Update

Been about a week or two of almosts. T.S. Eliot power-naps. Yesterday, as the train pulled out of the cloudy green swamp of Suburban Station, through the equally murky lenses in my face I noticed a briefcase standing solo on the platform. Not the type an executive would carry, but made of plastic. There was a crest or an insignia on it I couldn't make out. As the train pulled away I tried to snap a photo but the air was too thick with ghosts--who the hell decided on that paint color for the train station anyway? I expected somebody to scoop it up, but nobody did.

I keep on brushing fingers with the future. For a few days I catch a glimpse and I'm riding high, but then the tiny hooks of routine pull me back down again.

Here's what I mean: we signed the lease. We went out to dinner to celebrate: there was beer, laughter, things were invented and big plans were sketched out. The next day I drove to South Jersey to hang out with Rachel and Brenda. Rach and I went to Home Depot and pulled a bunch of paint swatches, then went out for pizza. The sky was overcast, and it seemed to me that everybody in the restaurant knew who Rach was. There are these weird self-contained pockets in South Jersey. I can't really describe it but it's disorienting. Frank Sinatra karoake was going on in the pizza place, and the guy singing was INCREDIBLE, I mean really impressive. I recorded some of it, and I've been trying to figure out how to post it here, but m3u file extensions are difficult. Anyway, I felt like I'd slipped onto another planet. To further the feeling, the recording I made stated that the date was the 27th. That was last Saturday. Today's the 28th. Whoops, I guess I live in the future.

We went back to Rach's and hung out in the hot tub(!), then watched "Pulp Fiction" and crashed. I drove back to Philadelphia early Sunday morning and was too tired to do any hardcore cleaning, but I cleaned up some and cooked a whole lot--2 loaves of homemade bread, curried cauliflower, potatoes, and peas.

Monday Rach came to Philly again, and we took the swatches to the apartment. We picked our colors, which are something like the following:

Rach's room: Kind of a light, minty green-white.
Kitchen: Orange burst! Satin finish.
Bathroom: A different shade of green, satin finish.
Living room: Purple!
My room: Sort of a rich red-purple, the color was "pomegranate" something, satin finish.

The painting should be done in about a week. Then we can start moving stuff in, and I can probably move in early.

So Monday was thrilling. And then Tuesday, yesterday, reality kicked in. But then a sudden attack of determination on the walk to 30th Street. I'm not sure where these come from, but they're a blessing. Called Emily when I got home:

Me: You wanna go to the batting cages?
Emily: I just got home, but I was SERIOUSLY JUST THINKING about going to the batting cages. I wanna hit something with a bat.
Me: Yes, exactly!
Emily: Tuesdays are the worst.

I have a theory that Tuesdays really are the worst day of the week, and now she's confirmed my suspicions. The result of the conversation? We're in agreement, and weekly trips to the batting cages are to ensue.

So yeah, that'll teach the third day of the week to be so dreary.

Things are good, I guess. Leveling out, being sensible, staying active. Tomorrow my first review for LAS is going up! I surf craigslist every day for writing jobs and opportunities to make a little extra money. Bard on Saturday, New York and then back here on Sunday.

Oh yeah, I've been giving a lot of thought to getting a tattoo. Don't know why, but I really want one. Still haven't settled on it. I've been thinking about getting that key I used to wear around my neck on the inside of my right arm. But I also like the idea of having a line from Mayakovsky tattooed across my back--Cyrillic script is lovely. Spent a good portion of yesterday at work perusing for That Perfect Line. Kept a list of potentials, but none of them is just right. Which isn't to put down V.M., of course. What always really gets me is that stubborn humanity that he tries to stamp out but can't. Finally, I think, it got to be too much for the poet--you can see the shift in his writing. Then it got to be too much for the man.

It's painful to read. Here's what I'm talking about.


Past One O'Clock, by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated by Max Hayward and George Reavey

Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
to balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.

Selfishness and accountability.

I've been selfish.

In part, I think, it's a product of my circumstances. Feeling adrift for 9 or 10 months meant that I turned inward a whole lot, and it seems I've been in a somewhat consistent state of nursing various wounds and making sure this frame still stands up and can walk around and stuff.

Not that I've been in a consistent state of extreme depression. The above is looking pretty melodramatic. Just that I've been awfully focused on getting up each morning and seeing each day through.

I'm starting to wake up from that now. Things are beginning to happen. Rachel and I are most likely signing a lease tonight, and there's a future--one that isn't sequestered, one that I can build a home on--to look forward to. That, and I'm getting a book review published, and there's the potential to get other book reviews published. I'm still writing my own stuff too, and it's a small start, but hey, things are starting to happen, life is starting to happen and I'm starting to be a citizen of the world again and not some ugly, frozen, shut-in thing.

I'm starting to realize that I've thrown a lot of caring and amazing folks to the wayside.

Evey was supposed to visit a few months ago, and I guess that both of us got really busy--and we didn't talk about it much--so some other stuff for work cropped up and she wound up having to cancel the trip. And as I recall it was one that she really sorta needed, to clear her head and stuff. After that, I made no effort whatsoever to stay in touch with her. That is, until the Week of Ear Misery, when I hadn't slept in something like 4 days, was drinking wine, and decided we ought to video chat. She refused, and I started falling asleep...we spoke for all of 5 minutes. She Facebooked me after that and wanted to reconnect, but I was just too crazybusy and made no effort. And she's a close friend, and I love her, and despite illness and what-have-you I really haven't been good to her.

Max, too, was supposed to visit and had to cancel at the last minute. I've owed him a letter for weeks. After asking if I could crash at his house next month I made other plans in the interim, before he got back to me. It probably seems like I don't care at all, but I really do care an awful lot.

Dave is like a brother. He's always been there for me, and lately I've taken advantage of that. I've only spoken to him when something's going really, really wrong, and then I've whined at him forever and not really gotten a sense of anything going on in his life. I feel pretty bad about that, and I hope he knows that I really do care about him, and that I want to hear all about his life, and that he's amazing.

These are sorta big-deal fuck-ups. And yeah, most of them have had a lot to do with the fact that I'm in an awkward situation. But I'm coming out of it, and it's time to shape up. What stings is that I think I do stuff like this all the time, unconsciously, and that I've been this way for awhile. I take advantage of people, I fuck them over. Maybe part of being an adult is realizing you're flawed and doing your best to make it up to the people that matter most. I'm privileged to have friends who'll set me straight, who'll tell me up front that I'm being a jerk. It makes this juncture in my life a lot easier.

There's been some other stuff, too. I made a really out-of-line comment to Rachel last week. Though I realized my error and apologized immediately, I don't think I understood the extent to which it hurt her. It was a stupid thing to say, too, and I didn't mean it at all--it just slipped out by accident.

Similarly, when Caroline and I should've been cleaning up after the FEB meeting on Wednesday, instead I was upstairs wrapped up in a conversation about Haruki Murakami. When I came downstairs and apologized for my absence, Caroline said something along the lines of: "Yeah...you kinda do this a lot. Disappear when you're needed. Try not to, OK?"

And she was right.

I'm fucking up at work, too. And it isn't for lack of trying.

Another aspect of this whole growing up thing, I guess, is that instead of wallowing in guilt and overdramatizing everything, I'm acknowledging my faults and trying to change my behavior. Especially now that I'm finally reaching some kind of harmonious accord with my day-to-day routine, it's time I woke up.

It's been a humbling week or two. But in a healthy, proactive way. Reality's settling cozily on my shoulders, I hope.

This entry's probably the most self-centered thing I've done in some time, but I think it was necessary. I had to put this out in the open somewhere. And this is what these blogs thing are for, ain't it?

END OF RANT.

Hmf.

"Playing with Fire," Rolling Stones.

Sundays

When you wake up on a Sunday, the day holds you like an old sweatshirt, or like the still floral smell of your grandma's house that you remember from childhood. Don't rush it, and there's no sense in trying to prolong it. Stay in bed for awhile with your eyes closed and listen.

Wake up in your own time. There's always a constitutional of some kind to be stolen; this morning, for instance, it's a quest down to the grocery store for some coffee and fresh milk. The coat you've chosen isn't warm enough, but the slight chill in the Spring air signals to your joints that you're moving. The tumor-shaped parking lot of the shopping complex is nearly deserted. There's you, leather-jacketed, barely out of pajamas, unwashed with a cigarette, and there's an old woman leaning on one of those walkers that also functions as a cart. The wheels rattle a little and the rattle resounds. At first when she hears footsteps she'll snap around, suspicious. But when she sees you, she'll just smile in a way that wraps around you like a Sunday.

On the way to the grocery store you pass the Christian book shop. They're now trying to entice people in with the promise of coffee, and there are spiky neon signs that read "WOW COFFEE" in the windows, and another one that states "YES, WE NOW HAVE KOREAN BIBLES!" (Well FINALLY, you find yourself thinking, because hey, you're kind of a jerk.)

Right past the bookstore is the wig shop, which always strikes you as a weird progression.

There are others in the supermarket, others like you who know how to make the most of the day. A chunky lady wearing a bright pink sweatshirt and sweatpants. You wander up and down the aisles alone, thinking about how silly it is that they're playing "All by Myself" over the intercom. A man with a bunch of groceries offers to let you cut him in line, and you smile and thank him--there's another aisle free. You follow another man out of the supermarket, and the cashier yells after him, "I hope you feel better!" The man rearranging shopping carts waves goodbye.

The chilly wind nibbles your ears. Everything feels new and moves slowly.

Getting home. You'll inevitably drink cup after cup of hot coffee. There are responsibilities, but the distractions are just as pressing.

Saturdays, even when they unfold, have a sense of urgency to them that Sundays lack. Saturdays nag you to make use of them. Sundays are for motes of dust settling into corners, for taking the world in like you've just come up from the bottom of a well.

Flashback

Was walking to work and suddenly flashed back to a spontaneous dance party in Rachel's room last year.

These had happened before, but never on the scale of this one. I think it was either shortly before senior projects were due or immediately after we'd turned them in, but we were really eager to distract ourselves from stress and from our imminent graduation. I remember at the time I felt like it was a huge cloud looming over everything, calling not only my future into question, but also every detail of my life up until that point--my interests, my friendships, even down to the way I dressed myself (mismatched, neon yellow socks and bright pink hair wouldn't be as welcome among the "grownups" was my guess).

But we were too tired to process all this stuff, and I think that deep down we really just wanted to have a good time and maybe destroy ourselves a little bit. Rach was living in Mannex, and there was a party in Manor that night, and I think all of us were praying that just once it'd be decent. So we pregamed a bit. Then we pregamed a bit more. We were drunk. We walked through Mannex to Manor, made approximately one complete round of the nearly empty room, and then paraded back to Rachel's disappointed.

But what the hell, we were tired and just wanted to do something. So we ended up raiding Rachel's ENORMOUS collection of sunglasses, blasting music on her speakers, and dancing around her tiny room for hours and hours. A whole bunch of us were there--Rachel of course, Logan, Brenda, Nelson, Keenan was there and even danced a bit...or at least didn't stand around in the corner and shun us. Stace might've been there too, but she may have been busy that night.

So yeah. Finally all of us were really tired and sweaty and went off to bed. I can't dance at all, and usually I was a skulker at parties, occupying corners until friends dragged me out onto the floor. That or I'd be having some overly loud and enthusiastic discussion with my fellow smokers outside, which would lead to 100,000 other discussions and keep me conveniently occupied until the party ended.

But on that night I danced around like crazy, because I was with my best friends in the entire world and at a certain point it just stopped mattering. Besides, we were wearing awesome sunglasses.

I think that was one of the best nights I've ever had.

I miss those people.

Today--Ava Luna, "Clips" and "Past the Barbary" on repeat.

Status.

Ear: functional.
Full night's sleep: finally attained.
Reviews: 2/3 written and edited.
Back: achy.
Hair: ick.
Apartment: trashed.
Cover Letter: written and edited.
Social life: shmeh, s'ok.
References: queried, accepted.
Paying Job: working on a comeback.
Apartment hunt: initiated.
Obsessive lists: robust.


Addendum: Worked an extra five minutes, watched my train pull out in front of me. An adorable middle-aged Irish couple bummed me a cigarette outside.

(Both are smoking as I approach, husband presents a pack of Marlboro Reds with one cigarette left.)
Me: Heh, nevermind, have a good evening.
Wife (thick brogue): Wait wait, we have more. Wouldn't want you havin' a nic fit.
(Husband hands me the cigarette)
Me: Well, thank you!
Wife: Of course! (Taking a drag) Quit, you should quit! A young girl like you!

Not wholly convincing, but wondrous!

Tom Waits reads Charles Bukowski's "The Laughing Heart"

Crows, by Mary Oliver

From a single grain they have multiplied.
When you look in the eyes of one
you have seen them all.

At the edges of highways
they pick at limp things.
They are anything but refined.

Or they fly out over the corn
like pellets of black fire,
like overlords.

(Crow is crow, you say.
What else is there to say?
Drive down any road,

take a train or an airplane
across the world, leave
your old life behind,

die and be born again--
wherever you arrive
they'll be there first,

glossy and rowdy
and indistinguishable.
The deep muscle of the world.

Regrets, 2:44 AM

If I were in love with a prostitute, this earache wouldn't wake me up throughout the night.


Correction: Although apparently Van Gogh only sliced off the lobe of his ear. So I guess it'd still be a problem. Cheers wikipedia, I guess NOTHING ever goes the way I want it to, I mean REALLY.

Is this a blog?

Why yes, yes it is! Is it likely to last long? Probably not.

Woke up this morning, delicate breeze drifting in through the open window and the sounds of cars a few streets over rumbling by, as slow as ships. Easter Sunday. Sunday morning. As a matter of fact, that was the very first song I listened to when consciousness kicked in.

Didn't want to get out of bed yet, and by golly, I didn't have to. My laptop and the book I'm reading were waiting obediently by the side of my bed (wagging their tails).

However, my roommate was anxious that I get out of bed, probably to open the other window. I was on my laptop, and thus able to document the events that followed in case I need to show them to the police someday:

I'm not sure the photographs do justice to the strategic nature and ferocity of the attack. But I guess you get the idea.

Decided to treat myself to Sunday brunch at my favorite restaurant in Chestnut Hill. They have incredible coffee that they serve in a colossal mug, stellar food, and they're pretty cheap too. In general the service has been pretty good, but today it was kinda lacking. The waitresses are usually super-nice to me. I think it's because they're used to older customers and they like having somebody closer to their age to chat with. That, and I think it's pretty obvious to them that I'm treating myself, and they seem to think it's sorta...well...neat. I always bring a book, have a couple cups of coffee, and take my sweet time. Usually I'll treat myself to dessert (always a lemon square. I have a problem with lemon pastries).

After a delicious brunch, I decided to finally bike to Whitemarsh Hall. Not really sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I found there. (Now that I'm looking closely at the wikipedia page, I realize that if I'd read it closer before setting out, I might've been forewarned).

I turned left off of an endless four-lane street into a cul-de-sac called "Stotesbury Estates." I don't think I realized immediately that I was in a protected community, but nonetheless I found the yellow "NO OUTLET" sign to be kinda foreboding.

Last time I tried to bike to Whitemarsh, googlemaps told me to take a street that doesn't exist, which I found difficult to do. For a few minutes I was convinced that once again, I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Then I saw this:


WHAT IS IT, you ask. Well, it's a bunch of frickin IONIAN COLUMNS. As I biked up to it, they almost seemed to be RISING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S TOWNHOUSE. It was...eerie.

This was about the time when I started to notice I was basically in a police state. A man in a red midlife-crisis car drove slowly past, staring. A bunch of folks with an excitable dog furrowed their brows at me. Until I snapped the photo, I was alright. It was one of those situations in which it pays to look significantly younger than I actually am, to be wearing a wifebeater t-shirt (yep, I was SHOWIN SOME SHOULDER), to be...white (honest truth), and to always somehow just seem so doggone innocent. But yeah, I pushed it a bit too far. And thus when I saw the sign reading "Residents Only" with a promise to call the cops on trespassers, I decided not to risk it. Even houses were giving me the stink-eye.

In sum, it was a surreal experience, but not in the "abandoned, isolated ruins" way I expected it to be. This was a piece of a distinct and dead past that had somehow been misplaced in the present. A community had blossomed up around Whitemarsh Hall, where presidents and film stars once attended banquets; not just any community, but an uncannily safe pocket of yuppie America.

On a whim, on the bike ride home, I turned down a side street, and found some more stuff:



And some details of that last statue, which is BETWEEN TWO DRIVEWAYS:
That's the last photo I'll post this entry, I swear.

I can't imagine living in one of the houses that the above statue borders, and instructing my guests: "Aaaaaaaaaaand ours'll be the driveway on the right, next to the statue of the family that's covered in lichen, missing a limb here and there, with worn-away faces. Yep, yep, y'can't miss it."

I mean seriously WHAT.

If you stumble upon this blog for some reason, and you'd like to guess or you know with certainty what that statue's all about, please do comment.

Finaaaaaaally got back home, walked in the door and sunk into the couch. The radio was on, and I realized that apparently really resonant, beautiful jazz clarinet solos make me want to smoke cigarettes.

Now I'm listening to Patti Smith's "Horses," there's a cat on my lap, and both of us are falling asleep. Life ain't all that bad.

END OF ADVENTURE.