Have you ever rode the train and noticed someone looking your way just a minute too long? What thoughts does this invoke in you?
For me it's usually one of two things: do I have some toilet paper sticking out of my pants or some other weird thing on my body? Or, is this person having sexual thoughts about me? The latter is only true of male commuters.
I've been told by a number of folks that the train is a huge breeding ground for sexual fantasy. I can see that. It's totally an uninterrupted vantage point of bodies gyrating in sync with the cars bounces and thrusts. Muscles move and curves accentuate. The train can be a pretty hot place if you allow it to be, in your mind. Or in reality if you're ballsy enough... It's fun, try it ;) -
Tonight I am riding the car to school for academic advisement and registration. Yay This is so exciting.
Exciting, too, is the man that is sitting across from me, unable to take his eyes off of my nude calves as they travel down into my chunky red heels. Summer in the city -
I see him watching me - and whenever I look over his way, his eye slightly wanders in an attempt to hide what he's doing. I move my calves, cross my legs and the likes. I want him to keep looking.
He does.
Does he know what I am doing? Mind-fuking him? Slowly and carefully with each soft movement I make, I am dancing with what I imagine to be his erect penis underneath that Brooklyn Industries messenger bag on his lap. Keep looking, baby... Keep looking.
A few seats away I see the largest pair of mens feet ever.
I am out of control today - And, a taste was all it took.
There may be something to this sexual addiction shit after all....
Fuck!
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Death Trinity
Every day when I wake and check my e-mails and social networking accounts, I’m either met with happy thoughts, annoyances, or tragic news. Yesterday it was tragedy times two.
I noticed my father had posted a Rest in Peace onto our mutual friend Francois’ page. Some years ago Francois was diagnosed with Cirrhosis, a disease my father, too, suffers from. Like my dad, he underwent various treatment options which included holistic medicine, dietary restrictions and finally pharmaceutical intervention by means of a drug called Interferon, an extremely potent anti-viral agent that is known to rip you to shreds prior to making a smidgen of a difference for the better. Patients who undergo Interferon treatment are often on their last legs and it is through the administration of this intravenous drug that they seek solace. There are various psychiatric and physical side effects that come along with its implementation – and it is not all that uncommon to hear of suicide attempts or addiction relapse while on treatment.
Francois didn’t go by either of these means. He was on a transplant list and time ran out. My father’s interferon treatment proved successful some years ago. He was being treated not for the later stages of Cirrhosis like Francois, but for Hepatitis C, which both he and my mother have as a result of intravenous drug-use – and/or possible intercourse. It’s hard to tell when you’re sharing needles AND having sex.
Later in the day I called my father to check in and see how he was feeling in the wake of his buddy’s death. They were a close knit team he and Francois. They’d often hang out together, go to dinners and do things boys like to do, like play racquetball and things of this nature. It’s never easy to lose a friend. “Bad day, Kitty… Bad day… Just got another call that Greg died this morning, too.” – I was a little confused. Greg who? Greg from our old block in Gravesend?? My father clarified it for me,“Greg – the guy that helped me move you out of the apartment with Daniel”
I’d only met Greg once – he seemed like a nice enough guy and he was there to help me during a time that I felt pretty alone in the grand scheme of things. He and my father joked around a bunch about breaking Daniel’s giant flat screen TV as a little going away present and at the time it really annoyed me. I believe in a lady making a graceful exit. Looking back, though – I can see where it comes from. My father’s little girl was hurting and where else aside from a punch to the nose could a man hurt another man but their expensive lavish electronics cache. Thanks, pop!
Greg’s body was found in a basement of a housing project in Brooklyn. Overdose. Everyone in the meetings he attended with my father up until his demise knew him to be a recovering heroin addict but this particular housing project he was found in is notorious for crack so who the hell knows. It’s just a sad scene all around.
I told my father that I’m sure he didn’t want to hear it but these events should have him stepping back and taking a look at the choices he’s made recently that have allowed him to be here another day. “Da, I know we could all go at a moments notice but I think this is sort of a spiritual way of the world letting you know you’re supposed to be here. Both of those kinds of death could have easily been yours” –
“I know, Kitty. I know”.
I’m truly happy my father has decided to move onward with his life in a positive manner. I hope – and I do guess I sort of pray that he continues on to uphold a drug-free life. It makes a world of difference for me. A girl needs her dad. A girl needs her mom, too – but I’ve always had a tighter relationship with my father if for no other reason than the fact that I inherited his intellect and sarcastic nature.
They say death comes in threes – and aside from hearing the news of a member of Slipknot passing on, I’m yet to hear of the final part to this trinity. On the train last night, however, I did sit next to a dude who was wearing the same cologne as my ex boyfriend who has been gone from this world since 2003.
I miss him.
When I took my seat against the window and facing the direction the train was traveling in, the bouquet didn’t immediately hit me. It wasn’t until a minute or two later when I was already engrossed in my novel that I caught the whiff. ¬I felt the sides of my mouth curl up into a sweet smile reminiscent of waking up and falling asleep next to that same scent for the better part of five years on an intermittent basis. Perhaps in an attempt to intoxicate myself once more with the heady scent of what once represented mad passion, I took a deep breath in, swallowing every possible particle of air around me.
I miss him.
I noticed my father had posted a Rest in Peace onto our mutual friend Francois’ page. Some years ago Francois was diagnosed with Cirrhosis, a disease my father, too, suffers from. Like my dad, he underwent various treatment options which included holistic medicine, dietary restrictions and finally pharmaceutical intervention by means of a drug called Interferon, an extremely potent anti-viral agent that is known to rip you to shreds prior to making a smidgen of a difference for the better. Patients who undergo Interferon treatment are often on their last legs and it is through the administration of this intravenous drug that they seek solace. There are various psychiatric and physical side effects that come along with its implementation – and it is not all that uncommon to hear of suicide attempts or addiction relapse while on treatment.
Francois didn’t go by either of these means. He was on a transplant list and time ran out. My father’s interferon treatment proved successful some years ago. He was being treated not for the later stages of Cirrhosis like Francois, but for Hepatitis C, which both he and my mother have as a result of intravenous drug-use – and/or possible intercourse. It’s hard to tell when you’re sharing needles AND having sex.
Later in the day I called my father to check in and see how he was feeling in the wake of his buddy’s death. They were a close knit team he and Francois. They’d often hang out together, go to dinners and do things boys like to do, like play racquetball and things of this nature. It’s never easy to lose a friend. “Bad day, Kitty… Bad day… Just got another call that Greg died this morning, too.” – I was a little confused. Greg who? Greg from our old block in Gravesend?? My father clarified it for me,“Greg – the guy that helped me move you out of the apartment with Daniel”
I’d only met Greg once – he seemed like a nice enough guy and he was there to help me during a time that I felt pretty alone in the grand scheme of things. He and my father joked around a bunch about breaking Daniel’s giant flat screen TV as a little going away present and at the time it really annoyed me. I believe in a lady making a graceful exit. Looking back, though – I can see where it comes from. My father’s little girl was hurting and where else aside from a punch to the nose could a man hurt another man but their expensive lavish electronics cache. Thanks, pop!
Greg’s body was found in a basement of a housing project in Brooklyn. Overdose. Everyone in the meetings he attended with my father up until his demise knew him to be a recovering heroin addict but this particular housing project he was found in is notorious for crack so who the hell knows. It’s just a sad scene all around.
I told my father that I’m sure he didn’t want to hear it but these events should have him stepping back and taking a look at the choices he’s made recently that have allowed him to be here another day. “Da, I know we could all go at a moments notice but I think this is sort of a spiritual way of the world letting you know you’re supposed to be here. Both of those kinds of death could have easily been yours” –
“I know, Kitty. I know”.
I’m truly happy my father has decided to move onward with his life in a positive manner. I hope – and I do guess I sort of pray that he continues on to uphold a drug-free life. It makes a world of difference for me. A girl needs her dad. A girl needs her mom, too – but I’ve always had a tighter relationship with my father if for no other reason than the fact that I inherited his intellect and sarcastic nature.
They say death comes in threes – and aside from hearing the news of a member of Slipknot passing on, I’m yet to hear of the final part to this trinity. On the train last night, however, I did sit next to a dude who was wearing the same cologne as my ex boyfriend who has been gone from this world since 2003.
I miss him.
When I took my seat against the window and facing the direction the train was traveling in, the bouquet didn’t immediately hit me. It wasn’t until a minute or two later when I was already engrossed in my novel that I caught the whiff. ¬I felt the sides of my mouth curl up into a sweet smile reminiscent of waking up and falling asleep next to that same scent for the better part of five years on an intermittent basis. Perhaps in an attempt to intoxicate myself once more with the heady scent of what once represented mad passion, I took a deep breath in, swallowing every possible particle of air around me.
I miss him.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Reminisce on the Love We Had...
Reminisce on the love we had…
It’s really something else – the ability to ask the universe for something and to have your requests fulfilled. Via this blog and various other avenues, I have asked the universe to put some worldly folks in my life and this weekend past found me in the company of two beautiful, independent and driven women. We met in Fort Greene for drinks and within a matter of minutes we were chit-chatting the afternoon away while Michael Jackson tunes filled the outdoor venue. Our conversation ranged from Brazilian porn (yes, these are my kind of chicks!), to hiphop, to blogging, and everything and anything in between. The topics discussed were done so with energy and positivity. It was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I left them feeling, aside from overly tequilaed up, very satisfied and driven.
One of the two ladies I just met that day and the other, Sarah, I’ve known since the age of 7. Our parents began attending 12-step meetings together and she and I would play coloring books and the likes while our folks soaked up the anti-drug propaganda. Sarah and I recently reconnected via social-networking and it’s almost as if we never missed a beat. She came down to visit me the week that Daniel and I broke up and I cried into my plate of untouched mashed potatoes while she listened, without judgment, and offered a warm heart. I appreciate women like this. Sarah also happens to be finishing up her Masters Degree in Social Work from NYU, is a fully independent, smart, beautiful woman, and has little patience for bullshit or assholes. These are the kind of women I want and need in my life. These are the kind of women I most identify with.
Over our outdoor margaritas, Sarah asked if I’d yet had a lover since the breakup. “Nope. I’m fucking dying but nope.” – She told me it’s never been so evident than it was in my last posting that I’m far from over Daniel and that she thinks what I’m doing by waiting is good – and what I need. And, I agree with both of her assessments. This is what I need, and I’m far from over Daniel.
Don’t get me wrong, the days are much easier and I’m certainly a hell of a lot better than I was the first few weeks after the break up but the fact remains that there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t enter my mind. I don’t know if it’s just missing him – missing someone – or if it’s outright abnormal to still have him haunt my thoughts so often. Three nights ago I had what felt like consecutive dreams all featuring Daniel’s face, Daniel’s voice, Daniel’s cock. I woke up and literally had to shake my head back and forth, much like a dog that has just finished a swim. After I ‘shook it off’, I sat in bed for a while and just thought about some of the better times:
1) The time Daniel bought me an 82 piece silverware set because I’d been in tears earlier in the day over not having matching china to host a dinner. This must sound so outrageously silly but to me, it was one of the sweetest things another human being has ever done. We were hosting a dinner for six at our apartment. It was actually our first dinner party together and my being such a domestic goddess doesn’t allow room for any imperfections. The table was set beautifully – with the good china – and the apartment sparkled. It was time to place the silverware down when I realized that I hadn’t a matching set to present. That realization was all it took to go into a downward spiral of emotion that was rooted in never being able to have nice things, growing up in a dirty drug-addicted home, and every other possible negative connection I could make to the past and present not matching up. Yes, over a fucking spoon… I shed some tears and got myself together while Daniel ran out to get last minute things for our dinner. When he came back with the groceries he handed me an 82 piece matching silverware set, kissed me on the forehead and assured me I’d never need to feel like I don’t have nice things again.
2) The sidewalk chalk Daniel bought me as a birthday gift from the cat, complete with card.
3) The Ben & Jerry’s phish food containers he gave me when I was sad.
4) The times we’d lay and watch TV – no talking necessary- my head in his lap, his hands in my hair – our bodies entangled.
5) The night we made love in our bedroom with the balcony doors opened – a breeze tickling our skin as we moved with such a synchronistic beat that afterward we both remarked on how it literally felt we were one entity.
6) The times he’d stop dead in his tracks just to tell me ‘You’re so pretty’.
And, finally, the time when in his parent’s home, we lay in our bedroom and discussing our future he said “I want to build a life with you Kitty, I want us to have all of this one day”. I just smiled and kissed him – confident in the fact that he already knew I’d been waiting to hear those words for such a long time.
I can’t help but reminisce on these things. They happened and although at this point it seems like they didn’t – mostly because of his extreme extraction from my life, I fear ever forgetting the way I felt the moment each of the items above happened. I don’t want to forget the warm love inside, the content I felt, or the security with which I believed we were living. The odd thing about the reminiscing is that it doesn’t sadden me as much as you may think. I don’t sit here and recall these loving moments with an ounce of regret or sorrow. Instead, I sort of feel lucky for having been able to feel these things at all.
Daniel is the first man I’ve opened myself up to in a long time. Prior to dating him, I’d done the casual stints of relationships here and there. I had plenty of men on whom I could call for company but I never believed in anything with them. I matter of factly chose to date losers so that I couldn’t possibly allow myself to be truly invested in what we had. If I was never really invested, I could never really get hurt – and that’s the defense mechanism I used to keep myself safe from the heartache. Then along comes Daniel and I opened myself up to something I felt was very real. I believed in him – and I believed in us as a unit. That is a serious accomplishment for me. I opened myself up - and that’s why when I sit and remember how I would turn into a giddy little girl every time Daniel was around, it’s not with tears of sadness in my eyes - it’s with a feeling of success that I’m able to feel that way at all.
Do I miss him terribly? I think that’s an obvious answer…
At least I’ve got the memories, right?
It’s really something else – the ability to ask the universe for something and to have your requests fulfilled. Via this blog and various other avenues, I have asked the universe to put some worldly folks in my life and this weekend past found me in the company of two beautiful, independent and driven women. We met in Fort Greene for drinks and within a matter of minutes we were chit-chatting the afternoon away while Michael Jackson tunes filled the outdoor venue. Our conversation ranged from Brazilian porn (yes, these are my kind of chicks!), to hiphop, to blogging, and everything and anything in between. The topics discussed were done so with energy and positivity. It was a wonderful way to spend a Saturday afternoon. I left them feeling, aside from overly tequilaed up, very satisfied and driven.
One of the two ladies I just met that day and the other, Sarah, I’ve known since the age of 7. Our parents began attending 12-step meetings together and she and I would play coloring books and the likes while our folks soaked up the anti-drug propaganda. Sarah and I recently reconnected via social-networking and it’s almost as if we never missed a beat. She came down to visit me the week that Daniel and I broke up and I cried into my plate of untouched mashed potatoes while she listened, without judgment, and offered a warm heart. I appreciate women like this. Sarah also happens to be finishing up her Masters Degree in Social Work from NYU, is a fully independent, smart, beautiful woman, and has little patience for bullshit or assholes. These are the kind of women I want and need in my life. These are the kind of women I most identify with.
Over our outdoor margaritas, Sarah asked if I’d yet had a lover since the breakup. “Nope. I’m fucking dying but nope.” – She told me it’s never been so evident than it was in my last posting that I’m far from over Daniel and that she thinks what I’m doing by waiting is good – and what I need. And, I agree with both of her assessments. This is what I need, and I’m far from over Daniel.
Don’t get me wrong, the days are much easier and I’m certainly a hell of a lot better than I was the first few weeks after the break up but the fact remains that there isn’t a day that goes by where he doesn’t enter my mind. I don’t know if it’s just missing him – missing someone – or if it’s outright abnormal to still have him haunt my thoughts so often. Three nights ago I had what felt like consecutive dreams all featuring Daniel’s face, Daniel’s voice, Daniel’s cock. I woke up and literally had to shake my head back and forth, much like a dog that has just finished a swim. After I ‘shook it off’, I sat in bed for a while and just thought about some of the better times:
1) The time Daniel bought me an 82 piece silverware set because I’d been in tears earlier in the day over not having matching china to host a dinner. This must sound so outrageously silly but to me, it was one of the sweetest things another human being has ever done. We were hosting a dinner for six at our apartment. It was actually our first dinner party together and my being such a domestic goddess doesn’t allow room for any imperfections. The table was set beautifully – with the good china – and the apartment sparkled. It was time to place the silverware down when I realized that I hadn’t a matching set to present. That realization was all it took to go into a downward spiral of emotion that was rooted in never being able to have nice things, growing up in a dirty drug-addicted home, and every other possible negative connection I could make to the past and present not matching up. Yes, over a fucking spoon… I shed some tears and got myself together while Daniel ran out to get last minute things for our dinner. When he came back with the groceries he handed me an 82 piece matching silverware set, kissed me on the forehead and assured me I’d never need to feel like I don’t have nice things again.
2) The sidewalk chalk Daniel bought me as a birthday gift from the cat, complete with card.
3) The Ben & Jerry’s phish food containers he gave me when I was sad.
4) The times we’d lay and watch TV – no talking necessary- my head in his lap, his hands in my hair – our bodies entangled.
5) The night we made love in our bedroom with the balcony doors opened – a breeze tickling our skin as we moved with such a synchronistic beat that afterward we both remarked on how it literally felt we were one entity.
6) The times he’d stop dead in his tracks just to tell me ‘You’re so pretty’.
And, finally, the time when in his parent’s home, we lay in our bedroom and discussing our future he said “I want to build a life with you Kitty, I want us to have all of this one day”. I just smiled and kissed him – confident in the fact that he already knew I’d been waiting to hear those words for such a long time.
I can’t help but reminisce on these things. They happened and although at this point it seems like they didn’t – mostly because of his extreme extraction from my life, I fear ever forgetting the way I felt the moment each of the items above happened. I don’t want to forget the warm love inside, the content I felt, or the security with which I believed we were living. The odd thing about the reminiscing is that it doesn’t sadden me as much as you may think. I don’t sit here and recall these loving moments with an ounce of regret or sorrow. Instead, I sort of feel lucky for having been able to feel these things at all.
Daniel is the first man I’ve opened myself up to in a long time. Prior to dating him, I’d done the casual stints of relationships here and there. I had plenty of men on whom I could call for company but I never believed in anything with them. I matter of factly chose to date losers so that I couldn’t possibly allow myself to be truly invested in what we had. If I was never really invested, I could never really get hurt – and that’s the defense mechanism I used to keep myself safe from the heartache. Then along comes Daniel and I opened myself up to something I felt was very real. I believed in him – and I believed in us as a unit. That is a serious accomplishment for me. I opened myself up - and that’s why when I sit and remember how I would turn into a giddy little girl every time Daniel was around, it’s not with tears of sadness in my eyes - it’s with a feeling of success that I’m able to feel that way at all.
Do I miss him terribly? I think that’s an obvious answer…
At least I’ve got the memories, right?
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Mother Fucking Daniel
Disclosure: I'm angry.
This blog is not the only piece of written material I have out there on the Internet. I am the proud owner of a few other blog-type columns on the net and a bunch of said columns are publications with which my real identity is tied. Accordingly, I have various social media outlets with which these publications are connected. Blah blah blah. Here's the meat of the story:
Today I published an article for a column and I blasted the article out via email. I maintain a group listing for this particular column and any time someone joins or leaves said group I am notified. Shortly after my new piece was blasted out a crawl comes up on my screen which reads "Daniel xxxxxxxx has unsubscribed from xxxxx list". I can honestly say this not only surprised me but it genuinely hurt my feelings. I'm not sure what it is that is going to have to happen for me to wake up and welcome the reality check that this dude simply wants absolutely nothing to do with me but it better come soon because I'm really tired of feeling like our relationship was worthless.
I get it - we're apart. I do not call him, I've deleted him from my facebook and any other social media outlets. I do not email, do not IM, do not text. For all intents and purposes, I am completely invisible (Hi, Emily Previn). Is it so wrong for me to expect a certain level of support on my personal endeavors, though? This particular column for which this article was blasted out is an actual paid gig. The money earned is damn near nothing - but for each click I receive, I get a tiny piece of change - and you know what? It adds up. It's not even about that, though.
Here's the thing:
Daniel and I dated for a year and a half or so. We had a relationship that started out stronger and with more passion than almost any other union I've had in my life. I really felt like we simply understood each other. I was able to talk to him and to tell him my secrets, my fears, my desires and my insecurities. In turn, I sat and listened to his - and held him when he found himself in tears over things that may not seem tear-worthy to someone else. I didn't judge him for crying, didn't try to change who he was or toughen him up in any way. We both had our issues and it felt sort of great to have someone with whom I could be open and honest, with whom I could be weak. I always felt like we were such a strong couple because of all of this mental support we provided one and other - and right now, after having watched him completely delete yet another part of who I am from his life, I am kind of wondering what the fuck happened to all that support.
It's not about being a boyfriend or a girlfriend. It's about being a human being. My writing endeavors are not what pays the bills. I work a 9-5 just like every other Tom, Dick and Harry. My writing is done so because I genuinely enjoy it. The fact that I have some outlets which allow me to earn a penny here or there is great and I'm very lucky to have found that opportunity. Every penny counts, na'mean Brooklyn? That said, it is just astounding to me that after all of the mental support we've provided one and other that I'd see Daniel's name vanish from my mailing list.
It just seems so childish - so fucking immature. Our personal relationship has absolutely nothing to do with the topics I cover in this particular article. If it was my sitting there and discussing my heartstrings I could completely understand his not wanting to be witness to that - but, fuck - you can't offer me the simple support of just being another human being out there that is down to support a passion that lives inside of a woman with whom you shared your life, your secrets and your fears?
It just hurts, readers. It hurts to know that this man I loved - and obviously still love on a lot of levels, undoubtedly wants absolutely nothing to do with anything I'm involved in. I try to understand it and I try to make sense of it all but I come up short with each attempt. I am lucky to have folks who will talk me through it and crack various jokes. I am lucky to have people in my life with whom I can spend time and not focus on the sadness that finds its way into my mind when shit like this happens.
I am lucky.
This blog is not the only piece of written material I have out there on the Internet. I am the proud owner of a few other blog-type columns on the net and a bunch of said columns are publications with which my real identity is tied. Accordingly, I have various social media outlets with which these publications are connected. Blah blah blah. Here's the meat of the story:
Today I published an article for a column and I blasted the article out via email. I maintain a group listing for this particular column and any time someone joins or leaves said group I am notified. Shortly after my new piece was blasted out a crawl comes up on my screen which reads "Daniel xxxxxxxx has unsubscribed from xxxxx list". I can honestly say this not only surprised me but it genuinely hurt my feelings. I'm not sure what it is that is going to have to happen for me to wake up and welcome the reality check that this dude simply wants absolutely nothing to do with me but it better come soon because I'm really tired of feeling like our relationship was worthless.
I get it - we're apart. I do not call him, I've deleted him from my facebook and any other social media outlets. I do not email, do not IM, do not text. For all intents and purposes, I am completely invisible (Hi, Emily Previn). Is it so wrong for me to expect a certain level of support on my personal endeavors, though? This particular column for which this article was blasted out is an actual paid gig. The money earned is damn near nothing - but for each click I receive, I get a tiny piece of change - and you know what? It adds up. It's not even about that, though.
Here's the thing:
Daniel and I dated for a year and a half or so. We had a relationship that started out stronger and with more passion than almost any other union I've had in my life. I really felt like we simply understood each other. I was able to talk to him and to tell him my secrets, my fears, my desires and my insecurities. In turn, I sat and listened to his - and held him when he found himself in tears over things that may not seem tear-worthy to someone else. I didn't judge him for crying, didn't try to change who he was or toughen him up in any way. We both had our issues and it felt sort of great to have someone with whom I could be open and honest, with whom I could be weak. I always felt like we were such a strong couple because of all of this mental support we provided one and other - and right now, after having watched him completely delete yet another part of who I am from his life, I am kind of wondering what the fuck happened to all that support.
It's not about being a boyfriend or a girlfriend. It's about being a human being. My writing endeavors are not what pays the bills. I work a 9-5 just like every other Tom, Dick and Harry. My writing is done so because I genuinely enjoy it. The fact that I have some outlets which allow me to earn a penny here or there is great and I'm very lucky to have found that opportunity. Every penny counts, na'mean Brooklyn? That said, it is just astounding to me that after all of the mental support we've provided one and other that I'd see Daniel's name vanish from my mailing list.
It just seems so childish - so fucking immature. Our personal relationship has absolutely nothing to do with the topics I cover in this particular article. If it was my sitting there and discussing my heartstrings I could completely understand his not wanting to be witness to that - but, fuck - you can't offer me the simple support of just being another human being out there that is down to support a passion that lives inside of a woman with whom you shared your life, your secrets and your fears?
It just hurts, readers. It hurts to know that this man I loved - and obviously still love on a lot of levels, undoubtedly wants absolutely nothing to do with anything I'm involved in. I try to understand it and I try to make sense of it all but I come up short with each attempt. I am lucky to have folks who will talk me through it and crack various jokes. I am lucky to have people in my life with whom I can spend time and not focus on the sadness that finds its way into my mind when shit like this happens.
I am lucky.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Poppa was a rolling stone...
A few weeks ago I invited my father to attend a live acoustic show that would have been something I went to with Daniel had he not gone all loopy on me and end our relationship. The fact that my friends are somewhat restricted with respect to their artsy taste left me with little option in terms of who to invite, not that I don’t enjoy the company of my dad; I do. We made our way down to Murray Hill and settled into an authentic English pub for some fish and chips prior to the show and it was here that my father began to talk about his disdain for hipsters. I couldn’t help but laugh because I knew, undoubtedly, that my father didn’t even know what a hipster was. To prove this fact, I asked him ‘Dad, what’s a hipster?’ – to which he replied “I don’t know but I hear they are all wannabe Brooklyn” – Man, does it get any better than hanging with your dad over a pint of Blue Moon and discussing the Brooklyn wanna-be pretense of a hipster? I don’t think so, my friends.
We sat 3rd row orchestra and enjoyed the show a magnificent amount. Both of us are a bit on the spiritual side when it comes to connecting with art and it was interesting to see how the various changes in musical energy elicited similar emotional responses in each of us. On at least two occasions, the music brought us to tears which then brought us to laughter at how empathic we seem to be at times. We purchased our merchandise (A CD each; support good music!) and made our way out of the city by way of the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before making a stop down in the lower-east-side for an egg-cream at Ray’s.
If there is anything Brooklyn should be synonymous with it is egg-creams. I distinctly remember being a little kid down in Gravesend and walking to the corner luncheonette with my mother to get cigarettes or milk or lotto tickets, or whatever it was she needed, and my getting an egg-cream. They were something around $.50 back then – and they were prepared and served up just perfectly. Ray’s in the LES serves up a comparable mixture and whenever I am in the city and with a car I make it a point to stop there and grab a large-one before heading back into Brooklyn. Tonight was no different. My father has some decent egg-cream skills and when I told him about this place he immediately laughed at the idea of some spot in the now-trendy Lower East Side being able to produce something authentic New York. Soon after his first sip, however, he changed that tune and he and I enjoyed our large chocolate egg-creams as we continued our drive back into the county of Kings.
We took the scenic route to the FDR drive, taking a left off of Avenue A working our way down into the beast that is Alphabet City. My memories of this area as a child are far from coherent, but they are certainly there. I recall coming into the city with my parents as a kid – waiting for them to cop. Most of my memories involve being in the back of a car of some sort – waiting while one of them ran into a housing project. I suppose I should be happy my recognition isn’t clearer but the fact remains that I knew what we were doing there. Almost without fail, any time my father and I are in this area he points out to me the corner (Avenue C and 7th) where he was stabbed thus resulting in a decent chunk of his liver having to be removed. He wears a scar from the surgery they needed to perform on him that runs the length of his breast plate down to past his belly button. Today would be no different and as we drove past Avenue C he mumbled something or other about the stabbing. The clearer memories for him this drive-through were of the various dope-spots in the area. There was one building in particular that he pointed out in which there used to be a New Jack City style set-up. “You see those different colored bricks on the far end of the courtyard there – they’re a different color because they were nonexistent at one point. That spot used to be a hole in the wall, literally, where you’d place your money and out would come your heroin”. I suppose to some this type of conversation would be interesting? The ever-changing face of NYC was sitting next to me and, in a way, I had my own personal tour guide pre-gentrification LES. I wish I could see it that way – but I suppose I still have a lot of shit to work through.
Seeing as I have been trying to write this post for weeks now and any time I sit down to get started something (like the TV, my email, my cellphone) distracts me from actually tackling the feelings that go along with the story in the posting, I realize that I definitely do have some tension to work through with respect to my childhood. Tension is probably, no it’s definitely an understatement.
The truth of the matter is this: I am the child of drug addicts. My mother and father are both recidivists in the world of addiction and although at time of print for this posting they’re on a sober-run, I have absolutely no idea how long that will or won’t last and that is terrifying. Daniel would often ask me how I can even still have a relationship with my parents after all they’ve put me through – and my only answer is “they’re my parents” – And, they are my parents. I love them regardless of their battle with drugs and will continue to love them accordingly. Love is one thing, but tolerance is another and this last year I pretty much exiled my father from my life for a period of time.
It was moving time for me and Daniel - he was coming from Queens and I from Brooklyn so it only made sense to schedule our moves for the same day and meet up at the new apartment. Daniel’s folks had given him some extra money to assist in any moving expenses (shocker) and my plan was to hire some day-laboring illegals and use my father’s pick-up truck to transport the little amount of stuff I was actually taking to the new pad. Days before go-time, my mother who loves to watch a drama fire spark, called me and expressed her concern with my father’s mixing of Xanax and Oxycontin. As I listened to her talk about it – and express her concerns in a manner to indicate that her problems were of the utmost importance and with little regard to the fact that I was in the middle of planning a stressful move, scared of giving up all of my shit, and just generally under a lot of pressure, I became so aggravated that I flew off the handle and started screaming and yelling like a maniac. Two days later I had a discussion with my father in which I told him that unless he sought help for his behavior I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and that this wasn’t something up for negotiation. Xanax and anything are a completely insane combination and I already lost one person I loved dearly to a Xanax cocktail, I wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch another go.
I’m not sure if it had as much to do with my cutting him off or the credit should go to the folks at his job who began to notice a difference in his behavior, but my father checked himself into a rehab facility a few months after my cutting him off and he’s been clean for the last 7 or 8 months now. I’m happy he’s on the right path – but I cannot deny, at all, the fact that that can change in an instant. As such, my relationship with him is one that has me asking a lot of questions.
Is it normal, I ask myself, for a father to show his kid (albeit 32 year old kid) the spot where he used to slip money through bricks to get a bundle of dope? Is it completely acceptable or is if just my own shame with the past? There is no mistaking the fact that my father is a heroin addict. He admits to it and anyone that knows me is basically in the know – him showing me the dope spot isn’t exactly an admission of guilt – it’s really more so just a matter of fact much like pointing out a good Chinese restaurant to a neighbor. I suppose that is a bad comparison. The real question I am asking here, though, is what is it going to take for me to be more at ease with the past? Will it be forgiveness? There are tons of self-help books that I review looking for the answers and they all seem to point toward forgiveness and acceptance. Acceptance is something I think I’ll have an easier time doing over forgiving. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I even know what it specifically is I am so angry about that would solicit forgiveness.
There’s a lot of work to be done.
We sat 3rd row orchestra and enjoyed the show a magnificent amount. Both of us are a bit on the spiritual side when it comes to connecting with art and it was interesting to see how the various changes in musical energy elicited similar emotional responses in each of us. On at least two occasions, the music brought us to tears which then brought us to laughter at how empathic we seem to be at times. We purchased our merchandise (A CD each; support good music!) and made our way out of the city by way of the Brooklyn Bridge, but not before making a stop down in the lower-east-side for an egg-cream at Ray’s.
If there is anything Brooklyn should be synonymous with it is egg-creams. I distinctly remember being a little kid down in Gravesend and walking to the corner luncheonette with my mother to get cigarettes or milk or lotto tickets, or whatever it was she needed, and my getting an egg-cream. They were something around $.50 back then – and they were prepared and served up just perfectly. Ray’s in the LES serves up a comparable mixture and whenever I am in the city and with a car I make it a point to stop there and grab a large-one before heading back into Brooklyn. Tonight was no different. My father has some decent egg-cream skills and when I told him about this place he immediately laughed at the idea of some spot in the now-trendy Lower East Side being able to produce something authentic New York. Soon after his first sip, however, he changed that tune and he and I enjoyed our large chocolate egg-creams as we continued our drive back into the county of Kings.
We took the scenic route to the FDR drive, taking a left off of Avenue A working our way down into the beast that is Alphabet City. My memories of this area as a child are far from coherent, but they are certainly there. I recall coming into the city with my parents as a kid – waiting for them to cop. Most of my memories involve being in the back of a car of some sort – waiting while one of them ran into a housing project. I suppose I should be happy my recognition isn’t clearer but the fact remains that I knew what we were doing there. Almost without fail, any time my father and I are in this area he points out to me the corner (Avenue C and 7th) where he was stabbed thus resulting in a decent chunk of his liver having to be removed. He wears a scar from the surgery they needed to perform on him that runs the length of his breast plate down to past his belly button. Today would be no different and as we drove past Avenue C he mumbled something or other about the stabbing. The clearer memories for him this drive-through were of the various dope-spots in the area. There was one building in particular that he pointed out in which there used to be a New Jack City style set-up. “You see those different colored bricks on the far end of the courtyard there – they’re a different color because they were nonexistent at one point. That spot used to be a hole in the wall, literally, where you’d place your money and out would come your heroin”. I suppose to some this type of conversation would be interesting? The ever-changing face of NYC was sitting next to me and, in a way, I had my own personal tour guide pre-gentrification LES. I wish I could see it that way – but I suppose I still have a lot of shit to work through.
Seeing as I have been trying to write this post for weeks now and any time I sit down to get started something (like the TV, my email, my cellphone) distracts me from actually tackling the feelings that go along with the story in the posting, I realize that I definitely do have some tension to work through with respect to my childhood. Tension is probably, no it’s definitely an understatement.
The truth of the matter is this: I am the child of drug addicts. My mother and father are both recidivists in the world of addiction and although at time of print for this posting they’re on a sober-run, I have absolutely no idea how long that will or won’t last and that is terrifying. Daniel would often ask me how I can even still have a relationship with my parents after all they’ve put me through – and my only answer is “they’re my parents” – And, they are my parents. I love them regardless of their battle with drugs and will continue to love them accordingly. Love is one thing, but tolerance is another and this last year I pretty much exiled my father from my life for a period of time.
It was moving time for me and Daniel - he was coming from Queens and I from Brooklyn so it only made sense to schedule our moves for the same day and meet up at the new apartment. Daniel’s folks had given him some extra money to assist in any moving expenses (shocker) and my plan was to hire some day-laboring illegals and use my father’s pick-up truck to transport the little amount of stuff I was actually taking to the new pad. Days before go-time, my mother who loves to watch a drama fire spark, called me and expressed her concern with my father’s mixing of Xanax and Oxycontin. As I listened to her talk about it – and express her concerns in a manner to indicate that her problems were of the utmost importance and with little regard to the fact that I was in the middle of planning a stressful move, scared of giving up all of my shit, and just generally under a lot of pressure, I became so aggravated that I flew off the handle and started screaming and yelling like a maniac. Two days later I had a discussion with my father in which I told him that unless he sought help for his behavior I wanted absolutely nothing to do with him and that this wasn’t something up for negotiation. Xanax and anything are a completely insane combination and I already lost one person I loved dearly to a Xanax cocktail, I wasn’t about to stand idly by and watch another go.
I’m not sure if it had as much to do with my cutting him off or the credit should go to the folks at his job who began to notice a difference in his behavior, but my father checked himself into a rehab facility a few months after my cutting him off and he’s been clean for the last 7 or 8 months now. I’m happy he’s on the right path – but I cannot deny, at all, the fact that that can change in an instant. As such, my relationship with him is one that has me asking a lot of questions.
Is it normal, I ask myself, for a father to show his kid (albeit 32 year old kid) the spot where he used to slip money through bricks to get a bundle of dope? Is it completely acceptable or is if just my own shame with the past? There is no mistaking the fact that my father is a heroin addict. He admits to it and anyone that knows me is basically in the know – him showing me the dope spot isn’t exactly an admission of guilt – it’s really more so just a matter of fact much like pointing out a good Chinese restaurant to a neighbor. I suppose that is a bad comparison. The real question I am asking here, though, is what is it going to take for me to be more at ease with the past? Will it be forgiveness? There are tons of self-help books that I review looking for the answers and they all seem to point toward forgiveness and acceptance. Acceptance is something I think I’ll have an easier time doing over forgiving. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure I even know what it specifically is I am so angry about that would solicit forgiveness.
There’s a lot of work to be done.
Monday, May 17, 2010
New York, I Love You
New York, I really do love you.
This afternoon while attempting to busy myself every which way possible in an effort to avoid doing what my company pays me to do, I was on my various sites reading up on all things NY when it was brought to my attention that the infamous graffiti artist Banksy struck in NYC last night. Apparently Banksy hasn’t thrown up anything in NYC since 2008 so the intertubes are all abuzz over this recent find.
I tried to communicate some thoughts regarding the idea of every hipster harry and their entourage running over to the piece in order to snap their picture next to it, pointing at it, or doing some other lame ass thing that hipsters do when things like this pop up all over NYC but my comments were misconstrued to represent my disdain for a difference in personal style. Guess I shouldn’t have opened my statement with a bitch-fest on skinny jeans? Either way, the person that I had a back and forth torrent with later came out to express their interpretation of the image as a doctor looking for life in NYC and being unable to find any. I thought it was an interesting concept – and I suppose to some of us out there, myself included or else I wouldn’t be looking to get out of NYC as a whole, their elucidation holds truth. The interesting thing for me was that as much as I have a difficult time in finding the positive things to see in our city these days, my first estimation when looking at Banksy’s piece was that the doctor was listening to the heart of NYC and was loving it.
If there is anything that can be said about a NYer that is true, it is that we have got some heart. There is definitely a pulse in the underbelly of NYC and even in the grittiest grimiest parts of town, the flavor is clearly identifiable. It bothers me that I forget that I love my city. It bothers me that my life’s experiences have given me this cynical approach to all of the wonderful things that are inherently New York – I already posted the Brooklyn Unite thing and I’m going to really try to run with this idea for the reason that like any abusive relationship, I want to fall back in love with the bitch.
Photo credit: Banksy forum on Flickr.
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