I think this is going to be a new regular feature on here for me: Monique and Tana's FAVORITE PLACES IN THE WORLD, due to the fact that she and I are always going to strange places (i.e., Duane Reade, or the grocery store) and finding such charm and comfort in them that the begin to feel like home. It'll be comprised of perhaps a short description along with the actual location. For right now, since I have errands to run, I'll begin with just a list of places and will expound later:
Bravo International Supermarket: 34th ave. and 35th st., Astoria, Queens.
Duane Reade: any of them
Rockaway Taco: Beach 96th St, Rockaway, Queens.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
25 Looms Quite Large
A good friend of mine (we'll call him B) called me the other day because it was his birthday and he was in the IE, wondering if I'd made my way there yet. In the course of our conversation he asked me why I was in Wisconsin and I told him A and I broke up. He asked what had gone wrong with A and I told him that was for a longer catch-up (preferably in person, with alcohol) someday down the road, and then he asked if I had the number of a mutual friend of ours from high school, M. I told him I hadn't talked to M since graduation in '07, when I found out he was having a kid with someone and didn't have the balls to tell me himself, instead letting this mutual friend of ours give me the news.
So, M and I had been a little more than friends. We'd been back and forth with each other since freshman year in high school and then I took off East and left him in Oceanside with a ton of things left unsaid. But we'd always held torches for each other, so to speak. Anyway, after a fortuitous trip home to SoCal in '05, M and I escalated things. Or, M did, and I followed along. I knew the deal- 3,000 miles and he was a good-looking kid. I wasn't asking for the world. I wasn't even implying that I might want the world. But, see, he started talking about the things we could have, the places we could go. And I suppose I fell for it, 3,000 miles away. And then, out of nowhere, in May '07 I find out he's "Starting A Family" with some chick he's been with for less than a year and- typically- they're ELATED!!!!! Whatever. I wait for him to tell me. I wait and I wait and I wait to hear from him. And I hear nothing, until I strike up a conversation first. I let him play coy, hear him make a bullshit excuse, and then I write him off. And I haven't spoken to him since.
Some days, I miss him like (as I often text my friend J) a fiend misses rock. He and I were good with each other. We could chill, we could talk, we could argue until Hell froze over and still be friends. But, when it mattered, he was too much of a chicken to tell me what was going on. When I vented about it to yet another mutual friend of ours, the guy told me M was probably just afraid I'd call him out, tell him he was being a fucking idiot because, let's face it: People our age- 22, 23 at the time- were getting together with people they barely knew and having babies in the first year of their relationship, when things were good and everything was exciting. He had more to look forward to and was tying himself to someone it was entirely possible he wouldn't make it very far with. (and that whole system of beliefs I carried was the foundation for why I did what I did later, the next year, when A and I were together). Anyway, the friend told me M was probably worried I'd lose respect for him.
The point is that at some point along the way— through bickering and snipping at each other in Freshman English, through the way he'd look out for me when we barely saw each other Sophomore year, through the contact we kept up when his family moved to Carlsbad the summer before we were Juniors and then after I left— somewhere in there I loved him. And when I love—this is what B told me when he called a few days ago—I love hard.
I will. I will love you until you break my heart past reconstruction. Depending upon circumstances and our history, I might even give you a couple of chances for redemption. But really, how long can one do this? How many times can you go out, guard yourself until you think you're safe, and then when you least expect it, get slammed into like an armadillo in the path of a Mack truck on the freeway?
Conversely, what the hell's the point of loving if you don't love hard? Why bother?
I suppose it is as with every other thing in life: middle ground. Moderation in this instance won't really get you anywhere, so you have to find middle ground. But where is that?
And why, sweet sweet newborn-baby Jesus, why do I dwell on all of this for most of my waking hours?
My first college roommate began a site for her to work through her impending divorce and blog-conference with friends of hers in similar positions, of whom I am one. It's a support-group in blog form: reminding us that there are always things to be thankful for, especially girlfriends, and that our greatest assets are ourselves, our greatest cheerleaders each other. With the help of her idea and her site I've had time to not only stew and cry about the dissolution of A and me but ruminate on and analyze it more productively. Confront the demons and move on.
I'm always going to have regrets—I kind of don't know how to live without them—but they don't have to be dehibilitating. I don't know why it's so difficult to find someone who'll love you back just as hard and not be manipulative or controlling or have substance abuse problems or just be generally insane. Maybe those characteristics (one, or any combination of two or more) are prerequisites in most people.
At this point, I guess I'm just trying not to let cynicism be king. It's not attractive on someone so young.
So, M and I had been a little more than friends. We'd been back and forth with each other since freshman year in high school and then I took off East and left him in Oceanside with a ton of things left unsaid. But we'd always held torches for each other, so to speak. Anyway, after a fortuitous trip home to SoCal in '05, M and I escalated things. Or, M did, and I followed along. I knew the deal- 3,000 miles and he was a good-looking kid. I wasn't asking for the world. I wasn't even implying that I might want the world. But, see, he started talking about the things we could have, the places we could go. And I suppose I fell for it, 3,000 miles away. And then, out of nowhere, in May '07 I find out he's "Starting A Family" with some chick he's been with for less than a year and- typically- they're ELATED!!!!! Whatever. I wait for him to tell me. I wait and I wait and I wait to hear from him. And I hear nothing, until I strike up a conversation first. I let him play coy, hear him make a bullshit excuse, and then I write him off. And I haven't spoken to him since.
Some days, I miss him like (as I often text my friend J) a fiend misses rock. He and I were good with each other. We could chill, we could talk, we could argue until Hell froze over and still be friends. But, when it mattered, he was too much of a chicken to tell me what was going on. When I vented about it to yet another mutual friend of ours, the guy told me M was probably just afraid I'd call him out, tell him he was being a fucking idiot because, let's face it: People our age- 22, 23 at the time- were getting together with people they barely knew and having babies in the first year of their relationship, when things were good and everything was exciting. He had more to look forward to and was tying himself to someone it was entirely possible he wouldn't make it very far with. (and that whole system of beliefs I carried was the foundation for why I did what I did later, the next year, when A and I were together). Anyway, the friend told me M was probably worried I'd lose respect for him.
The point is that at some point along the way— through bickering and snipping at each other in Freshman English, through the way he'd look out for me when we barely saw each other Sophomore year, through the contact we kept up when his family moved to Carlsbad the summer before we were Juniors and then after I left— somewhere in there I loved him. And when I love—this is what B told me when he called a few days ago—I love hard.
I will. I will love you until you break my heart past reconstruction. Depending upon circumstances and our history, I might even give you a couple of chances for redemption. But really, how long can one do this? How many times can you go out, guard yourself until you think you're safe, and then when you least expect it, get slammed into like an armadillo in the path of a Mack truck on the freeway?
Conversely, what the hell's the point of loving if you don't love hard? Why bother?
I suppose it is as with every other thing in life: middle ground. Moderation in this instance won't really get you anywhere, so you have to find middle ground. But where is that?
And why, sweet sweet newborn-baby Jesus, why do I dwell on all of this for most of my waking hours?
My first college roommate began a site for her to work through her impending divorce and blog-conference with friends of hers in similar positions, of whom I am one. It's a support-group in blog form: reminding us that there are always things to be thankful for, especially girlfriends, and that our greatest assets are ourselves, our greatest cheerleaders each other. With the help of her idea and her site I've had time to not only stew and cry about the dissolution of A and me but ruminate on and analyze it more productively. Confront the demons and move on.
I'm always going to have regrets—I kind of don't know how to live without them—but they don't have to be dehibilitating. I don't know why it's so difficult to find someone who'll love you back just as hard and not be manipulative or controlling or have substance abuse problems or just be generally insane. Maybe those characteristics (one, or any combination of two or more) are prerequisites in most people.
At this point, I guess I'm just trying not to let cynicism be king. It's not attractive on someone so young.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
Lost in the Lakes
I'll admit it: I've been a negligent blogger. Apologies.
I'm leaving New York next Sunday, in case anyone has thus far missed this announcement. The past two months have been at once about healing, recovering, and hedonism. Who knew I was so down to throw off the yoke of responsibility and just live for my own happiness? I've laughed more in the last couple of months than I probably had in all of last year. It's been fantastic.
That's the new word I'm using, too. Everything is fantastic. FAN.TAS.TIC.
Leaving is bittersweet. I just met someone I have a lot of fun with, and with whom I try to spend as much time as I can. But having been in two serious relationships over the past 5 years, it's really time for me to stretch my legs and explore. There's so much to see! So many places to go! And I'm tired of crying. I have come to detest trying to form my life to someone else's. At this point it's difficult for me to even form my schedule to someone else's. What's the point?
So I'm moving to Wisconsin. Fresh air, fresh start. Best friends I thought would always be there and would always be "best" are no longer and that hurts more than anything I've ever gone through. On, Wisconsin. It's time to confront these demons and move on.
Two things I want to do when I get there: run and write. Okay, and go to plenty of football games. I do love football. Write so I don't kick holes in the wall when I feel overwhelmed and angry and hurt. Write so I can convert weakness into strength through the deliberate placement of words onto paper (or screen...). Run so I can mold the energy that threatens to mutate into depression instead into physical ability and endurance. In short, I want to develop a multi-layered strength that used to live somewhere inside but that's been slowly disassembled and ripped away to the point where it's nearly impossible for me to deal with anything anymore.
There's been a lot of rage in my hair but it's calming now.
Next chapter, please.
I'm leaving New York next Sunday, in case anyone has thus far missed this announcement. The past two months have been at once about healing, recovering, and hedonism. Who knew I was so down to throw off the yoke of responsibility and just live for my own happiness? I've laughed more in the last couple of months than I probably had in all of last year. It's been fantastic.
That's the new word I'm using, too. Everything is fantastic. FAN.TAS.TIC.
Leaving is bittersweet. I just met someone I have a lot of fun with, and with whom I try to spend as much time as I can. But having been in two serious relationships over the past 5 years, it's really time for me to stretch my legs and explore. There's so much to see! So many places to go! And I'm tired of crying. I have come to detest trying to form my life to someone else's. At this point it's difficult for me to even form my schedule to someone else's. What's the point?
So I'm moving to Wisconsin. Fresh air, fresh start. Best friends I thought would always be there and would always be "best" are no longer and that hurts more than anything I've ever gone through. On, Wisconsin. It's time to confront these demons and move on.
Two things I want to do when I get there: run and write. Okay, and go to plenty of football games. I do love football. Write so I don't kick holes in the wall when I feel overwhelmed and angry and hurt. Write so I can convert weakness into strength through the deliberate placement of words onto paper (or screen...). Run so I can mold the energy that threatens to mutate into depression instead into physical ability and endurance. In short, I want to develop a multi-layered strength that used to live somewhere inside but that's been slowly disassembled and ripped away to the point where it's nearly impossible for me to deal with anything anymore.
There's been a lot of rage in my hair but it's calming now.
Next chapter, please.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Untethered
I'd almost forgotten what it felt like to be somewhere, enjoying someone's company, and not having to worry about inserting the phrase "my boyfriend" into a sentence so as to make sure that other person knew not to cross The Line. It's been 5 years since I was last so fully unattached and while foreign and sometimes terrifying/miserable, being single is sort of fantastic. Okay, some days it's less-than fantastic, but not having to answer to anyone when I'm out with a guy friend? Priceless. Not having to account to someone else the money I've spent. Glorious. Not having to take care of someone when they get home trashed at 3:30 in the morning and either throw a pity party or start a fight? The most blessed, blessed, blessed thing in the world.
Anyway, now that I'm leaving the city of course I'm hanging out with all of the people I enjoy. I like that part, too: not having to worryabout getting home by a certain hour because that's when someone will be home and God forbid he's alone for a few hours. Thursday night I had a rough day at work, and afterwards stopped by my friend's for some fresh-fruit margaritas and serious chillin'. Yesterday I met up with the same friend and his gf and their roommate to watch the US game at the beer garden and then we all spent the entire day together. It was fabulous! And I'm not just saying that because I was drunk most of the time, either.
Last weekend I went to Jersey to help Keita's sister and brother-in-law clean their house a little; their kitchen is being redone and there was dust on EVERYTHING, so Kilolo and I went to wash things, get the AC installed, and assist in the organizational effort to the extent it was possible without a sink, or the dishwasher being hooked up. While I was there I told them what happened with Alex and one thing that was mentioned was that I've gotten to a point in my life where I don't need projects anymore, and I don't need trainees. Alex may have seemed like he had it together but he very, very much didn't-not in the career sense, really, because he did know what he wanted and was capable of going after it-but in the general life sense he was a boiling hot mess.
Now, all of that said, I'm still in a holding pattern of sorts, which means I'm not ideal relationship material (nor do I want to be) right now. So as much as I'm not trying to deal with anyone else's shortcomings at the moment, I'm also not going to inflict mine on anyone. I think that's fair, no?
Men are tricky beasts, and I have a penchant for attracting the obtuse and obstinate. Love 'em, but I gotta leave 'em alone.
And also? I'm pretty much too awesome for everyone. ;)
Anyway, now that I'm leaving the city of course I'm hanging out with all of the people I enjoy. I like that part, too: not having to worryabout getting home by a certain hour because that's when someone will be home and God forbid he's alone for a few hours. Thursday night I had a rough day at work, and afterwards stopped by my friend's for some fresh-fruit margaritas and serious chillin'. Yesterday I met up with the same friend and his gf and their roommate to watch the US game at the beer garden and then we all spent the entire day together. It was fabulous! And I'm not just saying that because I was drunk most of the time, either.
Last weekend I went to Jersey to help Keita's sister and brother-in-law clean their house a little; their kitchen is being redone and there was dust on EVERYTHING, so Kilolo and I went to wash things, get the AC installed, and assist in the organizational effort to the extent it was possible without a sink, or the dishwasher being hooked up. While I was there I told them what happened with Alex and one thing that was mentioned was that I've gotten to a point in my life where I don't need projects anymore, and I don't need trainees. Alex may have seemed like he had it together but he very, very much didn't-not in the career sense, really, because he did know what he wanted and was capable of going after it-but in the general life sense he was a boiling hot mess.
Now, all of that said, I'm still in a holding pattern of sorts, which means I'm not ideal relationship material (nor do I want to be) right now. So as much as I'm not trying to deal with anyone else's shortcomings at the moment, I'm also not going to inflict mine on anyone. I think that's fair, no?
Men are tricky beasts, and I have a penchant for attracting the obtuse and obstinate. Love 'em, but I gotta leave 'em alone.
And also? I'm pretty much too awesome for everyone. ;)
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Could It Be... Has Hell Frozen Over?
So perhaps this isn't the best idea to have right before I migrate to the middle of the country, but I'm thinking of going vegetarian and possibly even gluten-free or vegan.
I don't really know why I'm having this impulse. Maybe because I love cupcakes and I have a strange idea (possibly mistaken) that vegan/GF cupcakes aren't going to make me blow up like a balloon and even better there is FROSTING for them! New York has done a number on my relationship with food, I tell ya.
Anyway, I have an entire box of food spices and supplies I'd really like to use up before I leave. That means monster cooking. I also feel like baking insane amounts of chocolatey sweets to give away to people. I'm okay with monster cooking, if it's in the name of me not eating any of it.
I suppose I should elaborate on at least one thing I've been avoiding: A and I are completely done. I moved my stuff out of the house and into a storage space last weekend and have been staying with a couple of friends in Queens. I'll be staying with them until early August, when I'm leaving. Not that this should be very much of a shock, but I don't feel like talking that much about it- at least not to the extent I've shared in the past. I'm fine, though with a couple of hiccups here and there.
That said, I'm going to try and hit the gym instead of taking a lunch break. Same with after work. I'm supposed to meet a friend for dinner at 10, so why not get a good run in before then? Tomorrow I'm going to check out Pilates uptown. If there's one thing I do need help with, it's breathing.
I don't really know why I'm having this impulse. Maybe because I love cupcakes and I have a strange idea (possibly mistaken) that vegan/GF cupcakes aren't going to make me blow up like a balloon and even better there is FROSTING for them! New York has done a number on my relationship with food, I tell ya.
Anyway, I have an entire box of food spices and supplies I'd really like to use up before I leave. That means monster cooking. I also feel like baking insane amounts of chocolatey sweets to give away to people. I'm okay with monster cooking, if it's in the name of me not eating any of it.
I suppose I should elaborate on at least one thing I've been avoiding: A and I are completely done. I moved my stuff out of the house and into a storage space last weekend and have been staying with a couple of friends in Queens. I'll be staying with them until early August, when I'm leaving. Not that this should be very much of a shock, but I don't feel like talking that much about it- at least not to the extent I've shared in the past. I'm fine, though with a couple of hiccups here and there.
That said, I'm going to try and hit the gym instead of taking a lunch break. Same with after work. I'm supposed to meet a friend for dinner at 10, so why not get a good run in before then? Tomorrow I'm going to check out Pilates uptown. If there's one thing I do need help with, it's breathing.
Friday, May 21, 2010
a quickie
I'll expound later, but I just need to get these few words out so I can focus on what I need to do and not let the anger build up, as I am prone to do:
I can make my mother cry, but you can't.
Except I don't even like to be responsible for it. I know sometimes I can be a rotten offspring, but at the end of the day my mother's as close to me as one of my arms, or my feet. She and I have our differences- sometimes explosively so because we are so similar- but I absolutely hate when she hurts. I know she usually shields hurt from me for a variety of reasons, whether she doesn't think I, as her daughter, should have to deal with her pains, or because she's trying to protect me from something. In some instances, I feel like I should be the one she talks to if for no other reason than I've been around the longest (obviously with exception to her best friends from before I was born), and I've been through a lot with her. In other words: I get it. And maybe when I was younger I wouldn't have quite possessed the capacity to deal with it, but I do now.
Anyway, I'll expound more later.
I can make my mother cry, but you can't.
Except I don't even like to be responsible for it. I know sometimes I can be a rotten offspring, but at the end of the day my mother's as close to me as one of my arms, or my feet. She and I have our differences- sometimes explosively so because we are so similar- but I absolutely hate when she hurts. I know she usually shields hurt from me for a variety of reasons, whether she doesn't think I, as her daughter, should have to deal with her pains, or because she's trying to protect me from something. In some instances, I feel like I should be the one she talks to if for no other reason than I've been around the longest (obviously with exception to her best friends from before I was born), and I've been through a lot with her. In other words: I get it. And maybe when I was younger I wouldn't have quite possessed the capacity to deal with it, but I do now.
Anyway, I'll expound more later.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
This Artist Must Know Me
Read the image to the left from the bottom up. This was a part of an exhibit my friend Freddy helped curate (is that what you do for an art show?) and had I ever owned a Blackberry in my life, I'd think the artist had lifted this straight from my phone. I'm pretty sure I've sent those texts at more than one point in my life. Really only one person has ever been the recipient of them, and for that I am truly sorry.
I really will get it together one day.
Maybe It's Malcolm X
A and I had a good morning. We've had good days lately. Sometimes he says things I don't like, and then I remember to cherish all the time left with him, because it's going to end and I want nice memories. So we focus on the happy.
I used to depend on a cadre of people to help me get through the rough times. Having grown up with a family that was wildly dysfunctional, I crafted my own. As people grow and change I understand that separation is sometimes inevitable. Anyway, if you're reading this, you're obviously not one of those people I'm either pissed at or cutting myself away from. I just feel this great welling of anger swirling about inside and need to act somehow. Well, in the past I've acted with my legs and feet and brain and I'll be damned if that's not what I'm going to do now.
I used to depend on a cadre of people to help me get through the rough times. Having grown up with a family that was wildly dysfunctional, I crafted my own. As people grow and change I understand that separation is sometimes inevitable. Anyway, if you're reading this, you're obviously not one of those people I'm either pissed at or cutting myself away from. I just feel this great welling of anger swirling about inside and need to act somehow. Well, in the past I've acted with my legs and feet and brain and I'll be damned if that's not what I'm going to do now.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
The First Step to Solving a Problem
...is admitting you have one.
Without going into an abundance of details, and without hanging our laundry out in the chilly spring air, suffice to say A and I have decided to call it quits. His birthday was Tuesday and it was a disaster, and that was only the most recent manifestation of much larger issues we've been dealing with.
I'm confused about some points of the resolution, but here's what I think I understand: this is amicable. This doesn't preclude us from reuniting in the future.
For the moment, I'm still living in the house. I'll be commencing a serious search for an apartment of my own (and mine alone) in the next month or so. Aside from the fact that I need to save a little more money first, things are reasonably good right now, something I attribute to the fact that we both finally admitted what neither of us was willing to fully succumb to. Nelly Furtado wasn't the first to say it, but her song "All Good Things Come to An End" certainly rings true.
What should be noted is, as heartbroken as I am that this came to pass, I also feel like I can breathe (current allergic status and reduced lung function notwithstanding). I'm excited for future prospects, from tattoos to grad school. I'm kind of jazzed to have a blank canvas of a place to decorate and break in with my style.
Anyway, I've been reading a lot. I finished Fences in anticipation of Denzel coming to Broadway and finally got around to A Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers, who authored one of my favorite novels of all time (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter). Oh, and Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys, which tells the story of Antoinette Mason, the first Mrs. Rochester, better known as Bertha (the crazy woman in the attic) in Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. All of which, by the way, you should read if you have the chance. Wide Sargasso Sea is an entrancing narrative, giving a voice to a marginalized woman in one of England's more famous novels. Whether her marginalization has to do with the fact that she's Creole– neither white nor black-Caribbean– or the fact that she's from a former colony of England's, the reader of Jane Eyre knows little about her aside from the eerie pall she casts over Mr. Rochester's estate, and that she eventually escapes from the oversight of Grace Poole, who is charged with watching her, burns the Rochester house down and commits suicide, enabling him to marry Jane. In Rhys' work, we see Antoinette as she grows up and what happens when she marries Mr. Rochester and they live for a time in the West Indies. When he rejects her identity, her homeland, is when she descends into madness. It's a gorgeous work.
Obviously there's much more to the novel, but I digress. There's a memoir called I Don't Care About Your Band by Julie Klausner and it's tons of fun to read. Not only did I find myself cringing at more than one of her anecdotes from the sheer fact of having been in her shoes (if not with the same type of man), but it's written in a way so as not to elicit too much guilt from the missteps some of us less-fortunate-in-love ladies make over and over...and over and over again. The only aspect I couldn't seem to get past was socioeconomic. Well, and familial. Early in the book she talks about two kinds of women who have chronic relationship and intimacy issues with men: the kind for whom Daddy was never around and who have taken to a pole for therapy, and those for whom the men will never ever live up to the man, the myth, the legend that is Daddy, but that's okay, because they'll always have Daddy to run and be comforted by.
Now, I most certainly never had Daddy to run back to, but I am definitely not prancing naked around a pole, either. In fact, I've taken pole-dancing classes at my gym and the whole situation is quite disconcerting for me. Then again, statistically I should have two or three children by now and no significant other in sight, also, and I managed to avoid that altogether, as well. The other difference between the author and myself has to do with her seemingly endless cashflow, whereas I'm pretty much always broke. Then again, that could have been a literary vehicle to allow her to focus on the insane situations she'd find herself in with men of questionable...everything. In any case (before the digression sneaks in again) for those of us who tend to make facepalm-worthy decisions about the guys we take home, this book is that friend you always wanted to tell you that no, you're not a complete idiot and the personification of scandal, because someone else has done it, too, and in some cases, done it much much worse. And that you shouldn't feel guilty about it. That's key: forget the guilt.
I wonder if her parents read it. I mean, it wasn't at all rough for me to read, because like I said there was that whole "identification" factor, but I can't imagine writing my version and sending a copy to my parents. Or even letting them know it existed. Sweet Jesus, NO.
Perhaps because I need some cleansing of the soul the book I decided to open after I finished I Don't Care About Your Band (I wonder what it says about me and my job that I keep typing "bank" in place of "band") was A Jesuit Off-Broadway by James Martin, SJ, or Father Jim as I know him from working at The Public. Father Jim wrote it after working as a theological advisor and, later, chaplain to the writer, director and cast of my favorite play, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. It's a fair dose of history about first-century Palestine and what is known of the lives of Jesus and the Apostles, along with some anthropological speculation of other details based on evidence found in the Bible. All of that is interspersed with conversations, observations and interactions with the members of that run of Judas. I'm about halfway through and don't want to stop. I hope the copy of Judas I ordered gets here this week so I can read them in tandem; from the few excerpts I've read so far I can still hear them in my head as the cast would say them. A rare compliment from me about NYC: that show is one of my favorite parts about this city.
Without going into an abundance of details, and without hanging our laundry out in the chilly spring air, suffice to say A and I have decided to call it quits. His birthday was Tuesday and it was a disaster, and that was only the most recent manifestation of much larger issues we've been dealing with.
I'm confused about some points of the resolution, but here's what I think I understand: this is amicable. This doesn't preclude us from reuniting in the future.
For the moment, I'm still living in the house. I'll be commencing a serious search for an apartment of my own (and mine alone) in the next month or so. Aside from the fact that I need to save a little more money first, things are reasonably good right now, something I attribute to the fact that we both finally admitted what neither of us was willing to fully succumb to. Nelly Furtado wasn't the first to say it, but her song "All Good Things Come to An End" certainly rings true.
What should be noted is, as heartbroken as I am that this came to pass, I also feel like I can breathe (current allergic status and reduced lung function notwithstanding). I'm excited for future prospects, from tattoos to grad school. I'm kind of jazzed to have a blank canvas of a place to decorate and break in with my style.
Anyway, I've been reading a lot. I finished Fences in anticipation of Denzel coming to Broadway and finally got around to A Member of the Wedding by Carson McCullers, who authored one of my favorite novels of all time (The Heart is a Lonely Hunter). Oh, and Wide Sargasso Sea, by Jean Rhys, which tells the story of Antoinette Mason, the first Mrs. Rochester, better known as Bertha (the crazy woman in the attic) in Charlotte Bronte's Jane Eyre. All of which, by the way, you should read if you have the chance. Wide Sargasso Sea is an entrancing narrative, giving a voice to a marginalized woman in one of England's more famous novels. Whether her marginalization has to do with the fact that she's Creole– neither white nor black-Caribbean– or the fact that she's from a former colony of England's, the reader of Jane Eyre knows little about her aside from the eerie pall she casts over Mr. Rochester's estate, and that she eventually escapes from the oversight of Grace Poole, who is charged with watching her, burns the Rochester house down and commits suicide, enabling him to marry Jane. In Rhys' work, we see Antoinette as she grows up and what happens when she marries Mr. Rochester and they live for a time in the West Indies. When he rejects her identity, her homeland, is when she descends into madness. It's a gorgeous work.
Obviously there's much more to the novel, but I digress. There's a memoir called I Don't Care About Your Band by Julie Klausner and it's tons of fun to read. Not only did I find myself cringing at more than one of her anecdotes from the sheer fact of having been in her shoes (if not with the same type of man), but it's written in a way so as not to elicit too much guilt from the missteps some of us less-fortunate-in-love ladies make over and over...and over and over again. The only aspect I couldn't seem to get past was socioeconomic. Well, and familial. Early in the book she talks about two kinds of women who have chronic relationship and intimacy issues with men: the kind for whom Daddy was never around and who have taken to a pole for therapy, and those for whom the men will never ever live up to the man, the myth, the legend that is Daddy, but that's okay, because they'll always have Daddy to run and be comforted by.
Now, I most certainly never had Daddy to run back to, but I am definitely not prancing naked around a pole, either. In fact, I've taken pole-dancing classes at my gym and the whole situation is quite disconcerting for me. Then again, statistically I should have two or three children by now and no significant other in sight, also, and I managed to avoid that altogether, as well. The other difference between the author and myself has to do with her seemingly endless cashflow, whereas I'm pretty much always broke. Then again, that could have been a literary vehicle to allow her to focus on the insane situations she'd find herself in with men of questionable...everything. In any case (before the digression sneaks in again) for those of us who tend to make facepalm-worthy decisions about the guys we take home, this book is that friend you always wanted to tell you that no, you're not a complete idiot and the personification of scandal, because someone else has done it, too, and in some cases, done it much much worse. And that you shouldn't feel guilty about it. That's key: forget the guilt.
I wonder if her parents read it. I mean, it wasn't at all rough for me to read, because like I said there was that whole "identification" factor, but I can't imagine writing my version and sending a copy to my parents. Or even letting them know it existed. Sweet Jesus, NO.
Perhaps because I need some cleansing of the soul the book I decided to open after I finished I Don't Care About Your Band (I wonder what it says about me and my job that I keep typing "bank" in place of "band") was A Jesuit Off-Broadway by James Martin, SJ, or Father Jim as I know him from working at The Public. Father Jim wrote it after working as a theological advisor and, later, chaplain to the writer, director and cast of my favorite play, The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. It's a fair dose of history about first-century Palestine and what is known of the lives of Jesus and the Apostles, along with some anthropological speculation of other details based on evidence found in the Bible. All of that is interspersed with conversations, observations and interactions with the members of that run of Judas. I'm about halfway through and don't want to stop. I hope the copy of Judas I ordered gets here this week so I can read them in tandem; from the few excerpts I've read so far I can still hear them in my head as the cast would say them. A rare compliment from me about NYC: that show is one of my favorite parts about this city.
Friday, March 26, 2010
I Wish Those Days Didn't Stop
It's hard crawling out of the cave after the cold winter. It usually means looking at my skin in the sunlight and flinching at just how translucent the covering has become. It means stepping outside of my house tentatively in the morning, hoping the warmth won't be subverted by gusting winds or trampled by a late-day cold front. But Spring eventually passes through the party, and after her, that skanky cousin Summer. It's for that skanky friend Summer that I need to ramp up my efforts at, well, everything.
With Spring also returns my creativity. Perhaps it's the preservatives that nestle in Domino's pizzas that are so warm and such expert cuddlers during blizzards that have siphoned off the fancy turns of phrase and interesting choices in diction that I'm so used to.
In any case, I'm ready to write, again. I'm bursting forth from my fat cocoon an unwieldy butterfly. Oh! And thank God, this means I'm reading again! Some exciting books:
Flapper (I forget the rest of the title and the author).
A Member of the Wedding- Carson McCullers
Wide Sargasso Sea- Jean Rhys
The Book of Basketball- Bill Simmons
Of course the last one is carried on from last fall, but it's over 700 pages, with footnotes, and it's all about basketball. Of course it's going to take me longer to absorb! Wide Sargasso Sea is like a glass of cold water on a hot day- I can't seem to put it down. Member of the Wedding has reminded me of McCullers' genius. Next up are the poets and authors under Write Bloody's imprint and probably some more Stephen Adly Guirgis plays. I need to get his 3-title collection again. I gave it to a man once who asked for a good book recommendation and never saw it (or him) again. Lessons learned. I'll probably add a copy of The Last Days of Judas Iscariot to that order, as well.
I want a tattoo. Or two. Two tattoos. Before I'm 25 I'd like etched behind my left shoulder, in two perfect circles (one inside the other) "the sunrise is just over that hill" and "the worst is over." On my right wrist, the Virgo sign. I'd also like dark purple streaks through my black hair. And then, for the next couple of years at least, I should be less restless than I have been. Similar to spring cleaning one's home, I'm due for a changeup as this past winter was a particularly rough one; it gets quite exhausting trying to figure out why some people are brought into your life and why others continue to reappear. Perhaps this is one of those things that should be given up to God, but I dwell by nature so I can give it away all I want- I'm still going to work the idea like a Rubik's cube, or a piece of food stuck between two tight back bicuspids, until the most logical solution pops into my head one day. Meanwhile, I've got images in my head that refuse to vacate and which refuse to be evicted, but won't marry words so I'm left with snippets like the one below. As usual, feedback is always welcome. Hearts and puppies, loves. Enjoy.
My love, baby?
My love
is an earthquakeavalanchehurricane.
A soundtrack comprised
of artists you'd
never dream
could sound good together.
My love is heady
and nauseating
and
completely inescapable.
With Spring also returns my creativity. Perhaps it's the preservatives that nestle in Domino's pizzas that are so warm and such expert cuddlers during blizzards that have siphoned off the fancy turns of phrase and interesting choices in diction that I'm so used to.
In any case, I'm ready to write, again. I'm bursting forth from my fat cocoon an unwieldy butterfly. Oh! And thank God, this means I'm reading again! Some exciting books:
Flapper (I forget the rest of the title and the author).
A Member of the Wedding- Carson McCullers
Wide Sargasso Sea- Jean Rhys
The Book of Basketball- Bill Simmons
Of course the last one is carried on from last fall, but it's over 700 pages, with footnotes, and it's all about basketball. Of course it's going to take me longer to absorb! Wide Sargasso Sea is like a glass of cold water on a hot day- I can't seem to put it down. Member of the Wedding has reminded me of McCullers' genius. Next up are the poets and authors under Write Bloody's imprint and probably some more Stephen Adly Guirgis plays. I need to get his 3-title collection again. I gave it to a man once who asked for a good book recommendation and never saw it (or him) again. Lessons learned. I'll probably add a copy of The Last Days of Judas Iscariot to that order, as well.
I want a tattoo. Or two. Two tattoos. Before I'm 25 I'd like etched behind my left shoulder, in two perfect circles (one inside the other) "the sunrise is just over that hill" and "the worst is over." On my right wrist, the Virgo sign. I'd also like dark purple streaks through my black hair. And then, for the next couple of years at least, I should be less restless than I have been. Similar to spring cleaning one's home, I'm due for a changeup as this past winter was a particularly rough one; it gets quite exhausting trying to figure out why some people are brought into your life and why others continue to reappear. Perhaps this is one of those things that should be given up to God, but I dwell by nature so I can give it away all I want- I'm still going to work the idea like a Rubik's cube, or a piece of food stuck between two tight back bicuspids, until the most logical solution pops into my head one day. Meanwhile, I've got images in my head that refuse to vacate and which refuse to be evicted, but won't marry words so I'm left with snippets like the one below. As usual, feedback is always welcome. Hearts and puppies, loves. Enjoy.
My love, baby?
My love
is an earthquakeavalanchehurricane.
A soundtrack comprised
of artists you'd
never dream
could sound good together.
My love is heady
and nauseating
and
completely inescapable.
Sunday, March 7, 2010
You're My...
He has been in Mexico for almost three weeks. The first week was the most difficult, as even through the most hellish times, he is here. Even if he doesn't come to bed, but stays up all night watching TV, or falls asleep on the couch, he's here. But for the last three weeks, he's been in Mexico. I haven't been fearful for him or anything like that, probably because there has been a dearth of bad news coming from south of the border for a short time now. There were a couple of people in his family who had encounters with less-than-savory characters, but on the whole there's not been a whole lot of worrisome activity.
It's just... we have some things in limbo. Well, we are in limbo. For him to have been gone this long puts major things in perspective, but it also puts them on hold. Limbo sucks; there's a reason Benedict did away with it. ... So the official Papal decree probably didn't say "nix Limbo because it sucks," but I'm sure that was the word Benny used and he just had his handlers clean up the language a bit.
At least I have new responsibilities and the promotion at work to help keep my wits about me; I can only fall apart after 6 pm and by that time I'm so tired, and so used to the quiet, that it doesn't make much sense anyway.
What's that new slogan that has been seeping through the cracks in my life? Right.
Keep calm and carry on.
It's just... we have some things in limbo. Well, we are in limbo. For him to have been gone this long puts major things in perspective, but it also puts them on hold. Limbo sucks; there's a reason Benedict did away with it. ... So the official Papal decree probably didn't say "nix Limbo because it sucks," but I'm sure that was the word Benny used and he just had his handlers clean up the language a bit.
At least I have new responsibilities and the promotion at work to help keep my wits about me; I can only fall apart after 6 pm and by that time I'm so tired, and so used to the quiet, that it doesn't make much sense anyway.
What's that new slogan that has been seeping through the cracks in my life? Right.
Keep calm and carry on.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A Long, Long Time
January and February were exclusive hells unto their own, and that is all I have to say on that matter for the moment.
March has begun with some sun, and sun makes me optimistic! I like the outdoors, as long as I don't have to sleep in it, and sun is especially good for my brain function.
Which leads me to:
Something I've never been very good at is saying goodbye. To anything. Houses, friends, towns, exes, lovers, body fat... I get so comfortable with the special rhythm of "stability" I tend to create (or go along with) in situations I get into that I'm loathe to change them. That resistance to change is probably the only way in which I resemble a member of the GOP, come to think of it.
Anyway, saying goodbye. Even people who've passed on I keep in my head and speak to sometimes. I suppose at the end of the day it helps me to not feel so alone, which is a perpetual thing. Literally, bone-chillingly alone. To quote Sanchez "loneliness won't leave me alone."
So instead, these people are always with me. After we've left work for the night and are on our respective trains or in our respective houses, they're on my mind. I have conversations with them through email or text message and I craft further dialogue in my head revolving around situations we'd never find ourselves in. Perhaps loneliness is my greatest inspiration, because I have to create someone or something to stave off that hollow quiet that pervades every inch of the rooms I occupy.
I told a friend of mine about how I carry people with me inside my head, little miniatures of friends of mine (it was a coping mechanism I developed as an only child!) and he told me that sounded psychotic. Cool, but psychotic. Can't say I blame him. But if there was ever any reason I was a good writer, it's this ability I have to see and hear the people I know and love on this great stage in my brain and manipulate it to no end.
That stage is the vehicle by which I can say goodbye. The one place I can make a farewell fully on my terms, however symbolically those terms might occur. There are a ton of loose ends to tie up, and even if these stories never see the light of day, I'm suddenly inspired to knot them into little balls and be rid of them once and for all.
Today has been a good day and there are tons of ideas floating through my mind. I want to run and bake and do pilates and plan trips to everywhere. But most of all, most important of all, I want to write.
March has begun with some sun, and sun makes me optimistic! I like the outdoors, as long as I don't have to sleep in it, and sun is especially good for my brain function.
Which leads me to:
Something I've never been very good at is saying goodbye. To anything. Houses, friends, towns, exes, lovers, body fat... I get so comfortable with the special rhythm of "stability" I tend to create (or go along with) in situations I get into that I'm loathe to change them. That resistance to change is probably the only way in which I resemble a member of the GOP, come to think of it.
Anyway, saying goodbye. Even people who've passed on I keep in my head and speak to sometimes. I suppose at the end of the day it helps me to not feel so alone, which is a perpetual thing. Literally, bone-chillingly alone. To quote Sanchez "loneliness won't leave me alone."
So instead, these people are always with me. After we've left work for the night and are on our respective trains or in our respective houses, they're on my mind. I have conversations with them through email or text message and I craft further dialogue in my head revolving around situations we'd never find ourselves in. Perhaps loneliness is my greatest inspiration, because I have to create someone or something to stave off that hollow quiet that pervades every inch of the rooms I occupy.
I told a friend of mine about how I carry people with me inside my head, little miniatures of friends of mine (it was a coping mechanism I developed as an only child!) and he told me that sounded psychotic. Cool, but psychotic. Can't say I blame him. But if there was ever any reason I was a good writer, it's this ability I have to see and hear the people I know and love on this great stage in my brain and manipulate it to no end.
That stage is the vehicle by which I can say goodbye. The one place I can make a farewell fully on my terms, however symbolically those terms might occur. There are a ton of loose ends to tie up, and even if these stories never see the light of day, I'm suddenly inspired to knot them into little balls and be rid of them once and for all.
Today has been a good day and there are tons of ideas floating through my mind. I want to run and bake and do pilates and plan trips to everywhere. But most of all, most important of all, I want to write.
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