Nov
10
on presence
My cat has been unreasonably whiny since we relocated to our new and much larger place. I figured that she would get over crying for hours every morning at the door or at me in the shower, cooking, sleeping. But it’s been months and she is still crying. Ever the mournful cat, howling at the door to horrible freedom. Doesn’t she know, nothing but failed expectations lie behind that door?
What could possibly be troubling my cat? Is the shock of the new? The odor of the neighboring feline? Or something more sinister?
I’ve been troubled by dreams this week. Some full of familiar faces in strange situations. But the most troubling was a lucid dream I had about the presence Viktor. I knew that I was dreaming because I was sleeping on my back. I never sleep on my back. Ever. I could feel the cold descend on my arms and the goose hairs rise up, as Viktor settled down to “communicate” with me. Of course he wanted me to accomplish a task for him that he could not complete in life and even less so in death.
Then he moved down the bed and put pressure on my legs. The bed covers went taut and I could not move my legs. I knew I was dreaming. I knew it, despite how realistic everything in my room was down to the exact daylight.
“Look Viktor, if you want me to do anything for you, you are going to have to leave me the fuck alone while I am asleep or even just at home. I don’t want any of this ‘ghostly’ bullshit.”
The pressure released from my legs. I got up, put on my bathrobe and calmly walked out of my room.
So, could Viktor be bothering my cat in lieu of troubling me directly? I doubt the reality of that situation, but it makes more sense than the constant pain my cat seems to be in now that we are living in a veritable lap of luxury from our small Chinatown studio.
Oct
4
on commuting
on the train to work, it was a slow and quiet commute. i think i left earlier than usual. the train was swaying and it was seemingly in time with the soft music i was listening to. i was still groggy and sleep was still hovering over me. i watched from the very front of the car as the few standing commuters ebbed and swayed with the motion of the car. in dream states we all were. i let my eyes drop a little and when i looked, i swear there was you, though, an impossibility, i swore it was you. but it was not you. it was no one but the lingering dreams, residual desires and the slight coincidence of NYC playing tricks on my eyes.
it doesn’t matter any more. it shouldn’t but. there’s the but. i read things, i see things. i remember the code. now i start to feel that there is a code there. a code no longer meant for me. it never was, a language built on guile. playing tricks on the house of secrets. the dance of the subway in the quiet of the early morning commute. playing tricks on the eyes, hearts, knees and nose.
Sep
24
On fragility
via Percy DeSaint
I get the call finally. I am with some one I like. I am enjoying the company. I am enjoying the bliss of not knowing. I enjoying the getting to knowing. In one early morning phone call, with the simple words, it all shifts to not meaning a thing.
May never walk again.
It is those four words you don’t ever really think about except in the context of the nightly news horror show and tragic car accidents. In bite size news snippets that bear no relevance to your life at all. But the anxiety, the dread, the sheer terror of losing mobility, you don’t quite think about it?
But now, I do. Every damn day.
I think about what it means to be hobbled, to be maimed and the powerlessness that must come from the loss of autonomy, of freedom. The buzz of the hospital tubes, the steady hum of nurses chatter are now the background sounds to the conversations I have with my father and form the distracting hum of low level anxiety to my every day. The flow of thoughts of how my mother must be feeling. I am sure caretaker was not high on her list of retirement dreams. My brother, stoic and leaking tears at once, resigned to learning how to help my father take care of his every day tasks, now rendered laborious. It’s hard to brush your teeth with your wrong hand when your right one is still numb and immobile. Try it. I did. I can’t brush my teeth with my wrong hand. Then I feel guilty because I have the choice.
The arbitrariness of tragedy and personal loss is really arresting. It comes in no ways and in all ways at once. It exacerbates the insecurities we already have, heightens the loneliness we feel and exaggerates our alienation. In a simple phrase to match those words, it sucks. All i can do is trudge on knowing that the shock and grief will pass, that my love hasn’t changed and I will re-find my purpose. My compass feels slightly off true north right now, but in time, given time, I know it will reset. The test is patients. So say it lightly, let me down easy, make way and take care. I am not asking for much and yet, so very much.
Jul
20
a formal feeling comes
Now. There’s been some space. My fear has subsided, my guilt is transformed into anger and that anger dissipated into disappointment.
A man followed me into my apartment vestibule early Sunday morning. The front door had been broken and hadn’t been locking properly for months. It works now, but that makes no difference because you can’t change the future. He could have done so much worse than grab me, take my phone and all of my money. Only about $120 dollars. Coming home from a night out, he’s lucky I even had that.
I called the police from an old cell phone. This all sounds so collected now, but at the time, I almost didn’t know what was going on. The 911 operator stayed on the phone with me until I was with the police. They then put me in the back of the squad car, still in my party dress and heels, clutching this busted cell phone with out of date of numbers and my house keys.
A flock of police had descended onto my neighborhood detaining every young looking black man that was out on the street at sometime between 3:30am and 4am. The drove me around and had me look at the men that they had detained. None of them were the man that had robbed me. It was after the second man, that I finally started crying in the back of the car.
They put me in another car, unmarked, and we went around and looked a two or three more men. Still none of them were the man. I felt so guilty that these men had done nothing wrong, other than be the wrong color out on the street at the wrong time. I felt guilty and responsible and horrified and terrified.
At the precinct on Elizabeth street, one of the oldest in the city, I sat in a dingy room with a man filing reports and intermittently falling asleep with loud snores waiting to fill out the police report. I called every number that might be viable in my phone, but no one picked up. I talked to two cops and then a detective. I looked at mug shots until my head was aching, the sun was coming up and the faces all looked the same.
They brought me home and let me stand on the side walk, shivering in that stupid dress while the evidence technician took finger prints. I did not need to be standing there for that. I went upstairs finally to make some eggs with spinach. I fell into an uneasy sleep that only lasted about 3 hours. It was riddled with random dreams, irrationalities and anxieties. I was lucky to have a friend to stay with me that night. A presence that was just so welcome and such a distraction. It was so important.
The next day, Manhattan looked so much better from the outside looking at her from Liberty Island.
May
8
snapshot: a formal feeling comes
The streets were slick as I worked my way down the bumpy side walk of Christie Street. Late for me, but not for the neighborhood, it was still on the empty side for a Wednesday night. I caught myself wondering if maybe it was the weather or the money that was keeping people in. Most likely, a little of both.
Past the ragged end of Sarah D Roosevlet Park, turning at the entrance to the Manhattan Bridge and Christie ends and I round the corner along the side of the bridge on Forsyth St. The odors that come from this block are notorious. I pick my way through piles of half rotting produce and tied up bunches of boxes. During the day, the block is a bustling mash of fruit and vegetable vendors, shoe repair men, a grilled meat cart and a smash of people of all stripes coming to get 10 cucumbers for $1. No, you can not get less than 10.
Half way down the block, I notice that it doesn’t stink. In fact, the odor is remarkably pleasant. The smell is such an unexpected oddity that it takes me a moment to place it. It is the fresh, clean, bright smell of watermelon. There were several, must have been recently, smashed watermelons on the side walk. For a brief moment, I was transported to summer and green and waves of southern beaches. All that from just the smell of smashed watermelon on a New York City sidewalk.
Apr
26
dream journal #3
waking from a nap. i had had a strange and terrible dream. my right breast broke the membrane and part of the breast seeped down to almost create another breast. i tried to put it back in. force it back into the broken membrane and smooth it up along my ribs, but as i was doing so, the nipple split. I had two breasts. I tried to put on my bra to force the two back together, but then it split again. as i woke, in my dream state, i had four breasts. i was beginning to panic.
Apr
19
the warm green of the walls
The sun is streaming in through the your window. Not that I would know if sun actually streams through your window, but its of no importance, I just feel the sun pouring over us. We are laying side by side on your bed. On top of the covers because the air is warm and steamy like it is in late July. We are talking to one and other.
You say to me, “I am glad that we waited. Its been so nice to enjoy the empty city streets with you. To walk uninhibited and laugh out loud.” I ask you what time the shuttle leaves. “We have a few hours yet.”
We settle in, holding hands. “I can’t believe we are on the last one. The last shuttle from Earth.”
You tell me that our time here is over. I tell you that i am so glad that we have these tickets. You squeeze my hand. We just wanted to spend as much time as we could, here, together, before it was over. Drinking up the last seconds of the torpid air and languid sunlight.
Mar
26
words are the vast expanse between us
via Fun Forever
i had a dream that you did not belong in. in the dream, you presented me with a list of reasons why i should be in love with you. your charm, your wit, our shared obsessions. you read them off to me as i sat in a wooden chair and you stood in front of me. i was not moved. then in the dream, you wrapped your arms around my waste from behind me now, and again read me your list. this time whispered in my ear like so many soft secrets, warm and arousing but still i unlaced your fingers and let you go.
Mar
23
what i should be reading Monday
Despite my best hope, this is no a joke. But pure GENIUS!
Pre-order your copy!
Amazon Description: Pride and Prejudice and Zombies features the original text of Jane Austen’s beloved novel with all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie action. As our story opens a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace but she’s soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Complete with 20 illustrations in the style of C. E. Brock (the original illustrator of Pride and Prejudice) this insanely funny expanded edition will introduce Jane Austen’s classic novel to new legions of fans.
Inspired by a gnawing spirit.
Mar
12
things i do differently now rather than then
i wear my ring on my right hand instead of my left
ronnie and i take up the entire bed
i get up before 11am on the weekends
i walk around with a freshness that i hadn’t felt before
