I know a great vending machine around here where you can get a coke.
March 5, 2011 § 1 Comment
Up-up with back tingles that border on spasms. I still haven’t replaced the shade I ripped from my window so by about 11 am the light strikes my face with a magnifying glass’s intensity. Everyday I wake up and remember my 9 to 5 jobs. Remember waking at 7:30am?
I then place my long hair over my eyes as a sleeping mask and roll on to my back for a good half an hour.
(Also: everyday I wake up thinking I should replace that fucking shade for ten dollars. Part of me is scared that if i clothe the window then I’ll sleep forever.)
If I wake up before noon I watch at least 5 minutes of the View for the chitterchatter tvhum. It swoons my blood for “the other.”
For an hour and a half I make and drink as much tea as I can. I alternate between bare feet and worn slippers whose faux fur guts are now gray. (As opposed to the flush beige of their infant months.)
I read “my blogs.” (I now equate the reading of said blogs as “my stories” because of the gossipy and dumdum nature of most of them. Some mornings I can’t handle lit blogs.)
Pick out my clothes. Mini skirt and aqua tights. Nails done and some red lipstick. Boots.
Crisis call from a redheaded workaholic Manhattanite.
I read. Stall.
Get dressed. Feel accomplished for wearing something other than sweats and Uggs. (I rallied against those so hard initially. Now look at me. Suburban loopdie loo.)
Throw on some rings and my watch. (Hey look! I care about the time!)
Get into the car. Tape deck that mother fucker to the ipod. REVREV I’m off. Construction at the Pelham Bay Bridge- Take Hutch South to I-95 South and beast off onto Westchester Ave. Bypass Buhre. Careen into a perfect patch of concrete perpendicular to the Middletown el stop.
Train train. All of it reading end notes. Start off all empty in my teeth marrow. Somehow time sorts itself into the losing center of a sinkhole when I’m reading. Not in that corny way— more in the “there’s a hole in the boat and we’re gonna drown faster than we can bail sorta way.” This bothers me. I crawl inside books and they breathe slowly through me and when I “come to” my breath is catching up my life to my mind.
I walk over to the CUNY Grad center. Wow. First time there. Impressive. Ionic columns I think? I don’t look at the tops because I’m running late. I did a great project on columns once in the 5th grade.
“Where is the such and such room?” I ask the bored guardian of the elevator bank.”GETHTHEFUCKOUTAMYFAVKMREL” she replies. “UH, EXCUSE ME?”
“THEE ELUHVATUH TO THE NINTH*” she speaketh in excited hisses.
*”tuh tha left”
I AM RIGHT ON TIME,
but the seats are full. I swing around in front of the dais and politely ask a Neil Gaiman (but less persuasive) looking man if the seat is taken.
He ushers me in. Two minutes later I regret sitting next to him. I don’t like the way he crosses his legs. Usually I’m equal opportunity—but he smells like a manufactured dusk meadow that someone has added witchcraft herbs to.
I am behind a girl who nods constantly at the speaker.
Stop the nod.
I regret coming 10 minutes after listening to the archivists go on. I decide reinserting myself into an academic environment too early has fouled my senses and blunted my creative urges. Or maybe it has done the opposite. Maybe all I want to do is write. All these 45-62 year old interesting necklaced and tweed farting folk. I need to get the fuck out. I’ll write my hard drive into my will.
They are shilling for stuff. The book release is the second half of the program. FUCKIT I say and slip out—
On the elevator: two women talking about research quotes in a hands-on context. The valuable nature of interviewing hard-to-reach people (I am thinking Africa or the homeless or some equally well intentioned outreach stuff. These safari-white women give that yogic impression of searching for their centers and absorbing peoples woes… churning out experience butter and looking to slather it into social work and published reviews and stats that earn them validated rights to traverse the earth as being people in NEW YORK who CARE. I am unsure how I come off saying this. But I hated their “terms” and then changed my mind and loved them. I have been trying to withhold judgments regarding others lately. Good to let this out.)
I pass a Hello Kitty store on 33rd street. I take a photo with my 35mm Olympus XA. I know I will not see that photo until the roll is finished and I scan it. I am using expired 800 speed film—so the outcome is dicey to begin with.
I get a phonecall and put down my coffee mug because I must have two bags with me (if toting books) and am unable to shuffle everything correctly. Or juggle.
I enter the subway, forgetting about the mug.
I realize I don’t have it as I stand in front of a person who I don’t see. I see all of their possessions jumbled into a seat into a clothing/accessory conglomerate which is when I smack the side of my head.
Because I have left early and have nothing spectacular to do (with no intention of taking the effort to plan anything), I immediately resolve to buy another mug the instant I get off the train.
A child is blowing a whistle over and over again. Her mother and her sister are talking over it. I wonder if I am the only one clenching my teeth a little.
I unman the 6 train, hop in Lucille and get on the Hutch. Everyone is going so slow. I am in the fast lane going 60. GAH. I try to relax. Usually shit doesn’t bother me but tonight I have a coffee mug to replace and nowhere to go which makes me agitated.
I pull a really risky left turn in front of oncoming traffic and bolt into the Target parking lot. I feel better.
The hum of the Target relaxes me. Everything is on shelves and the grocery aisles are pleasing in particular. Things have price cuts. People are grabbing, conversing, socializing. Doing a routine. I pluck my soup and go to pay for it and my coffee mug. I replace the one I lost with the same make and color sans handle. I am clearly ok with everything. Most of the time I am not into the spending aspect of consumerism as it pertains to my wallet. Like any American who likes yellow cheese and old Dodge Darts, I find the lull of supermarkets and the colorscapes of retail as a sort of perverse art gallery.
For some reason I overshoot my parking place when going home. My mind talks to my hands, talk to the wheel, talk to the car, the road, and so on. I circle a distant echo empty parking lot, absorbing the waning bass thump of a particularly bad workout song. Back at my parking spot on a side street…everything has a peculiar stasis, resolve. I get to my mailbox and don’t remember the walk there. The elevator is not on call and I enter onto the hardwood floor. The clunk of my boots reminds me to take them off. I unravel everything in my arms and make some soup.