I went back to the doctor today and had the same horrible nurse-practitioner as last time. Of course, this time she looked at my chart and said, "Oh good, you lost six pounds! That's great!" Which was almost as condescending as having my weight gain at the previous appointment questioned. (Interesting side note, when I flew back home in August I went to see my real doctor and I asked her to pull up my weight records for the past year. I never had a thirteen pound weight gain over the course of those three months - so who knows how they figured out that number the first time.)
I've been feeling...I don't know. Low, I guess. I love work but I sometimes have terrible days. Lately I am very vividly reminded that, in many ways, theater tech and design is still a boy's club. I often feel like when I raise my voice with a question, suggestion, or comment, I get the "shut up while the men are talking" vibe in response. It can be frustrating when, on a ten person call, I'm one of two females in the room - if there's another female at all.
It's also frustrating, trying to balance being a girl and being a technician. I look around and while other females in the industry exist - I mean, I wear eyeliner and mascara to work. My work boots have a two-inch stacked heel. I keep my tools in a huge Clinique bag and one of my flashlights is neon pink. I sometimes feel very separate from the other people I work with, but I'm not going to be any less "me" because I don't think I fit into the mold of a typical female technician.
I think what I'm feeling most of all is loneliness. I live in a big, beautiful apartment in a great neighborhood in Manhattan; I'm employed at a job that will, with luck, take me to greater places in my desired career field. I should be really happy and satisfied but then I realize I have no one to talk to or laugh with. I don't have any real girl friends, and I can't talk with my guy friends about the sticky stuff in my life; mostly because not only would they have no idea how to handle it, I expect most of them wouldn't really care (not just because they're assholes, but because, you know. They're guys).
This is coming to a head because it's almost my birthday and I remember how miserable my birthday last year was, when I was alone in the city and wished fervently it was any other day of the year except my birthday, because who wants to be alone on their birthday?
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Love keeps her in the air when she ought to fall down, tells you she's hurting before she keels.
I'm not really one for self-doubt. I make decisions; I deal with them and don't often second-guess. Things happen the way they happen. Maybe I believe in fate, or destiny, or even the hand of God (not so much the last one, actually). I make mistakes. That's okay too.
I'm a nervous person. I do worry about things - mostly things that I don't have as much control over as I want. Money. Work. When I was younger, the things other people said and did. I worry about the state of the world and how I'm supposed to fit in it. I worry that I'm going to plateau and die out, a lost breed.
One month from today I turn 25. And I'm slowly carving out a place for myself, eking out an existence that is, for now, difficult. Yes, I'm a freelancer. Yes, I'm broke. Yes, I rely on other people. No, I am not self-sufficient. I don't know many people my age who are, particularly those of us who are artists. I never thought this was something I had to apologize for.
I am not one for self-doubt but maybe now I am. Am I okay? I always thought that I was, for the large part. I'm moving forwards, aren't I? Is that not enough? I thought it was. Aren't I okay? Everyone has bumps and bruises and scars. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by mine but surely I'm not alone in that. Am I okay?
In two months I will have been in the city for a year. I am trying to build a life. I am very scared but I am still an optimist.
I suppose I am flabbergasted, then, by people, people who I care about and who care about me, who do not want to be part of this process - of my process. How hurtful, how diminishing, to be told they want no part in it, to try them again in a few years when I've stabilized. They want the end result and are not strong enough to be part of the journey. How sad. For them.
Love, I always believed, is supposed to endure such things, to fortify us against the doubt and the fear. Love makes us go out and slay the dragons. Love does not make cowards.
I'm a nervous person. I do worry about things - mostly things that I don't have as much control over as I want. Money. Work. When I was younger, the things other people said and did. I worry about the state of the world and how I'm supposed to fit in it. I worry that I'm going to plateau and die out, a lost breed.
One month from today I turn 25. And I'm slowly carving out a place for myself, eking out an existence that is, for now, difficult. Yes, I'm a freelancer. Yes, I'm broke. Yes, I rely on other people. No, I am not self-sufficient. I don't know many people my age who are, particularly those of us who are artists. I never thought this was something I had to apologize for.
I am not one for self-doubt but maybe now I am. Am I okay? I always thought that I was, for the large part. I'm moving forwards, aren't I? Is that not enough? I thought it was. Aren't I okay? Everyone has bumps and bruises and scars. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by mine but surely I'm not alone in that. Am I okay?
In two months I will have been in the city for a year. I am trying to build a life. I am very scared but I am still an optimist.
I suppose I am flabbergasted, then, by people, people who I care about and who care about me, who do not want to be part of this process - of my process. How hurtful, how diminishing, to be told they want no part in it, to try them again in a few years when I've stabilized. They want the end result and are not strong enough to be part of the journey. How sad. For them.
Love, I always believed, is supposed to endure such things, to fortify us against the doubt and the fear. Love makes us go out and slay the dragons. Love does not make cowards.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
HURRICANE!
So, apparently there's a hurricane coming, or some shit. The MTA is entirely shut down, which severely cramps my style. I'm spending the weekend with Noam because my apartment has big scary windows.
Let's see. Two days ago, I went through the stunningly difficult and stressful process of procuring an apartment in Manhattan. Seriously, to anyone who wants to move to the island, ask yourself: how badly do you really want to move? Because if you're wishy washy on it, or you think your cool quotient would go up if you had a Manhattan address, just stay in Queens. I'm surprised I didn't have to give the landlord my first born child.
But, my new place is GORGEOUS. My current apartment in BK is very lovely and modern; this new place is very lovely and homey. It's bigger than my place in BK (if I pretended the third bedroom in the BK apartment didn't exist) and it's in Hell's Kitchen. Is the monthly rent impossible? Yeah, but I'll have to figure that out. (Money-making options I'm entertaining: bartending, barbacking, nude art modeling, plasma donations, organ donation, egg donation.)
That's sort of all that's interesting that's been happening. I flew back to NC for two weeks after I wrapped up work on Rent and was homesick the whole time. Then I got back to New York and felt a lot better. Hooray!
Let's see. Two days ago, I went through the stunningly difficult and stressful process of procuring an apartment in Manhattan. Seriously, to anyone who wants to move to the island, ask yourself: how badly do you really want to move? Because if you're wishy washy on it, or you think your cool quotient would go up if you had a Manhattan address, just stay in Queens. I'm surprised I didn't have to give the landlord my first born child.
But, my new place is GORGEOUS. My current apartment in BK is very lovely and modern; this new place is very lovely and homey. It's bigger than my place in BK (if I pretended the third bedroom in the BK apartment didn't exist) and it's in Hell's Kitchen. Is the monthly rent impossible? Yeah, but I'll have to figure that out. (Money-making options I'm entertaining: bartending, barbacking, nude art modeling, plasma donations, organ donation, egg donation.)
That's sort of all that's interesting that's been happening. I flew back to NC for two weeks after I wrapped up work on Rent and was homesick the whole time. Then I got back to New York and felt a lot better. Hooray!
Sunday, July 31, 2011
You can look right through me, walk right by me, and never even know I'm there.
"So...13 pounds since May?"
I leaned my head to one side slightly, as if I'd misheard the nurse-practitioner. "I'm sorry?"
"Can you explain why you've gained 13 pounds in...8 weeks or so?"
She was tall, thin, perky. I rearranged my face to conceal my horror at the question, and tried to appear nonchalant, if flabbergasted.
"I mean, I think you look great!" she said, a bit too perkily. "But that's...you weighed 120 when you came in in May, and you just weighed in at 133. That's...that's a pretty significant increase. Can you think of any reason why you've gained so much weight?"
So much weight. I laid my hand over my stomach protectively, as if trying to hide it from view. I mean, I'd just come from lunch. All I had was a salad wrap, and some chickpeas with edamame, and tea. How much could that weigh? What about breakfast? And my clothes? Did she have to phrase it like that?
"Um, well...I started a new job in May," I said vaguely. "It's pretty physical. Maybe it's all muscle?"
"Hm. Maybe," she replied. "But you ought to keep it in check. You're not very tall. Your BMI is still within limits, though."
She then cheerfully sent me off with free emergency contraception and an appointment card for October, and with approximately 85% less confidence in myself. When I returned to my apartment I stood in front of the mirror and felt exceedingly, impossibly depressed. I poked at my skin and pulled at all my problem areas and examined all the cellulite and stretch marks and remembered all the snide comments people had thrown my way over the months and years as I felt my body go from its lowest point - about 105 pounds, about two years ago - to now, almost thirty pounds later. And I missed my old body the way you miss someone who has died, who is gone forever.
**
Last night was a similar disaster. I went out with Anika to the Meatpacking District. There needs to be some rule about having tall, thin, blond supermodel-esque friends when you yourself are short, "voluptuous" (as Anika delicately put it as I was trying to squeeze myself into one of her extra small bebe dresses), and brunette. As in, going out with them when you feel bad about how you look is generally a mistake.
So there we were, at the Standard (eugh), milling about the crowd. She wore one of the dresses I could not sausage my way into, along with a pair of D&G heels with a matching purse. I stood next to her, approximately eight inches shorter despite my platformed stilettos (purchased at TJ Maxx, maybe). My ruched tube dress was sized medium, and I think it might've set me back $30. I looked sadly down at my clutch, which was falling apart, I noticed, as a short guy in a plaid shirt approached us.
"Look out, stage right," I warned playfully into her ear. Nothing like good old-fashioned male attention to perk you up. She and I exchanged smiles. We had been about to leave, but maybe this guy would buy us drinks, or something.
"Hi," he said. He was drinking a beer the approximate color of apple juice and I judged him for it. His plaid shirt screamed "desperate hipster." He extended his hand to Anika and introduced himself. He glanced at me, then refocused his attention on Anika. I didn't catch his name as it became apparent that he was not talking to me. I stood there, momentarily stunned, as he struck up a conversation with Anika and made no effort to acknowledge my presence.
It went on like this for a few lines of conversation, dominated by new friend Douchebag explaining that his "buddy over there" - he helpfully pointed to a guy cowering nearby in a corner - had a "broken heart," or some other such nonsense that no one cares about. He went on to extol the virtues of his friend, who must've suffered from social anxiety, or perhaps explosive flatulence in the presence of women, because he was definitely not approaching us anytime soon.
Anika interrupted, "This is my friend, Kate."
He turned and said, "Oh, hi," as he briefly lifted his beer glass in acknowledgement, or maybe his arm was cramping from the strain of carrying the weight of Williamsburg-bred douchebaggery on his shoulders and he thus needed to shift the weight of his horse-piss beer. Either way, I looked at him icily and said with sweetness so saccharin I could hear the Junior League cheering me all the way from below the Mason-Dixon line, "We were just leaving." I promptly turned on my cheap stiletto heel and stomped off (although for anyone playing the home game, the Standard on a Saturday night is just packed full of people enough to prevent a genuinely satisfying flounce, but no matter).
We left the Standard, and walked down to our old standby - a dance club called Cielo. I was sure that we'd have better luck there, in terms of finding guys we both could talk to/dance with/cajole drinks out of. Upon arriving at the line, the guy checking IDs bumped us up to the front, and gave us reduced admission tickets. We were wooshed in almost immediately. This was more like it! I could almost ignore that the handle had just broken off my clutch.
As we entered, we immediately noticed the huge amount of men present. Yes, this would surely be a successful evening. We went to the bar and, as per usual, bought ourselves one round of drinks to get started.
Now generally, in all the times I've been to Cielo, the same thing plays out each time. Anika and I each drink half of our respective beverages before being whisked away to the dance floor. Or, we procure our drinks and take them to the dance floor, where within a few minutes we have guys dancing with us. It's a very simple and straightforward process that has yet to not happen in some way, shape, or form.
Ten minutes later, we were under the massive disco balls, and the music felt pretty good. The place was appropriately hazy and smelled peculiarly of chlorine. (Fun side note, I now associate the smell of chlorine with Cielo. Not, say, a swimming pool. Like a normal person.) I'd already sucked down my Ketel and cranberry, which I immediately decided had neither alcohol nor cranberry juice in it, just pink water and ice and an anemic lime. Whatever. The next one would be stronger.
A guy came up to us and started dancing. He showed off a few skillful moves, and then extended his hand to Anika and they started to dance. Okay, cool - my guy would show up soon then. Anika oddly pushed her handbag into my arms. Okay, whatever, sure - although now I had two clutches in my hands (please someone, insert a joke here about having clutches in my clutches, or something. All the components are there but I'm far too lazy to put them together).
I kept dancing by myself. Several minutes passed. It became increasingly apparent, though, that here I was, standing in the middle of a dance floor that vibrated with the motion of all the bodies gyrating on it, and that I was dancing alone, in a cheap dress and cheap shoes, holding both my cheap, busted-down purse and my friend's designer purse while she was happily paired off with someone else. And I looked around - perhaps in a vain attempt to catch someone's eye and smile - and saw nothing but empty, anonymous faces. Suddenly I felt unsure. My constant fear of being lost in the shuffle was coming true, in an entirely literal sense.
Perhaps that's what I look for, when I go out - to connect somewhere, to anchor somewhere, even if that connection is barely larger than a pin point. To prove to myself that I can throw myself into the ocean and still find a way to float. In that moment, I was struck by the impression that I was drowning.
I was, as I often like to put it, being suffocated by my own unimportance.
I looked around again. Between being in the shadow of my more glamorous friend, and then being largely ignored the entire evening - I mentally noted that the bartender and the bouncer had both addressed Anika, not me - my self-doubt attacked my (already precarious) sense of self-worth. I thought of my heavy thighs and bruised legs, of my broken-out skin and the perpetually prickly heat rash on the squashy areas of my body that my clothes rubbed unfavorably against. I sat down at the edge of a couch, still awkwardly cradling two purses in my hands, trying not to appear as rejected and forgotten as I felt.
**
I've never been so acutely unhappy with my appearance as I have been of late. Similarly, I have not been as sick as I am now in a long time. I feel very much alone. And I want to believe it when people tell me I'm okay. I do not feel okay.
I leaned my head to one side slightly, as if I'd misheard the nurse-practitioner. "I'm sorry?"
"Can you explain why you've gained 13 pounds in...8 weeks or so?"
She was tall, thin, perky. I rearranged my face to conceal my horror at the question, and tried to appear nonchalant, if flabbergasted.
"I mean, I think you look great!" she said, a bit too perkily. "But that's...you weighed 120 when you came in in May, and you just weighed in at 133. That's...that's a pretty significant increase. Can you think of any reason why you've gained so much weight?"
So much weight. I laid my hand over my stomach protectively, as if trying to hide it from view. I mean, I'd just come from lunch. All I had was a salad wrap, and some chickpeas with edamame, and tea. How much could that weigh? What about breakfast? And my clothes? Did she have to phrase it like that?
"Um, well...I started a new job in May," I said vaguely. "It's pretty physical. Maybe it's all muscle?"
"Hm. Maybe," she replied. "But you ought to keep it in check. You're not very tall. Your BMI is still within limits, though."
She then cheerfully sent me off with free emergency contraception and an appointment card for October, and with approximately 85% less confidence in myself. When I returned to my apartment I stood in front of the mirror and felt exceedingly, impossibly depressed. I poked at my skin and pulled at all my problem areas and examined all the cellulite and stretch marks and remembered all the snide comments people had thrown my way over the months and years as I felt my body go from its lowest point - about 105 pounds, about two years ago - to now, almost thirty pounds later. And I missed my old body the way you miss someone who has died, who is gone forever.
**
Last night was a similar disaster. I went out with Anika to the Meatpacking District. There needs to be some rule about having tall, thin, blond supermodel-esque friends when you yourself are short, "voluptuous" (as Anika delicately put it as I was trying to squeeze myself into one of her extra small bebe dresses), and brunette. As in, going out with them when you feel bad about how you look is generally a mistake.
So there we were, at the Standard (eugh), milling about the crowd. She wore one of the dresses I could not sausage my way into, along with a pair of D&G heels with a matching purse. I stood next to her, approximately eight inches shorter despite my platformed stilettos (purchased at TJ Maxx, maybe). My ruched tube dress was sized medium, and I think it might've set me back $30. I looked sadly down at my clutch, which was falling apart, I noticed, as a short guy in a plaid shirt approached us.
"Look out, stage right," I warned playfully into her ear. Nothing like good old-fashioned male attention to perk you up. She and I exchanged smiles. We had been about to leave, but maybe this guy would buy us drinks, or something.
"Hi," he said. He was drinking a beer the approximate color of apple juice and I judged him for it. His plaid shirt screamed "desperate hipster." He extended his hand to Anika and introduced himself. He glanced at me, then refocused his attention on Anika. I didn't catch his name as it became apparent that he was not talking to me. I stood there, momentarily stunned, as he struck up a conversation with Anika and made no effort to acknowledge my presence.
It went on like this for a few lines of conversation, dominated by new friend Douchebag explaining that his "buddy over there" - he helpfully pointed to a guy cowering nearby in a corner - had a "broken heart," or some other such nonsense that no one cares about. He went on to extol the virtues of his friend, who must've suffered from social anxiety, or perhaps explosive flatulence in the presence of women, because he was definitely not approaching us anytime soon.
Anika interrupted, "This is my friend, Kate."
He turned and said, "Oh, hi," as he briefly lifted his beer glass in acknowledgement, or maybe his arm was cramping from the strain of carrying the weight of Williamsburg-bred douchebaggery on his shoulders and he thus needed to shift the weight of his horse-piss beer. Either way, I looked at him icily and said with sweetness so saccharin I could hear the Junior League cheering me all the way from below the Mason-Dixon line, "We were just leaving." I promptly turned on my cheap stiletto heel and stomped off (although for anyone playing the home game, the Standard on a Saturday night is just packed full of people enough to prevent a genuinely satisfying flounce, but no matter).
We left the Standard, and walked down to our old standby - a dance club called Cielo. I was sure that we'd have better luck there, in terms of finding guys we both could talk to/dance with/cajole drinks out of. Upon arriving at the line, the guy checking IDs bumped us up to the front, and gave us reduced admission tickets. We were wooshed in almost immediately. This was more like it! I could almost ignore that the handle had just broken off my clutch.
As we entered, we immediately noticed the huge amount of men present. Yes, this would surely be a successful evening. We went to the bar and, as per usual, bought ourselves one round of drinks to get started.
Now generally, in all the times I've been to Cielo, the same thing plays out each time. Anika and I each drink half of our respective beverages before being whisked away to the dance floor. Or, we procure our drinks and take them to the dance floor, where within a few minutes we have guys dancing with us. It's a very simple and straightforward process that has yet to not happen in some way, shape, or form.
Ten minutes later, we were under the massive disco balls, and the music felt pretty good. The place was appropriately hazy and smelled peculiarly of chlorine. (Fun side note, I now associate the smell of chlorine with Cielo. Not, say, a swimming pool. Like a normal person.) I'd already sucked down my Ketel and cranberry, which I immediately decided had neither alcohol nor cranberry juice in it, just pink water and ice and an anemic lime. Whatever. The next one would be stronger.
A guy came up to us and started dancing. He showed off a few skillful moves, and then extended his hand to Anika and they started to dance. Okay, cool - my guy would show up soon then. Anika oddly pushed her handbag into my arms. Okay, whatever, sure - although now I had two clutches in my hands (please someone, insert a joke here about having clutches in my clutches, or something. All the components are there but I'm far too lazy to put them together).
I kept dancing by myself. Several minutes passed. It became increasingly apparent, though, that here I was, standing in the middle of a dance floor that vibrated with the motion of all the bodies gyrating on it, and that I was dancing alone, in a cheap dress and cheap shoes, holding both my cheap, busted-down purse and my friend's designer purse while she was happily paired off with someone else. And I looked around - perhaps in a vain attempt to catch someone's eye and smile - and saw nothing but empty, anonymous faces. Suddenly I felt unsure. My constant fear of being lost in the shuffle was coming true, in an entirely literal sense.
Perhaps that's what I look for, when I go out - to connect somewhere, to anchor somewhere, even if that connection is barely larger than a pin point. To prove to myself that I can throw myself into the ocean and still find a way to float. In that moment, I was struck by the impression that I was drowning.
I was, as I often like to put it, being suffocated by my own unimportance.
I looked around again. Between being in the shadow of my more glamorous friend, and then being largely ignored the entire evening - I mentally noted that the bartender and the bouncer had both addressed Anika, not me - my self-doubt attacked my (already precarious) sense of self-worth. I thought of my heavy thighs and bruised legs, of my broken-out skin and the perpetually prickly heat rash on the squashy areas of my body that my clothes rubbed unfavorably against. I sat down at the edge of a couch, still awkwardly cradling two purses in my hands, trying not to appear as rejected and forgotten as I felt.
**
I've never been so acutely unhappy with my appearance as I have been of late. Similarly, I have not been as sick as I am now in a long time. I feel very much alone. And I want to believe it when people tell me I'm okay. I do not feel okay.
Monday, June 20, 2011
all my resistance will never be distance enough.
The only good answer to what I am feeling is to face it head-on and deal with it, and hope that it hurts less with each time I'm confronted with it.
I could run away - bury my head in the sand. That would be easier but I've never been the sort to run away from things. And it wouldn't work anyway; I'd not only still be troubled by it, but I'd have lost something important to me in the process.
I am quite ready to not feel this way anymore, though, and I can't seem to shake it off like I normally do. Eventually I simply tire of the aches and pains and summarily reject them. However, this time they've settled in comfortably, like an elephant sitting on my chest, patient, immobile, and mildly suffocating.
In other news. I went to the Jersey shore the other day and got sunburned. I went to the street fair in Park Slope yesterday and got more sunburned. Between the two events I ate my weight in hot dogs and ice cream, which is only appropriate.
I want the clouds to clear out so I can go on a walk in the sun (while wearing sunscreen and a very large hat).
I could run away - bury my head in the sand. That would be easier but I've never been the sort to run away from things. And it wouldn't work anyway; I'd not only still be troubled by it, but I'd have lost something important to me in the process.
I am quite ready to not feel this way anymore, though, and I can't seem to shake it off like I normally do. Eventually I simply tire of the aches and pains and summarily reject them. However, this time they've settled in comfortably, like an elephant sitting on my chest, patient, immobile, and mildly suffocating.
In other news. I went to the Jersey shore the other day and got sunburned. I went to the street fair in Park Slope yesterday and got more sunburned. Between the two events I ate my weight in hot dogs and ice cream, which is only appropriate.
I want the clouds to clear out so I can go on a walk in the sun (while wearing sunscreen and a very large hat).
Thursday, June 9, 2011
A life lived in fear is a life half-lived.
Oh, the heat today! You know, I remember shivering while walking to the train during the bitterly cold winter months, feeling the tips of my fingers freeze off, and dreaming of the hot summer months. Of not having to bundle up in a million layers to go outside, or wear big clonky waterproofed boots - of flowy sundresses and espadrilles and drinking iced tea under a tree in the park.
Of course, now, the flowy sundresses stick to me as I sweat my ass off walking to the train, I don't actually own espadrilles, and my iced tea is warm by the time I get to Prospect Park. Although I much prefer the heat to the cold, 100 degrees is really pushing the limits of what I can tolerate.
At least now it's storming, and things have cooled off, if temporarily.
Today was, as I described it to my mother on the phone, a lonely day. Going outside - at least until late afternoon - was entirely out of the question, so I wandered around the apartment, completely at a loss as to what to do with myself. I cleaned a little, organized a little, and watched a lot of TV (I've totally overdosed on Doctor Who) until I simply could not stand it anymore. I packed up a book, my tea, and some sunglasses and braved the thick and oppressive miasma that was today's weather so I could go sit in the park.
And really, once I got to the park and sat down on a bench in the shade, it was all right. Nevermind that there were butterflies everywhere, and they were attacking me (by which I mean, alighting on my brightly patterned dress, flying away, coming back, and doing the same thing). I felt like an accidental Snow White.
At least tomorrow and Saturday I have plans. Feeling isolated always gets me down like this. I do so hate being lonely.
Of course, now, the flowy sundresses stick to me as I sweat my ass off walking to the train, I don't actually own espadrilles, and my iced tea is warm by the time I get to Prospect Park. Although I much prefer the heat to the cold, 100 degrees is really pushing the limits of what I can tolerate.
At least now it's storming, and things have cooled off, if temporarily.
Today was, as I described it to my mother on the phone, a lonely day. Going outside - at least until late afternoon - was entirely out of the question, so I wandered around the apartment, completely at a loss as to what to do with myself. I cleaned a little, organized a little, and watched a lot of TV (I've totally overdosed on Doctor Who) until I simply could not stand it anymore. I packed up a book, my tea, and some sunglasses and braved the thick and oppressive miasma that was today's weather so I could go sit in the park.
And really, once I got to the park and sat down on a bench in the shade, it was all right. Nevermind that there were butterflies everywhere, and they were attacking me (by which I mean, alighting on my brightly patterned dress, flying away, coming back, and doing the same thing). I felt like an accidental Snow White.
At least tomorrow and Saturday I have plans. Feeling isolated always gets me down like this. I do so hate being lonely.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Can't even deal with coherent thoughts today.
8:00am: wake up. Thermostat reads 86 degrees. This is inauspicious.
10:00am: Why did I think hot oatmeal was a good thing to eat?
2:30pm: go to market. It's closed! Everything on my block is. For a minute I think it's because it's actually too hot for anyone to go shopping. (It's actually a Jewish holiday, so all the shops are closed.)
4:00pm: have returned from shopping, where I sat in front of an open freezer case pretending to find peas. All my frozen stuff has thawed in the ten minutes it's spent outside.
5:45pm: decide it's too hot to do anything important. Watch Doctor Who and drink iced tea.
I really like Matt Smith's hair.
10:00am: Why did I think hot oatmeal was a good thing to eat?
2:30pm: go to market. It's closed! Everything on my block is. For a minute I think it's because it's actually too hot for anyone to go shopping. (It's actually a Jewish holiday, so all the shops are closed.)
4:00pm: have returned from shopping, where I sat in front of an open freezer case pretending to find peas. All my frozen stuff has thawed in the ten minutes it's spent outside.
5:45pm: decide it's too hot to do anything important. Watch Doctor Who and drink iced tea.
I really like Matt Smith's hair.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on.
^^Why, oh why, did I decide yesterday to re-read Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair? Neruda, guys. He knows angst. I was intermittently crying and laughing - laughing because I was reading my original copy from 11th grade, the one that's marked up and highlighted beyond comprehension, and there are all these hilarious notes written in the corners. (The one that most frequently showed up: "NOT ABOUT SEX.")
Last night Anika and I went down into the Meatpacking District (or, as we call it, the Nexus of Evil) since neither of us has partied in weeks and we both felt like we've lost our mojo. We started at the Standard, which is just the douchiest place since douchey came to Douchetown. Seriously. The guys are never really all that interesting or cute - but they, of course, think they are - and the girls are all bitchy. (Anika and I both separately noticed a table of girls glaring at us angrily every time we wandered in their direction.) Very bridge-and-tunnel, that crowd. We bounced around to a few places, eventually ending up at Cielo where I met two cute neurosurgeons from Colorado. (Or so they said. Who knows.) Unfortunately I couldn't party all night; I found out at 10pm that I had work at 8am.
So after about two hours or so of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed today and spent 10 hours doing the weirdest smattering of work notes - changing gel scrolls, moving some lights around on the balc rail (oh, my stomach hurt after that), wiring birdies, adding connectors to live cables (I really loved it when I was stripping the wires and the metal of my Leatherman made contact with the copper wire, eliciting a huge spark and zap, thus blowing the breaker but allowing me to continue stripping wires without electricity coming through them). My favorite moment was when I was asked to go find four gobos that were supposed to kind-of-but-not-exactly look like this other gobo. Hot damn! I love these kinds of adventures. And the one I picked out was perfect, of course, because I had an idea of what the look was trying to achieve. (It was like when designers would ask me to pick color for them. "Kate, find me a really nice yellow for like...a hazy early morning sunrise." "Kate, find me a blue that doesn't wash too grey but isn't, you know, too blue without any grey at all." Today's was, "Kate, find me a gobo that's like 'Dappled' but not really.") Spot on.
I really like working. Not just because of the money, but because being in the theater does something for me. Especially working on these big shows. I feel like I'm part of something, and that makes me feel less alone, I think.
**
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
See? ANGST.
Last night Anika and I went down into the Meatpacking District (or, as we call it, the Nexus of Evil) since neither of us has partied in weeks and we both felt like we've lost our mojo. We started at the Standard, which is just the douchiest place since douchey came to Douchetown. Seriously. The guys are never really all that interesting or cute - but they, of course, think they are - and the girls are all bitchy. (Anika and I both separately noticed a table of girls glaring at us angrily every time we wandered in their direction.) Very bridge-and-tunnel, that crowd. We bounced around to a few places, eventually ending up at Cielo where I met two cute neurosurgeons from Colorado. (Or so they said. Who knows.) Unfortunately I couldn't party all night; I found out at 10pm that I had work at 8am.
So after about two hours or so of sleep, I dragged myself out of bed today and spent 10 hours doing the weirdest smattering of work notes - changing gel scrolls, moving some lights around on the balc rail (oh, my stomach hurt after that), wiring birdies, adding connectors to live cables (I really loved it when I was stripping the wires and the metal of my Leatherman made contact with the copper wire, eliciting a huge spark and zap, thus blowing the breaker but allowing me to continue stripping wires without electricity coming through them). My favorite moment was when I was asked to go find four gobos that were supposed to kind-of-but-not-exactly look like this other gobo. Hot damn! I love these kinds of adventures. And the one I picked out was perfect, of course, because I had an idea of what the look was trying to achieve. (It was like when designers would ask me to pick color for them. "Kate, find me a really nice yellow for like...a hazy early morning sunrise." "Kate, find me a blue that doesn't wash too grey but isn't, you know, too blue without any grey at all." Today's was, "Kate, find me a gobo that's like 'Dappled' but not really.") Spot on.
I really like working. Not just because of the money, but because being in the theater does something for me. Especially working on these big shows. I feel like I'm part of something, and that makes me feel less alone, I think.
**
Between the lips and the voice something goes dying.
Something with the wings of a bird, something of anguish and oblivion.
The way nets cannot hold water.
My toy doll, only a few drops are left trembling.
Even so, something sings in these fugitive words.
Something sings, something climbs to my ravenous mouth.
Oh to be able to celebrate you with all the words of joy.
Sing, burn, flee, like belfry at the hands of a madman.
My sad tenderness, what comes over you all at once?
When I have reached the most awesome and the coldest summit
my heart closes like a nocturnal flower.
See? ANGST.
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Life's too short, babe, time is flying - I'm looking for baggage that goes with mine.
Why am I watching Rent? I hate this movie. Although I have a real soft spot for "I Should Tell You." And "Take Me or Leave Me," of course.
Everything about today was an adventure. I met Jeremy for lunch at this Panamanian place near Prospect Heights. Neither of us had been to this restaurant before and ordering from the menu was something of a trial in and of itself. Like, a menu item was just listed as "shrimps." And "curry chicken" was listed twice, and no discernible difference appeared to exist between the two. And when I tried to order tamales, the waitress informed me that they were "still frozen." (To which I wanted to reply, "...couldn't you...heat them?")
Despite this, the food was delicious. I had the "shrimps." (It was shrimp with curry sauce and veggies and rice.)
After lunch I took the train into Manhattan, and met up with Megs at the U-Haul place way over on the west side. Now, I haven't seen him in ages either (I mean, I haven't seen him since...Christmas 2009?) and this weekend/next week we're working on his show together. Today we drove into Jersey with our rental van to pick up his shop order and load it into the theater. More notably, after the load-in we went to this RIDICULOUS doughnut shop. I had a huge square doughnut filled with coconut cream. RIDICULOUS.
**
Why do I feel so restless? Why am I nervous? I'll admit, the mornings and nights are the worst. Whenever I'm being actively tortured by a particular feeling, I find that I wake up nervous in the morning and go to bed nervous at night. I suppose I fear the things that transpire at night, and I'm going to wake up broken-hearted. It's the part that still makes my heart sink into my stomach at the thought, that makes me want to lay my head into the crook of my arm and cry bitterly.
Everything about today was an adventure. I met Jeremy for lunch at this Panamanian place near Prospect Heights. Neither of us had been to this restaurant before and ordering from the menu was something of a trial in and of itself. Like, a menu item was just listed as "shrimps." And "curry chicken" was listed twice, and no discernible difference appeared to exist between the two. And when I tried to order tamales, the waitress informed me that they were "still frozen." (To which I wanted to reply, "...couldn't you...heat them?")
Despite this, the food was delicious. I had the "shrimps." (It was shrimp with curry sauce and veggies and rice.)
After lunch I took the train into Manhattan, and met up with Megs at the U-Haul place way over on the west side. Now, I haven't seen him in ages either (I mean, I haven't seen him since...Christmas 2009?) and this weekend/next week we're working on his show together. Today we drove into Jersey with our rental van to pick up his shop order and load it into the theater. More notably, after the load-in we went to this RIDICULOUS doughnut shop. I had a huge square doughnut filled with coconut cream. RIDICULOUS.
For SERIOUS.
(the top one was the doughnut Megs had - jelly filled with peanut butter on top!)
**
Why do I feel so restless? Why am I nervous? I'll admit, the mornings and nights are the worst. Whenever I'm being actively tortured by a particular feeling, I find that I wake up nervous in the morning and go to bed nervous at night. I suppose I fear the things that transpire at night, and I'm going to wake up broken-hearted. It's the part that still makes my heart sink into my stomach at the thought, that makes me want to lay my head into the crook of my arm and cry bitterly.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I-AM-DARK-HEART!
I'M WATCHING THE CARE BEARS MOVIES RIGHT NOW, DON'T JUDGE ME. /endcapslock
Brooklyn is under a tornado watch? What the fuck, guys. And now it's all overcast-looking. I took a walk earlier but I only like to walk when it's beautiful and sunny; walking when it's cloudy is just depressing to me.
Why are the Care Bears in a boat? Why is there a giant talking star? Why are fireworks coming of of their bellies? This movie made way more sense when I was 5.
Yesterday I walked all the way to the Botanic Garden. On my way back I ran into Jeremy, which was just too funny - he and I have been trying to coordinate schedules and find time to hang out for awhile now, to no avail. And then by chance we run into each other (in the middle of an intersection, to boot). We walked through Prospect Park, catching up on life (I feel like I've been doing a lot of that lately. But it's a good thing).
Something was up with the male population of my neighborhood today. On my walk some firefighters whistled at me from their truck as it was stopped at an intersection and I was crossing. One guy passed me on his bike and turned to look at me and stared for a good five or six seconds before nearly running someone down. And at another intersection, the cars were backed up (because there was a stoplight at the following intersection and there was simply not enough room for all the cars...as is typical around here) and this guy in an SUV tried to spark up a conversation with me. Like this...
Him: "Hey, sweetie."
Me: *fidgets, ignores him, wishes I could cross the street already*
Him: "I hope you're having a nice afternoon."
Me: *continues to pretend like I can't hear him. Scratches neck, pulls scab off a scratch, ow that kind of hurt, I hope I'm not bleeding*
Meanwhile, traffic begins to move. He doesn't.
Him: "You sure do make the color green look beautiful!"
Me: *oh, I'm wearing a green dress today.*
Other cars honk loudly, he drives away, I cross the street to the grocery store where the guys stocking the shelves stare at me and watch me shop. Seriously, what the fuck, this is the worst. This dress isn't even that short.
I think it's something in the air, or the water, or it's the tornado watch. Usually maybe one of these things happens to me in a day...not all of them. Although I was totally cool with the firefighters whistling at me.
Brooklyn is under a tornado watch? What the fuck, guys. And now it's all overcast-looking. I took a walk earlier but I only like to walk when it's beautiful and sunny; walking when it's cloudy is just depressing to me.
Why are the Care Bears in a boat? Why is there a giant talking star? Why are fireworks coming of of their bellies? This movie made way more sense when I was 5.
Yesterday I walked all the way to the Botanic Garden. On my way back I ran into Jeremy, which was just too funny - he and I have been trying to coordinate schedules and find time to hang out for awhile now, to no avail. And then by chance we run into each other (in the middle of an intersection, to boot). We walked through Prospect Park, catching up on life (I feel like I've been doing a lot of that lately. But it's a good thing).
Something was up with the male population of my neighborhood today. On my walk some firefighters whistled at me from their truck as it was stopped at an intersection and I was crossing. One guy passed me on his bike and turned to look at me and stared for a good five or six seconds before nearly running someone down. And at another intersection, the cars were backed up (because there was a stoplight at the following intersection and there was simply not enough room for all the cars...as is typical around here) and this guy in an SUV tried to spark up a conversation with me. Like this...
Him: "Hey, sweetie."
Me: *fidgets, ignores him, wishes I could cross the street already*
Him: "I hope you're having a nice afternoon."
Me: *continues to pretend like I can't hear him. Scratches neck, pulls scab off a scratch, ow that kind of hurt, I hope I'm not bleeding*
Meanwhile, traffic begins to move. He doesn't.
Him: "You sure do make the color green look beautiful!"
Me: *oh, I'm wearing a green dress today.*
Other cars honk loudly, he drives away, I cross the street to the grocery store where the guys stocking the shelves stare at me and watch me shop. Seriously, what the fuck, this is the worst. This dress isn't even that short.
I think it's something in the air, or the water, or it's the tornado watch. Usually maybe one of these things happens to me in a day...not all of them. Although I was totally cool with the firefighters whistling at me.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
And don't cry. I can stand everybody's tears but yours.
So yesterday afternoon, I'm sitting in Union Square Park, waiting to meet up with Grant, minding my own business, when a guy comes and sits down next to me. I mean like, right all-up-in-my-business next to me. And proceeds to hit on me/strike up a conversation with me about his ex-girlfriend. Because it's Union Square on a nice day, the place is packed and there's really nowhere else to go sit, so I arrange myself with my purse in my lap and my cell phone at the ready and humor the guy (hereafter known as Creeper).
After about ten minutes (and I've gotten Creeper to talk about something other than his ex-girlfriend - I've distracted him by asking him what California is like) one of those obnoxious public proselytizers gets up on his little stand in the middle of the sidewalk and starts shouting about finding God and the Ten Commandments and whatnot. Creeper rolls his eyes and shouts at the guy, "Hey, can't you just leave us all alone and let us enjoy this nice day?"
Of course the guy turns on him and responds with something like, "I'm trying to get you all to care about your immortal souls!" But as he's saying this, this little old lady starts yelling at him too. Notably, she yells, "Shut up asshole! We're just trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park!"
And then another audience member joins in with some super snarky comments, and a homeless guy too, and people walking and biking past are stopping to watch the anarchy unfold. The whole time, I'm laughing and tears are welling up in my eyes from laughing so hard. Eventually Mr. Religious Tract huffs away, and it was pretty much the funniest thing I've seen in awhile.
Grant arrived shortly thereafter, saving me from Creeper (who was trying to extricate my phone number from me, ugh) and we got some cold drinks and walked from 17th all the way to 50th along 6th. It was a very nice walk and we talked about all sorts of things. He and I haven't spoken at length in months, so we had much catching up to do. Then we picked up the train and went to his place, where we watched television and ate sushi and experienced something he and I never had while we were dating - witty banter and idle conversation. Why, it was like hanging out with a friend! And we both kind of laughed at the novelty of it.
Frankly it was nice to hang out with someone and see a familiar face. I'm putting a lot of stock in familiar faces these days - anything to keep from feeling like I'm going to slip through the cracks of this massive city and be forgotten.
After about ten minutes (and I've gotten Creeper to talk about something other than his ex-girlfriend - I've distracted him by asking him what California is like) one of those obnoxious public proselytizers gets up on his little stand in the middle of the sidewalk and starts shouting about finding God and the Ten Commandments and whatnot. Creeper rolls his eyes and shouts at the guy, "Hey, can't you just leave us all alone and let us enjoy this nice day?"
Of course the guy turns on him and responds with something like, "I'm trying to get you all to care about your immortal souls!" But as he's saying this, this little old lady starts yelling at him too. Notably, she yells, "Shut up asshole! We're just trying to enjoy a quiet afternoon in the park!"
And then another audience member joins in with some super snarky comments, and a homeless guy too, and people walking and biking past are stopping to watch the anarchy unfold. The whole time, I'm laughing and tears are welling up in my eyes from laughing so hard. Eventually Mr. Religious Tract huffs away, and it was pretty much the funniest thing I've seen in awhile.
Grant arrived shortly thereafter, saving me from Creeper (who was trying to extricate my phone number from me, ugh) and we got some cold drinks and walked from 17th all the way to 50th along 6th. It was a very nice walk and we talked about all sorts of things. He and I haven't spoken at length in months, so we had much catching up to do. Then we picked up the train and went to his place, where we watched television and ate sushi and experienced something he and I never had while we were dating - witty banter and idle conversation. Why, it was like hanging out with a friend! And we both kind of laughed at the novelty of it.
Frankly it was nice to hang out with someone and see a familiar face. I'm putting a lot of stock in familiar faces these days - anything to keep from feeling like I'm going to slip through the cracks of this massive city and be forgotten.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
I feel pretty, but unpretty.
That was a fun adventure. I went to the park, since the weather is so pretty and everyone in the world is outside. And who do I run into but Marietta! We had a really lovely conversation and caught up a little on each others' lives. She lives right around the corner from me (by which I mean like, six avenues and seven streets over, but I digress, we're in the same neighborhood); it's a little funny because I was just asking Helen on Wednesday if she knew what neighborhood Marietta was in (Helen's response was, "...Brooklyn?"). Small, random world.
My flight in was a bit tumultuous; there was some issue with my ticket - because I changed flights, JetBlue charged a rebooking fee and they said the payment didn't go through. Well, this was one of those times where technology is a blessed thing, and I pulled up my bank statement on my iPhone and said, "Oh hell no, that $115 went through, bitches!" (Minus the "bitches." And the "hell, no.") I even waved my iPhone around to prove I was right (not sure how that actually proved anything, to be honest, but it felt like an appropriate gesture of irritation). And then I gave them the transaction number and that squared everything away.
So then I went through security (they didn't do the weird hand wiping thing, I noticed. Mildly disappointed. I'd like to think they're checking me for sweaty palms and I pass the test. "Yes ma'am, you are sufficiently not too clammy for this flight.") and got on the plane and that was all fine and good. And the flight was fine too, except for the part where we were literally just about to land and the plane suddenly tipped up and started ascending again. Of course, everyone in the cabin began murmuring nervously and looking out the window in confusion. A moment later the flight attendant came over the PA and said, "Well, for those of you who have never experienced this before, I think we're doing a go-around...but I, uh, have no idea why." Oh great, that's great. For some reason unseen to us we can't land the plane. This elicits more murmuring and the flight attendant hurriedly adds, "But there's no cause for alarm!"
A few minutes later the pilot comes over the system and elaborates, "Well, AirTran is taking its good sweet time getting their planes off the runway!" Well, excellent. There wasn't a huge plane crash just before our landing, or a terrorist attack, or something. It was just AirTran. Nicely done, guys. Way to be.
**
So, I'm back in Brooklyn.
I remember those first weeks at UNCG, right after I transferred and I was working on Sweeney Todd as an electrician. I remember before each work call I would sit in the women's bathroom and steel myself - I kept repeating, "This is where you live now and this is where you work now and you have to make this work. This is your home now." And sometime in my second semester it all clicked and I made it work.
I can cite a million things instances like that. Things always somehow work out, but I worry them to death until they do. It's just who I am. I'm hoping to grow out of my tendency to freak out any day now.
My flight in was a bit tumultuous; there was some issue with my ticket - because I changed flights, JetBlue charged a rebooking fee and they said the payment didn't go through. Well, this was one of those times where technology is a blessed thing, and I pulled up my bank statement on my iPhone and said, "Oh hell no, that $115 went through, bitches!" (Minus the "bitches." And the "hell, no.") I even waved my iPhone around to prove I was right (not sure how that actually proved anything, to be honest, but it felt like an appropriate gesture of irritation). And then I gave them the transaction number and that squared everything away.
So then I went through security (they didn't do the weird hand wiping thing, I noticed. Mildly disappointed. I'd like to think they're checking me for sweaty palms and I pass the test. "Yes ma'am, you are sufficiently not too clammy for this flight.") and got on the plane and that was all fine and good. And the flight was fine too, except for the part where we were literally just about to land and the plane suddenly tipped up and started ascending again. Of course, everyone in the cabin began murmuring nervously and looking out the window in confusion. A moment later the flight attendant came over the PA and said, "Well, for those of you who have never experienced this before, I think we're doing a go-around...but I, uh, have no idea why." Oh great, that's great. For some reason unseen to us we can't land the plane. This elicits more murmuring and the flight attendant hurriedly adds, "But there's no cause for alarm!"
A few minutes later the pilot comes over the system and elaborates, "Well, AirTran is taking its good sweet time getting their planes off the runway!" Well, excellent. There wasn't a huge plane crash just before our landing, or a terrorist attack, or something. It was just AirTran. Nicely done, guys. Way to be.
**
So, I'm back in Brooklyn.
I remember those first weeks at UNCG, right after I transferred and I was working on Sweeney Todd as an electrician. I remember before each work call I would sit in the women's bathroom and steel myself - I kept repeating, "This is where you live now and this is where you work now and you have to make this work. This is your home now." And sometime in my second semester it all clicked and I made it work.
I can cite a million things instances like that. Things always somehow work out, but I worry them to death until they do. It's just who I am. I'm hoping to grow out of my tendency to freak out any day now.
Friday, May 27, 2011
I ask forgiveness, for the things I've done you blame me for.
Brief thoughts on the season finale of Glee -
So, this past Wednesday was quite the entertaining day. It was Carnival/Fun Day at my mother's preschool. Which somehow involved me filling up hundreds* of water balloons. And I didn't even get to play in the bouncy castle (yes, there was a bouncy castle. For the record, my preschool totally never had a bouncy castle. I think we had an Apple IIe and a rocking horse, and a seemingly unending supply of Cheez-Its). The kids had a good time (but seriously, if you had a bouncy castle at your disposal, how could you NOT?), which was fortunate because everyone present over the age of 6 certainly looked worn out by the end of it - and if no one enjoyed themselves, then that would shake my belief in the power of the bouncy castle.
I went out with Helen on Wednesday night. I drove into Chapel Hill and we ate dinner at this terrific Vietnamese place, and then sat in the park and ate ice cream. I think the highlight of the evening was taking a joyride in her friend's borrowed BMW convertible. It made me feel like I was in college again - driving down the main drag of a college town, top down, blasting some kind of ridiculous hip hop music or something.
Yesterday I went out with Stephen, and we indulged in bad Japanese food at a little hole in the wall kind of place off of Wendover. I told him he needs to move up to New York already (I told Helen this too, actually) because the city would be so much more fun for me if they were up there. For serious. I'm slowly realizing that all my favorite people are, if not scattered across the country, in North Carolina.
Today I helped out at the preschool again, since it was the last day of school and nothing quite implies anarchy like the last day of school. Now I'm watching a show called "New York Originals" and it's about home-grown shops and restaurants and bars in the city. I'm fascinated by a place called Let There Be Neon down in Soho. If only I was more well-versed in neon, that would be a really fun place to work! I mean, bending neon tubing can't be any harder than all that analytical chem lab stuff I used to do, where I bent and pulled glass tubes over a flame, right?
**
I, of course, remain apprehensive about returning to the city, but as someone much smarter than I am recently told me, "you're not ready to run home with your tail between your legs, not yet. Actually, not ever."
I'm trying very hard not to be sad. "Fake it till you make it," Jenn used to tell me. I suppose as far as this particular feeling goes, I have experienced much worse. But this is something that never gets easier no matter how many times I experience it - it's like the first time every time. More than anything I'm upset at my own weaknesses - or more specifically, how my weaknesses don't seem to lessen over time.
You know, I was re-reading my old livejournal, and there were things I wrote three or four years ago that I could have written yesterday. In 2006, when I was a sophomore at Randolph-Macon, I wrote about my then-boyfriend's upcoming visit. "I'm nervous about having Ryan come up to visit me, largely because of my issues with personal space." Even in college I didn't want to show my living space to my significant other - but then, my living situation then is a lot like my living situation now (as in, I'm living in a place that I simply cannot make my home...thus making it a place I don't want to be in and don't want to share). In 2007, during my semester off, I quoted the one Bible verse you will ever catch me quoting, and it resonates even more strongly for me now: Blessed are ye who weep now, for ye shall laugh. Wow, do I need that written in big letters on my wall, now more than ever!
I lament life change, depression, bulimia, life responsibilities, troubles with boys/relationships/sex/etc, problems with money, insecurities about my talents and my future at large, and they all sound like problems I still have. And it freaks me out. Am I doomed to never outgrow these problems, only to pile on new problems, never able to solve anything? This is a genuinely upsetting thought for me.
**
I'm going out to dinner tonight at another one of my favorite Asian restaurants. And come hell or high water, I'm eating at Don tomorrow. Not leaving town without eating some of that spicy tuna don.
*okay, it was like, maybe 40. But it was really hot outside and there were ants everywhere and LOOK IT JUST FELT LIKE A LOT, OKAY.
- Talk about a lot of converging plot lines. Holy tying-up-loose-ends-while-still-leaving-me-feeling-unsatisfied, Batman.
- I did love Kurt and Rachel's rendition of "For Good," (albeit their severely and awkwardly truncated version of it) but
- I enjoyed reading the live #glee tweets on my mom's iPad more.
- Stop with the original songs, Glee. Please. Please. You're making Ke$ha look thoughtful and introspective by comparison.
- Matthew Morrison is the world's worst chaperone.
- I...I hate Penelope Cruz. I just hate her. And she's particularly nails-on-a-chalkboard obnoxious in this role. Keira Knightley, while often comparably frustrating, was so much more interesting as a young-woman-of-breeding-turned-pirate than Penelope Cruz as...well, just a pirate. She looks hot but every time she spoke I wanted to hit a giant mute button.
- All those veiled sex jokes? Unnecessary and unfunny.
- Loved Vernon Dursley as King George II.
- Too many messy, pointless fight sequences.
- Just go see Bridesmaids instead.
So, this past Wednesday was quite the entertaining day. It was Carnival/Fun Day at my mother's preschool. Which somehow involved me filling up hundreds* of water balloons. And I didn't even get to play in the bouncy castle (yes, there was a bouncy castle. For the record, my preschool totally never had a bouncy castle. I think we had an Apple IIe and a rocking horse, and a seemingly unending supply of Cheez-Its). The kids had a good time (but seriously, if you had a bouncy castle at your disposal, how could you NOT?), which was fortunate because everyone present over the age of 6 certainly looked worn out by the end of it - and if no one enjoyed themselves, then that would shake my belief in the power of the bouncy castle.
I went out with Helen on Wednesday night. I drove into Chapel Hill and we ate dinner at this terrific Vietnamese place, and then sat in the park and ate ice cream. I think the highlight of the evening was taking a joyride in her friend's borrowed BMW convertible. It made me feel like I was in college again - driving down the main drag of a college town, top down, blasting some kind of ridiculous hip hop music or something.
Yesterday I went out with Stephen, and we indulged in bad Japanese food at a little hole in the wall kind of place off of Wendover. I told him he needs to move up to New York already (I told Helen this too, actually) because the city would be so much more fun for me if they were up there. For serious. I'm slowly realizing that all my favorite people are, if not scattered across the country, in North Carolina.
Today I helped out at the preschool again, since it was the last day of school and nothing quite implies anarchy like the last day of school. Now I'm watching a show called "New York Originals" and it's about home-grown shops and restaurants and bars in the city. I'm fascinated by a place called Let There Be Neon down in Soho. If only I was more well-versed in neon, that would be a really fun place to work! I mean, bending neon tubing can't be any harder than all that analytical chem lab stuff I used to do, where I bent and pulled glass tubes over a flame, right?
**
I, of course, remain apprehensive about returning to the city, but as someone much smarter than I am recently told me, "you're not ready to run home with your tail between your legs, not yet. Actually, not ever."
I'm trying very hard not to be sad. "Fake it till you make it," Jenn used to tell me. I suppose as far as this particular feeling goes, I have experienced much worse. But this is something that never gets easier no matter how many times I experience it - it's like the first time every time. More than anything I'm upset at my own weaknesses - or more specifically, how my weaknesses don't seem to lessen over time.
You know, I was re-reading my old livejournal, and there were things I wrote three or four years ago that I could have written yesterday. In 2006, when I was a sophomore at Randolph-Macon, I wrote about my then-boyfriend's upcoming visit. "I'm nervous about having Ryan come up to visit me, largely because of my issues with personal space." Even in college I didn't want to show my living space to my significant other - but then, my living situation then is a lot like my living situation now (as in, I'm living in a place that I simply cannot make my home...thus making it a place I don't want to be in and don't want to share). In 2007, during my semester off, I quoted the one Bible verse you will ever catch me quoting, and it resonates even more strongly for me now: Blessed are ye who weep now, for ye shall laugh. Wow, do I need that written in big letters on my wall, now more than ever!
I lament life change, depression, bulimia, life responsibilities, troubles with boys/relationships/sex/etc, problems with money, insecurities about my talents and my future at large, and they all sound like problems I still have. And it freaks me out. Am I doomed to never outgrow these problems, only to pile on new problems, never able to solve anything? This is a genuinely upsetting thought for me.
**
I'm going out to dinner tonight at another one of my favorite Asian restaurants. And come hell or high water, I'm eating at Don tomorrow. Not leaving town without eating some of that spicy tuna don.
*okay, it was like, maybe 40. But it was really hot outside and there were ants everywhere and LOOK IT JUST FELT LIKE A LOT, OKAY.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
you'll be the road, rolling below the wheels of a car.
So, my stay in Greensboro has been extended until Sunday. The weather is just too damn nice here, and as far as I can tell the weather in New York is going to be gross until approximately the end of forever. (Wait...wasn't that supposed to be Saturday?) Anyway. Being back home is surprisingly kind of great. Maybe because New York wears me thin so easily.
New York is the kind of place that, for someone like me, compels me to constantly run on very high adrenaline. Always moving, thinking, talking, processing - fast. I didn't really think about how goddamn exhausting that is until I laid in my old bed in my old bedroom the first night I came home, and slept like the dead for 16 hours. Let it be known that, in the city, I can never sleep like that, and I'd feared I'd lost the ability forever.
Anyway...other updates. I quit the club (or got fired...or something). I'm over that scene. I'm over a lot of scenes, actually, but that was at the top of the list of "scenes to be over."
I've been electricianing off-Broadway for a few weeks and it's been like a balm for my soul. There's something infinitely comforting about work that is simultaneously mindless and challenging. And physically tiring. And requires normal-people working hours. I hope I keep getting hired; I'm under the impression that the next few weeks will be busy. I need to know that I didn't make a mistake not doing another summerstock - although it may be better for me to stay in the city, even though I'd love to get out of the city for awhile.
No, I have to remind myself. Stick it out. I look in the mirror and tell myself stick it out. I've been re-reading Gone with the Wind and I find myself relating very strongly to Scarlett. You know, the part during the Reconstruction. Margaret Mitchell once said, "Some people survive; others don't. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality 'gumption.' So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn't."
Perhaps I have gumption. I charge into the world, over and over, even if I get beaten down with it. I don't like the idea of giving up. It rankles me. I need to take a breather but I ultimately must keep moving forward.
New York is the kind of place that, for someone like me, compels me to constantly run on very high adrenaline. Always moving, thinking, talking, processing - fast. I didn't really think about how goddamn exhausting that is until I laid in my old bed in my old bedroom the first night I came home, and slept like the dead for 16 hours. Let it be known that, in the city, I can never sleep like that, and I'd feared I'd lost the ability forever.
Anyway...other updates. I quit the club (or got fired...or something). I'm over that scene. I'm over a lot of scenes, actually, but that was at the top of the list of "scenes to be over."
I've been electricianing off-Broadway for a few weeks and it's been like a balm for my soul. There's something infinitely comforting about work that is simultaneously mindless and challenging. And physically tiring. And requires normal-people working hours. I hope I keep getting hired; I'm under the impression that the next few weeks will be busy. I need to know that I didn't make a mistake not doing another summerstock - although it may be better for me to stay in the city, even though I'd love to get out of the city for awhile.
No, I have to remind myself. Stick it out. I look in the mirror and tell myself stick it out. I've been re-reading Gone with the Wind and I find myself relating very strongly to Scarlett. You know, the part during the Reconstruction. Margaret Mitchell once said, "Some people survive; others don't. What qualities are in those who fight their way through triumphantly that are lacking in those that go under? I only know that survivors used to call that quality 'gumption.' So I wrote about people who had gumption and people who didn't."
Perhaps I have gumption. I charge into the world, over and over, even if I get beaten down with it. I don't like the idea of giving up. It rankles me. I need to take a breather but I ultimately must keep moving forward.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Need anything? Milk...soda...a joint?
"I just want to know if you think I should trust him."
"That's like asking if you should believe in God."
**
I know this feeling, and I hate this feeling. This is a feeling that has yet to end well. Worse, this is a feeling that I can't ever seem to learn anything from, despite getting beaten down with it over and over again.
I keep hoping that one day it's going to fucking work. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe because this time I still don't know if I want it to be different, it'll thusly be different, and I'll discover that's what I really want. Maybe the whole process only works when done in reverse.
"That's like asking if you should believe in God."
**
I know this feeling, and I hate this feeling. This is a feeling that has yet to end well. Worse, this is a feeling that I can't ever seem to learn anything from, despite getting beaten down with it over and over again.
I keep hoping that one day it's going to fucking work. Maybe this time will be different. Maybe because this time I still don't know if I want it to be different, it'll thusly be different, and I'll discover that's what I really want. Maybe the whole process only works when done in reverse.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
different is good as long as different is also stunning.
In the past three days, I designed, hung, focused, and teched yet another show. Yay me!
Last week at work was terrible - I had one really drunk customer I got stuck dealing with, and he was absolutely disgusting. I really like working at the club - I mean, I get paid to party, essentially - but every now and then I get a customer or a group of customers who are drunk and belligerent and think it's appropriate to scream insults at me as security escorts them out. All this drama, only because they hadn't paid their bill in full and I had the audacity to point it out. Sorry, sir, I don't care how often you come here or how much money you spend or how many bottles you order or how you and the manager are BFFs. You still have to pay, thanks. And tip. It's only polite.
Anyway. Otherwise things are all right. I had an amazing Greek dinner last night at this teeny place in Hell's Kitchen. Tonight, I plan on going to bed early - I've not been getting a lot of sleep the past week and I really should catch up.
So, in April I'm thinking of planning a weekend getaway...maybe upstate. I want to get in the car and drive somewhere I've never been and stay in a cute little place and revitalize myself. Could be fun, right?
Last week at work was terrible - I had one really drunk customer I got stuck dealing with, and he was absolutely disgusting. I really like working at the club - I mean, I get paid to party, essentially - but every now and then I get a customer or a group of customers who are drunk and belligerent and think it's appropriate to scream insults at me as security escorts them out. All this drama, only because they hadn't paid their bill in full and I had the audacity to point it out. Sorry, sir, I don't care how often you come here or how much money you spend or how many bottles you order or how you and the manager are BFFs. You still have to pay, thanks. And tip. It's only polite.
Anyway. Otherwise things are all right. I had an amazing Greek dinner last night at this teeny place in Hell's Kitchen. Tonight, I plan on going to bed early - I've not been getting a lot of sleep the past week and I really should catch up.
So, in April I'm thinking of planning a weekend getaway...maybe upstate. I want to get in the car and drive somewhere I've never been and stay in a cute little place and revitalize myself. Could be fun, right?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
skin like a dying man's dream of skin.
I suck at blogging.
Anyway. I've been in New York for three and a half months now. This town is ridiculous. I mean, shit happens here that just does not happen anywhere else in the world.
I'm in between shows right now; my next one goes up in mid-March. So I've been taking some time off from the theater, trying to enjoy the city in my own way. I spend a lot of time riding the subway and exploring different neighborhoods and people-watching in Grand Central.
I've been going on dates with a bunch of different guys - maybe in an attempt to figure out what I want. My mom says this is perfectly normal, but given that I've never really dated in my life - I've either been single or in a relationship - dating is weird. And obnoxious, in some ways. Like, just because you bought me a nice dinner - and by "nice," I mean it cost approximately my rent - does not mean I'm going to sleep with you. Particularly if you're some self-important stockbroker schmuck tethered to his BlackBerry. Yikes.
I've been seeing this one guy I've started to really like, but he's already made it clear that our romantic relationship is unsustainable in the long term. And then I have at least two other guys who I'm not into but are harassing me nonstop. And then there are the all the guys who think it's okay to try and pick me up in a variety of places I prefer to be left alone in: the subway, Duane Reade, Whole Foods, the middle of Times Square, Starbucks, the liquor store, Pret a Manger, the lingerie section of H&M, Bryant Park. To name a few. I'm emotionally exhausted.
Also, I really want to be in a flash mob. Where do I sign up for those?
Anyway. I've been in New York for three and a half months now. This town is ridiculous. I mean, shit happens here that just does not happen anywhere else in the world.
I'm in between shows right now; my next one goes up in mid-March. So I've been taking some time off from the theater, trying to enjoy the city in my own way. I spend a lot of time riding the subway and exploring different neighborhoods and people-watching in Grand Central.
I've been going on dates with a bunch of different guys - maybe in an attempt to figure out what I want. My mom says this is perfectly normal, but given that I've never really dated in my life - I've either been single or in a relationship - dating is weird. And obnoxious, in some ways. Like, just because you bought me a nice dinner - and by "nice," I mean it cost approximately my rent - does not mean I'm going to sleep with you. Particularly if you're some self-important stockbroker schmuck tethered to his BlackBerry. Yikes.
I've been seeing this one guy I've started to really like, but he's already made it clear that our romantic relationship is unsustainable in the long term. And then I have at least two other guys who I'm not into but are harassing me nonstop. And then there are the all the guys who think it's okay to try and pick me up in a variety of places I prefer to be left alone in: the subway, Duane Reade, Whole Foods, the middle of Times Square, Starbucks, the liquor store, Pret a Manger, the lingerie section of H&M, Bryant Park. To name a few. I'm emotionally exhausted.
Also, I really want to be in a flash mob. Where do I sign up for those?
Monday, January 24, 2011
you are one of the bruised apples God threw out of Eden.
My most recent design job has led immediately to my next assignment, a night of one acts in the same theater. These shows are quite fun, and I'm glad I've got something to keep my mind occupied.
I'm in that weird place again. It's similar to where I was a few months ago, only several shades lighter. I'm much more in control but I'm making these overwhelming discoveries about myself, now that I've been thrown into a world that isn't dominated by school, or my parents, or the friends I've had for years.
No, I'm growing up now. The hardest part, oddly, is the social part. I mean, think about it - I've been in school my whole life. My friends were the people I had class with everyday, or the people I worked on shows with, or whatever. There was an element of consistency that made having friends natural and easy. Suddenly, now it's much harder, because my world is so inconsistent. I work in different theaters with different people all the time. I work in different clubs with different groups of people. I know a lot of people, and admit that my social calendar is pretty full, but I still feel very much alone.
The answer, unfortunately, does not lie with other people. No matter who I'm with, I feel alone. At the bar with friends, hanging out with my roommates, on a date, at work, having sex - I'm constantly struck with the feeling that I'm by myself.
Maybe it has something to do with living in the city. It's easy to feel swallowed up and utterly anonymous. Sometimes I feel suffocated by my own unimportance. I occasionally have that old nightmare of mine, where I'm standing in the middle of a crowd and I'm screaming, helplessly, but no one hears me.
I should feel happier, luckier, prouder than I feel right now. Aren't I living the life I always talked about having? But living the dream comes with a hefty price tag, it seems.
I'm in that weird place again. It's similar to where I was a few months ago, only several shades lighter. I'm much more in control but I'm making these overwhelming discoveries about myself, now that I've been thrown into a world that isn't dominated by school, or my parents, or the friends I've had for years.
No, I'm growing up now. The hardest part, oddly, is the social part. I mean, think about it - I've been in school my whole life. My friends were the people I had class with everyday, or the people I worked on shows with, or whatever. There was an element of consistency that made having friends natural and easy. Suddenly, now it's much harder, because my world is so inconsistent. I work in different theaters with different people all the time. I work in different clubs with different groups of people. I know a lot of people, and admit that my social calendar is pretty full, but I still feel very much alone.
The answer, unfortunately, does not lie with other people. No matter who I'm with, I feel alone. At the bar with friends, hanging out with my roommates, on a date, at work, having sex - I'm constantly struck with the feeling that I'm by myself.
Maybe it has something to do with living in the city. It's easy to feel swallowed up and utterly anonymous. Sometimes I feel suffocated by my own unimportance. I occasionally have that old nightmare of mine, where I'm standing in the middle of a crowd and I'm screaming, helplessly, but no one hears me.
I should feel happier, luckier, prouder than I feel right now. Aren't I living the life I always talked about having? But living the dream comes with a hefty price tag, it seems.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
and I don't know where to look, my words just break and melt.
Highlights from New Year's:
I tried napping earlier, but got nowhere with it. So I spent the day lounging around in my underwear, blasting the heat and watching Grey's Anatomy on Hulu Plus (which, by the way, is freaking awesome. Every episode of every show ever? For $8 a month? Eat that, Cablevision!). I'm still trying to get used to being alone in my apartment - so far, I'm unsuccessful. I felt like an antisocial loser so I went out grocery shopping earlier, where something prompted me to buy a half gallon of carrot juice. Amongst other really random items (including a toothbrush, several bags of freeze-dried pineapple, a York peppermint patty, and spray butter).
Tomorrow I'm going to check out a fabulous used bookstore I heard about near Union Square. I have one book in my whole apartment and that makes me feel like less of a human being. I miss my books.
- Penn Station fucking sucks.
- NJ Transit has ghetto trains. Or maybe I've been spoiled by the Metro North. Either way, eeeeeugh. I felt like I was on an old Greyhound bus. (To be fair, the train back to NYC was much nicer.)
- A homeless man on the train said I was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, and proposed to me in front of everyone in the train car. I politely declined and he took it in stride. Maybe he had better luck in the next car.
- I saw Anne! Yay! And met a bunch of her friends. Yay! We played board games. Yay!
- Trip to Wal-Mart. Is it bad that I felt all nostalgic and warm and fuzzy when I walked in? Like I felt at home in a weird and sick way? That's not normal.
- Peach jello and spiced rum. OM NOM NOM.
- Delicious, delicious baked goods. And snacks. I ate, like, half a pan of brownies.
- Really, where were Kesha's clothes? Someone should make Jenny McCarthy stop talking, forever. And AJ from the Backstreet Boys has gotten really old and fat. He should talk to Jennifer Hudson about Weight Watchers, because I think they played the Weight Watchers commercial at every commercial break.
- Did anyone else feel like the dropping of the ball was really anticlimactic?
- I got like, two hours of sleep. I think I was still drunk when I woke up, which might be why I ate, like, four bowls of Cookie Crisp at breakfast. Seemed like an awesome idea. Actually, it was an awesome idea.
I tried napping earlier, but got nowhere with it. So I spent the day lounging around in my underwear, blasting the heat and watching Grey's Anatomy on Hulu Plus (which, by the way, is freaking awesome. Every episode of every show ever? For $8 a month? Eat that, Cablevision!). I'm still trying to get used to being alone in my apartment - so far, I'm unsuccessful. I felt like an antisocial loser so I went out grocery shopping earlier, where something prompted me to buy a half gallon of carrot juice. Amongst other really random items (including a toothbrush, several bags of freeze-dried pineapple, a York peppermint patty, and spray butter).
Tomorrow I'm going to check out a fabulous used bookstore I heard about near Union Square. I have one book in my whole apartment and that makes me feel like less of a human being. I miss my books.
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