Operation Book Purge

Dave tells me Box of Books No. 2 has arrived in California for safe keeping. And I finally shed the two or so boxes of books I had left. They’re gone. All of them. My most treasured are in Australia, followed by the second-tier (read: ones I could live without looking at so I wouldn’t have to pay upwards of $500 to have them shipped), which are with Dave. And it’s all good.

People strolling past my apartment on a recent sunny Park Slope day had the opportunity to stop and browse. And take if they were so moved. And I received one of the highest compliments I’ve ever received: “You have a good collection here.” Nice.

In 24 hours I’ll be typing away on my first NaNoWriMo page. I just checked and my goal is to write six-and-a-half double-spaced pages a day, so I can finish by the time Meredith gets here on the 26th. Jesus Christ.

Graffiti Uprising in the Slope

One night a couple of weeks ago, I was working out in my living room to an episode of House. I was in a relatively good mood, too, minding my own business, when a knock interrupted my sweat session. I don’t get visitors, let alone unannounced ones. My control issues take care of that for me. So, confused, I walked to the door and looked through my lame excuse for a peep hole.

I opened the door to see a bespectacled woman on the tall side who, it seemed, needed to visit her hair stylist because of the sun-damaged blond mop that sat atop her head. I don’t think she knew she needed this visit, because this was a Park Slope woman. Not sure if she was a mom, although if she were, I have no doubt that she would be pushing her baby in a stroller.

She took me in, adorned in my sweaty white t-shirt and Spurs shorts along with weight-lifting gloves, and prepared to deliver her speech. You see, there is graffiti on the side of our apartment building. When I first noticed it, I will admit I made a mental note to call the super and ask him to paint over it. But I simply forgot.

Hotness

All right so it’s not hot necessarily. But let the record show that I, along with many others I walked alongside today, wore shorts and a t-shirt. Though I did allow the fact that it’s January to keep me in socks and Nikes. I’m not that out of control.

Global warming or El Nino, one can never be sure. The experts differ on the answer. (Correction: They DON’T differ. Thanks for the meteorology lesson, C.) In trying to find a good one for myself, I figured I’d watch the Weather Channel. When extreme temps occur, I tend to become obsessed with monitoring the weather. I have three weather widgets on my Tiger desktop, though one is for Australia. But back to the Weather Channel. I was watching this woman today whose name I cannot remember, and she was discussing the high temps for today. She said something to the effect of the following: “Tomorrow’s temperatures will be much lower than today’s, though they will still be well above normal. If that makes sense.” And she chuckled a bit, as though she had just made it through an excruciating point that she felt was going to give her some difficulty and, therefore, would be difficult for her viewers to understand.

If that makes sense? What? It makes perfectly ridiculous sense, so much so that she didn’t have to ask. This is an example of the dumbing down of society. The apparent need for media — yes, weather people count — to over explain and make plain the most simple of ideas. To put things in sound bite size pieces, so the people can get back to their respective social networks and hope to god someone commented on their page. I don’t watch much of the news media, preferring to get it from various online sources. Even then I’m not sure how much exactly is bullshit. But at least the people who write what I read don’t think I’m stupid. Not such a big point, but a point nevertheless.

After I turned her off, I put my aforementioned shorts and t-shirt on and began traipsing around the immediate blocks around my Park Slope apartment. This neighborhood is becoming more and more foreign to me. The staring eyes I catch have become a little more inquisitive rather than aggressive, though inquisition based on ignorance is a bit too passive aggressive for my liking. I can usually shame them into putting their eyes back on the double strollers containing their twins. It’s amusing most times. Or maybe it was just the fact that we were all seeing skin in January. Who can know? But I took care of some stuff, most important of which was checking with one of the three nearby liquor stores to see if it carried mint Bailey’s. How ingenious. It didn’t, so I settled on the good ol’ original. I also took some passport photos. Next is the passport application, which I will try to take care of soon so I don’t stress about getting it in time for my June trip to Oz. Fuck, I can’t wait.

A friend reminded me tonight about that essay I wrote last year. Still no word, so an e-mail from me is due. Mr. editor of gender book, what’s up with this shit? Either publish the damn book already or give me my essay back so I can make it better and shop it elsewhere. Because that’s what I need. A distraction from my book. Page 103 ain’t a bad place to be, though.

Favorite Moment Ever at Staples

I walked in there today during a rare break from work, clad in a black shirt and pants, intending to stay only as long as I needed to. Perusing shiny gadgets was going to have to wait for another day.

After assessing GHz, style, and price differential on phones, I had questions, because I didn’t give myself enough time on the various technology review sites for research — an important step when making such decisions.

So I went off searching for a person in a red polo who looked like they wanted to impart knowledge. On my way up to the counter, I passed a woman pushing a kid in a stroller and a man who trailed her by about two feet. Let’s assume they were married, but for the purposes of this tale, it is not important. Approaching the family, I took note of the kid in the stroller. He was too big for it. Way too big for it. He was sleeping, legs hanging out the front, arms hanging to the side. Let’s make the kids walk, shall we?

With my task still at hand, I prepared to walk by them. But it wasn’t without an exchange.

“Excuse me, do you have–”

“I don’t work here.”

“You look like you do.”

“Ok.”

That was it. I could have given her a lesson in color. Red polo. Black shirt. Stupid woman who can’t make her kid walk.

Speaking of children. Now I like them. I really do. I’ve known some pretty great kids. But I have a kid anecdote that I will relish for a long time, because my part in it allowed me to let off some steam that had been brewing. It happened last week.

My front door is right on the sidewalk in the heart of Park Slope. I can hear everything that people say as they walk by. It will make a good book one day once I gather some comments and create a story out of them. Living where we do also made moving in a cinch. But we have to get our mail somehow, and to allow this, there is a mail slot that anyone can open right up and drop things in.

Jill has told me a few times of her experiences with unattended children who have opened the slot and peered in. One day she went out and had some words with one of the parents who was standing on the corner talking to a friend totally ignoring her cute little monster. The mother didn’t seem to take it very seriously. Jill told me of a few other times this has happened, but I still hadn’t experienced it.

Last week one morning, I was rushing to gather the necessary things to walk out the door because I had gotten up on the later side, like I always do by snoozing NPR for an hour. I heard an abnormal ruckus outside, so I investigated. I raced out of my room and that’s when I saw these little beady shithead eyes looking right back at me through my mail slot. I ran to the door, but ended up fumbling with the lock. Lock, unlock, lock. Shit. Finally, I opened the door and looked to my right. That’s when I saw a mini-monster playing monkey on the bars in front of the apartment building next door. I also saw his mother’s face, turned back around with a sort of embarrassed crack of a smile on her face. She was pushing a stroller. Something to tell Jill.

The next morning, I actually got up early to kick start my metabolism with some Kashi puffs, and I turned on the Today show. Then I heard some crack crack crackling behind me, so I turned to look and there was a little thing’s face, grubby hands on my mail slot. I put my puffs down in haste and ran over to the door. But on the way, I remembered my go-around with the lock the morning before. I didn’t want to repeat that. I needed closure on this situation, so I slowed down as I got to the door, his face still stuck in the slot, and bent down. One split second later, I moved to my left, met the shit face to face and AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!!

He ran. I laughed. It felt fantastic. Haven’t seen him since.

Gotta Love Park Slope

As seen on Union Street between Sixth and Seventh Avenues.

Convos Outside My Bedroom Window

Here’s what I don’t get. People standing right the hell outside my bedroom window, which is right on the corner of (oh wait, I don’t need people knowing where I live) talking. I just heard the word “boogey.” Who says that?

Woman #1 is talking about some guy who is at her house with a bad leg. “I have to go home and deal with the “brute.” Do wives call their husbands “brutes”? I’m thinking so. A few seconds have now elapsed with Woman #1 talking to Woman #2 about the aforementioned “boogeying.” And now there were three. Three women gathered outside my bedroom window fawning over each other’s dogs.

“I’m done with my bag of poop.” You don’t say. Ok, it appears as though the Brute’s name is Peter. And I don’t think she’s Woman #1′s husband. “I was just telling her that he’s home. Staying through Thanksgiving. I went into the kitchen and he’s making toast. I have to go pee and he’s sitting on the fucking toilet.”

Here’s what needs to happen. Woman #1 needs to go home and deal with her Peter brute. Woman #2 needs to commence her yoga or boogeying or whatever the case may be. And Woman #3 needs to go take care of Bailey’s poop. And they all need to do it the hell away from my bedroom window. Next time, I will open my blinds with the fervor of a maniac about to climb the walls. We’ll see what happens with that.

Inked

Twelve years went by since I got my first tattoo. It didn’t hurt too bad back then. But I was young. Twenty. And I was with my first girlfriend, Lisa. A lifetime and an entire adolescence ago. But my memory, I don’t think, gelled well with the reality. That getting tattoos hurts. No, they don’t just hurt. Enduring two-and-a-half hours of a needle injecting ink into my arm feels like hell. At first, it was ok. Tasha, the kick-ass artist (who is a Scorpio, and I’ve just learned to stay away from them romantically), said she’d do a quick test to let me know what to expect. “That’s it?” Oh, had I only known. She began the process, and I started talking. We discussed her family, school, movies, books, French, academia, art, expression and the importance of communication (this last one came up after I found out she was a Scorpio). And we talked and talked and she continued inflicting pain, this tattoo artist who has not one drop of injected ink on her body. “So you’re unaware of the immense pain you’re inflicting on me.” Erica came by after a while to keep me company for a bit, and the two of us took a little break after I announced that I was feeling a little light-headed. I was no longer talking as much, the volume of my voice decreased and my breathing slowed. Tasha then told me that’s normal; my body was going into protection mode or something like that and apparently was expending all of its energy toward my arm. “You’re killin’ me here.” Tasha felt really bad and then the conversation among the three of us turned to masochism. I wasn’t one, Tasha said, because I didn’t come in for the pain. Shortly thereafter, Erica left, because it was gonna be another hour. Of pain. Our conversation continued, mine and Tasha’s, only I wasn’t talking as much. To ask a question took some out of me, but I managed a few here and there. And finally, she announced we were near the end. “Not that I haven’t enjoyed our time together, because I have, but thank god.” And I left a little giddy to meet Erica for some grub. So, this will be my last tattoo, especially because I almost fainted tonight (on three separate occasions!) when I cleaned it. Nevertheless, it’s done. And I love it. The design is a creation of my own, a bit of a twist on the Leo symbol. Fitting, I think.

Tea and Wine

I might have to stop going to the Tea Lounge. I’ve been there twice in the last week and haven’t gotten very much done, because I end up talking to people. I must be giving something off. I actually approached one of them. You can’t be in possession of a book of psychoanalytic terms and think I won’t talk to you. But getting into conversations with people is not the only thing I do.

Tonight, I caught a nice couple, man and woman, fondling one another’s genitals. Totally not something I wanted to see. They were clearly exhibitionists, which makes me a voyeur. I think. I’d have to refer to Freud, but the book I need is in Cornelia’s room and she’s in there sleeping with her girlfriend. I’ve had enough couples. I’m staying home Saturday. I hate Hallmark holidays.

Before the Tea Lounge, I had some free wine, cheese and salami at school at what I thought was to be just a mix-and-mingle situation. It was for TCDS and a couple of deans from Kazakhstan gave a talk. I was stuck. And it was hot in there after my first of three cups of really really good Italian red wine. It’s nearly 3 am and I got little-to-no work done today. That’s the plan tomorrow night. Today it was more about connecting with people. There are certain occasions when I’m being stared at that it isn’t malicious. I recognize pure interest, genuine interest, from people. It happened a couple of times today. It was refreshing. And I got a tip on where to get free beer from 8-10 on Fridays.

At a Loss

Expression. You feel pent up? You feel fucked? I can’t get it out, that thing that is stirring inside with so much intensity that no thoughts, words, or actions are available to give it shape or meaning. I sit. I stare at my screen. I stare at the couples upon couples upon disgustingly sweet couples sipping tea who have managed to find one another in this crazy world. They stare longingly into one another’s eyes, no doubt exchanging gooey sweet-nothings…and they actually mean them. They make decisions based on mutual decisions and respect, one wanting so badly to do nothing but respect his or her partner to the fullest. The other being so aware and thankful for the other’s presence in his or her life. No one is yelling, blaming, rendered worthless. Neither is made to feel like they’re a piece of garbage. I’m pent up.

This excruciating uncertainty of my present state is making me want to write. But I can’t. I’ve got an essay to write; essays to re-write; a short story (still) to complete; writing samples to write; statements of purpose to write. And I can’t put a word down on paper. I’m listening to music, to other people’s expression. I’m watching movies — other people’s expression. But I feel it in here. I’m angry but I can’t be angry at the right thing, the one thing that has triggered this position I’m in. I want to write a fantastic articles in my words that expresses my ideas about this social space in which we live; I want to (if only I could) write slam poetry; I want to write an eloquent memoir. Too young? I haven’t done anything interesting enough in my life to warrant a memoir? Perhaps. But I still want to write it. The only thing I can do to express myself is write and it’s not happening right now. It’s just not there. And I feel angry at the Beatles.

I was in the Tea Lounge tonight, happily listening to Elvis Costello, who was coming over the speakers. Then, all of a sudden, in the middle of a song, it stopped. About this time, I looked over to my right to spot three women, one of whom could not have been over 21. They were sitting at the chess table playing themselves a little game. One of them, the one who annoyed me the most, the one who could not have been over 21, exclaimed “Yeah!” when Elvis stopped. That was obnoxious, but, as we are all allowed to feel what we want about music, I decided I wasn’t that annoyed. Ehat would soon change, because Elvis was quickly replaced by the Beatles. Now, I don’t have anything against the Beatles, per se, but I don’t necessarily like them, either. If I were given a choice between listening to the Beatles and, say, Missy Elliot, over a chicken dinner, I’d probably choose the latter. The Beatles’ wagon was something I never climbed aboard. So anyway, I was a little peeved that this is what they replaced Elvis with. And then that song came on. That song about a yellow submarine. That jolly, happy fucking song that makes people bounce in their seats while singing the lyrcis (out loud) came on. I looked over again at the girls, and, sure enough, they were bouncing. Bouncing and singing. Fucking hell. Of course they only bounced during the chorus. So what did I do every time the chorus began? I looked at them. I did this because I hated them so much. It was like driving down the 5 staring at a 10-car pile up hoping to god you don’t see a dead body (when, in fact, that’s all you want to see). I kept looking over. And I was still mad. Soon, though, they stood up and prepared to leave. I was so happy. The Beatles were still playing, although the nerds hadn’t graced the patrons with their voices in a bit. Until “All You Need Is Love” came on. All who needs is love, first of all? Second of all, they started singing. And bobbing their heads back and forth….”all you need is love, love…love is all you need.” Oh, that’s all I need. Why has it taken me so long to figure it out? Fuck love. Wondering when my next therapy appointment is? Not till Thursday. Days away. After the nerd crew left the lounge, I closed my reader and pulled out my notebook, confident in the fact that I would be able to get started on my next assignment. Should I do a character study or a general culture study or combine the two? I have no idea. And so I sat there: notebook wide open taunting me, pen in hand able only to scratch out the preliminary notes I had scrawled. Nothing. And that’s where I am. I’m just happy it’s Monday. I can escape into the cozy existence of denial I’ve staked out for myself, because Monday through Wednesday is nothing but school and work. If I don’t think about the girl and how she made me feel, I’m less sad. If I don’t allow my mind to revisit the conversations filled with tension and stress and being accused and yelled at, then I can usually go about my day relatively pain-free. If I don’t think about the last time we were together, and how nicely confusing it was that we finally managed to communicate and connect, then I can just pretend it never happened. And if I suppress my pain at not having my voicemail and e-mails of three weeks ago returned, then I can really exist in a mildly pleasant space. Naw, it doesn’t feel like shit to have been fucked like that. Not at all. Chicks? Done. As am I for the night. Maybe my ability to write will return soon. I can hope.

Because I Don’t Want to Stop Writing

I’ve just been working on the memoir assignment that is due on Tuesday. I’m at 971 words and I hit a wall so I decided to come over here and type for a bit. Why not, I asked myself. My fingers are warmed up. You wanna know something? I’m going through a really rough time right now. But I learned something. If you’re on the subway and you feel like crying, all you have to do is look at the floor.

The glasses on your face will catch the tears. And then if you can just hold it together as best you can until you get home to your empty house, you’ll be fine. Because then, you can just let it all out without your glasses on. Thankfully my roommate wasn’t home. I went to a bitchy place called Bar 6 tonight. Lorena’s aunt and her partner are visiting and, as is the case with My Latinas, we all have to meet the relatives.

I wasn’t in the mood to be there, but when we left the bitchy place for French Roast, it got a little better. It did take a while, though, because the last time I was at French Roast was a happy occasion. I was with Micah and we were on a date. So it was hard being there tonight. When the conversation finally turned to the Ph.D. program in theatre I discovered at CUNY, I lightened up. I was able to forget my sadness for a minute and go with that. And then, we started discussing casting changes on NBC’s hit television show ER and I really gained some momentum.

The aunts were able to enjoy some of my entertaining character traits as I ate my mashed potatoes. And the evening ended pleasantly. I went one way to the F train, the others went the other way, and I finally had the opportunity to enjoy the solace that I so badly wanted all day long. On the train, where I learned my aforementioned lesson, I read an interview with Judith Halberstam, author of Female Masculinity and wet dream of just about every femme I know. I don’t get it but whatever.

She’s a kick-ass gender theorist whose ideas on gender I now know I share. (And I’ve only read one chapter of her book.) I then came home to an empty house and got into my sweats and made a pot of coffee, which explains the fact that I’m still awake at 3:30 a.m. And then I cried. Why? Because I’m sad.