Woman Of This City

That is the gayest title for a blog ever - sorry.  It’s honest though.  One of my courses (I’m back in academia once again) is called “Writing New York”.  We read Luc Sante, Whitman, Chester Hines, and more.  What is so wonderful about this course is that it allows me to compare all of my experiences and perceptions with those other writers.  Finding similarities in these writers’ stories with my own life here is like finding a friend, like finding a fellow drinker at the bar who just had the same day you just had.

I’ve never been so ready to delve into a class.  A wonderful part is that it seems I’ve been taking this class, on my own for years. I’ve always been fascinated with NYC’s history, it’s people, it’s men, it’s buildings, it’s intensity, it’s sickness. 

I build my own bridges as I walk on the bridges of this city.  New York builds me up, and it shits me out and it breaks me down and builds a bank in my stead.  Why woman of the city as a particular theme?  Well I’m not trying to be a Sex and the City retard here - but there is something different about being a female New Yorker.  First of all, there aren’t too many women who have actually written about New York. There is not one book I’m reading in class that is written by a woman, although there are some poems and essays within the anthologies we have.

I vie today to become a female New York City writer.  I know there are others, but not enough in my opinion…and far too few who aren’t named Candice Bushnell or Lauren Weisberger (google them if you don’t know who they are).  I want to write about New York the real way, the multi-cultural, multi-class, multi-psychosis way that happens to you and to others by being here.  I want to show people that this city can make a woman offended by a disgusting cat call and lifted up to the status of a CEO in the same day.  That my smiles are few and far between on a general walk around the block, but dazzle in the midst of friends, and when I have lived out a fantasy that you can only have in this city.

I’ll leave you with all with a poem:

I’m sorry e.e. cummings, but I’ve stepped in on your verbiage

Like stone masons I haul rocks around my neighborhood waiting for something to take it away -

Locked I can’t go into the twenty-four hour superette when all I wanted was some stupid wrapped cake to ease my sugar needs

Shamed and defeated by such base human need I yearn for primal and rational to fuse more.

Don’t want my need to shit to conflict with my important documents. 

Instead I’ll hold it in until Happy Hour so I can be care-free.

Soda Water

Ok so I’m not going to say anything about soda water in this post. I just wanted to get your attention, and I KNOW nothing else but something as exciting as bubble H2O can elicit interest in my blog.  ??? Sorry.

No, but I am on vacation so needless to say the neurons are on it as well.

I must utter that things have been a bit bumpy lately, people letting me down, and usually I don’t allow myself to get let down. No one should, but sometimes it just happens.  Luckily for me I am with an extraordinary friend who lets me forget this bullshit.

Still however, I have a faint tickle of disappointment over a few things that of course may slap me on the ass the second I get back to NYC.  I must hope that I can have the courage to wash away that crap while I’m here in the wilderness and on the beach and eating delicious seafood.

Beach + flora + seafood = Forgetting and conquering?  I think it may happen.  As i write these very words, I’m already working on a relaxation plan of attack. (Because relaxation and attack are usually thought of together, right?) Goddammit though, I’m going to relax the fuck out of myself so that when I get back to the city I’m so fucking relaxed that I can conquer this horseshit!!!!!!!!

Wow. I’m um…not the best vacationer in the world - definitely something I need to work on so help me Lord.  Ok I’m going to get off the internet now and lie down and force myself to have vacation.

Fucking vacation.

Going Forward

The term “going forward” makes me want to vomit.  When people say (namely, my boss) for example, “I would like you to start chronicling emails this or that way going forward”, I want to rip out the dividing wall from my cubicle out and throw it across the room like a discus.

My life does not have that idealogy in it. I do not examine the things in my life that I do too much of or too little of and try to rectify it “going forward”.  Instead, I get incredibly stuck with the notion that I have the inability to do anything.  I reject ”going forward” and sink into “going bonkers”.

“Going bonkers” is much more interesting to me.  Not in the sense that it is cool to be crazy. It’s funny to talk about being crazy perhaps, but that is not my intent. I am bonafide bonkers, not putting it on for some (3 people only probably) who read this on the internet.

My point is….uh…my point is….um….

I guess I’m just saying that for me - the idea of “going forward” doesn’t apply to the way I go about things.  If I’m working on self-improvement, it is a wild disaster that goes very much backwards before going even a milimeter forwards.  Then sometimes when it is very present, I put it on pause or put it off somewhere to the side so it can be sufficiently repressed or ignored.

I shall now go nowhere at the moment, and I’m okay with that. I can’t do anything if I don’t really want to.

Choices make me cry.

The choices that I’ve made in my almost 27 years of living on this retarded planet have really fucked me.  I’m not blaming anyone but myself and the gay-ass chemicals in my brain.  The chemicals coerce me into doing really stupid things, and similarly, NOT doing smart things.

I ultimately have the choice, the final word in the fireside chats with my chemicals. 

One day I remember fondly, my neurons were misfiring like usual and so I scheduled a quick touchbase to figure out a solution, or at least listen to their suggestions.

We met at a local nook on the couch (where I have my usual anxiety attacks) and started going over what we needed to do going forward.  They suggested I forget about the interesting book I wanted to read or the creative writing I wanted to do and instead stare at the floor and cry hopelessly.  I asked them how the fuck this would improve my life and they of course proceeded to explain that I was a hell of a crazy gal anyway so I should just try to wallow.  This still not making sense, I got up and paced restlessly.  The fuckers made me antsy right after having been banished to non-movement with tears on the couch!  Now I’m antsy because I just cannot figure out what my damn neurons and hormones are doing.  I finally said that I needed to re-schedule for a follow-up touch base with some more research on their part.  They sighed, but said that in the meantime they suggest an off-site conference either in a bar or with enablers.  SCREW YOU GUYS! I do NOT have time for that.  But the way I feel after that unproductive meeting, I know it’s the only solution I have.

I decided to circle back with them after my damaging off-site, so I sent out an urgent meeting request.  I couldn’t quite get good reception on the polycom, but I managed to pick up a few snippets. They told me that after some research they concluded that they were wrong about sending me to the offsite afterall.  The CIO of my chemicals, seratonin, stepped in for an impromptu aside as he had some enlightening news about all of this.  He said that I made the wrong decision and that he would round up the folks and have a town hall to explain what happened and how they can do better in the future.  As soon as the CIO left, however, some of the neurons came up to me and said that I should feel really badly about making the wrong decision and not to worry about being pro-active. I was pissed and knew this was bullshit, but my hormones and the other fuckheads didn’t want to allow me to become proactive. 

So I came full circle, and realized I should hire some consultants to come in and maybe fix these operational glitches that are going on in my head.  One consultant I contacted to come in for a preliminary round table was a company called Positive Thinking Inc.

What the?

Ok - I am feeling very bizarre as of late…I feel as though I’ve lost friends for certain reasons I don’t care to disclose at this time.  But I cannot stand it. I know I am better off than when I was 20-22 years old when being alone was status quo for me. 

I was living in Brooklyn with a great gay couple, but most of my friends from acting school either moved to LA or back to their home towns.  The few that stayed in the city like me were up in Harlem and it was tough with all of us being dead poor to do much socializing besides sitting in our tiny holes of apartments.  I still saw my two favorite gals once every two weeks at LEAST, but we were all so busy busting our balls to get acting work while waitressing at 2 or more gigs to do more together - especially when all of us are on totally wacky un-planned schedules!

I used to drink far too often than I do now (probably still do too much but that’s another entry).  In Belgium where I lived from junior high through high school, going to a bar/cafe alone was incredibly normal and standard even for a woman.  Most bars in Europe also have espresso machines and at least some type of menu for snacking, so even if you didn’t want to drink, your friends still could and you would be perfectly happy with your tasty coffee and croque monsieur.  Here it’s different though. I still would go to bars (happy if I found one with coffee so I didn’t HAVE to drink), but still feeling people were looking at me as cheap whore looking to grab some local alcoholic (sounds tempting I know!)  To most men a woman alone means she wants to get laid.   Really it was about  having company to talk to when I couldn’t hang out with my girlfriends.  In the summer I would be in there even more because my apartment was unbearable.  Air conditioned bars became my living room. I would bring my novel, my New Yorker, and my journal and be content to stay there until I could go home and just pass out.  Of course being so young, men who come up to you and flirt and charm, even though I wasn’t a dumb ass, sometimes would give in to their musings out of sadness of feeling unwanted and alone.  Why wouldn’t I go to say a dance class, or a pottery class? I think because I tried to create a Europe in NYC, and was definitely a depressed young artist who tried to have creative epiphanies the way many of our great artists have done.  Ah the early years of th 00’s were a sad one for the old me.

I wouldn’t say I’ve reverted there at ALL, as I haven’t been to bars alone yet again. I have a lot of friends still, but in some ways I feel friends are disappearing, and for nothing that is really in my control. I don’t want to go back to that horribly lonely confusing time, where I searched for meaning in beer.  I want to be the new me, who is not necessarily stable or “better” but has more self-power than before.  I have to remember that I’m not alone, even if I lose friends.  Because if I lose friends due to  their biases then they probably shouldn’t have been counted as a friend in the first place. (I know this is so cliche but aren’t I always?).

I know now that I am a good and loving person. I still feel much alone and confused but I also believe that the love I put out will give me the love I want.  Let’s just hope I don’t decide to destroy myself because of the pain in the meantime.

I am inadequate

MY SISTER JUST GRADUATED FROM MEDICAL SCHOOL WITH TOP HONORS. I AM A SECRETARY WITH NEUROSES. THAT’S ALL I NEED TO SAY.

Little Pleasures vs. Great Fulfillment

I have always pondered the idea of fulfillment for human beings.  On one hand we all have different ideas of what it means to be fulfilled, but at the same time I feel like it is a smorgasbord of different things rather than one main goal.  I somehow cannot believe that the lady who has 5 kids but never had a career is completely 100% fulfilled, but that’s me. There is a chance she may be.  Is it enough that she feels fulfilled from raising her 5 children, either represses the dream of career fulfillment aside from child rearing, or does she consider her work enough?  I probably don’t know what the hell I’m talking about.  In fact I know I don’t know what the hell I’m saying because I’m dead tired, bit hallucinatory and dizzy. Ahem…anyway though. Getting back to my weak analysis of God knows what it is I wanted to address.  Oh yeah.  I guess fulfillment is the ability to apply your intellect and values together in a way that gives you a sense of pride and confidence and goal-meeting.  For someone with clinical depression however, the glow of “happiness” begotten from a triumphant feat, is very short-lived. It is not permanent for “normal” people either, but I think that the idea does linger more.  For us it is a joke.  I “accomplish” something (whatever the fuck that means as I never think I accomplish shit) and I just go right back to wondering whether I will be fulfilled tomorrow or not. 

Small pleasures however, the trivialities in the daily swing of life, keep me from beer bonging lighter fluid.  The idea of a beautiful reading chair that is arriving on Saturday is keeping me very happy at the moment.  The idea of my new red microwave is also fun.  I also love the time between the subway and the cafe where I am not eager to go to work, but very eager to get my coffee (and sometimes on Fridays a fatty pastry!!).  And of course, to be the cheesiest idiot alive, I simply adore my friends (my family is on the top, but that’s just too obvious).  I have some of the loveliest girlfriends around.  I don’t have loads of girfriends, only about a handful, but they are MORE than enough because of their spirit and love for me.  And I laugh at them because they are freaking hilarious, and they in turn ALSO laugh at me, so it’s like double fun everytime.  So, somehow, even within my terminal depressive brain, I am able to ignore the fact that I am a failure with no future who could have been a more successful artist and probably happier in the great sense. 

Ok, I can’t really ignore it. It haunts me and the need for that kind of fulfillment makes me weep with regret and frustration.  But in the meantime, I can count on coffees and furniture and books and friends to let me at least allow me to ignore that vague idea of needing great fulfillment.

It’s May

Ok it is May and I haven’t written a post in a month.  That is ok by me though because I have turned over a new leaf. HAHAHAHA. No I haven’t.  I’m still the same old trudger.  Still trying to find out what the hell I did to ensure that I never succeed the way I wanted to.  The good news is I am getting an A in my class so far.  Some more good news is that I am performing tonight. It is just a small skit, but I thought of it, I wrote it, and I am doing it.  This does feel good. I must say.  The only thing that saddens me is that I know it will end soon.  My last class is Thursday, and after that I have a “summer off”.  Ok, it means I have work still but no other prospects.  I hope that without school I can do more performing, but knowing me, I will cower and cry instead…

I am incredibly anxious today for some reason however.  I don’t know if it’s the practically 8 pints of coffee that I’ve shoved down my gullet, or the jimmies from nervousness about my performance.  Either way - it’s not feeling so hot.  My shoulders are incredibly tensed.  Ok now this blog is turning into a complaint board in the style of a rickity old lady. But if that’s what I’ve become then so be it.

I am ready to fully embrace my new rickity-old-lady persona and dedicate this blog to complaints that only consist of: Weather, Aches, Expensive Prescriptions.

Inspiration Nation

It is hard to be inspired to write on this blog.  It’s not breaking any barriers or bringing grown men to tears.  Neither is it healing broken hearts and stimulating stagnant minds.  It’s not that I want men to cry after they read my blog really, but I’ll take it.  It’d be cool to see a tough frat guy collapse in a heap and tremble with adoration.  Ok, this is becoming creepy.  I don’t want to act like Jesus.  It’s just that I never know if I’ll ever be able to touch the lives of others.  I don’t really want to change their lives or make them abandon their homes to live in a commune and drink purple kool-aid while doing exercises.  Basically, there is some sort of need for the exchange that comes with artist and spectator. Could it be validation?  Could it be the need for endless attention that comes with exceedingly low self-esteem and disgust with one’s face and every mirror in their house is broken from smashing it drunkenly while calling themself failure over and over again?  Sure.  Those could both be it.

Point is man is that there is a need for art like the need for food - I’m burning with the need and my nerve filled stomach is always on the brink of eruption. 

The feeling of being touched by someone’s art is always fleeting (even with music sometimes we tire of a tune we once died for), but I have faith that even though the initial jolt passes, it forever becomes part of someone’s (short) life experience.  I just want to be able to touch someone positively in that way.

Back to Smack

No I am not doing heroin.  But that would probably be nice right now.  I have never tried it, but i’m sure even it’s withdrawl beats this sick mess I’m in.  I have a bang up job of a body and a beat up engine of a brain. And apparently car metaphors have now become my literary tool.

Not sure if this is called a coincidence or if it is just the fact that sociology DOES make you think about your own position in life, but, the material i have been reading lately is like the story of my development.  Of course I was brought up in a micro-version of capitalist development.  My parents both extremely poor at the onset of my conception, but their extremely diligent work ethic along with astounding intelligence allowed them both to succeed and eventually provide us with a very comfortable life.  My father was an incredibly talented painter as a young man.  I have seen these paintings, and have shed tears upon seeing their beauty.  He didn’t want pursue this however, which is fine.  He wanted to work with money, but still to this day I wonder if he really wanted to be a painter. If you work your ass off according to the rules, you get by the world.  It is a common theme I have pondered throughout my adult life.  Would I have been happier in a small society, a tribal setting?  Of course this is ludicrous to ponder on some levels because if I was in a tribe, chances are I wouldn’t crave a western upbringing if it didn’t really hold much meaning to me.  I suppose what I am trying to say is that, by the time I am on my third book for the class I am taking, we will be studying Emile Durkheim’s Suicide a direct result of capitalism on many people.  I have gone through the early analytical works about Capitalism and am soon to reach the study where we see the people of capitalist nations off themselves because of how insane the society has made them.

I must admit that I am among this crowd of unhappy capitalists.  I am unhappy in this society.  I am unhappy that because the failings of my mental health have resulted in complete inability to succeed the way I wanted to.  That I must walk the walk in order to even live comfortably, ie. If I studied banking (I have the smarts for it), I could have a nice 2 bedroom apartment on the Upper West Side.  That I must forego my art because I couldn’t navigate my way into the elite art world where you actually get paid for it (A very small exclusive world).  Instead I mosey along, unaccomplished, heartbroken, and feeling wasteful of my talents.  Instead of living my dream, I live in pergatory.  My father’s talent for painting (he also has a talent for languages) makes me wish that he’d pursued a more artistic way of life.  But then I remember, that he didn’t have the same anguish attached to his art, he didn’t feel the need for his art to touch people, or to mean more than just a picture in a sketch book, not a way to live.  For him art was just a thing he did, but it certainly could never give him money for his childrens’ college education. 

Here a poem:

I am a Yankee
Born bold and ready to be

More than something underneath a stone -
But only enough to carry some genetic features

Locked away among the dust of the family paintings
I look through the window of the attic at the maples

Through foggy scratched glass with dead gnats and webs in corners.
The view is all I get.