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!
Saturday, August 27, 2011
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.
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