A Day Off

I didn't go to work. Instead, I went to school on a day that the sun, though not visible, tormented. My goal was to start my research paper. There was no shade around so I parked my car under a blinding, flourescent, yellowish-white patch of nothing else. I finished "Passing," by Nella Larsen, then drove off in search of a tree. Once I found it I felt quenched. I sat for a while to watch young students passing by. I wasn't quite ready to make that transformation.

Later, I walked into the cafeteria and blended in. It must have been the Pumas, bookbag, and water bottle. Either way, I knew I was one of the oldest. A 20-something year old passed me in a Misfits t-shirt with a smirk on his face. It reminded me of those days when I thought I knew everything. He went back to his corner where the other gothic/punk rockers wore black. They were probably tormented, too.

Right now I'm in a computer lab. The blinds are closed to keep all the machines from overheating. I wonder when this heat wave will pass, so I can go home.

Weekend Rain

I was angry Friday night. I cried until it actually rained outside. It hasn’t stopped. First drizzle, then plain rain. Afterwards a downpour. Now it’s giant droplets that keep banging sporadically against my air conditioner. Loud as guns. The cars drive by in waves washing away dirty streets. Maybe I can stick my feet out of the window and wait for the coming tide. That could be a relief until Monday's weather.

My Neighbor

My neighbor came over to say hello. Me being the industrious gal that I am I asked him to help me lift up my mattress in order to place a freshly washed bedskirt on the boxspring. It's such a waste of time anyway because I have hardwood floors and the dustballs form in a matter of seconds after I sweep. They manage to cling on to the cotton, so I have to wash the darn thing all over again. But if I don't have a bedskirt, you'll be able to see the boogie-dust monster underneath and he likes his privacy. Now this neighbor of mine tends to drop by unannounced, which is probably not proper etiquette for a gentleman trying to impress a lady. Maybe I'm no lady... I just assume all men try to impress (anything in a [bed]skirt) as best they can, so of course he complied with my request. We are both standing against the wall of the bedroom/living room that is a complete mess thanks to my bright idea of Spring cleaning on NY's first gorgeous weekend. I straighten out the sheet. Then he grabs my arm and kisses me on the cheek. Really he was shooting for my lips...twice! You can imagine the shock. I took a wild guess and asked in between giggles, "I thought you were seeing someone?" Much to my surprise he responded, "I am." What the ^&*%(!? He apologized about 7 times before he left my apartment. Did I give him some kind of signal that says, hey I'd like someone with a girlfriend (of 4 years!) to f*** me tonight?" Jeeez. Maybe he's no gentleman...

D-n-B

If we are all but
dreams
and bones,
then why must
an awakening
break them
both?

Drifting

Lately I find myself drifting from dream state to altered states to reality to reality television to driving long distances to daydreaming to fighting sleep to crunching numbers to falling in love to falling out of love to finding past loves to avoiding the future to sunsets to moon gazing to outer space to my-very-own-space to blogging or just reading what writers won’t say to struggling with words to drifting like a piece of broken wood that was once a sailboat on a windless sea.

V

"Remember, remember, the fifth of November,
The gunpowder treason and plot.
I know of no reason why the gunpowder
treason should ever be forgot." - V

I need to learn how to throw knives.

We’ve Got the Jazzzzzzzz

I think I've got the jazz. Though, I always appreciated its smooth, complex sound; the way it coats a soul with ease and pizzazz and all the blues of spirits so profound, it was far and away. Oh but I'm slowly coming around. I feel connected in this newness as if I had been crooning all along. The players from the past speak to me. So much so, that recently, I was compelled to answer back. I did something wild. I formed a jazz quartet and – we’ve all got it now. The group wants to explore and expand on this art form. They want to be decent and honor the greats. Me? I just want to understand, not only the sound, but what is behind or underneath. The blueprints - to keep getting it for a while.

"We've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz, we've got the jazz" - A Tribe Called Quest (1995 album A Low End Theory)

A Model Confession

While I'm engrossed in the silly catfights and self-important tirades of a Misssszz Tyra wanna-be-Oprah Banks on a certain model "reality" show, a lot of awkward insecurities settle in between commercials. Why couldn't I have luscious lips or dreamy blue eyes? Why couldn't I have naturally tanned, flawless skin or striking cheekbones? Why couldn't I have long, lean legs or flowing, fluid locks? Why can't I get paid to travel, pose, wear fabulous clothes that cost more than my car, drink, chain smoke, date rockers & actors, totally drop my last name, quit eating, get caught snorting coke & still have a career?! Maybe it sounds glamorous, but beautiful? I wonder why those silly thoughts ever enter any woman's mind. There has to be more to "the struggle" than aesthetics. Not that it's impossible for model-wannabees to worry about deeper issues. I also don't want to imply that I don't care about looking my best every damn day. But, these girls are so lost in ego, airtime, fame. They think little of anything else... or so it seems and this attitude extends outside of the fashion industry. There is a Look-at-ME generation brewing. After an episode, I usually come to the same conclusion. I got other sh*t to worry about on "the inside." Now that's a tricky business because there's a lot of work to be done there. It's a different kind of "beautiful" I'm aiming for, I suppose. One that will hopefully matter long after that show is cancelled.

The B&M Theory

My old friend "Mark" and I came up with this theory today...

Men are focused when they're young because all they want is to have sex. The mission is clear. Get laid - Next, please. Now what they do to achieve this goal is how they play the game. And oh what a dirty game it is. When they get older, the mission gets a little fuzzy. Why? Because they realize they're getting too old. It's time to think about settling down, but they don't want to lose their freedom. So the game is peppered with some genuine confusion and more sex. A battle brews within. To commit or not to commit. "Argh, I need a beer...and more sex."

For women it's ass backwards. When they're young they are soooo confused. "I want to have fun. No I don't, I want a boyfriend. I want to get married. No I don't, I just want to sleep with you and have my independence, but love me and only me. I'm cool. I'm afraid. I'm in love after a week." They tell men they can handle anything, but ultimately, sex = love. End of story. There's no separating the two. Now when women get older, they know what's up. They know what they want. There is no time for games. So they start playing the game. Lie, manipulate, even watch sports on Sunday just to get that damn ring. And yes, sex still = love.

This is stuff you already know and doesn't necessarily apply to everyone. "Mark" and I just had fun talking about men versus women and vice versa (that wasn't too confusing). It was also fun thinking we were cool because we called it "a theory." Lastly, it's purely based on our own observations and experiences.

We hooked up once. See if you can guess what that means and how it turned out...

Don't Hate the Player

Attention all males in your thirties. I need to know. Why are you still playing games? This question I pose is not an angry one or inspired by such. Although, just between you, me, and the lamppost, I have been known to express frustration by spontaneously overflowing with powerful emotion (thank you Mr. Wordsworth) after a heartbreak. Seriously, can anyone tell me what the deal is about dating? The old enough guys are so anxious and confused. Ay-ya-yay. I’ve been talking to someone, who I think is interested. It’s sad that I have to use the word “think” even though he practically molested me 2 weeks ago. This incredibly passionate kiss I received threw me for a loop. It was delicious, but probably not meant to have deeper meaning. In fact, I'm pretty sure he's unsure about getting involved. Last night I got the “I’m checking in” phone call. He nonchalantly mentioned some past relationships (as a warning to me of what not to do), let me know that he was “taking it easy” (from now on), name-dropped some girl-friends (or girlfriends, who the hell knows), asked me what I was doing this weekend (he wants to see me), etc... The game was cute for about a minute. Mostly it was tiresome. What is so scary about getting to know one good woman?! Maybe I'll just concentrate on the kiss. There, done.

Dancing Fools

What is it about the rhythms and melodies of a good house track or flamenco piece that enlightens and moves? I'm alive when I'm dancing. It's as fullfilling as reaching the peak of a mountain in Colorado or Austria or Nepal. Ok maybe not, but certainly there's a sense of liberation. Exhiliration. Butterflies. Take my parents for instance. They are pretty devoted to each other. Since they began ballroom dancing, however, something changed. It happens every time there hands touch. I can see it... they soar. Though their dance is to a different rhythm with a very different melody, I'm sure they feel much like I do when I just can't stop. It's love, baby, love.

Me and...

I don't want to wait to do this
living. I just walk around. I
want to be swept off my feet,
you know? I want my children
to have magical powers. I am
prepared for amazing things
to happen. I can handle it.

- Richard, "Me and You and Everyone We Know" 2005 film

Friends Like These

Suprisingly, Valentine's Day was quite lovely. My dad text messaged me while I was at work for the first time ever! He wished me a happy one and told me he loved me. Being the sap that I am, I teared up some. Then Ritz, who serves double duty as sister & best friend, sent me an e-card with a most beautiful note. After hearing all the "aaahhhs" and "ooohhhs" from the braggers at work receiving flowers, I felt content with my gifts. When I left work I was unsure of how the evening would play out. The color of the sky was almost flourescent over a sea of cars on the highway. On the verge of darkness. Then the phone rang. My darling uncle invited himself over to help me shovel snow. He brought flowers and took me out to a new Hibachi restaurant. I think it was an an attempt to change my sullen mood. Why so sad? Well, the day before I had canceled on a few romantic interludes with a gentleman. I guess you can say we were or are or were dating. The problem is I have known for some time that he isn't "the one" (sorry...for lack of a better term). It's weird how these realizations about people happen at lightening speed in your 30's. I'm fine with my decision... just beaten up by this whole dating thing or maybe it's the snow... my back hurts from shoveling 3 days in a row. Gotta love those city plows. Anyway, my uncle and I ate like kings and laughed like queens. It was the best. During that time I received calls from my mom, my cool cousin "John," & another best friend, "Elizabeth." Ok, I have a lot of best friends, so sue me.

Tonight, I am sipping a really sweet 2000 merlot from Strong Island in preparation for my little jazz project. It's delicious and as that warm sensation caresses me, I wonder if I can make it through another irrelevant holiday. Of course I can with friends like these.

A Woman Scorned

Women often find themselves in a precarious position when they fall in love. They are lead by their hearts, which have been entrusted to someone else, so they spend a whole lot of time making sure it's well preserved, still beating, alive. This can lead to some pretty whacky behavior. When that someone else begins to slip away, there's a sense of urgency. A code black. The heart stops and then how does one breathe? I know a woman very dear to me, "Maria," who is scorned. My advice to her was to forget the ex-love and move on. She has, but they continue to be "friends." Then I discovered that he sends text messages asking for forgiveness. "Maria" won't budge. How could she? He runs errands or does special favors in hopes of winning back affection. She won't budge. How could she? He calls her when he's had too much to drink to profess his undying devotion. Still, she won't. The problem is Maria reads the messages, accepts the favors, & takes the calls. I believe the love has ended. After so many years of waiting & working, "Maria" simply gave up and became hardened by the experience. He's under a more optimistic impression. So in truth, the moving on part is a work in progress. It is not easy to walk away. To let go when the someone else carried your heart, your prized possession, and gave it back to you all broken. My judgment was harsh, I think, and I am a little more understanding of her struggle. I suppose I had forgotten what that was like... mending what is broken. Lately, I date men without giving mine up. How could I?

An Old Wound

I never thought about blogging before nor did I understand its purpose. Then, of course, the unexpected happened. An old wound opened up a new door. And like some cruel ghost that only rattles chains when you sleep, this man that I might have loved, "the old wound," sent me his link. So here I am with virtually nothing to say except that I've read his words.

Lately, I check to see if there are any new entries. There are. I won't read anymore. I move quickly into someone else's and do it vehemently because I know he doesn't really exist. Only when I sleep.