First weekend in weeks

Because of Martin Luther King Jr. day, I have today (Sunday), and tomorrow off. I have to leave in about 5 minutes for choir rehearsal, but I have a purring kitty on my lap watching what words are being created on the screen as I type, (he's fascinated by my typing), and I seem to have grown immensely sleepy from working out, eating, then sitting... I really just want to curl up. And I seem to have just eaten something tasting a little on the funky side, rotten eggy tasting, and I'm not happy about this situation.
I was supposed to make myself sing and warm up before practice today, but I failed to do so.

Anyway, I'll write more later. But I needed to just get something out before I headed out into the world of subways and shuttle buses (my train is never working on the weekends now.)
And, oh yeah, it's COLD. Remember that time I was complaining about the weather being fucked up and too warm for my well-being? Well, let's just say I have a tendency to yearn for the greener grass. And so, my dears, whoever is reading or to the spirits that may be guiding me tonight, I wish you farewell.

To warm sweaters, drafty windows, and loving kittens. And a rotten taste in your mouth...

Ode to my 3rd grade love

what is it that makes you fall for that first crush? It can't based on something that actually occurs in real life...like, you really connected when you first discovered you both have a collection of old bottles. I think it's an image, and you're suddenly inclined to love that image because it's so familiar and strange at the same time. But you've never looked him in the eyes, and you'll never know why the obsession has taken hold of you except for one reason, which is this thing called magnetism. And suddenly, you discover what attraction is. That it's an energy that exists like a bubble between two forces, pushing and pulling, and you can stop it as much as a speeding train can come to a deafening halt.

1st Love Poem

When I sit in my rib-caged desk,

I stare
at chipped away signatures, and puttied hearts.

I scratch some lines with my number 2 pencil,
hoping you'll catch me under your vise
and see that I'm different from the rest.

I know that we're meant to be with each other because
your hair and eyes are shiny brown.
They glow and I've never wanted to hold something so secret before.
Chalk makes cloud and blurs my attention and
I drink your face into my memory
and savor your name.

One day,
after school, I walked to my father's office
dreading the boredom of typing and silence and office carpet smells
that match the office chair and magazine smells.
Before walking through the jingle-belled door,
you were there, with your skateboard, practicing in MY father's business yard.

Hello.
Hello.

Quick. Rush and beating heart, I pass body and go inside,
escaping the whirlwind of desire to another room of desks and chairs.

I think of the doorway and I think of entering it, exiting the outside world of possibility.
There's no wind inside, and
I dream of the Brown again and again.

Winter's playing a joke on me

I know I have a mind, and I have the ability to know the comings and goings of the seasons, but these warm January days are daring me to think spring, to want to take flight again and start my seasons over from where they started in May. Except, part of me knows I'm being beckoned and teased at the same time, and that if I peep my head out, I might just get frost bite. The irony is, the western new year begins in the dead of winter. What is there to renew this time of year?

Or maybe that's the point. In the darkness, it's so easy to retreat into our holes and wait for all this to breeze over. But really, the winter is a time to regenerate and form new habits with ourselves and others. Like when our synapses are actually doing the work for us when we sleep at night preparing the body for a new self in the morning. So with that said, as much as I enjoy a nice warm winter day, it does feel a little like a chip in my teacup.

It's been too long since I've written here. I've been distracted, and still am in a way. But I'm learning to focus the more I live here. Which is crazy because this city is certainly not the most well-tempered places on earth. But I've never felt as capable as I do right now, which still isn't saying much, but I've gained a stronger hide thanks to things like heartbreak, uncertainty and New York City blues.
But this does not bring me down. I have acquired a new sheen to go along with my hide. It sparkles in the most unexpected moments and gives me confidence when I'm longing for a solution. I find I'm falling in love with people all over the place. And they excite me and I want to send my glittery sheen out to them. Even in the office or on the street, I see people walking by, each of them with a different hue of color. Some are gray, some are rainbow, some just pale blue like fog. It's fascinating, and it's beautiful. Perhaps the Salman Rushdie I've been reading is rubbing off onto my hands and into my fingers tonight.

I heard tomorrow is supposed to have rains all day. (don't be fooled, it's only january. the rain will trickle down to a defenseless surface)

holiday fever

So now it seems, instead of experiencing cat syndrome, I have been infected with some ridiculous holiday pathology. A turkey race for the savage among us (this includes me), and tofurkey/tofucks? for those that can resist the "carn"-ival fest.

I've been going crazy in the last few days tyring to figure out just how exactly are you supposed to put a thing like that in the oven and have it come out beautiful. I called my dad's partner up today just to ask him such a question... "do I need a v-tray??? do I have to stick salt in it's butt-crack and sing it lullabies and bath-time songs while it's basting? Thermometer? String?"
It's like I was expecting a fucking baby! But how will I know I'm doing the right thing?

The whole turkey baster metaphor all makes sense to me now.

All Jack had to say in reply to this was:
Ohhhh nooo. You don't need all that. You just stick it in the oven!

Simply said. Well done. And coming from a cook extraordinaire, it gave me confidence in a slap-in-the-face, calm-down kind of way.
When I asked my mother, she had a more shocking answer than I expected. She told me if I buy a butterball (which I did NOT), that I could call the turkey hotline if I had any questions or freakouts. I found this piece of advice a bit jarring. A mother is not supposed to give you sound cooking advice about an age-old tradition by telling you to call the turkey hotline. She's supposed to tell you secrets and things her mother used to do. Though if I'm not mistaken, my grandmother probably would have called a turkey hotline in her day too.
I can just hear it in her cute little bronx accent:
Hellaow! Ehh, my butta bwall is acting up in the oven. I dunnow wheah the thermomata
dissappeeahd.

Okay, now I'm not paying the homage I should to my fore mothers. Of course they know how to cook certain things. But those things I guess have no roots in the turkey kingdom. They're most likely to fall under the brisket and latkes kingdom.

Cat Fever

I seem to have two days off this week, one of which is normal (I have wednesdays off), but today, I am not working due to my bosses new baby that was ever so recently brought into this world. A Georgia Rose. Aside from this little miracle, as they call it, I am left at home, still, with no paycheck, and too little tolerance for my roommate's cats.

After checking e-mail or visiting facebook at least 70 times throughout the day, and having cats clawing my belly with a meow that asks "can you please only love me and not do anything else right now?" in the tone of a 1 year old, I can only begin to suspect that I have developed, much like cabin fever, "cat" fever. And it's not that I hate the fluffballs, it's just that one minute they're so sweet and cute looking, but the next they're biting or clawing or sneaking into your room when they know they're not supposed. And then you have to chase them out by literally pretending like you're going to make an attack...and then you have have to feel guilty that if your roommate were to see you interact with her cats in such a manner, she might report you to the cat-abuse police.

Really, I think this is a sign that I should think twice about having children if that day comes. Because I'm pretty sure the rage and frustration coupled with the odd need to coddle is pretty similar to thousands of sentiments felt by mothers towards their behavior-challenged children.
I'm exaggerating a bit on the issue, but I think that when I'm in the house for so long with no human interaction, and only cats and facebook to talk to, I get a little loopy. I did manage to do my laundry and go to the gym today, but still, the fever set in. I'm looking forward to tomorrow's more adventurous turns...and hoping my check will arrive so I'll have more than a cheap pair of shoes' worth amount in my banking account.

On a brighter note, I've been practicing my choral music a lot. Oh how I wish I had a real piano to play, but I can't even imagine a piano fitting through our hallway. Next place I live in, no cats, unless chosen by me. Dog, yes. And piano in a room where no sounds will seep through the walls.
Ah, but these are dreams!

Break Dancing on Subway Cars

It's amazing to me how secluded people are on the subways. And I'm not leaving myself out of this equation completely. The other day, I was standing on a crowded 1 train, and a frail, tissue-paper skinned elderly woman was standing next to me. All the time, I kept thinking to myself how no one was offering her their seat. It's like people assume a layer of impenetrable hide that bars all sound, sight, or smell from entering. I understand that at certain times, the last thing we want is to be forced into a social setting where legs, arms, boot tips are constantly inter-tangled and mingling. In fact, sometimes, I wish I could have my own route to work in my own tube like transport, swiftly going to and from work, friends and purposeful outings, much like the Jetsons did in their sky highways. And this mentality is often present in my journeys across the island, as I may often curse a slow walker on the street or the person that leaks a little too much into MY subway seat indentation. There is always this assumption among New Yorkers, it seems, that despite how you really feel about the world, and your like or dislike towards others, there is an ever-present blockade between you and everyone else, and the breaking of that barrier could mean a disruption in your routine travel through time and space. It is an interference of one's "in-between" states, going to and from, not having a place of sanctity or grounding. When that sense of transitory gypsiness is broken, the public, anonymous sphere suddenly changes shape. You are suddenly a link in the puzzle and you realize that the nature of transit does not allow for solitary confinement of the mind or body. It is a vehicle for interconnectedness, whether that is the desired goal or not.
Today, I had a turn-around experience that merely took some simple convincing that this common grounding between subway riders is in fact a way for us to connect without even knowing each others' stories or beliefs. It was sparked by some young break-dance kids trying to salvage the last pennies and dimes often found in the bottom of one's purse or the lining of a coat pocket. At first, we (the audience/passengers) were reluctant to smile, or even notice the vibrant movement and music taking place directly in front of us. But once a common notion settled among us that these kids actually did bring joy to our day on each of our individual journeys, it was suddenly easy to be a part of this strange community of anonymous travelers. But if it weren't for these pushy street performing, boom-box lugging kids, I would have never realized the beauty of subway travel in that hour of transit. Isn't that the best kind of art in this world? That's how I see it at least. I like to think that the most beautiful things have elements of unfamiliarity. The kind that makes you stop, and reassess your knowledge of that thing in front of you. In the end, it's all continuous, all fluid, and never boring.

me in san francisco

My Second Cousin Ellen having some authentic bay area beer

This happens to be my dream dress. I might get married just as an excuse to wear it.

A little cafe near Francie's house

Left: me, Right: Francie
Guess where?

Monument to Jack.