I 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.
“I’m done with the blues,” Cass exclaims, “I’ve had enough.”
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.
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.
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.
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?!”
“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?”
No. No, I definitely don’t, I say.
“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.”
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.”
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.
“So you got a gown,” Jenny reminds us, “Can we see it?”
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.
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.
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.
She’s quickly becoming an excellent friend.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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."
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.
“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.”
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.
But he sort of enjoys addiction, doesn’t he. I guess we all do.
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.
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.
“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.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Monday, January 01, 2007
Snap
I cut my hands
so many times on the knife
this morning as i
sliced and squeezed a lemon
that the pain from its juice
in my wounds
practically snapped my
fingers in two and
shot hard angry zaps
of lemon zest
up my trembling arms.
Refreshing.
Dull thoughts feel like
death sometimes.
I'd rather stab
promptly dispose
of thoughts like these
than allow a steady decomposition.
Easier said than done.
And my hands are still bloody.
so many times on the knife
this morning as i
sliced and squeezed a lemon
that the pain from its juice
in my wounds
practically snapped my
fingers in two and
shot hard angry zaps
of lemon zest
up my trembling arms.
Refreshing.
Dull thoughts feel like
death sometimes.
I'd rather stab
promptly dispose
of thoughts like these
than allow a steady decomposition.
Easier said than done.
And my hands are still bloody.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Saturday, December 09, 2006
A Lil' Bit o'George Berkeley
George Berkeley wrote this beautiful paragraph about perception and existence:
"...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."
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.
But this is not his point (I wondered if G. Berkeley ever had a girlfriend?). He goes on to draw the conclusion that:
"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."
BOOM!!
(as J.T. say.)
"...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."
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.
But this is not his point (I wondered if G. Berkeley ever had a girlfriend?). He goes on to draw the conclusion that:
"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."
BOOM!!
(as J.T. say.)
Ready Or Not
Successfully completed Week One of this season's Being-A-Grown-Up-At-A-Big-Corporate-Law-Firm. This week I:
- Had a free Starbucks Tall Non-fat No-Foam Vanilla Latte
- Ice-skated in Rock Center for the first time ever
- Attended a private company party complete with open bar, numerologists and a roast
- Got a Blackberry (one of 6.2 million, according to Ja) and a firm-issue tote bag
- Pulled my first 14-hour day at the office -- one of many to follow, one can only hope ;)
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.
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.
Balance balance balance balance.... a concept continuously redefined depending on the length of the increment in consideration.
- Had a free Starbucks Tall Non-fat No-Foam Vanilla Latte
- Ice-skated in Rock Center for the first time ever
- Attended a private company party complete with open bar, numerologists and a roast
- Got a Blackberry (one of 6.2 million, according to Ja) and a firm-issue tote bag
- Pulled my first 14-hour day at the office -- one of many to follow, one can only hope ;)
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.
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.
Balance balance balance balance.... a concept continuously redefined depending on the length of the increment in consideration.
Trashy New Yorkers
New 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!
- Find out more at: http://www.treehugger.com/files/2006/12/composting_gree.php#perma
- Find out more at: http://www.treehugger.com/files/2006/12/composting_gree.php#perma
Sunday, December 03, 2006
All Good Things
It'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.
The key, possibly, being balance. So, where are you, and what's it going to be this time?
The key, possibly, being balance. So, where are you, and what's it going to be this time?
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Dream
Last 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.
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.
I think it's because of how I felt last night when I wrote, "All Bad Things."
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.
I think it's because of how I felt last night when I wrote, "All Bad Things."
Monday, November 27, 2006
All Bad Things
The 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."
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."
Iraq Body Count says that up to 54,000 Iraqi civilians have died due to US military interventions.
We're probably making more terrorists. Daily.
9/11 was bad.
So is global warming, whatever that is exactly.
We are all dying.
And as for my little contribution to this utopia, TODAY, I:
purchased a set of 3 plastic tupperware items;
have cancer in my family;
did not exercise;
savored simple sugars;
ate foods that were not locally grown;
turned the heat on;
rode in a car for about 3 hours;
wore clothes produced by garment factories that probably employ unfair labor practices;
consumed more resources than I would be allotted if every individual in the world consumed an equal amount;
contributed to the growth of a gluttonous world economy;
did not spend enough time with my Grandmother;
did not write to my Congressman about how irritated I am that we have fucked up so much in Iraq and have forgotten Afghanistan;
did not write to my Congressman about how I think we should sign the Kyoto Protocol and enforce it;
did not VOTE in the recent elections;
did NOT give a dollar to support education;
did NOT voice my concerns about Sudan;
did NOT decide to be a doctor in developing nations;
did NOT enroll in a Masters program to learn about public health or the environment;
Signed up to work at a corporate firm that may eventually or perhaps currently does support projects that:
create products nobody needs but must be convinced they do;
engender further dependence on oil;
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,
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,
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?
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."
Iraq Body Count says that up to 54,000 Iraqi civilians have died due to US military interventions.
We're probably making more terrorists. Daily.
9/11 was bad.
So is global warming, whatever that is exactly.
We are all dying.
And as for my little contribution to this utopia, TODAY, I:
purchased a set of 3 plastic tupperware items;
have cancer in my family;
did not exercise;
savored simple sugars;
ate foods that were not locally grown;
turned the heat on;
rode in a car for about 3 hours;
wore clothes produced by garment factories that probably employ unfair labor practices;
consumed more resources than I would be allotted if every individual in the world consumed an equal amount;
contributed to the growth of a gluttonous world economy;
did not spend enough time with my Grandmother;
did not write to my Congressman about how irritated I am that we have fucked up so much in Iraq and have forgotten Afghanistan;
did not write to my Congressman about how I think we should sign the Kyoto Protocol and enforce it;
did not VOTE in the recent elections;
did NOT give a dollar to support education;
did NOT voice my concerns about Sudan;
did NOT decide to be a doctor in developing nations;
did NOT enroll in a Masters program to learn about public health or the environment;
Signed up to work at a corporate firm that may eventually or perhaps currently does support projects that:
create products nobody needs but must be convinced they do;
engender further dependence on oil;
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,
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,
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?
Sunday, November 19, 2006
25
I am 25 today. (!!). Time coasts by.
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.
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?
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.
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.
I imagine this conversation will be very different at 40.
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.
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?
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.
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.
I imagine this conversation will be very different at 40.
Liver Biscotti
A local treasure:
Note that these delicate morsels are:
- Baked from scratch
- All natural, and;
- Contain no preservatives.
Note that these delicate morsels are:
- Baked from scratch
- All natural, and;
- Contain no preservatives.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Friendster Horoscope II
It'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:
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.
Excellent.
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.
Excellent.
Friday, November 10, 2006
Horoscope
This is what my horoscope said today, and it was very, very accurate:
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Dimples and Dirt
I told Jon that I liked his name, and that it reminds me of dirt.
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.
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.
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.
I'm terrified.
So the question now is...if it wasn't Jon, who put up that comment about my dimples?!
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.
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.
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.
I'm terrified.
So the question now is...if it wasn't Jon, who put up that comment about my dimples?!
Sunday, November 05, 2006
The Unruly Bag of Questions
Talking 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Crusaders
Is it enough to just be a good person? Or should we be crusaders, striving for a world better than this one?
Better? Different.
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?
Because there is only one?
Better? Different.
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?
Because there is only one?
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Halloween NYC
I 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.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Week One
I live in New York.
It's been a week.
I think I was expecting quicker results on my apartment, job, and life search.
I want decisiveness! Ingenuity, courage! Luck, even. Maybe a little bit of faith.
My far flung assumptions about my own entitlements knock the wind out of me when revealed. How silly! Silly, silly girl.
Dad, in response to my request, says, "Maybe." Followed by, "I have to see the whole picture first."
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.
To be honest, I am terrified.
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.
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.
I regret speaking.
It's been a week.
I think I was expecting quicker results on my apartment, job, and life search.
I want decisiveness! Ingenuity, courage! Luck, even. Maybe a little bit of faith.
My far flung assumptions about my own entitlements knock the wind out of me when revealed. How silly! Silly, silly girl.
Dad, in response to my request, says, "Maybe." Followed by, "I have to see the whole picture first."
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.
To be honest, I am terrified.
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.
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.
I regret speaking.
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Unintended circumstances
"Everything has an unintended circumstance," he said.
It prods, somewhere around my cerebral cortex, poke, poke poke. What unintended circumstance will I exude into the world? No doubt a lot of death and destruction, what with two showers a day, frequent hand washings, walking around and placing high amounts of pressure on ants, cockroaches, things of the like (I use humane traps for mice though. But I also occasionally feed them to pythons.) Thinking more globally and long-term, if I were to choose a long-term career, is the 'Unintended Circumstance' something to consider?
Think of examples. In which the agent does a perfect job but of course, cannot control what the rest of the world does once the job is done. You could be a doctor and save lives. Population probably agrees: this is good. But what if you're Osama's doctor, and by saving him you subtract a few thousand lives? I think it's not your decision at that point, once you're a doctor, to decide who to save and who to leave. Only Unintended Circumstance.
You could be a field worker and work in international development. Population probably agrees: this helps, and I feel better that you do this. But what if the population you try to help doesn't really want change, or you funnel money into a system that eats it to feed corruption and war. Are you still forgiven your actions? If you do your job knowing about these consequences, are they still Unintended Circumstances?
In the other direction, you take a less drastic approach to life. No more life/death stuff, so far. You work at Dunkin' Donuts (unintended circumstances: distribute immeasurable amounts of joy to countless denizens; alternately: feed Mr. Smith a donut a day for 40 years, Smith dies of heart complications without life insurance leaving a family of four to fend for themselves), you work as a Legal Secretary (unintended circumstance: support someone to be the best they can be; alternately: is there an alternate ending? Do Legal Secretaries REALLY hurt people?), or say, you're a Yoga Instructor; you align chakras, are vegan, ride a bicycle. Unintended circumstances? Where?
I'm sure everything DOES have unintended circumstances. Their severity by profession is debatable. Am I advocating a less risky career? Not necessarily. Perhaps the more risk of failure, the greater the possibility of change, success, triumph. Do you choose the path of more resistance and hope the rest of the world doesn't let you down by being mean? Or assume it will be mean, and choose the path with fewer bad circumstances?
Can we be part of a system that does not end in destruction? If we can't, does it matter that we've considered the unintended circumstance? More significantly: does it matter that we've considered?
It prods, somewhere around my cerebral cortex, poke, poke poke. What unintended circumstance will I exude into the world? No doubt a lot of death and destruction, what with two showers a day, frequent hand washings, walking around and placing high amounts of pressure on ants, cockroaches, things of the like (I use humane traps for mice though. But I also occasionally feed them to pythons.) Thinking more globally and long-term, if I were to choose a long-term career, is the 'Unintended Circumstance' something to consider?
Think of examples. In which the agent does a perfect job but of course, cannot control what the rest of the world does once the job is done. You could be a doctor and save lives. Population probably agrees: this is good. But what if you're Osama's doctor, and by saving him you subtract a few thousand lives? I think it's not your decision at that point, once you're a doctor, to decide who to save and who to leave. Only Unintended Circumstance.
You could be a field worker and work in international development. Population probably agrees: this helps, and I feel better that you do this. But what if the population you try to help doesn't really want change, or you funnel money into a system that eats it to feed corruption and war. Are you still forgiven your actions? If you do your job knowing about these consequences, are they still Unintended Circumstances?
In the other direction, you take a less drastic approach to life. No more life/death stuff, so far. You work at Dunkin' Donuts (unintended circumstances: distribute immeasurable amounts of joy to countless denizens; alternately: feed Mr. Smith a donut a day for 40 years, Smith dies of heart complications without life insurance leaving a family of four to fend for themselves), you work as a Legal Secretary (unintended circumstance: support someone to be the best they can be; alternately: is there an alternate ending? Do Legal Secretaries REALLY hurt people?), or say, you're a Yoga Instructor; you align chakras, are vegan, ride a bicycle. Unintended circumstances? Where?
I'm sure everything DOES have unintended circumstances. Their severity by profession is debatable. Am I advocating a less risky career? Not necessarily. Perhaps the more risk of failure, the greater the possibility of change, success, triumph. Do you choose the path of more resistance and hope the rest of the world doesn't let you down by being mean? Or assume it will be mean, and choose the path with fewer bad circumstances?
Can we be part of a system that does not end in destruction? If we can't, does it matter that we've considered the unintended circumstance? More significantly: does it matter that we've considered?
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