Kitty Power

Pack Light

Not so long ago, I was known as a pack rat. (And a slob.) It was one of those things that developed gradually over time. Cleaning in my room was always the chore I hated the most. I never had the attention span to sift through things I liked and weed out what was less worthy of being at a visible place to grab when the mood hit me...whenever that might be. In some dark days of my youth, the maelstrom look of my room was a secret organization method for me to see immediately what had changed when I had my back turned. Back then, things had the habit of mysteriously disappearing and it gave me a little piece of mind to be able to visually confirm what I still had or had to chalk up to my "faulty recollection" of having it in the first place.

In adulthood, the mess became attributed to sheer lack of time and attention. In the past few years, home is probably the place I spend the least amount of time. My desk isn't so neat, but it's contained in a way that my bedroom floor never could be said to be. It's easy to forget dishes in the sink or laundry on the floor when you only see it for a few hours between sleep and leaving. As this year has unfolded jaggedly, the mess has gotten worse. But finally, I found an interesting solution to the clutter problem: moving.

I've been working up my way to this for a long time. For many of the past six months, I've been stuck with my head in the sand as shit got insane around me. I've been the queen of bad decisions. (Or maybe it was perfectly logical to let a barely working ex-dealer and felon move in with me and coast for a month or two before I woke the fuck up? Yeah, I didn't so either.) After spending 3 and half years here, this apartment means a lot more to me than just a place I've kept all my shit. It's the longest place I've lived straight since I was 14. And it's also filled with a colossal amount of garbage. My M3 conference pass from '05? Trash. The piles and piles of magazines I've gotten in the mail and never read? On the curb. Random dinner receipts and old flyers to shows I didn't even attend? Out of here.

What surprises me the most is how good it feels to reduce the clutter so much. Not to say that largely moving myself doesn't have a bunch to do with it, but where in the past I would've held on to everything "just in case," I have to curb my instinct to pick up everything and toss it. The new place is a lot smaller and most of the garbage I've been spreading around 5 rooms just doesn't need to go there. And that is a very good thing. Streamlining FTW.

Who Do You Belong To?

I had a bizarre run to close out the year. I've been mostly keeping my head down guy wise for a long while, especially when I had the cast on and self-deprecatingly noted that a girl with a hobble probably wasn't high on anyone's priority list. I couldn't even dance with that thing on...nor for a fair amount of months afterwards. It's only been the past month or so that I've really been feeling consistently close to my old self again and still I'm at about 85% with some fun physical therapy sessions to do. Exciting stuff I know.

Anyways, just before the ankle blew out, I adopted this bar I've alluded to in my spare posting as my non-local local where I can perch, drink, and pass the time in peace. That peace last a few months before strangely enough the randoms got used to my face and I became fair game. I was good about fending off advances and became this weird yet friendly untouchable barfly. I made friends and finally allowed myself to have crushes and it was all humming along until one night.

This past year, I've been disentangled by choice. The situation with the boy in itself didn't mess me up, just the fallout and a few years of self-directed bad feelings. It was important for me to focus on getting my shit together without dumb distractions and I did it. Besides it was tiring on the soul to basically date the same guy with a different skin over and over again with the results constantly ending up the same degree of suck. You begin to wonder if the problem isn't with you at a certain point and I think it was, so I (hopefully) fixed it. Still, I wasn't quite in the nunnery and there was a brief moment where I got genuinely geeked over this new kid I met over the summer. It was nice to be with someone unafraid to be smart and literary and the long buried English nerd in me rejoiced at the possibility of coming out of cold storage. Didn't quite pan out, but I was happy for the widening of the criteria besides the old vague template.

But, the one that boiled over was straight out of my typical mold. He reminds me especially now of this kid I liked for a few angsty months in high school: musical, wears too much black and punk attire, long hair, and masking the issues with manic behavior and wit. It built over months and I got drawn into this strange push and pull thing and soon it was visible from space that we liked each other. Still, I tried to resist it all because at this point in my life, I don't see the point in doing all the old habits over when the end result is always the same. I don't feel like being as careless with my feelings as I used to be.

Unfortunately for me, I'm a sucker for a major declaration. After a long night perched at the bar leading to an after party at some random's loft, he cornered me mid drink pour with "I like you. I know you like me. Don't you? So what are we dancing around this for? What are we going to do about it?" And I said "nothing because I don't think it's right for me." And he pressed me for reasons and I halfheartedly spoke of work, being busy, and just not being in the game and he smiled at my hollow words and ignored them. We woke up together the next morning in his freezing apartment with me fully clothed including hoodie, minus shoes. As the day was heading into the next one, he formally asked me out and I think I finally started to silence the little cynic in me.

That was a waste. We had talked briefly about getting together after work (for me) early in the week and I was in charge of planning. I threw some ideas out there and realized they'd fallen into the abyss soon enough. So, imagine my surprise to see him strolling in the bar and walk up to me nonchalantly after blowing me off. I asked him to explain himself and he said he'd been on a four day bender and didn't mean to let me down. I coldly responded that there had been a window open with me that was now closed and he slunk away. Only to return a few minutes later if I wanted to hang out and watch a movie. I gave him a funny look, but spontaneously agreed because I wanted to see if I could get a less ridiculous excuse out of him.

Not quite. But, I did get a load of emo and it turned me off him for good. It reminded me of what I'd taken the break for. I just don't really have it in me to play doormat for some vaguely self-destructive narcissist anymore. Especially since eating all the shit doesn't do much in terms of having a good relationship or an especially lasting one. I called him on his pity party and countered with my own set of problems and the fact that some days it took all my energy just to feel okay, so I didn't have it in me to prop someone else up also. "God...who hurt you?" he said as if I was the messed up one. Wouldn't be him, that's for sure.

Over the holidays without work or much to do, I was a professional barfly and all that crap made hanging out at the bar tense for a bit. It was water under the bridge as far as I was concerned, mission aborted before it got out of hand, but he was acting very funny for a while there. One night, I had way too much to drink and let my mouth run (poor blackout ruined the memory for me), but from what I gather, it wasn't very nice, but at least deflated some of the excess ridiculousness. An uneasy truce has been called, but the place is kinda ruined for me. I'm glad all that time off grew me some backbone at least. Not so long ago, I would've glossed over the blow off as him being sweetly misunderstood. Nowadays, it correctly pegged him as a jerkface and he got the cane. Life's really just too short for that crap.

You Can Be My Blazing Arrow

Happy New Year! I've basically been a sicky mess since then. I was on vacation for about a week and a half leading up to it and started the wild run early, so once it was time to go back to work, my body conked out on me.

New Year's Eve is a bit of a blur for me. 2007 was a pretty insane year and I was happy to see the tail end of it. I spent the early part of the day scrambling to finish off shopping and cleaning and getting things done and failing miserably. And just when I thought I had enough to preoccupy me, yet another bombshell. '07 was the year of "aww fuck, what's next?" I was never allowed to get too comfortable before a seismic shift came along to stir up everything. It sucked, but I think I'm a better person on the other side.

And there I was at 11:30 on New Year's Eve, surprising myself by wearing a party dress. I'd been wrangling with it since the dressing room the day before, still wondering if it wasn't just a bit too short. It was fine in the front and sorta in the back as long as I didn't bend over or sit down or something useful. And unlike some crazies I saw later in the night, I had tights to keep it all from being a little too drafty and indecent. To cap off a year I'd spent transforming away from minimalist and preferring to be unnoticed, I went with big hair and earrings and loved my reflection. I swilled cheap champagne and danced for the passively observing cat and waited for PrincessNella's call and just felt totally relieved. I had made it through the loss of the hell job, being so sick and weak for a while there that I could barely get out of bed, all the dumb entanglements, and the horrible potential move to something like happiness and (partial) stability for the first time in forever. I buckled down and suffered, but I did it. I earned my fucking adult tag.

Midnight was me and PN and champagne and fireworks from the park. We just listened to music and kicked it for a while before we rallied to go out. Studio B was the destination for the second year, but this time, we didn't kick around that long before she was off home and I was en route to the still patchy part of my night. But, I hear I was quite the dancer and I even made a friend to go off to another party with. Beforehand, I'd made an appointment to get cable installed on New Year's Day, so imagine how unamused the cable guy was to hear me pleading for him to come back later with a techno background since I still wasn't home at 11am. I stumbled out in the light feeling like a degenerate soon after, but still missed him because he called back while I was in the passed out part of my day. Good times. I even got a food delivery from Ms. Mommy with the affirmation that yes, my dress was too short. But hell, it looks different without tights is my final word on it.

I don't really have any formal resolutions this year. Besides maybe be as good to people as they are to me, do the right thing, and curb the dickheads in my life. And stay healthy, but that's more of a wish. I've already discovered that's not much under my control. Oh, and I guess to write more here too, but I can't make any promises.

It's Called Experience

Friday night, I had time to kill between rushing happily from work (oh what a long day that was!) and tentative plans I made with Banana. I wrestled with going home to grab dinner and drop stuff off, but I made a trip to Target for some cheap gloves and then wandered down to Dumbo for a nostalgia trip.

Strolling down hill from Sands, I got hit by a memory wave. The first time I'd gone there and I ended up on a very long walk from Hoyt because I didn't follow the boy's directions. How I made the trek from the bus every morning on the way to work. How the giant condo building went from a lot to scaffolding and glass to this lit up thing casting a wide shadow. I really gaped at the new drugstore at the base. The only one in the whole neighborhood. I was even tempted to buy something because I was so amazed. I passed one of the guys from the deli I used to buy my ham, egg, and cheese on a roll. He asked me where I'd been and I said I worked in Midtown now, but was popping in for old times' sake. We exchanged goodbyes and I said thank you, it's nice to be remembered and we shared a smile before walking in opposite directions.

I slid up to the bar to order. The bartender is newish, but I've seen her in there the past couple of random trips that way. I ordered a hot toddy and found myself in conversation with one of the old timers before sitting on the bench and letting my hands and body warm from the liquid. An after work crew had taken over most of the back and I smiled at the memories of being one of them. Later sitting at the bar, I met the owner for the first time and told him that the place meant a lot to me over the years. I had some weird flashback to drinking in there with the boy and having our knees touch sending all sorts of currents through me. It's funny that it's taken so long to actually allow myself to have good associations to him again. Maybe I am really putting that shit behind me.

I strolled out of there, 2 toddys down and happy. I wandered over to that place I go nowadays and chatted with the friends there for a while. It's changing before my eyes too: serving food, a party bar writeup in a local magazine, and now a wall knocked down to make it bigger. I'm trying to encourage myself to not be weird and emo because it's dumb to be nostalgic over...last week. I've been getting frustrated there because the last prospect to get me excited in a while has gone MIA and tracking him down through the connections is a bit overly complicated. It's making me a little wistful which annoys me. But it's just not as fun to drink hot toddys alone.

Saturday, I actually tried to change that and met a new friend over drinks in the Slope. I've been trying to hang out more this way lately. I guess I'm getting a little burned out on spending an hour trying to get home from the bar. We ended up making friends at the bar and helped compile the crazy/jerk scale for men and women. The worst for a woman's behavior were being Cameron Diaz in Vanilla Sky, Glenn Close in Fatal Attraction, or Lorena Bobbitt. For guys, sleeping with your friend, sleeping with a relative and/or a man, and leaving a pregnant woman shit out of luck. The normal baseline for a person was a 2. The sociologist in me was interested that the woman's list was called crazy and every number after 5 had something to do with violent acts (a drink in the face, which I'm not familiar with at all, was a 3) and the rest with temper/jealous issues. The men's list all boiled down to cheating and/or majorly screwing you over. I got it posed to me earlier where would prolonged deception about paternity go on the women's list. I gave it 9, a 7 if the truth comes out early. It was an interesting way to pass the time.

This weekend I was very proud of myself for relaxing to the point of ridiculousness. Saturday until about 8pm was spent either in or very close to bed and today wasn't much better. I'm super well rested for a change. It was so worth it.

Talking Only Me And You

Andreas Kauffelt & Toby Izui - The People

Most exciting news of the week for me: Soft Circle is opening up for The Sea and Cake at Warsaw. Yes!

My site is still kinda broken. This post is dated from when I started scribbling in it, but is definitely not today. In case you care, the cast thing has become less devastating as time has passed. I'm less bandaged (even though both feet are in the act now) and am back to wearing regularish shoes. It's gonna be a while before I can slip on anything with some height, though if you see me semi-normally, you know that's about par for the course except I can't if I wanted to. Instead, my stupid knee is the hobbling culprit. Oh the good times! My mother wasn't kidding when she said you fall apart rapidly after 25.

Life at the new mothership is pretty rad so far. Minus my hideous ID photo in which I'm frozen for posterity as a bewildered 12-year old with a fat neck. I've been obsessing over that quite a bit.And also last.fm which I just got my shit together and joined. (Please ignore the random Goo Goo Dolls songs sprinkled in. Thanks.)

And now for a story: some weeks ago, I went to see the Battles show at the Seaport. It was one of the few summer early Fridays I had managed to take advantage of and I'd had a nice nap at home before coming back out. I spent most of the show squeezed against a storefront while random packs of tourists went back and forth from booze cruises and the Water Taxi, but I had a pretty good viewing angle and the sound was great. After the show, I wandered further downtown away from the mass hipster stampedes and had a nice burrito at Chipotle before grabbing the J.

Across the aisle were some drunkie girls that seemed like a bit clueless college girls and at Fulton, this random dude got on. From the start, he made me uncomfortable practically boring a hole into my head with his eyes. I was sure not to make eye contact and not squirm. But when he responded to the drunkies' goodbye at Bowery with "goodbye you stupid sluts!," dude got upgraded to crazy fast.

The teenager across from me eyed him nervously out of the corner of the eye. New York kids' reactions are always along the lines of "is this motherfucker gonna lose it or what?" and it reinforced my feelings of uneasiness. A pretty woman on a date sat next to me and chatted with her guy and the man across eyed us both like steaks on a plate. She got off at Marcy and he whispered something in her direction before sitting down next to me.

I dug up courage somewhere and eyed the side of his head icily as he made a production of removing his headphones to talk to me. He turned to me and said "are you going to keep looking at me like that?"

"Yes," I replied, in a stronger voice than I expected.
"Why's that?"
"Because I'm wondering why you're sitting next to me."
"It's a public transportation, sweetheart," oozed the bastard.
"Okay, that's fine. I'll move then." And I got up to wander halfway down the car. Sometimes I wonder what's the point of being in the conductor's car if it doesn't make you feel an ounce safer.

He eyed me the whole time I walked and stood in the doorway and then when I sat at Lorimer. I refused to look and when I rushed off at Flushing, my heart beating in my ears drowned out what he yelled after me. I walked to the newest non-local local eying the sidewalk behind me every other step. Sometimes people are crazy and you'll never know what they'll do. My night was ruined from there. I haven't taken that train since.

I Was Delayed, I Was Waylaid

I've been having a mini nostalgia trip today. Once upon a time, I really looked like my mother. And I didn't fret about the perceived thickness of my neck. And I was really vain and referred to my stomach as perfect. And the night that picture was taken, I was wearing black satin, cut dangerously low in the back, and I made jaws drop. I also drank shitloads on an empty stomach and ended up doubled over and dryheaving in a heap. But, I still was pretty hot.

I still have that dress here in my closet, pushed back into the corner, sad and neglected. I could probably still get it on...a quarter way before the seams ripped. I won't even pretend that it'd still be able to zip. It fit like a second skin then, but draped flatteringly. I'd need a lot more material nowadays.

I've been feeling kinda hit or miss healthwise and I made the step of joining my closest Y last week. Swimming and steam rooms and all of that supposedly help me feel better. Buying a swimsuit wasn't the semi-traumatizing trip I expected it to be. I'm a lot more realistic about my body and its limitations nowadays. I think I panicked more at the gym when I realized I'd placed myself in the high traffic area of the locker room changing and then when I had to sneak into the aquacize class with my little towel barely acting as a shield and all eyes on me. It's one thing to be mentally comfortable in your skin and have other people see you in it in bad lighting. But the class was fun and I kicked ass, bad knee and shoulder be damned. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

Last Friday night, I wandered to Williamsburg for a show at a venue I've seen only good shows at and amuses me by changing the decor every time I go there. I tangentially knew that the show was put on by this kid I'm conflicted about on a few levels. And I strolled up and there he was. We met in one of the random ways I can meet people when I'm feeling deliberate and the episode itself was fun if a bit tame. Strolling about the Slope on one of the hottest days of the spring, chatting aimlessly, and watching tv is strange on the surface, yet it was also perfect in a way. I so rarely just chill with someone I don't know well. Underrated it is. I've seen him around since then, usually at shows, and he's disarmingly friendly, but the outside venue communications lines seem to have dried up. I don't really feel anything but kinda off-put. He's an interesting guy and has a lot of the things I said I was looking for on my post-boy list of Mr. Next attributes. He's got some of the too cool for school trappings, but I felt that he was a stand up non-pretentious sort of person. Maybe I was wrong and the vague shallow hipster impression is the real one. I'm suspicious of people who put up the fake front whether they like you or not. It veers too close to the Shady school of life. Then again, it seems to work for him, so what do I know?

I ended up in the balcony next to a guy being a "badass" and sprinkling beer on people. I may have pointed out the slope kid (and his stupid shirt) for a splashing. It was wrong. The devil made me do it. But, I was still surprised when dude got inspired and practically dumped the whole can on him. Sloper looked up all aggro style for a second, but the moment passed. I ran into him later and he was asking what the deal was with the beer thrower. I feigned confusion and wandered off.

I can't help myself from playing the what if game as far as he's concerned. Well, he's not the only one. Sometimes I look back on the old pictures and think that if that was me now, I'd never lose. And then I remember the circumstances around the night this picture was taken when I couldn't quite hold onto the attention of my spring semester focus at the time and senior year in general which was like one misadventure after another. The grass is always greener on the other side. But I think at the end of the day, I'd just like less rocks on my lawn.

Rest Your Sad Head and Let That Shit Go

A moment of silence for Helga, my formerly indestructible HP that conked out on me. I had it about two months shy of 8 years, so I can't be mad and getting above and beyond my money's worth of it. I've been saving up for a shiny laptop for while and today I bought another HP tower that I'll pass along to my mom once I get my piggy bank ready for the laptop buy. A $400 computer was still lightyears away from what I've been working with all this time. Luckily, I've been slowly migrating my info to my external hard drive for a few months now, so no big info loss. I'm still vaguely confident that I can transfer settings, but it remains to be seen. That poor computer survived 8 years of moves, dust, good writing, bad writing, many IM conversations, angry emails, overlong blog posts, music downloads, and days and nights of overwork. The new computer clean slate feeling is kinda interesting. I feel like everything happening around/with me right now has something to do with salvaging the good pieces and/or rebuilding from the bottom. I don't mind really. Change is a very good thing.

The other week found me venturing into Midtown on a Saturday night. Very strange since the last thing I do when I leave it on Friday evening is clamor for more. I was off to check out this new to me band that I'd been digging for more info about. The show was in this art gallery, hidden in the shadows of office buildings and delis and theater row. The space was transformed into a maze with sculpture and writings decorating the walls. I wandered in, looking for the music that was promised to be at the end. I saw a band, not the one I was there looking for, sitting around and taking apart equipment. I looked at them, they looked at me, and wandered away. I came across this guy, looking like an antsy hipster complete with the shaggy hair, hoodie, and classic sneaks (shelltoes in this instance), and we struck up a stilted conversation as I asked where the refreshments were hiding. Our chatting would reoccur as the night passed. The place was on the miniature side. Three turns and you were either out the door or back where you started. I tried to wait patiently for everything (the set to start, the drink girl to replenish the supply, a lightning bolt to hit this girl who started some story with "not that I'm a racist, but..."), but mostly aimlessly walked around and around. That guy was from SC visiting for the week and one pass we talked about the upstate region and its little cities and towns. I felt a twang slip out and I missed my old summer trips for the quickest of seconds.

And then the band played, mostly acoustic with the music going low as the mike-less singer sang. I was mesmerized by the bass, all strings and neck. I stood in the corner on a bucket and tried to keep my balance and take a pic or two with my shitty camera phone. Almost at the end, there was competing noise from a sax player and drummer playing out front on the street. They wrapped up quick and suddenly and everyone ventured outside. The discordant noise brought down a tourist to complain about her lack of sleep. She walked about and fumed helplessly and everyone watched the showdown between her and the saxophonist amused. I used the lull to stroll off the next destination. There were no more fireworks to be had there that night.

I had a choice of parties to go to with one big possible drawback to them all. I was playing the shell game and trying not to be where The Boy could end up. But true to form, I paid my money and bought my first drink and looked to my left to see his friend and then him sitting there. Figures really. I kept to myself and this random I knew from the neighborhood where I used to work and he hovered around like the mosquito you can't quite kill and finally just ghost. I coped with the Long Island Iced Tea special and chugging to calm my nerves. Too bad my stomach wasn't so happy as time went on. I spent the next day at home lounging like Sheba and considered how fun it would be to live somewhere where my past wasn't always been thrown in my face.

Tuesday, I attempted to see a show by the old faves, but fatigue and the noxious crowd turned me back. Instead I went to the 2nd show of the week by Saturday's group. There again was that guy from SC. We had another strange conversation and he confessed that he was at the show for lack of a better option and stir crazy. I gave my condolences on that and perched myself by the bar hoping for a good watching angle. It was a good show again and I was happy that I got it together to see them. That guy had disappeared before the show was over. I hope he had a good trip.

You Can't Escape The Echo of My Love

I'm trying to switch gears and it's not going so well. Another weekend, another late night, and me doing a walk alone. I've been turning around in my head: is it better to walk alone than feel alone in a crowd of people? Neither is ideal and I'm at a loss. Something's missing and I don't know what it is. I hate it when the emo sneaks up on me. There's also a lot of shit going on in the non-flighty areas of my life. It's hard to be off making random connections when there's actual fires that need to be put out. I'm sure it'll all work out sooner or later.

The other weekend, I went to a party in Greenpoint where the old warehouses meet the homes. I had traipsed from home, where I had been holed up all day on my computer. I had been trying to convince a work friend to come along, but I had accidentally insulted him over IM. I thought about backpedalling, but gave up instead. Our relationship is built on almost sibling-like verbal sparring and it wasn't worth it to me to back down. So, I was alone walking the dark streets. When I'm alone lately, I have these strange morbid thoughts of realizing I'm not as big as I think I am and anything can happen to me when off on one of my crazy late adventures. The hazards of watching SVU repeats before going out.

I waited on line and I saw some friends I hadn't seen in a long while. We chatted briefly and it was fun and good for a sec. They were in a big group and I guess the sensible thing for me to do was join, but I didn't. Sometimes I'm just strange like that. I watched a performance and wandered around and chatted briefly with people I know and some I didnt and then went home. A night like any other.

They say curiosity killed the cat and satisfaction brought her back. This past Saturday night put me face to face with the thorn in my past's side, The Boy. I had been holed up in the house all weekend and was restless as midnight rolled around. I decided to keep it slightly beyond walking distance local and go to this bar a short bus ride away. I strolled in and tried to get used to my surroundings and there he was. With an extra special guest, The Ex-Fiancee. The whole thing was almost funny if it wasn't so absurd. I think I thought I'd be more torn up inside about seeing him. Especially since in the case of Farmer, just thinking about him sometimes kinda tears me up. The Boy drudged up a major case of irritation and also some relief. Sometimes I want to scream from the rooftops how happy I am to be rid of him. It hasn't been too hard not to see him these past couple of months because he doesn't know about anything on his own. Without me giving him info, I can go plenty of places in peace.

Seeing the two of them together was almost fitting. For the longest time, I knew nothing about that girl, but she was always the invisible third party, her shadow looming over everything. She had hurt him, so that was his justification to hurt me. And there they were standing across the room, overly concerned about me for a change. I was there to drink and dance and keep my beverages in their glasses unless I was drinking it. She kept conveniently passing me and tried to stand next to me on the bathroom line and chit chat. I wasn't cold, but still noncommittal. The face to face was strange. There's no contest between us because she doesn't measure up to me. And then there he was flitting around like that fly you can't quite kill. Ghosted. Life is too short. I hope he has fun making someone else's life miserable. Afterwards, I even treated myself to a milkshake and some White Castle cheeseburgers and a cab ride home. Alone, but for a change, it felt good.

Bring It All Back

Left to my own devices, I brood and obsess and internalize. I lounge and overthink and become melancholy and wring my hands about what next steps to take. I usually decide to sit and wait for inspiration to hit and take things in and bite back my reactions. This year, I'm mostly about shaking that bad habit.

And it's hard. I think I've cried more since I have when I was a child. Fucking change is hard. Sometimes I don't feel tough enough and I slip and do what I'm trying not to. I've always been a person who does the "right" thing since it's the good thing to do and the mysterious they say if you work hard and rightly enough, you get nothing but good things back. But, what the fuck do they know? Do they have names and can their references be verified?

I've been precariously trying to keep equilibrium. I've spent a lot of time thinking about what I want. Sometimes I just don't know. Other times it's clear: happiness, success, security, respect, and feeling appreciated. I've ripped up some of my foundations with jackhammers and tried to subvert everything I thought I was about. I've tried to kill the dead weight and be forceful and be me. I know I've been more self-absorbed than usual, but I don't get the same thrills in sharing that with others that I used to. I'm just trying to keep shit together a day at a time, even when it seems like things are falling apart all around me. I quit my old mostly comfortable, but extremely hated job and threw myself into a new scary place that makes me proud and cry and be upset and want to do the best I can and sometimes just want to throw in the towel and start again. It's hard for me to not be my job nowadays especially when it has me for 60 hours a week. The rents think that I am insane and alternately encourage me to walk away and stick it out. I don't know what I'll do. My mind changes daily.

I feel raw this year, all exposed nerves and shaky. Just when I'm putting one foot in front of the other to maintain, weird shit happens and I'm thrown again. There's been death and Mr. Daddy's medical crisis surprise (all better but still weirds me out) and getting a blast from my little girl past and the random thoughts of having screwed up and not being able to fix my trajectory. And the forceful expulsion of people from my life. Sometimes I have random dreams about Farmer and we're still friends or whatever. I miss him sometimes and wonder about him, but mostly think the break had to happen. Sometimes you just care more about people than they do about you and life is better when they're not around. Sad but true. I had the long overdue showdown with the boy the other week. I didn't realize I had so much anger simmering under the surface until I threw a drink in his face. It was a bad quick episode, but also on some slow motion movie shit. That was like the bow to a colossally shitty week. I'm sorry but not especially and I wrote him a vitriolic letter that I buried in my notebook and will never send. It's my nature to try to have a coda and make things tidy, but I'm starting to accept that sometimes endings are jagged and bad.

Thursday night, I revisited a place that had some appeal over the summer and the kid who introduced me to it. I was sitting alone, not really sure if I was waiting or not, feeling aimless and drinking a cider. I'm pretty sure I was frowning and ridiculously far into my head and the problems I'm sorting through. The bartender made minor small talk with me and I responded in monotone capped off with a weak smile. The kid came and we small talked and I resisted the urge to dump the bad at his feet. I killed the work and bad old relationship talk and focused on the moment. A nice little bar, a good cider, a DJ randomly playing the Metro Area album, colorful bar characters, the fun flirtation and the unspoken knowledge that it was leading to more, and a real smile on my face probably for the first time that day. It's just better sometimes to focus on the great little things.

I Try

Bleary-eyed, I made my way down the block towards the corner. Running late as usual. There's some random standing on the stoop at 341. I note him, but I'm walking and don't particularly care.

"Hey, girl," he says.
"Hey," I respond tightly, not even slowing down.
"Let me talk with you a second..."
Please. I'm past and not even pretending that I'd entertain the thought.
"That's alright. I'll catch you later," he says in a sing-songy way that annoys me to my back.
Fuck off.

Hours later, walking back up the block. I'm having one of the many shitty days of that work week. My immediate thoughts are: home and food. I see the group on the steps of 341 immediately. I'm not even thinking about them and I've forgotten about the dick from earlier.

"Hey there," says the guy from the morning. I recognize his voice. It's kinda taunting. "Can I walk you to your building?"
I roll my eyes, maybe partially shake my head and just keep walking. Bullshit I don't have time for.
"Once you go black, you never go back, you know."
That gets a look. A quick narrowed eyes sharp one. I can't even figure out which one he is. There's like 6 of them and it's dark. They laugh at my reaction.
"Uh huh...we know all about you. We've been watching you."
Fucking nerve. I seethe and just walk. They laugh again, mocking me. Every fucking step is excruciating cause I want to turn on my heel and curse them out so bad that they're grandkids' ears ring. Sons of bitches acting like they know me.

I'm raging about it all night. Everyone's as pissed as me... but Farmer. "Oh that's funny. Just some dude trying to mack. Hehe." I want to curse him out too. "You just don't understand," I write. I want to start by saying "you'll never know what it's like on multiple levels" but it's a waste of energy. If only I had blinkers too.

You Could Have It All

The real part of the night begins with cider (for me), beer (for Farmer), and splitting a plate of penne pasta with chicken. I'm amused to be in a Williamsburg pub eating pasta in the first place. How random can you get! We chatter -- well, I chatter, nervous and animated while he looks at me bemused. My enthusiasm is infectious and I know he's secretly proud to see me do anything besides mope for a change. And he wonders if I was secretly like this about him back in the day (yes and no, I was a blustering child then...two years feel like a million sometimes). I'm proud of our little bonding time. The optimist in me was let out of her cage one day to prophesize that we could be awesome friends and I was right. I do so love to be right.

I get a text from the boy and feel glad that if I go extreme and blush, it'd never be seen in this dark cave of a place. I hurry us along and we bound -- I bound, he saunters -- out to go to the party. This one thinks he's slick as he decides to smoke and send me off inside to meet myerm, the boy. I feel like I see him in the crowd (one shaggy brown-haired tall dude in a crowd of them...no so much), but I opt to get a drink first. Free drinks will always be my favorite kind.

And then, the crowd parts and there he is. Okay, no it didn't. Farmer came back in and we stood in the middle of the room with our drinks and up came the boy. I smile and "hey" and I must restrain myself from launching at him to get a hug. I'm so cool on the outside, but never in. They're both at least half a foot taller than me in my super flat sneakers and I have to stand a few inches back, making our group into a triangle just to see their faces without hurting my neck. Tall bastards. Everyone else mills around us looking expensively disheveled. Gravitating towards the bar areas, keeping an eye on who is keeping an eye on them. I just look between them, feeling like a puppy. Is everyone getting along okay? Yet? Now? Huh?

Farmer steps away and I ask what the boy thinks of him. "He's kinda obnoxious," he says irritated. I think I reply "what makes you say that? Though that's what everyone says" and I keep myself from adding "that obnoxious dude saved your punk ass from the reject box, son." Farmer comes back and he goes and I tell him what he said. Oh, he's pissed and goes on a yadda yadda rant about how none of my friends like him. "Like you even care," I say. The boy comes back and he goes off to smoke. I tell him that I told him what he said and he tries to backtrack on some hippie dippy "everyone has their place" shit. Whatever, man. Stick to your opinions. "Why'd you do that?" "He's one of my best friends. I tell him everything." Oh, he's sorta annoyed. Like I care. I'm just an instigating bitch.

Farmer makes his exit to meet some friends and the boy and I are alone in the crowd to make eyes at each other and drink more. We decide to ditch out and walk past where our whatever hit the guard rail last week. I make some joke about it and I secretly plead with him not to break my heart again. Heh...like I have a heart. We're traipsing through the outskirts of Williamsburg going...I'm not really sure where. The weather kinda sucks with this light drizzle falling over everything. I look at him kinda funny when he stops me mid-stride. He leans down and kisses me so quick that I can barely get my brain to respond. I wish there was Tivo for life sometimes. I smile at him and say "I was thinking about doing that." He smiles back and we're walking again.

We meet up with his friends and I like them all. They're easy-going and chill, non-intimidating and I'm just me instead of on edge wondering if I'm making a good impression. We're bouncing from place to place, with them, just us until we land on the bar with the live band. I'm not in the dancing mood, so I hang back and wander. After a circuit, I observe him dancing/talking with some Raggedy Ann looking chick. I process. I'm territorial, but not possessive. I've got high enough self-esteem to know that if the guy I with chooses some corny bitch over me, he's just playing himself.

So, I'm just watching impassively in between passing time walking around. After the next circuit, he's alone and I go over to maybe dance with him. He tells me that he's traded his hat for Raggedy's scarf and I want to ask "are you fucking high?" but I already know that yes, yes he is. He's also the worst dancer I've ever seen. Like no joke. He's doing some spazzy shit and completely unable to be led. It's actually kinda making my head hurt. I halfway wander away and see some girl eyeing me and them him to see if the coast is clear. I almost want to laugh. He's cute and all, but the stampede is a bit much.

We head off to the G and chatter along until we get off at Hoyt. We stand there at the top of the stairs at an impasse. It's past 3am on a Thursday and I've got to go out into the cold and wait for a bus once I leave there. He's switching to the A. He gives me one of his crappy hugs and I'm all stiff and unyielding. I'm trying to decide how I feel at the end of the night. I give him a real hug and we just stand there holding on. If the token booth clerk hadn't probably seen it all, she'd probably shake her head at us looking stupid. We hear the rumble of his train and I tell him to go catch it. He's giving me some laser look and I let go and step back to resist the pull. And we walk our separate ways.

Us Girls We Like Dances Too

I'm around Port Authority on a Thursday night pushing 11:30. After a day feeling subdued, I was ready for something different to pass the time with. I had made tentative plans to meet up with a newish kid and there we were in the club basement, apparently some of the only few showing up for the show without been dragged. The group was a baby Battles on a jazz tip. I meant to find out the name, but I was too occupied feeling semi-awkward. A rum and cran. And another. And another. The idle curiosity had gotten the better of the bartender by then.

"I've never heard of anyone ordering that before," he said with a smile.
I smiled back, glancing at the kid standing to my right at the corner of my eye. "Yeah, my friend made it up and I'm running with it."
"I think I'll try it." He pours my drink and a thimble for himself. I hand him my money with another smile and consider if I should wait or not before I drink.
He comes back and we do a cheers.
I monitor his facial expression, amused. "It's an acquired taste."
"It's okay...it's different. Maybe I'll make it a special. I need something to call it. What's your name?"
"Candice."
He moves down the bar and I follow, moving closer to the kid yet still talking. I consider having pangs about being a bad fake-date, but then again, it's not like I give a shit about things like that. He throws out names and they're silly but I still smile. Someone else comes to the bar and he's pulled away. I turn back to talk to the kid and say "bartenders like me because they know I'll spend a lot of money." Soon after, we head off upstairs. I see the bartender walking around with people, looking as if he was off for a cig and some air. It was one of those times I wished I smoked.

Friday night circa too late found me in the midst of bottlepoppingsville. I'd given up the boredom of wandering around aimlessly for hanging with C and a different kind, that of feeling simultaneously above and outside this shiny world that once upon a time I thought only existed in videos. All the girls are rocking the long hair, high heels, bare skin, and clothes from the Cute(TM) rack. I'm wearing too many clothes, feeling short, and hating that with all the square footage in this place everyone still only had one or two places to walk, currently right into me. Hanging with C always ends up a strange sort of adventure. She's always networking and gravitates towards the trendiest things there are. She's high strung, marvelling at it all and I'm low-key. Been here, done this.

She runs around talking to the guys that I would've simply stared at all night doing nothing. That I have been in fact. It's making me feel frustrated. I think how I have looks and charm but no initiative where she is all Id and I'm envious. I point out one who could've strolled out of central casting for would-be love interest. He's got a "Got Grits?" shirt and that might be the funniest thing I've seen all night. She runs up to him and manically chats him up as I chime in and smile shyly in the corner. After a min or two, he walks away. She turns to me and says, "obviously, he's not worth it. He didn't look at my titties once!" Right.

Saturday, I'm scavenging in the kitchen for a non-empty bottle. I'm at a Wes kid party, surprised by the low turnout and wondering how long I'll give myself before I break out. This girl is standing next to me and she suddenly launches into chatter. I fucking hate small talk. I'm no good at it. But, I make the attempt to make the appropriate noises. She hears I went to Wes and turns out to know someone I do vaguely and that kicks her up a notch.
"Wes boys are so hot!" she says and I look at her like she's nuts. Erm, has she looked around this apartment? Not too exciting.
"I loved that place," she continued. "I went to visit one weekend and I got so much ass."
"Uh, that's great," I mutter non-committedly. Fucking oversharing drunkie.
"Like it was nuts, I went to this one party and I was getting head on the fire escape!"
"Hmm. Well, sounds like your weekend was more exciting than my first year and a half."
She goes on and on and on about her sexploits and I wish I had an IV and some rum because I'm not nearly drunk enough for this shit. After too long, I see an escape route and run to get cornered by a girl who wants to talk about work for the next half hour or so. What the fuck? This is why I avoid these people.

CPT

I haven't been able to sustain a real interest in anyone for 2.5 years. I've always been too guarded and disassociated to really feel someone. The downside of that is by being a challenge (on purpose or otherwise), you attract a certain sort of dud. That ego-inflated, self-important blowhard forever trying to impress that always likes you more than you do them yet can't wait to tear you down. Shady, The Continental, Pseudo, The Scenester, the list goes on and on...it's not a New York specific type but they've been running back and forth through my return to the city life and they've left me weary. I was telling PrincessNella earlier how I fell out of fake like over the course of a conversation. Shit happens. Usually since everyone involved is an archetype, in those instances I've adapted the role of the jaded bitch. I'm tired of it all. Really, life is too short to always play.

Despite that, I've been gobsmacked by The Brit. Being in Miami was just a different sort of me and I met him when I had my armor off and my mind open. He left and I let some time pass, but fuck the rules, so I called when I wanted to. And he was right there with me. Ant and PrincessNella marvelled at me doing my little happy jumps across the living room and the strange squees I let escape. I ran the gambit from excitement and anticipation to fear and back and set off to meet.

But, we just couldn't connect. I met up with Faiks and had some fun doing my little dance to some drum n' bass. Then I was off to Sapph for the first time in a good while and shot the shit with my boys. I wished Petur McFizzie, former partner in crime, Cali dwelling but not forgotten, a wonderfully happy birthday. And then I took a plunge and went to where The Brit said he'd be, spending money I'd tucked away to get me through the long week between rent due and getting paid for a party that just wasn't popping.

"You're crazy late, girl," said his brother who I ran into just as I became frustrated.
"You're too late. I'm on my way home," said the boy himself when I got him on the phone.
"You're sorta late," said the brother's girl who I've known for more than a minute.
"Am I really? It's not that late. I really did try but the night's been hectic," I replied exasperated. Shit.

Tomorrow is another day and I actually care enough to follow through. Another crash and burn? Perhaps. A girl can't take the failures too seriously. It's better to have tried and failed than to have never tried at all. Or something.

Numbers

We met when I was a lamb in a mountain goat disguise. He flashed that wolfish smile and I started to shake behind my bravado. I learned how to hide better as time went on.

Lining up on paper doesn't mean jack in real life. I learned to appreciate being grounded and built a poseur meter to see when I was getting out of line.

Sometimes you just have to roll with what feels fresh and interesting at the time. I know now how to guard that Achilles' heel and never let them see me sweat. But, occasionally I admit also to that other L word.

I can barely remember his face as time has passed. Sometimes it's just better that way. I hate that this applies to more than one.

He helped hone my bullshit detector and showed me what I didn't want to be. He taught me to be vigilant about surface relationships and to see behind the flash. It took me a long time to stop being jealous of him and his fabulous life. He made it look so easy until I figured out the secrets.

You can't judge a book by its cover. I learned to fly under the radar while staying in plain sight. It just works better that way.

I've remembered dreams I thought were way behind me on the road with him. It's hard to love and hate and admire and disdain all at once, but it's easier when someone loves you for all your nonsensical inconsistencies too.

It's because of him that I'm hyperskeptical of those who are "down." There's a thin line between honest reverence and objectification. Neither is that appealing.

I may aspire to be more stereotypically normal in comparison to other people I know, but not boring like that. I hate it when they whine.

There's the exciting and vague hint of danger and there's "being with you might get my stupid ass killed." Sayonara, son.

Sometimes you're just so far off track that you need to be jolted back to reality. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I am weary, let me rest.

Speak To Me/Breathe

I laid on the cool wood, marvelling at the ridiculousness of lounging on the floor simply because I ran out of options. I rested a foot on the stack of pillows crowding the living room and stretched. The door to my room opened behind me sent a shaft of light where I was, but the room was mostly dark. I thought to myself how I'd simply shrug if my roommate(s) came home to see me laying there so stupidly. And perhaps we'd laugh and they'd say "you're weird" and I'd reply "tell me something I don't know!" Through it all, he spoke and I listened.

He probably thought I wasn't listening, but I always do. I was thinking also about how many fake or would-be relationships had crashed and burned with me listening and them talking about something I'd rather not have heard. People like to talk to me. I like to listen. I guess. They feel comfortable with me and they tell me everything. I give the appropriate responses and they talk some more. Occasionally, I chime in for a second and then retreat. And then they talk some more. It's how it works. Surface things need surface chatter. I came up with that rule to be enigmatic. It's a relic from the days when I was too shy/uneasy to put myself out there with someone new. You know, the old days like an hour ago.

I'd rather listen and see what I'm getting myself into. False intimacy makes me unnerved. When I'm unnerved, I put the barricades up and the filters on. I always look the gift horse in the mouth. You can never say I don't learn my lessons. I obviously know how to talk. All these words on the web pages didn't appear from thin air even when they did.

I considered talking last night and also the night before. Instead, I listened and smiled and made response noises. And that was as far as I felt willing to go. I want my voice to have weight and I'm tired of wasting my breath.

Get A Life

Reality sets in sometime mid-morning Monday. I queue insertion orders on one screen and toggle to the furniture listings on the next. I'm aiming to buy the bulk of the apartment furniture off Craig's List. That site is good to me as the spot I found the apartment, job, former column, parties, and misadventures. The Zen plays on low (since I have a thing about ear-drum splitting music outside of clubs) and I'm unable to drown out the screeching whines across the aisle no matter how much I zone out. This scenario has played out for too long. I don't think I can last much longer.

I'm in a position of liking the job in itself but hating the co-workers. I like my team. I like that I'm autonomous. But, I hate the pervasive camp culture and the team near us with the most high-pitched voices (male and female) I've ever seen. I'm a loner in a box. I know I've been isolating myself further as time has passed out of spite and I'm sick of it. It's counterproductive and makes me feel worse. I want to be a part of a group, just not that one. I'm mentally planning my escape.

Ant and I both view the new place as a fresh start. He hopes to be released from the desk chains and I just want to feel creative again. Money is always the big factor. In a way, I should've been more proactive and laid down some tracks for the writing last year in my marginally employed state, but hindsight is 20-20 and I also couldn't afford it then either. I wasn't mentally ready. In a way, I feel like I'll be more hungry now. I need you to accept my pitch/resume because I've got my share of rent/cable/gas/electric to pay and have no nest egg/parental bankrolling to fuck around with, motherfuckers! Meanwhile, I'm stepping up -- brainstorming, researching, eyeing the options... but I can't jump until I've got something set. And you probably thought my resolutions were just lip service? Shit is real, people.

Warm Road

Arma virumque cano...I found myself at the Bowery Ballroom in a rush last night.

Ant and I had been doing the potential place surveying, weighing the pros and cons at a homey would-be neighborhood restaurant. One had space that we both envisioned as a bar room yet the other had the potential to keep more money in our pocket by gaining a 3rd and was the more comfy of the two. Alas, we leave it to fate and money.

I ran as fast I could up the steps of the Bowery stop, hearing Benzos as I almost reached the sidewalk. I showed my receipt and ID and got my wristband and ran downstairs and waited to get checked off with my credit card (yet got no ticket. Just because I buy online, I can't get a real ticket?) and hurried through the lounge and ran upstairs and hurried through the crowd and there they were on stage. "We've got two songs left," one said. I unzipped my parka and tried to catch my breath. I people-watched as the music sweeped over. Weezer meets Radiohead? I only think Weezer because the player keeps playing "Across The Sea." And because the singer who does the glitchy stuff is very Riversesque looking to me. Then again, you seen one skinny floppy haired singing like that, you would mix them up too. They rocked and the crowd murmured appreciatively and I wandered back downstairs to the bathroom.

"I just got here. Did Phoenix play yet?" said some girl.
"No," someone responded.
"Oh good...cause I'm only here to see them."
"Yeah, me too!"
"Who just played?"
"Umm...Benzos. They were alright. I'm waiting for Phoenix."
"Do you know them?"
"Well I know that song, you know, the one in Lost In Translation."
"Yeah, that's a great song. Me too."
"Yeah, I came cause I thought it'd be cool."
"Yeah..."

My first instinct was to sneer. My first instinct is always to sneer. I imagine most of the crowd is like these girls in their distressed vintage casual threads from Urban Outfitters or thereabouts. Phoenix is like such a cool band, man. They're like French and stuff. Air with, like, guitars or something. When I think of Phoenix, I think of my semester in Paris...or when I went to visit last year...or like how cool Paris is, they say.

Instead, I tune them out and focus on the girl holding the water bottle above the door of a stall and murmuring to the girl on the other end. "I'm ready for the water now," said the wan figure opening the door a crack. Vomit. At the second act. I really sneer and head off into my stall.

I get a drink and wander the crowd. All look same, but I'm fascinated by the hipster boy hair. It's so fluffy and mop-top like. It shakes when they move! It's so shaggy! My hair even when it's bone straight defying gravity and nature can never be so shaggy like that. It's the only thing I occasionally covet. I don't want to be tall or thin, just have some shaggy hair ever once in a while. Maybe I can buy a wig.

I wander over to the merch table. "Let me know if you need any help," she says. I give her a glance and a faint sneer/smile, "I think I'll be okay." Plenty of shit, but nothing for Benzos. A band with no merch? The fuck? Can a girl get a fucking sticker or something please?

I chat with Alex on the cell. I lounge on the wall. I observe the mating and relating habits of the young urban youth. Shit, these 18+ shows make all the difference. I might be one of like 100 above 21 in this piece. Except for the old guys. There's always some random old guys. Spidey sense says journos. They look even more jaded than I do.

I think of how the Bowery Ballroom is one of my hands down favorite venues. Shows are always amazing there. Too bad the next to headliner had to semi-ruin that. Sheesh...they suck. What is that? Like hootenanny brit-pop? Can it. I'm amazed at how one of the guitarist/singer guys' hair is defying gravity though. He must've pulled at it for a good 10 mins to get that perfect, "just stuck my finger in a socket" look.

Wander some more. Mind drifts. Don't look at me sideways like that, hipster boy. I'm not checking you out. I wonder how a person can have bones that small. Eat a meal. You look like a walking corpse.

Phoenix takes the stage. They play something and I'm blah. It's a French Travis! Eh. Oh okay...I'm into it. Look at little him with his little rock star attitude and band freeze until the crowd goes wild. That was cute. Okay, they rock. I might even tap a foot. Ugh, drunkies...give me some breathing room. Woo...this band is great! Fine, you're all so hot, even if you are all so shaggy and weigh 300 pounds collectively. Oh nice, they played my song. I still like the Todd Edwards mix better. And with that, I'm out. I'm not in the mood for a late night. I'll beat the kids' rush.

ETA: Matthew was there too and he's got a helpful set list -- for Phoenix at least.

Fantasy Vs. Reality, Or Why I Hate The E Late At Night

It was one of those weird nights.

I had discovered hours after the first nagging thought of my bag feeling empty that I left my wallet at home. No card to get money, which wasn't so bad. But also no ID, which potentially could have been. The advantage of being a bit jaded is that I breeze into many places. I've begun to think that they smell the fear/nervousness of the casual party people. I look confident and flash a smile, I breeze in. Or perhaps it's because I'm a woman. Do most rules apply to "cute" girls? I arrived at the site of the listening party I'd been stoked about most of the week after the open bar was over to find that swag time was over also. You win some, you lose some. I'd ordered up a water and chatted with my new friend, the bouncer. He gave me the scoop on the place and when it's worth bothering for. I thanked him and set off to my friends at Sapph. The life of a random magnet is never boring.

I've had a pain in my back for the past few days. It emanates from one of those hard to reach places -- below my neck, between my shoulders, most likely caused by too many nights (and days) hunched over the keyboard in my bad chair. It's a dull ache that makes me stretch in vain and feel disgruntled. I sat at the bar and ordered water while everyone tried their massage remedies to fix me. Nothing's worse for soreness than aggravating the injury further so I decided to call it a night. I took the A running through Second Avenue as a sign that I should roll into 416 and check the scene. I went. I saw. I left. Places can be slightly taxing when you're the only sober and achy person in the room.

My watch said 2:25, early for me. Necessity has caused me to make leaving into a science. The F train ride is 40 minutes and the E is about 50. Travelling so much has given me the knowledge that the best times to ride the train are before 1am or after 3am,. especially since the bus has a dead zone after 3:30 operating every hour. In that window of time, the snakes crawl out from under their rocks as my mother says. Or from my perspective, the drunks come out. The severely trashed/lightweights tend to stumble out of places between 1:30 and 3:00. A long train ride with a pack of rowdies is about as fun as a root canal. Tonight however, I just wasn't in the mood to waste another hour and change. Laziness led me to take the E train at 14th instead of taking the L/walking the 2 long ass blocks to the F. I hate that train late at night because the last stop is the nighttime hub for cabs in the neighborhood. They lie in wait at the top of the stairs: "Cab, darling, you need a cab" follows me in a chorus as I walk to the desolute bus stop where I wait and stare at the back of the darkened Bally's Gym. My last trip over there was treacherous with dark ice covering all paths around it. I had walked slowly and cautiously, still almost falling as I made my way onto the bus. I wasn't looking forward to being there.

I sat on a long bench in a quarter full car, leaving some space in between myself and the edge near the door. I noted I was the only woman in my car. At 42nd, a guy sat diagonal from me with his loud ass Discman, singing along to Biggie. He gave me the eye. I gave him the eyeroll.

At 57th, a guy plopped next to me in the space between me and the end of the bench. I wondered again about the lack of space respect of people. I wonder about that a lot. The bench next to mine was totally empty but the SOB just had to sit on top of me. Fucker. As time passed, I could feel him looking at me. My peripheral vision gave me the impression that he was looking at my bag and I held it closer to me. I entertained thoughts of him trying to steal my bag and me punching him in his head before smacking the shit out of him with my bag. Occasionally, I have violent daydreams of fucking people up. It's the remnants of the tomboy that had to be tough to navigate a lot of things. It's also this city. You've got to be on alert. Shit can happen at any time. Sad but true.

At Steinway St, I looked at my watch and let out a big sigh. Another reason to hate the stupid E was that it runs local all the way through Queens. It was 3 and I had a bus to catch in a half hour or else I'd be screwed. The man next to me decided to start chatting at me. Fuck. I hate it when that happens. I tried to be noncommital and politely ignoring him, but he couldn't take the hint. My monosyllabic, monotone responses and obvious disinterest only encouraged him. Shit.

After five minutes, I moved a few people spaces down the bench and hoped he would stop. No dice. "Can you leave me alone, please? I'm tired and don't feel like talking."

"I'm just trying to be nice. What's your name?"
"I don't give out my name."
"What? Why you gotta be all stank for?"
"I just don't want to talk." Stoneface. Resolve to be silent.

"Oh, you trying to act cute? You're ignoring me? Hey. Hey! Excuse me, Miss?" Silence. "Why you gotta be a bitch for? Oh, now you're just playing yourself!"
"No, you're playing yourself. You're the one who's still talking." Fucker was pissing me off. He can't take a fucking hint?! Made me have to put my bitch voice on.
"Why you gotta be all rude? You got a nasty attitude, you know that? You're acting like a real bitch!"
"I'll be a bitch. Then, if I'm a bitch, why are you still talking to me?" Moving farther down the bench. He follows. Other people vaguely look over. Roosevelt Avenue. Much of the car gets off and one man gets on and sits on the bench facing ours. I move all the way to the end of my bench and he's still follows. I really resolve not to talk and hope he'll give up on his mutters and get off soon.

He's boring a hole into the side of my head, but I resolve to look straight ahead and say nothing. He's still muttering at me and trying to get my attention. The man across from us is watching the tableau with his glassy drunken eyes, looking like if he moves, he'll vomit. Still, I see that he's vaguely concerned as his eyes dart between us. I share a glance with the man, but I wonder what he would do if something really happened. "Hey!" I look at the punk to my side, coldly. "You know I'm gonna fuck you up, right?"

Woodhaven Blvd. My breath catches in my throat but I refuse to let him see me crack. I stare straight ahead and he goes back to trying to get my attention. I momentarily wonders why he could possibly thing that after a threat, I'd be more instead of less likely to talk to him. I mentally kick myself for not choosing the conductor car since only 4 of us dot my end of the car and I refuse to look left to check who else is around. I put all my effort into praying that the man across does not leave. I entertain the thought of just getting off the train, but then I think of how he could follow me -- unless I time it so perfectly that the doors are closing -- and that the next train to come would make me miss my bus and I'd be better off just going back into Manhattan if I got off.

"You know you're a bitch, right? You're just a stupid bitch. You're a slut. You're a whore..."

I tune out his words and concentrate on staring straight ahead. I feel my eyes beginning to burn. 63rd Drive. That son of a bitch will not make me crack. I weigh the pros and cons of just punching the shit out of him. I mean, the threat was out there. If he wants to fight me, I'll give his ass a fight. I feel bloodlust welling up from somewhere deep inside. 67th Avenue.

71st - Continental. The platform has people milling about. I'm tempted to run and grab onto a conductor, but I'm scared that he'll follow. I'm starting to be more scared that he'll get off at Jamaica Center also and follow me from there. As if sent by God, the F pulls in across the platform. I simply stand up and leave. I turn back at him before the E doors close and he's looking at me like an impotent fucking idiot. I resist the urge to stick up my middle finger and yell "go fuck yourself, you pathetic asshole!" The E train doors close and it pulls away. I sit on the F observing the ratio of the car. Another woman stares back at me. I wonder if she ever gets scared on the train. I wipe away some tears that were trying to spill over and let out a big breath. I think it's the first time I've breathed in almost 10 minutes.

Parsons Blvd comes before I realize it and I step off. I practically run to the donut stand to tell my friend what happened as the bus pulls around the corner. 3:27. I say a quick goodbye and run across the street to the empty corner where no one is waiting to step on. It would figure that after all that shit I'd miss it. I'm not in the mood to take a chance.

3:41, I walk in my door. I see a kitty face peering around a corner and walk to my mom's room. "Mommy, I got threatened on the train." The story spills out in a big rush. "I should've hit him. I wish so bad I would've hit him. Fucker was just trying to intimidate me." The anger chokes me up. "Mommy, I need a hug."

The Division

I'd be lying if I didn't say I was nervous.

I spent most of the night in front of the mirror, checking and rechecking my outfit, striving for slightly dishelved and fashionably cool yet casual. I didn't bother to ask myself why I care. It was complicated. Everything about "us" was complicated. This drawn out thing adding color to a time marked by days on fast forward and the slightest of depressions. And the realization that my stress was evolving its manifestations over the years. Now it drove me to eat and drink in excess and eye my mirrored profile warily. Still, there was no denying that the weight looked good on me. As I'd grown older, I'd rounded those chiseled muscles and sharp bones. I looked as I heard a man say leeringly on a late movie once: "a woman with curves in all the right places." I adjusted and readjusted the shiny metal coins decorated belt. It never lay right. Though it stretched, it needed someone with more hips or less perhaps. I had a strange amount that wasn't ideal. I adjusted it again and noted that it still looked good. After all, I am my own worst critic.

I called him to get directions. His words spilled out in a rush and I knew without a doubt I wouldn't remember. I said I'd call him when I hit the train stop, realizing afterwards that I was unsure which one it was. Graham or Grand? They came out so similar. I shrugged and got going. Getting out of the house is always the hardest part. It was almost midnight I noted disapprovingly and it would take me forever to get there. I’m always running late for stupid reasons.

I thought over his voice over the phone. He sounded well on his way to some sort of altered state and I decided not to bother worrying about the source. I’d find out soon enough I knew. I rode the bus to the J to the L, thinking about him, about us, about the strangeness of it all. About last night when I was caught off guard by the bombshell and couldn’t resist being close to him. About what ifs. About how situations can create such fake intimacy where making us feel so close yet not knowing each other at all. About how it was funny that I was embroiled in yet another romantic mess when I had been so sure those months ago that I left my latent need for drama a hundred miles away. Perhaps it is something in me that pulls these types (the loners, the emotionally bruised, the misguided, the self-medicating). I read somewhere – or perhaps, heard – that the damaged send out those signals to attract those partners. The birds of a feather phenomenon. Damaged? I wouldn’t say that about me. I’m just…evolving. I suppose there is a bit of yearning that comes across. I’m searching for something…peace of mind? Security? Sometimes I think: love? Rather I think: understanding. Despite how balanced I am on the inside, I need someone to balance me on the outside too. Or rather, let me know that I’m level since I have no concept of straight lines. That is obviously not him. I knew that from the first meeting. If I was to ask him if I was level, he’d rant about the constricting nature of a line. He would rather be…I don’t think he knows. That’s why I like him because I am preoccupied constantly with lines and trajectories and movement and growth and he would rather say fuck it all and let the pieces fall where they may. I said to him, I’m so young, I’m so vanilla, I’m so unformed. He thought I was implying I wanted to be molded by him, to be the shiny-eyed protege. If I said to him, I want to share in your energy for a little while, he wouldn’t understand. Sometimes he’s hopelessly linear in his “disorder” and I feel the random one. It’s more like a yin-yang I decided early on. We complement each other.

I get to my stop. I guessed right: it was Graham. I call him and feel confused by his directions again. I tentatively stroll down the unfamiliar Williamsburg blocks and feel relived when I finally see the street he told me to find. I walk slowly past the old houses with their sharp staircases and sidings to see him sitting on the staircase of the third one in. He pulls a drag off of his cigarette slowly and looks contemplative. I dread a Talk and feel my stomach drop. I fill the silence with a quick burst of meaningless words about how I thought I was lost and got confused yet whew I found it and he replies with a non-committal oh yeah. But, then I run out of words and I feel the panic about to creep up again. What is there to say really? I don’t want to hear: this has been fun and weird but now I’m leaving and I guess that’s that (which is what I would say if I wanted to have this conversation). Or last night was a mistake and I said before that I have a lot of respect for you and I don’t want to be that fuck-up in your life because you’re so…I dunno (which has been said before). Or any strange unfamiliar words. Or a potential hybrid of the first two. Almost a year ago, I decided I was sick of the words that can spill out when you’re knotted in the strange mix of intimacy and sex and thoughts and feelings and touches and baggage and life. Nothing good comes from the words. It’s easier to blame words than situations. There’s something satisfying about saying/thinking it all went wrong because we couldn’t shut up. Two people coming up the stairs killed the moment and he went into normal social mode. I was pushed to the side by their familiarity and idle conversation. It’s something that happens a lot. A slight black girl is easy to ignore. The now group heads inside with the new two leading the way and he and I bringing up the rear. He’s back to closed off and obviously thinking, but it can’t be helped now.