Things I’ll Miss About Windsor Terrace

Um…..uh. Oh, I have one. The proximity of the F train to my front door. And, uh, let’s see…Godfather sandwiches and the three people who make ‘em. My room. I’ll miss my room. Its mulatto-colored walls sucked in a lot of stuff and provided me with a haven. I became addicted to a lot of songs in here, the latest of which is Cole Porter’s “Too Darn Hot” from the musical Kiss Me, Kate. Go listen to it. And, well, that’s about it. What I think is really funny is the cafe on the corner that is owned and operated by lesbians. Just opened last week. It seems as though I’m ahead of the curve. Not good for any potential love life. But, according to the view from here, that’s more than ok. Geno will be over Saturday and will spend the night, so we can get an early start. And then I’m off the computer till at least Tuesday afternoon. May my wireless plans execute painlessly. I’m spent now. I’m either nowhere near finished packing or it just looks that way. Regardless, I’m done for the night with that. The Spurs start their second season on Sunday against the Nuggets. Jill’s from Denver. Hopefully she doesn’t like their team much. I always get a little on edge around this time, especially since they finished the season losing three of four games. I feel my heart palpitating already. And with that, I’m done writing for now. I’ll thankfully be doing it soon from another room in another ‘hood.

Farewell, Fond F, Futile F, Fickle F, Fu….

“I really want you two to have the apartment,” were the words my new landlord told Jill over the phone this evening. This just one hour after Jill sent me a text message saying she was pulling out her hair. This just ninety minutes after I told two people that I had officially given up on receiving “the call.” They came through — the call, the landlord. Fortune. It looks like the big day is Sunday. Geno convinced me to move myself and, out of the kindness of his heart, is helping me. Now I don’t have to fork over money I don’t have. It’ll be me, him and a U-Haul mini-mover. I’ll do laundry down the street one more time. Maybe have one more Godfather hero sandwich made by Jeanette, Jesus or Armando. One last walk through Prospect Pa– never mind, I never walked through Prospect Park. So I am done with Windsor Terrace, that Brooklyn neighborhood just out of civilization’s reach. But what is more important, what is infinitely more significant, is that I no longer have to rely on the F train to get me home at night. It will no longer skip Ft. Hamilton Parkway with me on it. I won’t have to deal with it inching along the tracks at the outdoor Fourth Ave. and Smith and 9th Street stops. No more round orange circles with a white “F” shouting from the center that come every 45 minutes, no matter the time of day. “Is this the F or V?” No more! No more, I say. Unless I choose to take it. I didn’t have such hatred for the 4, 5, or 6 lines when I was forced to use those. And I’m quite open to the fact that one day I’ll hate the N, R, W, B and D trains. But their time will come. All I know is, the F has had its day in my life, and we are breaking up. I have had some good F times, though, too. It’s where I enjoyed my serendipitous introduction to Steve with whom I have since spent numerous hours talking about girls and writing. For whom I will soon be writing a treatment for a potential movie. I also had, some may recall, a wonderful encounter with a stranger who asked me what I was writing. Ida and I spent time together on the F train, holding hands despite the stares of the intolerant. She also almost got in a fight on the F train, unwilling to put up with some colorful comments from a few nosy women, mothers with strollers, unhappy with our affection. At the time, I was hoping to someone that the women couldn’t hear the garbled words she muttered, as I stood in front of her, concealing her from their view. Now that encounter makes me smile. I’m sure it would her, too. I’ve also cried on the F train. Wondering what it was I did this time. Or what I didn’t do. And what I would do different next time. But how? Then it will never come. I have seen kids with my skin color on the F and wondered if they know their fathers like I don’t. I have sat next to people who, if not for the F, would otherwise never have any reason to be in my presence or I in theirs. The best thing, though, the thing I will remember the F train for the most, is the writing. Suffering through the F’s many delays, I have given character to people who don’t exist, pondered psuedo-philosophical motivations behind my character’s actions, and cut entire sections. I have, from time to time, put periods on what I consider to be well-written sentences, which I punctuated further with a smile on my face. I have written dialogue, which may very well suck. I have created stories in my head that I immediately put on the page. I have written most of the 91 pages of my handwritten draft on the F train, as well as many journal entries. It offered a safe space for me in which to do so, allowing me to forego all of the judgments I usually conjure before putting pen to paper. So. The F train. Goodbye, my friend. My foe. It’s been, well, it’s just been.

Not a Good Day For the Subway

I could immediately start in on my morning commute. I could retell my experiences with crowds, humidity, the inability to understand the train driver. But that would be too easy. So I’m going to begin with last night.

After leaving Jill’s gig at Arlene’s Grocery, this guy that I kind of know — not very well — stopped me to talk.  “I came out looking for you,” he said.  I met him at the Tea Lounge one night months ago. I’ve seen him a few times since. He’s in his forties, works as a barrista (or is that barristo?) at another Park Slope cafe called Ozzie’s, and he acts. And sings apparently.

Anyway, I stopped and lit a clove while waiting for him to come over. I didn’t mind waiting, because the train station was quite close so I wouldn’t have had enough time to suck down a clove. Now I did.  He finally came over with his hand outstretched.  “What’s up, dude?” I asked him, already a little wary of his energy, not knowing if I had enough of my own for it. He had a big smile on his face, which was a little odd, because he’s usually a little more on the chill side. “Catherine!” he said, now holding my hand. “You look [he paused here, trying to find the right adjective] vibrant.”  What th- “Vibrant?!” I said, questioned, retorted, and exclaimed all at once. “That’s a first,” I told him. “Of all the words that have been used in history to describe me, ‘vibrant’ has never been one of them.” “Well, you look great.”  “Well, thanks. It must be Simon and Garfunkel.”

Darkness Drama

I wish I had an exciting story to tell about my experience in NYC’s darkness: being stuck on the F train as it sat under water between Manhattan and Brooklyn; walking from Penn Station to Brooklyn; sleeping on the steps of the post office in midtown and enjoying the antics of other stranded New Yorkers. But alas, I have no stories. I was at home. Just finishing up yet another viewing of Hedwig and the Angry Inch. I was watching it with a new friend who hadn’t seen it (!) and Cornelia was sitting at the table working on her paper. And then there was no power.

Brooklyn Bound For Good

I walked my ass all over Brooklyn yesterday with Cornelia but we are now the proud renters of the top floor of a house on the southwest side of Prospect Park. We are just a four-minute walk from the park, and I can spit at the F train station. It’s pretty much expensive, but I’m just glad I was able to save some money.

The bad news is that I may have to stay in New York all summer in order to work. I was looking forward to a 30th birthday party, too, but sometimes ya just gotta do what ya gotta do. Anyway, we have a lot of windows; a full kitchen in which to microwave my mac and cheese; there is a sliding-glass door that leads to basically the roof of the owners’ livingroom. So we have a place to bake this summer. I’m taking the big room because Cornelia is basically a poor foreigner and so I’m paying $100 more. But it’s still about $150 cheaper than this pit I’m in now.

Yes, I now just despise it here and can’t wait for three weeks when I move out. What else? The walls are painted different colors. There’s a built-in shelf for me television, which is nice. All in all, we’re both really excited and we’re gonna make it work. It actually feels like a home, so this’ll be fun. And the best thing is I’ll have a huge-ass room in NYC. I’ll take pictures.

It’s nice because the guy had an appointment to show the place today and still negotiated with us. We — actually Cornelia — talked him into having us pay the second security deposit in September. We each basically have to pay one full month’s rent security so now we have to just pay half. It helps. So he likes us.

And he likes that we devote our time to studying and he’s not doing a credit check. So he’s actually crazy but we’ll prove in no time to be financially trustworthy young women. We looked at another place yesterday but the woman was a bit strange. Cornelia believes she was a drug addict at one point in her life. I have no basis on which to judge such things so I couldn’t concur. And the fact that it was across the street from the projects wasn’t cool, either. The neighborhood is Crown Heights. Speaking of neighborhoods, my new one is called Windsor Terrace. Fancy schmancy.

I haven’t been much into talking about school this semester. I’m not sure why. It could be that I really wasn’t too into my classes. I’m more into the fact that I decided what I have a passion for academically, which is a scary thought. I find myself engaged in conversations on a daily basis about obliterating identity categories and the hierarchy inherent in their existence. For my gender class, I’m writing a paper on the historical development of transgenderism. I’m at the end of page four right now. I’m establishing the gender binary and from there will take parts of my conference paper to set up the move away generally from a hierarchical model of gender existence. At this point, I will bring in those individuals — transgendered — who challenge the binary by failing to fall into the strict categories of “masculine” and “feminine.”

This will give me a chance to spend some more time on the gender issue, which is something I didn’t get to do in my conference paper. Speaking of which, that paper is what I’m turning in for my culture class. Of course I’ll expand on it; I’ll probably be able to use some of my research for my gender paper in it. Also, I’ll spend more time establishing what I just mentioned: the hierarchies inherent in identity categories.  Let’s see, what else?

My feminist political theory paper will be the hardest because I’ve decided, with the encouragement of the professor, to do a close reading of Butler’s Gender Trouble. She’s up there with Hegel in terms of difficulty, although I’m sure some will scoff at the comparison. She’s the butt of many criticisms for her “bad” writing, as she is notorious for her unnecessarily complex sentences and useless repetitions of the same idea. My hero. I saw Erin on Friday. Sac dwellers will be happy to know that she will be brandishing an apron once again and working full time at Cafe Bernardo’s (at least that’s what she said Friday) and living somewhere in midtown. So I encourage you to seek her out and have a fun summer.

This will most likely be her last summer in the area because she’s about to break out. I’m going to her play next Friday night. It’s opening night. And best of all, I get to go to the cast party. Once again, I will be around young actors and alcohol. I will try to be better at updating. Something strange is going on with Blogger but hopefully it will calm down soon. It’s getting crunch time with school. We have I think four weeks left. But soon, I will have completed one year of grad school. I’m not quite sure how I feel about that. I miss a regular paycheck. But I think this may have been a good move for me. Will I go on immediately to a doctorate — if at all. I sure as hell hope not. But there’s something in me that’s curious about the programs out there. I don’t know. I’ve got some time.

The NYPD and Me

Yes, I had a little run-in with New York’s finest. But I’ll get to that in a little bit. The first part of the weekend deserves some attention. Dancing Fun. On Friday, Jessamyn and I hit this place called Meow Mix. I hear it’s the bar that some of the action in the lesbian-turned-straight-girl movie, Chasing Amy, took place. There was a band playing, which was ok. I’m not big on live music. But it was tolerable. And that’s a generous description:

The crowd got excited over an instrumental rock version of Michael Jackson’s hit “Beat It.”

I drank a Sierra Nevada out of a plastic cup. I felt like I was at Faces’ version of a post-pride after party. I can accept beer in a plastic cup at times like these.

The bathroom door had a hole where the doorknob was supposed to be. I didn’t realize women were subjected to such things as bootleg glory holes.

I touched a hot pipe, which was sitting right out there for people like me to burn themselves on. Luckily, I didn’t burn myself; I just touched it long enough to get the feeling that I should let go.

There was this strange lady who looked at Jessamyn and me and wondered why we weren’t dancing to a particular song (it was a P. Diddy song; I try to avoid dancing to Mr. Diddy). And she was wearing a hideous sweater and had a bad 80s perm. Don’t ask me why I’m not dancing if you have a bad 80s perm.

All in all, it wasn’t too bad. Contrary to popular belief, I danced. It was fun. After this, we went to another bar whose name appeared nowhere on anything. There was nothing really exciting about that. After this place, we headed to the F train uptown. Only the F train wasn’t going uptown that night. So we took cabs.