tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-312553282024-03-07T18:47:31.861-05:00The Shpammy PagesBambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.comBlogger52125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-92037215473557776142008-04-26T22:40:00.032-04:002008-04-28T00:10:13.398-04:00A DialogueShe tried to leave this morning. She woke up in his bed at 8 a.m., climbed over him in the darkness, got dressed, washed her face, gargled with his mouthwash to avoid the furry teeth feeling that she hates, then went into his room to find her lip gloss and to drink some water, with every intention of slipping out. She stood by the side of the bed, right near his pillow, drinking, because that’s where the glass was. Maybe part of her wished he would wake. As she drank, she contemplated waking him -- should she kiss him good bye and lie to him that she’d see him later? Or should she just go? Go and let him wonder where she was? Go and let him wonder, and don’t ever come back? <br /><br />She thought, this is the perfect opportunity to leave and never come back. All this mess of feelings and yearnings and sadness, all this mess of love. She could just close the book on him. She’d never have to tell him what was going on in her head that morning, never have to ‘flesh out’ all the bad things that were eating away at her, like, why didn’t you invite me to your sister‘s birthday party, was it because you didn’t really want me to go, because you didn’t really want to introduce me to your sister, even when you said you did, and why were the sheets on your bed all crumpled like you had had sex in them recently even though I haven’t been over since Sunday, and why is it that sometimes I look at you and I have no idea who you are? If she had left just then, without waking him, she would never have to trouble him with that discussion, would never have to really figure out what was going on in her own head and in her heart and actually formulate full sentences for another human being to understand or be upset by. She’d never have to speak, if she left. Now. Not ever explain her very real feelings in this ‘trial’ relationship that would, without fail, end. Soon. With luck, perhaps today.<br /><br />She is the horse that rears at the first sign of trouble. Rears, shrieks and runs. <br /><br />Unfortunately for her, the rest of humanity, the course of human history, and her own, he awoke. He opened his eyes, reached for her, kissed her bare thigh. “Where you goin’, J? Are you leavin’?” he said, through the heaviness of sleep. Her heart skipped, then cowered in its cage. <br /><br />“Yes.”<br />“Why?”<br />“I just feel like I should.”<br />He paused to wake, and then understood. <br />“Come 'ere, stupid.”<br />“No, I really think I should go.”<br />“You’re not going anywhere. Come here, lie down next to me.”<br /><br />Reluctant, she curled up beside him in the space between his outstretched arm and his chest. “Tell me what’s going through your head.”<br />“Do I have to?”<br />“Yes. You’re not leaving until you tell me what’s happening. Then you can go.”<br />“But that’s why I’m leaving - so I don’t have to talk about it.”<br />“If you’re leaving because you have to work something out for you, then that’s fine. I understand it and I respect it. But if you’re leaving because you need to work something out that has anything to do with me, then you have to stay and talk to me about it."<br />She stared at his left nipple. Bit her lip.<br />"In fact, I think it would be good for you to be forced to hang out with me for the rest of the day.”<br />“The rest of the day??”<br />“Yes. The rest of the day. Punishment for trying to leave early in the morning without saying good-bye.”<br /><br />He took her hand. His hands were always warm and dry and just slightly rough, like he’d been working outside with trees. She noticed now that they felt like her father’s hands, and maybe that meant something weird or secret or hidden, but still, his hands comforted her. They tell her she is being held by a strong man.<br /><br />“So? Tell me.”<br />“No.”<br />“Tell me.”<br />Silence.<br />“You’re not leaving until you tell me.”<br />More silence.<br />“Jesus Christ, J, how am I supposed to figure this out if you don’t talk?”<br /><br />She sat up. Glared at him. Made little fists with her hands and curled her mouth into a pout. Sent him looks of death. <br /><br />“J, you can leave if you have to, but I promise you‘ll regret it.”<br />“I can’t tell you.”<br />“Why not.”<br />“Because I don’t want to talk about it.” <br /><br />But then, maybe she did. Maybe she had to. “I don’t want to talk about how I feel like a burden to you when you’re supposed to be figuring your shit out and having fun and doing whatever the hell you want to. Or how you should just be carefree and you shouldn’t have somebody like me weighing you down.” <br /><br />Her jaw tensed. “I don’t want to talk about how I am constantly wondering where you are and what you’re doing and who you’re with and worrying about why we’re not connecting and whether we’ll ever connect again and I don’t want to burden you with this... this having to talk about shit when you’re not supposed to have to deal with it. That’s what I don’t want to talk about and that’s why I’m leaving, because its my shit, not yours.” She started to stand but he pulled her down, down to his chest, where her head always finds a comfortable place to rest, and he wrapped his arm around her neck.<br /><br />“J.” He petted her head. “You’re not a burden at all. I want to be here with you. If I didn’t want to, I would’ve said something. There are times when I've told you that I need my own time, that I need space. But I‘ve been honest with you every step of the way.”<br /><br />Her feet squirmed. But her cheek was on his bare skin, which was smooth and cool and so she couldn’t lift herself away from it.<br /><br />“There are times when we don’t connect. But when we do, it's incredible." He paused, as if carefully choosing his next words. "And J, you’re kinda young when it comes to this ’love’ stuff. I bet you’ve gotten really good at running away. And you’re probably not used to having a guy sit through this with you, but I’m not going anywhere. I’m just here, observing and enjoying you.”<br /><br />She sat up again and looked him straight in the eye. This was the crux of it, this thing she was about to say. This was the live or die moment. Surely once she said this he would throw her out and not want to have anything to do with her ever again. <br /><br />“There are times when I look at you and I think I don’t know you at all.”<br /><br />He didn‘t flinch. Her heart sank - he seemed perfectly unfazed. “You never know anyone, J. It takes a lifetime. You’ll be sitting next to your wife of ten years at dinner and all of a sudden she’ll say something about how she and her friends had been in an orgy together so many years ago and you’ll say, 'gaddamnit I didn’t know that. Hell, we’d better have one tonight.'”<br /><br />She giggled. He stared at her with his clear blue eyes. His mouth looked hard. “You learn a person, J, you learn all the time. One minute you think you know somebody and the next minute they turn around and they’re completely different or they’ve changed in some drastic way and it's not always for the better. But you just observe and let it happen, because that’s what people do. They change. And you have to let them do that.”<br /><br />He gave her hand a wiggle. “Stick around a little longer and just let it be. Stop freakin’ out.” <br /><br />She couldn’t look at him. It was too much to be told these things. Her heart, beating in its little cage, knew the door was open should it want to escape, but it was utterly incapable of taking that step. <br /><br />She breathed a long, deep breath and settled in to his body, lying so solidly next to hers. Perhaps she is the horse that rears at the first sign of trouble, but eventually even horses stop rearing.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-37965597309867186552008-02-05T22:28:00.000-05:002008-02-06T09:25:35.240-05:00The Boys' ClubI remember that last summer in yellow – not a sunny yellow, but the pale yellow of twilight. It’s the yellow of a Nuprin commercial, where the background is mostly black and white. It’s a jaundiced yellow - one that says there is something inescapable looming in the distance.<br /><br />I was seven and had two friends: my brother and the neighborhood kid that lived down the street, Patrick H. Since my two best friends were boys, we spent many a free afternoon doing boy things outside: played with Matchbox cars, staged massive ninja fights, threw Frisbees, pretended we were perishing in a swamp of boiling hot lava, poured salt on slugs… It never occurred to me that other little girls had girl best friends or how that might be different. The few girl friends I had were not half as exciting as my big brother and Patrick H. <br /><br />Patrick lived in a small house with his parents and a Dalmatian called Lucky. His attic was haunted – I knew, and feared. Across the street from Pat’s was a three-story white house with fake geese in the yard, the residents of which no one had ever seen. The only evidence that it was inhabited came to us from a window on the top floor which overlooked our yard. Awakened by our hooting and hollering, a hand occasionally emerged from the darkness within to separate the white curtains hanging in the window. The burn of invisible eyes peering down on us from above was enough to provoke a quick retreat to the house, even if the only thing to do was watch the Love Shack video on MTV. <br /><br />The three of us passed most of the time at our house. This was in part because of Patrick’s haunted attic. It was also due to his proximity to the white house with fake geese which, I swear, moved when you weren’t looking. Since we lived at the end of Dow Street, we also had a paved, open turnaround for a driveway. The turnaround: a vast, deserted track for the Bicycle Grand Prix (training wheels permitted, to my utter relief). <br /><br />One especially hot summer day, Patrick suggested that we turn the Bicycle Grand Prix into a new game. Patrick was older and towered over both of us so it made sense that he made up the games (although Boiling Hot Lava sprung from my brother’s brilliance). I regarded Patrick with the awe one reserves for celebrities: he was, after all, a middle-schooler and I, a mere mortal in the 3rd grade, armed with over-sized pink glasses and an eye-patch. I remember desperately seeking Patrick’s approval. Mostly, however, I just felt left out from the Boy’s Club of which I was both an Integral Member and Founder. <br /><br />According to Patrick, Spit Wars went like this: ride as fast as humanly possible without crashing and as soon as your opponents are in view, hawk the biggest loogy imaginable on your opponent. By the end of the game, whoever is wettest loses. I was intrigued – the genius! <br /><br />The pavement was hot and gummy beneath our bike tires. I gripped the handlebars of my pink Huffy. Its tassels began to sway in the wind as I peddled. My training wheels clicked on the road, then spun in midair on the release. We drove in circles, picking up speed second by whirring second. Now with training wheels barely grazing the ground, the scenery blurred to a frenetic green, the pink smear of my bike tassels horizontal in the wind. I saw Patrick approaching in the distance, eyes focused on me. A duel was coming my way, and fast. I swallowed hard, feeling the hairs on the back of my neck bristle. As he drew closer, Patrick’s mouth shaped a round ‘oh’ and the muscles in his neck contracted, head tilting back and then forward again. As if in slow motion, the wet, hot lump that burst from his lips came closer, and closer, growing bigger and bigger with each passing moment, until it finally struck my left cheek with the force of a jet engine – a hit! I cringed from the impact, then zoomed around again, screaming with anticipation. <br /><br />This went on for what seemed like hours. By twilight, I was a soppy sponge, a yellow-spotted jellyfish, a walking ectoplasm. My Mother must have cried in panic at the creature that replaced me. By far the wettest, I had lost miserably. Disembarking from my steed, the smell of other people’s saliva and the sticky sloshing of my clothes made me queasy. I gingerly shuffled back to the house in the dying sunlight, and tried to keep my clothes from suctioning to my skin. This is what defeat felt like: sticky, smelly… inevitable. <br /><br />Grasping my pink Huffy bike by my side, I cursed my femaleness. Integral Member and Founder of the Boy’s Club, yes, but equal? Never! The missing ingredient to my Membership, found! I wept mercilessly. The insurmountable problem of gender had finally revealed itself: I was, in fact, a girl. <br /><br />And I hadn’t enjoyed Spit Wars. Not one bit. I didn’t like being covered in other people’s spit, and I definitely didn’t like losing. I wondered how these boys would fare at girl games. The unfairness of it all made my belly hurt.<br /><br />I stopped at the steps before our front door and glanced back. The remaining Members of the Boys Club had moved on down the street. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the plastic garden geese in the yard across from Patrick’s house. They had moved – I knew it. No, something else had moved – the curtains in that third story window. <br /><br />I squinted. Was that a hand? I noticed my heartbeat – it pumped harder now. I stood alone in the twilight, and the being in the darkness had been watching me. I swallowed. I ran the back of my hand across my cheeks to wipe away the streaks from my tears. I pushed the kickstand to the ground, and let the head of the Huffy lean to one side. <br /><br />With cautious steps, I ventured to the middle of the lawn and stopped, eyes lowered. Could I really do it? I asked myself. Could I look back? What would happen if it saw me looking? Would it kill me? <br /><br />With great poise, I lifted my chin, my eyes, my spirit, and confronted the being in the darkness. I wondered if she’d forgive me.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-67029990425415638562007-11-24T12:20:00.000-05:002007-11-25T10:43:58.827-05:00The View from NowWhen I was about 16, my Mom informed me that my grandparents had requested we bring them an urn from Thailand. For what purpose, I wondered. Well, they were thinking about dying, and wanted a final resting place for their ashes. <br /><br />I was devastated, and immediately sent them what was probably an inappropriate email in which I asked, "So you're dying? How do you feel about that?" <br /><br />Ten years later, I still have both my grandparents, alive and well as can be expected. My grandfather mentions every so often that they've just lost another friend from the Senior Center and well, her husband used to ride to work with him or they played pool together for a long time. <br /><br />My grandfather is almost 90, survived World War II when so many friends did not, worked hard all his life, and smoked like a chimney for decades. He is on oxygen 24-7, and perhaps is transitioning into the end of all things. It's a curious position to be in, I think. It's one I want to understand through his eyes. How does it feel to know that someday soon that conscious being you've lived with for 90 years is going to up and leave? And that it means you simply will not exist? How does a conscious being comprehend non-existence? I can't. Zero is the closest thing we have and it's still a number. <br /><br />It occurred to me that I don't even know how my Grandfather views death. Maybe he believes in heaven. It seems a relevant piece of information to learn about someone peering into what could be the rest of eternity, or the beginning of nothing. This single belief probably colors every day of the rest of his life. <br /><br />I chanced breeching a sore topic, and asked, "so...what do you think happens when we die?" <br /><br />He says, gruffly, "Blank. Nothing."<br /><br />I pause. Can I ask a follow-up question? "How do you feel about that?"<br /><br />"Well, I suppose if it were any other way, it would just get too crowded wherever we were going."<br /><br />I try to imagine my grandfather as a non-entity. The shell we would witness from here would be like a recently vacated cocoon: empty and, having served its purpose, meaningless. Then I imagine the view from his side: it's dark, his eyes are open, and he's thinking about how dark it is. I erase the image, no, he can't be thinking, he's blank. There's no awareness at all, so you don't need to worry about him, and whether he's comfortable, or alone, or scared. You don't need to worry at all. He's blank. D.N.E. Does Not Exist. Those wrinkles, like trenches down his cheeks, they won't be there anymore. He won't need his glasses. That reverence he has for the Earth is going to end, even as he becomes a part of it.<br /><br />I'd like to ask more questions, though I'm not sure what they are. Often I am sitting across from him remembering that we probably don't have that much time left together; how we spend it should matter. It doesn't. There is love in this room even when we are silent.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-60834310522072806822007-05-21T13:47:00.001-04:002007-05-21T13:48:09.503-04:00Central ParkI hate to break it to you, but:<br /><br />The ducks don't care who is staying at the Ritz-Carlton.<br /><br />It's true. They don't. I'm sorry.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-76496828031267201022007-04-22T23:11:00.000-04:002007-04-23T01:02:47.880-04:00Bikram Yoga Kicked My AssI didn't know Bikram Yoga was the hot one -- the wring-your-body-like-a-wet-rag, sweaty, brutal kind of yoga. I was expecting some light breathing exercises. I walked into the 90-degree studio and thought I was going to die. Half-way into the session I really did think yoga was going to kill me, and when in the end I found I still had a pulse, I felt alive in the way only near scrapes with death can generate. <br /><br />The studio smelled like a dirty jockstrap. This is my one complaint.<br /><br />Otherwise I saw a lot of naked women. It's something I ruminate on from time to time, because I am often in gym locker rooms, and its maybe the one place where us ladies can feel completely ok with public nudity (some more than others). Today, I was, as usual, impressed by the variety of form -- not one of us is the same. Buttocks can be flabby, rounded, down-turned, explosive (?!), flat, fleshy. Bellies can curve inwards or outwards, can have seams, horizontally or vertically, be bony or love-handled, and no two buttons are the same. Skin can be porcelain or pock-marked, dark, light, spotted, hoary or scarred. This body has breasts like hanging gourds; this one, tiny mosquito bites; this one, pink nipples against creamy skin; this one is olive and smooth, Italian maybe, and has the most perfect pair I have ever seen. In such frequency and close proximity, we all seem like motherly cows milling, udders displayed prosaically from our chests, all for the same purpose and of similar design. <br /><br />Nude, sweaty women. I find no sex appeal in it: udders are not sexy. We, women, bodies, serve a purpose. We are but bags of skin; the tupperware of our souls fading and sagging with time. I imagine the male perception of us -- how we are coveted so -- and feel at once exhiliarated and heavy. How many men coveted that one's body, knowing she would one day be so wrinkled, so similar to a topographical map of Earth from space? Where did those scars come from and how many babies have swelled inside of her, stretching, kicking, gaping? What violence has that soft shell had to bend against? <br /><br />Only clothed are we uniform. Fashionistas, we become like male peacocks -- flashy but increasingly similar. Yet, if we were all always featherless, how much coveting would there be? We would be nude cows, prosaic and milling, concentration camp-like. <br /><br />Yet so much of our energy is spent strutting, I think we forget that within our soft shells hides a quiet strength that calmly waits for hardship. This heavily padded, squarish-looking woman next to me is a battleship, yes, armed with melons, warts and cellulite -- a lioness. That the female form can be broken down into a formula for beauty is baffling. We are <span style="font-style:italic;">all</span> beautiful -- each a unique collection of flesh hanging demurely on bone, at the ravenous mercy of gravity, age and experience.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-17266963649271419962007-04-05T21:31:00.000-04:002007-04-05T22:18:13.511-04:00Messenger BagI was happy to find that we are still friends. We're both skinnier than we were back then; learning self-control or learning to let go of it has been good for both of us. Has it really been five years? I stretch my hand halfway across the table and the gulf between us seems smaller than it has in a long time. Its an uncomfortable regret that I hold for you: such a good man. I am guilty of not understanding.<br /><br />What solace though, to see that our little world could rise from its own ashes. I remember writing it off as scorched, fatally, maybe even on purpose because I could think of no creative solution. But I started to see last night that relationships don't need to be finite - that we could evolve, grow together while apart, and return every so often to nurture the spring tendrils of the adults we are becoming. So I stretch my hand across the table to say, I finally see you; I'm sorry it took me so long - it was not until this moment that I had enough light in me to see your reflection.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-18653185512641020372007-03-24T23:30:00.000-04:002007-03-25T14:51:26.413-04:00Weekend with the GramsI walk into the yellow house this morning to the 86-year-old man in the Smith & Wesson cap, leaning out through an open window and peering intently at something undetectable. When he realizes I am in the room his face changes from somber to sunny, and he gives a shout, blue eyes dancing. <br /><br />He walks over to me with his characteristic, bowlegged step, and for a moment I think he is crying at the sight of me, but I throw my arms around him and the image passes. He gives good hugs, my Grandpa does. <br /><br />My Grandmother is trying to make the bed. She is hunched over, shrunken and hobbit-like. She seems smaller than she was the last time I saw her. I wrap my awkward arms around her, and my wrists register every vertebra of her curved spine jutting out through her shirt like a museum dinosaur. I worry whether she will bruise from the embrace -- that I could be the cause of such a blemish means that I underestimated the strength of my own youth, and that it was my youth that trumped one of her fragile vessels to leave a purple, tented mark on her papery skin. Sometimes I think that if I could just hug her enough, it would straighten out her back and she could stand upright again but that would be a cruel and ill-conceived experiment. <br /><br />We lay clean sheets on the bed. I toss them in the air a few times just so I can discretely inhale of their smell -- it reminds me so of being five years old and running through the clothesline in summer. We sit side by side on the chest at the foot of the bed, which is of a dark and smooth wood. We talk about life in the way we do -- witty, light conversation about being 84, having leg pains and the new walker she uses, aptly named 'The Crusader,' which has a nifty hand brake. She turns to me, and the moment our eyes meet I am overwhelmed by that deepest and most incomprehensible of emotions: a silent elation that reaches from my vocal chords clear down to my intestines, and is matched in intensity only by the sheer terror of losing her, which now grips me and in an instant is gone, thankfully, for it might have killed me. <br /><br />I remember reading once in a beginner's psychology book that humans seek the eyes of others for reassurance of our own existence. Also that the pain of separateness is one we constantly fight to overcome, but never can because we are all <span style="font-style:italic;">always</span> just alone. But then I wonder if she could see it in my eyes just now that I love her to pieces; that I have absolutely no words to describe it, can make no sense of it, have no protection against it; that she is as much a part of me as a rib in my chest and as close to my heart.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-73124032481119534192007-01-09T01:08:00.000-05:002007-01-11T00:11:23.780-05:00FictionI come home this evening, in my white collared shirt with pretty sleeves, to my two ladies, Cass and Jenny. Cass takes her usual seat at the table while I heat my ration of this-week’s-concoction and steam broccoli rabe over a pot of boiling water until it turns a rainforest green. I plop it into a bowl with two forks and some butter for me and my Cass to munch on over some conversation.<br /><br />“I’m done with the blues,” Cass exclaims, “I’ve had enough.” <br /><br />I nod in agreement. We crunch more broccoli, I eat my stew, Cass grabs one of the dinner rolls I made last night, and pats it with butter. She says, “I got a gown,” with her eyes carefully focused on the roll, even though I know she’s curious to see the look on my face as she reveals this information.<br /><br />Cass has been thinking about going back to stripping so she can make enough money for this EMT course she really wants to do. It seems absurd, but New York city strip clubs require girls to wear a “gown” to wear for the audition, so Cass went shopping. <br /><br />When Cass talks about her stripping days, I am silently elated. I’m mezmerized by the stories, and the strength that seems to flow from her –- this stoic determination of womanhood that I can never seem to muster. Her comment about stripping is: “I know the true value of female beauty and I know how to make guys pay for it.” Then she declares, “at heart, part of me is just a hustler.” She says it in the same voice and the same Cass face that says she loves nature, and rock-climbing, and dreams of someday being a doctor. And I’m sure she can. She has more integrity than most people I’ve met and I suppose I often put her on a pedestal for being so brave. <br /><br />Jenny has since joined our gathering and asks where Cass has looked so far for clubs to dance in. She lists a few that she’s interested in, mentions one that’s full nudity and I exclaim, “You can do that?!” <br /><br />“Sure... I’ve done it before. I just don’t know if I can do it three days a week, you know what I mean?” <br /><br />No. No, I definitely don’t, I say. <br /><br />“I mean...it's tiring. It’s a very hard position to take –- you have to constantly redefine your boundaries. You want the guys to always believe they are just about to have sex, even though they never will, and maintain a certain unwavering attitude to the whole thing.”<br /><br />I’m amazed, I’m intrigued, and I’m envious of her spirit. She has more than I, no doubt about it. “I think if I ever did that I would be immediately jaded forever – just one time and I’d be ruined. Seems so traumatizing.”<br /><br />Cass throws a sideways glance at me and grins, “You think I’m not jaded?” But I've never thought this of her -- quite the contrary -- of the two of us, I am the non-believer.<br /><br />“So you got a gown,” Jenny reminds us, “Can we see it?”<br /><br />Cass dashes into her room and closes the door behind her. Jenny and I discuss our fascination with Cass’s courage, while underneath we are both dying a little bit because we know we wish we could be that voracious towards life, and somehow can’t. Our eyes join for an uncomfortable second; we have an understanding that neither one of us could do as Cass can and does, and our deep, dark corners hate this about ourselves. <br /><br />The door to Cass’s room swings outwards, and out steps 'Ace,' clad in a red mini-skirted jumpsuit made of some kind of taut, glittering vinyl and chains. The skirt ends just shy of the top curve of her thighs, clings tightly to her buttocks, and ends at the small of her back. The front looks like a series of hoops, joined in the middle with gold links and revealing a muscular torso topped with small, round breasts, that are pressed so tightly into the jumpsuit that they appear solid and cold – like she’s a plastic statue, and she’s not actually real anymore. Black leather straps run up her calves which are harnessed into black and silver stiletto heels – 4 inches tall and thin as needles.<br /><br />I can’t imagine walking in them, much less pole-dancing in them. Cass mutters, "eehh, you get used to it,” and struts through the living room with none of the self-consciousness that I would most certainly feel, in that outfit, in front of an open window at night-time with the streets of Brooklyn spread out before us, not to mention the two gaping ladies at the table with their heterosexual tongues practically lapping the floorboards. Even at the height of female sexuality, Cass still looks like she could hike the Appalachian trail at the drop of a hat – she’s lost none of her masculinity. I’d almost mistake her for a gritty construction worker in really hot drag, if her face wasn't so pretty. <br /><br />She’s quickly becoming an excellent friend. <br /><br />After Cass's fashion show, Jack arrives to borrow my camera. He’s a designer, with upcoming magazine appearances. He’s recently broken up with his boyfriend, and tonight is the first I’ve heard of it. They are both six feet tall, with the kind of hair that you always think is blond but isn’t really. They made a good pair.<br /> <br />Jack comes in with the cold and says abruptly, "I’ve got some pot if you want any," and lifts a white stub from his pocket, “My hands are freezing.” His cheeks are pink under the several-day-old beard that’s new, and sexy on him. He’s grown into a very fine looking man, I think to myself, remembering him as a still awkward teenager in highschool. <br /><br />Jack is my ex-boyfriend, and has always reminded me of the Statue of David. Needless to say, our romantic endeavors were doomed from the beginning, but I admire him often; he, too, is of the ilk that is fearless, and seemingly invincible. In the last few years he’s become darker -- in mind and in body. It gives him an i-don’t-give-a-fuck edge, and I’m fascinated by it in an utterly scientific way. I’d like to study these people –- these fearless people. <br /><br />Jack has a strut, too. His shoulders are broader than they used to be. He seems to fill the room with a vibrant and dominating male energy though he is androgynously sensual. He towers over us, and is boisterous, so we laugh and are happy he stopped by. <br /><br />We don’t get a lot of visitors -- although Rob has been staying with us since he got evicted. Rob is a 30-year-old skaterboy and recovering alcoholic who has relationship issues with his sponsor and his ex-girlfriend whom he calls, “Suffering.” He’s also Jenny’s ex-boyfriend. Apparently, he went home to his apartment one night to find all his earthly possessions sitting in trash bags on the sidewalk at midnight; he’s been squatting with us ever since. He drank half a bottle of my New Years' Captain Morgan in one sitting, probably in one morning, and the next day told me to hide the bottle, “I won’t go searching for it, but if I see it I can’t help myself.” I put it on the top shelf of my closet, and everytime I open the door now I feel like an alcoholic, too. Isn't this what they do? Stash alcohol in unlikely places?<br /><br />He’s a nice guy. I feel sad for him. I understand his predicament, yet am capable of no sympathy. Although being honest with oneself is a difficult and frightening thing, I sort of despise those who shy from it.<br /><br />Jack tells us a bit about his break up, “I’ve been sleeping twelve hours a day and smoking for the last week,” and makes a dull face like it’s making him extremely unhappy. “Why did you break up?" I ask, "You two seemed so good together."<br /><br />He makes me feel very small. I don’t like it much. Around him I distrust my own intuition and I’ve never been able to figure out why.<br /><br />“Just got to a point where I thought, you know what? This isn’t it. So it’s over -- it's gotta be.” He complements this finality with a cutting motion through the air and a tongue-whistle. He has very intense eyes. “So I broke up with my boyfriend and shaved my head this week. I went crazy.” <br /><br />Cass groans, “this really is Heartbreak Hotel here,” and retires to her room, eyes puffy. Last night Cass had stinging, bubbly tears streaming down her face, and the kind of sobs that only come from years and years of loving the one person who doesn’t love you back. I hugged her, and she was hard to the touch -- her body was so tense. In addition to Cass’s and my own troubles, Rob continues to be totally devastated by Suffering, who insists they hang out daily and skate together. She’s not even that cute – he showed me her picture. I think she’s probably evil, to be stringing him along like this. Still, he has no excuse. He could always just say no.<br /><br />But he sort of enjoys addiction, doesn’t he. I guess we all do.<br /><br />I tell Jack my latest woes. His response is strong and definite – kind of like him. I regret it isn’t me though, and remember that I hate advice.<br /><br />Jack takes one last gulp of water and wraps his wooly sweater around him, pulling up the hood of his green sweatshirt so it’s tight around his head. “I’m out,” he declares, and stands up to kiss each of my cheeks. I hug him, and he bends almost halfway over so I can pull my arms around his neck. I wonder if I smell bad, I think, remembering that I forgot to put on deodorant after the gym tonight. But my sleeves are so pretty… it doesn’t really matter.<br /><br />“Let me know how your story unfolds,” he says, though we seldom talk, and we both know I won’t. But as he’s swinging out the door, Jack’s deep blue, earnest eyes flash at me one last time, and with purpose. “Nothing is by accident,” he whispers, and then dashes out the door, brown wool flurries in his wake.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-77333149711890037832007-01-01T17:31:00.000-05:002007-01-02T00:17:42.165-05:00SnapI cut my hands<br />so many times on the knife<br />this morning as i <br />sliced and squeezed a lemon<br />that the pain from its juice<br />in my wounds <br />practically snapped my <br />fingers in two and<br />shot hard angry zaps<br />of lemon zest <br />up my trembling arms.<br />Refreshing.<br />Dull thoughts feel like<br />death sometimes.<br />I'd rather stab <br />promptly dispose <br />of thoughts like these<br />than allow a steady decomposition.<br /><br />Easier said than done.<br />And my hands are still bloody.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-82419846181075301272006-12-19T20:59:00.000-05:002006-12-19T21:09:24.675-05:00PauseI can't write anymore.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-55478211404192216072006-12-09T14:04:00.000-05:002006-12-09T14:20:44.335-05:00A Lil' Bit o'George BerkeleyGeorge Berkeley wrote this beautiful paragraph about perception and existence:<br /><br />"...there is an infinite number of parts in each particle of Matter which are not perceived by sense. The reason therefore that any particular body seems to be of a finite magnitude, or exhibits only a finite number of parts to sense, is, not because it contains no more, since in itself it contains an infinite number of parts, but because the sense is not acute enough to discern them. In proportion therefore as the sense is rendered more acute, it perceives a greater number of parts in the object, that is, the object appears greater, and its figure varies, those parts in its extremities which were before unperceivable appearing now to bound it in very different lines and angles from those perceived by an obtuser sense. And at length, after various changes of size and shape, when the sense becomes infinitely acute the body shall seem infinite. During all which there is no alteration in the body, but only in the sense."<br /><br />I think it applies to objects as much as it does to individuals and our perceptions of them; character, mind, even physical characteristics morph and enhance as our senses become more acutely in tune with an individual's complexities.<br /><br />But this is not his point (I wondered if G. Berkeley ever had a girlfriend?). He goes on to draw the conclusion that:<br /><br />"Each body therefore...is infinitely extended, and consequently void of all shape and figure. From which it follows that... neither the particular bodies perceived by sense, nor anything like them, exists without the mind." <br /><br />BOOM!! <br /><br />(as J.T. say.)Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-1890652738310955252006-12-09T13:08:00.000-05:002006-12-09T14:04:14.152-05:00Ready Or NotSuccessfully completed Week One of this season's Being-A-Grown-Up-At-A-Big-Corporate-Law-Firm. This week I:<br /><br />- Had a free Starbucks Tall Non-fat No-Foam Vanilla Latte<br />- Ice-skated in Rock Center for the first time ever <br />- Attended a private company party complete with open bar, numerologists and a roast<br />- Got a Blackberry (one of 6.2 million, according to Ja) and a firm-issue tote bag<br />- Pulled my first 14-hour day at the office -- one of many to follow, one can only hope ;) <br /><br />As, on the 13th hour, I was printing out a thousand pages of documents we can't recycle, I thought of the article about our generation -- that we are an over-educated group of youngsters that take on jobs that "enable" us to work senselessly long hours at the office. We are also, according to this article, a generation of searchers who continuously skip to new projects and take on various eccentric hobbies until we are suddenly 40 and still haven't decided on what we want to be when we grow up. <br /><br />A little voice says: the easy decision was to do this corporate job -- the challenge would have been to decide what you really wanted and do it, not be afraid of the difficulty in pursuing it, and be the person you really want to be at every moment. But that's hard.<br /><br />Balance balance balance balance.... a concept continuously redefined depending on the length of the increment in consideration.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-40456406194861087532006-12-09T12:27:00.001-05:002006-12-09T12:27:50.829-05:00Trashy New YorkersNew York city produces a lot of waste; 4 pounds per person per day by some measures. With about 8 million inhabitants that makes roughly 16,000 tons of garbage per day!<br /><br />- Find out more at: http://www.treehugger.com/files/2006/12/composting_gree.php#permaBambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-54527006317185708862006-12-03T01:38:00.000-05:002006-12-03T10:11:14.939-05:00All Good ThingsIt's been 49 days since I set foot in New York again, to be here "permanently" in as serious a way as that word can mean for me. In the last three weeks I've found and enjoyed a job, a home, good friends, good family, romance, excellent conversation, some free furniture and even the stoic acknowledgement of the disgruntled Trinidadian man that runs the 99 cents store on the corner. I am reminded, as usual, of how extremely fortunate I am, and I'm waiting patiently for the next distasteful, difficult or disastrous occurence to hit me, as I can't possibly have all these wonderful things for much longer without a bad patch to balance them out.<br /><br />The key, possibly, being balance. So, where are you, and what's it going to be this time?Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-18237650828570494292006-11-28T10:03:00.000-05:002006-11-28T10:18:01.760-05:00DreamLast night I dreamt I was sliding down a steep, rocky hill in a 5-foot camping tent with two geriatrics, a handful of racially distinct strangers, and an old highschool buddy as wave after wave of black, boiling ooze gushed down the slope and propelled us forward; our green vinyl tent careening uncontrollably into a well of thrashing, stormy, dark water. <br /><br />My outstretched hand never caught any of the people outside our tent, who silently melted by as we passed; mouths gaping for breath on the bubbling hillside.<br /><br />I think it's because of how I felt last night when I wrote, "All Bad Things."Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-28843463527026374912006-11-27T23:05:00.000-05:002006-11-28T10:03:02.890-05:00All Bad ThingsThe National Cancer Institute says, "Based on rates from 2001-2003, 41.28% of men and women born today will be diagnosed with cancer...at some time during their lifetime. This number can also be expressed as 1 in 2 men and women will be diagnosed with cancer...during their lifetime." <br /><br />The Center for Health, Environment, and Justice says, "PVC (polyvinyl chloride) plastic, commonly referred to as vinyl, is one of the most hazardous consumer products ever created."<br /><br />Iraq Body Count says that up to 54,000 Iraqi civilians have died due to US military interventions. <br /><br />We're probably making more terrorists. Daily.<br />9/11 was bad. <br />So is global warming, whatever that is exactly. <br /><br />We are all dying.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">And as for my little contribution to this utopia,</span> <span style="font-weight:bold;">TODAY, I:</span> <br /><br />purchased a set of 3 plastic tupperware items; <br /><br />have cancer in my family; <br />did not exercise; <br />savored simple sugars;<br />ate foods that were not locally grown; <br /><br />turned the heat on; <br />rode in a car for about 3 hours; <br />wore clothes produced by garment factories that probably employ unfair labor practices;<br /><br />consumed more resources than I would be allotted if every individual in the world consumed an equal amount; <br />contributed to the growth of a gluttonous world economy; <br /><br />did not spend enough time with my Grandmother; <br /><br />did not write to my Congressman about how irritated I am that we have fucked up so much in Iraq and have forgotten Afghanistan; <br />did not write to my Congressman about how I think we should sign the Kyoto Protocol and enforce it; <br /><br />did not VOTE in the recent elections; <br />did NOT give a dollar to support education; <br />did NOT voice my concerns about Sudan; <br /><br />did NOT decide to be a doctor in developing nations; <br />did NOT enroll in a Masters program to learn about public health or the environment;<br /> <br />Signed up to work at a corporate firm that may eventually or perhaps currently does support projects that:<br /> <br />create products nobody needs but must be convinced they do; <br /><br />engender further dependence on oil; <br /><br />facilitate the extraction of oil and its derivatives perhaps even on protected land thus killing the local endangered wetland reptiles that nobody cared about until we got there; and last but not least,<br /><br />perpetuate the eventual though gradual demise of the human race through various unintended means such as: pumping harmful pollutants into the air, disrupting local markets, destabilizing communities, indirectly causing youths to move to cities where they inevitably become intravenous drug users and prostitutes without contraceptive methods who contract HIV and pregnancy so our population booms to an even seven billion and strains our already stretched resources, causing a rise in civil strife, violence, and possibly even war; and, <br /><br />I will continue to feel guilty about these things tonight and maybe even tomorrow and the rest of my life. And I have no idea what I can do about most of them. At least not now. Do you?Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-41213944906374211962006-11-19T22:58:00.000-05:002006-11-20T09:56:03.482-05:0025I am 25 today. (!!). Time coasts by. <br /><br />I'm trying to remember what happened between 20 and 25, and its difficult. Childhood too, is a blur of rice paddy, skyscraper and autumn; brick buildings, soccer, cows and beggars; storms, swimming, heat, singing. A little bit of death. I'm a girl of 6 standing in front of a brown Volvo; I have shiny brown hair and a purple backpack, and my cheeks are the same color as my pink Carebear shirt. But this I know only from a picture and I have no idea what those big brown eyes are trying to tell me. I was once this creature -- half my current size and cute. <br /> <br />Today, I have this halting thought: I'm a quarter of the way through, which means there's three more to go... how exactly am I doing? This is more than just important -- its my one chance -- the only life that matters. Have I spent my time here wisely? <br /><br />I treat this topic as if I am a visitor in this life, yet I cannot fathom any life but this one. I become a third person observer stealing glimpses of myself, then remember that there is no third person -- there is only me and I am the protagonist in all these visions, yet have no other vantage point from which to observe. <br /><br />My third person self says, "Be Excellent," and then, "Be Excellent to Yourself." And I try. I think I have done well so far, with this whole living thing.<br /><br />I imagine this conversation will be very different at 40.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-18676898079158302032006-11-19T21:36:00.000-05:002006-11-19T21:40:56.638-05:00Liver BiscottiA local treasure:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/2848/3815/1600/642039/Dogtreats.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/x/blogger2/2848/3815/320/531769/Dogtreats.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><br />Note that these delicate morsels are:<br /><br />- Baked from scratch<br />- All natural, and;<br />- Contain no preservatives.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-47017825026700916182006-11-16T10:35:00.000-05:002006-11-16T10:37:09.659-05:00Friendster Horoscope IIIt's more than really dumb that I am paying attention to this right now, at a time when I have more important things to think about, however, can I just say that the horoscopes on Friendster are frighteningly on point? Today, I decide on a job for my next two years of existence. This is what Friendster had for me today:<br /><br />Making decisions may be hard for you today, but this doesn't mean that you're losing your razor-sharp discernment. One explanation could be rattled confidence -- why are you doubting yourself right now? You need to give yourself a good long look in the mirror! Remind yourself that you can't stop moving forward in your life just because you've made one or two mistakes. If you can't make a choice, then just make an educated guess. You can handle the outcome -- and thrive.<br /><br />Excellent.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-79405714744139295822006-11-10T21:00:00.000-05:002006-11-10T21:01:21.532-05:00HoroscopeThis is what my horoscope said today, and it was very, very accurate: <br /><br />If you've been losing confidence in your intuitive powers, you can stop worrying! Your faith will be restored by an unusual development later in the day. When it happens, consult your gut one more time, and check in with yourself about what you're thinking and how you're feeling. Either your mind is changing, or your gut is. The two will come together with the right answer and a smart plan. You are getting back to defining your own destiny.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-52309696965759581722006-11-07T21:23:00.000-05:002006-11-08T08:50:30.142-05:00Dimples and DirtI told Jon that I liked his name, and that it reminds me of dirt. <br /><br />I shot him a worried glance when I realized I had probably just insulted him -- "You remind me of dirt!" -- the sort of taunt a playground six year old would use. But he understood what I meant. It’s the kind of name I feel like I can dig my hands into, deep, deep down into the earth; maybe plant some roots there.<br /> <br />He’s very perceptive, Jon is. He asked me outright one day, about me, about why I act the way I do sometimes. It was hard to find the words, hard to be honest; its been so long since there was someone I had to be real with. The part of me that laid dormant beneath layers of logic, adventure, happiness, and adulthood now bubbles awkwardly to the surface. I fumbled, blushed, felt glad we were on the phone and not in person, then secretly wished we were in person, then decided not, again. <br /><br />I seldom meet men who have balance the way he does. He is both light and dark; intelligent but inquisitive; ambitious, with a touch of humility. It's lucky too, that he's not shy with his feelings. For one virtually incapable of letting down my walls, he's like the vine that slowly cracks mortar, and crumbles stone to dust. <br /><br />I'm terrified.<br /><br />So the question now is...if it wasn't Jon, who put up that comment about my dimples?!Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-90498039521880502302006-11-05T18:05:00.001-05:002006-11-06T08:25:50.269-05:00The Unruly Bag of QuestionsTalking to people these days is terrible. The ones who are still bright-eyed and bushy tailed about earth and how it works are the toughest; I carry my cynicism like a badge. I can tell that sometimes I strike chords I’m not supposed to, and curiously enough, I am often trying to defend what I believe in, which essentially is the breakdown of hope and possibility. Does it mean I have forgotten myself? Given up? Maybe. Or maybe this is simply a cycle, and I am on the underbelly of a shadow. Essentially I forgot what it means to have hope. Or don’t have the guts to trust hope. <br /><br />I heard a story today about a guy my age who is creating a community library in a village in India – from scratch. And I heard another about a girl my age who set up education centers for village kids in India, to teach country boys entering the city about how to get a job, what jobs to go for, which to avoid. These are people who just went for it. There were no questions standing in between what existed and what was possible. Meanwhile I am a virtual bag of questions. I hear stories like these and my heart tugs at my intellect, begs it to listen. But my eyes glaze over, because… Because I don’t believe it. I don’t really believe that our efforts make any difference in the end. <br /><br />This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try though! Says my heart. Every little bit counts!! But what exactly are we working towards? We work to give others better lives? And what is the better life that we give ourselves? To be surrounded by the people we have helped? Or to work towards something higher than oneself? Maybe that’s it. To work towards something higher than oneself. To work towards something meaningful. What if 'helping people' has lost meaning, because you just don’t care anymore, what happens to us? Or because you feel overwhelmed by the job -- fighting ‘the system.’ We have no better ‘system.’ So make a better system, my heart says. One person does not make a better system, says the grey matter, the collective makes the system. Essentially, the grey matter says, ‘you, YOU, can’t make a better system.’ So don’t try. <br /><br />The last few days I’ve been hanging out with New Age people. They seem to have this same quality of just going for it – no questions between existence and possibility, only existence. I find them fascinating, in small doses. The New Agers seem to have a freedom that I cannot even begin to feel. My every act is questioned; they live in the moment. They paint, draw, sculpt, speak, sing, dance, fuck, all seemingly without hesitation. These are the ones that might, on a whim, take up an entirely new belief system because it feels good. I ask, what if I don’t enjoy the flakey banter, the New Age trust in crystal healing and tarot cards turns me off, and the advice to be light and airy always only contradicts my essentially human tendency to have dark and selfish thoughts? Which I know they also have. But these kinds of questions don’t work well in friendly conversation. And the only reason I can speak of them with any authority is because I used to be New Age chic, and now have no hope of ever returning to such bliss. <br /><br />Ideas that suggest that life should be light and airy anger me. The cynic in me says, Never think for a moment that there is comfort for the human spirit, especially not dressed in the words of man. I believe that happiness is possible, but its pursuit will take a lot more than just trusting in human contrivances.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-4558115482773077932006-11-05T09:32:00.000-05:002006-11-05T09:37:18.983-05:00CrusadersIs it enough to just be a good person? Or should we be crusaders, striving for a world better than this one? <br /><br />Better? Different. <br /><br />I suppose in reality there is no 'should,' and perhaps even, no 'better.' So why do I question whether just living is enough? If I have one life -- one expanse of time that is followed by nothing -- why does life and its quality matter? <br /><br />Because there is only one?Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-29880072953699815022006-11-01T15:16:00.000-05:002006-11-01T15:19:29.078-05:00Halloween NYCI think half of New York took today off. It's November 1st, which means last night was October 31st, which means everyone's still wondering if that girl in the naked costume was really naked, or if she was just a man. Ample reason to take the day off.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31255328.post-29811964581862875142006-10-23T12:35:00.000-04:002006-10-23T13:05:56.928-04:00Week OneI live in New York.<br />It's been a week.<br /><br />I think I was expecting quicker results on my apartment, job, and life search. <br />I want decisiveness! Ingenuity, courage! Luck, even. Maybe a little bit of faith. <br /><br />My far flung assumptions about my own entitlements knock the wind out of me when revealed. How silly! Silly, silly girl.<br /><br />Dad, in response to my request, says, "Maybe." Followed by, "I have to see the whole picture first."<br /><br />I can't say that I blame him. I have been unreliable, non-committal, so many shades of flakey it turns my head on its side, with tears.<br /><br />To be honest, I am terrified. <br /><br />In the real world I flounder. I put up spikes against possibility, defend ego more than honor; I anger easily over my assumptions when they reveal themselves as false.<br /><br />The word that characterizes my last few years is one: paralysis. For years, only this. The 'free spirit' with no ties or boundaries, shouting of wisdom and spontaneity, hope and a life fully lived, was always only paralyzed. A rolling stone, yes, gathering no moss, but only because she's mired in mud.<br /><br />I regret speaking.Bambinahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08836621377087182181noreply@blogger.com2