pretending to sleep,,,

I heard an old man talking on the phone say, in a thick Jersey accent, "If you wanna read the most disturbing thing this week, go pick up NEW YORK MAGAZINE. Ya' know, at a bodega or somethin'!" I walked across the street and looked for it in a deli - I flipped through the pages and found nothing too scary. I still find myself wondering what article he was talking about! If you think you know, let me know. 

On the train back from Montreal on tuesday, my friend and I sat in the dining car for 6 hours. We were laughing a lot and being rather loud. There was an unattended 11 year old boy sitting behind me, playing videogames on an Ipad or something. He kept looking at us and I said to my friend that we were probably annoying him. The kid took off his large headphones and turned around to say, "YOU'RE NOT ANNOYING ME!" He then kept repeating himself. "Seriously, you're not annoying." "No, I don't CARE." 

My friend Ethan asked me if I ever pretend to sleep and I said no. He said he pretends to sleep when other people are milling about the room or apartment. I think I've probably done this only to avoid something. I do remember pretending to sleep one time when I was mad at a boy and I wanted to see how far he'd go believing I was asleep. He didn't try very long to "wake me up" but I was relieved he didn't get a smirk out of me. I'm usually very bad at acting. I forget why I was mad at him and why I thought pretending to be in a deep sleep at 4pm would solve anything. With the same boy, I fell asleep on his sofa watching a boring movie. I was genuinely asleep but I woke up as he carried me to bed. I pretended to sleep then, I think, but he could tell I had woken up. 

I don't know why I told Ethan I don't pretend to sleep but as I remember more and more occasions where I have pretended to sleep, I realize thatI do it quite often but usually in spite of someone. It sounds to me that his version of pretending to sleep is much more meditative and relaxing. That he just lies there to hear doors open and close, toilets flushing, sinks running, and the normal little noises of the morning. He says he even pretends to sleep when he's alone which is just weird to me. I couldn't give myself a reason to do this. I usually just wake up and don't acknowledge the bridge between asleep and awake that precisely. I wake up like people in antidepressant commercials. 

I decided to read fiction finally. I counted and read 24 nonfiction books in a row. Ethan had convinced me to buy Birds of America by Lorrie Moore.I've known her name since I was a kid. I can picture her books in my living room growing up or in the back of my mom's car. I read the first two stories and I don't know what to think. I'm just having a hard time reading fiction in general. 

I was walking home from the grocery store today when a skater boy I slept with rode his board in front of me, cutting me off. We walked and talked. He invited me for a beer but I declined because I wanted to make sandwiches with the meat I brought back from Montreal. I sat on my living room floor with my food and watched Home Alone 2 and texted the skater boy asking him to throw a beer into my window. He said I don't drink beer, which is true, but it sounded really really good with my salami and sour cream sandwich. 

-m

in montreal

Arrived in Montreal Thursday evening after a long 12 hour train ride from New York. The journey went by quickly as I spent most of my time in the food car eating hot dogs and staring out the window at the  Adirondack mountains. I fell asleep with my face on the table listening to the only other two people in the dining car talk about the housing market. I had predicted that I'd spend all 12 hours reading but the truth came to be that I read only 10 pages. I even tried to do the crossword but my focus only extended so far.

My friend and I arrived in Montreal and immediately began to analyze the city as if we had been here for years. Comparing and contrasting it to other places we have been. The first thing that bothered me, which for some reason didn't bother me 5 years ago, was Montreal's clear attachment to France, especially Paris. It smells strongly of desperation here, a desperation to be magnificently and culturally different from its neighbors. For example, Starbucks is called, "Café Starbucks" in Paris, it's just called "Starbucks". There seems to be a dire need to flaunt the city's European culture but there is a strong lack of evidence to prove the city's case. The mom n' pop shops are designed to look like Sweetgreens and no one seems to enjoy having a glass of wine and a cigarette. Not that those things make or break a city but if Montreal has such a strong sense of cultural sisterhood with Paris, or even France as a whole, they have a lot of work to do. Or undo. 

The people in Montreal are all incredibly kind. There is a warm sensation interacting with the people here. It reminds me of Chicago in the way that the midwestern identity humbles the metropolitan culture. There is something strangely rural about Montreal that makes me homesick for the cornfields and eccentricities of southern Ohio. Montreal is not too dissimilar from Chicago and Ohio...it may even have an essence of Grand Rapids. 

I've been sad here. I feel unamused and deflatedby this city. I feel frustrated by the things that are on pause back in New York but also frustrated by the way Montreal functions. I think I need to take a vacation that is either in a more bustling, stimulating, culturally sensational in comparison to New York type city, or, go to a rural, isolating, meditative sort of environment. The original plan was to go to Iceland for a week but my finances escaped me. 

I can't wait to be back in NY. It truly does feel like home. I never get this homesick - usually not even at all. I spent a month alone in Tokyo and not an ounce of homesickness ran through me. I went to Europe for a month and the most homesick I felt was when I heard my neighbor playing piano in Berlin and then I too so badly wanted to play piano. Homesickness for me usually comes about in the senses and I don't really ever miss people. When I was maybe 9 years old at a summer camp in northern Michigan, nestled into the sand dunes and on the shore of a silent lake, I distinctively remember only ever feeling homesickness when Dave Matthews Band came out from the camp counselors private cabin. My mom loved DMB.

 Overall, I am having a good time here. I'm laughing a lot and indulging in things I don't normally. Eating out for breakfast and what have you. 

I went to a thrift store to find my friend a sweater or a t-shirt but I realized I'm terrible at buying people clothes. I ended up buying a lavender turtleneck, for myself. I bought two packs of cigarettes and flirted with the waiter at the pizza restaurant. He flirted back but once someone starts flirting with me I become a mute. 

-m

screaming woman, good luck charm, autumn running

My dear friend Violet called me the other evening to let me know she was in the park across the street from my apartment. She asked if I'd join her and I said no, that I was comfortable on my couch, drinking wine, watching the news. She decided that sounded nice too. When she walked in, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a little yellow plastic creature and tossed it across my living room. Here, take this she said. A bunch of people have been passing it around, it's a good luck charm. I put it in my pocket, excited for its  powers.

I had heard through the grapevine that an Italian man I have known for a few years is now single and interested in me. I got his phone number and texted him. He responded some hours later and we planned to have a drink the following evening. It just so happened to be his birthday the day I reached out. The evening of our planned meeting, I texted him around 6pm and he never texted back. I wasn't hurt more than I was annoyed.
I decided that I'd go see Midsommar, the movie that literally everyone is talking about this week. "How are you?" has been replaced by, "Have you seen Midsommar?" All that I've been saying to people regarding the film is that it's not a good movie but that they should go see it.

Going to Montreal a week from today for a long weekend. My friend R. and I are visiting her friend, H. We don't really have much of a plan other than to just relax, maybe find a place to swim. I'm secretly most excited about the train ride there and back. I heard online that it's a very beautiful ride. I went to Montreal once in high school with my friend Sophie. We went for our senior year spring break while the rest of the class went to Florida. We drove from Ohio to New York so we could see Bjork play at Carnegie Hall. We then drove up to Maine to drink coffee and look at the ocean. The water was much too cold to swim. Our last big stop was in Montreal, where we visited my friend Kathryn, who was studying at McGill. I don't remember much of what the city looked like. It was snowy and I got pulled over for turning right on a red light. We ate sushi, I think. One night, in Kathryn's large and charming apartment, we fell asleep with the windows open. The sounds of yelling college students and drunk escapades lulled me to sleep in the living room. Between asleep and awake, a scream had caught my attention and gradually lifted me into awareness. Kathryn came out of her bedroom and she looked at me with an intense silence. The scream wasn't outside, it was in fact in her stairwell. An unforgettable, paralyzing scream. A scream I had in that moment realized I had never heard. A horror movie-in-real-life scream. The screaming woman was yelling at someone but we heard no other voice. Fists banging on a glass paned door, screaming, screaming screaming. Kathryn called the cops and in the meantime, the screaming kept up. 2 minutes later - dead silence. We looked out Kathryn's window which faced the street. The cop car was empty and into our frame of view came the woman, shaking, talking to a police officer. One of the two cops opened the car door and the screaming woman who was no longer screaming gently entered the car, hands free with her head up. That's most of what I remember of Montreal.

I just finished reading Joan Didion's White Album. Many people over the years have persisted that I read it. I didn't like Slouching Towards Bethlehem all that much but I would consider The Year of Magical Thinking one of the best books I've read. I didn't care much for White Album once it was over. I don't care much for the 60's or the 70's. People back then, especially men, seemed really stupid based on the little I have read and watched and learned. It really bothers me. I also hate the imagery of that time. I had a brief moment where the clothing was inspiring to me but now that regurgitated fad is irrelevant and it repulses me. While reading White Album, I found myself squirming a lot. I liked the last essay, however, about the orchids and Malibu.

This Summer is not so good so far. It feels as though the energy has been sucked out of just about everyone that I know. Not in the usual post-beach exhausted-ness that is actually rather comforting, but as if everyone's motivation and excitement has been sucked out of them entirely. There is a dull-ness to this Summer that I don't think has much potential to shift or change or evolve before Autumn comes. My friends are blue, the air is thick, no one seems to want to eat. The parties feel more like chores and doing laundry feels like a punishment. It's simply this Summer's mood. This Summer's identity. It's the theme that when remembered will be the antithesis of the decade's final Summer: Dead.

That being said, there is one thing I do like about this Summer. I like the way that everyone seems the be extremely sick of one another. It's in many ways entertaining compared the companionship and  camaraderie I witnessed last Summer. The dreadfulness of everyone's presence is actually keeping drama at bay because no one wants to even sour their time interacting with one another. I can only imagine how things will look when Autumn comes around. I'm daydreaming of putting on my coat and stockings, reading outside without beads of sweat dripping onto the pages. Food tasting good again and hangovers not being as bad. I can't wait for the sun to go down at a reasonable hour and for it to rise when I like to wake up. To walk into my living room in the morning and not be hit by a wave of heat from keeping the air conditioners off. To take warm baths again and for my skin to be cleared of all the humid dirt that rests on my face. I long for the not-so-far days of normalcy. Summer feels like one long weekend.

The party ended this year before it started.

Need to get ready for work tonight at the movie theater. I hope my crush comes in and says hi. I tried to convince him the other night to go watch Takashi Miike's, Audition but I don't believe he did.

-m.

foggy open mouthed

Been going out a lot lately and unraveling more and more. Saying too much or saying too little. No drama but lots of strong reactions from me and those around me. Was walking home with two bottles of wine when a skater hollered at me from the park benches across from my apartment. It took me a moment to find him in my memory but I found him. I met him with another skater who I had a short affair with. What a silly time. I should've kept it to myself but after sitting on my roof for an hour, I slipped that secret out about his friend and I. My friends who were all there on my roof with us seemed ambivalent about my open mouth - which I am sure they are used to. 

I did, however, refuse to indulge in heavy emotions earlier in the night amongst a vulnerable and weary crowd. There was some fog in the air that some wanted cleared - to know how I felt about a certain relationship in the room. But I kept my mouth closed and just pretended it was all rainbows and daisies like the midwestern housewife I can be sometimes. I then actually began to feel fine about the whole thing and the fog cleared. Now I know what to do ! :)

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