment that her parents pay for).
I suppose you could say I've been a little more emo than usual (characterized in large part by my incessant listening to The Good Life) because as soon as I got off the bus and embraced my Emily I started crying like an exhausted toddler. The oppressive loneliness of New York was immediately lifted and Emily took me to the Irishman's house, put a beer in my hand and eventually tucked me into bed after the alcohol had coated me in its warmth.
I returned to New York on Sunday, feeling refreshed, renewed. I chatted with a fellow traveler all the way home about life, love, New York and through our conversations I came to realize that I am not the only one in New York attempting to make it work--whatever that "it" may be. My escape to Emily in Boston was cathartic. I survived my first 100 days in Manhattan. I think that means maybe I can start to call this place home.
I suppose you could say I've been a little more emo than usual (characterized in large part by my incessant listening to The Good Life) because as soon as I got off the bus and embraced my Emily I started crying like an exhausted toddler. The oppressive loneliness of New York was immediately lifted and Emily took me to the Irishman's house, put a beer in my hand and eventually tucked me into bed after the alcohol had coated me in its warmth.
I returned to New York on Sunday, feeling refreshed, renewed. I chatted with a fellow traveler all the way home about life, love, New York and through our conversations I came to realize that I am not the only one in New York attempting to make it work--whatever that "it" may be. My escape to Emily in Boston was cathartic. I survived my first 100 days in Manhattan. I think that means maybe I can start to call this place home.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
