Words from my father

"If a couple gets married," My father suddenly says, "and the woman likes the man more, it won't last long."

I blink.

"But if a couple gets married, and the man likes the woman more, then it will last forever."

I pause from my reading. I tuck a placeholder into my memory and look up at him. "Why?" I ask, not bothering to figure out what led to this rare slip of thought. He was watching TV and I was on the computer when he shit this wet thought out of nowhere. My mind starts racing, and I try to push the movement aside so that I may hear him clearer.

"Well. Okay. Let's say, I liked your mother--" sssssst, ouch --"...then I would be doing things for her, right? Maybe going out of my way, maybe something already in my way, but I'd be offering myself somehow. For her, to make her life a little easier, because I wanted to, or because I care for her." I nod.

"But in the situation where the woman likes the man, then she would be doing things for him all the time, and he--" (pats his own chest. Hmph) "--would be very comfortable and content. Right?"

I lift a brow. I nod.

"And should she ask him to do something, like 'baby, I had a long day, there's a lot of dishes in the sink, could you please do them for me?' Then what would the guy say? He would say, 'Psht, that's a woman's job. You do it.' And it would turn into a fight, and she would do them anyway, because it's either do them or argue until the sun comes up.

"The guy, if he liked the woman, would just try harder to maintain the relationship. And that, in the end, is what keeps the relationship strong. If the woman liked the guy, he would take her, take what she has, and leave when something better comes along."

I laugh. "Does 'something better' mean 'a woman who doesn't like him'?"

He flicks his head to the side. "If the woman liked the man more, he'd just lay back and be content with her until he finds someone that makes him want to try. And then he will leave her. That's just the way it goes."

I sneer. But I think I sneer because I see its truth. I hate hearing it. I hate having to acknowledge the validity of it.

"Look, when you find a boyfriend, just make sure that he likes you more, and make sure that you don't like him. It's not gonna work unless the guy really wants to make you happy. And that can only happen if he loves you more."

He explained what I already knew, but have thus far avoided when dealing with people I actually wanted to be with: "If a man comes up to you and wants to spend time with you, you have to give him a little and take it away. Say no once in a while. Keep him chasing after you. Keep him coming to you. If you drag him, he will break away and leave. If you always agree to spend time with him, then he'll know he doesn't have to try anymore. Soon he'll stop asking you to hang out unless he has nothing better to do."

I stare steadily at him. "Hm."

"If you keep offering to pay for this and pay for that, then soon you will be paying for everything. And him?" He raises his hands in the air, dusts them off. "He will save his money. And he will spend it all, ALL, on a woman who tells him no."

"Hm." I say again. I'm really thinking about this now. I open my mouth to respond, but he goes back to watching TV. His random and rare profound moment has passed. I turn to my keyboard, and just kind of stare at the screen for a while.

This is advice I've heard from all shapes, sizes, ages and sexes -- I even wrote a few frustrated blogs about it before -- but coming from my father, it was damn unsettling.

I don't want to take this often repeated "rule" to heart because I feel -- or hope -- that I could somehow outsmart this system. But as much as I'd like to chalk these experiences up to simple under-30-bitchassness, I look around and above and beyond me, and feel that I must reluctantly agree. Ugh.

I imagine myself married to the first person I truly felt in 'love' with (you know, the kind of love with bitter quotation marks around it, the aftermath of retrospect) -- and I grimace. I see a situation similar to my own parents, who no doubt cemented a whirlwind romance, and when the dust settled they found themselves trapped on two completely different planes. Without going into too much detail, I will just say that yes, it is plainly a situation where my mother loves him more than he loves her. And no, it was not a marriage that should have lasted this long. Needless to say, I was in the same boat.

I know that it is possible to find, with a clear head, someone who you can share a mutual kind of ^_^ with. but what is constantly thrown in front of me, as an early-twenty-something year old in an instant love-em-and-leave-em city, is that it is very rare a relationship can be successful without the woman holding the nuts in her hand. So to speak. If she lays down for him, then she gets runneth over.

My longest and "most successful" relationships have been in scenarios where I was either unwilling, or too afraid, to give much of me to my partner. And yes, whether it was because I didn't see a future with them, or was too jaded by my past to give them an inch, they sure as hell worked for that mile.

When I finally came around to touching my fears and working over them, I was stunned to see myself on the other side, losing those I wanted when I refused play the game. (Believe what you will, I'm just not good at it.)

I ask again: Why play with someone who you do want to be with? Even if all the evidence is there, saying that it's the right thing to do. Why should I accept it? It goes against my... er.. 'emotional logic.' (Ha!) I still insist on scoffing and saying, well maybe I don't WANT to be with someone who I have to play those kinds of games with!

But, is it truly inevitable? Must one learn how to play to stay?

Sigh. I think the moral of his, and all the other similar stories, was: A relationship is only as good as the amount of effort the man puts into it.

Could this be a universal truth of society? Or is it merely a generalization, reinforced by the majority of the world we live in?

Sure, it may be the woman who accepts the relationship (ie, the courting process), but perhaps it is the man who ultimately decides its future.

(And, if this were indeed the case, then perhaps the men of the world should not be so embittered toward the women who have learned to play the game well.)

You're so beautiful.

I've never been moved to tears so strongly by an election before. I fell to my knees in front of the screen and damn near shook when he was announced. Fuck it all, I'll say it: I cried for two hours straight that night. And still, today, I'm easily weepy.

"You will always remember exactly where you were the moment 9/11 happened." I can bet you a million anything that we will forever remember exactly what we were doing, who we were with, and how we were feeling when it was officially decided that he will be our 44th president.



For the first time in my life, I can say with complete honesty that I fiercely love the head of our country. That I am proud to be an American. That I want to be loyal to our president. I've learned more about politics this year than I've ever learned in my life. I want to be involved, I want to help. He can, he did. He will.

I have so much hope, I don't even know what to do with it! I've never felt it this hard before. Shit, I've never allowed myself to!!!

Growing up, I've always, always been told "No, we can't." It was a fact of life, we were simply never able to. We were always struggling. We never could. Sacrifices were made on the things most people took for granted, because we just couldn't afford them: Birthday parties. Allowance. School trips. All my proms. Regular check-ups. Health insurance. Graduation presents. The schools I wanted to try for.

I've always had to let go of hope, so that I could be happy with my reality. Up until now, I never let myself feel it. Up until now, I feared it...

And now, finally, it feels like I can let that go.

Now... Yes, I Can.

Dude. This is... like. Intensely overwhelming.

*Exhales*

Happy election day everybody. You have no idea how much this means to people.

I'm so sad.

I found this umbrella in our stairway, and I've been using it for a little while now. The day I found it, I literally fell in love with it. It made my heart smile every time I was under it, and the rain became an incredibly enjoyable experience. Everything was romantic. Everything.

I know I'm making a big deal about an umbrella, but I don't think you understand.

I loved going out in the rain under that thing. I've only used it about 3 or 4 times, but each time, I was incredibly, inexplicably happy. I swear to God it was like being in love for the first time. I didn't even realize the euphoria was there. I didn't even notice a lack of gloom. I just know that it made the air around me lighter.

It was a big umbrella, not one of those dolty totes; it had a curved handle, like a cane, and opened up smoothly. It was big and light and lavender (purple's my favorite color), and it had Gouguereau's First Kiss (from the elbows up) around the edges in the most, perfect, complimenting, serene pattern.



Today, I was walking around Greenwhich village -- in itself an incredibly beautiful area. I was wide eyed and light-hearted, I had a tough start to the day (at an ungodly hour nonetheless), but it was ending beautifully. I had just finished seeing Banksy's exhibit in New York (if you don't know who he is... gasp! Google him, please), and was topping it off by getting deliciously lost in the west village with a friend who didn't mind walking aimlessly in the rain with me. I was smiling, I was taking pictures of flowers and wet red leaves, I was awed by windows and wide wooden doorways and the secret gardens that threaded the neighborhood. I was delighted when I saw a couple on a Vespa turn the corner of a small, intimate, cobblestoned street with red brick buildings, white trimmed windows and bright green vines. I struggled against the wind to take a picture of them at a stoplight, the beauty its backdrop, but I missed the opportunity. We picked a direction to turn and I rounded a corner to see the Hudson River; I got really excited. It was the pier, gray and gloomy, but I wanted to stop by before we got on the train.

We began walking towards it, and the wind picked up. Fast. The rain intensified. And suddenly, a huge gust left my umbrella in an upside-down J shape. I stared at it, open-mouthed. Literally, it died. And I swear, no joke, at that exact second, my happy mood died with it.

It was completely unsalvageable. Dead. Broken. It punched me in the forehead before it flipped over and died. I had no words. I had to throw it out. It was so hard, but I laughed at my sadness over an umbrella and left it next to a corner garbage can on Bleecker street.

I'm so sad. I thought I'd be able to come home and find another one online. We continued walking in the now-light drizzle (Jesus had his fun), and I don't know. The rain, even in Greenwhich village, had lost its appeal. I was silent for a while, and I remarked that I suddenly didn't like the rain anymore. It wasn't as fun walking around without the umbrella. I let my hair get drenched, I didn't mind so much; I kissed my friend goodbye and went home.

I thought I'd be able to find it if I searched hard enough. When I went online, I couldn't find a damn thing. Not one thing. I began to panic. I asked my father where we got the umbrella. He told me that Grandma and Grandpa had brought it to America with them from Korea. He said that it was over 15 years old, and they didn't even make it anymore.

Oh god. I'm so sad. You don't understand.

I knew I should have brought it home, I knew I could have gotten it fixed or at least held on to the top or something, I could have but I didn't, and I just left it there. I left it there even though something in me tugged at my hands really hard and told me not to. There was no reason to keep it. I let logic win this once. And now I'm never gonna see it again. Grandma and Grandpa, man. I didn't know. I had no idea. Maybe it was the love that was felt under that umbrella 15 years ago that my soul recognized and lifted towards. I don't know. I'm just so sad. Like I really think I'm heartbroken over this. Shit.

There's no other way to explain it. My vocabulary isn't even willing to turn over eloquent words or stories.

I'm just so, so sad right now.

Edit: My friend had snuck a picture of me while I was taking footage of the Banksy exhibit. He was nice enough to send me an RIP email with the image after I expressed my ridiculous sadness. Edited for identity privacy.

Inhale: Nostalgia

New York's been feeling that "seasonably" chilly weather lately. I busted out the wool winter peacoat (which, by the way, just will not do when winter actually comes around), and huddled against the brisk (with a very hard "k") air on my way to the train station. Happy late fall, everyone.

I smiled to myself when a memory of my best friend suddenly flashed into my thoughts. It was during the most furious fury of winter last year, and we had both arrived to work at the same time. We acknowledged each other with glances behind our scarves, leaned against the elevator walls. Our hair was mussed, our cheeks bleached by ice, our knuckles taut and windburnt. We stood rigidly beside each other, bodies still braced against the cold. I flapped my arms like an excited wooden soldier.

I studied her silence, which was unusual. Her eyes were wide, her features stunned and soft. We stepped onto our floor and not one word had been spoken between us yet. "You okay?" I finally asked. "You look dazed."

"Huh?" She blinked a few times, and her eyes cleared. It's like she had just realized I was there. "Oh. Yeah, it's that..." She paused. "Every time winter comes around, I'm always so... shocked." She rubbed her hands over her cheeks, her shoulders relaxing into their natural state. "I mean, every time!! My memory can't be that bad, can it? I don't understand -- winter happens every year!" I laughed hard. "Somehow I forget, and I'm always surprised. I don't get it," she murmured to herself while we parted ways.

So true. New Yorkers tend to drop all memory of our turbulent, recurring relationship with abusive, unforgiving Winter once Summer comes around with its gorgeous bare shoulders and greased-up chest. Mmmm. We get all heady and hot and then BLAM! Gone are the grumblings of cracked skin and ice, gone are the mornings spent prying ourselves from the comfort of blankets into the cold tile of a workday, gone are the infinite stretches of darkness where sunlight only happens while we're indoors. Summer's here, and we embrace it with eager, naked, hungry limbs.

Misery? What misery? Today is a brand new day! I am on fire! Look, bitches, cleavage! A NY summer is always an enveloping, sexual, and passionate experience, one that touches upon the possibility of forever, wrapped in sweat and happiness and fun without consequence.

Until, of course, that moment when it packs up all its shit, kisses you on the forehead while you sleep, and leaves.

Oh. Its Tuesday. You wake up shivering, vulnerable, and bewildered.

What just happened? Did we miss the signs? The weathermen warned us for days, spoke of this breakup for a full week, but we didn't listen. It's not even in our realm of reality. I mean, what the fuck is 50 degrees? What does that even feel like? What is this "cold" you speak of? We have to underdress to be reminded. Cruel.

Yesterday while getting ready for work, I glanced at my peacoat and laughed. Silly rabbit. It's October. Peacoats are for pussies! Ha, ha, ha. I wore a thick turtleneck under a thin trenchcoat -- as one ply as they come -- and threw on a light fall scarf. Stepped outside with a spring in my step, smiling into the sun.

Five minutes past my house, I was gritting my teeth. That sneaky little bastard named 46 Degrees jumped out from the shadows and raped me as soon as I turned the corner. I shivered all the way to work, shivered all the way to school, sniffled all the way home.

Okay, I got the message. Today I wore my peacoat. (Summer, why did you have to leave me like this?)

All jokes aside, a small part of me likes this weather. It's a liberating kind of crisp. The air is light and clean. You don't get to feel that very often, especially in the dense human and steel thickness of midtown. (PS: Goodbye midtown death trap! T minus 8 days till I leave the company I've been working for for the past three years.) Especially when it's paired with sunlight, I feel like I'm in a balloon.

I missed my connecting train, so I decided to walk the rest of the way to my job. I climbed out the subway and waited in line to ascend the stairs to the sidewalk. To the left and right of me, lighters went off. This, actually, was the whole point of this post.

I, LOVE, the smell of cigarettes and winter. Love. Something about that light air and smoke combined just... reminds me of all the goodness of my past. It reminds me of getaways I never had. Of quiet conversations on cabin porches during twilights in Maine. That never happened, but that's the feeling I get when the smell hits me.

I've only been not smoking for a year now. You've got damn near a decade of memories to battle with. I can't help it. My high school afternoons (and, admittedly, mornings too) were spent with cigarettes and good friends outside. My happiest moments just happened to occur in the cold. While smoking. Don't ask me why.

Look. I'm standing by the warm outdoor vents at Julliard, lightly dressed (real coats were expensive), with my New York Breakfast of Coffee and a Marlboro Light. I'm laughing hard and gesturing wildly. Classes are going on across the street (where my high school was), but I'm completely oblivious to the time. There, I'm reading a book with my back against the wall and my ankles crossed before me, Past Tense sleeping on my lap while it snows heavily around us. I'm absently petting her hair, we are sheltered by the buildings overhead. Or, there we are, having conversations on the Lincoln Center bridge (which has since been demolished), one of us exhaling other memories in frustration or hysterical recap. I think it was the happiness I felt that kept me warm at the time. It seems like winters nowadays are getting colder.

And Paula. Paula, with our early morning rituals and wide smiles, though in true Russian fashion, she always seemed to be frowning or deep in thought. Paula, with our Washington Heights rooftops and lead pencil drawings, sarcastic conversations held in completely serious tones. Central Park adventures: our blurry snow angels and delapidated snowmen at the first fall of white sprinkles, slapping snowballs onto each others chests to wish holiday cheer and firm tits upon each others souls. Making friends with local street musicians: Trick with the cowboy hat, and the bass player with the dreads, and that one night with the jazz guitarist (or was it the saxophone?) and some of their groupies too; Dro and Tuni and that woman with the orange hair and dark eyebrows that sold paintings a few feet away. She snuck liquor into her coffee cup. Clasping hands to hearts as songs were dedicated to us, while we linked elbows and staggered in laughter. Paula, who was always defined by her cigarettes, her coyness, and her piercing blue eyes. I miss her when I feel this weather, miss her most when the smoke tickles my nostrils slyly. She was always cigarettes and clean, crisp air. For some reason, things were just more romantic with her. I wonder what she's doing now.

Texti Bitionist

is sorry, for a lot of things.
And for nothing at all.
Erf?

I feel like there are conflicting states of mind today, but I don't know what they are about yet. Something's forming. Like enemies crouching on either side of a river scoping the other out. This state of dissonance is at a level where it's... peaceful. I'm very peaceful today, but I can't ignore the undercurrent.

Maybe it's just a bad vibe. Is something going down?

Hm. *Fidgets mildly.*

Back to work I go.

Update: I got a call that day, and a new, wonderful job was offered to me. I guess it wasn't something malicious after all. It was just a reocgnition of a change in the air. Yay.

Touched.

The Cab Ride I'll Never Forget
by Kent Nerburn

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. One time I arrived in the middle of the night for a pick up at a building that was dark except for a single light in a ground floor window. Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice, wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation. Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This passenger might be someone who needs my assistance, I reasoned to myself.

So I walked to the door and knocked. "Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 80's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice."

I looked in the rear view mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter. "What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl. Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, "I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers."

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly, lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life. We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments. But great moments often catch us unaware—beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

Closing the "blog"

Or whatever you want to call it. Compared to the ones I used to have, this is just a scrap-paper pile. Rereading my old entries make me cringe and scroll forward. That says enough.

I've realized that there are two different types of people in the world. Those who actively take part in their own emotional development, and those who sit back and let it come to them (or, possibly regress from it). Those who actively take part are always about growing, getting better, getting stronger. Once a flaw is recognized, they take steps to observe it, consider it, and if possible, correct it. They put themselves in positions where they can grow in maturity, or excel at something, to move on to the next step.

Those who let it come to them... I don't know, really. I'm just figuring this out. But the differences seem to be set into our bones, and very hard to break, if possible at all. For all I know, it could be in our genetic makeup (I compare myself to my brother all the time, and our habits reflect our opposite parents), it could be in our environment (which, if consistent throughout the forming of self, is pretty much permanent). But it's made me think twice about succumbing to my urges to give advice, lecture, get frustrated at, etc. Sometimes people just can't. It's unfathomable, and reaching for something is a process more than an impulse. I have to forgive them that.

I can't expect everyone to be like me. I can't expect someone to nod at an opportunity or solution and immediately grasp at it, because their thought process doesn't immediately follow the idea of taking the next step. It never did. Who am I to demand that from them?

Moving on. Ta,

PS: The Habit is pretty much removed from my core. I'm down to barely revisiting it, and even when I do, I don't want to anymore. Quitting is a process too, and I'm very very done with him. Our souls recognized each other and fit; it's a pity that we weren't able to do the same. Oh well, what can I do.

Words I used to live by, and somehow forgot.

Thank you for the reminder.

People are often unreasonable, illogical, and self-centered.
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives.
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies.
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you.
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building, someone could destroy overnight.
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous.
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow.
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough.
Give the world the best you've got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God.

It was never between you and them anyway.


-Mother Teresa.

YES.

Please take the time to read this absolutely amazing article on being Asian, female, and fetishized. SO well written. Thank you.

lol

I've changed Kryptonites name to The Habit. He's starting to feel like all the other things I'm... not necessarily fighting, but growing increasingly out of.

Slow smile*

Of course, I still want to hit that. And I still enjoy spending time with him. But that need for a response is gone. Goddamn, this is liberating.

I'm glad I had that experience to humble me, and start taking the heart more seriously. *Pats chest*

Have a wonderful day! The weather is so beautiful. I am in a tip top mood.

New Girl Crush

I saw a music video with... *squints at scrawl on napkin*... Keri Hilson?.. in it. You can't listen to the radio without hearing her song (Energy), and personally I feel nothing for it, it's bland and it bores me. But I changed my mind when I saw the music video. I'd listen to it all the way to the end now, I swear, just because her body is that amazing. Though I must admit, I don't remember what her face looks like.

This past Friday was my first experience with Cable TV in a long time. And, as it stands, Saturday mornings still suck no matter how many channels you have. Chris Brown is in a Doublemint commercial. What just happened here?

Pickup Lines 9.15.08

"You're beautiful!" He tosses at me, while passing by on the sidewalk.

"Thank you," I nod, and I keep it moving. I need to sit down with some coffee, and read the rest of this chapter before my next class. I've got an hour and a half to read 30 pages. Im weary. I'm so close to the diner, I can taste it.

Lost in my thoughts, I plod along Lexington Avenue. If I take notes now, maybe I can remember enough for the lecture.

"Hello," I hear from behind my left shoulder, close to my ear. Immediately I check my aggravation. Dude had doubled back and caught up to me, but he has thus far remained respectful, so I have no reason to shut him down mean. I give him a tight smile, and he banters the rest of the way up the block.

"I work around the area. Are you a student?" I nod. "I was thinking about going here, blah blah blah. Blah blah, blah blabbity bloo. Blah blah blah?" Nod. "Ha ha ha! Blah blah blah blah! Blah blah blah. Blaaah blahblah blah bah. Ha ha blah!"

I nod. I give absentminded answers, I've barely glanced at him. It's Monday, see. I went to class straight from work, I'm frazzled, I'm running on an hour and a half of sleep. It's not that I'm cranky, I'm just not good at being social if my heart's not in it.

I try to be personable at least -- in all my years of pubertom I've become quite the advocate for the gentle yet obvious let-down. Sometimes, bitch-mode isn't necessary. I am polite, but frank. Stank is for special reserve.

Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah. "Sweety, where are you from?" he inquires.

"Brooklyn." I say this as dismissively as I could. It's my default answer, I know what he meant.

"You know what I mean," he chuckles. "Where are your parents from?"

I bristle. "Korea."

"That's wassup. I'm from Brooklyn myself."

I should be used to that slice of conversation. It's always asked during pickup. I let it slide. "Oh yeah? What part?"

"Crown Heights. You?"

Insert hometown here.

"Ooh!" He coos. "And you speak English so well! I'm surprised!" He smiles widely.

REALLY?

His smile falters when I don't beam back. "I was born and raised here," I say, raising my brow. What the fuck, I think. This just happened.

"That's cool. Like I said before, you heard me right? I think you're so beautiful. I just thought I should let you know."

I grimace my thanks.

"So what's your name, beautiful?"

Sigh. "Texti."

"Hi, Texti, my name is Reginald."

I nod. "Reginald." I shake the hand he offers.

He breaks out into another smile. "I love that!" He coos. "You pronounced my name so perfectly, too."

My forehead twitches. REALLY?? "Haha. Okay. Wow. That's it."

"And you just have the most perfect voice--"

I turn. "Hey, Reginald, listen. Thanks for the compliments, really." Smile. "But you've managed to offend me two times already in the ten seconds we've been talking, and I think our conversation is over."

"Offend you? How? I offended you?" He is genuinely bewildered!!!

I open the door to the diner and start pulling it closed behind me. Smile. "I don't know if you got the memo, but Asian people speak English, Reginald. Well. You were surprised that I spoke so fluently, and now you are amazed that I pronounced 'Reginald' right?" Insert real life equivalent to LOL here! "Fuck outta here with that, sweety. Take care, goodbye--"

"Wait!" He says. "Let me explain." Ooh, a bullshit artist. Well? "See, asking you where you from is just making conversation--"

"That wasn't one of the things I listed, was it, Reginald."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. And I said the pronunciation thing because people always pronounce my name wrong! I swear. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Goodbye. Take care." He's following me inside. "NO," I say firmly.

I turn and signal to the waiter, lifting one finger. "One please."

The waiter looks behind me, and asks, "Table for two?"

"Yes, table for two," says Reginald.

"NO." I glare. "TABLE FOR ONE. THANK YOU."

I turn. "Go away Reginald. Have a nice day! I'm just... so not in the mood, you know?" I try to smile, Stank Bitch is still being kept at bay. Ignorant is not the same as intentionally leering. He's just a fucking idiot, breathe.

"Let me buy you dinner, Texti."

I hold up my textbook. "Like I said earlier, I have a lot of studying to do, and you fucked up, so I'm going to have to say no." I shrug in mock apology. My eyes are hard.

"I understand," says Reginald. He nods. "I'm sorry, again." I smile tightly at him, and he backs out the door.

Sighing in frustration and relief, I briefly flash back to all the other wonderfully racist come-ons I've encountered in the past. ("Hey, miss! Is your pussy really slanted?" being the most extreme). Because I feel my chest getting tight with rage, I turn my attention to the menu, choosing to forego my usual mid-class snack of toast and coffee for a pizza chicken sandwhich. Ey, it's payday, I tell myself. I'll splurge.

While I make my order, I see a flurry before my eyes. Suddenly, Reginald is inserting himself into the booth across from me. There is a bouquet of flowers in his hand. "I'll have what she's having," he declares, and the waiter shares a smile with him. "So two?"

I turn to the waiter, stunned. "No, sir. Just one." My eyes flash as I hold his gaze.

"Two," Reginald says. "And I'm paying for the whole thing."

The waiter takes the order and walks away.

My head cocks once in warning.

No this little bird bitch didn't.

To be continued.

**I wrote this the same evening it happened. There is no continuation post. I tried, but it ended up being a musing about the boundaries of respect vs. disrespect, and why I actually ended up having dinner with him. Maybe, if you know me in real life, we can talk about it. It is less of a story to tell, and more of a conversation to have.

"Well Excuuuse me, Miss Life Changes"

I'm at an odd period in my life where I'm weaning myself away from all the things I used to be passionate for. Or with. A part of my mind labels these things as "addictions," and I'm highly inclined to agree. The drive, the need, and motivation I had for them always overwhelmed, to the point where I had happily abandoned logic to pursue those desires. Desires to expel, to create, to take in.

Once I quit cigarettes I quit everything else, as if this new-found will power exploded and stained the walls. Around the same time I dropped the addiction to smoking, I lost the desire for everything else. One of these "passions," I've come to realize, was blogging. (I would say writing, but in all honesty it started and ended behind a keyboard. I was never a writer by way of the pen. Gems dropped by accident during the publishing of musings.)

For me, one compulsion always replaced another. Once upon a time, I used to draw constantly. On my wrists, hands, knuckles, fingernails, tissues, margins, all over my notebook. I drew them quickly and if it were on my skin, I would wash it off after I tired of it; if on paper I handed the masterpieces out to friends like spare gum. I figured my talent would always be with me, just bigger, better stronger. Today, I have no proof of my own artwork. It's all damaged, distributed, or gone.

Sometime during my senior year at a well-known high school for the arts, the drive sputtered out and exhausted. But I'd hardly noticed, because words took over. I embodied everything about writing. I became it, it became me. Blogging was an obsession. I did it at work, I did it at home, I did it at friend's houses, I'd hold in my pee. I did it in the early mornings, I did it most late at night. I did it twenty times a day. And I was SO good at it. Until, one day, that went away too.

I spent some time shifting from one extreme to another. There are some things I picked up, excelled at, and never forgot. I learned how to listen, to move a man to whimpers. I learned how to roll the perfect blunt. Needless to say, I enjoyed both triumphantly. I ate junk food in excess: burgers for breakfast, hot sauce with everything. I yelled at people for their insecurities. I became hellbent on fixing my own. I smoked like a chimney and I fucked like a porn star. That's what made me. That's Who I Was. And then, one day, silence.

I'm slowly forming my way around paths I once used to scoff at. And the biggest transition of all, I think, is this shift I'm making from being an opinionated, i'm-here-get-used-to-it, take-no-bullshit optimist, who dripped sexuality no matter what she tried to do, to being this... whatever the fuck I am right now. LOL! It's a little unnerving, to suddenly realize what it is to walk into a room and not be once-overed by at least 3/4ths of the people in it. Men watched me, women watched me. And I chose to remain oblivious to all of them, until one day I noticed that nobody really looked at me that way anymore.

My clothes don't hug the curves that somehow shifted as time went by, and my sexy is mad undercover. My Swagger doesn't fit with the rest of me anymore, so I tucked her away too. I think this is what I wanted, though. It became tough to bear that kind of attention after a while, like I felt raped by the end of the day. I'm just still not used to it.

Something in me stopped wanting people to want me. I think it was after I recovered from The Heartbreak and started making steps in letting go of Kryptonite. My confidence is quieter now, not so daring, no so present. Fuck that though, I still want to be pretty. It's an interesting balance to find. LOL.

I am still a fool.

My brother is making coffee, at 10:30pm. It is to keep his hands busy. His posture tenses with the pretense of indifference, and he takes a breath, suddenly changing the air of our banter.

"Nuna," he starts, the way he does all dialogue with me (it means 'older sister'). He stumbles and stalls, using a lot of filler words and laughing. Trying to keep it light. Trying to prep himself, or me. I know he is embarrassed and uncertain; it sounds like when I read poems to friends.

"What's up," I respond, raising my brows. I'm scarfing down a hurried, tasteless dinner after coming home from class. He's still stammering, but eventually he runs out of things to do. The coffee is brewing. He's tapping his fingers. I tell him to get to the point.

He mentions his ex-girlfriend, and I know where this conversation is going. He's been bouncing around the house, traveling hours out of his way just to catch movies, suddenly determined to get back on track with work, school, physical fitness. Still, I leave my face open and curious. He eases into his discomfort.

A little backstory: They dated briefly. He genuinely liked her, possibly even loved her. She acted in ways that drove him nearly crazy with insecurity. I pointed out the obvious signs, but I didn't expect him to listen. Naturally, she played him.

I mean, what can I say. They're kids. She's younger than he is, and attractive girls in big urban cities are a different kind of "young" than other young are. Too old for her age, you dig?

Only recently I learned the value in keeping my mouth shut, and I learned to weigh situations that called for words better. Only recently I realized how damaging and useless pointing out flaws can be. Only recently I began practicing neutrality in situations where people come to me for advice, especially when it comes to issues pertaining to love. How can you truly experience the falling into (and out of) Love, if you simply monkeybarred on people's advice? This was not the time for it, so I nodded, and merely listened.

Basically, after he convinced himself he was over her and spent all that time healing, they start hanging out again. They go to movies, they enjoy the shit out of each other's company, they laugh and they talk on the phone. And this time, it's her calling him. Her seeking him. Everybody loves to be pursued by the one they really want.

He's frustrated because he's getting hopeful again, and that should I? Should I not? is returning. He lists the details of their days together as if it was evidence to a better second chance. I nod, even though every part of me wants to warn him. That it sounds like she hasn't changed at all. I see where the loopholes are.

And then, I cringe inwardly. Oh, God. Oh God! It all sounds so familiar. Agh! AGH!

I recognize the carefully controlled look on my face as that of my friends when they listen to me speak about Kryptonite. I don't realize how unnecessary all my details are. I could talk about him for days. I mention every nuance of his actions as if breaking them down would stretch them out longer, give them more meaning. I think about the judgments that scroll between my ears as I watch my brother rant about JM, and I mentally kick myself in the neck.

Word, I recently spent an hour -- my entire lunch break! -- detailing a single weekend with Kryptonite. A total of 5 or 6 hours with him combined, turned into a one-sided musing that went on for much too long. And though all the signs are there, and obvious, the way my heart blushes makes mountains out of garbage piles. And it took my brother to show me that.

"So... what should I do?" He asks me, for the second time.

I blink. I don't want to tell him anything. People like us have to find out for ourselves; and as much as I want to protect him, my advice will do nothing. The Bitionists are also an indulgent blood; we disregard logic often to seek what we want deep down inside. No matter how bad that may be for our well-being.

"You're just gonna have to run with it," I say, thinking about my recent settling into contentment away from my K. It took another last try, and another period of separation, for me to realize just how okay I was without his validation. He has to get there on his own.

I mentally thank my good friends for letting me come to my own conclusions, no matter how obvious the signs were. Thank you for your patience and the hold you had on your tongue. For letting me hope as hard as I had to. For knowing and accepting that tomorrow, no matter how much progress I make, I'll probably be sending yet another frustrated email that's three paragraphs too long and four signs of affections too short, and for responding with nothing but a hug and a Good Luck.

Haha. I am ridiculous. And he is following in my footsteps. *Messes up his hair*

Dear Writer:

Accept loss forever
Be submissive to everything, open, listening
No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language and knowledge

Be in love with your life


-Jack Kerouac

Gah! Agh! AHH!

My mother: a POOR. MINORITY. FEMALE, is voting for McCain this year.

Please let me pause, so that this post doesn't turn into a vomit-tastic jumble of profanity.

My shoulders are up to my ears right now. She voted, both times, for Bush before. During our argument about her decision, it slipped out that one of her main deciding factors was because she didn't believe in gay marriage. What kind of --- OOOH, texti, hold it. Hold it. Breathe.

When she said this, I looked at her, calmly, and asked, "Is it because Obama is black?"

To which she replied, "No, of course not!" (By the way, she is an admitted racist.)

I breathed out. I collected myself. "Okay," I said slowly. "Do you realize that voting for McCain is only going to help the rich people?" Which, look around, is a demographic we are clearly not a part of.

She stopped, thought, smiled, and quipped: "Well, if I want to be rich someday, I got to aim high, right?"

*Storms off into a corner and seethes*
*Knocks over a cup*
*Breaks a pencil*
AGH!

Seriously. Dear all: even to those who don't believe that Obama is the best candidate (I waited before deciding to push for him, he makes me hopeful in a way I never imagined I could be with a politician), or that "America's not ready" (yo, if not now, when?) etc: Right now, we are heading towards -- if not already in -- a deeeep state of Crisis. We need someone who has a much clearer picture, who understands what needs to be fixed, in order to reconstruct and move ahead properly.

This is not about your money. This is not about your personal race to win. This is about fixing the crumbling foundations of your home - rewiring the right way, fixing shingles, clearing the gutters, insulating, etc - instead of divorcing the wife thats been nagging you about fixing it because you just didn't want to hear it anymore, sending your 16 year old kid out to suck dick for money (to fund both your survival and cocaine habit), and holding on to the hopes that this way, you'd be able to buy a bigger, better, shinier TV. When your house falls apart, none of that shit is going to matter.

You have to heavily consider the state of AMERICA and what it NEEDS, rather than keeping ignorant to something that has to seriously get addressed. If this goes on, even the Content is going to lose it all. I guarantee this.

The Republicans are going to come out in droves to ensure that Obama doesn't get elected into presidency, for reasons that have nothing to do with current America. That's all I can really say about that. ("They have not served a Red America or a Blue America - they have served the United States of America.")

Sigh. I wish I could be more profound on this subject, but I can't. I can only express my urgent plea, to stop being selfish and to start looking outwards. We're crumbling apart, yall. Consider the state of working class Americans. Consider the state of the immigrants that are holding the fucking fibers of this economy together by doing all the shit you don't want to do with shit pay, no benefits and constant belittling. Consider the Grand Jury, and its split down the middle in its current state. Consider the imbalance, and how impartial is a very, VERY hard thing to come across in the political world. We need you. We need you.

Mom, you're such a douchebag. I love you, but seriously, wtf.

Lullabies for My Favorite Insomniac

Not really. That's just the name of this album given to me by my musically adventurous friend. Always stuck with me. What a great title for a classical joint, and a perfect one for a gift to me. (The album itself, is okay. In case you were wondering.)

"I also lost the ability to write somewhere, when things got hard. Do you know what I think it might be? I think I lost the ability to shape my own world the way I saw fit, on paper, in retrospect, whatever. Reality kept slapping me in the face, and I had no choice but to accept her."

Meh. Shit happens. I stopped being frustrated with my loss of words. It is what it is. I'm looking up again, so I've got bigger things to focus on other than where the hell my talent's disappeared to.

Besides, it didn't really "go" anywhere. It's just drugged out in a dirty, boarded up corner of my soul, covered in its own piss and blissfully ignorant of what the rest of me is going through. Good for you. Go get you some.

Santana and Nujabes are amazing soul healers when you need them. Some suggestions, if you didn't already know them:

Samba Pa Ti
El Farol
(-Santana)
Aruarian Dance
(-Nujabes)

And that's obviously not the best of their abilities. You find what settles you though. Dig deep.

Who the fuck are the Cheetah Girls? I just found out what a Hannah Montana was. Oh, boy, our next generation is going to be interesting.

That's it, really. I'm awake because I spent a nice night out with Kryptonite and friends, and I'm trying to avoid overthinking and overanalyzing shit like I do. It was nice. End of story. It made you smile and capped your night nicely. No hidden meanings, no secrets. Just good company, which is exactly what you wanted. Leave it at that. Haha at firm third party coaching.

I tried smoking weed again last night, to quiet my thoughts enough to doze off, and I woke up fucking stuck on stupid. Enough of that. // Quitting is an interesting thing; I know in my mind that I've made leaps putting distance between the times I smoke up, and to me that's progress (will power is the hardest thing, if you have none to start with). It was the same with cigarettes -- I was quitting for about 4 months, from when the distaste became too strong to ignore, to the fifth morning I didn't by my own pack. To this day, I bum a cigarette when the moment's right, and it might have been 3 weeks since my last pull, or a month since my last full, but shit, I know that I'm still not a smoker. When I get berated or laughed at for the few times I do indulge, it just makes me... resentful. Not enough to dive into the habit again, but enough to doubt what I know is an accomplishment, even for a little bit. And we all know, that a little doubt can go a looonngg way.

"Quitting means never doing it again. If you're still partaking 'once in a while,' you haven't quit." Whatever, babe. I chose to spare you the reminder of your long battle with addiction yourself. To things beyond that nicotene, sticky green, and the many, many slippery slopes you've had since you first realized you didn't want to do it anymore. Bah, leave me the hell alone, I don't like resorting to this. Quitting, okay? (Note to self: Check when you do this to others. It's human nature to lash out when frustrated.)

I'm glad I came home tonight. Even after all this time, he stays on my mind. Will I ever go a day without him in my thoughts?

Oh. Happy September. Where did summer go? Is it just me or did 2008 go by in a blink?

More than anything

It might not be the right time
I might not be the right one
But there's something about us I want to say
Cause there's something between us anyway

I might not be the right one
It might not be the right time
But there's something about us I've got to do
Some kind of secret I will share with you

I need you more than anything in my life
I want you more than anything in my life
I'll miss you more than anyone in my life
I love you more than anyone in my life

*Wriggles in shell*

I'm at the point where I know I should stop poking around all those sensitive spots in my heart/ego/etc (after pressing months of vulnerablility/humbling experiences?/oh, reality) and get back out there, smiling. I have to leave them sores alone, stop covering them up so that they can heal properly.

When I went through that mess and all my failures were steadily being brought to light, I made "growing up and doing it right" such a mission that I left little room for anything else. I tackled my worst traits head on -- dismantling them, absorbing them, predicting their futures in order to adjust to the present. I put up a wall in defense to brace for new losses and needless to say, I lost a lot of friends during this time. All for the better, I need to be alone to do this right, I told myself.

My best friend, I'm sorry to admit, played a supporting role in this project of mine. I requested that she be the good friend I deserve and lay my flaws out flat for me to work off of. It was something she had a keen sense for, and she did so with accurate precision. I compare it to winning a complex video game solely on cheat codes, playing just to win but winning on advice. I was cheating, instead of learning. I was doing it for the trophy without ever learning the skill.

Eventually, I got sad. Sad, frustrated, and I hovered close into the fires of Bitter. I couldn't figure out the reasons for my deepening withdrawal other than general "depression? I think?" and to an extent, it was true. I wasn't going anywhere. I was still, on every level, failing and I didn't know why. I couldn't trust the advice of the people giving them to me. I was relying on them too much. And I started to hate myself, thus hating the world around me. My job, my home, my friends. New York. Anywhere but here.

I lost respect for the person I used to be. I focused on my negative traits for so long that I forgot the reasons people fell in love with me in the first place. Thus, I lost love for myself. I was running away from the old me so hard.

And to get that old thing back, I gotta readjust. Shave off the negatives and work on the good stuff. I have new ideas of what makes me happy now, so I just have to explore them. I won't list them, because they're specific to me and subject to change.

Sigh. It's past 430am. Hopefully I can build more answers around this. Ta.

Cutting shit out

and breathing better. Today was a nice day. My stresses are still ruining my back -- I had trouble turning my head to look at someone mid-conversation -- but finally, finally, my mind seems to be clear. Gaining control of your own self is one of the most difficult things to do.

I looked over the training material for a volunteer session I'm going to attend this weekend, and it unnerved me to instantly think of my best friend when I read the words, "Advice is still a form of abuse." What does that mean, when you start to see things about a person you love that makes you completely uncomfortable? Do you compromise? Or do you stick to your guns?

The thing about relationships in the 20s is that these are our years of growth.. changes.. renewal. Shit gets volatile when theres obligations that prevent this from happening. Space is necessary to observe, absorb, adjust.

Change can't happen thoroughly, it seems, when the other cannot let you go. True identity can't set properly when it has to heal around the old. Breaks might be necessary for relationships during this era -- for the sake of preservation. During these turbulent times of self-realization, doubt and regeneration, loving yourself becomes difficult. And I can't love you if I don't love myself.

Step off, so that I can love you later -- if, in the end, that's what I'm supposed to do. I need to know who I am without you... let me go.

I don't have the energy to explore my tendencies to suddenly break from those I depend on in order to move ahead. It is a reoccuring pattern though, that I have to force myself to acknowledge. This is the third break you're itching to make.

3am. Sleep is so elusive. Thinking shit like this does not help.

The Poem Behind: Oriah Mountain Dreamer

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dreams, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life's betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain!

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wilderness and let the ecstacy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn't interest me if the story you're telling me is true, I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself, if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul.

I want to know if you can be faithful and therefore be trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it is not pretty every day, and if you can source your life from God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, "Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are, how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself, and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments .

Disease

once you admit that
something is bigger than you,
it takes you over.

Properly Instilled Discipline

is necessary for good structure in the future. It must be steadily enforced throughout childhood, in all ways -- including set dinner times, following through on threats, and consistent authoritative presence (NOT militant).

The pattern in our family is that we lacked it severely. There was punishment, oh no question about it. There were both warranted and unwarranted beatings, threats, etc. I still have memories that make me wince, my artwork ripped into shreds, canvas hanging limply from broken easels, bruises that went away a lot faster than I wanted them to sometimes -- proof, that it wasn't my fault I was crazy. But they always shied away, after barely making an appearance.

My mother voiced her frustrations to me tonight, and initially I defended myself with dropped eyebrows and a hot voice, turning it into an all out fight. But I had to stop and open my mind -- I realized she was right. I realized that what she was saying was nothing I haven't heard before: from angry friends, from well-intended teachers, and even from myself, directed at my younger brother or father after countless reminders and requests. She's right, man.

I understand. And I'm sorry.

I told her (and this is when the realization hit) that you can complain all you want, you can point out all our flaws with the hopes that we will grasp them and change -- but without discipline, those urgent pleads go nowhere. I feel it's too late. As much as we want to change ourselves, we can't, because it's so hard to hold on to a string of motivation. It's hard for us to follow through with the prerequisite steps, so we keep failing. And that keeps us anchored to this goddamned cycle. It frustrates us, almost enrages us, when outsiders -- as well-intended as they are -- fume at us for failing because we KNOW. We KNOW everything you're telling us; we KNOW because we TRY. It just doesn't look that way to anyone else.

We TRY, ladies and gentlemen. And we FAIL.

I am -- we are -- sorry for the things we do... or rather, don't do. We are sorry for our attempts at success, and sorry for failing so many times. For "giving up." For straying from the goals we so enthusiastically set. Don't you understand?

Trying to apply discipline into our lives at a later age is like trying to combine two pieces of metal with Elmer's glue. It just won't stick. The bond has to be applied during creation, welded during formation, for it to have any hold on us as adults.

Parents: please remember this when you are raising your children. Please start early, and please stick it through. But don't forget to love us in the process, punishment isn't everything. Don't be afraid to support us. We need that more than you can imagine.

Friends: please consider this the next time you are this close to giving up on us. Please remember that we're not doing it to offend you. We're not trying to disrespect you. It's not like we don't want to learn, to remember, to progress. It looks easy to you because you have no idea, NO IDEA how hard it is, if it's something you already have. By the time you are an adult, it's as second nature as breathing.

And please, of all things, understand that we are truly unhappy on the inside. We don't like the way we are. We remember all our failures, we just try not to because we can't change them.

It hurts us when you go.
But we don't know how to fix it, so what can we do?

If you can't accept us for who we are, what else can you do but walk away?

If we can't promise drastic changes, if we can't offer you what you need and deserve, what else can we fucking do but nod our goodbyes, and let you leave?

Well, I'm sorry.
Thank you for staying with me as long as you have.

I'm trying my best.

Parking Lot Post:

What do you do when your coworker walks up to you stinking of pussy? And not just pussy pussy, which trust me, is a lot less intrusive -- it's pussy that has a darker undertone of ballsack and orgasm, you know exactly what I'm talking about. It doesn't help that I have a really sensitive nose.

Do you ignore it? Do you ask her if she just finished having sex in the stairwell with a security guard, and would she like a tissue? Or do you just pretend like she didnt just make your whole cubicle fragrant with the juices of NASTY, to linger thicker than musk after she leaves? Maybe she simply had a messy bathroom experience? Oh God, it's in my clothes.

I don't know. Somethings fishy around here. No pun intended.

A revisit to the NYC Manifesto

40-Something Year Old Woman in Elevator: "That was my first two-week vacation in seven years."

A corner of my heart crumpled when I realized that nobody in that morning-rush pause was surprised to hear this woman's statement. Her friend stared into her eyes and nodded, smiling widely. She cradled her coffee to her chest like a life source. That woman's two-week vacation was a reclamation worthy of triumph, of congratulations -- I was standing behind her but damn it if her cheeks didn't flush in pleasure. None of us standing there have had a 2 week vacation in the past (counts on both hands) years. I can't even wrap my arms around the idea of a true sabbatical. It almost scares me.

Our culture is a working one, isn't it. Underneath the glamour and the dreamcatching and the lights that coat our city like a too-sweet icing, what makes New York New York -- from its history to its future -- is the working class. Our blood, our sweat, our tears fuel the heat rising out of the pavement. WE dance in the twists of neon, caged behind glass tubes and company logos. WE flash our offerings hard into your vision, burning ourselves into the forgotten parts of your mind. And, I bet, this is the reason why almost all New Yorkers are pure assholes to face.

I read somewhere that to embrace this working culture is to be a true New Yorker. You may not be American, but the acceptance -- and love -- of this lifestyle stamps the back of your hand with our brand, our welcome, our Manifesto. Its bloodstream consists of people like her, people like me, who work day after day after day for the rest of their lives, who in the end cannot afford a vacation somewhere far away from home (and by far, we probably mean Florida) for more than 3, 4 days a year.

I mean, this is our life. We have to spend our money taking care of our parents who are dying from the NYC air and buckling under rising oil and energy costs, our aint-shit kids who are neglected and acting out because we work too much just to feed them, and ourselves, because we carve out our bank accounts desperately chasing peace, hoping to fatten our free time with as many good memories as possible. To give ourselves a purpose. To remind ourselves of what happiness is supposed to feel like.

Have we fallen into a trap?

The Signs:
Yesterday afternoon, a friend and I wandered into the cutest cafe uptown. It was tucked in between Harlem and Central Park West, and a meal of a sandwhich and iced coffee came out to about twelve dollars. No, we shouldn't have spent the money, but we were tired of the bodega turkey sandwhiches that cost $3, yet tasted like blank. That $12 meal was absolutely delicious. And frankly, I couldn't resist the wide-open storefront, the scarred wooden furniture, and the determined breeze that blew right into my hair as I sat down. It was a perfect punctuation to a peaceful day.

Wait, where was I going with this?

So my eyes settled upon the cute boy behind the register, and we flirted for a while through air. When he went outside for a cigarette break, I joined him and we struck up a conversation. Come to find out, he'd just come moved in from Ontario, and hasn't been living in NY for more than a week. His uncle owned the spot, and he's been working there since he landed. I was surprised, I didn't read "FORNER!" in any of his mannerisms. I nodded when he told me he lived on the Upper East Side (where the numbers are still 2 digits, and the people are very well-off) because it fit into my instincts, yet I would have believed him if he told me that he grew up on the park steps of Union Square, leaning against the railings with his ankles crossed, laughing as if it was home. I wondered why I placed this image with his personality.

"How do you like New York so far?" I asked, nudging the conversation along.

"Well, I don't know, actually," he said, his thick eyebrows dropping towards his smile. "I haven't gotten a chance to really live it yet, because I'm working like, every day."

He works all 7 days of the week, and sometimes stays the night shifts to run the bar. It's harder on him, I suppose, because he's still new at it. He fumbled sheepishly through our orders when we first approached him (though I'd like to think it was because of our breezy gear and just-sunned-glow). I was reminded of the book that spoke of New York's working culture, and tucked it away for further contemplation.

Hearing that woman on the elevator this morning brought it out of the parking lot and into my driveway. The car's still running, its exhaust is filling my lungs.

Shit, guys. It made me think about the bitterness that's been stirring under my heart for quite some time now, like a dirty draft, spinning under the pressure of my thumb. It made me remember the thoughts I pushed away, the fact that I did not start relying so heavily on my one vacation a year until I started working at a corporate 9-5 (with overtime, delish). It reminded me that I would not be able to afford a vacation this year, and most likely the year after that. And ultimately, it reinforced my decision to consider the next plane ticket I purchase to be a good-bye kiss to the City, and all that it's pushed into my pores.

I'm tired.

I'm so tired, and I want out.

The Retreat:
I think that I'm falling into the audience of Belle's manifesto, the ones she is crossing her arms against, the ones who weren't strong enough to stay. New York is too fast for me, at least for this period in my life. I need to step back and re-evaluate my shit, my self, and my future, but the streets don't slow down for anybody. Fuck around and you'll get hit.

I spent too much of my life matching this city's pace. A few years ago, I was way ahead of the race. I was a 19 year old with a salary, with a decent work history, with my own apartment, and a strong sense of self. I was a full time student and a full time worker. On a personal level, I was the mediator of uneasy situations, I was the shoulder to lean on, I was the admonishing mother. I was the girl that every man fell in love with, I was the master of my own domain, I bent rules as I saw fit, as long as they didn't dampen my morals, my values. I was the person I wanted to be, because I believed that I cheated the system; I had yet to get beaten down by life and responsibility, and yet here I was. The youngest one in the game.

Then, I don't know. Inevitably, the pressures got too overwhelming. I retreated. I fell into needing "the worst vice to have" -- Advice -- and began to concern myself with conforming in order to keep my job, my friends, my support systems. That cracked my spirit, because a lot of it required going against my own values.

Most importantly, I went broke. Painfully broke. I lost a lot of weight, I regularly fought off depression, I constantly searched for distractions. I stopped trying to change things, because I saw how much fire it stirred. I accepted my non-rewards, my bullshit pieces of paper for my dedication and hard work. Even in the realm of being a woman -- a powerful woman in charge of her own shit, who held her sexuality as one would a stolen credit card -- shit changed. An attack happened in the mouth of my home, so I closed up shop. I became scared of the dark. I became scared of New York. But I had no other choice, I lived here.

My whole viewpoint changed when I stopped having money. I'm still working as much as I did before -- if not longer hours, harder tasks -- and getting less than I ever could have imagined for it. I think I might have peaked too soon, because now I cannot recognize who I am. Now, I'm just a twenty something year old without a degree, because I couldn't -- no, didn't -- finish school in order to pay my bills. Let's be realistic, I had misplaced my faith. The same way dreamers believe that going to a good school and maintaining good grades was all you needed to get a 65k starting salary, I thought that way about staying in The Grind. School can wait, my resume needed thickening. Now, I'm a twenty something year old stuck in the syrup of a "bad economy," swimming harder and getting nowhere, self esteem wavering, ready to give up. I went from being breathless, to having completely run out of breath.

I
Am
Tired.

The Other Side of the Coin:
Earlier this weekend I touched base with FKN, a former best friend of mine from previous blogs, if you've followed me this far at all. We met up after years of disconnect, and chatted lightly over dinner. Our conversations were still scratching the surface of superficial, but she did say something that stuck with me on the long train ride home. After having left the City to be tucked into a university for 4 years, residing in a town that quite literally lived for the students of her campus, after being exposed to fresh air and real sunlight and linear paths and minimal obstacles, she came back to New York and hated what it offered. She traveled, first to New Zealand, picked up the thirst for international affairs, and then returned to her single-window cubicle of a bedroom in her parents' house to save more money for her next trip.

She interrupted herself in her rant against New York to wonder if maybe she glorified her trips because she spent so much money on them. She spent the money she saved freely, as one could only do in a world without consequences. New York was just her resting place, where she paused for her connecting flight to a bigger, fuller destination. Much like an airport, it was cramped, it was airless, it was waiting -- with a million other people doing the same thing. A different kind of waiting, without much hope. Waiting because it's just what you did, in a place like this.

She said, "I'm sure that if I spent the money I had here like I did in New Zealand or Greece, I'd be happy in NYC too."

The Debates:
Would leaving truly solve any problems?

Are those problems stemming from the lack of money, the difficulty of acquiring money, or am I genuinely unhappy in a city that I used to love?

Have I stopped loving the city the same way I stopped loving everything else, merely because the umbrella of passion collapsed, leaving everything vulnerable and exposed, to dampen in the storm of direction? I was passionate about this place, once.

If that was the case, then would leaving really accomplish anything? Shouldn't I see if I can fix the umbrella before I kick everything into the gutter?

Pause. Who cares? Why does a sabbatical have to have a purpose?
Answer: Because New Yorkers run their lives by the clock. We are always, always running out of time.

If I left, would I come crawling back to the dirty sidewalks of my home, glad for the anonymity, the sarcasm, the shedding of the weight of pretenses? Would the newness of another culture disorient me, or regenerate me?

Is happiness not a state of mind? So which comes first, the chicken (Outside: environment, opportunity) or the egg (Inside: optimism, perseverance)?

Shrug. Stay tuned.

And I wonder:

Why not leave?

I have all these journals I buy but haven't written in. I'm waiting for an adventure to fill them with. Oh, they're waiting.

But why am I so scared?

Obligations, maybe. I resent obligations.

Time will come.

I love

Thick, white bedsheets and pillowcases.
I finally own my own set, and I slept in them for the first time this week.

*Squirms in glee*

Begone, cheap see-through red sheets from Conway! Begone!

The easiest way

to avoid answering questions, of course, is to insult the inquirer until she stops asking.

Nope.

WHY bitch, WHY? You said a whole lot, but you haven't said shit!

You know

You use mean words and dark thoughts to heal a broken ego.

Only time can truly soothe a broken heart. Talking shit takes you nowhere if its real.

Don't think I'm not aware of what you've said about me, and don't think I don't know exactly what I meant to you. Your trailing shadow of curses betray your structured prose.

But it's okay, lol. Keep yapping like they don't know -- I won't tell. Karma's watching, and I know you've seen her around.

RIP, C.D.

One of my brother's close friends shot himself in the head last year, an hour after Father's Day.

Rest in peace, kiddo.

Don't do drugs.

Drama is,

with enough backbone and charm, avoidable with no suppressed resentment. Drama can, without having to trigger confrontation, be evaded with a simple and direct discussion.

Drama -- usually -- stays out of my way. I have a mean streak of steel. It is held in very, very close check.

Sigh.

In the case of the Unavoidable, Drama must, most certainly, be addressed with the swiftness. When your name -- especially your name -- is being handled with disrespect, it is your duty to yourself to repossess it before the scratches can do more damage to its skin.

Oh. But you, my dear, you would never meet me in person, would you. And I refuse to confront you online, why that's just bitchmade. "Facebook her," he says. "Keep it civil."

I ask him to put you on the phone, he refuses. I ask him to read you what I told him, but he deflects. Nobody wants to deal with your Drama.

"She is emotionally unstable," he says. "Just leave it alone. You don't understand."

Obviously I don't. Perhaps I should show a little more compassion. Or perhaps, in my effort to suppress the GetTheFuckOuttaHere leavening in my subconscious, I forgot How To Act. All I know is, at this moment, you are pressing MY name against your tongue like a fresh piece of bubble gum. "That's the one and only reason I hate her," you declare, almost triumphantly.

Lol.
I, am not, your bubble gum. Bitch.

So I insist. "Just let me speak to her," I coo, smiling. "I don't want drama. I just have something to say." And, with all my presence in the air tonight, I deserve a to get a few words in, no?

He sighs from my persistance, and holds the phone to you. I wait patiently, but hear no Hello.

How quaint, that you would refuse a simple conversation with someone you were JUST talking so intimately about. No? Not necessary to speak to me, you say? But weren't you just fighting for his phone, to hear my confirmation? Wasn't it oh so necessary then?

"Put her on," I say again. Colder. Once more, he hands the phone to you; once more, you push away the call.

I feel no shame when he tells me there's tears. You are not my friend, oh dear emotionally unstable Heather. What good will tears do, to one with no pity?

If you can't take shit, sweety, don't talk shit.

Don't put my name into your mouth until you are ready to spit it right back to me, do you understand? I am not participating in this grade school bullshit. You showed me what you are worth, and I refuse to deal with anything beneath my level. Don't let me catch wind of you yapping your gums in my direction again. You can let your friends know.

Fuck, what a waste of blood pressure. I'm done.

Omg.

Hahaha. Dude.

How to say "Chicken" in Chinese

Are you one of those people that believe if you hold onto a fortune cookie's prophecy, it comes true?

I'm used to getting some retarded ass fortunes. Like, "If you have to be a glow worm, glow the hardest." I've learned long ago to stop anticipating a cute phrase I could fit into my life like a sky-blue puzzle piece, only to crack open the shell and unroll yet another disappointing scroll. "Sometimes you just have to shrug and laugh." *Wraps hands around cookies throat*

This Tuesday past, after a satisfying dinner of Korean noodles

Which I'm sure looks far from appetitizing...
until you've tried it

Sharpshooter and I pick up fortune cookies on the way out. I crack mine open, with the prerequisite story of how I never get worthwhile fortunes... and laugh loudly (as I always laugh), appreciatively, as I read it.

"Friends long absent are coming back to you."

Well. Indeed they are. People I've had intense albeit brief friendships/flingships with in my past are knocking on my present door with gifts of confession, apology, or mere renewed company. They are still, after all this time, greeted with something resembling happy tears (Text doesn't cry, but her eyes do sting) and a smile. Most of them are far, far away, in places I can't touch (Afghanistan, California, Hawaii). These are people I was tight with anywhere between 6 months ago to 7 years ago. There are stories between us.

It's really overwhelming -- and extremely comforting -- to know that no matter how brief our friendship was, I was never forgotten. I was remembered fondly, maybe even respected. And all along, I had no idea. I didn't know how much I needed this.

I was just telling SS a story of the most recent collision between past and present, which always manages to leave me a little jarred. Normally I throw these fortunes out with the wrapper and forget about them the moment after (I do cast an obligatory glance at the chinese lessons on the other side --Chicken, I believe, is Jo Zhu). For some reason, while in conversation, I rolled this one into a tiny cylinder and slipped it into the zipper of my purse. I used to believe, once upon a time, that saving these words will strengthen their chances of occurance. I guess a small part of me still holds onto that thought.

I'm being revisited by my past for a reason. Either I'm to apply something I've learned to tie up loose ends (Karma, if you respect her, will always give you second chances), or I'm supposed to take this as a warning. Perhaps it is simply time for me to reconnect with those I've shaken off between phases, left behind for one reason or another. Regardless, I am looking forward to developing something with them; I truly hope I am ready. There's been a lot of loss lately.

Welcome back, everybody. It's so good to see you again.

All in all youre just another brick in the wall

Remember this post?

Well, another one bites the dust. A friend notifies us that he just got out of central bookings. When asked why, he responded with "1 part graffiti, 2 parts racism." I didn't know exactly what he meant until these photos arrived on my minifeed (shout out to facebook):

Where do we draw the line with police brutality?

I know a part of me speaks with bias -- I went to art school with this kid, and most artists tend to consider graffiti a form of expression and aesthetics, rather than a simple act of vandalism. Growing up in Brooklyn, it's easy to consider graffiti decoration; once the history and competition and purpose was explained to me, I also developed a fond appreciation for the culture as a whole.

What would justify that eye?

Without a badge number, he's got no trial.

Damn, b. Good luck.

Are you listening? This means You

Me: FW: Breaking News Alert, The New York Times
Friday, June 6, 2008 -- 4:16 PM ET
---------
Dow Plunges About 400 Points

The Dow Jones Industrial Average fell about 400 points,
driven by economic concerns and by oil prices that soared to
near $140 a barrel.

Read More:
http://www.nytimes.com/?emc=na

Inell: oh boy, there will be a lot of people jumping off buildings tonite...

Me: whats the world coming to =(

Inell: i dont know, but i read an article last month that the average person living in new york needs to make a salary of 35,ooo a year to survive not to live good but in order to survive... (eat)

Me: WOW ARE YOU SERIOUS?

Inell: that is why they increased rookie cops pay to 35,800 a year to start. dont you know that for years a rookie cop was only making 24,000 a year.... (so sad) but seriously i am scared because I am a single parent with 2 kids and i dont gross 35,ooo a year.

Me: What article?
im trying to google it
I cant find it but apparently its the same in san mateo


Inell: u c what i am talking about, a single mother with an infant and school age child needs to gross about 66,000 a year to live no luxury's to live....

Me:what the fuck inell that is so fucking sad
and theyre not doing anything to change this
is this all oils fault?

Inell: the war, that is why the oil prices are rising, all the natural resources in world (rice is going up because the main supplier (India) is not selling much because they need to eat. prices of flour went up( pure dough) that is why bread and pizza is going up, omg lets not talk about dairy products. milk is 5 dollars a gallon, eggs r 3 dollars a dozen and cheese you cant even afford to buy any. and the sad part about it is that this is food. basic things nothing fancy.) you get where i am going with this.

Inell:One more thing
dont mean to scare you but the average household consist on mother, father and at least two kids. if things dont change the average household will consist of (grandparents, aunts and uncle's husband and wife and kids.) and that will only be to live... (eat and rent) nothing else.

Turned off

By everything you do.

I've been nothing but nice to you, is this really just who you are?

Wow. Ew.

Stop it, China

an ad on my playlist site

Stop it this instant

The Reason

Ah. I understand now.

I painted the other day. I found myself with some time after work so I wandered over to Pearl Paint, a quiet, popular, art store nestled deep between street vendors and pedestrian traffic on Canal Street. In high school, this would have been a necessary trip at the start of every semester; with at least 2 separate lists of required supplies in hand, I would slowly tread the aisles and chew my lip over brands and practicality (did I really need Black? Wasn't it Cadmium Red and Hooker's Green that made a better shadow? How much of a palette could I afford on $30, and would a new brush fit into the budget?). I would grin sheepishly and lift my brows in a silent, faux-panicked greeting as I passed by new and familiar classmates, not yet willing to dive into a superficial or obligatory conversation.

After all these years, the feel was different. As much as I would have loved to run back upstairs, to trail my fingertip against rows and rows of striped tubes boasting quiet labels of color and name, I only had about 20 minutes before the store closed. Working until 6 every day makes you feel like the world is always fleeting. It's always closing time, you better come prepared with a list and a plan.

I made a mental note to go back and rummage (indeed -- being poor caused our family to develop packrat tendencies. Hey, you never know when you'll need that cardboard box full of shopping bags, wires, duct tape and sofa cushions) through the house for my old paints. If I'm lucky, maybe I'll uncover a brush or two; otherwise I'll have to return another night. I hopped downstairs to a floor I was almost unfamiliar with -- here, bathed in industrial gray flourescent light, were walls and walls of canvases varying in size, thickness, purpose and color. Momentarily overwhelmed, I blinked. I did not come with a list, nor a plan.

I had to pass the most appealing canvases wistfully -- girl does not have that kind of money -- and head to the thin stretched, lightweight canvases I used to purchase for Intro classes. It's been a very, very long time since I've bought one of my own. I borrowed these things in high school -- old artwork donated from friends, for me to paint over. I used the same two canvases for a couple of years. You make do with what you got, lol.

I splurged, maybe. I bought 2 low quality canvases and a pack of 3 canvas boards, and I trudged them through the rest of Chinatown to meet up with a friend. Admittedly I felt tres NYC, in my cork heels with white polka-dots over cornflower-blue fabric, tied around my ankles into a bow. *Flaunt*

After partaking in a hastily rolled joint and a few episodes of The Girls Next Door (not having cable allows me to appreciate the, ah, finer things in life), I got on the train for the long journey home. Drowsy, but not sleepy. I slipped through my doors, kicked off my shoes, lay the bag of canvases down in front of the mirror. I flopped into bed with my eyes closed.

Insomnia kicked in, right on time. Instead of lying still, waiting until the informercials on screen bored me enough to start dozing, I jumped up and poked around for my acrylics. Not wanting to waste hours looking for these paints, I pulled out a metal suitcase, one of those cheesy (this one was pretty hardcore, though) art kits dedicated to blossoming child prodigies. One side housed a rainbow of color pencils and sharpeners, the other displayed markers and a section of watercolors. Shrugging, I decided to try something new. The canvas will not absorb any of the watercolor, but hey, it's been about four years. Let's just play with shading, huh?


This is actually a color piece, in shades of pink, orange and yellow; there is also a watermark over the image. I'm too shy, or untrusting, to show you the real thing. Cheers :)


I stayed up till 6am dabbing at the canvas, reacquainting myself with the way colors formed when you layered purple over orange, pink over yellow. I didn't take this drawing seriously, because it was kind of a tester. Too bad it came out so nice.

It didn't feel the same for me, for many reasons. One, it was done on the floor of my tiny, dirty room. The carpet made a home in my ass, leaving wonderful imprints that took 2 days to disappear, deep after 3 hours of sitting. I had no easel, no chair. Two, it was done with watercolor and not acrylic; the colors faded dramatically after being laid down, the details withdrew and had to be layered heavily.

Most importantly, there wasn't the same level of release. I know why art doesn't do it for me anymore. I grew up, but my methods didn't update to reflect it.

Cause I'm doing better now, don't mean I never lost shit
I was married to a state of mind and I divorced it

Before, my release came from the joy in creation. I never knew what I was going to end up with when I first touched the pencil to the surface. My thoughts found a stillness that could not be emulated with drugs, sex, or sunlight. There was a different kind of focus that zeroed in on the line, the direction, the diagonal, the form; thus, the end product carried a delicious satisfaction, no matter how finished the drawing was. More often than not, it would remain a rendering, that was its final answer.

Even with my blogs, my poetry, my writing -- I'd dive in without outline, theme or character. I wouldn't look up or breathe until the bowels of my mind emptied. And the outcome was always amazing.

I lived that way. I dove in without pattern, plan or glance towards consequence. I merely lived, focused on the journey more than the destination, and ended up happy wherever I ran out of breath. While I still have that tendency, life is proving to me that I can no longer continue doing what I do. I have to have steps now. A goal to focus on.

I realized when painting that watercolor sketch that there wasn't the same level of satisfaction in the process. I was disgruntled, my hands tried to take the image into too many directions, I ended up doing too much and ruining the piece without finishing it first. There was no linear Blank to my thoughts, no escape, no relief. It became a project I wasn't ready for. I realized that I needed something more concrete -- a photo to work off of, to build off of, to remix. However, I know that I don't want to simply imitate someone else's image. I want to set up my own scenes, my own backgrounds, my own stories. My own human still lifes. And then I will paint them. I will give myself guidelines.

I do love how the sketch came out. There's nothing more I can do to it, because my mind has run out of suggestions. It is perfect the way it is. However, it is still incomplete, and that leaves me feeling unsettled. I have no more room for open endedness in my life, it's time to upgrade myself.

Karma?

I met this wonderful boy yesterday; we slipped into a conversation and left the building together. He was very skinny and full of wit; he had an easy personality that carried an undertow of No Bithchassness, automatically drawing you into his presence. It was his birthday that night. He was freshly legal, and he had no plans.

We took a walk around the area, he filled me in on his life. By 21, he was a retired model that had travelled the states. He had copious affairs and many heartbreaks, he is fiercely religious and the type that finds extroardinary beauty in the ordinary things. He currently works for one of the top companies in the media industry. Though he has been living on his own since 13 -- his mother kicked him out when she found out he was gay, and he's found ways to support himself luxuriously -- he now has next to nothing. He lives in an SRO (single room occupancy -- aka, shelter), and doesn't have much money to his name. His smile, however, remains infectious, his optimism unbreakable. His chin stays in the air, eyelashes splayed prettily with indifference.

We were standing at the counter of a pharmacy waiting for his medication. While explaining his most recent relationship, his voice broke. "When I found out about my status--" my brow raised -- "everything changed." The edges of his eyes tinged with emotion, he regained his composure and told me the rest of his story. He had HIV. Yet, the way he caught it had nothing to do with his homosexuality. It wasn't from when he worked for an escort service either, they require monthly testing and are adamant about protection. No, his story, it seemed, was more of an ironic twist of fate.

He was making a sandwhich at work. He cut his hand with the knife. At that same instant, he heard a BOOM! in the stairwell. He ran towards the sound and saw his friend lying on the floor in a puddle of blood. In sheer reaction he grabbed him, stayed with him until the ambulance came. A few days later he got a phone call from the hospital asking him to come in for testing, they had some news.

Hm.

Is there such thing as coincidence? The way my life has turned out, I've come to doubt magical "accidents." Even here, I feel that the timing of it was too uncanny.

It's only been a few months since he found out. He accepted my offer to a birthday drink, so we continued our conversation over Apple Martinis and curry chicken. His spirit may have cracked at times, but his will remains whole. He was telling me his countless blessings -- his best friend had returned from Iraq and was there to surprise him for his birthday; his mother had recently accepted his lifestyle and they'd formed a strong friendship; he met the president of the company (THE company!) he worked for face to face -- that strengthened his faith in life.

Even the way we met, on the night of his 21st, seemed planned. Our transition into... friendship, for lack of a better term, was too fluid for it not to be.

I'm wondering what his role in my life is, or vice versa. I'm itching to write his story, but I know that that's not the reason our paths crossed. I don't know how long I will keep in contact with him, and it seems our connection has already faded after the night we met -- I feel nothing inside me saying that we are to be solid in each others worlds. He lost his keys the night he met me, and I hope that isn't a sign of bad things to come.

Either way, I look forward to finding out why the stars aligned us. Stay tuned.

Stunned

My boy, whos been in Afghanistan since April, just caught me on aim. We had a very brief, passionate affair six years ago. He dropped out of high school and weve barely spoke since. I found out he was going to the army through an acquaintence. My heart broke when he told me. It's been years.

We had a very long, hard talk. I'll write about it all later. It's just a little too much to take in right now.

My.

It's not that

I'm a writer that suddenly forgot how to write...

Shoot. I'm an artist. Point blank. I'm good at what I do, whether it's painting, shading, or writing poetry. Depending on my level of necessity, I express in different ways.

I may not be able to string together a poem as effortlessly and as potently as I used to, but I've definitely been itching to pick up that brush for a while now. A few days ago, I spit out the most amazing pencil drawing I've done in a very, very long time. It made me hungry for more.

And maybe when I need something bigger, I'll pick up a dance class. I know I have the ability, I just haven't been taught. A few months ago, I realized that I could really, really move; now I am more in tune with my hips and thighs than ever before. Once (if) that realization of self transfers over to the shoulders, I'm going to kill this.

I've been frustrated because I've found myself turned off by all my previous methods of release -- sex, cigarettes, weed, even food -- that I felt I had no more outlet.

Well, shit. Welcome back. Art was the first talent I recognized, the first I dedicated myself to honing. Since elementary school, all the way to my senior year of high school, that was my baby. She's full grown now, and I've had to let her go for a while. I had affairs, I dove into other forms of expression to replace her, but I think it ultimately comes back to this. Theres a comfort that settles over me when I drown myself into a drawing. It's like...

Well, it's like coming home.