blistering and sad

I'm sick of being sad. I was outwardly doing fine for quite some time, riding the high and away from the load that seems to carry itself on my shoulders. But for some reason, after I completed my first day on my new gig, I stopped by the Barnes and Noble and picked up a copy of "The Year of Magical Thinking". What was I thinking? I waited two days and just read the first chapter last night before bed, even though I was a bit sleepy and I had to wake up early. I cried through most of it, and then went to bed with all these thoughts running through my head, and the tears sliding down my face and into the feathers beneath my pillow case. And it's August and cold.

I tried detoxing last week and over the weekend, but my stomach is quite messed up. I just feel drained all over again.

So tonight, I'm talking to Willy and he says that I've changed (for the better, whatever that means) in regards to my sister, and that I'm harder. I don't think that's completely it, or even a good thing, but what I did realize is that for the past few months I haven't been living in a bubble so much as a blister. You know how the blister bubbles up to protect the affected area? I've sort of created this blister around me, and nothing else can really affect me right now. It's a matter of self-protection, I guess.

Buddakan in New York: Japanese and Chinese gastronomy

Okay, so I didn't produce this spot, but I'm still technologically retarded, so I haven't a) been able to figure out how to burn a copy of the bulthaup spot, or even retrieve it off my hard drive and b) been able to find any of the other spots I've done online, so this will have to suffice. I suppose I shouldn't really mix work and grieving together, but until I can separate them, this will have to do in the interim. A bit macabre, I'm sure, but...welcome to my world.

Breathe (12am)

From April 20, 2007:

(unedited) Tonight.

This woman got on at Whatever Street. Going uptown. She has a near-newborn strapped to her chest and a 4 year old boy being dragged by his forearm. It’s quarter to midnight on a Thursday. Both kids should really be safe in bed at home, but they’re not. Instead, they’re cruising on the Uptown A-train. Her acrylics are long and due for a touch-up as she grabs her son, “jay=jay” underneath the armpits in an attempt to pull his head closer to her lap, all the while she has a bottle filled with formula jammed in the mouth of the near-newborn who screams from tiredom, not quite hunger as the train hurtles forward.

Jay Jay is screaming as they board the train. I feel for her and offer to pull his other leg onto the seat cuz its just dangling there, and she says okay. “Can I tie his shoes?” I ask, and later realize that must sound a bit patronizing. “Yes, please” she says. She never thanks me, and I tie his shoes carefully, as not to wake him, because it’s now nearly midnight, and he’s only four years old and deserves to at least know what its like to be safe at this time at night. But I’m judging her, which isn’t fair - I don’t really know her story, and her kids are really cute.

Something just tells me that they’re getting off with me at 145th, so I listen to Bjork, as the train leaves the 135th Street station as she begins to gently slap and then pinch Jay Jay’s face. “Wake up, you have to walk now” she tells him. The train eases into 145th and I pause my iPod. “I’ll help” I tell her as she tells Jay Jay that she can’t carry him. “I easily scoop him into my arms and he screams at the knowledge that a stranger has him in his arms. “It’s okay” I tell him, “Your mom’s right there” She’s grabbing two black plastic bags, and his hoodie in her hands as we climb the stairs. He’s ramrod straight in my arms, so I try to cradle him and she mistakes it for weakness, “I know, he’s not that light anymore” she tells me. “I’m gonna call his father when we get upstairs.” She walks over to the bench upstairs which is still inside the turnstile and a payphone hangs beside it. She thanks me as she lifts the headset, and I grab Jay Jay’s hoodie and prop it beneath his head as I lay him on the wooden bench. He’s still crying. He’s only four. And somehow, I think he deserves better.

What next?

It's a month to the day since my last post, and 6 hours after previous post, my world changed almost beyond my comprehension. The chest x-ray never happened. Chelle was supposed to take her that morning, and they had agreed to wake up at 7am. We had left all the bedroom doors cracked open in case she needed anything, and the brass bell that had once belonged to my great-grandmother sat beside her bed. I heard Chelle step into the hallway and walk into Mom's room. Heard her call to her over and over, her "Mom?" quickly morphing into a more shrill, "Mommy?" that launched me out of bed and into the room where Chelle stood over her body, which was on the floor between the wall and her bed. The truth is, it always annoyed me when Chelle occasionally referred to our parents as Daddy and Mommy, well into our adulthood. The same way she calls our neighbors Miss Rose and Mr. Julius, as if we were living in the South, circa 1954. I called 911 and screamed at Chelle to help me turn her over, she was a little slow from the panic. I also yelled at the 911 operator because it seemed to take way too long for the ambulance to find its way to our house. Her fingertips were cold, her eyes were unfocused slits and her chest was warm. Later, the brown-skinned EMT would tell me that this was probably because she was laying near the heater. I still only half believe it. Her lips were stiff with rigor but we both tried mouth to mouth on her even though I knew the truth all along.

When they told me she was gone, Chelle grabbed me, and we hugged, and then she tried to ease me back into the room I slept in, which is small and was piled with my clothes and a complete mess. There was no way the two of us could fit into the mess, and I didn't care whether or not the EMT's saw my grief, in fact I'd rather them see that then the mess that lay behind me, so I fought her on that and won. Then I ran down the street to get our neighbor Rose, who was also a nurse, and one of Mom's closest friends. I passed Freddie on the way, and she started to ask me if it was my Mom and I cut her off and said, "Yes, she's dead," I never slowed down my pace., intent to get Rose, hoping she could help. No one was at their house, which meant I had to face Freddie again, who was spinning around in circles, while the snow drifted around us. I apologized for my rudeness and hugged her, resenting her neediness along the way. I never claimed to be a good Christian, or any sort of Christian at all.

transatlantic stalking via text

The oiliness of the creepy text messages sent to me from the Psychotic Brit has still got me reeling - two days after the fact. I'm not sure which bothers me most -the assumptions involved (that me and my friends are American whores), the faint hint of racism disguised as exoticism or the fact that I never actually had sex with his friend who apparently told Psycho otherwise. I just don't know.

Mom came home from work with her breath so shallow I was afraid to leave her by herself for more than 4 minutes at a time. She's going for a chest x-ray tomorrow. It's a battle for me to keep it together, but I'm trying my damndest, harder than I've probably tried for anything else in my life. I still have to face the facts though, and that scares the hell out of me.

I did get a wink on match though, and also set up an interview for a job next week. Some things are turning around I suppose, so that's something to be grateful for. Always turn to the positives...

A room of my own

It's been 3 months since I lost my sublet, and I'm still staying with B & L in Harlem. Last night, we watched The Chronicles of Narnia, which was pretty good, but I couldn't stop singing "The CHRONIC! What? Cles of Narnia" from that SNL short that made the rounds last year.

In other news, I still have not received the money that LUXE owes me from the shoot I did back in December. Dealing with the Luxembourgeois is like banging my head into a wall repeatedly, after a night of gin and tonics. I have one foot out the door, but I don't think they understand that yet, as it may not completely translate. Keep your fingers crossed that money arrives tomorrow and I will be able to get my cell phone reconnected. Neve rin my life did I aspire to be this ghetto.