Sunday, July 30, 2006

fix your hair up pretty and meet me tonight in atlantic city

I have a very brief time in which to update this diary, to tell not only you, but my future self what it was that I did in these mid-summer days of 2006 while I was living in New York.

I have no air conditioning and that is not a complaint but really the key to understanding this summer I am living. People that live with a/c and people that live without are not experiencing the same thing, the same seasons at all. So there is a lot of sitting in front of my fan, a lot of cold water being drank, and a lot of time being spent outside the house. I love summer and the heat so much, although looking at how much I have updated this summer, I do think that in some ways the heat, the summer, make me less inclined to want to engage in introspective thought, make me not want to sit in front of a computer and type on a warm keyboard.

Rebecca was in town for a couple days last week and I got to hang out with her for brief amounts of time and that really did add a little shot of joy to my week last week, this appearance of one of my good friends from a past life, from those days when I was 18 and a nervous freshman in college. Friday night I was supposed to go see Leela James but instead I slept and slept and slept, and my friends, it felt wonderful. And all that sleep gave me a shot of energy come Saturday morning and the feeling that I needed to move move move, and so, in the early afternoon, I boarded a bus for Atlantic City. The bus ride was a dream as all bus rides tend to be when you have a window seat, and for the three hours we were in motion, I read from The New Yorker, talked to people on the phone, and thought about my life as I contemplated New Jersey's landscape.

I had told people the stated purpose of this trip, perhaps smugly, was mainly to go to the beach and to go to the casinos as a joke, for kitsch value. Well the casinos were this trip, and the beach became the afterthought. I spent a total of about five minutes on the beach toward dusk, dipping my toes in the Atlantic just so as to have actually done so since I had made this trip to the ocean. Then it was back for more of the nickel slot machines.

I had been in love with these nickel slots all day long. I skipped out on Bally's where the bus dropped us off and which gave us busriders twenty bucks because I was not having much luck there and because there were no cocktail waitresses bringing me free drinks. I went to Caeser's next door and was a lot more lucky with the slots and with the cocktail waitresses. I was fairly wasted by six o'clock, smoking up a storm, and pressing buttons maniacly, trying to win money. At one point, I was up twenty bucks, how much I had spent so far and printed out my receipt to cash out, knowing that it was time to quit. However, I got distracted my another slot machine and by the idea that I was on a lucky streak, and quickly lost that twenty.

That is when I called it quits and went out to the beach for those brief few minutes only to get the fever for slots again, and so I went to Trump, where I quickly dropped another twenty-five quite recklessly into the nickel slots, but somehow scored big and won sixty, winning back everything I had spent all day. I printed out the receipt and started walking toward the cash-out place, but you know the rest, you have heard it a million times, it is every gambler's story. I thought I could win more, that I was in the middle of a lucky streak and one of the machines was calling my name. That was soon all lost and finally I called it quits and got on the bus home, which was not nearly as pleasant a ride, being stuck in the aisle, being stuck right next to the smelliest bathroom ever, and being stuck seated next to a large man who took up a third of my seat and forced me to sit on the edge of my seat the entire ride back to New York. I listened to Leela James, who I did not see on Friday night, and fell asleep listening to her. I woke up when the bus driver turned on the interior lights as we pulled into Port Authority.

But that is not the story of summer 2006, it is one of them, a part of it. I have been listening to lots of old Van Morrison - Moondance and Astral Weeks - and that, more than anything, is what this summer is to me - those albums. I just finished watching all of the first season of The Boondocks, and should you be looking for something to watch, I could not recommend it highly enough. Aaron McGrudder, how I love thee. Also amazing is the UP Series by Michael Apted. I have watched the first three in the series so far and I have so much to say about it and will say it in some future entry because this, I also recommend. And there is that self-imposed time limit that I mentioned at the beginning of this and that is because shortly, very shortly, I am to go see Miami Vice and I am so fucking excited. My job is going really good, but I have started looking for full-time jobs. I am almost done with this Bolano collection, Last Evenings on Earth, that I will also have to talk about later. I bought some really exciting books at the Strand today. I love New York and walking around in the sunshine. I eat my lunch in Bryant Park every work day and it makes me so happy to sit in that park and watch people. Basically, things were pretty good during those days, future Charlie.

Sunday, July 23, 2006

finding the love you deserve

On Thursday, I was riding the subway on my way to galleries to get shitfaced, and on the train, there was this guy sitting across from me, vaguely pathetic looking, but made all the more so by the book he was reading. I can’t remember the exact title now and am having trouble finding it through Google, but the title was something along the lines of “Finding the Love You Deserve.” I was embarrassed for him, that anyone would so publicly read a self-help book, a romantic self-help book no less, but also, I became terribly sad for a moment, realizing (remembering) how terribly lonely so many people are.

This guy, the image of him, keeps coming back to me in odd moments these past few days. Yesterday, I started off my day at Staten Island, went to the thrift store, and had an odd flirtation with a boy there who asked me if a suit jacket he tried on looked good on him. I am often times bad at carrying on flirtations and conversations while sober – well, even while drunk really, but then, in those instances, I perhaps am less aware of my own awkwardness. And after that awkward encounter, sort of hitting myself for being so awkward, I thought to that guy on the subway. I wandered around Staten Island for a while afterward, going to a used book shop, walking down grimy streets under gray skies with a view of the East River. That area of Staten Island right by the ferry is a little rough around the edges, and for that reason, I love it. There are few people on the streets and so it is best there for these wandering thoughts enabled by a physical wandering – the flaneur’s tools, these grungy streets that you can project histories on to.

I have felt like shit all weekend and I don’t really think it is loneliness because I have had the opportunities to hang out with people and have passed them up, have hung out with people and have felt the need to be by myself again, to escape them and their talking. I think the true source of this is not an existential pang brought on by the sight of this man on the subway, but rather by my obscenely large consumption of dairy products over the past few days. Today, I have cut out dairy aside from my cereal and coffee and am feeling slightly better, but for a few days my diet was nothing but fried cheese products washed down with ice cream, and I was feeling the effects, the physical slowing down of all that dairy. I’ve got to try to continue to scale back my dairy intake and eat more greens.

But yes, all week long, I had been planning on going to Atlantic City today, but I lost my motivation, the weather was pretty dreary, and the L wasn’t running, which made the trip to Port Authority seem like too much effort, too much trouble. And even today, at five, I was still telling myself I might go. And some boy, a Matt, called me right then, as I had the timetable in my hand, and this is some boy I met off the Internet but have yet to hang out with, and he wanted me to come to some dinner cruise that he had free tickets to, and this was what I wanted, what I like to read in books, these impulsive meetings with boys, going on a dinner cruise with some boy you have never met, and yet, for some reason, really, I am not sure what the reason could have really been, but I told him that I couldn’t go because I was going to go to Atlantic City, and even then, I think that I knew I wasn’t really going to make it to A.C. this evening.

And there is that man on the subway with his book, and I think that pang he gives me might not be a realization that everybody is so terribly lonely, casting about this life, trying to find someone to cling to, a body to ease the very real fears of death and nonexistence, that instead, the pang he gives me is the feeling that everybody but me is so terribly lonely, that I don’t really have the same sort of feelings and emotional needs as other people, that that disgust I had at seeing him reading that book was at those emotional needs that I find so tiring when I hear them expressed by others. And my regret at not going on this date is not so much that I missed this opportunity to have this perhaps exciting romantic fling, but that I don’t really have the desire for that, and whenever it seems as if I do, more often than not, that is me playing a role, trying to experience this thing that other people want so bad that they read self-help books to aid them, even do so publicly, on subways and such.

This might be my aching body talking, or it might be me, if there is one distinct from the prevailing bodily conditions.

Monday, July 17, 2006

good morning to you also, pretty butterfly

This summer is amazing. This day will be. So much beauty. I jacked off this morning, and then sat on the edge of my bed, observing the sunshine of this July morning, only to see this amazing butterfly, so gorgeous, sitting right outside my window. What does it mean that there is this much beauty in the world? To what purpose this butterfly other than this joy in beauty, this delight in colors, in life?

Saturday, July 15, 2006

So far, it has been an eventful morning. Went to the thrift store, the bank, post office, and grocery store, and also had the police come over to keep my landlord in line. You know, just the usual.

When I got back from running errands this morning, Ada, the sixtyish year old crazy as a bat landlord of mine, started to yell at me about the rent. I told her that I mailed it to her daughter, Iris, who is the person I have dealt with since moving in here even though, technically, Ada, the mainly Spanish speaking, loud as hell, great-grandmother is the building's owner. Ada has been left here by herself because even Iris and her family can't stand her anymore, and they are in a fight, which makes paying my rent awkward because I know I am supposed to mail it to Iris since she actually pays all the bills, but legally, I should be paying it to Ada and Ada told me to pay it to her. I, of course, ignored her because she's crazy. Anyway, when I told Ada that I had already mailed the rent to Iris a while ago, man, oh boy, she flipped and started yelling at me and I started yelling at her, and I just ignored her because she wouldn't let me talk and walked upstairs and she threatened to turn off the hot water and also called me a bitch (I think).

And sure enough, the hot water stopped working. I tried calling Iris a few times, and she wasn't picking up. So, full of rage and aware that this was explicitly illegal to turn off a tenant's hot water, I went downstairs and told her so and that she needed to turn it right back on otherwise I was filing harrassment charges against her. She told me to call her daughter and yelled about how she didn't have money to pay bills, and I said, "No, you listen," as she kept talking over me, so I kept on demanding "listen, listen, listen," and told her that "No, I am not playing games. I am not calling your daughter. I am talking to you. Listen, listen. And do you understand? If you don't turn it on right now, I am calling the city, not your daughter." And she continued to yell at me, before yelling "Get out, get out." Then we exchanged some "fuck you"s.

Mad as hell, I called 311 and was put through to a 911 dispatcher. They were on their way. She turned back on the hot water before they got here. I called back to tell them not to come, but they still came. They were totally on my side and told me that what she did was totally illegal. They talked to her and told her that what she did was illegal and that if she did it again, she would get a summons, and if she refused to turn back on the hot water, she would be arrested. Um, yeah, by the way, my lease is up in a month and I am a little scared that they might now renew it. I have yet to talk to Iris, who knows her mom is a crazy troll, but I am worried that she will be mad at me. And still, Ada needs to put her signature on the lease. I am just not going to bring up the subject of renewing it and continue to pay month to month until things cool down a little.

I know I probably should have waited a bit to cool off before calling the city since she did, in fact, heed my warning and turn it back on. But now, hopefully, she knows not to play games with me. Though, still, I am worried that Iris might be pissed about me calling the cops on her old mom. She's a jerk and totally an awful landlord, but some level of communication and civility would be nice, especially since I want to continue to live here since it is so cheap, so maybe I did the wrong thing, though, it does feel great to have put that woman in her place.

Thursday, July 13, 2006

If anyone wants to go see Al Green play a free show tonight at Coney Island at 7:30, which is very, very soon, and want to go, you should call me and inspire me to get off the couch. I know this is something that I am going to regret not going to see since I have been wanting to see him play for years, but I was unable to convince the two people I asked to go, and don't really have the energy to call other people or to make the long train ride by myself. But I promise I'll perk up if you want to go.


Tuesday, July 11, 2006

I am watching Bruce Springsteen circa 1975 playing a show in London on this DVD, and it is amazing. He is amazing, and so hot, such a force in those early days, filled with the spirit and really at that point, the rock star.

Earlier tonight, I saw another concert, this one not on my television, rather outside in the heat at the World Financial Center on the Hudson, saw Puffy AmiYumi play, and I was worried that they weren't going to play my favorite song of theirs, the brand spanking new "Radio Tokyo," which, if you haven't heard it, is amazing, but they saved it for their encore, and made me so happy. It was such a weird crowd. There were so many little girls there, and I am sure that is probably because they are fans of the band's Cartoon Network show. Scattered amongst those, lots of hipsters, lots of Asians, lots of families, and lots of high school kids. I was in love with a boy until I saw his friends come over to him, all of them so young looking, and realized that they must be his peers, that he, too, probably also was 15 or 16.

I am not in the mood to say much here because Bruce is playing on my television as I write this and distracting me, but I am reading Maurice and really loving it, and this is for Bri, and for those of you that might actually appreciate it - it has been burned in my mind since Sunday when I saw the World Cup. Thankfully, the screencaps have made their way to the Internet and provided me masturbation fodder for days. Enjoy!

Sunday, July 9, 2006

feast of the giglio

( I live a few short blocks from this. I love New York. I love many things right now in these mid-summer days. )

it's such a fine and natural sight

Even hungover, I love waking up and seeing that intense blue of the sky, those patches seen between bright green leaves of ginkgo trees, this viewed from the window over my bed. Even on this hungover morning, waking up with far too little sleep, that sky, the brightness of it, made me so happy, so eager to get out of bed and be a part of this thing, these bright colors, this life, this gorgeous summer.

The drinking started fairly early yesterday with an Irish coffee late in the afternoon, drank with the hopes of both perking me up and loosening me up before my date with Ryan. We went and ate some food and talked about superheroes, cartoons from our childhood, and fourth of julys.

Afterward, with dusk in its last throes, a faint orange line tracing the horizon as you looked toward Greenpoint, we walked back to my house to play Scrabble. I drank some beer and Ryan didn't because, sadly, he does not drink beer. Yet another sign that this boy and I do not have that much in common. There is something about people that do not drink beer, something that clashes with something in me. There are plenty of nice people that don't drink beer, Ryan among them, but there is also something a little off about them, that I have a hard time bonding with them, feeling at ease with them. I am not sure what the right adjective is, the right descriptor, none of these are precise, but they hint at what it is I want to try to say: uptight, too mannered, perhaps even dainty.

So after downing my beer and him taking a sip from his, I poured us whiskey. That, he was not a fan of either. And since it was already poured, I had a hell of a lot of whiskey, and thus that hangover that I was mentioning earlier. I was wasted and talking in tongues, babbling, presenting theses on every topic that popped into my head. This, the drunkenness, thankfully did not kick in until after I won Scrabble.

After Scrabble, we went into my room, made conversation near the bed, polite, both of us wanting the same thing, physically placing ourselves where what we wanted to occur would occur, but none bold enough to say so. And so there was that polite conversation, that formality, and I could only take so much of it, and I tackled him, kissing started, clothes came off, that dancing around the dance over, the dance started. I laughed a lot and had an excellent time, his cock in my mouth, mine in his. This for a while, lots of play, and then he sat on top of me, took our cocks together in his hand and jacked us off, saying first one to come wins - that great sense of play that was there. And technically I won, but shortly thereafter, he also won - everyone's a winner in this game - and we wiped ourselves off with a towel by my bed, and laid there, sat there, telling stories about our families.

We got dressed, the night still young, and me, drunk and caffeinated, ready to go. We went to Fun, which was, as per usual, relatively unexciting. He was ready to fall asleep on the bench there and told me he was going to go home and crash. So I walked him back to the subway, and still drunk, still buzzed on Cafe Bustelo, I went to the Not Straight Outta Compton party at Alligator. There, lots of friends spotted, lots of crushes and former crushes. I danced a lot to songs I can't remember now, but songs, which last night, I was able to remember most of the lyrics to. And I sweated that bottle of whiskey out of me, that and those beers, that coffee, and more - so much sweat. And I was saturated and didn't really care that much because there was still the swirling co-mingling of coffee and an excess of alcohol making me in love with everything, every noise, and every male body spotted. At some point, bored with my own thinking, my own tendency to want to make out with ex-crushes, and more so, un in love with whatever song was playing (because were the right song playing, anything could be overlooked, ignored, overcome), I left.

Out on the street, my body felt amazing. Covered in moisture of my own making, the night air cooling that, and the sensation, just one of many in the night that filled me with joy.

Wednesday, July 5, 2006

Shortly after I arrived at work this morning, word was posted to the newsires about Ken Lay's death. There was just the headline around 10:10 and someone announced it, and because of where I work, everyone was intrigued and wanted to know more. Before a cause of death had been posted, people were predicting suicide and others, heart failure. Around 10:30, more details were posted, citing a heart attack as the cause of death.

I didn't believe it, and it looks as if The New York Times also started to have doubts. By early afternoon, their posted story no longer listed a heart attack as the cause of death. Instead, it stated that the family had no comment at this time. Even if it was a heart attack, I bet that it was induced somehow.

That this happened on the day after the 4th of July, probably late in the evening after Lay had watched fireworks, seems too coincidental. Were it a plot device in a fiction, I would roll my eyes at the contrived nature of it, the hamfistedness of the author. Lay's meteoric rise to riches from the poverty of being the son of a small town preacher and his crashing descent and subsequent disgrace is a typical American mythology, perhaps the American mythology. Well, the mythology part is more typically stated as this ability to rise from nothing, to pull yourself up from your boot straps, but in literature and film, more often than not, there is that crushing fall that comes with the pursuit of riches. And I imagine that Lay, awaiting sentencing and knowing he was going to be in jail for life, decided to end things before that could happen.

And his story and what it symbolizes consumed much of my thought this afternoon. And I do feel sadness for him and for his family, that things got so out of hand, that he had to suffer this, but then I think of how many other people had to suffer because of him, of how many people lost all their retirement savings, of how many people were fucked by his deeds, and then, I feel a little less sad for him, but sad the same, perhaps even more sad because of how it seemed as if the fictions might be right, that the pursuit of riches has dire consequences, that the book will always have a sad denouement, characters in that last scene as the lights go down on the stage either broken and poor, dead in a pool, or buried in the ground with few people even showing up for their funeral.

Last night, I watched fireworks from a rooftop in Bushwick and thought of none of this, the effects of beer, bad hip hop, and the noise of dogs and firecrackers drowning out everything but a pleasant buzz and an awe at the work that must go into making fireworks explode in that color, in that shape, the skill required to make something that appeals to something so base in us. And base, not necessarily meant in a demeaning sense, but base in the sense that child, adult, everyone says Wow, and looks wide-eyed at this, happy at bright colors and flashes of light, the flash and then the boom. Lightening, thunder. Vision, sound. We like to see explosions, things whipped, suffering, and chaos. The spectacle of Lay on trial, and the attention we accord to the details of his death, more of this. Our love of shaming things together; Prynne with her scarlet A, and Lay as all that is wrong with Corporate America. This is one of those strings I was mentioning, one of many, and I find it all so fascinating, tell myself that I want to parse out what it means for you and I, what the message is, and more so, what it means for America - I tell myself this, but as was made evident last night, I do like to watch explosions and things flame out (as you do also) and so my interest may be not be as academic as I would like to believe.

Tuesday, July 4, 2006


Last night I went to some party on some rooftop near Bedford and North 7th, and there, I looked out at the Manhattan skyline and the surrounding Brooklyn skyline, which this new, fancy condo dwarfed and which, it, in a very explicit way, ruined - this building was what was wrong, was one of the first that was wrong, and there, a couple blocks further west, were the rough outlines of a building that in its gauche ways would even block the view of this overly tall building. I looked out and everything looked so old, had none of the distinctions that would peg it as 2006, that from this vantage point, if I blocked out the type of cars parked on the street, this could easily be a scene from 1926.

And I drank Schlitz, a few cans of it there, after having already drank several cans at home, and when those were gone, white wine was drank. And I talked to a couple boys and ate the most sinfully good tiramisu, so good it had me shivering with delight, moaning. There were a lot of gay boys there; it was pretty much nothing but. And, of course, there were several that I used to harbor crushes for and a couple, one, that I still do. His name is David. And I have seen him maybe two, maybe three times prior to last night, and on both, or all three of those occasions, I was taken with something about him - how boyish looking he is, how midwest, how toothy his smile. And again, last night, much the same - I stood not too far away from him and kept on checking him out, not even trying to analyze why it was I thought this person was so attractive, it just being too obvious, and all I could do was submit to it, and stare at him. At one point, later in the night, I had the last beer, and he, David, took a swig of it, and I was so giddy, thinking childish thoughts that he was drinking from something my lips had touched, and I would soon again drink from something his lips had unhesitantly touched, unhesitantly even with the knowledge that it was something I had drank from - that perhaps this was a sign he might like me.

But, obviously, it was no such sign. It was merely a sign that the party was dying down, was out of booze, and this boy, like everyone else, was trying to prolong the onset of sobriety, of the fun being over, being had - the past tense. And I said something to him, nothing really, the pathetic attempts of an obsessed person who can't even see this person as a person, not as someone who you could actually engage with, but rather someone you could only stare at, could only be at arm's remove from. And so, because of this, or because he was not interested, more likely the latter, he paid little attention to me and moved on to talk to someone else. I came home and daydreamed about him. On the way home, walking those streets alone, I thought of his pretty face, and thought how I would like to dirty it, to rub my cock all over it, thought this on empty streets lit by streetlights and the lights of passing cars, infrequent at that hour.

Today, needless to say, I woke up slightly hungover. Perhaps a little more than slightly, and I drank some coffee, ate some breakfast and received a call from Ben, who had a layover and was in town for a few hours. And that hangover washed away, perhaps because of this and perhaps because of the coffee, but either way, I met up with Ben, Bri, Christy, and Sasha so happy, so giddy, so happy to see friends, to see human beings and interact with them, walk with them, and we walked seemingly miles as we looked for something to eat, before circling back to where the hike started, at Bliss, eating there, and then moving on to Metropolitan where I drank several beers, which have me feeling quite tipsy already and it is just about to turn six, and hopefully, I will not totally poop out before the fireworks, and hopefully I will find some place thrilling and beautiful from which to see them, and perhaps - no, probably - at which I will drink more beer, because, my dear, dear friends (and I am not sure I can emphasize that dear part enough because, really, despite how it might otherwise seem at times, despite my sarcastic asides, I do love you), and my dear friends, it is the Fourth of July and aside from the jingoistic connotations inherent in this day, there is something beautiful about it all - the fireworks, the barbeques, and the beer - the beer which I was just mentioning that I will consume - because it is the 4th - and all of this, and even the root of it all, the thing being celebrated, this nation and the ideas behind its forming, I find terribly, terribly beautiful.

Monday, July 3, 2006

I started reading E.M. Forster's Maurice last evening, made it through the very short first chapter. I had gotten the book earlier in the day at Junk, it being a book that I have wanted to read for a while, it being a gay book, it being a Forster book, whom I had not read until last night (and still now, just ten, fifteen pages of), and it being a book that shares my name.

This morning on my way to work, the trains and subway platforms were far less crowded than normal, most people at home with today off. On the L, I tried reading this book but was distracted and annoyed by this person standing right against me even though the train was not at all crowded. I glared at him until finally, annoyed enough, I moved across the train to escape looking at his hairy neck, for some reason, so close to me, distracting me from the words on the pages, that hair, a neon sign in the corner of my eye.

And soon I got off at Union Square, where I waited for the N/R. I was leaning against a pole, starting to get into a reading groove when I felt someone touch my sides. I closed the book, wondering who this was saying hi to me, thinking it might be David since I ran into him on this same platform at this time last week. I turn around though, and there is no one behind me. And so I glance to my side, around the pole, and see a crazy looking homeless man, catching his eye before he averts his gaze. I feel inside my bag just to make sure my wallet is still in there, and get on the train, which just arrived, very freaked out. This man was nightmarish looking, like the boogey man of your childhood imagination - long gray hair, crazy eyes, a hollowed face, and bad posture.

I sat down on a bench, determined to read this book and trying, trying so hard to put this man out of my head, to not be totally freaked out. Sadly, he got on the train also. He started doing some weird non-singing, walking up and down the car, in a low tone, more chanting something than singing, and doing so with his hands up at his chest in front of him, as if he was incanting a spell, a curse. It was awful and nightmarish, this crazed looking man doing this shamanistic rambling. Were it for money, it would have been one thing. His annoyingness would have been rooted in a cause I could point to, that this person is singing, "Lean on Me," (awfully) for money. But with this, I had no clue what the purpose was, and to make matters more awful, more frightening, he kept on looking at me with those crazy eyes as he began to approach me and as he walked past me. He would look straight ahead otherwise, but near me, I got the stare. I kept my eyes on my book, pretending and trying to read, but unable to even begin, this man occupying all my thoughts, and wondering why he was staring at me, why he touched me, and what this could mean.

He finished his chant. The seats on these trains are arranged in the least accommodating way possible, so that all the seats are particularly tight and you’re angled with your legs into someone else’s. I was sitting at the end of a three-seater with another large man at the end of it, a tight little nook in between us. There were empty benches and empty seats all over the car, and yet, this demented living troll came and plopped himself down between us. I wanted to cry. I didn't know why this was happening to me, and it made me think of lots of awful things, namely, it brought up all of the feelings and terror I felt when I was mugged on the train a couple years ago. I thought this was some awful omen also, that this was the part of the book that foreshadowed something gloomy to come, that this man, a Grim Reaper of sorts, was coming to collect something, to let me know it will be collected soon even if I am short on funds today.

I stood up, totally freaked out, and moved to wait by the door. I got off the train and was a mess. This fucked me up perhaps way more than was necessary, and I pushed my way through all the tourists in Herald Square, walking fast away from all of this, just wanting to be in a safe building, my workplace. And I got there soon because of the quick, frantic walking, and once in the elevator, alone, the crowds absent from this normally busy mode of transportation also, there in that elevator, my eyes started to water and I really thought I was going to breakdown and have to take this elevator right back down, that I would flee work because I was too teary to show up. But the elevator opened on floor 8 before any actual tears started to trickle, and I breathed out and went to work, really annoyed that I had to work today, really annoyed that I could not be at Fire Island today where Ethan was off to as I left for work this morning.

The incident stayed with me throughout most of the morning. I kept on trying to figure out why it instilled so much terror in me. And I don't know why. Luckily, there is this passing of time though, the thing I think was a root cause of that terror earlier today, that I was going to die and that would be it, but this same thing I feared eventually erased that fear, that fear fading as the morning wore on, this inability of human beings to hold onto moods for too long, and as time passed, I soon quit thinking about the passing of it, began to get hungry, and instead started to think about what I was going to eat for lunch.


This weekend was an eventful one in some sense, even though, really, I did nothing. I did, however, move out of my old room and into the big room in our apartment. It is so big and so nice, way bigger than a bedroom in New York should be, and it makes me so happy. I painted it this Carolinaish blue. I threw out a bunch of junk and feel so new in this new room, so much better, this space, enough room to absorb my frustrated exhalations without them bouncing back at me. And Ethan has moved into the small room, and is now my roommate, which so far, seems really nice. I am really excited about my living situation for the first time in a really long time, and that is good, good news.