Wednesday, May 4, 2022
Wednesday, April 20, 2022
It is almost 7pm and I am at home. I don't know the last time I was home between the hours of 4-7pm. I am typing this on my brand new desktop. I got it at the apple store in soho 3 hours ago and I am incredibly obsessed with it. Everyone said to get a laptop so I can write at a coffee shop or something if need be but I can assure you I had a laptop for 6 years and it seldom left my apartment. its so cool to have a computer tethered to my desk which is tethered to my home. This man I know who is currently in Paris is going to give to me his MacBook Air so so I can write out of my home if I there is an emergency, or say, a job I have to do.
I've been hungover all day and buying this computer in such state was not the most sobering. I was out till 7 am and woke up at my friends house about 20 doors down from mine at around 11 am. I took a long shower and shaved my legs and remembered that today I had to buy a computer. So I went and I walked my broken self to soho and said "I'm buying that computer." I thought this would be easy but it wasn't. I paid with my phone and the transaction took roughly 15 minutes but I had to lie a whole lot. The guy selling me this beautiful piece of technology asked me if I'm a student. I lied and said I was. Then he asked "What are you studying?" I lied and told him I was an aspiring news journalist, studying political journalism. He asked me where I studied and I didn't know what to say, so we moved on and he told me about his brother's dream of making music for museum lobbies. I lied a third time and said that I would love to hear it one day. I told the guy I was really hungover. I told him about how I was at a bar till 7am. I told him about how I was going to faint if I don't get fresh air soon. I walked across the street with my huge box, scared I'd get murdered, jumped, robbed, and raped on my way to Fanelli. Aaron and Lucas were drinking beers and eating onion rings. I had a Coca Cola because I was still suffering. I hailed a cab on Broadway like a rockstar, with my giant desktop for everyone too see. I only had to pay $130.00! Now I will pay that every month for a year.
Anywho, I hope that having this desktop will allow me to write more, as it is in front of my bed (my bed is my chair) unlike my laptop which lived under my couch or under a giant stack of photo albums. I forgot to mention that this computer is also for making music. So more writing and more music! This is great. I love this thing. I'ts so beautiful.
Sent from my iMac.
Wednesday, February 16, 2022
Tuesday, April 28, 2020
This past week was such a whirlwind. I read a book a day for 7 days. The first 4 days were nice and I was very much enjoying myself. I had no intention of stopping until I reached day 6 I was about losing my mind just sitting there reading reading reading. It led me to try and quit smoking which was also a failure. The morning I decided I'd quit, I told myself, "After this pack, no more cigarettes!" but by the end of the pack, I decided I'd cut down from 25 cigarettes a day to just 5. I have cut back quite a bit but I'm still in the teens. Yesterday was 13, the day before 14. Hopefully today I can achieve my new goal of 10. I watched a bunch of videos on youtube, vloggers primarily, who talked about quitting smoking. They weren't so good at convincing me but I did enjoy watching them for some reason.
Talking on the phone with Ethan last night, he told me about how his first cigarette was when he was 13 on Avenue A and he was drunk or something. He said he could remember how bad he thought it had tasted. This too was a trend with the Youtube vloggers...about how their first cigarettes were disgusting. I remember my first cigarette was outside the school in Hungary. I was sitting with a girl named Bárbörá who told me that I would have a difficult time making friends if I didn't smoke and of course my 15 year old self wanted so badly to have a few more friends then just being glued to Bárbie. Now as I write this I realize that maybe she wanted me to go make different friends, too. She gave me one of her Marlboro menthols and I have smoked a pack a day till now. Now I am trying for half a pack. I was telling Tess that I want to be able to not have them on me and feel fine...that instead of anxiously worrying about when I run out, I simply just wait till its most convenient for me to go buy some. I count my cigarettes like they are the last thing I have. I hate sharing them. I hate sharing them especially with people who don't smoke. The people you see every single night at the bar who ask you for cigarettes and all the while sitting there continue on about how they quit smoking two years ago. I am vowing now to not become one of those people but I wouldn't be surprised if I did.
I was looking out my stairwell window again but this time it was night and I could see directly into my friend Silvia's apartment. Well, it used to be her apartment up until December that is. Someone bought the building and kicked everyone out. It was the best building. It was like a mansion with a few friends living in it. For some reason though, looking out the stairwell window into what will always be to me, Silvia's kitchen, I didn't feel all that sad or mournful like I usually do about these kind of things. It was actually rather peaceful and those few minutes of staring gave me that painful feeling of wishing everyone could see what I was seeing. Of course it's mundane, two apartment windows, looking into a kitchen. The oven's green clock illegible from my distance but very much there, the round kitchen table by the window with a box of some kind sitting on it, the lamp on the countertop and it's light painting everything in the room gold and yellow...the outside of the building is an alcove of other buildings including mine and 2 others allowing it to resemble at times a sort of European gamut of architecture. Silvia's is Italian with its gray and yellow walls, the apartment between ours is British with it's deep red brick and shutters at each window, my building is more French, and the building across from the British one, between Silvia and I's, is much more Germanic. And to top it all off, the post rain dewey smell was so refreshing, especially now. It was so calming it made me a bit sad, it was like I couldn't see it all well enough because it was so pleasant. It all looked like a Gail Albert Halaban photograph after post-production. I turned my back for maybe one minute and when I turned back around, the lights were off. It's not as sentimental as I'm making it seem to be but it was just something that I really enjoyed. Maybe the best part of my day. I've attached below some good Gail Albert Halaban photos below... :)
The sun is shining so bright this morning so I will try and get my groceries early rather than wait all day as I have been in the habit of postponing anything that requires labor of any kind...Warmth to u all!
Wednesday, January 8, 2020
One year on Ethan's birthday, I tried to take him to the top of the World Trade Center but my card declined so he paid. Afterwards, we went to the mall and had Shake Shack. I tried to pay for that too but did not. So on Ethan's birthday he gave me a view and fast food. I got Ethan a photo book that year. It may have been his first but I don't know if I'm just making that up but I really do believe it was his first. Two years later, I got him another photo book and then a Calvin Trillin book that I am now reading. He read it in a day and told me to read it. It's funny reading the inscription I wrote on the title page as if it was something he returned to me because he hated it.
I got my friend Rewa The Year of Magical Thinking for Christmas this year. I tried to get her to read it for a long long time but she refused for the same reasons I did. There was something too fashionable about it especially with the Joan Didion documentary being so popular and all at the time. I read The Year of Magical Thinking en-route to Wisconsin two summers ago. I bought it in Chicago and read it outside of my old school on the steps of The Art Institute of Chicago. I couldn't stop reading it and I guess that's when I let go of judging books by the people who read them. I read it in the car to Wisconsin and then again on the plane back to New York. I've sold the book to many people but Rewa for so long would not budge! So I force fed it to her in the form of a gift right before she left for a long flight to Lebanon. She emailed me recently saying "I will now listen to your recommendations."
I got my close friend Tess an original Japanese poster for Rosemary's Baby last year. I gave it to her at the Jewish diner we often go to early in the mornings. Thats changed now because Tess has a full time job and I'm waking up later these days. That morning I gave her the poster, she gave me this beautiful tacky lamp I'd been eyeing at a thrift store in midtown. Its a porcelain little boy holding a basket of giant eggs and is standing on what looks like maybe a cupcake. The shade is yellow and blue tartan. It's a great conversation starter in my living room.
My friend Morgan always goes crazy with the gift giving. Morgan will give you a gift because its been 7 and a half weeks since your birthday, which I guess to her is a reason to celebrate. Morgan one year gave me a camera and a long letter singing my praises. She also gave me expensive hand cream that year. I barely considered her a friend as we were still getting to know each other. This year she got me my favorite hair oil and a beautiful silk shirt that looks and feels the opposite of cheap. Trying to give Morgan a gift is a difficult task. She'll love and adore whatever it is you give her but there is a natural desire to really impress her. Morgan is fair skinned and lithe and dainty. She has long naturally orange hair and bright baby blue eyes. Her cheeks blush the exact color of her lips especially after a wine. She talks at low whispered volumes sometimes but laughs louder than anyone else when she means it. Everyone who knows Morgan hopes that she likes them. Her taste is incredible and everything she owns seems to mean something to her..so with that being said, buying a gift for the orange-haired pale-skinned whispering little tastemaker is a job that takes more thought than it does to buy your guy friend who will basically appreciate anything you give him because he is not-so-sentimental about objects the way you are.
My friend Bella is the most difficult to buy gifts for. Her best friend once told me in secrecy, If you didn't make it, Bella won't like it. Luckily, I do in fact have some creative capabilities but I'm not so good at coming up with ways to use them. I thought long and hard and tried to paint something for her but it was shameful. I tried to make a sculpture that could be a nice tchotchke on a windowsill but it just looked stupid. So while in her apartment one day, I stole the hair out of her hairbrush and put it in my pocket and walked across the street back to mine. I took the hair out of my hairbrush and plugged in my flatiron and sat for a long long afternoon straightening each individual hair and then made a little braid. The braid fell apart too easily so I just wrote her a long letter and glued all the strands to it throughout. Her best friend told me it was too creepy but Bella seemed to like it. That same year, Bella gave me the best gift I've received in a long time. It was a video she compiled of all the most important people in my life saying happy birthday to me. It made me cry it was so sweet, this nice little non-confrontational surprise party compiled into a 4 minute video. I went a long time without watching it but recently found it on my computer. It did in fact make me a bit weepy but not because of how heartfelt it was but because some of the people in the video are rarely in my life like they used to be. That's how life goes, though. People come and go and so do their gifts.
I rarely throw anything away especially not a gift. I have a tendency to apply sentimental value to most everything. I have a bag that is filled with foreign receipts and subway tickets and pencils and pens and candy wrappers etc. The bag is gathering dust and I feel little to nothing upon looking through once in a blue moon, but I just can't get myself to get rid of it. My dad one time was helping me move out of my apartment in Chicago after I had dropped out of school. I was smoking in the alley and upon returning saw him throwing a dried up dusty rose into a trash bag. I screamed bloody murder, That's the rose that Grimes gave to me after her concert! My dad laughed and said, Okay what? and broke it in two and went on going through all my dusty little treasures. Of course I survived and can live without the dried up rose that Grimes gave to me when I was 17 but you see, I'm still writing about it.
I keep letters for as long as I can. They seem to always disappear after a few years and moving around. I recently found a stack of letters that all my classmates in Hungary gave to me prior to returning back to Ohio. It's unfortunate that I can no longer read them. I used to be able to read Hungarian with ease and near fluency. That was only 5 years ago but when I look at them now, I can hear the words and their meanings in my head but I simply can't comprehend them. Despite not being able to read these letters, I of course will never throw them away. All the Hallmark cards with not a single personal inscription, garbage. At least sign the thing!
I will always love giving gifts and it feels good to buy expensive things for other people. I always find myself so broke around the holidays; buying people stupidly expensive photo books and perfumes and hand creams. Though at least I get to experience the pleasure of watching someone open something you deliberately went out and bought for them. It's obvious you can't buy love but you can in some ways buy them a big thank you.
Monday, January 6, 2020
I skipped over to the bookstore which was quite a zoo. I guess everyone's a reader on sunny Sundays in Soho! I had no interest in buying anything but it felt nice to walk amongst all the eager people and touch every book cover even the ones I could care less about.
In the evening I met Ethan for a drink. I felt like a child, in a good way. For the first time in days I was happy to be around someone. I was essentially vibrating in my seat with joy, sitting on my feet and smiling a whole lot. Ethan left and I stuck around to read a bit. It was still relatively early and the bar was quiet and cozy. I ran into some friends of friends who are visiting from the West Coast. They invited me to go see Rashomon around the corner. I sat alone in the balcony and before I knew it, I had woken up with a slight trail of drool running down my neck. I was in a daze and ran out of the theater like a frightened little baby. I stepped outside and there was a particularly dreamy amount of snow falling. My west coast acquaintances met me outside and convinced me to have a little more wine. We talked about the idols we've met, our favorite places to travel, and all the fun things you get to talk about when you hardly know much about each other. God forbid Ethan or Tess or Rewa hear again and again and again my story of meeting Björk and how when I looked into her eyes I almost had a meltdownexistentialcrisismindblowntolittlepiecesfullofregretnevershouldhavedonethat moment.
Conor picked me up from work the other evening. He is the hottest person I know. I know hotter people or I mean I know people I'm actually much more attracted to, but Conor is so classically beautiful, anyone in his presence becomes a sack of roses and rainbows and wetness. Every person he comes into contact with has near heart attack. He is your quintessential heart throb Calvin Klein Ralph Lauren looking tall guy. He has puffy blond-ish hair and a smile designed by Norman Rockwell. His hands could crush a child in one little squeeze and his legs barely fit when sitting anywhere. Every time I bring him somewhere, some girl who has gone crosseyed grabs my arm and threateningly asks me who he is. His names Conor, he likes going to the movies and is very very kind. The single best part about tall tall Conor is that despite being a sexualized hunk of a man who may be perceived as some animal boy looking to cum on to anything, he could care less and winces if you say anything of the matter. He just wants to talk to you about everything and anything. He likes Chantal Ackerman, sitting in parks, eating soup, and going to Anthology film archives 20 thousand times a week. He's always there. He's always going there. He's always coming from there. The amount of times he has left me to go to Anthology is upsetting. We can't go near the place or I will lose him. He could be shot in the face but God forbid the ambulance go by Anthology or there will be a 90 minute pit stop to the movies. When he talks to you, he sucks the air in his teeth between words and sentences. It's very endearing to me for some reason. Ticks tell all! I've tried to distinguish when and when he does not suck the air in between his teeth out of curiosity as to what may turn off the tick. Conor makes me feel like a little baby but I at the same time feel older than him. We are the same age. I'm usually funny around him but also sometimes very serious and I reach into the weird deeper parts of my brain and he will sometimes just stare at me and I'll stare back and he will laugh at me and the stupid serious things I say and then he usually leaves me to go to Anthology.
Saturday, January 4, 2020
Saturday, December 21, 2019
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
The past few days have been so uncomfortable and obstructive. Post-sickness is almost worse than just being sick in the moment. Refraining from certain foods while feeling slightly off, achey muscles, fatigue, and dizziness make for strange days. Slow and lazy, unamused, uninspired, uninterested, all the feelings that aren't debilitating but just enough to puncture through the body and make living feel like work. I didn't drink for some days and slept early. I followed that awful BRAT diet. I ate rice out of my rice cooker with saltines and ginger tea, fell asleep 5 times a day and had terrible acid reflux. Yesterday evening, I tried to drink but had a hard time swallowing. I had a single glass of white wine at my friend's birthday gathering then ordered another and could barely finish it. I went to bed scared I'd wake up sick again but I am feeling back to complete normalcy. No acid reflux, no drowsiness, no soreness, just normal.
Walking down the street right after sunset, I ran into some men that I know. They are sort of like older brothers, or, my older brother's friends, or, my best friend's older brothers. I'm not so sure where to place them but they make me feel very safe to be me but also in some ways criticize the things I do. They invited me into the restaurant they were standing outside of for a drink. I told them I wasn't drinking but I'd eat some food. I told them all about how I had started HRT and how I could feel the changes coming. Men always seem so enamored by the effect hormones have on me. Women usually just laugh and say things like "You're like me now!" or "Welcome to the club!". When I tell men that my skin is getting softer or that I won't go bald, they turn their heads like people in movies. The instant I start talking about growing breasts, its all eyes and ears and many many jokes. I seldom am offended by jokes and my own personal rule is that if I love you, it's very hard to offend me. So when my 'older brother-type figures' in my life crack jokes about my transition, I don't really mind at all. It actually makes me feel more human and accepted. It wouldn't be fair to be exempt from all the foolish humor just because I'm not privileged in some way. Insisting on immunity simply because you are this or that only highlights whatever 'this' or 'that'' may be. If I scolded every man in my life for the stupid jokes they make, I would have no men in my life and they wouldn't have me in theirs. The jokes and humorous questions said to me by the men in my life are rarely ever actually offensive, but if I put on my activist mask, everything they say would suddenly become hushed and beaten, and what's the fun in that? If someone says something questionably dumb or something that I know may be offensive to someone else, I will tell them in verbalized slapstick that what they said is stupid. Other people in the LGBT community have expressed that I don't use my Instagram well enough because the lack of social justice and queer activism is a waste of the large platform I have. 14,000 followers is a lot of people but who's to say that silence isn't activism? My image online has morphed into something less personal and more secretive. I try not to post anything too telling of my world. It consists primarily of selfies, screenshots, and photos of strange things. I wondered if it was true that I wasn't using my Instagram profile to its best potential. It wasn't until I received messages from people of all kinds who said that they admired my lack of an activist's presence that it came to me that maybe acting as if I was just your typical city girl, that the deserved freedom of being would speak for itself. Is a trans person simply being not activism? It's also not my life's work to explicitly educate the masses through a platform that is conducive to poor judgement. I have things to do, people!
Going to go buy some groceries and eat udon then hopefully go see Uncut Gems in the evening.
Thursday, November 21, 2019
I was reading at the coffee shop a few days ago in the East Village and a rather frumpy old woman asked to sit at my table. She didn't seem to like me all that much for whatever reason but I kept to myself. The barista came over to her with her coffee and said, "Do you wanna spoon?" and she said yes, to which he replied, "Okay! You're place or mine?!" They both let out breathless laughs like broken wind instruments and I couldn't help but laugh along. The second my lips shaped into a smile and I let out a single breath of humor, they both stopped laughing and glared at me and went on their ways. She gathered her things and asked for a to-go cup and left briskly.
My attention span has truly morphed into something out of the ordinary ever since I deleted all my social media. I've been reading 3-5 books a week and practicing the piano with my greatest undivided attention. I'm constantly shocked at how much time has passed when I look up from my book or over at the clock when I'm playing piano. My brain surely does feel more stimulated and my anxiety has gone down revelatory amounts. The only problem with deleting social media is that close acquaintances think you've blocked them.
At a house party on Friday, I saw one of my crushes. He was with a girl who I could care less about so I stopped the pursuit there. I spent the whole party in my friend's bedroom and laid around on the bed with 8 or so other people, laughing, talking and being stupid. The next day, my crush texted me saying, "Are you mad at me? :( I tried to send you a song but it looks like you blocked me on Instagram! Did I do something?" I was flattered he cared enough to ask but also confused as to why he cares when he has a girlfriend now. "No," I said, "I just deleted it because I was spending too much time on my phone. But, btw, I don't really care you are seeing G. but you could've told me so I wouldn't have wasted so much time talking to you with a possibly romantic intention..." He replied quickly and apologetically, "No! We are only kind of seeing each other. I was talking to you too with a possibly romantic intention also..." I don't know what to think about it because I honestly feel asexual as of late. It didn't really phase me or make anything inside me feel very much. Ever since I started HRT a month ago, my romantic/sex drive has gone down significantly and it is truly a blessing. I was boy crazy for 3 years straight and now I'm finally feeling like I can breath again. I'm open to intimacy but don't desire it the way I used too. The other major difference I've noticed since I started HRT is that I only eat spicy food and my tolerance for spice skyrocketed essentially over night. Everything I eat must be spicy or I am bored. I also like rock music now.
A few weeks ago, Mercury passed over the Sun. I walked down to the East River Bandshell where astronomers from all over the city had set up telescopes for anyone to look through. I showed up near the final moments of the terrestrial event but still got a good view. Through the telescope, the Sun was a white circle and Mercury was a little black dot, moving at a glacial pace. It all felt rather significant and special and I talked to the astronomers about what it all means. I don't remember what they said but I felt very happy afterwards. I walked all over the city thinking about Mercury and it's little trip in front of the Sun. I don't know why it affected me so much but I can only assume it's because its such a relief to feel small and temporary. To remember that from Mercury's point of view, we are all essentially little tiny microscopic germs living incredibly short and meaningless lives. It put a pep-in-my-step to feel like a germ.
Trying to save my money up so I can take another month-long solo vacation to Iceland in February. It will be a feat if I manage but I've been longing to go for so long now and it feels like the right time to go. I want to go when Iceland is at it's most Icelandic self. Maybe Iceland's identity is stronger in December but I'm incredibly broke due to this frugal phase I'm in. All I want to do is go shopping and spend a lot of money on nice food. I've been eating at this pricey sushi restaurant alone a lot and ordering whatever I please. Now that is not an option, sadly. I want to be rich so I can eat wherever I want and order whatever I want. I don't really care for a nicer apartment or to own a car or anything like that, I just want to be able to order the nicest glass of wine with the nicest cut of the nicest fish. I dated a guy briefly who's billionaire father funded that lifestyle for him. It was nice to tag along but he ended up being rather spineless, as you can imagine.