The Road Less Traveled

I need to write more. Sometimes it feels as if my existence is like that metaphorical tree falling alone in the woods, with no witnesses. When you live untethered from society's institutions you must find daily justification for your own existence. And its not easy. But didn't I come here - to this teeming, throbbing city, to the heart of all that is good and evil about this Empire to do just that - to justify my own existence, to burnish the soft blob of my life into something more pointed, more fine, more beautiful? I must maintain this goal; if only I can continue to soldier on through the lonely, ungratifying days - tripped up along the path by people who don't understand me - CAN'T understand me and who want something from me none-the-less. Hungry men who want to use me to justify their own existence because they are lazy; they don't want to feel alone so they want a warm body beside them (never mind that they are not even capable of a meaningful conversation), men who want to use my body to give themselves pleasure and whose next impulse is to then slip away into the night - men who are so terrified of the responsibility to another human being that they'd rather spend their evenings basking in the glow of their television set rather than having to commune with another human being. NO, I do not exist to serve these men and I cannot deny the perverse pleasure it gives me to disdain them, even trick them!

But I must not allow myself to lapse into pettiness. I know what I seek - beyond a reason for my life, beyond an accumulation of disparate and chaotic experiences, I want to find a way in which I can somehow be of service - not for the cheap chores that I'm solicited for daily, but for something more complex, deeper, relevant in a broader way. And I'd like a companion, a fellow traveler - someone who is capable of plumbing the depths, someone curious and intense, someone who desires to know himself, to know me, to know others and who has an interesting vision for the world. Someone who is not afraid, or even if he is - who plunges forward with courage.

A Terrible Shiny Thing

The dowdy little houses with sandpaper flapping at their shabby seams hardly elicit a flick of emotion in me. I who was once of the country, who knew the shabbiness of rural poverty, the claustrophobia of the dark gathering woods, the small squalid towns with their provincial ways frowning upon any divergence from the most unremarkable mediocrity. The eyes of the locals regarding any newcomer with a dull and unimpassioned hostility. I feel my own transition from this world of fields and streams, of ponds full of silvery fish, ragged marshes and the rustle of leaves in the wind - to an anxious urbanite - a biting, jagged edge barely concealed beneath a bright surface. Impatient, overly hungry with a trace of bitterness revealed in the tight gathers at the corners of my lips. The swell of people in the cities - of every imaginable color, shape, scent and class - each inscrutable face sealing a chamber of alluring secrets. Wild creatures in their natural habitat of concrete and steel, flashing across the edifices of buildings like shining birds fluttering through the trees. The soft dark eyes and damp skin of exotic men beckons on swarming streets and crowded subway cars. Evenings like these - the heavy limpid air, vaguely unclean, presses upon bare shoulders and fawns over my body like a warm, overly close breath. It is here that I make my home now, here that my soul feels itself liberated, that the infinite possibilities of a strange and exciting future unravel in my head. But its here too that my solitary, scant existence among this vociferous bounty weighs upon me, a close companion though out hot, humid summer nights when I toss on my cheap sheets cursing the futility of my existence. There can be no refuge in this world that is not merely a sweet tang of temporary relief amid the trudging onward of our lives.

Figuring it out

This blog is by nature about my relationships - as pathetic, fleeting, heartbreaking, glorious, fun, irresponsible, well-intentioned, sad, sexy, or otherwise, they have been. And sometimes its been a combination of the above! It ain't called LOVE & Mental Illness for nothin'!

I'm not going to write about my career (or lack thereof!), my friends and family (only vaguely and on rare occasions because I want to be respectful), politics, art, my hobbies, or other personal issues. But it IS about dating and sex and love and all those things in between.

Life is not always pretty or practical and I make lots of bad choices, but writing this is like keeping a journal; its cathartic. Writing down my thoughts helps me to clarify them. Why do I do it in a public forum? I'm not sure. Maybe to feel that I'm not alone in all this, maybe because I hope someone else can relate, maybe because I'm delusional and I think for some strange reason a couple people might get a vicarious thrill or derive some amusement from these stories and anecdotes.

Its also about my relationship with New York City, my relationship with myself and my patterns of behavior. I'd like to say that I'm learning a lot and growing wiser and more mature but that's not always true - sometimes I totally fuck up and engage in completely ridiculous behavior. But someday in the distant future I hope I can read over all this and it will make some kind of sense. Until then, the madness ebbs and flows...

New York

"The soft rush of taxis by him, and laughter, laughter hoarse as a crow's, incessant and loud, with the rumble of the subways underneath - and over all, the revolutions of light, the growing and recedings of light - light dividing like pearls - forming and reforming in glittering bars and circles and monstrous grotesque figures cut amazingly in the sky.
...There were the bells and the continued low blur of auto horns from Fifth Avenue, but his own street was silent and he was safe in here from all the threats of life, for there was his door and the long hall and his guardian bedroom - safe, safe! The arc-light shining into his window seemed for this hour like the moon, only brighter and more beautiful than the moon."
- from The Beautiful and Damned by F. Scott Fitzgerald

Getting Lost

Living in NYC is a constant reminder of your own smallness, insubstantialness and powerlessness in relation to the great crushing forces of capitalism and the ever flowing vast surges of humanity. On a bad day I despise the inconvenience, the inconsequentialness of my own tiny existence here. But on a good day I am empowered by the richness of the city's cultural fabric. Sometimes, when I am lucky, it feels as if an invisible benevolent hand is gently guiding me through the immense colorful chaos - preventing me from wallowing in my own ignorance and ethnocentricity - reminding me just how big and varied the world is.

Far Far Away

Walking the unfamiliar streets of Brooklyn today, I feel like I could cry with happiness. Everything seems delicate and lovely. Old Italian men shuffling into church for evening mass, laughing children run in the streets with balloons, tiny dogs quivering on their leashes, the furtive glances of handsome men. The autumn air is impossibly soft, even the incessant thrum of cars is somehow comforting. To be free from everything I have known, to be so far away from home – across the continent – fills me with a radiating secret joy. Sometimes I just can’t help but smile at strangers on the street.

The Banker and The Torta

It was a Monday night in the West Village in NYC. I was out with some coworkers at the infamous Stonewall Inn. The place is all painted a shiny lacquer black inside with red neon lights. One of my sleazier coworkers was buying me vodka sodas and moving in closer and closer. After he confessed, “You know I’ve always been attracted to you” and grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch, I knew I had to go.

I lurched drunkenly through the historic hole and out onto the street. There I found a lovely and inviting sight – a Taco Truck! I was standing on the sidewalk savoring the deliciousness of my chicken torta when a dapper young black man walked over and started talking to me. He invited me out for coffee or drinks at a nearby out door café. I declined. And yet somehow (here’s where my memory is a bit hazy) I end up in a cab with him speeding up to midtown Manhattan. All the while he’s flattering me and carrying on in a proper British accent (he was raised in London, although his parents are African). He told me he was a banker. To which I started babbling drunkenly about Wall Street’s role in the subprime mortgage crash, the failing economy, etc, etc… Meanwhile he’s going on about how he just bought a condo with an amazing view, its so nice, blah blah blah... Next thing I know we are in his teeny, immaculately modern and sterile condo with gleaming windows looking out on the downtown lights. The banker is gesturing to a painting on the wall and asking if I like it. Then I start crying and telling him how I was about to go home and now he has taken me further away from Brooklyn and I can’t afford a cab. I tell him that I think he should pay for my cab ride home. He tells me he has no cash.
“What?! You have no cash?!! But you’re a banker!!!” I shout, incredulous.
When he realizes I am totally pissed we go back down to the street and to the nearest ATM where he gets out cash to give to me for the ride home. He is hugging me and trying to kiss me, saying “When can I see you again?” Asking for my number. I was like, “I am drunk and you are trying to hit on me. Can’t you see that I just want to go home?! You shouldn’t hit on drunk girls anyway.”
I catch the nearest cab and head home. All I want is to be alone with the rest of my chicken torta.

I don't want to give up and go back home

Fireflies and thunderstorms
The damp hot air like a caress
Thick and soft, smelling of salt
It makes my hair curly, makes me crazy

I can imagine I'm in another country
Don't know anyone here
and frankly don't care

Kids play in the park
A symphony of languages
tangling their tongues
The heat presses down

Ice cream trucks and filthy streets
Midsummer rain doesn't even bother me
No one ever shuts up
and the city doesn't sleep

Stoned in the subway at Times Square
Someone plays the keyboard
And everyone is swaying, wanting to dance
An unexpected magic moment

I'm smiling at my reflection in the train window
Lost as all hell
And lonely as fuck

Still, somehow managing to have a good time
Once in a while

The Spring Is Getting To Me

It's a city of strangers,
Some come to work, some to play.
A city of strangers,
Some come to stare, some to stay.
And every day
Some go away
Or they find each other in the crowded streets and the guarded parks,
By the rusty fountains and the dusty trees with the battered barks,
And they walk together past upholstered walls with the crude remarks.
And they meet at parties through the friends of friends who they never
know.
- from musical 'Company'

Awwwwwww....sometimes I just love this place!

Humid tropical heat, a million strangers on the street.
So many signs in broken English, 'Pritti Woman Salon'.
Smell of sweat and cologne on strangers.
An old man and woman next to me on a coffee date eating pie and talking with thick New York accents. The man telling her how he digs for diamonds in his back yard.
Wearing my sunglasses on the subway. WHO do I think I am?!
Men looking at me like I'm sexy, saying 'Hi', opening doors.
Eating nuts at 2am on the train platform, slightly drunk.
Always running late for work.
And what in God's name would possess me to roll out of bed at noon and start chatting away to my new roommate about my lesbian love affair. Then reassuring him that I like men better. Laughing gleefully, til he gently takes me by the shoulders and pushes me out the door saying "Don't be late for work". Putting out that sexual energy way too early in the day.
He's so cute. I just want to close my eyes and think of him.
Then I see Hakim standing in the Arabic store holding a giant engraved sword with his crazy black curls, looking like a pirate and his funny smile, eyes crinkling up.
Happiness is a surprise gift. I don't want to mess this up.

Afternoon Delight

Today on a mellow sun dappled spring afternoon I discovered the loveliest neighborhood in Queens. Forrest Hill Gardens looks like the kind of enchanted place where a princess would grow up. Row upon row of magestic Tudor style houses look out onto the street through cut glass paned windows. A crystal chandelier gleaming with rainbows catches my eye from someone’s living room. The neighborhood reminds me of Cambridge, England. Its so beautiful and quaint and different from everything I’ve ever known in California that it catches me by surprise and almost makes me want to cry. Here is my fantasy of the East Coast – tall, regal brick buildings, brownstones, old graceful houses surrounded by oaks and maples, their bare branches scratching at the exposed blue sky. Everything looks classy and old.

Who lives here? I imagine cultured, worldly women and men reclining in tastefully decorated, book-lined living rooms. It’s the kind of place that an Anthropology Professor from Columbia might live, or a Literature Professor at NYU. The neighborhood breathes success and old worldly cool, reminiscent of my naïve West Coast fantasies about the blue blooded, Ivy League chic of The East.

I wonder do the people in these beautiful houses ever feel trapped? Ever feel that their life has grown stale, empty? Do they possibly ever feel as lonely and insignificant as me? I’m like a little country mouse, scuttling along in a place where I could never belong.

But the birds are chirping and the first few flowers of spring are struggling to show their delicate heads despite the harsh, battering of the winter. Maybe there is a place where I will feel welcome somewhere in the world.

In a matter of minutes I am back on the teeming streets of New York, a million strangers’ careworn faces greeting me.

Heavy Baggage

I arrived in New York, like many before me, with just two cheap suitcases and a heart full of hope and expectation. I thought I was traveling light.

Well, it turns out I brought a lot more baggage with me than I’d intended. Namely myself. If you are a crazy, confused, lunatic in Oakland, CA are you going to be a crazy, confused lunatic in New York, NY?!!! Not surprisingly, the answer is YES.

Dammit!!!

My mom always told me that that AA people had a term for when someone up and moved when the going got tough – they called it ‘pulling a geographic’. Though the logic of this frustrated me - especially all those times I longed to run away from everything - intellectually it made sense. However, I’d never tested it out myself. I’d stayed mired in the same place, dealing with relatively the same issues for over a decade. I didn’t have the courage to run too far from anything.

Now that I’m here over 3,000 miles away from ‘home’ (whatever, wherever that is anymore - that word seems sort of meaningless to me right now) I’m confronted with the less than thrilling reality that I’m still ME. I’m not some fearless, exotic new creature, suddenly popular, focused and ambitious. Nor is there a slough of lovely and charming men prostrating themselves in my path.

Still its good. I’m forced to take a long, honest look at myself, my thoughts and behavior patterns. Some things I’m seeing aren’t so pretty. Old ways of being that may once have served me well, or at the very least protected me, are no longer of use. It may be high time to change more than just my address...

Grit without Glory

I don't know the stations' names
I'll spend my life on this train
Magnetic Fields

Late at night I watch the rats play hide n’seek in the subway tracks. Monday and Sunday nights are the worst, the trains don’t run much and nobody’s around. At 2 or 3am, I’m coming home from work, alone. The stations are deserted, dank, desolate holes in the ground. It feels like I’m the last person on earth. A helpless curtain of fatigue settles over me. I’m hungry, tired, maybe even slightly drunk. I stare at the water marks on the ancient tiled tunnels. I eat some greasy chips bought from a weathered vendor accustomed to this subterranean habitat. How many more nights will pass like this?

Then I pull the hood out of my coat and curl into it. Maybe I can sleep a little while I wait.

When I finally get on the train everyone around me is drooping like dirty, wilted flowers. Seeking reprieve in blessed sleep.

One Night in NY

Is New York is the most beautiful city in the world? It is not far from it. No urban night is like the night there... Squares after squares of flame, set up and cut into the aether. Here is our poetry, for we have pulled down the stars to our will.
-Ezra Pound

Its not all agony and loneliness here. Sometimes I actually have fun!

Last night was a good night. I started out meeting a guy for happy hour at a bar in the East Village. As soon I walked in two drunk Irish guys started chatting with me. One was like ‘You look like an old-fashioned model from the 50’s, you’re so pretty.’ That made me smile.

I was meeting C at the bar for the first time. We’d been chatting online for a couple weeks but hadn’t met in person. We were cloistered in a dark corner talking. In our corner we met a crazy Taiwanese girl who grew up in the South, with a weird mixed Taiwanese/Southern accent, who worked in fashion. She was drunk and hilarious and was practically sitting on my lap, telling me all about breaking up with her ex boyfriend, how bored she was in NY, asking what should she do with her life?! Then a bunch of Thai guys who grew up in NYC met her and started smoking pot in front of the bar. They were the friendliest guys ever. Everyone agreed that people are nicer in NY than San Francisco. One of the guys said, ‘In New York you can go out to a bar and meet anybody. Anyone will talk to you.’ It was true; the Irish guys kept coming by and high fiving the guy I was on a date with because he had a vintage Liverpool soccer jersey on (he lived in England for a year). One guy was trying to buy it off his back. C was opening up to me about old girlfriends, living in Spain, traveling, growing up in NYC, his Brazilian mom. He seemed like a sweet guy and he was a good kisser. Later he walked me back to the subway. I fell down laughing into a snow bank. People were out everywhere in the snow, it was Friday night and everyone seemed to be smiling, guarding a secret inner joy. C said, ‘This is the best first date ever!’.

Even though I left C, I wasn’t ready to go home yet. The other night I’d met a very handsome chef, Lou, at a non profit fundraising event I was working at. He’s from the Bronx with a sexy New York accent and a hilarious sense of humor. I was immediately into him. I was dying for him to call. He had called me earlier in the night saying he wanted to hang out when he got off work if I was still out.

At 11:30 Lou called again saying he was off work and he could come meet me. I was eating pizza by myself in Union Square after leaving C. I gave him a huge hug when he showed up. I don’t know what it was about this guy but I was really into him! We ended up in some dive bar full of drunk NYU students dancing to 80’s music. I kept sucking down vodka sodas. Not such a good idea but I was so excited to be out and hanging out with this guy. There was just one BIG problem though. Turns out he has a girlfriend. I asked him point blank after he told me he had a big two bedroom uptown. A sane person would have probably gone home at that point. Unfortunately, I’m not sane.

Lou said he liked me immediately when he met me and since I told him I was new in town he thought we could hang out as friends. I was like ‘Yeah, that’s a nice idea but I kind of LIKE you.’ Then he said, ‘I’m not gonna lie, I think you are very beautiful.’ Great. In theory it would be nice to have him as a friend but I don’t quite understand how that will work if we are both attracted to each other. Shit! I started telling him how I was a good woman and how I deserved to meet a nice single guy who was really into me, blah, blah blah, I was really drunk at that point. I should have just shut up and gone home. He told me he fought in the Serbian war (he was born in Albania) and I asked him, ‘So did you kill anybody?’ He was like, ‘Violeta you aren’t supposed to ask questions like that. What do you think?’ Somehow that made him even hotter. God, he was really, really sexy.

Anyway, he ended up driving me home. We got lost in Queens in a snarl of dead end roads full of snow and abandoned factories. I was smoking with the window down, babbling about the history of exploitation of workers in New York City and demanding that he treat his kitchen staff nicely. What a mess. But the Queensborough Bridge was all lit up in a brilliant blue haze and Manhattan was gleaming across the river and the cold air felt good on my face. I was finally feeling like I had arrived here in New York City. Even if my life was just one big giant, confusing, lonely morass - at least I was somewhere different.

I gave L a hug, his body felt really good; big, strong and comforting. I miss being in man’s arms so bad. But he’s not mine so I sent him home.

Sadness and The City

I went into one of my two crappy jobs today. Apparently there was a miscommunication between the manager and my coworker. She thought he was asking for the day off and asked me to come in to cover his shift. When I got there, he was there. So I spent nearly an hour getting to work only to be told they didn't need me. And I needed the money. So I wasn't in the greatest mood when I got sent home. Truth be told, I wanted to drink.
L came downtown to meet me and we went out for drinks. Later we met her friend at some hideous gay bar full of old men who glared at us. We were the only two women there. The only saving grace was the cheap drinks. Flash forward two hours and I'm being awakened awkwardly by some employee in a frozen yogurt shop. Apparently, my drunken mind thought it would be a good idea to get frozen yogurt. Problem was I pretty much feel asleep at the table with my yogurt! When he woke me up it was all melted and there were white smears of dried yogurt all over my black down coat. How humiliating! I've never passed out in a public place. I got up and left in daze. Later on the train some bitchy girl yelled at me on the train for being in her space. Hmmmmm. This is a crowded subway in New York, how am I supposed to NOT be in her space?! WTF??!?! I was so tired and sad and out of it and angry at that point that I'm surprised I was able to catch both my trains and make the trek home.

Maybe my brother is right. Its just more of the same. This urbanity is killing me. The annonimity, the hustle and bustle, the crappy jobs, the loneliness, the crunch of it all, is exhausting. I'm over it. Nothing exciting or miraculous or even fun is happening here. I'm so sad inside. So weary to the core of feeling lost and not connecting. This hideous nightmare of loneliness never seems to end. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. It makes me sick. I feel heartbroken that this is my life.
Maybe I need to get out of the city. Go to the country. Do some physical work. Breath fresh air. Read. Write. Feel like human being again.

Fortune Favors The Brave

Despite my rather grim portrait of my new life (?!) in New York, I do not have doubts about my move here. The fact is that I am a refugee, fleeing from my past failures. Like any immigrant I have brave dreams of a rosier future.

I never expected New York to be easy. Everyone knows that its not. I don’t even want easy. I don’t respect easy. I enjoy the journey. I relish the struggle.

When people ask me what brought me to New York, what made me leave sunny, idyllic California for the brutal, austerity of New York, its hard for me to answer. I didn’t come to get famous, I didn’t come to get rich, I didn’t come, really, even for school. The real reason I came is to change my destiny. Its that simple. And that complicated.