femme ou homme?

Got off work last night and went to the bar with some friends. Was standing outside smoking when this semi-attractive, tall cartoon of a French man came up to me. He asked me for a dollar to give to a homeless man, a homeless man I know and have seen for years who is always high. He said the dollar was for some kind of medicine or something, I don't remember. I didn't have a dollar on me but even if I did, my answer still would have been "No." The Frenchman then began to tumble down a verble decline of a rant about Americans and greediness, rudeness, and unawareness. Halfway through his short episode, he paused and gave me a look I have seen many times in my life. It's usually always a look given from men - attractive men, ugly men, short men, tall men, left men, right men, artist men, and banker men. It's a look of confusion mixed with attraction and then like quicksand, turns into anger and frustration. The world's volume dials down and my hearing focuses solely on the words that are about to come out of the man's mouth. The man holds my attention hostage and I want to run away but also know that he should be the one running. He looks me in my eyes and his mouth begins to open, and this particular man looked to his otherFrench atrocities and he says, in English, Are yew boy or girl?  My brain snapped and suddenly my anger quickly becomes fear and then into sadness and back to anger in a matter of seconds.Why must I answer these questions? I don't remember what I said in return, it wasn't an answer but it definately did not make him happy. So then he proceeded to say, Euu, come on man, why do you half tew be sew boring? I walked away and let the words boil inside for a moment and then the fever passed but his words echoed many times in my head making it hard for me to engage in conversation. I sat inside, talking to some friends and not really listening. Just his entitled lips, spewing words I have heard too many times. A question I am tired of answering. A question I get thrown at me when I least expect it. At the grocery store, at the bar, by customers at work, always in airport security where I'll then be pulled aside and touched till they find the "truth". In bathrooms, the worst place of all to be asked this question, is especially a strife. I've been catapulted by strangers between bathrooms to the point where I just hold it in and try and find the "family restroom". 

I went back outside for a cigarette and he was outside still with his French exhibitionists, and when he saw me, he taps one of his friends on the shoulder and then folded his arms and nodded his head upward in my direction like a lizard. I was close enough to hear them, speaking in French about me. I don't speak French but I understand the gist of most sentences. I understood that he thought I was a bitch, that I was rude not to answer his invasive questions. When I went inside, I grabbed him on the shoulder as if I were his uncle, squeezing very hard, which is likely laughably weak, but I hope the effect was just the same. I got nervous for a moment. Whenever I am about to say something confrontational, I get dizzy and my vision falls apart, but I knew that even attempting was entertaining enough. I said, in the bestdramatized  French accent I could muster,  Euu, excusez - moi. Je te comprends et je suis un femme. His face lost it's macho-ness and he just stared at me for what felt like 5 seconds but it was likely just 1. He then said, as the door was on its own way to closing, Euu, I em sew sorry! Yew are just very attactive, I wasn't to offend yew. 

elderly tourist photo fascination

I'd love to go through an old person's computer. To see all the photos they've taken on their last vacation. Whenever I see elderly tourists in New York, they seem interested in most everything. Taking photos of restaurant signs, mailboxes, doors, crosswalks, candy cases at bodegas, their spouse squinting at a restaurant menu, the line outside the Supreme store on a Thursday, the subway entrance, the turnstile, the train, the advertisements inside the train, their destination. It's only a matter of time before some downtown guy makes a book of his grandparents travel photos and releases it at Mast or something.

Also - to Zoe D., FUCK U! Didn't buy the Rachel Cusk book you said - or the octopus book. Went with Jamie Bernstein's memoir, Famous Father Girl. It's about her father, Leonard Bernstein. I was hesitant to buy it because your commentary on my book choices was lingering in my mind. Lady working at McNally Jackson said it was "Divine." 

sour

A lot of my friends seem to be struggling with a lot and I feel like I'm incapable if helping them. Dating patterns coming to a frustrating surface, job searching, seas of depression leaving one home ridden for days. The list goes on. I'm notoriously bad at giving advice but I think I'm good company in bad times. Its reached a point however where I'm bored of other's perils and especially my own. Tired of thinking about the same, repetitive issues plagueing everyone around me !! I need, and my friends need, new problems for someone to solve. Writing hasn't felt all that great to me lately, neither has reading. This is probably an issue to do with the hot and humid weather. The blazing sun is a problem and unfortunately thats one problem I cannot solve. This happens to me at the beginning of every Summer I have spent in the city, though, and I expect it at this point; to feel unenthused by most things, to feel unattractive, to lose my appetite and to lose my somewhat good routine of practicing good health.

Yesterday, on a whim, I went and saw Booksmart, Olivia Wilde's directorial debut. It was a refreshing movie to watch compared to the films I normally see. I laughed a lot and then cried for a brief moment towards the end and that was enough emotion for this week. 

spitting distance

last night at work, there was a very crowded party for a David Hockney documentary restoration. It was shoulder-to-shoulder with friends and acquaintances. The entire evening I had In Californiaby Joanna Newsom stuck in my head. Only two verses though that I kept singing under my breath. 

But there is another,who is a little older.
When I broke my bone,
he carried me up from the riverside.

To spend my life in spitting-distanceof the love that I have known,I must stay here, in an endless eventide.
I went into the kitchen to polish some glasses and was still singing these two verses under my breath and my co-worker said, Who are you talking about?

lacosteless

I finished Too Much and Not the Mood by Durga Chew-Bose this morning. It was okay. I thought I had only $3 in my bank account so I figured I'd have to wait till payday to buy the book I wanted. After lunch with a friend, I noticed that I had gotten paid from a job I did way back in February. It was the best sort of relief. I went to McNally Jackson and picked up An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination by Elizabeth McCracken. I stood around outside and had a cigarette while looking at all the books in the window. I decided I should treat myself to some sort of new garment or two. I went to Uniqlo and was quickly overwhelmed. I grabbed some new white socks and a long black rayon skirt and went outside. Remembered my friend Mathilde had mentioned Lacoste makes nice shirts so I went across the street and tried on every color of many sizes. I couldn't decide on which one to buy so I left, Lacoste-less.

Going to go work at the movie theater now and go see if Ethan is at the library.

-m.

time stamps

I'm very thankful for timestamps, especially regarding text messages.

I was overcome with a violently quick transition into depression tonight while at work. It wasn't a threatening sadness, it was almost comforting but still in some ways uncomfortable. It felt as though a second body had come into me and taken hostage of my own self. I texted Ethan and said, "So depressed tonight. its ok tho. but im at work about to get off and feeling like crying idk why wish u could teleport here i rly wanna watch a old movie w u or something n be depressed hoping its ok to blame the full moon" 
He didn't respond for nearly 2 hours but I didn't mind. I had assumed he was already asleep or simply just didn't care about my silly pity tirade. I got home and began doing the dishes when he texted me,

"Forgot about full moon :) ya im choosing to wallow a bit which is ok i think and maybe u should do the same and find something good to read or movie u love and go back to it" 
I didn't respond because I was too invested in the dishes and getting to my already planned reading. 4 minutes later, when I was done doing the dishes, he sent,
"TV is obviously not an answer to being sad and im wary of those people but there was new PBS show tonight u can probably find called Rivers of the World first episode was about the Nile and i recommend it it slowed me down" 
I knew I wouldn't watch it as all I wanted to do was read, but the time distanced between those two messages was enough for me to feel better. Just 4 short minutes had gone by but it was endearing to know that he felt maybe the first message wasn't enough, or, that the second message was better. I don't know. It sounds silly to look so deeply into something so mundane, everyone is texting all the time at different paces, but it was much better to hear what he had to say than the often read, "Aw im sorry. Gonna head to bed, hope you feel better!" which is also acceptable. It's just very obvious, through timestamps, when you can see that someones intentions are much more intuitive than they are learned. The learned response to respond, or, the intuitive motion of saying something you want to say.
When my best friend Tess and I text, it can be as though we are having two, sometimes even three conversations at once. Tess will first send me "What are you doing tonight" and before I can respond, send, "Look at this photo of ScarJo I found at my job" and before I can even respond to that, she'll send, "walking to b&h meet me there?" It's not overwhelming to me because I love her, and it's not at all hard for me to respond to all three. My responses would be, "no plans." and then, "lol love scarjo can I have it?" and finally, "No i just ate." The timestamps between these messages can vary 5 seconds, 15 minutes, or even 3 hours, but they never annoy me. However, if someone who for some unknown reason bothered me at all, this would be, in simple terms, extremely irritating. If I imagine someone I don't like sending me texts asking about my future, Scarlett Johansson, and if I wanted to eat breakfast, I'd be really, really, annoyed. These are all obvious observations, but it's when I catch myself unable to code switch from texting Tess to texting a crush, that I find I may be too quick to judge when someone decides its time to blow up my phone.

I have no reservations when it comes to casual communication. I don't think too incessantly about timing when texting. I'm not analyzing how I may be read based on the time differences between each unanswered texts. I'm simply just sending someone my thoughts. It's only after the fact that I begin to ponder timestamps labeling the text messages.
When I imagine the time of sending letters, prior to the phone even, I long for that sense of inherent patience. I would consider myself patient, but there are many times when I catch myself checking my phone every 10 seconds to see if so-and-so responded to something I said that's in dire need of an answer of some kind. There is nothing worse than a bitter conversation over text, and 10 minutes feels as though its been hours because you're waiting to hear what so-and-so had to say about your anger. I can't imagine sending someone a letter filled with burning questions that needed answers, and having to wait so long to maybe read what the answer is, that is, if it doesn't get lost in the mail - or even worse, if they decide to even answer it. How would this sort of duration change one's questions?
When for whatever reason I don't respond to Tess and her usually humorous texts, I don't feel bad. She knows, and I know, that the sometimes long gaps in our responses aren't very telling. I didn't respond to Ethan but I don't feel bad because I know, and he also knows, I'll respond in the morning with something unrelated. Those 4 minutes between each short paragraph of advice said more than the advice itself.

anywho, this thought is going on for too long and my eyelids are falling.

-m

:t:o:o: :b:a:d:

Was doing very well for a few weeks. Was feeling confident and sure of myself - stable? Fell off whatever concrete platform I was standing on and now I'm feeling as though I'm standing on glass again. Noticed that after every interaction I had last night, I would feel very regretful of the things I said. I only said one bad thing, I think, about my best friend. I wish I hadn't said it and I knew as I was saying it that I shouldn't but it just fell out quicker than I could think to stop myself. Afterwards felt very unnattracted to myself. Wondering how this side comes out - what happened? 48 hours ago felt genuinely clear and independent. Catching myself falling and walking in straight lines, finding pleasure in very many things little and large, listening more and talking less - was a niceshort era that unfortunately seems to have ended last night. Too bad! 

-m.

on keeping a blog

I've never really written for an audience outside of academic purposes and I am surprised at how difficult it is. With my journal, I've noticed that my writing is much better because the notion of prefacing any sort of event or relationship isn't necessary; the writing speaks for itself.

My internal narration has changed drastically since starting a blog. When I narrate, I am not actively producing work in my head or pulling for ideas of things to write about. It's always after the thought that I would consider it something I may write. The words come much easier and are concise. There is no second guessing or time to edit your own thoughts. But now I catch myself narrating for an audience. It's most frustrating because the best sentences come and then disappear before I can document it. A week ago, I would have been surprised to hear if someone changed their inner dialogue because one word sounded better than the other. Now, I am catching myself doing just that. If you are editing your thoughts then you are likely digging for something to say and I really don't enjoy digging.

When I write in my journal, I am in fact digging for material because there has to be a forethought that is directing me to write whatever it is I am writing about that day. My journal writing isn't abstract or intellectual, I'm simply retelling things that happened to me and then usually following with my internal reaction to the thing I just wrote about. I write stories for myself and I honestly don't know why. The only possible reason I can imagine is because it helps me see whats really going on around me. It's rare that I look back at my journals and come across anything anyone other than myself would find profound.

Writing for an audience is mostly strange for me because I'm hearing a new voice I'm not all that familiar with. I'm shaking hands with a voice that has only shown itself on the periphery. It's much more juvenile sounding than the poised and speedy flow of my journal writing. I recently tapped into some journal writing to see if I could catch my voice again but it's nearly impossible because of the aforementioned problem of prefacing and context. My biggest obstacle at the moment is getting over the fear of regret and the already apparent presence of embarrassment. There is no embarrassment with journal writing unless someone finds it and reads it without your consent - but in that case, shame on them! As with a blog, maybe shame on me.

trauma aroma

Went through a box I found under my bed today.It had an old magazine, Japanese Yen, packing tape, a Clif Bar and a small vile of perfume I hadn't smelled in 2 years. When I opened it and put itup to my nose, I was brought back to a very strange day. 

Someone I wasn't dating broke up with me on the street. It started to thunderstorm and it was maybe 90 degrees outside. I cried for a moment in the rain. I heard a quote that goes along the lines of "If you cry in the rain, no one will know you are crying." Thats not true. 

I walked up Bowery and went into a small shop on east 4th where you can make your own fragrance using 7-10 different oils. It takes quite a while because there are maybe 200 different oils. While I was making my selection, the old Thai woman who's owned the place for decades said, "I can smell cancer, you know." 

The scent only smelled good right when I made it, but that night at dinner, all of my friends told me I smelled like a box of baby wipes. I never used the scent again, but, finding it a couple of years later, and smelling the preserved mixture of geranium, grapefruit, rose hip, gardenia, etc., it was a nice way of watching a memory. I've heard many times that scent is the best mode of sensory for recalling memories, but usually we smell the same scent over time and that one particular aroma may recall more than one memory. It's nice to know that I possess a bottle of a single memory that doesnt share any other pasts. No one else has worn it nor have I worn it since that pitiful day. The best part is that the perfume I made doesn't make me sad when I smell it, it actually just makes me cringe with embarrassment but in a very comforting way maybe only I can understand. 

I was walking up a very quiet street one time when I got a whiff of perfume that transported me back to the backseat of my mom's car. The scent came in another wave a few moments later andI could  envision my mother and I at a shopping center. I ran to the only person in front of me and asked them what scent they were wearing. It was Chanel Mademoiselle. I called my mom to ask if she had ever worn that particular perfume and she said she had, but only for a short time.

Sometimes I smell other cities inside of New York. The Upper East Side often smells like Tokyo and the Lower East Side smells like the Hungarian countryside. I like the way public libraries smell like germs. 

Maybe the next time something traumatizing happens to me, I'll walk into a drug store and buy any perfume and wear it just for that day. Then I could add the bottle to my box and have a box of fragrant time capsules. It could be good days or bad days, but maybe most importantly days I just want to smell again. 

-m. 

summer girl

Worked at the bookstore today. This guy I used to have a harmless crush on came to visit me but I had already left. He sent me a photo of the bookstore as a way of saying "I'm here but you're not" so I told him to come meet me on the bench where I was reading my book. I let him read my journal which was funny.

Couldn't decide on which book to buy today. It was either John Water's new memoir or Durga Chew-Bose, Too Much and Not the Mood. Went with the latter because my internal narrator is too vulnerable for a voice like Water's at the moment.

Enjoying the humid weather for the first time in my recent memory. Not a summer girl but maybe this summer I will be.

-m.

wine memory

Ran into someone I used to be romantically involved with at the coffee shop the other day. We were seeing each other for about 9 months and then we got bored. He's extremely rich and doesn't really do all that much other than buy nice wines and go to dinner parties. Towards the end of our 'friendship', it was his birthday, and I went out of my way to buy him a really nice bottle of wine - his favorite - in a magnum sized bottle. The bottle was so big and heavy and sucked my money dry but I thought it would be a nice gift for someone who had spent so much money on me in the past months. I went to the wine shop that he frequents and told the people working not to tell him that I of all people had bought the magnum of his favorite wine. That week, he just so happened to begin distancing himself from me as I tried again and again to give him the bottle of wine. Each day that went by, the bottle stared at me in the kitchen and I almost opened it with friends. Two weeks went by and I thought about throwing it on the ground outside his apartment. I always fantasized about the distinct label flowing in the wind to his feet when he opened his door. Finally, after a few more attempts, I went to the bakery he worked at and gave the bottle of wine to his boss. "Tell him happy birthday from me." "OOh no," his boss, an older Latin woman said, "Meetka's pissed. What did that idiot do?" I left a note that said something like "Happy Birthday, glad to call you a friend!" on parchment paper. Some hours later, I got a text from him saying, "Meetka! thank you." I didn't respond and a few hours later he called me asking to hang out and apologized for the distance. He complained that the note I left with the $120 bottle of wine was not warm enough. Things felt normal again.
A few days later, I went to go visit him at the bakery and he asked me to join him to his friend's apartment for a dinner party. The dinner parties he brought me to were always strange. Most of his friends went to Bard and live in Brooklyn now. I really only liked one of his friends, J, who never said anything as annoying as his other friends. J was the reason I could handle the dinner parties. He knew how to laugh. I said I'd love to go to the dinner party and suggested we bring the magnum bottle of wine. He went silent and said "I drank it. With my friends." I was pissed. Not because I missed out on the flavor of the wine but because the gesture said so much of his character. Insecure about putting so much weight on this seemingly petty thing, I asked some older people if it was wrong of me to feel angry that someone drank a bottle of wine without me.

S., owner of a restaurant said, "Why the fuck are you even friends with this guy."
A., Wine director at wine bar said, "Okay my opinion is sort of biased but you don't do that. He has a lot of learning to do."
F., One of his friends said, "God he's such a fucking asshole sometimes lol."

I brought it up to him the park one day. I told him it bothered me. He of course had no idea why I was bothered by his slap to my wrist but I explained myself and that felt good enough. He thought that I meant that any time you give someone a bottle of wine, they can't open it till both the giver and the receiver are able to enjoy it together. That would be ridiculous. I give people bottles of wine monthly and rarely ever expect them to wait for me to open it. But this was different. This was someone who I spent many many evenings with and had a relationship where wine and food played a large role. The bottle of wine was more of a sentiment than it was a gift.

After seeing him at the coffee shop the other day, I realized that I was in fact wrong to care about the bottle of wine at all. I felt embarrassed to have put so much emotional energy into that silly little hiccup. I should've listened to my friends when they told me from the beginning that he probably lacked decent manners being a billionaire and all. (I.e. when I took care of his cat for two weeks pro-bono and the night he got back he asked me to split the bill.) I don't dislike the guy, we're still friends in some ways and I'm usually happy to run into him. He actually made me and my friends Christmas dinner months after this whole wine incident. He still, in some ways, means a lot to me but now I just know not to buy him, or any rich kids, anything nice again.

Ethan texted me the other evening asking if I wanted to accompany him to go hear Paul Auster speak in the basement at McNally Jackson over in Soho. I agreed only because I had nothing to do but also because I was hoping that Auster's wife, Siri Hustvedt would be there. Ethan likes Paul Auster and I like Siri Hustvedt. Ethan rarely ever reads anything I tell him to and I rarely ever read anything he tells me to, but after hearing Auster read a few essays from his new book, I was intrigued enough to buy a copy and have him sign it. When I got my book signed, I felt so silly, I couldn't really understand why I was letting this author who I've never read sign a book I had barely any intention of reading. I was genuinely just interested in seeing what my favorite author's husband looked like up close. 

Why I'm a Blogger now

On Sunday, in the late afternoon, I ran into a girl I know, Z, at Essex Market. I hadn't gone to sleep yet and she had taken ecstasy the night before and hadn't gone home yet. We both laughed about it while I waited for the cute deli guy to finish making my sandwich. We always get along and have ever since I was in high school. We decided to leave the market and go get a glass of wine. I love Z because we have the same sense of humor and have fluid conversation but we rarely ever plan to hang out. It's always a nice surprise. I had a glass of wine and she had soda water with bitters. We talked about a guy we both find attractive for about 20 minutes and then she told me she and her friend, N, were starting blogs and that I should start one too.

I don't necessarily have an agenda with this blog or any idea of what I'll use it for. I'm sort day dreaming about it becoming my trash can of thoughts because my real journal, my handwritten one, is much more private and manicured. This could be a good tool for me to simply just write whatever, whenever, with an understanding that there is potential someone else may read it without my discretion. I also want to get used to writing on my computer. I almost always write by hand. There is something exciting about that to me. The only people who read my journal are my best friends when I'm too depressed to speak for myself. The only people who see my paintings are those who stay the night because my only way of storing them is by hanging them. Even then, if I don't forget, I will take them all down before they enter my room. 

I do have a fun idea of just putting links to songs, photos, videos, etc. and also putting in some gossip I hear through the grapevine. I wonder if anyone's ever had a gossip column titled, Through the Grapevine? Sounds like something from the 1960's in Palm Springs. 

-m.