You know that feeling when you are falling in love? When it feels like the world is ripe with possibilities, when you feel like the most interesting, beautiful person on the planet? Well, I have been feeling that way a lot lately.
I wonder if it is actually possible to hold onto this feeling, clutch it close and luxuriate in it. The fact that I am not falling in love with anyone in particular, but rather, many people, places and experiences, means that I am not reliant on a person to maintain the sunshine of new love. As we all know, when the glossy veneer of lust begins to fade, all the cracks begin to show, people becomes real, imperfect and unable to live up to the idolized image we have created of them. Perhaps loving whole heartedly and widely Will create a vacuum in which the beautiful glow can be maintained.
Even as I write this I don't believe it! This feeling is like being high, and everyone has to come down sometime.
As Katy Perry said, "Its not serious, just want to try you on", well what if you could live as though you were in a dressing room? Trying on different possibilities like clothing. Its an interesting prospect.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Hello 2010!
It was great to be with the EWI crew again on Tuesday! We braved the disgusting, frigid weather on the way to Purple Yam, and it was actually worth it. We six ladies ate our way through a good chunk of the menu, and everything was delicious. It was probably the best meal I have had in the past few months. Even more than that, it was good for my soul to be with my people again. The joy this group has brought me is overwhelming. When I start to really think about the fact that this amazing group of 35 people see me as their "leader" (a title that makes me blush), I am awe struck.
I am not shy or all that humble, but I am honored and humbled by the recognition they give me. Bringing people together around a passion so near and dear to me is like a dream. One of my members told me the other day that the key to groups like ours is the leader. She said that "If you don't really like the founder, the group is going to suck, no matter what the theme is". Wow. I am so completely real with these people, and they love me. It is a feeling I have never really had before and it floors me. I need them and they need me. Eating With Impunity is truly my baby.
We have rescheduled the Beer and Cheese Fete for a week from Saturday, but I decided to spring a last minute brunch on the group for this Saturday. Whether one or ten, I am going to have a good time! All about me you know! It is a bit scary, but that has been a theme of mine lately. I care about other people deeply, but for the first time in my life, I am really focusing on just making myself happy. Hopefully this is healthy and not the beginning of my slow decent into narcissism!
This sentiment carries over to my relationship with D. too. I blame it on my new attempts to "act my age", but I am finding myself thinking in terms of "me" and not "we". I have stepped back and I don't think that it is inappropriate. I am 25, unmarried and have my whole life ahead of me. I am no more ready to settle down now than I was when I was playing house at 19, the difference is, now I know it.
Well, 2009 is on it's way out. The parties begin in a few hours. Nine and a half hours from now 2010 will be here, filled with all the possibility, adventure and hope of a new born child. This has been a good year, for the first time in my life I am certain that the next will be even more beautiful. This year I came back to life: I truly met my brother for the first time, I fell in love with a city, I transformed my life, I found my passion and I re-discovered hope. There was sadness, there was pain, but it was all overshadowed by joy. I have so much love in my life, it is overwhelming.
I seem to have lived and died so many times over the last 25 years, thank God I am so alive on the eve of 2010. Thank God for my beautiful friends, old and new. Thank God for the city that took my breath away. Thank God for my strong, resilient heart that still somehow has the capacity to give and receive even after all the heartbreak. I am exactly where I want to be and who I want to be, it can only get better from here.
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Night Before Christmas
People may say that Christmas is a time for merriment and cheer, but I think that better descriptors would be disappointment, obligation and silent prayers for it to just be over already!
Now, don't get me wrong, I love the holiday season. It is the actual holiday itself that lends to misery. Not all my Christmases have been bad, most have just been anticlimactic. My favorite Christmas was the one I spent in Iraq with my best friends. It was simple and joyful and easy.
In an effort to create a new era of merry Christmas's on my terms, I set out to create my own holiday traditions. Christmas dinner with D.'s family was non-negotiable, so I decided to work around it and focus on Christmas Eve.
I wanted to enjoy the splendor of New York during the holidays and finish the evening basking in her glory with a martini. For this I decided to brave the hordes of tourists at Rockefeller Center and make my annual mecca to see the tree. I actually went to see the tree last year, so it could be considered an official tradition at this point! Unfortunately, last year we went during the day and were quite rushed. This year, it was beautiful.
The crowds merely added to the "quest feel" of the excursion. We fought our way through and I modeled in front of the iconic holiday symbol. After the "photo-shoot" we began ambling down Fifth Avenue, basking in the glow of the lights and the sound of carols. We finally arrived at 230 Fifth and headed-up to the heated roof-bar.
A word about 230 Fifth Ave, it is a totally duchie place! It is all velvet couches and waitresses in short skirts and (sorry fellas) investment bankers and European tourists. Despite all that, it happens to have 360 degree views of the city and a year-round heated roof deck. For these commodities I gladly paid $28 for two dirty martini's!
Sitting on the roof, sipping my perfect Kettle One martini, gazing at the red and green lights of the Empire State Building, scanning the skyline for the luminescent peak of the Chrysler Building, listening to the crooning voices of 1950's lounge singer belt out Christmas classics; I could do nothing but smile. This is my city, my Christmas Eve, my life. Looking through my pictures I saw happiness, no fake smiles or poses, just joy. It looked good, it felt good.
Merry Christmas to me.
Life is never exactly what you expect or want it to be. You can never go back in time, but you can make the most of what you do have. You can make your own traditions and indulge in those things that make you merry and fill your heart with cheer.
Forever Young
Reading through my recent blogs I have noticed a pattern. It seems that I have gotten a bit caught up in a melancholy tone. I suppose my humorous outlook needs a rest once and a while, I often let all the melancholy out here. I must remember that depression is not art or visaversa! This blog is about my life, and I refuse to believe that it has been as dark as I have made it sound. There has been a bit of a tempest in my mind lately, but I am a true believer in the idea that it is you and not your circumstances that shape your outlook.
There have not been any EWI events since the wild, wild Holiday Mixer a few weeks ago. There was a beer and cheese event that was snowed-out and a Scotch tasting that I missed due to "work exhaustion", but there is a fabulous Filipino Fusion restaurant tasting scheduled for Tuesday. I need to cook an Afghani dish tomorrow so I can stay on-track with my eat/cook around the world project! Mmmm! Just thinking about my beloved group makes me smile. Well, about the to Holiday Mixer, it seems that in all the excitement I neglected to mention it.
Our darling Bro-friends Mike and Pooneet suggested that we have a party to help foster relationships between the original and new members. They also offered to host. I made a beautiful stuffed fig dish.
Wandering around the Chelsea Market gathering the perfect ingredients: a pungent blue cheese from Lucy's Whey, fresh figs from the fruit market and paper-thin sliced bacon from the meat market. At the market I met a fellow foodie working behind the register. I invited her to join the group and left the market filled with a sense of beautiful certainly in the direction of my life. I love food and people, and the people who love food are a special breed of people; my people.
I headed over to the party and started cooking. I halved the figs, pressed the cheese into the halves and wrapped them in little bacon bundles. The boys popped them in the broiler for me. They had made a chick-pea bruchetta and lamb meatballs. Deepa brought fresh-baked ginger cookies and everyone brought wine!
The party was set to start at 4pm. I had agreed to go to my friend Mark's party later that night, so D. opted-out of the EWI fete and told me we would meet-up at Mark's.
People trickled in at their own pace, but it really didn't matter, I have a great time with them whether there are five of us or fifty. Ironically, there was not all that many new members there to meet original members! As I said before, not that fact (or any other) would stop us from having a grand time. Judging from our long history of partying into the night, I should have known that this would not be a quick party, regardless of what time it started!
We drank, and talked and laughed and then conversation turned to Bourbon. Yes, Bourbon. Pooneet happens to be quite the connoisseur, and I happen to be of the opinion that if you don't like something that just means you haven't tried enough of it. That lead us to a Bourbon tasting. I was feeling no pain before the tasting, after the tasting everything got a bit surreal!
Somehow Rock Band was turned-on and the most incredibly bad singing and playing commenced. After exhausting the original Rock Band line-up, the Beatles's Rock Band was queued-up and the resulting butchery of such classics as "Lucy in the Sky" are thankfully nothing but a blur to me.
It was around this time that we noticed the time. It was nearly 11:00pm. Yes, we had been drinking for close to 7 hours. Naturally, it was time to move the party to Mark's! I texted D. and we were off to find a cab. Our original party had dwindled to a group of four.
We arrived to Solas in the East village and stumbled out of the cab and over to the club. The bouncer hassled the guys (I still don't know why), but submitted to letting us in. Once inside I began looking for Markie. The crowd did not seem very Gay, and considering his sexual preferences, I was confused. We struggled through the crowd and I tried to call him. We decided to leave, but on the way out I ran right into Mr. Mark himself. He was as drunk as I was and we hung onto each other outside the club, slurring compliments to each other. He asked us to stay, but at this point the bouncer was evil-eyeing us again and so we begged-out.
DeShon finally texted me back to let me know he was going out with one of his boys instead, I texted him that the club sucked and would be home soon.
Rather than rolling on home, the crew suggested that we check-out a bar on the corner. Why not? We sauntered into Hi Fi and promptly ordered drinks. Let's see, after an evening of red wine, white wine and Bourbon a Dirty Martini only makes sense, right? Ah, the drunken mind! I enjoyed Erin's comment about the evening; poetically she told us that our evening was merely an "adventure for our livers"!
Adventure it was. After we secured our cocktails we moseyed on over to the pool tables. Now, I am a firm believer in the fact that alcohol impairs your abilities, with one striking exception: Pool. I suck at pool, I mean really, really suck! When I drink though, I get good. We played in teams and I was actually on the winning team the first round! Even in the subsequent losing rounds, I held my own. In fact, I kicked some ass! It shocked me every time the ball miraculously found its way into the pocket. As you can imagine, I was very vocal in my satisfaction with myself. Ah, booze!
Amidst the revelry, I neglected to check either my phone (in the coat room) or the time. As the evening came to an end and I was shuffled by my dear members into a cab, I glanced at the clock to see a luminescent 4:00am flashing back at me. I came into the apartment gleefully intoxicated and jolly from my evening of excitement. DeShon was not amused. He bitched at me and then sent me to bed. Thankfully I was smart enough (read: drunk enough) to just do what he told me and go to sleep.
It took D. a few days to get over it, but he came around. See, I don't generally stay out all night. Hell, I rarely stay up past 1:00am! It felt good though. Not something I would make a habit of doing, but hell, it made me feel young. It reminded me of a time in my life when life was too exciting for sleep, when I was afraid of missing out on one second of it. I let myself get carried away in the moment; in the sheer pleasure of friends and drinks and laughter. I am a young woman, but I have to remind myself of that fact. I grew up too fast and now that the brakes seem to have failed, I am desperately trying to slow down time. I want to act my age, even if just for one crazy night of marathon drinking and blurred East Village bars.
There have not been any EWI events since the wild, wild Holiday Mixer a few weeks ago. There was a beer and cheese event that was snowed-out and a Scotch tasting that I missed due to "work exhaustion", but there is a fabulous Filipino Fusion restaurant tasting scheduled for Tuesday. I need to cook an Afghani dish tomorrow so I can stay on-track with my eat/cook around the world project! Mmmm! Just thinking about my beloved group makes me smile. Well, about the to Holiday Mixer, it seems that in all the excitement I neglected to mention it.
Our darling Bro-friends Mike and Pooneet suggested that we have a party to help foster relationships between the original and new members. They also offered to host. I made a beautiful stuffed fig dish.
Wandering around the Chelsea Market gathering the perfect ingredients: a pungent blue cheese from Lucy's Whey, fresh figs from the fruit market and paper-thin sliced bacon from the meat market. At the market I met a fellow foodie working behind the register. I invited her to join the group and left the market filled with a sense of beautiful certainly in the direction of my life. I love food and people, and the people who love food are a special breed of people; my people.
I headed over to the party and started cooking. I halved the figs, pressed the cheese into the halves and wrapped them in little bacon bundles. The boys popped them in the broiler for me. They had made a chick-pea bruchetta and lamb meatballs. Deepa brought fresh-baked ginger cookies and everyone brought wine!
The party was set to start at 4pm. I had agreed to go to my friend Mark's party later that night, so D. opted-out of the EWI fete and told me we would meet-up at Mark's.
People trickled in at their own pace, but it really didn't matter, I have a great time with them whether there are five of us or fifty. Ironically, there was not all that many new members there to meet original members! As I said before, not that fact (or any other) would stop us from having a grand time. Judging from our long history of partying into the night, I should have known that this would not be a quick party, regardless of what time it started!
We drank, and talked and laughed and then conversation turned to Bourbon. Yes, Bourbon. Pooneet happens to be quite the connoisseur, and I happen to be of the opinion that if you don't like something that just means you haven't tried enough of it. That lead us to a Bourbon tasting. I was feeling no pain before the tasting, after the tasting everything got a bit surreal!
Somehow Rock Band was turned-on and the most incredibly bad singing and playing commenced. After exhausting the original Rock Band line-up, the Beatles's Rock Band was queued-up and the resulting butchery of such classics as "Lucy in the Sky" are thankfully nothing but a blur to me.
It was around this time that we noticed the time. It was nearly 11:00pm. Yes, we had been drinking for close to 7 hours. Naturally, it was time to move the party to Mark's! I texted D. and we were off to find a cab. Our original party had dwindled to a group of four.
We arrived to Solas in the East village and stumbled out of the cab and over to the club. The bouncer hassled the guys (I still don't know why), but submitted to letting us in. Once inside I began looking for Markie. The crowd did not seem very Gay, and considering his sexual preferences, I was confused. We struggled through the crowd and I tried to call him. We decided to leave, but on the way out I ran right into Mr. Mark himself. He was as drunk as I was and we hung onto each other outside the club, slurring compliments to each other. He asked us to stay, but at this point the bouncer was evil-eyeing us again and so we begged-out.
DeShon finally texted me back to let me know he was going out with one of his boys instead, I texted him that the club sucked and would be home soon.
Rather than rolling on home, the crew suggested that we check-out a bar on the corner. Why not? We sauntered into Hi Fi and promptly ordered drinks. Let's see, after an evening of red wine, white wine and Bourbon a Dirty Martini only makes sense, right? Ah, the drunken mind! I enjoyed Erin's comment about the evening; poetically she told us that our evening was merely an "adventure for our livers"!
Adventure it was. After we secured our cocktails we moseyed on over to the pool tables. Now, I am a firm believer in the fact that alcohol impairs your abilities, with one striking exception: Pool. I suck at pool, I mean really, really suck! When I drink though, I get good. We played in teams and I was actually on the winning team the first round! Even in the subsequent losing rounds, I held my own. In fact, I kicked some ass! It shocked me every time the ball miraculously found its way into the pocket. As you can imagine, I was very vocal in my satisfaction with myself. Ah, booze!
Amidst the revelry, I neglected to check either my phone (in the coat room) or the time. As the evening came to an end and I was shuffled by my dear members into a cab, I glanced at the clock to see a luminescent 4:00am flashing back at me. I came into the apartment gleefully intoxicated and jolly from my evening of excitement. DeShon was not amused. He bitched at me and then sent me to bed. Thankfully I was smart enough (read: drunk enough) to just do what he told me and go to sleep.
It took D. a few days to get over it, but he came around. See, I don't generally stay out all night. Hell, I rarely stay up past 1:00am! It felt good though. Not something I would make a habit of doing, but hell, it made me feel young. It reminded me of a time in my life when life was too exciting for sleep, when I was afraid of missing out on one second of it. I let myself get carried away in the moment; in the sheer pleasure of friends and drinks and laughter. I am a young woman, but I have to remind myself of that fact. I grew up too fast and now that the brakes seem to have failed, I am desperately trying to slow down time. I want to act my age, even if just for one crazy night of marathon drinking and blurred East Village bars.
Survivor
One of the World War II veterans came to the travel office the other day. He proceeded to tell us about being captured at the Battle of the Bulge while trying to save a wounded soldier. He was a medic. The Germans threw him into a POW camp where he lived in a small room with six other prisoners. They were fed one loaf of bread each day to split between them. He told us that they used a playing card to measure and cut the bread into six equal slices.
Then he asked me a strange question, "Which piece would you take if given the choice?"
I thought for a few minutes and then told him I would take the middle piece to avoid the slender end pieces. He looked me in the eye and said, "Good choice, you are a survivor".
The startling thing about this conversation was the timing. I have been thinking quite a bit about being a survivor lately. There are certainly advantages to being this way, but it is also dangerous. There is an ugly side of survivor instinct, a side that is single-mindedly focused on self-preservation and willing to destroy anything standing in the way. A survivor does what needs to be done. A survivor makes hard choices. A survivor will not be stopped by anything or anyone.I would like to think that my protective inclinations balance me out, maintain my humanity.
We became such different people in the war. The sweet country girl became my best friend after she morphed before my eyes into one of the strongest, most ferocious women I have ever met. In light of our precarious position, being two of the only females in the pressure cooker of an army aviation platoon, she became a vicious man-eater. If a man approached her, or dared to speak to her, she would verbally assault him and send him away in a state of shock. There was a young man from Texas on my truck with me. A generally soft spoken soldier, he became a territorial animal. He staked his claim in the front corner of the vehicle and would go ballistic if anyone attempted to take his coveted spot. He would scream "Stay off my property! Stay off my property!" like some deranged version of Yosemite Sam. Me, I became a bi-polar volcano.
I had an anger in me, constantly boiling and burning just under the surface of my smile. That is when I learned to paint my smile. I played the game, smiled and did my job. And I would explode. I learned to survive with that smile. I also learned to lie. I lied to protect my life, I learned to lie to protect my friends, but I did not lie to my friends. Ironically, I valued my integrity and my word above all else. It would throw me into a fit of rage to be accused of lying. I suppose I found a way to make the survival lies a form of my own truth. Yes, it is interesting to see who we become when forced to fight for our lives.
The anger has burned-out. I still feel a flair here and there, but it no longer rages inside of me, constantly threatening to consume me. As the rage died, the tears began. I cried so much and so hard as the fire died over the last four years. The tears have dried-up now too. I feel the familiar desert in my eyes I had for all those years as a soldier. I long for tears sometimes, but they just aren't there. Perhaps that is what has turned my mind back to the survivalist residing within me. There is no time for tears when you are fighting for your life, so what am I fighting right now?
I am poised to attack. I am strong and protected on the inside, I am circling those I love like a mother bear, I laugh a lot because nothing is so serious in the scheme of life, yet there is a serious undertone to everything I do. So what has triggered this response? What has brought this soldier back?
When I begin to concern myself, I excuse my thoughts with the sentiment that I am not good or bad, simply human. That is something she would think. I am not that girl in the desert, I am even more dangerous; I am a controlled, mature version of her. As my mind gears up for an unknown battle, I beg her to maintain her humanity, to stay kind, to stay good,to stay soft; to keep the best parts of herself regardless of the fights ahead.
Then he asked me a strange question, "Which piece would you take if given the choice?"
I thought for a few minutes and then told him I would take the middle piece to avoid the slender end pieces. He looked me in the eye and said, "Good choice, you are a survivor".
The startling thing about this conversation was the timing. I have been thinking quite a bit about being a survivor lately. There are certainly advantages to being this way, but it is also dangerous. There is an ugly side of survivor instinct, a side that is single-mindedly focused on self-preservation and willing to destroy anything standing in the way. A survivor does what needs to be done. A survivor makes hard choices. A survivor will not be stopped by anything or anyone.I would like to think that my protective inclinations balance me out, maintain my humanity.
We became such different people in the war. The sweet country girl became my best friend after she morphed before my eyes into one of the strongest, most ferocious women I have ever met. In light of our precarious position, being two of the only females in the pressure cooker of an army aviation platoon, she became a vicious man-eater. If a man approached her, or dared to speak to her, she would verbally assault him and send him away in a state of shock. There was a young man from Texas on my truck with me. A generally soft spoken soldier, he became a territorial animal. He staked his claim in the front corner of the vehicle and would go ballistic if anyone attempted to take his coveted spot. He would scream "Stay off my property! Stay off my property!" like some deranged version of Yosemite Sam. Me, I became a bi-polar volcano.
I had an anger in me, constantly boiling and burning just under the surface of my smile. That is when I learned to paint my smile. I played the game, smiled and did my job. And I would explode. I learned to survive with that smile. I also learned to lie. I lied to protect my life, I learned to lie to protect my friends, but I did not lie to my friends. Ironically, I valued my integrity and my word above all else. It would throw me into a fit of rage to be accused of lying. I suppose I found a way to make the survival lies a form of my own truth. Yes, it is interesting to see who we become when forced to fight for our lives.
The anger has burned-out. I still feel a flair here and there, but it no longer rages inside of me, constantly threatening to consume me. As the rage died, the tears began. I cried so much and so hard as the fire died over the last four years. The tears have dried-up now too. I feel the familiar desert in my eyes I had for all those years as a soldier. I long for tears sometimes, but they just aren't there. Perhaps that is what has turned my mind back to the survivalist residing within me. There is no time for tears when you are fighting for your life, so what am I fighting right now?
I am poised to attack. I am strong and protected on the inside, I am circling those I love like a mother bear, I laugh a lot because nothing is so serious in the scheme of life, yet there is a serious undertone to everything I do. So what has triggered this response? What has brought this soldier back?
When I begin to concern myself, I excuse my thoughts with the sentiment that I am not good or bad, simply human. That is something she would think. I am not that girl in the desert, I am even more dangerous; I am a controlled, mature version of her. As my mind gears up for an unknown battle, I beg her to maintain her humanity, to stay kind, to stay good,to stay soft; to keep the best parts of herself regardless of the fights ahead.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
The Gray Waiting Room
Waiting rooms can be places of anticipation, of fear, of boredom, of detachment.
The gray waiting room, with mere sadows pacing back and forth offers little joy. Looking out the window for a glimmer of beauty I see only gray clouds, no sunlight or signs of life to distract me. Distraction, that is the order of the day.
I move to another waiting room some days, this one is beige. There are a few distractions here; a joke, a smile, meaningless banter. Between these rooms, I search for signs of life beyond the walls,but those here with me seem to have found their home here. Even their dress reflects the monotone palate of the space. They are here and they aren't going anywhere.
I come to this place in the shadow of darkness and leave after the sparse rays of light have gone. My hours are good, much more limited than I have ever had before, but the weariness I feel seems to lengthen my days and steal my time away from this place.
I have been working here for a month now. I paint on a smile like a warrior puts on camouflage; just part of the uniform. I am good at my job, but I always am. My heart is not here though, it is too busy doing somersaults inside my chest. Watching the parade of sick old men come through my office affects me in ways I never expected.
I have never been squeamish before. I spent time in the hospital in Mosul, Iraq. Never was I taken aback or nauseated. The young wounded and ill, my brothers and sisters, they did not frighten me. The deteriorating lives I see on the wards and the infectous disease warnings that flash across my computer screen make my stomach jump. My compassion is stronger than my reservations, I touch the patients- a reassuring hug or pat on the shoulder, but this is always followed by a large dose of hand sanitizer when I am back in the confines of my little office.
I help them as best I can, but in a large bureaucratic organization, I am just one tiny piece of the machine. Reading the files I am filled with sorrow and rage as I read about men who destroyed themselves and who were destroyed by others. My job is not hard but it is heavy. I am just so tired.
I built my new life this year on the knowledge that your job does not define you, that life can be lived around your 9-5. I am struggling though. I need the life, the beauty, the hope that springs from my pretty past-times, but the gray exhaustion has consumed some of that. I find it hard to come home sometimes. I work a second job, make plans and go out, the gray exhaustion waits for me when I enter my apartment, throwing me into bed and pinning me down for anxious sleep.
My glimmer, my shining star on the horizon is starting school at NYU in January. Yesterday, as the impatient admissions aid told me that I had been wait listed, I felt my heart drop into my stomach and I felt my hands begin to shake slightly. For some reason, through all the little sorrows of the last few months, tears have not come for me, and yesterday was no different. How I long for tears, but my eyes are like deserts, instead re-routing all the anxieties in my life to the pit of my stomach.
Wait listed is not a no, I know that. I need this so badly though, I want to cling to it like a life raft when the gray walls begin to close in on me! I need a place in my life where intellect, creativity and passion can take me out of this waiting room, help me soar above it and see it as merely a tiny piece of my world, not the hulking megalith that stands before me now. But it is not a no. I will move forward as though it WILL happen. There is always a sweetness to painful longing, it is the knowledge that you have found something to desperately desire, kind of like being in love.
Perhaps it is not the room but the season. Winter is a gray bitch indeed. For now I will cling to my sweet distractions, continue to paint-on a smile and pray for the warm sun of springs yet to come.
The gray waiting room, with mere sadows pacing back and forth offers little joy. Looking out the window for a glimmer of beauty I see only gray clouds, no sunlight or signs of life to distract me. Distraction, that is the order of the day.
I move to another waiting room some days, this one is beige. There are a few distractions here; a joke, a smile, meaningless banter. Between these rooms, I search for signs of life beyond the walls,but those here with me seem to have found their home here. Even their dress reflects the monotone palate of the space. They are here and they aren't going anywhere.
I come to this place in the shadow of darkness and leave after the sparse rays of light have gone. My hours are good, much more limited than I have ever had before, but the weariness I feel seems to lengthen my days and steal my time away from this place.
I have been working here for a month now. I paint on a smile like a warrior puts on camouflage; just part of the uniform. I am good at my job, but I always am. My heart is not here though, it is too busy doing somersaults inside my chest. Watching the parade of sick old men come through my office affects me in ways I never expected.
I have never been squeamish before. I spent time in the hospital in Mosul, Iraq. Never was I taken aback or nauseated. The young wounded and ill, my brothers and sisters, they did not frighten me. The deteriorating lives I see on the wards and the infectous disease warnings that flash across my computer screen make my stomach jump. My compassion is stronger than my reservations, I touch the patients- a reassuring hug or pat on the shoulder, but this is always followed by a large dose of hand sanitizer when I am back in the confines of my little office.
I help them as best I can, but in a large bureaucratic organization, I am just one tiny piece of the machine. Reading the files I am filled with sorrow and rage as I read about men who destroyed themselves and who were destroyed by others. My job is not hard but it is heavy. I am just so tired.
I built my new life this year on the knowledge that your job does not define you, that life can be lived around your 9-5. I am struggling though. I need the life, the beauty, the hope that springs from my pretty past-times, but the gray exhaustion has consumed some of that. I find it hard to come home sometimes. I work a second job, make plans and go out, the gray exhaustion waits for me when I enter my apartment, throwing me into bed and pinning me down for anxious sleep.
My glimmer, my shining star on the horizon is starting school at NYU in January. Yesterday, as the impatient admissions aid told me that I had been wait listed, I felt my heart drop into my stomach and I felt my hands begin to shake slightly. For some reason, through all the little sorrows of the last few months, tears have not come for me, and yesterday was no different. How I long for tears, but my eyes are like deserts, instead re-routing all the anxieties in my life to the pit of my stomach.
Wait listed is not a no, I know that. I need this so badly though, I want to cling to it like a life raft when the gray walls begin to close in on me! I need a place in my life where intellect, creativity and passion can take me out of this waiting room, help me soar above it and see it as merely a tiny piece of my world, not the hulking megalith that stands before me now. But it is not a no. I will move forward as though it WILL happen. There is always a sweetness to painful longing, it is the knowledge that you have found something to desperately desire, kind of like being in love.
Perhaps it is not the room but the season. Winter is a gray bitch indeed. For now I will cling to my sweet distractions, continue to paint-on a smile and pray for the warm sun of springs yet to come.
You are What I Want You to Be- An Affair of the Mind
I desire you because my life with you is perfect.
I lust for you because you fit so perfectly into the idyllic future in my mind.
I long for you because you represent the life I dream of.I hunger for you because I hunger for what my life could be.
I love you because you are not you at all but a piece of me.
I lust for you because you fit so perfectly into the idyllic future in my mind.
I long for you because you represent the life I dream of.I hunger for you because I hunger for what my life could be.
I love you because you are not you at all but a piece of me.
The Hideousness of Men
I am reading a book right now that describes the intense, animalistic cruelty of men. Of course there are exceptions in the book, a few flickers of humanity in the cold landscape. It’s not just the book that got me thinking about the hideousness of man, and the power even that gives them. My boyfriend gave me another one of his “men are heartless animals” speeches.
Since the inception of our relationship, he has taken it upon himself to paint me a picture of what men are really like. He claims that it is because he resents the fact that their bad behavior has made his love life more complicated in the past. I finally asked him the question that has nagged me, as he spoke about the way men only want to use me. I asked him if he really thought that he was the only man who could care for me. If every other man just wanted a piece of ass, and saw me as nothing more. He snorted and told me he was sure some men would actually want to be with me, but they would want to fuck me first.
After three and a half years with this man, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. I will believe that he tells me these things, not to try to intimidate me, but to educate me. Why? I still really don’t know. It has been informative though. And I suppose it was the combination of reading vicious stories about the plight of my sisters in the middle east and my boyfriend’s speech that made me begin to think about the grotesque nature of man.
....
One of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever been was not the Caribbean, it was not Mexico, it was not Europe or the Rocky Mountains. The place that truly took my breath away, brought tears to my eyes at the sheer wonder of it all was Iraq.
The beauty of other places is so easy, so effortlessly giving. The beauty amidst desolation; the splendor of the sunsets that painted the rocky horizon deep shades of Orange and Red and Purple; the shock and delight to see lush green surrounding the rivers after coming over yet another dusty hill; these things were gifts and perhaps just due to the contrast and the unbending will of this hard place, I fell in love with it.
I began to think last night that perhaps the species of man is like that harsh unforgiving place. When a man does something out of character:tender, soft, kind, it takes our breath away. The idea that we are desired enough for this selfish creature to change his ways, to be our own, to be gentle, it is enough to make us fall in love. If they are good men, then it will remain beautiful. We will stay captivated by the wonder of the beauty in this naturally ugly thing, we will remain in love with this mysterious being, captivated by him. But when he changes, begins to morph into that which our love is not strong enough to keep him from becoming, when he begins to hurt us; it is the memory and the potential for beauty we once saw that will make us stay. We will stay and stay until he has beaten the love right out of us and we no longer see the sunsets in his eyes, when all we see is the ugliness.
The hideouness of man and the female eye to see beyond it, the intense beauty of a man unlike his barbaric peers, the false hope and the happy endings; these are the stories that live in the war-torn heart of a Woman.
Since the inception of our relationship, he has taken it upon himself to paint me a picture of what men are really like. He claims that it is because he resents the fact that their bad behavior has made his love life more complicated in the past. I finally asked him the question that has nagged me, as he spoke about the way men only want to use me. I asked him if he really thought that he was the only man who could care for me. If every other man just wanted a piece of ass, and saw me as nothing more. He snorted and told me he was sure some men would actually want to be with me, but they would want to fuck me first.
After three and a half years with this man, I will give him the benefit of the doubt. I will believe that he tells me these things, not to try to intimidate me, but to educate me. Why? I still really don’t know. It has been informative though. And I suppose it was the combination of reading vicious stories about the plight of my sisters in the middle east and my boyfriend’s speech that made me begin to think about the grotesque nature of man.
....
One of the most breathtakingly beautiful places I have ever been was not the Caribbean, it was not Mexico, it was not Europe or the Rocky Mountains. The place that truly took my breath away, brought tears to my eyes at the sheer wonder of it all was Iraq.
The beauty of other places is so easy, so effortlessly giving. The beauty amidst desolation; the splendor of the sunsets that painted the rocky horizon deep shades of Orange and Red and Purple; the shock and delight to see lush green surrounding the rivers after coming over yet another dusty hill; these things were gifts and perhaps just due to the contrast and the unbending will of this hard place, I fell in love with it.
I began to think last night that perhaps the species of man is like that harsh unforgiving place. When a man does something out of character:tender, soft, kind, it takes our breath away. The idea that we are desired enough for this selfish creature to change his ways, to be our own, to be gentle, it is enough to make us fall in love. If they are good men, then it will remain beautiful. We will stay captivated by the wonder of the beauty in this naturally ugly thing, we will remain in love with this mysterious being, captivated by him. But when he changes, begins to morph into that which our love is not strong enough to keep him from becoming, when he begins to hurt us; it is the memory and the potential for beauty we once saw that will make us stay. We will stay and stay until he has beaten the love right out of us and we no longer see the sunsets in his eyes, when all we see is the ugliness.
The hideouness of man and the female eye to see beyond it, the intense beauty of a man unlike his barbaric peers, the false hope and the happy endings; these are the stories that live in the war-torn heart of a Woman.
Me and my Words
My mind has been filled with a tempest of thoughts lately; words begging, demanding to escape. Despite their clawing at me from within, I have merely been able to jot down notes, compose queries in my mind and I lay awake in bed. The knot in my stomach should begin to loosen and I release these tortuous thoughts, lay them to rest on paper. At least I hope so. There are so many, the question is where to begin. Is it with the growtesc nature of man? The drab gray of my professional life which I desperately try to add color to? The sweet melancholy of longing?
Well, New York in all her wisdom, has chosen to strand me here alone in my apartment. The impending blizzard dashing any hopes of the sweet distraction of my EWI event. I am here, just me and my words, and all the time to put them down.
Well, New York in all her wisdom, has chosen to strand me here alone in my apartment. The impending blizzard dashing any hopes of the sweet distraction of my EWI event. I am here, just me and my words, and all the time to put them down.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Sentimental
Walking to work today I caught a whiff of diesel fuel. That smell brings me back to the war and all the memories from that time. The pangs of longing have become much more quiet these days and I suddenly remembered a time last spring, when the fierce longing was so intense that I ended up in Dr. Katz’s chair. I remembered how tortured and sad I was. I remembered that the moment I finally broke into tears was when I finally admitted that the thing I missed the most about those times was me. The hopeful young woman who had the entire world in front of her. I had lost my hope. I felt so trapped by my life and so disheartened by the future. No wonder I was filled with dread every evening in bed and every morning when I awoke.
Thinking back on that day, I realized something profound: It is not times in our lives that we long for, not really, if you break it down to its most basic form, it is a feeling we miss. Life is never perfect, there is always bad along with the good. Clearly this was true for my military service! It was not the army life in early 2000 that I longed to recapture, it is impossible to recreate a period of time with all its intricacies, it was the youthful hope, fearless love and deep friendships.
I find this epiphany to be profound because it offers a solution. Though you cannot go back in time, you can find ways to re-capture the things you truly long for. That singular therapy session did not cure me, it did not calm the screaming in the pit of my stomach, but perhaps it was the seed that lead me to my experiment a few months later, the experiment that lead me back to friendship, hope and confidence.
Next time I am feeling that sentimental stab, I will ask myself what it is I am truly in need of: closer relationships with my family, excitement, adventure. I can never go back, but the past may help me to craft a better present and future. Passion is my compass and perhaps now I see that the past can be the needle, for at the core of sentiment is desire a close companion to passion.
I am on my way, I may take a wrong turn here or there, but I am no longer the woman who wakes in a panic of the life she has come to loath, I am no longer the lonely woman trapped in her memories, I may not know exactly where I am going, but I am no longer lost.
Thinking back on that day, I realized something profound: It is not times in our lives that we long for, not really, if you break it down to its most basic form, it is a feeling we miss. Life is never perfect, there is always bad along with the good. Clearly this was true for my military service! It was not the army life in early 2000 that I longed to recapture, it is impossible to recreate a period of time with all its intricacies, it was the youthful hope, fearless love and deep friendships.
I find this epiphany to be profound because it offers a solution. Though you cannot go back in time, you can find ways to re-capture the things you truly long for. That singular therapy session did not cure me, it did not calm the screaming in the pit of my stomach, but perhaps it was the seed that lead me to my experiment a few months later, the experiment that lead me back to friendship, hope and confidence.
Next time I am feeling that sentimental stab, I will ask myself what it is I am truly in need of: closer relationships with my family, excitement, adventure. I can never go back, but the past may help me to craft a better present and future. Passion is my compass and perhaps now I see that the past can be the needle, for at the core of sentiment is desire a close companion to passion.
I am on my way, I may take a wrong turn here or there, but I am no longer the woman who wakes in a panic of the life she has come to loath, I am no longer the lonely woman trapped in her memories, I may not know exactly where I am going, but I am no longer lost.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
New York Cries for Me Tonight
New York cried for me today. She cried tears I could not muster. It was wet and sad, but I barely felt it as I walked home with no umbrella in hand. Perhaps it was the warmth of the wine, but I feel that it was more than that. It was like the numb, sad feelings I have been carrying with me all week. The anonymous, sad little face that haunts me from time to time has been replaced with the sad, broken faces of my new clientele. The young veteran living in a homeless shelter, the older Vietnam vet desperately asking for help, my brother's sad voice; these have replaced the anonymous sad face in my heart.
My new job is hard. Not technically, technically it is idiotically simple, making me feel like a faceless cog in a machine. No, it is hard to see sick, dying and desperate people all day. Especially hard with an alcoholic brother and demented grandfather always in the back of my mind. A means to an end, plenty of leave, promotion potential; these are my mantras.
I don't mean to complain. It is getting better, getting easier. It is nice to at least give an ear to those so desperately in need of one. I am just a bit sad today. Sad for my baby brother, sad for my grieving mother and a little bit sad for me. I still have not found the tears though. This brings me back to my city. She did not pelt me with freezing rain, simply showered me with unexpected sympathy. She did what I am not able to do. She cried softly.
Still no word from NYU. I'm glad. Today is not the day for good news. Perhaps tomorrow I will smile, perhaps tomorrow I will be ready to celebrate. For today I will gratefully accept the compassion of my city, today I will morn. 12 hours of work down, another two days to go. One day at a time. Tomorrow will be brighter, tonight I will let the tears of New York lull me to sleep.
My new job is hard. Not technically, technically it is idiotically simple, making me feel like a faceless cog in a machine. No, it is hard to see sick, dying and desperate people all day. Especially hard with an alcoholic brother and demented grandfather always in the back of my mind. A means to an end, plenty of leave, promotion potential; these are my mantras.
I don't mean to complain. It is getting better, getting easier. It is nice to at least give an ear to those so desperately in need of one. I am just a bit sad today. Sad for my baby brother, sad for my grieving mother and a little bit sad for me. I still have not found the tears though. This brings me back to my city. She did not pelt me with freezing rain, simply showered me with unexpected sympathy. She did what I am not able to do. She cried softly.
Still no word from NYU. I'm glad. Today is not the day for good news. Perhaps tomorrow I will smile, perhaps tomorrow I will be ready to celebrate. For today I will gratefully accept the compassion of my city, today I will morn. 12 hours of work down, another two days to go. One day at a time. Tomorrow will be brighter, tonight I will let the tears of New York lull me to sleep.
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