An unfortunate consequence of my recent teetotaling is that much of my social life has evaporated into thin air. Admittedly, this is partially my choice, as I'm attempting to enjoy some "me time" until I can figure out my next step. However, these last few days were a bit extreme. I can't say that I was completely miserable the whole time, and I totally don't mind spending time alone, but it's not helping my fear of becoming a crazy cat lady that I only had one social interaction all weekend. (A. was away, so I had the apartment to myself. Besides the cat, of course, which may or may not count as a social interaction. I'm guessing not.) Here's how I spent the weekend:
Friday night: worked out and forced myself to do the stupid giant stair climber that makes me feel like I'm going to pass out, but is also kind of cool because it's the only one in the gym so I get to tower over everyone; went home and watched "License to Wed," which, despite having a fantastic cast that includes most of the actors from "The Office," managed to blow a big one.
Saturday morning: went to kickboxing; on the way, I somehow fell down on the street and twisted my ankle; heard a sick crunching sound but decided to walk it off and work out anyway. Maybe not the best idea. Figures that the strongest thing in my system was a S'more Luna bar and I still managed to eat pavement.
Saturday afternoon: iced my rapidly swelling ankle; washed my down comforter, which ended up smelling like wet ducks rather than yummy clean fresh dryer-sheet goodness; made a half-ass attempt to clean my room, but gave up when I realized there was a "True Life" marathon on MTV; gave thanks that I am not pregnant/in rehab/taking care of my siblings/struggling to be a rapper when my traditional Indian parents want me to go to college
Saturday night: napped until 9; ordered Mexican food; watched the first four episodes of "Californication" on demand (damn good show, by the way); got through 20 minutes of "SNL" then realized it wasn't going to get funny; went to bed
Sunday morning: forced myself to go to Pilates despite swollen ankle and soreness from kickboxing; failed to achieve Zen-like peace of mind due to extreme muscle pain
Sunday afternoon: met B. in SoHo for late lunch at delicious French restaurant; bought a shirt I don't need at Bloomingdale's
Sunday night: came home and changed the kitty litter; washed the bathtub; watched DVR'ed episode of "True Life"; ate leftover Mexican food
So um, anyone wanna hang out next weekend?
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Sail On
Occasionally I will be relating a tale from the nether reaches of the vault. This one has it all: a boat, a tightrope, and a frantic collect call to my mother.
The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I decided to forgo the traditional internship (photocopying, yuck), hometown visit (drama, yuck), and low-paying service job (retail in New York City, double yuck). Sometime during the preceding winter and spring, I got it into my head that I wanted to go to sea and learn how to sail. I had been on boats a couple of times in my life. During a high school trip to France, we went sailing in the English Channel on a restored corsair vessel. I was one of the few who didn't get seasick that day, so...yeah, it was a shaky connection at best. But for some reason, going to sea become something I had to do. I did some Internet research and came up with the Seamester program, a six-week voyage on an 80-foot schooner—a working sailboat—in the eastern Caribbean. Unlike Semester at Sea, which took place on a cruise ship, this was billed as "experiential education." Along with 12 other college students and a four-person staff, I would get sailing and scuba certified, take oceanography courses, broaden my horizons, see much of the eastern Caribbean, make lifelong friends, get a fantastic tan, etc. I convinced my parents that this would be a character-building and worthy use of my summer. I wrote the application essays, got the recommendation letters, and spoke to the program director on the phone, who asked me vague questions of the "what do you want to get out of this program?" variety. By May, I was in. I would be reporting to Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, on July 5.
Later I'll go into a more overarching description of the trip, but for now I will tell the story that never fails to elicit horrified and disgusted looks, and sympathetic clucks and "oh my Gods." See, one of the first things I learned on Seamester was, you know those silly little things like motor skills and coordination? Mine: not so good. I was constantly slipping on the deck, banging my head, failing to tie the correct knot. It didn't help that my fellow shipmates were triathletes, lifelong sailors, former Boy Scouts, or at the very least, outdoor enthusiasts. Where they welcomed and sought out new challenges for fun, like climbing up the tiny rope ladder to the crows nest or executing graceful boom swings into the sea, I struggled to hoist myself out of the water on the rope ladder during our saltwater showers (yes: we bathed in the sea with shampoo and soap, then got a 10-second rinse with the freshwater hose. My skin has never been better). I had never really pushed myself physically, unless you count high school swim team, but that was more of an individual-achievement thing. There was no consequence if I didn't swim a fast race; now, if I didn't improve my upper-body strength right away, I wouldn't be able to accomplish basic necessities, like bathing.
Somehow I managed, with a great deal of scrambling and soreness and bruises. After a few weeks, I felt like I was finally getting the hang of it; i.e. I could get through a day without wanting to burst into tears of frustration over some new and horrifying challenge. Then we got to Antigua. On most islands, we were able to pull up right next to the dock and hop off the boat directly onto dry land. On Antigua, for spatial reasons I don't remember, we had to anchor the boat 10 or 15 feet from the dock. In theory there was supposed to be a gangplank, but it had disappeared somehow on a previous voyage and no one bothered to build a new one. So the staff had jury-rigged two ropes connecting the boat to the dock, sort of like a tightrope. You skittered down one rope with your feet and held onto a parallel rope above you, tightrope-style. The lines were angled pretty steeply downward, so it helped to have someone holding them taut while you went up or down. I managed it a few times, after much encouragement from my infinitely patient shipmates.
Then, in a terrible twist of fate, I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the second night. We were not supposed to use the heads (sailor-speak for toilets) on the ship while we were in the harbor and, being the obnoxious rule-abider that I am, I figured "well, I'll just go ashore by myself, tightrope be damned." Even with the ropes slack, I managed to get off the boat with no problem. I used the bathroom on land—great. Now I just had to get back on the ship, and mission accomplished. Stupidly, I hadn't anticipated that getting back on would be much harder than getting off. Somehow I had to scurry 10 feet up a slack line that was slanted upward a good 15 degrees, in the middle of the night. I contemplated my situation for a few minutes, then decided to just go for it. I took a tentative first step onto the line, grabbed the top rope with my hands, and promptly swung over the rope until I found myself hanging upside down over the water. This was not good. I was a few inches from the dock, so I managed to right myself and jump onshore. Okay, no big deal, I would just try again. The next two attempts resulted in the same situation, my rope burns getting increasingly worse as I found myself upside down again and again. On the third try, I fell into the harbor. It was like one of those surreal nightmares where you have to accomplish something relatively mundane but each time you try it gets more and more impossible. The fact that I was now treading water in a dirty harbor was, I decided, the last straw. After weeks of failing to keep up with my shipmates on basic tasks, I couldn't handle it anymore. I pulled myself out of the water, sat down on the dock, and began to cry. When I calmed down, I started weighing my options. I could yell and wake someone up to help me. A logical solution, but one I was loathe to pursue given my daily need for extra help. I could keep trying by myself, risking some terrible harbor parasite that would surely end my Seamester voyage and possibly my life in a torrent of vomit and diarrhea.
So what did I do? I called my mother collect. I had never made a collect call before, and the whole thing set an ominous tone of Big Trouble. It was maybe 10:30 in Missoula when I got through to my mom, who was naturally worried to be accepting a collect call from Antigua. As soon as I heard her voice, I went into hysterics. There I was, dripping wet in shorts and a tank top, separated from my temporary boat home by 10 feet of rope, appealing to my mother thousands of miles away. She was very nice about the whole thing, once she determined through my sobs that I hadn't been arrested or critically injured. But she was also pragmatic and said, "Honey, just wake someone up." I was beside myself. "No! That's so humiliating! I'll just sleep on the dock tonight," I said. "There's nothing I can do from here, you know," she responded gently. I knew she was right. Eventually I calmed down, promised her I would wake someone up, hung up the phone feeling extremely silly, and resolved to just sleep on the dock. It was better that way, I told myself. I started envisioning myself as a sort of Seamester saint, enduring a night on the wooden dock and then slipping into a euphoric trance of insomnia and rapture until the angels flew down and carried me onto the boat. All of a sudden, some unknown, unused part of me kicked in, and it was like a Nike commercial started playing in my head, and I Just Did It. My brain detached from my body and I was able to get up the ropes like it was nothing. I almost whooped in triumph when I reached the deck but I bit my tongue. I treated myself to a rinse with the freshwater hose, sneaked back into my bunk, and promptly fell asleep.
Then I got a staph infection, but that wasn't until the next day.
The summer between my junior and senior year of college, I decided to forgo the traditional internship (photocopying, yuck), hometown visit (drama, yuck), and low-paying service job (retail in New York City, double yuck). Sometime during the preceding winter and spring, I got it into my head that I wanted to go to sea and learn how to sail. I had been on boats a couple of times in my life. During a high school trip to France, we went sailing in the English Channel on a restored corsair vessel. I was one of the few who didn't get seasick that day, so...yeah, it was a shaky connection at best. But for some reason, going to sea become something I had to do. I did some Internet research and came up with the Seamester program, a six-week voyage on an 80-foot schooner—a working sailboat—in the eastern Caribbean. Unlike Semester at Sea, which took place on a cruise ship, this was billed as "experiential education." Along with 12 other college students and a four-person staff, I would get sailing and scuba certified, take oceanography courses, broaden my horizons, see much of the eastern Caribbean, make lifelong friends, get a fantastic tan, etc. I convinced my parents that this would be a character-building and worthy use of my summer. I wrote the application essays, got the recommendation letters, and spoke to the program director on the phone, who asked me vague questions of the "what do you want to get out of this program?" variety. By May, I was in. I would be reporting to Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, on July 5.
Later I'll go into a more overarching description of the trip, but for now I will tell the story that never fails to elicit horrified and disgusted looks, and sympathetic clucks and "oh my Gods." See, one of the first things I learned on Seamester was, you know those silly little things like motor skills and coordination? Mine: not so good. I was constantly slipping on the deck, banging my head, failing to tie the correct knot. It didn't help that my fellow shipmates were triathletes, lifelong sailors, former Boy Scouts, or at the very least, outdoor enthusiasts. Where they welcomed and sought out new challenges for fun, like climbing up the tiny rope ladder to the crows nest or executing graceful boom swings into the sea, I struggled to hoist myself out of the water on the rope ladder during our saltwater showers (yes: we bathed in the sea with shampoo and soap, then got a 10-second rinse with the freshwater hose. My skin has never been better). I had never really pushed myself physically, unless you count high school swim team, but that was more of an individual-achievement thing. There was no consequence if I didn't swim a fast race; now, if I didn't improve my upper-body strength right away, I wouldn't be able to accomplish basic necessities, like bathing.
Somehow I managed, with a great deal of scrambling and soreness and bruises. After a few weeks, I felt like I was finally getting the hang of it; i.e. I could get through a day without wanting to burst into tears of frustration over some new and horrifying challenge. Then we got to Antigua. On most islands, we were able to pull up right next to the dock and hop off the boat directly onto dry land. On Antigua, for spatial reasons I don't remember, we had to anchor the boat 10 or 15 feet from the dock. In theory there was supposed to be a gangplank, but it had disappeared somehow on a previous voyage and no one bothered to build a new one. So the staff had jury-rigged two ropes connecting the boat to the dock, sort of like a tightrope. You skittered down one rope with your feet and held onto a parallel rope above you, tightrope-style. The lines were angled pretty steeply downward, so it helped to have someone holding them taut while you went up or down. I managed it a few times, after much encouragement from my infinitely patient shipmates.
Then, in a terrible twist of fate, I had to go to the bathroom in the middle of the second night. We were not supposed to use the heads (sailor-speak for toilets) on the ship while we were in the harbor and, being the obnoxious rule-abider that I am, I figured "well, I'll just go ashore by myself, tightrope be damned." Even with the ropes slack, I managed to get off the boat with no problem. I used the bathroom on land—great. Now I just had to get back on the ship, and mission accomplished. Stupidly, I hadn't anticipated that getting back on would be much harder than getting off. Somehow I had to scurry 10 feet up a slack line that was slanted upward a good 15 degrees, in the middle of the night. I contemplated my situation for a few minutes, then decided to just go for it. I took a tentative first step onto the line, grabbed the top rope with my hands, and promptly swung over the rope until I found myself hanging upside down over the water. This was not good. I was a few inches from the dock, so I managed to right myself and jump onshore. Okay, no big deal, I would just try again. The next two attempts resulted in the same situation, my rope burns getting increasingly worse as I found myself upside down again and again. On the third try, I fell into the harbor. It was like one of those surreal nightmares where you have to accomplish something relatively mundane but each time you try it gets more and more impossible. The fact that I was now treading water in a dirty harbor was, I decided, the last straw. After weeks of failing to keep up with my shipmates on basic tasks, I couldn't handle it anymore. I pulled myself out of the water, sat down on the dock, and began to cry. When I calmed down, I started weighing my options. I could yell and wake someone up to help me. A logical solution, but one I was loathe to pursue given my daily need for extra help. I could keep trying by myself, risking some terrible harbor parasite that would surely end my Seamester voyage and possibly my life in a torrent of vomit and diarrhea.
So what did I do? I called my mother collect. I had never made a collect call before, and the whole thing set an ominous tone of Big Trouble. It was maybe 10:30 in Missoula when I got through to my mom, who was naturally worried to be accepting a collect call from Antigua. As soon as I heard her voice, I went into hysterics. There I was, dripping wet in shorts and a tank top, separated from my temporary boat home by 10 feet of rope, appealing to my mother thousands of miles away. She was very nice about the whole thing, once she determined through my sobs that I hadn't been arrested or critically injured. But she was also pragmatic and said, "Honey, just wake someone up." I was beside myself. "No! That's so humiliating! I'll just sleep on the dock tonight," I said. "There's nothing I can do from here, you know," she responded gently. I knew she was right. Eventually I calmed down, promised her I would wake someone up, hung up the phone feeling extremely silly, and resolved to just sleep on the dock. It was better that way, I told myself. I started envisioning myself as a sort of Seamester saint, enduring a night on the wooden dock and then slipping into a euphoric trance of insomnia and rapture until the angels flew down and carried me onto the boat. All of a sudden, some unknown, unused part of me kicked in, and it was like a Nike commercial started playing in my head, and I Just Did It. My brain detached from my body and I was able to get up the ropes like it was nothing. I almost whooped in triumph when I reached the deck but I bit my tongue. I treated myself to a rinse with the freshwater hose, sneaked back into my bunk, and promptly fell asleep.
Then I got a staph infection, but that wasn't until the next day.
Monday, April 28, 2008
In Which I Go Out Sober and Succeed
After last weekend's going-out debacle, I was anticipating shutting myself away this weekend in a sober, angry, me-against-the-drunk-world funk. Then I found out that the ol' college newspaper crew was going to be in NYC for a one-night-only limited-engagement reunion, and there was no way in hell I was going to miss that. Let me explain. First, although I went to school in the city, after graduation a lot of my friends moved away to such far-flung outposts as the Carolinas, Washington, D.C., Africa, and the Bronx. Second, our college newspaper experience bonded us through extreme shared misery, dedication, insanity, and cohabitation in a TV-sitcom-worthy downtown loft. We worked ungodly hours, perpetuated much drama amongst ourselves, and toiled away dutifully night after night because we were young, idealistic, and possibly insane. But it was all justified because we, the select few, were upholding the highest standards of journalistic integrity and keeping our fellow students informed! At least, that's what we told ourselves when we were trying to close the paper and it was 3 a.m. and half of us had a 9:30 a.m. class and oops, the server just crashed. Third, the fact that this group of uber-geeks managed to find one another in the social wasteland that was my giant, scattered urban university is fairly notable. You could say that if you picked out the dorkiest dorks from a random selection of gifted-and-talented elementary school programs in the country, those kids would grow up to be us. I mean that in the most endearing way possible, and lovingly include myself as a dorky dork.
Basically, over the course of three or four years, I got to know this group of around ten people better than my own family. When I heard we were meeting at our old bar haunt in the East Village—our go-to spot because for many years they didn't check IDs and we loved a certain Portuguese waitress—I decided to swallow my crippling self-consciousness and just go, figuring these people had seen me in far more disastrous states over the past six years.
Lo and behold, I had a great time. Not only was it fantastic that everyone showed up and played nice and caught up on the past few years of gossip, but I realized how much I really, truly admire and respect my friends. We've gone from awkward, tortured college kids to...awkward, tortured adults. Mostly joking. I would say that all things considered, we're growing up to be pretty badass grown-ups. A lot of us actually have the jobs we dreamed about when we were snot-nosed freshmen, or we're getting there fast. My newspaper buddies are scary-smart, hilarious, and worldly. We've gotten a little older, maybe shed some of our blind ideals, but we've still got that shared bond—that sense that those years of newspaper work important and weredid make a difference—that seems to be lacking among so many of my peers. I think that's one of the reasons why the fact that I wasn't drinking on Friday night didn't even raise an eyebrow. More important, I didn't even notice. We talked about the election and current events and our sex lives (some things never change), and we retold juicy stories. As much as I tend to complain about my college experience as having been impersonal and a waste of money, I'm not sure that's a fair assessment. Somehow my friends and I managed to eke out some really great relationships revolving around something that wasn't partying, and even though we're now dispersed around the world, we haven't lost that bond. It makes me comfortable around them, as if I don't have to prove my worth or humor or attractiveness or partying abilities. Which is, unfortunately, how I do feel around some of my other, more current peers.
So in conclusion, thanks to the newspaper crew for quelling my social anxieties for the weekend, and giving me hope that as long as I stick around the right people, even if they're considered idealistic dorks by some standards, my social life might thrive after all—drinking or no drinking.
Basically, over the course of three or four years, I got to know this group of around ten people better than my own family. When I heard we were meeting at our old bar haunt in the East Village—our go-to spot because for many years they didn't check IDs and we loved a certain Portuguese waitress—I decided to swallow my crippling self-consciousness and just go, figuring these people had seen me in far more disastrous states over the past six years.
Lo and behold, I had a great time. Not only was it fantastic that everyone showed up and played nice and caught up on the past few years of gossip, but I realized how much I really, truly admire and respect my friends. We've gone from awkward, tortured college kids to...awkward, tortured adults. Mostly joking. I would say that all things considered, we're growing up to be pretty badass grown-ups. A lot of us actually have the jobs we dreamed about when we were snot-nosed freshmen, or we're getting there fast. My newspaper buddies are scary-smart, hilarious, and worldly. We've gotten a little older, maybe shed some of our blind ideals, but we've still got that shared bond—that sense that those years of newspaper work important and weredid make a difference—that seems to be lacking among so many of my peers. I think that's one of the reasons why the fact that I wasn't drinking on Friday night didn't even raise an eyebrow. More important, I didn't even notice. We talked about the election and current events and our sex lives (some things never change), and we retold juicy stories. As much as I tend to complain about my college experience as having been impersonal and a waste of money, I'm not sure that's a fair assessment. Somehow my friends and I managed to eke out some really great relationships revolving around something that wasn't partying, and even though we're now dispersed around the world, we haven't lost that bond. It makes me comfortable around them, as if I don't have to prove my worth or humor or attractiveness or partying abilities. Which is, unfortunately, how I do feel around some of my other, more current peers.
So in conclusion, thanks to the newspaper crew for quelling my social anxieties for the weekend, and giving me hope that as long as I stick around the right people, even if they're considered idealistic dorks by some standards, my social life might thrive after all—drinking or no drinking.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Care Package From Mom
I just got a box from my mom. It contained:
• PADI scuba-diving membership renewal notice (1)
• Northwest Airlines WorldPerks junk mail (1)
• Chilean undershirts (3)
• Chilean hamburger seasoning (2 packets)
• alfajores, my favorite dulce-de-leche-filled treats (6)
• Black lycra halter top with neon-green striped trim and...a hood. This is not a joke. (1)
wtf. But also, thank you for brightening my day.
• PADI scuba-diving membership renewal notice (1)
• Northwest Airlines WorldPerks junk mail (1)
• Chilean undershirts (3)
• Chilean hamburger seasoning (2 packets)
• alfajores, my favorite dulce-de-leche-filled treats (6)
• Black lycra halter top with neon-green striped trim and...a hood. This is not a joke. (1)
wtf. But also, thank you for brightening my day.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
In Which I Go Out Sober
It's Saturday night. I haven't been out to the bars in more than a month, since before I decided to try this no-drinking thing. There's a birthday party of a casual friend and I sort of feel obligated to go, since she's always been nice to me. Mostly, I feel it's important that I attempt to socialize with my peers. "Enjoy people's company," as A. suggests. But this is the first time I'm going out to a bar where I don't plan to drink. I'm surprisingly nervous as I'm getting ready. I stand naked in front of my closet until I start getting cold, debating whether it's possible to put on an outfit that will convey, "Hello! I am young and attractive and nice. Please disregard the fact that I have a diet Coke in my hand and I feel thoroughly awkward tonight!" My clothes are not speaking much tonight, so I just put on black skinny jeans, a cream-colored tank top, my favorite new orange T-straps. Gold necklaces and my orange silk scarf. I note with some satisfaction that there are no muffin tops spilling over the waistband of my pants; maybe this won't be so bad. But I feel like a fraud, a 24-year-old channeling Methuselah. I glance at the clock and see that it's 10:30; I haven't been out this late in months. I've been to this bar several times before, and I have always gotten tipsy there. It's the Lower East Side, for crying out loud. I don't even think you're allowed to be sober in that neighborhood from the hours of 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. I will stick out like a sore thumb. The hipster police will arrest me for being a party pooper. These are the thoughts going through my head as I put on my makeup. I want to prove to myself that I can do this, though, that I am strong enough to get through a night at a bar without booze.
"Did you have enough to eat?" A. asks. I laugh a little too loudly. "It doesn't matter, does it?" I say. "It's not like I'll be drinking."
In the car going over the bridge, I mentally review conversation topics. "The weather has been fantastic these past two days, eh?" "My new job is great, thank you for asking." "This one time I moved into a new apartment on the subway because I couldn't afford movers." I debate asking the driver to turn around and take me home, but he is on his cellphone chortling with laughter and yelling joyfully in Arabic. Maybe I should start driving a livery cab.
The bar is teeming with people; apparently there are three birthday parties going on at the same time. I stand in the doorway trying not to hyperventilate. I don't like crowded spaces anyway; my typical course of action in this situation would be to hightail it to the bar and order a vodka soda. I debate leaving, just turning around and getting a cab and going home before anyone sees me. Then B. and his roommate appear through the sea of people. "Oh hi!" B. says. "We're going outside to smoke." Now here is something I can do. We stand outside smoking. I drag out the cigarette as long as possible and try not to cry. B.'s roommate is Austrian and a personal trainer. We'll call him Austria for now. Austria is probably not stupid, but he has an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent which makes everything that comes out of his mouth sound ridiculous.
"What is wrong?" Austria says. I respond, "Oh, I stopped drinking. It's sort of hard getting used to being out at the bars." Austria looks at me sympathetically. "This is your fault!" he says. B. shoots Austria a dirty look. Austria seems to realize he has misspoken and offers, "You must own it! Learn how to own the party!" This is actually good advice, but I am clearly not ready to own the party yet. Suddenly a cat runs across Norfolk Street; it's a bizarre sight. "Did I ever tell you about the time I run over cat?" Austria says. Oh, no. He obviously doesn't know he's dealing with the craziest cat lady of all time, and she is fragile tonight. This does not bode well. "Okay then! Let's go inside," B. says. I decide to bite the bullet and follow them in.
It is a zoo in the bar, no room to move. I set my sights on finding the birthday girl. She is hanging out by the DJ, so I wedge myself in on a stool next to her. We make small talk for a bit, but unfortunately the DJ area is right next to the bar and I find myself distracted, staring wistfully at the bottles of Stoli. Austria comes over and plants himself in front of me, sort of hovering over my leg. He looks at me suggestively. "I have a very bad reputation to uphold," he tells me. "With the ladies." I step outside myself for a moment and see a "choose your own adventure" unfolding before my eyes. Normally, under the influence of two or three cocktails, this would be the time to follow his lead, flirt back mercilessly, maybe end the night with an obnoxious public makeout session. I've pulled that one off before, once at this very bar in fact. But now it all seems really dumb and pointless, and I want to tell him to back off. Instead I chuckle politely and angle myself away from him and stare into space. Now I am feeling like Methuselah plus a thousand or so years. It is SO loud in here! The women here are so scantily clad! I want to jump out of my skin.
I tell B. I'm going out for another smoke and he comes with me. My lungs are burning; I've been smoking like a chimney lately and it's catching up to me. "I'm sorry," I say. "This is a lot harder than I thought it would be." B. is understanding, but he is swaying slightly and beginning to slur. We talk for a bit, shoot the shit. I'm more relaxed outside than I have been all night. But it's time to go;I can't imagine going back inside. I finish my cigarette and B. gets me a cab. Time: 12:30 a.m. I was out for less than two hours. This has to be some kind of pathetic record. I feel like I have failed at being 24 years old, at being fun, at being a normal member of New York society. Will it get easier, I wonder? Will I learn to have fun? Or should I even try?
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Yikes, Since When Do I Write Poetry
When I'm depressed
It's not enough to think of my favorite things
Like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
There are no favorite things.
Nothing except the toxic soup gurgling through my veins,
Poisoning memories and thoughts and possibilities.
I need to do more than think of my favorite things:
I have to visualize, reset my synapses,
Time-travel, will myself with all my might to:
My bed, under the down comforter, with the window open to a chilly early-spring night.
The open sea on the boat, standing at bow watch on a still night.
Or a beach, with my head and belly on the hot sand and the sun on my back and the waves in my ears.
The sofa, curled up tight on my side with my head next to the purring cat.
A Q train going across the Manhattan Bridge during a sunny morning rush hour, the moment the Statue of Liberty comes into view and the swelling feeling that Wow--I really live here.
My backyard in Montana during a warm, clear, dry-heat summer day, barefoot, watching the ants in the grass
Pilates class, when I manage to forget ache and place, and all I am is breath and body.
If I can just reclaim one of those moments in my mind, rescue it from the toxic soup and put it on dry land, there is hope that this time
I will not be swallowed whole.
It's not enough to think of my favorite things
Like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.
There are no favorite things.
Nothing except the toxic soup gurgling through my veins,
Poisoning memories and thoughts and possibilities.
I need to do more than think of my favorite things:
I have to visualize, reset my synapses,
Time-travel, will myself with all my might to:
My bed, under the down comforter, with the window open to a chilly early-spring night.
The open sea on the boat, standing at bow watch on a still night.
Or a beach, with my head and belly on the hot sand and the sun on my back and the waves in my ears.
The sofa, curled up tight on my side with my head next to the purring cat.
A Q train going across the Manhattan Bridge during a sunny morning rush hour, the moment the Statue of Liberty comes into view and the swelling feeling that Wow--I really live here.
My backyard in Montana during a warm, clear, dry-heat summer day, barefoot, watching the ants in the grass
Pilates class, when I manage to forget ache and place, and all I am is breath and body.
If I can just reclaim one of those moments in my mind, rescue it from the toxic soup and put it on dry land, there is hope that this time
I will not be swallowed whole.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
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