Archive for November, 2012

I would like to talk about a completely different subject here than usual, seeing as it is my journal in which to figure out my own shit and there are plenty of other things I have yet to figure out other than the male figure and how to possess it body mind and soul.

But for now, respite.

I am a white girl living in da hud. Whenever I say this out loud in public, my white friends shush me. Whether it is because I am using the colloquial syllable ‘da’ instead of ‘th’; or they are embarrassed for what they perceive as my blatant racism; or because they don’t really believe that there is a ‘hood’ that I could possibly live in (and maybe still be alive?); or some other reason?

I know not why.

I live in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, everyone. And I love it.

I live in between two subway stops – the local (closer) or the express (just a bit more walking). My NYC bank, my new health clinic (takes my insurance and is clean and bright with friendly, hardworking staff), and the honest-to-Pete grocery store are within a block from my house. My rent is controlled (aka with 2 roommates, we all 3 pay less than $700 each) and now that we have cats we no longer receive mousely visitors. There is a splendid YMCA a 15 min walk away from my front door.

Many people have concerns about Bed-Stuy’s safety, ‘especially’ for someone like me.
I have to say that this far in my travels (mostly to and from the subway at odd hours, but some odd late night neighborhood walking as well, such as to the gym), I have felt fine. Funnily enough, I have had more than one white, male, gentleman caller refuse to visit at banal times bc they were anxious about having to leave and whether it would be safe, no matter how much I try to assuage those fears by explaining that the patch of where I am at least in Bed-Stuy, parents walk their children with them at 11 PM. It’s fine.
Now, I don’t go looking for places to put myself where I don’t belong. I do get spoken to a lot on the street, but while I do believe it is more than the average woman of a darker complexion, I do believe that there is just an immense amount of greeting, propositioning (mostly jovially), hassling, or otherwise engaging verbally with young, attractive women. There is more dialogue between strangers than in many neighborhoods in this city, and I enjoy that about it. I live in an area with quite a few hair/nail salons and Jamaican jerk chicken restaurants, so perhaps that can give someone else a more articulate insight as to ‘the culture.’

Is this post racist? I hope not.

Because I love my neighborhood and I want to revere it. Not so that every young college graduate bohemian yuppie (oh, is that what I am?) can move here and gentrify it with the ambivalence of hipsterhood? No thank you. No, instead to give light to a neighborhood and region that is frequently shit on. Because it is great.

Sometimes I walk down the street and ruminate on the reasons no one has ever given me real trouble (*knock on wood, o’course*). Some of my thoughts have included:
– They assert that in order to ‘be brave enough to live here looking like I do’ I must be poor as shit, ‘and have no other choice but to.’
– They aren’t looking for trouble, so what good am I?
– They are looking for trouble, so what good am I?
– They are regular people looking to live their lives with joy, success, and connection?

I am feeling very thankful so far for my shift crew members last night who kicked ass on our high profile holiday installation, the MTA officials who are running trains at 6:07 AM (for example) on Thanksgiving morning, the NJTransit and SEPTA officials who are running trains this morning along the northeast corridor, my parental unit who will be picking me up at an early hour in Philadelphia, and to my family that I will be seeing (spontaneously!! impulsively! self-sacrificingly!!!) and not seeing (sister, I’m looking at you in the Holy Land, amidst hatred, danger, and destruction).

I am thankful to those who keep me safe
and those that keep me warm
those that love my heart
especially more than the norm
I am thankful to a spirit greater than
what I even know it to be
I am thankful for all the things that are a part of me

I believe I just composed the lyrics to what will become my contribution to the songbook of the Quaker camps of my upbringing and early formation. And Creative Spirit, whatever and whoever and wherever you are, I thank you for that too. It is good to sometimes be able to release snippets of silken emotion that lend themselves to such easily weaving.


Nightmares and New Conquests

I dream of many things. The future is a mirage of beautiful potentials. My dreams pour out of fountains, streamers of color, each a different, fully realized possibility.
But I do not sleep. I am exhausted, from all of this inadvertent creation and emotion. 
I understand that it is good to plan ahead, but must I really be as prepared as a Girl Scout on cocaine? 
I dreamed of you last night. 
First I kissed your pillowy lips, gently, lovingly.
You stroked my face, my waist, my ass.
And then I remembered how I feel.
How you make me feel,
When you blindly announce all of the reasons I shouldn’t be with you
They sound an awful lot like bodies, minds, souls, hearts, names. 
And I shove you away from me.
You protest and I attack,
Paddling, clawing, pummeling,
Whatever physical harm I can try to infringe so that you might know how the inside of my emotional body cavity feels, every day. 
But you hold me at bay.
Somehow I am unable to make contact, 
You deflect my attacks and I have to approach with a loving hand in order to attempt a slap in the face.
But in your aura, your ozone, your magnetic field, 
I cannot touch you with harm.
My insides writhe with fury
And still no good comes of it.
I awake with a feeling of dread
When I went to bed with such delight.

I met someone else. 
And last night we had an amazing time.
I enjoyed his company
I enjoyed his attention
I enjoyed his touch
I enjoyed his body
And most of all, I enjoyed his empathy.
Oh, believe me when I say that I am sure he has a whole host of unenjoyables, but for the moment, I am delighted. 
Especially because at so many of my self-announced red flag moments, 
For instance, when I mentioned you,
He shrugged them off, or,
Suggested some sort of thoughtful reason why it was alright. 

I would like to see him again. 
And I definitely do not want you to be in the way,
However subconsciously. 


Who knew that it would take another possible realized potential to get me out of this rut of you?
I need to be careful.
I need some space of my own.
I need space to see other people, remember?
I need to be clear with him. 
And myself,
And therefore you,
That other people I do not believe can include you anymore, as much as it pains me.
Because of course I miss you, 
But as this dream burdens me as dead, rotting weight
In my heart and in my gut
I am beginning to realize that the pleasure might not be worth all this pain
Especially since you do not seem to be able to receive any when I try and dish it back.
I am growing weary. 
In fact, I am exhausted.
Give me back my dreams, and give me back my hope. 



PS – I think the reason I hate kissing with as much tongue as everyone else is that because of my acute sense of smell, I also possess an overwhelming capacity for taste. Which makes saliva a little more potent of a substance than some may think. Breath odor is a real thing, people. Ugh. 

An Love Letter Agenda For My New Therapist

Hello, New Therapist,

Wherever you are.

I would like to tell you the unbridled version of my self-aware situation. I’m toying with the idea of actually telling you all this if/when we find each other (it needs to be when, because I can feel myself spiraling, about to be sucked down the drain of depression; it is a familiar whirlpool) because I would like to get better. The problem is, it’s so easy gorging and dwelling and basking in the irresponsibility of indulgence and ignorance. 

I think I have a problem with weed. But I’m not ready to stop. Why? Because this is the only thing I have that helps me combat the swells and flows of where I take myself. I couldn’t even explain to you how it is that my heart plummets and soars, not necessarily in that order, except to say that I dread roller coasters and other “thrill rides” because I find no joy in pure adrenaline; indeed, it is too familiar a feeling to covet. Terror, paralysis, insecurity, hypochondria, I can’t even begin.

I’m on medication and it’s poison. It’s fluorescent orange and if I forget to take it on time, three hours after its due date I get the twitches and fingertip pulses. I turn my head and fireworks explode in my eyeballs. A dull ache turns into an avalanche at my occipital lobe.

Please help me detox. Please help me know how to survive, day by day, with the hope that in the one day distant future I will be thriving. I wish to love being in my body. I wish to have routine. Oh, and Therapist? I wish to be in love.  But more on that later.

So if you could help me, dear New Therapist, if you choose to sign me on, that would be fantastic. Because a tirade, a diarrhea, an embarrassing amount of feeling is inside of me, such that people call me a drama queen and I have taken to just fuzzing them out and shutting them up.  Even the man I love stopped wanting to know what I fretted about. Because it is extensive, I understand that. And yet sometimes, I can’t stop.

Help me love myself. Because I want to be in love with myself. Because then I will know how to explain to someone else how best to love me. 

Except that deep down, you know what? I think I might be able to find someone who just knows. You know why? Because I am so intuitive, if you let me in. I am a good listener and I am a good holder, because I hold all these hopes and dreams and desires. I am so good at channeling them into other people because right now, you know something? I am tired. That’s why I smoke so much weed. I am tired of feeling it and it is sometimes just easier to let myself calm down and check out. Or even, it helps put some of them at bay such that I can sort them out a little more methodically and say, “You, Worry, you are rubbish. You, Worry, you perhaps have some validity but not enough to take precedence over this particular sorting session.”

 So in a way, weed has been my therapy. Except that I am constipated. Sorry for the vocabulary, but that’s how it feels. I am a constipated artist. I cannot create. I cannot emit, emote, submit, or promote. I am stuck. I am in a rut. I have plenty of potential projects in which I dabble from time to time, but I am in need of my next big push, my next big outpour. I know it is on the verge of tipping (and there will be a new album, or screenplay, or choreopoem, or something else brilliant and majestic) but until then, Lord Baby Jesus, on my Soul, help me.

I am heartbroken. And I do not know how to deal with it. I think I am also elated, but terrified by what’s ahead. And somewhat stuck. And too young and inexperienced to know when to hold my ground. Because, to a certain extent, I have lost the ability to use my spine in situations I would like to. Perhaps it’s just a matter of being on the bottom of the totem pole and by the time I have the spine, I’ll have the power. Perhaps it’s just a matter of paying my dues.

Help me sort through my broken heart. Because believe me, I’ve felt this sort of thing before, and wrote a play, an album, and journals and journals of feelings. But this, this was not like that. So, I’ve been having a lot of mediocre (yes, safe), meaningless sex that feels fine, but not good. It’s not good. It’s not what I want. I want loving arms and loving fingers and loving lips that know the right words at the right times.

It doesn’t do to ruminate on the past, and believe me, I wouldn’t be in this predicament if the past hadn’t happened. And part of me can’t even believe I stayed for so long and then part of me knows that at next chance I would love to jump into his arms and his bed, and what does that say about me? That I have a weak constitution? Don’t even get me started on my thoughts on my own sexual complex. I’m a whole kettle of complicated.

I’m a work in progress and I’d like to enlist you in the help of putting my puzzle together, or being a lily pad on the pathway towards my success; satisfaction. Or whatever it is I’m looking for. I think I’m looking for the ability to be able to stop, and be, and stay. I’ve been moving and running and relocating and shuffling for a long time, and I’d like to just breathe and figure some shit out in this whirlwind of a world.

I’m just now figuring out that I’m beautiful and, let me tell you, that’s awesome. And some days I wake up and feel bloated and grotesque (but actually, Applebee’s is the worst possible option for a lactose intolerant dame who doesn’t eat seafood or steak… indigestion isn’t even a question.)

I’m about to begin a new fitness routine, I hope, that will help not only channel some of this sexual frustration (I’m sorry, can none of the young men in New York give a good lay? This feminist is ticked off. Finally I’ve put away my feelings and am ready for some recreational sex and… it is not working. I’m so tempted to take my feelings out and try them on, but believe me it’s too soon since the end of the last dynasty. And while I’m a serial monogamist … I’m trying to wear a different hat right now. And it would be great if the sex were great. So maybe I just have to keep trying.

Does that sound desperate? Maybe. I’m inclined to apologize, but I don’t think I will because I also feel pretty awesome about notching my belt at this particular moment. I’m staying safe and am about to get back on birth control (yes, I am aware that this needs to happen ASAP; you can’t even imagine the stress I feel over this matter) and it feels good sometimes. So, what else can you ask for, right?

You can ask for better. In fact. And that’s what I’m doing. So I’ve joined another, more particular, “dating” website to explore some things that have been on the back of my mind. I’d like to be more confident, and more capable in getting what I want.

I also have to figure out what that is.

I also am having a terrible time with no routine; I interpret it as culture shock sometimes, to stave off anxiety, because heaven knows I’ve been in an academic routine for 19 years. Wow, welcome to unemployment and having no certain boundaries of existence. Such freedom! Such fright!

Surely this is enough for you to know how to begin with me. Believe me, I can talk for days and I actually maybe would like that? Because I sometimes don’t get enough emotional space even in my own home where there is a lot of emotional energy shared (and therefore accumulated by me) so it might be good to spend some time explaining to you who the fuck I am. Because it’s a little complicated. Part of me is saying that because I’m an Enneagram Four and so, I acknowledge that such that – it’s still how I feel. Most people haven’t lived in 8 houses, 7 dorm rooms, and 2 apartments by the time they are 22 years old. Right? At least the average American Upper Middle class Caucasian college educated female, right?

Self-awareness, I told you. Liberal arts is also a minefield of self-indulgence for us reflective types, which is why the moment I realized how masturbatory academia was I knew I needed to run for the hills. Because I need to change the world. Not I want to, I need to. Or I will never be satisfied. And at the same time I need to achieve happiness and satisfaction and maybe even bliss. And I’d like to have a kid or 4. Although if I have a baby before I have a Master’s Degree, my family will have stern words with me. I’m not even sure I want a graduate degree, to be honest, but please don’t tell them that. Especially since I didn’t graduate phi beta kappa (from the same school which 2 prior generations of my family also graduated, avec pbk)… I did graduate a double major with High Honors, so that means something, right? I try to remind myself everyday that 1. I have accomplished things and 2. They are enough. At least for now.

So there are a lot of things I need to accomplish and sometimes I wilt under the burden of all of it. Help me know more tools of how to reinforce my stamina and wherewithal with it all?

And about the love thing. I’m such an emotional basket case, I think probably the moment a human being wants to listen to what I have to say, and can sense that I need the help and the space and the care and the touch that I crave, I’ll fall desperately in love with them. This is why I’ve feared seeking out a therapist or a massage therapist (oh, did I mention my body is broken) because all of this is vulnerability and yet, why am I so ready to be emotionally available? I waffle. Constantly, I waffle.

Steady, lady. Steady your sails and all will be smooth on the seas.

Thank you for your time.

I hope to work with you.






Hope on the Horizon

OkCupid tells me I’m a Sonnet:

Romantic, hopeful, and composed. You are the Sonnet. Get it? Composed?

Sonnets want Love and have high ideals about it. They’re conscientious people, caring & careful. You yourself have deep convictions, and you devote a lot of thought to romance and what it should be. This will frighten away most potential mates, but that’s okay, because you’re very choosy with your affections anyway. You’d absolutely refuse to date someone dumber than you, for instance.

Lovers who share your idealized perspective, or who are at least willing to totally throw themselves into a relationship, will be very, very happy with you. And you with them. You’re already selfless and compassionate, and with the right partner, there’s no doubt you can be sensual, even adventurously so.

You probably have lots of female friends, and they have a special soft spot for you. Babies do, too, at the tippy-top of their baby skulls.

This is true. All of this is true.
I found someone. And I’m going to fall in love with him, I think. What’s funny is that I’m not going to meet him for a little while. He doesn’t live near me. And already, in our 24 hours of internet correspondence (and my intent profile reading) I have deduced I am going to like him very much, from afar.

This is a familiar, yet forgotten, feeling. When was the last time I pined for someone I couldn’t have? Well, there’s Cornelius, the young man about whom I’ve written an entire play – a whirlwind of prepubescent pining – and for him I wait. But this new one, this gentle giant, the possibilities are endless.

How to begin the grieving process?
I believe I am almost ready now.
I have bitched and moaned and cried and written, or at least tried.
Tried? Or was it more like allowed to seep through the cracks when I had a moment to stop resisting.
I believe I am ready to look over the edge now.
I am ready to plunge into the water.

You, distant man, you will help me. Because you are available, but not yet attainable. Because the Unacceptable Answers you possess happen to be how I actually feel on subjects, but am too afraid to broadcast. Because you are driven, and optimistic, and kind, and articulate, and tall. So, so tall. And large. Pin me down, son. Pin me down such that I can barely breathe and then whisper the gentlest nothings in my ear, such that I have no choice but to hear the beautiful words that spill from your lips.

The Dilemma of the Secret Sexy Vid Stash

I am conflicted.

  1. Is it unethical to masturbate to sexy videos your ex once sent you that you happen not to have deleted (yet) from the hidden depths of your computer?
    1. Does the fact that it was the best orgasm you’ve had in three weeks sway the jury?
    2. Is it unethical to impose upon your ex, whom you sometimes want to strangle because he is so infuriatingly immaturely stubborn and self-centered, a request for a strictly Skype Sex scenario?
      1. Does the fact that he may or may not still be in love with you sway the jury?
      2. Does the fact that you may or may not still be in love with him but desperately trying to maintain distance?
      3. Is it unhealthy to continue sleeping with individuals in the real world if you are not as interested in them/attracted to them/turned on by them as you are by this ex?
        1. Does the fact that the whole point of desiring this separation was in order to make a more educated choice in whether PM was the one for you make a difference?
        2. Surely there must be someone else in this world as sexy and magnetically attractive as he, right? This city holds thousands.
        3. Why am I so afraid to be alone right now, when that is all I truly desire?
          1. I was thrust into overwhelming compulsion for alone time after a last minute, flaky self-imposed booty call arrived at my house in time for hurricane quarantine. This meant he certainly overstay his welcome, although royally failed to pick up on my persistent hinting that maybe he needed to go.
          2. He will now probably not return, at least in the same capacity. He is a lot to handle, but I’m not compelled to step up to the challenge.
          3. Is Boxer Boy (another OkC conquest) worth all this waiting?
            1. His flakiness leaves much to be desired.
            2. His spark when in person almost makes up for the flakiness, save:
            3. His penis leaves much to be desired, although,
            4. It’s true, Ula was right, we haven’t had sex yet so who knows.
            5. Tangent: Ula was also correct that of course no one has made me cum the way that PM did, given the fact that I haven’t been in love with any of them yet.

… Which brings me to the ultimate dilemma:

Am I going to be able to distance the rest of myself away from this man, this Problem Man, in order merely to use him for sex? I am imagining using this as a sort of acting exercise. A twisted, manipulative role play in which maybe we even indulge ourselves (naughtily, I do believe) the satisfaction of the indulgence of romance. Compassion. Love? Don’t push it.

Of course this could go horribly wrong. And perhaps I will not decide to pursue it. Certainly I shall wait until a more reasonable hour to propose such a thing, although I was considering a net casting text of whether he was awake at this hour (1:40 AM, to be precise, although Sandra Frankenstorm seems to have interceded my internet connection, so this posting will be tardy)… which I have now done.

The question is if one of us will bail, one of us will hurt to much, or one of us will … maybe we will both fall back in love? Or grow simultaneously, not caring about the others lives yet, just bodies – just maintain the bodies and then one day we will get to be people around each other. Is that selfish? Is that unhealthy? Perhaps, but it is also a new ground, new territory. So what if he continues fucking the other one. He said that she wasn’t me, but that doesn’t mean that I won’t eventually dim away from his horizon as she glows iridescently enshrined in a thick cloud of impassioned haze. So then they’ll be in love and I’ll be SOL but at least I’ll have gotten some great orgasms in the meantime, right? If getting a little bit of him back makes it hurt less in the meantime, then potential heartbreak (again) is worth the risk, right? Isn’t that what all love is?

I’m trying to make up my very own rules. I’m trying to have my cake and eat it too and be able to decide what it is that I want when I finally see it and just, like, fucking know what it is. That it is. That you are. Whoever you are. And the one for me.

Until then, there are a myriad of patchwork quilts in progress in my life: the one for my bed, out of an array of rainbow batik fabric; and the one of my heart and my destiny, made out of the bits, pieces, and people I find along my way. PM’s section isn’t ready to be complete yet. Just a few more pieces, please.