BRAIN VOMIT OF A WOMAN WHO KNOWS

A new blog...

2008-12-18T11:56:00.003-05:00

I'm jumping on the wordpress bandwagon and blogging over at mistressmom.wordpress.com. The blog is plain as all hell, but it's some of the most fun I've had with my clothes on in a while. You should definitely join me.

XO-M

I'm pregnant and ready to be a mom.

2008-12-14T21:03:00.001-05:00

But do I want to be a mom right now?

I don't know.

My thoughts fluctuate on the subject.

It really is THAT easy.

2008-12-03T14:14:00.002-05:00

Ames calls me and we talk about our favorite subject: relationships. Who we love, why we love them, the pain they cause us. We talk about people who are having problems finding love. We pontificate on why these people are having problems. We laugh at them and poke fun at them and call them stupid for not seeing what we see. All the while, we know that it's easier to make judgments when neither one of us are a party to the situation in question. We know that it's rude to question or judge peoples' choices. We hope that we're never as blind as these people who don't see the black-and-white, right-and-wrong, clear-as-day answers to their problems.

Yes, we're really that pretentious.

On the other hand, most problems really are that easy to solve.

Allow me to explain:

Thing X is happening to Person Y.

A) If Person Y is ok with Thing X, then Thing X is NOT a problem.

B) If Person Y is NOT ok with Thing X, then Thing X is a problem.

Now:

If Thing X is a problem, Person Y can...

D) Accept it and move on, thus reverting back to A.

OR

E) Change Thing X.

The "What" is clear and rather simple. It's the "How" that proves difficult. Most people like their situations, even if those situations are harmful. Many people don't know how to identify problems, and most don't know how to move on from their problems. Also: most people are hypocrites and/or liars.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm not guilty of this. I'm not even saying that it's a particularly bad thing to do; I know that there are very valid psychological reasons for using this coping mechanism. All I'm saying is, it pains me when relatively intelligent and thoughtful individuals refuse to change their Thing X, or subscribe to a theory that totally ignores their Thing X.

There's a reason I haven't posted any pics of myself.

2008-12-03T13:48:00.003-05:00

Every photo I'm in looks nuanced with the time's zeitgeist and whatever personal melodrama I'm partaking in at that very moment. They scream "That's me when I was going through my idealistic political phase!" or "That's me when I was a Real Ho!" or "That's me when I'm feeling really lost and trying to look like I know what the fuck I'm doing!"

Maybe it's because I've never been in the habit of taking pictures or having my picture taken, but I've never been able to take a picture that captures the essence of who I am. I don't know how to look like me. I just know how to be me. And I don't know how to look like I'm being me. Not anymore anyway. Not right now.

All of this makes me feel like I'm really understanding abstract art. How something that doesn't appear similar to their representation can stir emotions and create effects that mimic those of their representation. How something so seemingly contradictory to its meaning can elicit the same ideas as its idea. That's what I need: a picture that represents me. Something visible that somehow shows as many parts of my personality as possible. A photo or painting or sculpture that provides depth and clarity to Me. Then I can post pictures to my heart's desire and not feel strange about calling them "Me".

If I'm really to uncover this physical rendering of myself, maybe I should try something new: collaborate with talented artists, take nude photos, take art classes, etc.? [Anyone have suggestions?]

Till then, I have words.

Full disclosure

2008-12-03T11:24:00.004-05:00

I'm becoming a very transparent, simple person. And that scares me. I've never been the type to be so honest about my feelings and motivations. Or, at least, I always comforted myself with the idea that I'm multi-layered and multi-faceted, and that while one layer and/or facet is Honest, the others are not-as-honest. I never liked the idea of people "knowing" me, "having" me, being able to control me. I looked down on people for being so easily read, so textbook, so knowable. I relished being complicated, unruly, dark, manipulative, controlling. I loved being able to get swept away in the currents of action and reaction, and get involved with strange, illicit, dangerous people and situations - all the while always having the outcome under my thumb.

I took great pride in being able to read people, figure out their weaknesses, and exploit them for my own benefit. I based much of my self on the fact that I am a master manipulator, able to insert myself into anyones' inner circle and get from them what I want and need. My personality was as much enmeshed in the grit and grime of the Lower East Side projects as it was enthralled with the upscale, charmed lives of the Upper East Side. I made myself a part of every scene, every way of life, every way of thinking. I was well-versed in the ways of the world and prided myself on knowing people, knowing facts, knowing.

And now?

*long exhale*

Now I'm reconciling with the fact that all of that was preparation for a greater goal. I needed to see how all of the cogs fit and worked. It was necessary for me to taste all of the strains of personalities and situations. I needed to be confident that I can overcome all that life has to throw at me. That I am able and capable and worthy. That I am, in some ways, better than most people.

And now that I'm at the point where I am non-plussed by any and all situations, where nothing truly surprises me, where I can appraise, acknowledge and appreciate the subtleties as well as the extremes, I am at a loss. What the fuck was all of that for? How can I get back that zest for experience? Should I? Is it better, now that I have come down from the euphoria of sampling as much of life as possible? Now that I must stop studying life in general so that I can concentrate on my own life?

*flinch*

As much as my life up until this moment has been a preparation for "real life" to begin, it was also a severe episode of procrastination. I needed to feel as if something important were holding me back from starting the real deal, the real consequences, the real truth or dare of it all. I needed to feel as if some mysterious and ominous thing were guiding me to find solace in wayward teens and crumby adults. As if fucking up grades is just as valid and good as being a star student (both of which I excelled at). As if pretending to know the answers grants the same kind of merits as pretending to not know any of the answers. I needed to know that, despite the lameness of platitudes, most of them are right - including this: "It is what it is." That one holds true no matter what the "is" is.

Most of all, having seen all of these contrary ways of living, I learned that none is better than the rest, and that that truth is something most people don't know. There is no way of life which is best; only a way of life that is best for you.

I know this for certain because I've seen so many lives made and destroyed, so many decisions turn out for better or for worse, so many different ways to live. And as much as I love all of my experiences and all of the people I've met and all of the people I've been and all that life has to offer, I must now ask myself: What's next? And that question, that question is full of fear and anxiety and loneliness and complications. That question is so easy and yet so difficult. That question is the paradox to end all paradoxes, because I know that whatever is in store for me, I must at once succumb to it and lead my destiny towards it. I must simultaneously know the answer and be dumb to my destination. I must feel all of the pangs and highs and lows and laughter and tears and really let myself experience it because this time it's not preparation. This time, it's not a rehearsal. This time, it's not just a temporary personality or phase or stage that I'm going through.

I've come this far and I know this much: No matter how your life is, it is possible to be happy. The human condition allows for shades of emotion, defense mechanisms, contradictions, ironies, and lies. There is a way to find happiness in the most mundane, the most sinister, the most wicked and ugly stations of life. There is a glimmer of truth and beauty everywhere, and it is within these specks that joy is magnified and our lives illuminated and enriched.

Unfortunately, we are merely mortal and unable to appraise all that we encounter. We strive to discover a place within ourselves that is truly and purely lit by joy. Most people don't think this place exists, but I am certain of it. I'm done with trying out different ideas of who to be and how to be. I'm through with attempting to figure out who I am. I know who I am, and now I have to weed through the parts of my life that don't fit in with the person I've become. I must cut away the people I've amassed who know my phases but don't know my real face. I must place my bets on myself and trust that all of this was not for nought. That I know what I'm doing. That I'm working towards a great unknown which is worthy of me. That I am capable of mind-blowing, amazing, wonderful happiness.

*****

I'm broke and without a day job and not making much money from my night job. I haven't paid my credit card bills in months. My credit is shit. My love life is non-existent. I have reached a point in my life where I really and truly must be in a loving, respectful and committed relationship in order to have sex with someone. The people with whom I spend the most time - my coworkers at my night job - are the only people in my everyday life with whom I can't/won't be my true self. There is still much I must do in order to receive my bachelor's degree. And there are letters I must write to apologize to people, to let them know my side of the story, to show them that I would like my memory to elicit happy thoughts in their minds. There is so much for me to do.

And yet, despite the fact that all of the black-and-white would dictate that I am unhappy, discontented with my reality, and lacking self-reliance or self-determination, that couldn't be farther from the truth. This is my reality. The one that I carved for myself. The one whose details I painstakingly distressed over. The one I want. These are the problems I'd rather have. These are the latent joys that I plan on uncovering.

I'm just working it out. In my mind. To myself. Without disclosing much of anything to anyone. While being a good friend and sister and daughter. While being the best person I've ever been. While putting people first and not resenting anyone for having to be put first. While letting others do some self-actualizing without trying to exert control over who they become.

This is the progress that I've made.

Life is Beautiful

2008-11-10T12:43:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting in my new apartment. My roommate is at her 9 to 5. I've sent out my resume to a few places, and I got a couple emails back confirming that I have an interview at a staffing agency this week. I'm writing up a storm and thinking up ways to be a better student, sister, daughter, dominatrix, friend. In that order. I'm about to cook lunch, write some more, clean up the kitchen, hang up curtains, do laundry. I'm drinking an entire bottle of cranberry juice because I toked up a couple of days ago and I might have to piss in a cup to land a job. And I feel good. So. Very. Fucking. Good. School's gonna work out and work is gonna work out and domming is gonna work out and writing sure as hell is gonna work out. I'm fixing things with my father and I'm keeping in communicado with my brother. My mom's being supportive, and I've been able to lean on her and depend on her. My friends are absolutely amazing. And, by the looks of things, I'll be able to buy Christmas presents this year.

*deep exhalation*

Like a prized dick, I have to take this all in. Experiences like this don't come around too often.

I'm [Not?] Yours

2008-11-04T08:56:00.004-05:00

Rob and I held hands. I looked at him, and was surprised. He wasn't the same man I'd been pining for. Something had changed.

I don't know what changed. I'm not sure how it happened. I don't know if it's temporary. But, yesterday, after going through the motions of mine and Rob's usual interaction, I had to acknowledge that our pattern felt empty. Void of any emotion besides nostalgia and friendship. Expired. And Rob looked different to me. Literally. Figuratively. He was different. He is different.

I told him this as he walked me to the bus stop. "I look different?" he asked, incredulous. "But you moved out two days ago."

"I dunno. You just do. You... look... different."

"Good different? Bad different?"

"You... just... don't... look like you."

"What do you mean?"

"You don't look like the man that I was in love with. You don't look like the same guy I'd hoped would turn things around and validate my love."

He nodded slowly. "Oh. That sucks."

And it was true. Somehow, the chasm between us had grown. I'd been emotionally distancing myself from Rob for a long time, but it was all the more evident last night, when I'd realized that his mom knew things were dead and done between he and I. When I no longer felt the need to nag him about his lack of a job. When I acknowledged that Rob has his own little swagger and he's attractive, but sex would only be sex. There would be no making love. Not anymore.

Even though I'm able to acknowledge and identify these feelings, I still haven't internalized them. They still don't feel real and true. I haven't accepted them.

There's a certain kind of satisfaction in knowing that I've moved on. There's relief and sadness at our relationship ending. But there isn't any disappointment. There isn't any anger. There isn't any remourse. Or regret.

This morning, when I put on VH1 at my new apartment, Jason Mraz's video came on, and I felt a stirring in the middle of my chest that I haven't felt in a long time. It took me aback and it took me a while to figure out what it was. Even now, until I wrote that sentence, I don't think I knew exactly what it was. I just knew that it was familiar and full of adrenaline and passion and fire. I just knew that it has to do with timing, with the way the world is, with the fact that it's Election Day, with my new place and my emotional distance from my last big love.

It's hope.

I'm hopeful that I have finally learned how to have a successful relationship. Not necessarily successful in that it'll be the last love relationship I'll ever have. Just that I've learned how to love and how to be loved and how to end things when either isn't happening. I'm hopeful that being with Rob has taught me more about myself and about what I want in a partner. I'm hopeful that today, Barack Obama will be elected, and a small part of my beliefs will be personified and actualized by this man being the President of the United States. I'm hopeful that the world - my world - is becoming a better place.

The Baby and the Bathwater

2008-11-03T09:32:00.002-05:00

Don't mind the words in the picture. It's the artistic rendering of the two women that's appropriate in this case. One's scared, the other in control. They appear familiar to each other, with a certain amount of time spent together.

Or maybe I'm just projecting that last part.

For the longest time, I've been heeing and hawing about my social circle. Not my entire social circle, mind you, but the women that I call my best friends. We grew up together and in the process, I've grown apart from them. We don't communicate often, and we hardly see each other. And yet, I find myself applying the term "best friend" to two of these women, instead of revoking that privilege to the entire group.

It's strange, how it happened. It was like breaking up with a lover, even though we'd only had a platonic relationship. There were the usual trappings: not wanting to elongate a cycle that may or may not be vicious; feeling anxiety and frustration at the very thought of dealing with her; doubting the validity of our relationship. And it took years to come to this conclusion. In true break-up form, I'd been deliberating this break for a quarter of the time that we'd been "together".

But we were different people. We had vastly different priorities. And we didn't trust each other.

That last part is what really did it.

Her boyfriend (who's a douchebag that makes her cry all the time), and his best friend (who'd tried to hook up with me - and failed), told her that I'm a liar. And she believed them. She didn't defend me. She didn't communicate with me. She just started being hostile and calling me a liar. Via text. Because, ya know, if she spoke with me in person or on the phone, she might realize what a complete bitch she's being, and that would contradict the numero-uno supreme rule of her universe: Her boyfriend is everything good in the world.

And it hurt. Badly. To hear her call me a liar. To accuse me of - get this - telling people that I own more property than I really do own, and that I have more degrees that I've earned. Not only is it completely and utterly uncharacteristic of me to lie, but if I did lie, you'd think I'd be more creative. Or smarter about it. Why would I make such outrageous claims to someone who could so easily check them out? And why oh why would I ever lie about status and wealth and education? At least, why to them? I've never been one to care about status and wealth and following trends. I mean, hell, I'm proud to tell you that I shop at discount stores and that that dress of mine that you covet was bought at a thrift store. And why the fuck would I lie to them about my education/ Are they gonna give me a six-figure salary?

All of this bothered me. So. Much.

I mean, sure, I'd already had my doubts about her value to me as a friend. We don't vibe anymore, and other than our past, we share nothing in common.

But I'd looked forward to seeing past that and finding a few moments where our synapses click and hum to the same beat, at the same time, in the same key. I'd looked forward to those inevitable moments of familiarity when you look at your friend of many years and go, "That's why we're BFFs." Before any of those things happened, she accused me of being a liar, refused to talk things out, and said that she'd only speak to me after I admitted to saying things that I didn't say. On top of that, she had the gall to act as if she was doing me a favor, with an air like, "Just be glad I still call you my best friend - even though you're a liar."

Fuck that.

Fuck our relationship.

Fuck sisterhood.

Fuck our history.

In my world, loyalty is mutual. She's proven herself disloyal, and I'm too wise to believe that I'm losing something of value by throwing her to the curb. Don't get me wrong; I ask myself all the time about the repercussions of these events. Will the other two girls treat me differently? Will I lose them in the process? Do I regret telling her, "If you don't trust me, then we don't have a relationship?" [NOTE: The same words that my father said to me right before I left my folks' place and became estranged from him.]

I can't claim to know what the future holds, but I can say with confidence and honesty that no matter what happens, I won't regret it. I've reached a point in my life where I trust myself and I trust that I'm making the right choices.

Control Freak

2008-11-03T08:49:00.002-05:00

It's 12:30 on the Sunday after Halloween, and I'm sitting at Cafe Enduro with my friend and fellow website-writer, Deena. We haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks, and today there's business on the agenda. In hopes of luring more traffic to The Musing Broads, I've enlisted my friend, Hunter, to help jazz up the site.

Now, lemme tell ya: when it comes to technology, I'm pretty much a retard. I mean that. I'm slooooowwww. I'm pretty sure that in the next couple of years, I'll be more up on it, but right now, I know nearly nothing about the internet, the new technology available on the market, and how to jazz up a website.

But I know people, so I don't necessarily need to know shit anyway.

I'd set up the meeting a couple weeks before, and I'm peeved because I feel unprepared. Deena, Anna, and I haven't made a plan about what we're going to talk to him about. Our schedules clash, our communication sucks, and I'm frustrated. I've been calling and leaving voicemails. I've been texting every other day. And here we are, on the day of the meeting, and all of the topics that we can talk to Hunter about are suitable for a telephone conversation. He doesn't need to come meet us. Hell, I didn't have to roll out of bed at an ungodly hour on a Sunday to schlep over to Prospect Park - not when my to-do list is running a mile long.

As I'm seeing those words go up, I'm thinking that I should maybe write this in my private journal. The one that people don't read. The one that won't hurt anyone's feelings.

But I'm not gonna. I'm gonna post it up on here.

Why?

If my therapist asked me that question, I'd probably tell her "no harm, no foul". I've already expressed these sentiments to Deena, and I'll surely express them to Anna sure enough.

What about others' opinions of them? Of us, The Musing Broads?

That's a bit trickier to answer. I fully believe that our actions and words are influential, and that communication is always a form of promotion. There's a reason that people speak the way they speak and use the words they use. It might be because their agenda is to "blend in", or it could be because their agenda is to "seem smart", or it could be because their agenda is to "seem different". Whatever the reason, there is always an agenda.

Right now, though, the agenda of my words is to promote the fact that I'm trying my damnedest to do right by our website. Moreover, I'm trying my damnedest to do right in every other facet of my life. I'm concurrently working on a short story collection and two novels, and looking for freelance writing gigs. I'm job hunting for a 9-5. I'm working my ass off and improving myself as a dominatrix. I'm cleaning and nesting at my new apartment. I'm communicating with professors and writing papers that were due soooo long ago.

And I'm not saying that I'm the busiest person on the planet, or the best, or the one who should get more credit for her actions. What I am saying is that I communicate. I let you know my motives and my goals, I ask if you're down with them, and then I make a plan. I expect people to follow the plan.

I haven't always been like this. In fact, like I've been telling my new roommate, JC, this is a new development. Two or three years ago, I was good at looking like I was meticulous and constantly on the ball - but looks are deceiving. Now that I feel in control of my life and my future and my surroundings, I feel good about things. I don't feel helpless. I don't feel scared. I am fortified with the knowledge that I choose my own problems, and the ones that I have are the ones that I want.

I've taken to cleaning and sorting and scheduling and always being active. Even when I'm daydreaming, I'm doing it actively. I multi-task every chance I get. I always keep in mind how much time I have, what I'm supposed to do, and how much is in my budget. I'm running on almost all cylinders.

And I'm really hoping that I don't annoy too many people in doing so. I don't mean to cause anyone discomfort or distress. Simultaneously, and because I will do almost anything to avoid causing anyone discomfort or distress, I don't give a fuck if I do. I'm doing my best, goddamnit. If I ruffle some feathers, then so be it.

My. Life. Is. So. Fucking. Awesome.

2008-11-02T11:34:00.002-05:00

I'm finally making bank as a dominatrix. I'm thisclose to landing a 9-5 that I don't hate. I moved in to a new apartment that is AWESOME, i.e., close to trains, affordable, with the awesomest of awesome roommates, large, and in New York City. My health insurance is kicking in and I get to use it in a couple of weeks when I visit a gyno that's been recommended by a close friend. I can finally start paying off my credit card debt. Wondermazing and HOT men and women are knocking on the door of my pussy. Family and friend ish is working out. Life is good.

Just wanted to brag.

Nope. I don't believe in that.

2008-10-31T01:35:00.003-04:00

a·the·ist /ˈeɪθiɪst/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[ey-thee-ist] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
a person who denies or disbelieves the existence of a supreme being or beings.
[Origin: 1565–75; < Gk áthe(os) godless + -ist]

—Synonyms Atheist, agnostic, infidel, skeptic refer to persons not inclined toward religious belief or a particular form of religious belief. An atheist is one who denies the existence of a deity or of divine beings. An agnostic is one who believes it impossible to know anything about God or about the creation of the universe and refrains from commitment to any religious doctrine. Infidel means an unbeliever, especially a nonbeliever in Islam or Christianity. A skeptic doubts and is critical of all accepted doctrines and creeds.

ag·nos·tic /ægˈnɒstɪk/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciation[ag-nos-tik] Pronunciation Key - Show IPA Pronunciation
–noun
1. a person who holds that the existence of the ultimate cause, as God, and the essential nature of things are unknown and unknowable, or that human knowledge is limited to experience.
2. a person who denies or doubts the possibility of ultimate knowledge in some area of study.
–adjective
3. of or pertaining to agnostics or agnosticism.
4. asserting the uncertainty of all claims to knowledge.

And by that, I mean "organized religion". I swear I mean no disrespect when I say this, but your religious beliefs? They mean jack shit to me. I think they're idle and useless, and though I will defend your right to recount historically inaccurate texts and speak words into the air, I have no use for those practices.

Yeah, they make you a better person. They guide you. They make you feel less alone. Your entire lineage swears by it and your great-grandparents died for the right to practice it, and it's great. I'm sure it is.

But, ya know what? We are alone. And the fact that someone had to die to be able to practice your religion? It only means that your religion's ass got beat, and that's not exactly a newsflash, since EVERYONE'S religion's ass got beat somewhere down the line. I'm glad you've found a way to connect to an imaginary being; I felt the same kind of awe when I discovered the Ouija Board. But let's face the facts, buddy: this is all just a panacea. A cure-all. A drug. Entrusting your life and decisions to some story is just a way to alleviate yourself of the responsibility of being an individual. Because it's hard to have full responsibility over yourself. It is. You have to have reasons for doing things that go beyond, "'Cause God told me so." And, yeah, who has the skill to pull that off?

Oh, wait. You do. You can decide what to eat and when to sleep and how much time to devote to your spouse. You can figure out for yourself who to trust and who's right and who your friends are. You can experience life and use your own judgment to refine your moral compass. You can decide that it's wrong to kick someone when they're down; you can decide to be kind; you can decide not to be a bitch or an asshole.

If you need someone to tell you this stuff, then you're not exactly the brightest crayon in the box.

NOTE: If you decide what you're about, and then realize that it fits into a doctrine that doesn't resemble an established organized religion, then the preceding rant does not apply to you.

2008-10-28T12:26:00.003-04:00

I'm not big on quizzes that supposedly determine something about me. I'm not big on labels, in general, and every quiz seems to be a "look which cliche you fit best!" test. But I'm scouring the internet for potential jobs, and when I took a break to check in with real life, I found this quiz. I love it when a quiz tells me something I already know!

you are deeppink
#FF1493

Your dominant hues are red and magenta. You love doing your own thing and going on your own adventures, but there are close friends you know you just can't leave behind. You can influence others on days when you're patient, but most times you just want to go out, have fun, and do your own thing.

Your saturation level is high - you get into life and have a strong personality. Everyone you meet will either love you or hate you - either way, your goal is to get them to change the world with you. You are very hard working and don't have much patience for people without your initiative.

Your outlook on life is very bright. You are sunny and optimistic about life and others find it very encouraging, but remember to tone it down if you sense irritation.

the spacefem.com html color quiz

More Options

2008-10-28T11:49:00.003-04:00

It's strange how quickly things change. One morning, you wake up and it's cold and rainy and you know that it's another season. Fall becomes the present and summer the past, and you witnessed the change but you can't pinpoint exactly when it happened.

That's what my life feels like right now. Everything is different.

Not too long ago, I was working half a dozen gigs, trying my damnedest to earn money from unreliable sources, and taking pride in the fact that every facet of my personality was earning money. I can be respectable and in-charge and academic; so I had a consulting job. I can be unorthodox and willing to show my body; so I had a job as a model-teacher. I can be over(t)ly sexual and sensual; so I became a dominatrix. I can be warm and maternal; so I taught poetry to at-risk youths. I can be creative and spontaneous; so I was a freelance writer for the campus women's center.

I had wrongly believed that I wanted to pimp out my talents and facets in order to earn money. "It's what celebrities do," I said to myself. "They get paid for being themselves."

But in selling these facets of my personality, I felt like a whore, selling my self. I had become adept at comodifying Me, and while I was reaping the rewards, I felt like I was only a product. I wasn't a person anymore.

So here I am, barely working. I'm only holding on to my consulting job, and barely at that. I'm looking for a boring full-time 9 to 5 which will give me time for stasis. I fully anticipate running on all cylinders outside of work - school, writing, and other creative endeavors will take up my time and energy - and I need a boring place to relax and just work.

I know that going back to school will be difficult for me. I haven't been in school for two years, I think. It's been so long that I don't remember. All I know is that I have a lot of work to make up, and I want to get to my peak academic condition. I've totally rearranged my priorities and I've realized that my big problem - one of the reasons that my priorities haven't been what they are now - is that I can't handle the input of authority figures. I naturally resist doing what parents and guardians and police officers and teachers and mentors tell me. I don't believe that it's possible for anyone to know better than me, and when someone says something to me, I automatically believe that it can't be valid or true. Having opinions shoved down my throat only delays the process of embracing that opinion.

I've become very vanilla in a short amount of time, and I like that. I like having so much experience under my belt and not seeming that way. I like having a past that is so colorful and different from the usual past. I take pride in having been a dominatrix and a juvenile delinquent and having done drugs and been a ho and been in fights. Those are extraordinary feats of personality.

But now I want to stretch out in the opposite direction and be more "conventional". I want long-term monetary success. I want stability. I want family. I want academic status. These are all things that mainstream American tells you you should want, and for that reason, I've been rebelling against them. But now I'm embracing them, and I'm not afraid to show it.

Labels are for wusses. History is where it's at. Call me what you want; but if you don't know who I've been, you have no idea who I am.

A typical day at the office.

2008-10-25T13:29:00.002-04:00

Rob took these pics of me. I'm kind of upset because I look better in them than I do on the ones that are on the dungeon website, but cest la vie. I figured you deserve to see what I look like, if only to know that I'm not shitting you about being a dom.

There's the hard way and there's the harder way.

2008-10-23T09:43:00.003-04:00

And, for the life of me, I can't figure out why I'd wanna take the harder way. Who am I trying to impress? What lesson am I hoping to learn? What do I think I'm gonna get out of it? If the name of the game is "perseverance", and I play by the same goddamn rules all the fucking time, then why shouldn't I stick with the shorter process, the less daunting options, and the easier outcome? This realization has hit me as I figure out my next step.

Currently, I'm fixing to get back into school while working my ass off at a consulting job that I find boring as all hell. I tell myself that in a year, I'll be a salaried employee with benefits and a staff working under me, but the truth is, I'm doing this because I feel indebted to my boss, Mei. She's like an aunt to me, and that in itself is a problem. I've never been good with the hierarchy of power, nor have I been good at mixing and matching friendly with business. The ironic part of my relationship with Mei is this: she's been trying to ween me off of my old patterns/habits concerning my parents, and in so doing she's reinforced them with her.

I haven't spoken to her about any of this because I feel like that's part of the problem: I shouldn't have to speak to her about all of this. I want a cut-and-dry employee-employer relationship. I mean, yeah, it would be nice if my boss wasn't a douchebag, but do I need them to care about me and want to save me from something big and bad? Nope, not in the least.

So now I'm looking into getting a really boring cubicle job where I'll be another in the masses - and somehow, that suits me better. I'll keep my night job for money and kicks, and in between that and writing and school, I should be pretty busy. I'll be readjusting to single life and getting back in touch with my frilly girlie side, and wow... I just realized that I can't wait for all of this to kick in!

Dating, Maria-style

2008-10-20T14:13:00.003-04:00

Maybe I should talk about Alex, aka post-Rob rebound guy. He's all the good things that Rob's not and all the good things that Rob is, and yet I can't seem to get Rob out of my system. Maybe it's because I still love the jerk, or maybe it's because I still live with him, or maybe it's both. All I know is that Alex says the right things at the right time, and he's real - at least, he's as real as a drug dealer can be - yet I can't wrap my brain around being with him. Not in a long-term way, anyway.

Before I forget and leave everyone scratching their heads, going, "Did she really just say what I think she said?", let me say for the record that I've dated drug dealers before. I've even dated a pimp, though that was after his pimping days, and before I knew of his past. What can I say? I connect to shady and dangerous people, and if you met me in person that would throw you for a loop.

See, the thing is, I'm sweet. Saccharine sweet. I'm an open book - too open, really. I say it how it is and I wear my heart on my sleeve, and, honestly, if you wanted to play me for a fool that wouldn't seem so hard to do. Only, most people play head games for the rush of controlling other people, and it never quite feels like you're controlling me. Even when I'm doing things that'll work out in your favor, even when I'm helping you out - I either have an angle or I really love you. Don't mistake my kindness as weakness. I let blatant offenses roll off my back because I've got your number and I know I can call you out if need be. I let people make themselves look good at my expense because I'm already working the room and you can't even begin to fathom what I'm working on. I play head games with the best of em, and only the people I love best know the real me.

So Alex and I have had a few moments and I feel my walls coming down, but I have a few apprehensions. For one thing, I'm not about to let this shady underbelly of my personality run, full-throttle. I don't like the idea of having to watch my back all the time (I'm way too paranoid for that shit). And the legal repercussions do faze me a bit.

For another thing, I've just ended a three-year relationship and I don't wanna run straight into another one. I know better than to move in with Alex, though the situation would be ideal in a lot of ways, i.e., I wouldn't have to pay rent, the apartment's in the city, Alex would take care of me financially.

I'll admit that Alex runs a good game, and the things that come out of his mouth seem too good to be true; he has a way with words, yet the fact that I've known him since his dorky days makes me believe that some of it must be true.

In a lot of ways, I feel like we're on equal-footing, despite the fact that I'd be unabashedly living off of him. It has to do with how sincere he seems, and his perception of me, and the experiences we've both accumulated since we last hung out.

But none of this matters, really.

I've resolved to move in with my good girlfriend, JC, by the first of November. I'm applying to a few part-time gigs with steady pay. Mei and I will sit down some time this week to discuss what hours/pay I can count on. And the night job is finally picking up (a photog friend agreed to take my pics tonight! I'm so excited!).

In the meantime, Rob and I are being friendly and civil, and all kinds of guys from my past are popping out of the woodwork. Isn't that always the case, though? You resolve to stay single and even contemplate celibacy, and dick gets thrown at you from every direction! Of course!

Maybe I'll satisfy my craving for pussy. It's been a while.

"So now you finally know him."

2008-10-12T13:52:00.003-04:00

That's what Rob's aunt said after I off-handedly mentioned that Rob's been lying to me about doing laundry. I wanted to say, "I've always known that about him, but I've hoped that he'd change." But I kept my mouth shut. There is no reason to revisit my relationship with Rob. The part of me that used to care for him in more than a platonic manner is dead. Gone. Shriveled up and withered away. Attention does nothing to that lonely patch of soul.

I feel like I've spent a lot of time blogging about Rob and the intricacies and complexities that make up our relationship. And, for sure, there have been many many many many many hours, days, weeks, months spent philosophizing on the merits of said relationship. But now, after my patience has been spent and my urge to move on has become final and definite, I'm left to ponder the next step.

Of course, it's more difficult than I make it sound. For one thing, I haven't moved out of his mom's house yet. I'm saving up as much as I can and looking for an affordable apartment in a nice neighborhood that's close to my job and campus. That right there's a tall order to fill, hence why it's taking so fucking long. I've hired a broker to help me, and while I'm still living in the house I've made it a point to distance myself from everyone. I owe this much to Rob. He has to know for certain that his family is on his side. I know that much.

Last night, I broke down that rule and told two of his cousins that I'm going to move soon and that when I do, I'll be breaking up with Rob. Up to that moment, I had considered this fact something that belonged in the "too sacred to tell" pile. The exposure of my words to air only show how much my love for him has died. His cousins nodded, understandingly, and cracked jokes to make me feel better, and assured me wholeheartedly that we'd still be seeing each other. They successfully made me feel better, and I went to bed last night relaxed and fulfilled.

I know that the end of our relationship will signal to others that it's safe to conjecture and criticize, but the opposite is true. Now that this chapter is closed, I prefer to keep it that way. Screw what anyone thinks or says. Only Rob and I know what we had and how it affects us. And fuck anyone who has the nerve to say "I told you so." You have no idea what you're talking about.

This is why I don't take down posts.

2008-10-03T09:15:00.006-04:00

I just spent a couple minutes re-reading a few of my more recent posts and thinking about taking them down. They contradict a lot of what I'm feeling right now, and I don't want people chancing upon them and assuming that they're current feelings.

But doing so would violate the sacred code of journal writing: You just don't tear shit out. You need remnants of the person that you are at this very moment. That's why you write in a journal or blog in the first place. So what if people don't get it? So what if they're too blind-sighted to see past the fact that you harbored ill wishes toward them for two minutes? Isn't it better that everyone know what they're dealing with, and also be aware that life is ever-changing and vacillating and is never the same twice?

Years ago I had a blog where I said some mean things about a woman who is now a very dear friend. She happens to be dating another dear friend of mine, who's an avid reader of my blogs, and it occurred to me the other night that there's a good chance she read those harsh criticisms. I felt bad for having had these thoughts about her, but whether or not she read them, they're in the past. Obviously, we're both past it.

I've mended much of my inner-conflict surrounding Mei and our relationship, and as much as I thoroughly meant it when I said I wanted to use her only as a source of money, it's just not the case anymore. I've passed that short-lived phase and I'm on to a new, more positive, and healthier cycle.

The same goes with the riffs I felt with Rob's family. A lot of it, I realize, stems from my own paranoia and phobias. I've done things (like get my own refrigerator) to curb my lack-of-boundaries issue. I've also learned to be less dependent on them for basic things like food and laundry detergent. I'm making money now, and it's easier for everyone involved that I deal with the situation in this way.

Yeah, things change. Life gets harder, life gets easier. We learn and we roll with the punches and we lie there and take it in the ass. But when it comes to art, when it comes to writing, when it comes to my writing - well, you have to take everything with a bouquet of forget-me-nots. You have to keep in mind who and what you're dealing with. And you have to adjust.

Believe it or not, your way isn't the only way to see things. And at some particular moment, in some significant way, someone you care about has disagreed with you or thought ill of you or realized something about you that made them more aware. It doesn't make them better or worse, and it sure as hell doesn't make you better or worse. It just makes the speaker more articulate for airing their thoughts. And, anyway, as Jay-Z said: "What you about to witness is my thoughts/Just my thoughts man - right or wrong/Just what I was feeling at the time."

There are no mistakes in life...

2008-10-03T08:25:00.002-04:00

...only consequences to your actions.

That's one of my favorite sayings of all time, and I got it from Dawson's fucking Creek.

Yeah, I said it. Kevin Williamson and the writers had some choice lines in that show.

You know who else has some choice fucking lines? Politicians. Either they're funny or they're unintentionally funny. Either way, I get sheer and utter amusement (befuddlement?) out of them, and it shows. A lot. Take, for instance, last night. I've been wrapped up in the craziness that's been the presidential election, and that VP debate was enough amusement to have ALL the ladies at my night job glued to the screen.

All of us are rooting for Obama, but I was more even-handed about my criticism than most; I was quick to point out when Palin said "Talibani", but I was just as quick to point out when Biden said "Bosniacs."

And, don't get me wrong, I've been a public speaker for at least 6 years now, and God knows it's hard to get in front of people and talk about anything - but for the love of guacamole! Talibani? And Bosniacs?

*****

My birthday was this past Wednesday. It was great and it was heart-wrenching, and maybe I'll get into it, but if I do it'll be some other time. All that's certain after my birthday having passed - besides the fact that despite my quips and their quirks, I really do have a sincere and true affinity for Rob's family - is that I didn't make my self-imposed deadline. That's right: I haven't yet finished my collection of short stories. And that kinda sucks.

For the most part, it sucks because now I know that I'm really too busy trying to earn a buck to actually sit down and write. For another thing, I just wanna get this thing over with. I've cast off all of my reasons to be "humble" about my talent. I want to show off my skills and get the acclaim I deserve.

Speaking of which, The Musing Broads site has been doing well. I know this because I've received over a dozen emails, texts and calls from people telling me that they love the site. Only, for some reason, no one's actually commenting on the damn thing. Why?!

*****

I have to admit, I'm loving the ability to work and work and work and love working. It's taken me a long time to get to this point, and I'm damn proud of it. There used to be so much inner conflict radiating from the topic of MONEY, in general. Now, I only see black-and-white, dos-and-don'ts, and ins-and-outs. I still spend too much for my own good, but I'm not exactly po'. And I'm loving life to the fullest extent. Can't nothin' beat that.

SO the job hunt is momentarily called off, and the money is momentarily flowing in. And next week, I'll be devoting a large chunk of my time to writing and apartment hunting. Not that I'm exactly rollin' in dough, but I have enough stashed away that this prospect isn't entirely ludicrous.

And yes, children, if you happen along my site, take note that that's the right way to spell "ludicrous." Kudos to other musical acts for spelling out the right way to write their moniker. Even if it's in every fucking song. Maybe it's their way of improving literacy in America, I dunno. I'm just sayin'... Every little bit helps. Right, Fab?

*****

Oh, the joy that is in my heart right now for no apparent reason. Maybe it's because I woke up to a clean room and a warm bed and a boyfriend who's willing to go hours eating me out. Maybe it's because I'm so certain that I'm gonna bring home a G by the end of this week. Maybe it's because said boyfriend will actually be making monetary contributions to our lifestyle. Soon.

Yes, it's true: I might be packing my bags to leave his ass, but it's nice to have some help while I'm still here.

And, yes, it also helps that said boyfriend has purchased tickets for me to see Margaret Cho tomorrow night.

I fucking loooovveeee her.

Even better than said boyfriend having bought me two nice seats to Margaret Cho's show at Radio City is the fact that he's also given me permission to take someone else to the show. Rob isn't as into Margaret as I'd like, but my girl JC loves her almost as much as I do.

And that, ladies and gents, is how I make it work with Rob. Or rather, how I keep my sanity as things fall apart with him. I don't think about him as often as I probably should and I make sure to steer clear of conversations rife with agitating topics. I'm not there for him emotionally simply because I can't handle having to be so goddamn patient with one fucking person all the fucking time. But, I'm there for him on the immediate basis, for issues that are closer to home. [READ: Issues that affect/effect ME.] For other issues, there are pillows and other peoples' shoulders to cry on.

Yes, I love him, and yes I am bitchier than usual when I'm with him. But am I living, loving it, and refraining from lying to anyone? YES. Who can say the same?

*****

I guess, what it boils down to, is that I'm a hopeful bitch. There's a lot you can say about me. But "hopeless"? Just not one of em.

Because you miss me so much.

2008-09-30T23:19:00.002-04:00

You'll wanna take a gander at the latest post on my other blog, Mama Maria's Makin' It Work. It's called "So You Wanna Be a Dominatrix?"

My exploding ego will be on hiatus.

2008-09-28T08:13:00.004-04:00

At least for a little while.

By this I mean: I will be blogging over at themusingbroads.co.nr for the time being. Lots of work-related issues I wanna dive into, and I just don't have the time and energy to do both blogs.

Before I go, though, I want to leave you all with this tidbit: I'm staying. I'm at least 95% sure of it. I think an overwhelming sense of frustration led me to want to go, and that, though it's a good idea, it's a better idea to choose "fight" instead of "flight." It helps that Mei offered to make me a full-time employee by the end of the year, thus ending my quest for steady/good income. It also helps that I have the most awesome friends in the world. I love you all so much.

XO-M

Back to my old tricks.

2008-09-27T08:08:00.003-04:00

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm a spin doctor; I always have been. My powers of manipulation have made almost every situation work in my favor, and I control the thoughts of people who have influence. I do this involuntarily; after attempting to quelch my instinct to do so, I now know that trying is pointless. It's ingrained in me.

Thing is, I honestly believe that everyone tries to be a spin doctor, and in a way, everyone is a spin doctor. The inflection of your voice as you tell a story, your word choice, the subtle physical cues you use - those are all to persuade the audience of something, because, as any political campaign can tell you, "It's not the truth that counts. It's what passes for the truth."

Rewind to this past Thursday. My hormones were out of whack. I was crying every fifteen minutes. Every little thing upset me. I was seriously suicidal for all of half an hour. And just a day before, I was on top of the world, conquering every obstacle thrown at me and loving it. This, dear reader, is why a therapist once suggested that I'm bi-polar.

Every sound out of my mouth was a scream or a holler or a yelp or a cry. Every tear made me shiver and quake. The depression that hit was deep and all-consuming. I couldn't face the thought of leaving my room and dealing with things. No work, no writing, no people. Everything just added to the melee of confusion that attacked me. So I refused to do anything. I stayed home and hardly communicated with the outside world. I slept and cried and ate a bit and repeated the process. I thought about slitting my wrists, then laughed at the idea.

It was in this state that I decided on leaving the country. It came as a revelation, and just as soon as the thought was formed into words and I spoke those words aloud, I felt an overarching sense of relief. Somehow, there existed a plan of action that didn't make me feel more burdened; it was whole and perfect and encompassed everything that I needed to feel all right. In one fell swoop, it canceled out all of the issues that had surfaced within my deep state of depression, and it made me feel better about my situation and my life.

I can't tell for sure, but I think I called people that night. Who I talked to and what was said, I can't really say. Some of the people I remember speaking to have been dead a long time. Some of the people I thought I spoke to tell me they didn't speak to me that night. All I know for sure is that, somehow, I managed to tire myself out and fall asleep. The next day, I woke up and I was fine.

No. Not fine. I haven't been fine in a while. I've been walking the line between crazy and normal, and I know it (and this makes me think that I must be okay, because crazy people don't know when they're crazy). I was mired in residual feelings of laziness. It was hard to get out of bed. I couldn't bring myself to go to work on time. But unlike in the past, I knew all of this and I didn't care; I was no longer afraid of the consequences and feeling guilty about the situation. I thought, "So what if I don't [insert responsibility here]? My first responsibility is to myself, and fuck what anyone has to say to that."

Like so many platitudes and cliches, there is a strand of truth in this line of thinking which makes it difficult to argue. Most people who try to argue with me are immediately shut down because I don't like the way they approach the issue. Some people [read: close friends], I can't help but listen to. However, in the end, more often than not, I stick to my guns. Another platitude about self-reliance rings in my head: "Who can you trust if not yourself?"

I've become enamored with thoughts about fate and destiny. I am zealous about controlling my own fate and loathe the idea that it might be subjected to someone else's plans or whims. I am paranoid that other people might attempt to exercise their influence over my life, and I am angered by the notion that I might be stupid and weak enough to allow them this ability. In the end, only I can be held accountable for what happens to me, and I don't want to be disappointed with myself.

But what do I do now?

I am standing at a precipice, facing the choice of staying in New York City and taking the more conventional route of growing up. If this plan of action is followed, I will lick my wounds, horde my money, get my own place, and find a sense of dignity in joining the masses. I will feel as though I have accomplished a phase that society has deemed necessary, and I will soak in the praise of the ordinary people who will recognize in me the same obstacles they've faced. But more than that: I will, for the first time, compare myself to the masses. I will feel safe and comforted from having chosen to be more conventional, from using the accepted norm as a measure for what I should do or who I should become. I will know that, despite the outcome of my life, there will be a safety net to catch me: people will understand my choices and they will relate to me. This route is personified my Mei.

But, on the other hand, is the less conventional route: the complicated and seemingly perverse route which includes leaving the country and starting anew. It is the choice that seems more natural to me, the choice that most people do not have, the choice that is extraordinary. The parts of me that are inherently from my parents love this choice. It exemplifies everything that is unconventional and quirky and misunderstood and strange and out-of-the-ordinary. In short, it exemplifies everything that I am. It is a vastness of contradiction, i.e., In order to get to the end result of "acceptable norm" I will go through a very "unacceptable ab-norm". It fortifies me with something that most people do not have, and maybe, that's what all of this is really about. Maybe I've come to accept that I am most certainly not like most people, and that's okay: I don't want to be like most people.

*****

This choice is difficult for me to make because I'm being told by Mei that my original way of thinking - aka, the way that makes me want to leave the country - is not healthy.

But maybe, despite all of Mei's understanding and tolerance, my way of thinking is simply out of the bounds of her understanding. Maybe it's simply too unconventional for her - and thus relegated to the realm of unhealthy. What if the risks that I'm taking are simply not the risks that Mei would take? Who's to say what normal is, anyway? And how can anyone know what is healthy?

*****

I've lied to Mei. I told her that a family emergency caused me not to go to work. I told her that Rob's landed a job. I've said that I've started going to therapy. I know that whatever I choose to do in the long-run, it won't be what she wants for me.

If I was going to therapy, the therapist would probably ask why I feel the need to lie to Mei. I'd say that lying facilitates having a relationship with Mei; being honest with her only leads to arguments and confrontation, and I've come to the conclusion that what I want from her isn't mentorship: it's money. In a strictly work environment, I have to responsibility to her to be honest and open about my life, so I'm retracting from what I'd previously done.

*****

I've long ago come to the conclusion that there is nothing in the world that is right - or - wrong, black - or - white. There are shades of gray, and those are the shades that we live in. None of us have definitive answers. Those who claim to have answers are usually the ones grasping hardest at straws, hoping to find a way of consoling themselves.

But strength lies in standing on one's own, familiarizing one's self with the terrain of their personality, and catering to that personality despite what other people might say or do. Strength resides in the faith one has in him/herself. Strength is tolerating negativity and overcoming obstacles - especially when you're something that most people don't understand.

And yet, on the flip side of things, there are, I'm sure, ways to the contrary of being strong. And within the seemingly concrete edifice of my definition of "strength" there are indeed gray areas, dents and nooks and crannies, in which contradictory ideas reside. I will venture on a limb and say that I know all of these sides of strength, and after all is said and done, there will be no one who can doubt my strength of will and character.

Therein lies the problem.

2008-09-26T10:55:00.003-04:00

With an add-on

The last few days have been especially hard. My mom's been in and out of the hospital, my brother's thousands of miles away (in the Philippines), and my father and I are still at a stalemate. On Tuesday night, a man followed me home from work, and what followed was a sea of emotions: pride and empowerment from having handled the situation well, confusion and befuddlement from having two parts of my world clash. On the one hand he was fulfilling a desire that was somewhat assisted from the part I play at work; on the other hand, this is real life motherfucker.

What followed the unsettling feeling was a decision: Call Rob; he'll make me feel better. But even though we'd agreed that he'd be glued to his phone while I'm coming home from work; even though I called him, frantic, a dozen times; even though I texted him and called his house and even called from a payphone (I'm not sure why that seemed like a relevant idea), I was left hanging. The one person that I depend on to be there for me was not there for me. Because he was asleep.

Believe me when I say that I am patient with Rob. I give him the benefit of the doubt. Hell, I even lie to myself about him. All this just so that we have a shot in hell of working out. But when he doesn't provide for us financially and he doesn't help out emotionally and he can't even pick up a fucking phone when I'm being stalked from work - then what the fuck do I need him for?

We haven't had sex in more than a week, which is a huge deal for us. We argue all the time, which isn't necessarily a new development. What is a new development is the feeling of loneliness that's permeated my side of the relationship. I no longer feel like I am part of a couple. I no longer trust that Rob will pull through for me in any capacity. I have lost faith in us, ergo there is no Us.

And maybe that's why I am no longer comfortable in Rob's mom's house. Between the many times that I've screamed ridiculously loud at Rob and the fights that we've had; between the lack of boundaries within the house and the constant pressure to socialize; between the notion that I need a feeling of family and the magnification of a lack thereof within this house - I don't like it here. I want to leave as soon as possible.

But there's a problem: my lack of money and my lack of decision. There is a small nagging part of me that wants to jump ship. It is the part of me that says, "I know you're domming and consulting and you've started a blog with your two friends - but face it, dearie, you ain't no pauper. You gotta have dough and you don't want it to hinge on your punani. You're not happy with things the way they are."

And, yeah: that voice is right.

As much as I appreciate all that Mei's done for me, and I truly respect and admire sex workers who make the profession work for them - I can't depend on a paycheck that's built on my ability to be feminine. Not in the body-woman kind of way, and not in a slutty-for-show kind of way. And the reason for this isn't only that my feelings of femininity are flimsy - it's also because the pay is flimsy, too.

I can't depend on a regular, steady paycheck, and that makes my line of work seem more like a gig than a career. Yeah, I said it: I wouldn't mind making a career out of being a dominatrix. But a career implies that the pay is steady and the hours set. This is not so, and therefore I have to search elsewhere.

Had I known that things would be this hard on my own? Absolutely! I even fetishized the difficulty in being independent. But now that the new car smell has worn away, and I am less than a week away till my birthday, I'm feeling torn. That part of me who relished doing things the hard way, who bore the brunt of everything with a smile, who knew that every obstacle only made her stronger - she's tired of being strong and noble. She wants to take the easy way out. And, honestly, I can't blame her.

I think to myself: what is the best case scenario [short of finding a suitcase full of cash under my bed]? And I think to myself, I need a short-term solution that will manifest itself into a long-term solution. I need to land a job that pays really well, and I need to do it right now.

But jobs like that aren't exactly everywhere, and most of them are professions I wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole. Moreover, the ones that seem like a good idea inevitably turn into short-term prospects with no chance of becoming a long-term career.

Enter my mom, who has reserved a ticket to the Philippines. I'm considering going back to the original plan: going overseas, teaching English, and getting a nursing degree. I'm thinking about parlaying that nursing degree into a house and a physician's assistance degree when I get back to the States in 3 years. I'm daydreaming about tropical weather and my own house where I'll set boundaries and be able to afford the good life. I'm telling myself that I can still blog with the girls and write incessantly and send out my work to agents - but now I'll be emotionally and financially comfortable.

I have only a week to decide.

Add-on: I went in to see Mei and she corrected me. "You don't need to make a boatload of cash right now," she said with a glint in her eye. "You want to make that money. There's supposed to be a disconnect between what you want and what you need, and not having it isn't healthy."

I explained to her that bridging the disconnect is exactly why I get everything I want. I don't just focus on the things that are necessary; I attempt to accomplish the impossible. I don't limit my options and say, "I can have this or that." Instead, I say to myself, "What can I do to ensure that I have this and that?"

"But that's not healthy," Mei kept saying. "You have to make a decision. What do you need more?"

"If I can have both, why do I need to make a decision?"

"Because you can't have both."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not possible."

"But what if it is possible?"

"It's not."

And that, right there, is why I'm still considering going to the Philippines. I want to be able to make money and be creative, and I feel like this option will give me both.

The truth is, I don't do "poor" well, and at this point in the game, I don't want to do it if I don't need to do it. So why the fuck not go to the Philippines?

Sure, it's unconventional and will leave Mei disappointed - but I have more responsibility to myself than I have to her. And, sure, I'll miss New York City and all of my friends and family - but in this day and age, they're only as far as a computer or a phone. I've come to a conclusion about who I am and what I need, and it doesn't necessarily mesh with what others think of me and what others think I need - and that's okay. Part of growing up is facing truths that are uncomfortable, and dealing with them.

Shameless Plug

2008-09-22T10:43:00.001-04:00

I've teamed up with two of my closest friends-cum-writing buddies, Annamarya and Deena, to become The Musing Broads. Every week, we'll be answering your questions about love, life and the pursuit of sexiness, and ya never know what we'll say! This week, for example, we got two rather spindly and long emails from women who don't know what to do about their love interests.

Ya got questions? We've got answers.

So this is what it feels like to be successful!

2008-09-15T16:35:00.003-04:00

For the first time ever, things are really going my way. I'm making good money, working at jobs that I *love* with people I *adore*, and fully aware of what's coming up next.

Life gets more interesting and fulfilling with each passing minute, and I'm not wasting any time. This is productivity at its finest.

This here quarter-life crisis is passing me by. And. It. Feels. So. Good.

Off the top of my head, 15 things that are going on with me:

1) I'm hooking up my friend, Sasha, who's intense and has a very *ahem* colorful past, with a friend of Rob's brother, Ryan, who's got PTSD and is a retired Army Sgt.

2) Two of my closest friends and best writer-buddies have asked me to start a website with them. It's called "The Musing Broads" and will offer advice on everything from health and dating, to career and house-hunting.

3) Ryan (from #1) has finished a book, and I'm helping him shop it around to independent publishers and literary agents. Makes me kinda think I belong in publishing. But then I remember how much I loathe being tied down by a set schedule, and I very much love my freelance lifestyle.

4) As a big-tittied Asian woman, I'm hauling in lots of cash as a dominatrix. Unfortunately, it's all getting sucked into the black hole that is my debt. Hopefully, I'll soon be able to save some. Soon is the operative word. Only problem is, what with it being an election year and the dungeon having been out-of-business for a month, the clients are few and far between.

5) My own writing is going really well. That is, when I find the time to write.

6) Two things I'm buying asap: a cell phone and a laptop. Rob and I have been sharing his cell phone - "Love, don't worry about spending money on a phone bill. Just use my phone. I hardly use it anyway." - since I moved in with him. But the bill hasn't gotten paid and I need a cell phone in order to keep freelancing at all my jobs. And, technically, I have a laptop - only it's riddled with viruses and really bulky. I need one that I can take everywhere with me.

7) I've filled out the paperwork so that I can be re-admitted to school in the Spring. The way things are going, I'll only have time to take two classes, but cest la vie. I need to make some money, and that degree ain't goin' nowhere.

8) Right up there, on my list of things to do, alongside "Buy a cell phone", "Buy a laptop", "Go back to school", and "Make money", is "Get My Own Place." Things fell through with Asia and she's attempted to hook me up with another viable roommate option, but I'm not feelin' the idea of looking for a place when I don't have the steady income flow. Once the money gets good and steady, I'll be outta Rob's place quicker than you can bat a lash.

9) I love Rob and things are overall going aiight with him. Only... I... Just... Don't... Wanna... Be... Tied... Down. [Right now.]

Yeah.

There.

I said it.

10) I went to my cousin's fabulous lesbian wedding last weekend, and I'm going to California next weekend to attend another cousin's fabulous straight wedding. Plus, I'm making plans to spend some time in Miami this January. Look at me, all jet-setting!

11) My little brother is leaving for the Philippines this Sunday. My folks have already warned him: Once he's gone, he ain't comin' back till he's earned his degree. I'm gonna miss the little booger, but I know that this is what's best for him.

12) I've signed up for therapy at a really reputable place. It's so reputable, in fact, that there's a waiting list. *sigh* I'm hoping that they don't call me back while I don't have a phone; it would suck if I lost my place in line.

13) Rob's thisclose to securing a job as a barback. I'm really hoping that he'll get it, but at the same time I don't wanna get disappointed. The thing is, our main argument is that I feel I'm running around being productive while his ass is coasting on his parents' coattails. I don't want a house-husband.

14) I caught wind of a baby that might need rescuing. Her parents are teenage drug addicts who are supposedly too stupid and lazy to stand on line for WIC checks. Don't worry. I'm gonna do something about it. And, no, I'm not adopting her.

15) Despite the fact that I'm making good money, I'm still looking for a more steady part-time gig. Something with reliable hours/money would be great. I mean, yeah, I love having the flexibility to make my own schedule, but that depends on too many variables, and I need a job where I get paid for basically sitting around for a set amount of time.

Overall, I gotta say: I feel good. Really, really good.

This is why I'm considering therapy.

2008-09-09T10:15:00.003-04:00

Ya know how when you're watching a movie, and it's a thriller or a suspense flick, and something happens to make you scream at the screen, "Why are you doing that?! You know that's not right!"?

It doesn't matter if it's the girl in the heels entering a scary house, or the teenage couple fucking in a car on a deserted street, or the Scooby Gang deciding to split up - you just know it's a bad idea.

Well, I'm not as big on movies as I'd like, but I remember very well that feeling of "Whoa, what the fuck are you doing?!" I remember it almost as well as I remember watching certain movies - Momento comes to mind - and thinking to myself, "What if that was me? How would that feel? What if I seriously didn't realize what was going on?"

Maybe it's my innate creativity (or my hustler prowess?) that forces me to empathize with people, but I've always prided myself on being able to figure people out. I've always been good at seeing all the dimensions of a person and being able to cater to as many of them as the occasion calls for. It's not far-fetched of me to consider the possibility of being schizophrenic or clinically depressed. It's not a big leap to see how much I have in common with the homeless geriatric war vet on the corner.

*****

My brother bought me the tools I needed to alter a dress, so a few days ago I went to Queens to pick up the stuff. I have to take the 2 train to the shuttle to the C train to the A train in order to get to my folks' place, and before I reached the shuttle, I couldn't help but notice a middle-aged, white, balding, man. He was dressed in pressed jeans that were pulled up to his waist, and he wore a matching stone-washed denim jacket. There was a braided brown leather belt holding his pants to his gut, and a red plaid button-down shirt underneath his unbuttoned jacket. On his face were glasses, and on his right hand was a gold wedding band.

I remember looking him over and deciding that he was probably in town for his first gay rendezvous. There was a distinct aura of "foreigner" about him, as if he, too, did not fully comprehend what he was about. He carried two large pieces of luggage and was probably on his way to JFK airport to go back to his wife and kids.

I watched as this man took the shuttle to the C to the A. I watched as the woman sitting next to me pointed out which train he should take to the airport. I saw the man get out of the A train at Rockaway Boulevard.

Everything made sense.

I went to my folks' place, had lunch with my mom and brother, played with my dog. I picked up a crapload of clothes and headed back to the train station. I'd spent maybe three hours at my folks' place, and I had to hurry to Brooklyn so that I could take a shower before going to work.

I remember missing the train by a fraction of a second; if I'd have quickened my pace by the most minute of speeds, I would've made it in time. But, instead, I stood on the train platform and waited for the next train, and boarded it when the opportunity arrived. I took a seat by the window and stared out into the neighborhood that used to be my own. When I reached Rockaway Boulevard, I noticed a teenage girl: very pale, with bleached blond hair and wearing all black. Her big, baggy jeans reminded me of Jnco Jeans; they were all the rage when I was in junior high school, and coming back to Queens always makes me nostalgic. Her top was tight, making her lithe frame all the more noticeable. The black bandana on her head made it unclear whether she was designating herself as a goth kid or a wanna-be gangsta.

I watched this girl from across the platform. She sat on one of those large, metal, beige-painted boxes in which are housed the train station's cleaning materials. She was looking down at her hands, and thinking about something very intently. I imagined that she was thinking about something very important: the state of the world, her future, how hard it is to live. I projected onto her things that I know far too well: drama, chaos, hardships, responsibilities, adulthood. I felt that in making her like me, I would be less alone. But of course, none of this I knew at the time.

I was just thinking and letting my mind wander, and holding her in my gaze as my train left the station. It was not until now, as I'm sitting here, in a house that is not mine, in a room that is not mine, that I realize all of this probably led up to my thoughts.

But, anyway, those were my thoughts as my train left the station, and I saw this girl - young, impressionable, finding her way - on the opposite platform, heading to a place I'd just come from. I felt like I was leaving her behind to fend for herself.

*****

My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy as I made the trek back to Brooklyn. These days, that is not unusual, and I attribute that fact to my lack of sleep and nutrients. I joke with my friends that I'm on the "too broke to eat more than once a day diet." The truth is, my appetite is diminished. Even at weddings and baby showers and parties, when there is a large, lavish spread of food, I am unable to eat. Delicacies and choice cuts of meat are piled high around me, and people are prodding me to eat! eat! eat!, and I can't bring myself to fill my stomach. I think, "What's the use? I'll only have to refill it again."

On my shoulder was a large duffel bag filled with clothes, jewelry, hair clips. There was a bag of weed in it, too - something that I'd bought right before leaving my folks' place - and I walked to the end of the platform to keep away from a cop. It was nearly deserted on the far end of the platform, and I busied myself with thoughts of things I have to do. I made mental checklists and crossed things out one by one.

When the shuttle arrived, I found a seat by the conductor's booth, and when I looked up, there was the white man with the two suitcases and a gold wedding band on his right hand. To my left was the teenage girl dressed all in black.

I kept on staring at them. I wanted to ask the white man, "Didn't I see you on the train earlier?" I wanted to ask the teenage girl, "How is it possible that you're on the same train as me when I know I saw you on the opposite side of the platform, heading to Queens?" But I was too scared to open my mouth. At that point, I'd already begun to doubt myself, and this was brand-new to me. It's one thing to doubt my decisions, but to doubt my senses? To not be able to trust what I see?

It was all too much.

I got back home, showered, and readied myself for work. That night, there were no clients. Rob's favorite uncle passed away. I felt alone and adrift, with no one to understand or help me.

*****

The next morning, I watched as Rob opened the door to the basement and disappeared down the stairs. From my vantage point, I saw his head bobbing as he drunkenly stepped. I went downstairs to make sure that he'd be okay, that he wouldn't bump his head on the low ceiling or fall on the awkwardly-placed steps. But the basement was empty. He hadn't walked down the stairs.

I intellectualized the events, figured that I'd projected onto Rob my desire to have him do laundry in the basement. Then I found him in his cousin's bedroom. I called his name and he came to me, and even though he held me and smiled at me, I felt as if he were clutching air. When he walked away, I saw him enter the bathroom, turn on the light and close the door so that it was partially ajar. I could see the light spilling out of the doorway. I could see his image in the bathroom mirror. I called out to him and when he didn't come out, I went into the bathroom - and it was empty.

Almost frantic, I called to him again and again, and finally he re-emerged from his cousin's bedroom, which is directly opposite from the bathroom. I told him that I could've sworn he went into the bathroom, and he just laughed.

*****

Always, after something like this happens, I feel like there's been a disruption in the space-time continuum. It's like my life was paused and something was changed, and when play was hit again, I could feel the shift but not explain it. It's like those moments in the movies when you know that something is wrong or that something will happen or that the director will play with your head - but you're not really sure why it's affecting you so much. You can't really tell why you care that the couple in the car will be killed or the Scooby Gang will see a ghost. You just know that something unusual, extraordinary, and strange will occur, and that this person, these people, this moment will have to face a reality that you could never even fathom.

No matter how much discipline or preparation or life experience I have, there is something I'm not ready for. And it's out there, waiting, plotting, scheming. It's making me feel paranoid, it's making me feel on-edge, it's making me doubt myself. And it's my job to beat it.

Slowly slipping into something altogether different.

2008-09-05T06:01:00.004-04:00

What does it mean when someone becomes excited to go to therapy? Is it that they're really hopeful? If so, what for? If not, then what?

I ask because I'm excited at the prospect of starting therapy. Damn near pissing-in-my-pants-excited, actually.

I attribute this to the fact that, for the first time in my life, many many many trusted individuals are telling me that I'm not right in the head and BUM BUM BUMMMMM I'm starting to believe them.

Why?, you ask.

Well, it's hard for me to explain, and that's clue numero uno. [NOTE: I'll elaborate on other reasons in another post.]

I, the over-communicator, am finding it difficult to express the gads of emotions and events that have been happening. There's just too much of it, too much stuff to sift through, too many affairs to keep track of. And I just don't have the time. My workin-more-jobs-than-a-Jamaican ass needs to recuperate from all the stress. I'm so busy multi-tasking that I haven't been able to organize the thoughts, thus making it hard for me to Create. And if therapy will help me overcome my frustration, then bring it on. (A tiny voice whispers in my ear: "It's all for writing.")

What else is up with me?

Oh yes: there is the fact that I've stumbled upon Something Too Grand To Be Named.

Yes, it's true. I, the over-communicator, she who spills the beans on everything from fucking to feces and finds it difficult not to impart to a group of strangers that I whip men for a living - yeah, that me - well, I've found something that is too good to spoil by sharing. Something so beautiful that I can't have anyone knowing about it. It's too beautiful for this world and it escapes definition or elaboration. It feels like an emotion in its purest form, raw and wild and thick in your blood, an adrenaline rush at the moment of action. It feels like the very verb and definition of experience. It cannot be subdued into wordplay.

I never thought such a thing could exist.

Which brings me to a strange juncture: at the point of "can't write but would LOVE to" and "too beautiful to write about" lies a kind of peace. I've always known that every part of life intersects and overlaps, but never before has a chasm seemed so much like a bridge. This here, I'm sure, means something big and important.

After I've gotten more than 3 hours of sleep and have been able to get some down time, I'll fill in the blanks.

Three conversations with Mei.

2008-09-01T10:42:00.009-04:00

All I've done since Rob came back from Florida:

1) Sleep in.
2) Hang out with friends and fam.
3) Repeat steps one and two.

It's been good. So very good. I feel relaxed and enlivened and... LAZY!

I know it's probably just a sign of my crazy-compulsive behavior, but now that it's settled in that the most stressful thing I've done in the past 72 is look for a tailor - well, I'm feeling mighty slothful. Fo real. The money-making hustla in me is just screaming to re-emerge.

Thing is, the craziness of my work life will be returning to normal come tomorrow. I'll be working at the women's center tomorrow morning, then off to the dom job from 5 to 11. On Wednesday, I'll be at Mei's, and then I'll be spending 5 to 11 at the dom job again. And on Thursday, I'll be putting the last touches on my outfit for the wedding I'm attending this weekend; then I'll be working the dom job from 5 to 11. In between all that, I'm signing all the papers so I can get readmitted into school, and talking to the folks at the CUNY Honors Academy about getting back my coveted seat. I'm also networking a shit-storm, and trying to rebuild bridges that were recently burned.

Oh, and did I mention that I'm looking for MORE work? Yeah, just in case my schedule isn't crazy enough, I'm requiring myself to earn money for ANOTHER 25 hours per week. At least. Mei's got a lead on a substantial paycheck via office work, and I've found a lead on a few phone sex places that pay $40-60/hour. I thought my days of being a lady of the line were over, but after seeing those kinds of dividends, I say, "Bring it on!"

The other night, when Mei and I were driving out to Nassau, she said to me, "You're very smart and competent, and it doesn't take a lot of money to live. I think you'll be able to find a part-time job that you can live off of, so that you can write in the meantime."

To which I replied: "Yeah, I know you and Nina [one of my mentors from the women's center] think it's cool to just make enough money to get by... but I don't want that for myself. I get bitter if I don't have the funds to do what I want - and I'm not ashamed to admit it, I want to live lavishly."

Mei laughed. "Really?"

"Yeah. No joke."

I left it at that, and Mei appreciated my candor, but what I really wanted to say was, "I know how hard it is when you don't have enough money to do the things people should be entitled to do in a capitalist economy. Like paying my rent/mortgage. And affording to live in a neighborhood or building that I love. And sending myself, and eventually my children, to school. And being able to have the time and money to unwind when I need to de-stress. Those are all things I won't be able to do if I don't give myself enough financial leeway - and if that means working my tail off right now, then so be it."

*****

I saw my soon-to-be-roommate *fingers crossed*, Asia, at a barbecue on Saturday, and the more we talk the more I really think that moving in with her is a great idea.

I really and truly love Rob's mom's house. I love Rob's family, and I love being able to talk to such cool people all the time. Thing is, what with my crazy-hectic schedule and burgeoning hustling prowess, the last thing I need when I get home is more stimulation. What I really need after a looonngg day is a quiet place for my head to relax - and a house full of young people just doesn't fit the bill.

Yeah, I've got mine and Rob's room as a refuge from the chaos, but it doesn't really feel like *mine*. The room feels like *ours*, which is awesome if I wanted to give up all sense of ownership and propriety - but right now, I'm straight Virginia Woolf-ing it. I want a room of my own.

I want to be able to come to a relaxing home: someplace where I've staked claim on things, someplace quiet and comfortable and friendly and comforting. I want my own four walls, which I can paint and decorate. I want my own bed and my own desk and my own collection of books. I want windows that overlook busy streets, and someone stable and reliable and fun and cool (Asia) living a stone's throw away from me.

As much as I love Rob and I appreciate the way he opened his home and family to me, right now, I just really need to get my hustle on full-tilt. I need to be doing things that get me noticed by the right people, and that will make me exorbitant amounts of money. As Crystal says all the time, "I need to get the street outta my system." But at the end of the day, when I'm done expelling all of "the street", I wanna be able to just be easy.

The other night, as Mei was driving me home, she told me that her husband, who's a criminal defense attorney, seriously advises that I stop domming. With it being an election year, the odds are good that my place of employment be raided. And despite the fact the domming and dungeons are perfectly legal, it would be in my best interest to cease and desist all money-earning activity of the sexual variety.

When I wouldn't relent, Mei became even more serious. "If something happens," she said, "call me. Don't hesitate and don't say anything. Just call me and say '911'. Lenny will get you out of jail."

Her motherly attention made me glow. "Thanks, Mei."

"No problem. Lenny does this all the time. You'd be surprised how many of his clients are prostitutes."

Without batting a lash, I laughed appreciatively. "There's one thing you don't have to worry about," I offered, "I'm definitely not going to sell drugs."

"That's good, Maria," she said, her eyes dancing as she steered clear of all the dangers on Flatbush Avenue. "That's really good to know."

*****

I'm scared of my newfound confidence and where it might lead me. Not because I didn't think it existed, or because I think it's wrong in any way - but because it's so new. I've always been very confident and very competent, but somewhere between "assertive" and "arrogant" is a line I've never allowed myself to cross. I now feel myself teetering on the brink of that line, displaying my swagger, testing out the waters - and I wonder where my bravado came from. Unlike two months ago, I save my analyzation and introspection for writing, and only act and react in real life. Unlike four months ago, I am boldly announcing what I want and how I'm going to get it - all the while being completely aware that there will be many people who disagree with me, and/or don't want me to accomplish my goals. Unlike six months ago, I've learned to let go of negative people and negative situations, and to focus on Me.

Last week, while on our way yet again to Nassau, Mei talked to me about entitlement. She said that minorities - Asians, especially - feel a need to overcompensate for our perceived inadequacies. We're taught from a young age that in America, we should expect the short end of the stick - and very rarely are we taught to demand more. She colored the same qualities and actions that I'd written off as "bratty" as "entitled." And as much as I love words, I had to face the fact that much of communication is rhetoric and semantics. Being assertive could just as much be a sign of arrogance as it could be a sign of competence; meaning is found not in a thing itself but in its context. Mei, who I respect and admire, was telling me that it's not only okay but encouragedthat I "unapologetically take what I deserve." It was up to me to figure out where her opinion stopped and truth began.

I retold this story to Texti yesterday, and found myself soaking in Mei's words. The saturation of Mei's influence was undeniable. How much of the new Maria is Mei's doing? Can she claim credit or fault for the small evolutions I've made?

Last night, after hanging out with Texti, I spent the day in bed with Rob, being vomit-inducingly saccharine sweet and lovey-dovey. On the way back to Brooklyn, I had come to the conclusion that we can only uncover in each other traits that are already there. We live as we can and as we must, and we undoubtedly brush up against each other now and again. But the sway and pull of opinions only mean as much as we let them mean, and those of strong character and moral fortitude are not so easily influenced. No where could that be more apparent than in Rob's arms, which, to the chagrin of many of my close friends and mentors, I was happily enfolded by.

Yeah, I know I have initiative, but...

2008-08-29T12:28:00.002-04:00

Rob's coming home in T-minus-42 minutes, and it's a long weekend. I've been working my ass off, winding myself up damn tight what with all the craziness and stress, and tryna make a pretty penny.

You best believe that all I'm about right now is gettin dolled up for my man, throwing caution to the wind (and my employers) and taking the next three days to myself. I'm gonna be hanging out with friends, drinking a lot, and lookin' real cute.

That is all.

I have so much to say.

2008-08-28T12:39:00.002-04:00

So. Right now, at this very moment, I'm sitting on campus, in the Women's Center, attempting to send out my resume to day jobs. Sitting right across from me *fanning myself* is Asia, aka the awesome woman who I might move in with. My boss lady, Mei, happened to mention to her that I'm looking to find my own place, and she happens to be in the position of being thisclose to throwing out her roommate. Asia and I haven't seen each other since this time last year, when we were at a mutual friend's birthday barbecue, and we just happened to run into each other here.

Now, I've had my reservations about finding a roommate. Thankfully, I've only ever had a roommate once in my life, and that was for a very short period. But I've heard many many horror stories about having to share a living space with someone, and I've been apprehensive.

The thing is, Asia's beyond cool. Really and truly, she is. And we seem to vibe really well. And I'm really really really hoping that her current roommate can't make the rent, so that I get to move in on October 1st, aka my birthday, aka the same day that I started working for Penguin last year. *fingers crossed* Here's hoping.

But before I can even fathom moving in with Asia, I have to make money. Real money. And that's something that just isn't happening right now. *sigh*

I was supposed to go to another dom training today, but seriously, I'm just really frustrated with the job. Protocol dictates that I must sit in on three days' worth of sessions before I can go on my own, and I don't get paid for them. Not really, at least. It depends on the situation - whether the guy tips the main dom, whether the main dom gives me a share of her tip, whether the guy insists that I be there... There are just too many fucking variables! In the meantime, I'm in a room full of women, and forced to be a social fucking butterfly.

Now, like I've said before, I'm all about the socializing. But lately, what with my working my tail off to train for jobs that are supposed to earn me the quick/big bucks, I'd rather just chill with a magazine and be left the hell alone. This doesn't work too well in an environment like the Dungeon. Some girls are catty, a few of them are divas, and ALL of them are trying to find an angle on you. I chose to defer to the role of "sweet, kinda-ditzy girl who just happens to be hella assertive." It's way less confrontational than vying for the position of top bitch, and fo real, I don't need the extra work. I just wanna do my job and do it well, and from the looks on the girls' faces after they saw me in action, I'm doing a good job.

Which brings me to the subject of work, in general. I've been toying with the idea of starting another blog, one that is all about my work experiences. I have limited "internet access + privacy" these days, and thus the limited blogging - because, chile, lemme tell you: I have soooo much to say about my work experiences. Like, how the first couple of clients that I had at the Dungeon were sooo hot, and I could see why girls are tempted to turn tricks. And how I gave my first breast and pelvic exams with Mei's consulting firm - I got to stick a finger into a woman's rectum while sticking another finger in her vagina, and people watched! And the bitch 2nd year resident at Nassau Medical Center with a superiority complex - I think her name was Cindy Henri; I hope she honestly learned something from the workshops we ran. And the way that Mei is grooming me to possibly take over the consulting firm when she retires.

So much to say.

Geez louise, just lemme work already!

2008-08-26T10:35:00.002-04:00

Officially, I have four gigs. Jobs, I guess, if you wanna call em that. Each of em are part-time and have a lotta earning potential. Their purpose is to make me money, but only one of em is really doin that, so...

*insert banshee wail here*

Overall, emotionally, I'm doing well. I'm surrounding myself with positive people, I'm being productive, going to work, doing trainings, exercising, playing with the cat, etc... I'm bonding with my mom and my brother and spending time with close friends. I'm writing up a storm yet again.

But damnit, SHOW ME THE MONEY. NOW.

It's frustrating, knowing that you're doing pretty well but not having any solid evidence to back up this truth. I wanna get an apartment of my own already, and for that to happen, money must be made. Soon. Seriously. I have plans and goals, damnit. And they need to be met.

*sigh*

I hate to say it, but tonight I think I'm gonna be scouring craigslist for office work.

Thank goodness for trusted friends.

2008-08-23T07:58:00.004-04:00

I freaked the fuck out yesterday. I really did.

In the morning, my boss, Mei, called me and said that she found me a place to stay; there was pride and relief in her voice, as if she'd just found a home for an abused foster kid. A part of me wanted to jump on her words, leave Rob's place behind, and start anew. But something was holding me back.

I thought it might be fear of the unknown, or fear of losing Rob - and, in truth, those are huge components of why I was holding myself back. The real reason was that it wouldn't feel like my decision. It would feel like Mei was impinging on my ability to take care of myself, and at this point in the game - when I'm 23 and more or less certain of who I am - there is no reason to need anyone's advice for an issue that's so big.

It's strange and paradoxical, this bigness and smallness. It seems like I should only want advice on the big things, and I should be able to handle the small things on my own. And maybe for other people, that's the case. But I'd rather ask someone for advice about make-up and exercise than about what path to take in life. I have a philosophy of doing things and at the end of the day, I'm just going to do what I feel is right anyway.

Mei and my other boss from the women's center, Nina, have tried to fill a void in me. They've been great about finding me work, counseling me, mentoring me - but they're not shrinks. They're not certified counselors. And when they attempt to mentor me, they sometimes end up mothering me. And this is frustrating. So very fucking frustrating.

They tell me things like "Rob's no good for you", and one of them compares him to their dead husband, and they tell me that I'm the victim of a neglectful childhood, and they force me to confront truths that I would have taken a longer time to get around to. While the last part is something that I don't really mind, the rest is unnecessary. I know what I have with Rob, and just because they're older and have been married a combined five times, that doesn't mean they know better. I also know what kind of childhood I had, and it wasn't a neglectful one. Not by a long shot.

There have been truths that they've imparted on me, i.e., Don't take advice from people who are just as broken or more broken than you are, that I've always known but never put my finger on. And for that, and so much of what they've done for me, I'm very grateful. But for the rest, for the mothering and the doting - in a way, they infantalize me, and I don't need that. I'm a grownass woman, damnit.

*****

At the height of my fear and confusion, I wrote a few emails and called a few people. My mind was racing faster than it had ever raced before, so great was the fear and anxiety. All of my emails sounded wieldy and dramatic.

One of the people who emailed me back was a girl I grew up with but who has always stayed on the periphery of my life, Crystal. The first thing she wrote was, "You're doing it again, M. Relax the fuck out. You know what you're doing. You're just freaking out because someone you trust is telling you otherwise, and you're not a know-it-all on your high horse, unable to take judgment or criticism. You're one of those people who lets people speak their minds, and lets peoples' words wash over them. You take what you can work with, and sometimes you're such a fucking packrat that you think you can work with more than you can carry, so you weigh yourself down unnecessarily." By this time, I'd already spoken to two of my closest friends and my brother, and I'd calmed down enough to realize I'd only a few days previously given the exact same advice to someone else.

Crystal's email went on to say, "Why the fuck do you ask advice for shit you already know? I swear, sometimes you're such a fucking lawyer."

When I called Andrea and told her about my thoughts and how I was freaking out, she said very calmly, "Sounds to me like you've got your head on straight. You always have. Just the fact that you're freaking out and letting me know of your doubts supports that. You could've just as easily kept all of this to yourself, but instead you're strong enough and still as creative in your instincts that you let it all hang out. And that's a good thing. But you know what you're doing. You just have to trust yourself."

All of the emails and conversations that I had last night said basically the same thing, and that's when I realized that these people know me best. They know that my dramatics are really just versions of venting, and that the last thing I ever really need is advice. They know that if I ever feel insecure, the best medicine is to show me how I really know myself, and how there's no reason to be insecure. They know that 95% of the things that I say isn't new; I've had an inkling about them for a while. They know that I am not stupid, and I am not stubborn, and I am willing to make myself go nearly crazy in order to be fair and give other peoples' words credence. They know this about me, and they remind me of myself. What they don't do is offer themselves as examples or assume they know better than me.

I can learn a lot from them.

*****

Yesterday, I had the chance to change a lot of my life. I'd forgotten to trust my gut, and I felt alone and adrift. I missed my family more than ever, and I was scared about my relationship with Rob, and its projection.

But it all stemmed from one simple truth: I've been in charge of changing my life, and it's always turned out all right. Regardless of anything, on the subject of My Life, I know better. No one else does. Just me.

I work hard for the money.

2008-08-18T14:59:00.005-04:00

Ever since I left my parents' place, I've been a financial mess. Sure, the fact that I gave em most of what was in my bank account wasn't exactly helpful to the situation - but what's done is done. I am no longer a doormat.

The second I set up shop (so to speak) in Rob's mom's place, I had a plan: get a job as a dominatrix, horde my money, then pay off as much of my debt as possible as I simultaneously pay my way through school and get my *own* place. I focused all of my energy into culling information about the dom world, and I cold-called, emailed, and interviewed my ass off. I was determined; not only to make quick cash, but to do it without fucking anyone.

I'd had a brief glimpse of the life at a place that would later be busted for prostitution. All I knew was that, if I kept my temper in check, I'd make boatloads of cash for sensually beating up men. I was hooked.

Unfortunately, lots of places that call themselves "dungeons" are really brothels. In my interviews, I made sure to let them know I wasn't gonna do anything I didn't feel comfortable with, i.e., full nudity, blow jobs, handjobs, sex of any variety, and most of the places just didn't wanna hear it. A good friend of mine, Ginger (aka Opera Singer), had been in the business a little longer than me, and had made more contacts in the world than me. The two of us decided to go job hunting together.

So, with $200 in my bank account and no money coming in, I spent a month tarting myself up for interviews - to no avail. I started to think that maybe, just maybe, I'd have to *gasp* look for an office job.

Now, don't get me wrong. I respect all lines of work. I've been at the nonprofit level (where I was on the board of directors for one of the largest nonprofits in NY), the corporate level (where I was the assistant to the president of a high end real estate firm), and everywhere in between. But, for the most part, office work is B-O-R-I-N-G. Also, at the jobs where my conscience stays clean (cuz I'm helping out the little guy), I make no money. At the jobs where I'm working for the man and earning a decent wage, I feel soulless. Either way, I get frustrated. Really frustrated. So looking for a job that would leave me feeling soulless and like I'm wasting my time - that wasn't necessarily on the top of my list of priorities.

Rob's mom's place, heretofore known as "home", is a 5 minute walk to campus, so I decided to talk my way onto the quad (since I lost my student ID ages ago), and use the facilities. Ginger and I had decided that we'd spend our afternoon sending out resumes, since none of the dungeons were calling us back. We went immediately to one of our old stomping grounds and places of prior employment, the campus Women's Center. And just when I resigned myself to the idea that I'd be working at a desk again and earning a blah wage, my old boss, the director of the Women's Center, approached me with a job offer. Turns out, she has a consulting firm, and she'd like me to work for her.

Off the bat, I figured it was clerical work, and to some extent I was right. But the wage was good ($15/hour), there wouldn't be any taxes taken out for the first three months, and I'd get paid in cash. Add to that, I'd be working mostly from her home, and that's a 15 minute walk away from home. The only down side was that the hours aren't steady;and they're not many, either (15-25 hours/month).

But, as is the case for most of the jobs I land, there was more to this one. Ya see, there's a very specific kind of consulting that Mei's company does. She hires men and women to teach medical students, nursing students, physicians assistance students, etc., how to conduct a thorough, positive, and respectful exam on the resproductive organs of men and women. These men and women, who are called "teachers" or "models" bare all in the name of science. Mei asked if I'd be interested in becoming a teacher.

Now, here's the thing. I've never been shy about my body. But it seems hypocritical that I should tell one employer (at the dungeon) that I refuse to bare all, when not only would I be showing off my goodies at my other job, but strangers would be copping feels and probing my dark places. I thought it over and decided that, Yes, I want to explore this option. I signed up for training and hoped for the best.

A week later, I was at St. Luke's with Mei and some other teachers. She'd told me very little about my training, and I'd assumed that there would be a Q&A and maybe a video to watch. No no no no no no. I'd be looking at naked women for the next three hours, watching second-year residents learn to use a speculum, and observing as the "teachers/patients" got examined. The second this reality came into view, I felt queasy, like maybe I can't handle this. Maybe I'm not mature enough to conduct a class of this nature. Maybe I'd giggle inappropriately (since these situations are rife with off-color conversations and funny anecdotal moments), and embarass Mei.

I handled things well. Not that I had to do anything other than observe the class. But it was definitely an illuminating experience. A snippet from my training: Yvette, a Hispanic woman in her late 40s or early 50s, is lying on the examining table, which is tilted at a 45-degree angle, so that she can watch what the students are doing. She is naked from the waist down, and wears only a hospital gown, draped loosely over her torso. Julie, a thin, short, Asian woman in her early 20s, is seated between Yvette's legs, and attempting to insert a speculum into Yvette's vagina. Yvette has just showed the class the correct way to insert a speculum (the dominant hand holds the device, the other hand inserts a finger into the vagina, to ease the speculum inside). Julie's tiny hands are dwarfed by surgeon's gloves that are a size too big; she has two fingers inside of Yvette's vagina, and is attempting to insert the speculum without first taking out her fingers.

Yvette: Now, you have to replace your fingers with the speculum. [Julie is still trying to shove the speculum into Yvette's vagina.] No, Julie. REPLACE your fingers with the speculum. [Julie is looking, confused, at Yvette.] Julie, your hands are in my vagina. Please stop looking at my face and look at what you're doing. Look at my vagina, Julie. Look at my vagina!

Some moments later:

Yvette: [Her face glowing, and a smile playing on her lips.] Julie, please stop moving your hands. You're touching my clitoris. [Julie, embarassed, clasps her hands in front of her.] Remember, Julie, you must touch the patient with purpose. Never touch a patient if you don't have to do so.... [A minute later.] Julie, you have to stop caressing my thigh, Julie. It's inappropriate, and I know you don't realize what you're doing, but the next time you conduct a pelvic exam, it's gonna be on a real patient, and you don't want to make her feel uncomfortable.

So yeah.

Yvette handled it like a trooper, and she never lost her cool. Despite the fact that she was showing off her goodies to a handful of perfect strangers, she remained in command of the situation. Now there's a woman with cajones.

Mei assures me that, for the most part, students are eager to improve their skills, and they treat teachers from the consulting firm with as much dignity and respect as any teacher at their school. Still, there will be times, depending on who our students are, when very disrespectful scenarios may play out. Some students think they're too good to learn from "a bunch of laymen and laywomen". Some are specializing in a field that has nothing to do with obstetrics or gynecology. That's not our problem. We offer a service, and if NYU Nursing School or Columbia Medical School or whomever believes we should teach, then we do.

I came out of that experience feeling refreshed and with an overwhelming sense of empowerment. These women knew their bodies inside and out - literally; they weren't ashamed of their bodies, and they weren't afraid of them, either. For the longest time, I've been playing with the idea of someday going into nursing and physician's assistance, but those thoughts were always unfounded concepts. Now that I'd witnessed firsthand one of the most awkward and uncomfortable situations imaginable in a doctor's office - and handled it maturely and responsibly - I felt ready for the next step.

As of now, I'm in the midst of training for this job. After about a month, I'll be ready to actually start getting paid for it, at which point the pay breaks down to about $75/hour. Granted, this is a per diem gig, but because I get to choose my own schedule, it's a welcome addition to my routine.

In the midst of all of this positive change, I got a call-back from the dungeon where Ginger used to work. I'd told them during my interview that I'm a newbie, since the last place I worked at was busted for prostitution and I didn't want that following me around. "Training" is tomorrow, and if that goes well, I start asap. The only thing that may deter this from happening is the issue of my bedbug bites, which haven't altogether cleared up, and still look downright gross.

Either way, I also applied to a human resources-type job on campus; I should hear from them in a couple of days.

A short post on my newfound contentment.

2008-08-17T09:03:00.005-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, the tough times are behind me. At least, for now. *enter applause*

In the two months since I left my folks' place, I've had a medical scare (turns out I'm allergic to insect bites, and I had to get them checked out), a pregnancy scare, tons of sadness (brought on by my utter disappointment in my folks), money woes (EXTREME money woes), drama with friends, frustrations with Rob, and general feelings of blah.

And now... Well, almost all of my issues are resolved.

It's strange, this whole coming of age thing. There isn't any formula, and it's certainly not an exact science. If you asked me to pinpoint the exact moment when things turned around, I'd be hard-pressed. But here we are a short while after one of the toughest weeks of my life, and all of a sudden I'm doing fine. Better than fine. Good, even.

I found work that I don't hate; I took myself to a clinic so that my bites could get checked out; I took an early pregnancy test (negative! Yay!); I got the ball rolling on going back to school; I started exercising; I've made it a point to hang out and talk with my mom and brother as much as possible; and I've begun to build relationships with my extended family. There is no single thing that can take credit for the weight being lifted off my shoulders; it was really everything. But, mostly, it was this: I proved to myself that I can handle everything life has to throw at me, and I can do it on my own.

NOTE: A more elaborate post, about my new line of work, whatever happened to domming,the frustrations of dating a man-child, etc., will be up soon. ;-P

It's been a tough week.

2008-08-09T16:34:00.004-04:00

My period's been irregular for about 5 months now, and this is further exacerbated by the fact that I keep on taking the Plan B pill. Add to that that the Plan B pill costs almost 90 beans EACH, and that I'm broke and perpetually in a gray-area when it comes to money-making, and I'm overwhelmed. Which leads me to now, aka Going out of my mind as I wait for my period.

Of course, the fact that I'm STRESSED about EVERYTHING doesn't help matters. Not at all.

I went on a total of 4 dominatrix interviews. One of them offered me a job, but made it clear that they were hiring me to a brothel - not a dungeon. One of them never got back to me. And the last two... Well, they seem really promising.

Of the two that might hire me, one of them called back and said they're having a bad month and can't hire anyone new until business picks up; they told me to get back to them in about a month.

My girl, Opera Singer, used to work at the other place; she informed me that my interviewer is a hard-ass who likes to startle girls in order to better psycho-analyze them. Judging by the fact that he and I got along swimmingly, I'm guessing I nailed the interview. We spent almost an hour talking about everything from politics to exercise to the great outdoors. He said I'd definitely hear back from him, sooner or later. Since it's been about a week, my money's on later. Much later.

I'm kind of surprised that I'm not stressing so much on this. Partially, it's because I've learned to accept things as they are. Partially, it's because I've secured two very part time jobs, working for women that I've worked for in the past; I've also talked my way into a steady part-time gig on campus, which I will secure in the next few days. But, most of all, I'm actually pretty certain that one of those last two dom jobs is gonna call me back.

Here's my logic: both men with whom I interviewed were no-nonsense types. They had no problems telling Opera Singer they didn't want her working for them (one on the phone, the other in person). I figure, if they took the time to call me back, have long conversations with me, et al., odds are, I'll hear from them eventually.

Besides: I have a really nasty case of bed bug bites, and there's no way in hell I woulda gotten any clients looking the way that I look. See:

Okay, so that's not me. But my bites are worse. And they're EVERYWHERE. So yeah. You get the idea.

Rob said, jokingly, yesterday, as he dabbed hydrogen peroxide on the bites: "Maybe this is God's way of saying you shouldn't be a dom?"

Besides money woes, I've been having problems of the social variety. Friends have been acting petty, family members have been getting on my nerves more than usual, issues have been brought up that beg my attention. Plus, I'm dog-sitting for a good friend, and God knows I love my friend, but she's kept the poor dog in a cage or on a leash for most of its life, and it's the least socialized or obedient dog EVER. Yet more to worry, aggravate, and irritate me.

I'm trying to handle all of this while keeping my priorities in mind, but sometimes - like while I'm waiting for my period and feeling ridiculously hormonal - I just wanna lash out.

Thankfully, the only person I've been lashing out at is Rob, and not only can he handle it - he helps me get to the root of the problem and fix what's ailing me.

What NOT to say on a dom interview.

2008-07-28T17:54:00.005-04:00

Everything I said.

Okay, no. I lied. I wasn't that bad. But, honestly, it was the first time in my life where I walked out of the interview and didn't think I nailed it. I've always been able to land jobs, and the reason for that ia that I'm an amazing conversationalist. Put me in any room, any place, and I can get whatever I need from whomever is there.

But last night? Nope. I just wasn't on point.

*******

It wasn't that the interview went badly, really. It's just that I wasn't my usual professional and articulate self. The top three things that I should've done differently:

1) I shouldn't have asked off the bat if they required STD testing. The way I asked sounded like "I can't be sexin' for a living, so if that's what you want I'M OUT."

However, (and maybe it's just my overly self-critical self saying this) I think I might have made it sound like I have something to hide.

Honestly, after my previous bad experience (wherein they asked me to shell out a hundred+ bucks in order to pay for STD testing - to make sure that I could do "yellow-" "red-" and "brown-showers," they assured me), I've been apprehensive about looking for dominatrix work. I love the work - as long as it's legit.

2) I should have asked more questions. I assumed off the bat that this place needed switch girls. Meaning, women who are both sub and dom. One of the girls came in during my interview and asked what I'd be doing, and I immediately said "switch work, hopefully." She kind of looked at me strangely, which makes me think now that perhaps that particular dungeon only does dom work. If that's the case, I looked like some newbie who didn't do her homework.

3) I should've been a bit more professional. Not overly professional, cuz DUH. But, I mean, I could've shaken my interviewers hand, asked her name, that sort of thing. I'm so used to dungeons being two steps away from being brothels; I didn't even think to be professional. This place was the most legit dungeon I've ever had the honor of interviewing for.

*******

Opera Singer also interviewed for the place. It seemed to her that I had the better interview; I stayed in longer with the interviewer, got a sneak peak (albeit accidentally) of a session, and spoke with some of the girls. We both just kind of shrug our shoulders and have a mutual understanding: we'd obviously like the work, but we'd be just as happy to see the other succeed.

I realized the other night, when hanging out with a bunch of my closer girlfriends, that I've indeed reached this strange new zenith of adulthood, wherein things are what they are. It's not that there are less challenges now; it's just that I don't care about adversity. I've been there and done that, and nothing fazes me anymore. I've spent a great deal of time and energy making my life as close to my ideal as possible, and at this stage of the game it's as close as it's ever been to perfect.

Maybe it's all the smoking I've been doing (cigs, weed, et al.), but I'm a lot more chillax. I know that I've done my best, that I'm doing my best, and that I'll continue to do my best, regardless of what the situation is - and, really, what else is there for me to do? I guess all of this is just a long-winded way of saying that right after I post this blog, I won't give last night's interview a second thought.

I really need this to work out.

2008-07-25T15:40:00.002-04:00

And by "this" I mean everything that I'm working on at the moment. I have another dominatrix interview scheduled for this Sunday. Opera Singer's also applied to the same dungeon, and we're being interviewed within 2 hours of each other (her first). I need good, fast money, and I need it yesterday.

I'm thisclose to completing a writing project that I've been fretting over for... umm... maybe... 4 months. I'm afraid that if I throw my hat in the ring and it meets a big fat rejection, I'll roll up in a ball like those roley poley beetles and cry.

No. Correction: I was afraid of that. Now I'm just excited. Like: woo-hoo, this writing project is finally within completion, I've dealt with my issues, and I might actually land a prestigious, regularly-paying writing gig. I should be finished by tonight... *excited shudder*

I'm spending the rest of today looking for day jobs and volunteering/interning gigs that are up my alley. I have to decide right now, very quickly: will I go straight into physician's assistance (by changing my major and going to a different school), OR will I go back to BC, finish up my philosophy & creative writing degree, then go where the wind takes me? [Actually, I lie: I've got a good idea of where I'm going after a creative writing degree. I'm thinking: an education degree, traveling, teaching in inner city schools, then get my MFA. Damn. I think I've made my decision.]

I have this sick feeling in my stomach that in the next couple of weeks, I'll be running at full-throttle: night job, day job, volunteering/interning, writing gig... And I might *laughing hysterically* go back to school.

I have this really bad habit of making plans waaaayyy in advance when I'm fully aware that these things change. But I do it anyway. So here goes: I need to do all that work stuff to make me feel productive and confident in my decisions, then I can pay off as many bills as possible, get an apartment, and go back to school. In that order. I probably won't go back to school till winter or spring. But, eh. It's okay. I've learned my lesson and I'm glad that it's finally stuck. There is no schedule, no rubric, no system more important than your own biological/emotional clock. Fuck anyone who thinks differently. Social constructs are only important to petty people.

What a difference a week makes.

2008-07-18T16:32:00.004-04:00

The days collide and blur, and I'm not quite sure of when one started and another ended. There have been two dom jobs - one I got fired from for almost killing a man, the other I didn't start because it didn't seem legit; numerous retellings of the day I left my parents' house in Queens (I apologize if you haven't heard the full story; I've told it too many times to care about the events that transpired that day); several nights of drunken carousing with good friends. And yesterday, I dropped the other shoe. I told my mom that I'm not going to the Philippines anymore. It's official. I've made my decision. I'm staying in the States.

*enter trumpets, blaring*

It seems crazy that I choose my life here, over the one I'm certain to have in the Philippines. Over there, I would be living in the lap of luxury. I'd have a maid and butler, a house all to myself and my brother, nothing to worry about but grades and my love of teaching. Over here.... well...

I'm staying with Rob and his family, in a house that's full of relatives. We have our own room up in the attic, and neither of us have steady money coming in. In truth, I haven't really been looking for office work since I left my parents' place. I've been too busy licking my wounds, trying to find a dom job (as opposed to a regular 9-5), and adjusting to the new reality. I now have no ties with my parents: our financial responsibilities are separated at last; I have no phone for them to contact me; they have only an inkling of where I'm staying and what I'm doing with my life. It is - to put it plainly - the antithesis of where I was at (emotionally, financially, physically) about a week ago.

So forgive me for skipping over the parts where I scare myself with my own confidence. Excuse my lack of exposition over the episodes where I ended many phases of the last incarnation of Maria. Read on, despite the fact that my writing has been hampered by an inability to focus on real events; only fiction soothes my soul these days.

Let me tell you that this thing, this plan, this new version of myself, is something that I have been working towards for a long time. It's different from the many times I've left home: I don't feel the itch to return to my parents; I don't feel dependent on anyone to be okay; I am confident in who I am and what I'm about.

Let me say that despite the many appreciative gestures I've experienced - friends who've picked up tabs, families who've opened up their hearts and homes to me, etc. - I still feel like this right here is mine. It is because of me and who I am that I am given these opportunities and gestures. This has just as much to do with my worthiness and my personality as it does with other people's generosity. I don't take for granted their kindness, but at the same time I don't sell myself short.

And that's the main difference between right now and every other time in my life when I've attempted to break the ongoing cycle of dysfunction known as "my family."

I've finally finished keeping tabs on myself and my shortcomings, and now I act and react without self-doubt or self-criticism. I know better than to be offended when someone makes an off-color comment that doesn't threaten my livelihood. I can ease my way in and out of duress and teach myself something contrary to the undisciplined nature instilled in me by my parents. This is my world, my life, my responsibility, my legend, my accomplishment, my failure, mine mine MINE. And no one else's.

I just can't have ugly friends.

2008-07-14T11:06:00.003-04:00

Not good friends at least.

I came to this conclusion at an Anime Convention I attended about a month ago. There I was, surrounded by kids wearing costumes, and none of them were attractive.

Okay, no. I lied. There was one guy who was maybe 16 or 17 years old that made me think, When the fuck did I turn into a pedophile?! But that's neither here nor there.

Now, I'm usually very social. Put me in any room and I can work it like nobody's business. *snaps fingers* But I didn't want to socialize with these people. They. Were. Just. Too. Ugly.

Probably, this predisposition toward attractive people is something I've always had, but I hadn't identified it till that moment. After noticing it, though, I couldn't help but ask myself, "Why?"

And I keep asking myself "Why?"

Why do I keep on asking myself, "Why?"?

I haven't formed a conclusion. I'm just too busy to think about things like the attractiveness of my friends.

I'm just happy that I have em... And that they're all so fucking hot.

The time for pride has passed.

2008-07-07T04:47:00.005-04:00

I've always thought of journal writing as catharsis. During my morning brain vomit sessions, nothing was too sacred to impart onto the page. Never before in my writing have I held back (a feature of my talent that many editors and professors have lauded). My close friends have always been the keepers of my most intimate and life-changing thoughts and actions, and blogging has always been an extention of my all-out, balls-to-the-wall mentality. Still, I find myself in the precarious position of needing to explain why I won't be talking about what's been going on in the past week and a half. Make no mistake; the declaration of my omission is ironically necessary in fulfilling full-disclosure (which is something, as an artist and a sane human being, I need to be able to do). So. Here. I. Go.

There was no trip to France. There were, however, many talks with several women over the superior and unsated sexual appetite of men. These women were in different stages of giving themselves over to a shared life; my mom was one of them.

***

It's been three hours since I've started this post, and I can't think of what else to say. All my thoughts run together like rivers into the Nile, and all I can think of is that this stage of my progress is different. There will be no sharing with close friends, no advice sought or given, no assistance on how to manage life's duties and phases (give or take). I'm tapped out on energy and personality that don't fulfill a need.

What do I need? Money. A place of my own. Education. Trusted people who've "been there" and understand. And make no mistake: when I say "been there", I mean they're older. Much older. Ten or twenty years, at least. I see things from this point in my life that are easily obscured by attempts to communicate; I need to speak with people who have had to been through what I'm going through, singularly by the virtue of their age.

***

For so long, I've played the part of "Glue" in the very-staged drama known as "My Family". I've joked with friends about what it means to live in a household where patriarchy rules so supreme that paternal indescretions are glossed over and taken as "the way things are". I've shared stories with women who have had to learn on their own accord what it meant to have a backbone, because their own mothers never had one. I've commiserated over the strange and very real feeling that no one - especially not someone who's white or middle class - can ever know what it means to love your family the way that we love our families.

But I've moved out of my parents' house.

I have written to the lawyers, made it official that the house is in their name yet again. Signed paperwork, taken my necessary possessions.

I mull over whether or not to take my dog, Justice, to the place where I'm staying. I don't know how long I can stay; I just might be a nomad, and if that's the case, what good will it do Justice to be with me? Would I just be selfish by taking him, aka the only "person" in my parents' house who hasn't disappointed me, to live with me?

I have, in every conceivable way - physically, emotionally, financially - abandoned my family. Something I said I'd never do. Something I've always written off as a coward's action.

But now, from the other side, I see that it was really my inability to take care of myself - financially, and especially emotionally - that was holding me back from making this break. It was really an incessant need to believe that what I have - my family - is really some sacred source or goodness which nothing could waiver. It was all really a manifestation of my inability to fulfill my potential. I guess, what it boils down to, is that I had been acting like a coward by not starting out on my own two feet, without anyone's baggage on my shoulders.

All along, there were many parts of my psyche that needed only to be convinced that I was doing the right thing in "taking care of everyone". Now, I realize, I've done harm by cloaking my selfish intentions with a guise of virtue: I enabled bad habits and retarded the progression of personal insights and learning.

***

I can only hope that the vague articulations of my feelings translate into a feeling of emotional unloading. I'm finding it hard to connect to my feelings. It's easier for me to just do nothing. To be a blank personality. To instinctually act, as opposed to consciously act. To shut down in social situations. To be intimidating, intense, unphased by anything. I've been told by my brother (with tears in his eyes) and close friends that it's scary how much I can change so suddenly. It's as if this were the "real me", the side that I mask with my pleasantries and sunny disposition. The facet of my personality that allows me to survive and thrive.

I can no longer look in the eyes the people who have disappointed me. I no longer have time for verbal exposition. Too much of my life has been used in trying to communicate, and I feel like much of that time was for nothing. Why spend my time explaining my actions? Telling my stories? Sharing my theories? What good does that do me? I would be better off spending my time doing something more proactive. Something - anything - that doesn't leave me feeling used up.

Drum roll, please...

2008-06-26T07:03:00.005-04:00

Just opened my mail from the past week and a half- What?! All I have to look forward to are BILLS anyway... As if my mortgage wasn't already draining the crap outta my pocketbook...

Anyway, I saw my pile of unopened mail and immediately noticed amongst the bills a SASE. A couple of my writer-friends are now laughing their asses off as they read this, going, "Here we go with the submission-speak..." [NOTE: I can talk AD NAUSEUM about the writing/publishing process since I've worked in the creative end, the teaching end, and the publishing/business end. It's highly pretentious.]

But seriously: I see the SASE - self-addressed stamped envelope - and remember that a month or so ago, I submitted a short story to a semi-well known and very alternative/eccentric lit zine out on the west coast. And *trumpets blaring* MY STORY'S GONNA RUN IN THEIR PRINTED EDITION THIS FALL!

That's right, blogworld! After *counting on fingers* FIVE YEARS of not having been published- Wait. I was published two years ago, but that doesn't really count because I was one of the editors of the zine, right?

Anyway, it's been a loooong time. If I wasn't afraid that one of my students and/or employers would find this blog, I'd definitely plug my writing SHAMELESSLY. For now, I'll just say that the title of the story is "Plucking My Boyfriend." If you somehow glean any insight of Me from that, then congratulations, you're a CIA agent.

Famous Parting Words

2008-06-24T16:27:00.003-04:00

"Tell your aunt that she's a bitch... Bye."

If you give good head, clap your hands.

2008-06-24T10:50:00.005-04:00

I've noticed a funny trend amongst my female friends: they talk about how good they are at going down on men. (Though, strangely, none of my bi or lesbian friends talk about how good they are at eating out.) It seems like, whenever we get together, these claims of fellatio fabulousness are flung far and wide. Maybe it's because we're loud, or because we're drunk, or because we generally just don't give a fuck, but if you're within a stone's throw from our mouths, you'll know just how we use em.

Excerpts from convos I've had with my lady-friends (you get to guess which person I am):

A: I do this thing, where I put the whole cock in my mouth.
B: Deep throat, huh?
A: Well, yeah. But I have a really long tongue, and I kind of lick their balls while I'm sucking him off.
A: Whatta ya mean you kind of lick their balls?
B: I paint those suckers with my tongue while I suck his cock. Most men are so amazed at my ability that they cum on the spot.

A: I never really understood what all that shit about spitting on his cock is about. I mean, I get that spit makes good lube, but why the fuck do men find that shit sexy?
B: I dunno, but I think I'd win in the spit Olympics. I can spit so much on a cock that it looks like hot white cum.

A: Actually, I like a guy with a not-so-huge dick.
B: (laughing) Seriously?
A: Yeah, that way a blowjob isn't as much work. I can get him to fuck my mouth and all I have to do is suck like a vacuum cleaner. I can do that shit in my sleep.

A: There's something about sucking off the taste of pussy from a cock. There's just nothing like it.
B: Yeah, I know what you mean. Sometimes, I just want a nice big cock in my mouth, but I need that extra flavor.

I was retelling some of these stories to Mr. Telephone this morning, and he laughed. "Women generally lie about their sexual prowess", he said, without skipping a beat.

"But what's the point of lying to your girls?"

"Just to make yourself look good, I guess."

I thought about all of my woman friends who have claimed to be awesome in the sack, and I shook my head even though Mr. T couldn't see me. "I don't think so. I think my group of friends just get down that way."

Mr. T laughed. "Birds of a feather, huh?"

After I hung up with Mr. T, I got to thinking about sex and why I don't get into detail about my sex life anymore. There was a time, not too long ago, when Sunday brunches were full of play-by-plays. I'd talk about that week's conquests like they were football games: "He had this huge purple cock, it musta been like a foot long - no joke! - but it was fucking skinny. It was strange. Anyway, I was sucking him off, doing that swirly thing with my tongue..." And it was fine. It was just what I did.

These days, the most I'll say is whether someone's okay or awesome in bed (I haven't had bad sex in a whiiiillle, thank God!). I have no qualms about listening to my friends' stories, and I will even get into mild detail about peoples' talents - "He gives AWESOME head." "She does this thing with her tongue on my clit that drives me WILD." - but that's it.

Part of me believes that my omission stems from a greater respect towards sex and relationships. In the past five years, I've fallen in love three times. These men convinced me of the concept called "making love". It was more than their technique, though thinking about my trysts makes me blush and quiver. It was more than the emotion behind the actions, though remembering those feelings makes me feel like a rose in bloom. It was like religion wrapped up in writhing bodies. Nothing was more real or true than we were while we were in/into each other.

The more cynical part of me says that there's a simpler reason why I don't talk about sex: talking about it bores me. Maybe it's because of my forays into phone sex, in particular. Or maybe I've become jaded from my time in the sex industry, in general. Maybe I've just fucked so many people that it seems redundant to talk about fucking.

Most likely, I think, I've simply become one of those women who don't fuck and tell.

Knowing. Relationships.

2008-06-18T18:49:00.014-04:00

The last philosophy paper I ever wrote was on the subject of knowing. In it, I described that knowledge is, as most philosophers have maintained, "justified true belief." According to this definition of knowledge, in order to know that, say, Rob lied to me about having $450 in his possession, 1)I have to be justified in having this assumption, 2) it must be true that Rob does not have $450 in his possession, and, 3) I must believe that Rob does not have $450 in his possession.

All of these, unfortunately, have been proven true...

(Some background: Rob and I had an argument about his inability to tell the truth. He claimed to have earned and saved $450. I told him to prove it; I said he should take a cab to my place at that moment and - very reminiscent of Jerry Maguire - show me the money. He declined. A few days later, he got drunk and came to my house in order to confess that he'd lied about having the money. Big surprise!)

But that's not what I'm really thinking about. What I'm thinking about are the several conversations I've had since that fateful argument with Rob. I'm thinking about my friends' reactions. I'm thinking about friendship, in general (but I'll leave those thoughts to another post).

Wiccan Swinger simply laughed and shook her head when I told her the unabridged version of the story, thus expressing the idea "Whatcha gonna do? You already know what he's like..."

Military Mother laughed nervously and said, "I told you he's a weirdo!" (Strangely, the more I stay in contact with Rob, the less insulted I feel when my friends make these judgments about him.)

Best Guy Friend casually mouthed "Oh my God", and by that he meant "What a pussy. Why doesn't he just owe up to shit in the first place?" (An elaboration of this reaction would include, "Why does he have to prove you right?")

Tall Afro calmly listened to my story right after the events took place, and he said simply, "You expect too much of him. You know what he's like. Tailor your expectations. That way, you won't be disappointed."

Texti offered another explanation: maybe Rob had the money, but I'd pushed him too far and he'd decided that he wouldn't put up with any more of my requests. She said, philosophically, "You never know."

It's that last one that really hit a nerve.

I did know.

I do know Rob.

Even more so, I know what I have with him.

Maybe I was insulted at the idea that I'd pushed him too far. Maybe I didn't want to think that I'd fucked up somehow or that I was wrong or that someone had seen a facet of my relationship that I hadn't noticed.

Whatever the reason, I was put on the defensive when faced with these possibilities. I felt myself tensing when Texti said matter-of-factly that what I have with Rob isn't love. I found myself passively offering agreements - "I'm not in love with him..." - that needed qualification - "...anymore." - instead of allowing my hurt feelings to show. I was afraid that I'd sound condescending or cliche if I implied that she didn't know what she was talking about. I was ashamed of the very-real possibility that I'd sound brash or berating if I asked her to elaborate on her assumptions.

Instead of thinking that Texti was simply giving me a legitimate alternative opinion, I immediately assumed she didn't have faith in my abilities of people-reading.* Instead of opening up a discussion and airing out my feelings, I took what was said in stride and let the words eat at me. Instead of confronting the truth - no matter how much we joke about being variations of the same person, there are bound to be miscommunications - I waded in denial. All of that was wrong of me.

*****

Today I had lunch with one of the people I've wronged, Crystal. Over a yummalicious sundae, we evaluated the tumultuous path our relationship has gone. We've both said and done many hurtful things in the past, and now that we've rekindled our friendship, we're working on determining what kind of friends we are, i.e., for a reason, for a season, or for a lifetime.

At one point, I suggested that we could be the best friends each other has ever had. Given our history - we once got into a fight which resulted in my having bruised ribs and her needing stitches on her face - anyone other than Crystal would've thought I was joking. But she and I both knew that I was being sincere. Like Pip's secret benefactor in Great Expectations, our behind-the-scenes actions make us uniquely qualified for the title of "best friends."

She laughed at the suggestion, nodding her head all the while. "You'd think it'd be easy to know who your best friend is," the world-weary woman stated.

"You'd think so..." I agreed, slurping up caramel topping.

"...but it's definitely not as easy as it sounds!" she chuckled with a lift and a twitch of her eyebrow.

We exchanged knowing looks, then erupted in riotous and pregnant laughter.

*****

One of my favorite authors, Frank O'Connor, wrote that "marriage is a secret between two people." I take that to mean that it doesn't matter how many people observe the relationship; it doesn't matter how much information is shared about the relationship; it doesn't matter what similar events and/or relationships you've experienced.

O'Connor meant that the experience of a particular relationship can only be known to the two people in the relationship. And that makes sense.

In many ways, our status and/or survival is dependent on our people-reading abilities, so we pride ourselves on "knowing" things about people - " I knew Angelina Jolie was strange! It was the way she did that scene..." - because it's proof of this skill. Artists attempt to break down the simplest experience into a (meta)physical study, in order to shine understanding on a universal truth. Even our daily interactions form subconscious judgments of people and what they're about.

But friendships, marriages, teacher-student relationships, and everything else in between-

Well, these relationships can only be known to the people in it. Everyone else might believe something about the relationship, and their belief might even be superficially true. But who is justified to make these assumptions? Who can really know what Rob and I have? Or what Texti and I have? Or what Crystal and I have?

No one, but us.

* But, more than that, the phrase "You never know", when said about a provable statement, really irks me.

Am I Too Blunt?

2008-06-16T18:03:00.003-04:00

Maria_PQC: I think it's a bad idea that we hang out tonight. I just broke up w someone & might wanna fuck your brains out in an attempt to prove to myself that I'm okay.

Maria_PQC: Not that I flatter myself by assuming you have feelings for me that are more than platonic. But, rather than lying, I thought I'd be my usual blunt self.

Maria_PQC: Next week I should be better. How about we hang out then?

Cute_Guy_Friend: Thats cool.tho 4 the recond I hav no problem with the 1st idea.

Looking for work...

2008-06-15T03:35:00.006-04:00

I came of age during the Clinton Administration, so it's no wonder why I always figured jobs were easy to come by. From the second I decided that I wanted a job, I got one. No sooner would I send my resume than I would land an interview, and thus land a job. It was like I was a bear and the jobs were salmon, swimming upstream...

Eh, the analogies ain't with me at this hour.

You get what I'm trying to say.

Anyway, at the moment I'm pretty much out of work.

Sure, I do temp jobs here and there, but nothing really pays the bills. I do promotions work, and the pay is good, but I don't see any money until almost a month after a gig. I bartend now and again, but those gigs are through friends and their bosses won't take me on as an actual employee since they know I'm headed to the Philippines soon. Teaching for the non profits paid decently, but I never knew when the paychecks were coming in - and, besides, the school year's over, so there's no pay to be had anyway.

I could go back to phone sex, but, honestly, the work bores me now. Sure, the calls are great fodder for bar conversations - but the "magic" has worn off. You know: the new car smell. Now, taking calls, it's all been there done that. And, besides, the pay's not as great as it used to be. [My previous employer tanked. Now I have to choose from phone services that don't pay as much per minute.]

So I've decided to try my hand at domming. Yes, that's right: being a dominatrix. The phone sex operator-cum-high school poetry teacher is now gonna assert her domination over men. Look hot doing it. And get PAID.

That is the plan.

A good friend of mine did it for a bit and although her experience was less than stellar, she recommended it for the pay.

The other part of the plan [and this plan is "Mission: (Maybe) Stay in NYC"] is landing a writing gig. I've got my eye on something that would be pretty big... I'll let you know what comes of it after all's said and done and I either get the gig or I don't. Right now, I don't wanna jinx it.

I figure, between a writing gig and a dom job (plus going back to Brooklyn College, looking into Physician's Assistance schools, and getting a part-time office gig), I'll have more than enough reason for staying in New York City and being pretty damn happy about it.

This is not to say, of course, that that's what I want. Entirely. But then, when do I ever know what I want, entirely? The answer: Not these days, that's for sure.

But back to the subject of work: I've been writing a memoir-like story about my experiences in the workforce. My very first *real* job was as an office assistant at a hospital in Long Island. I was 13. It was a paid volunteership. I'm not really sure why it was considered "volunteering", but I guess back then the word "intern" didn't ring as true to the powers that be.

Since then, I've amassed a startling array of professions. Allow me to list, off the top of my head, five jobs and at least one strange factoid of each.

1) Administrative Assistant to the President of a High End Real Estate Firm - There were only three of us in the office (including my boss, who owned the company). The 3rd guy was an E-list celebrity who scored a top 10 dance single in the 90s. I'd still be working there if he hadn't groped my ass. [His best friend was my boss's boyfriend; I knew if it came between me or him, she'd have to side with him.]

2) Phone Sex Operator - On my very first night, my last call was a guy from California. I spent about an hour and a half on the phone with him, talking about horse racing. Now, before you jump to conclusions - it was a perfectly ordinary and vanilla conversation. He told me about his deceased father and how much he missed him. He mentioned that they had planned to go to Vegas on his 21st birthday, but that his dad had passed away before he turned 21. And, somehow, we got to the topic of gambling, then the ponies, and before I knew it I was talking about my dad and how, when I was a kid, he took me to the race track. The caller and I seemed to share a genuine connection over jockeys and thoroughbreds. Then I killed it by asking him what kind of sex he's into. A rookie's mistake.

3) Cocktail Waitress - A guy came in every night, sat in my section and ordered a drink. I wouldn't have given it a second thought, only the bar was in an artsy-industrial part of town and this guy looked like money. Every night, he wore a pricey watch and a neck tie. He was young and attractive. And, no matter how crowded the place got, or how much the hostess would insist on him sitting at the bar (because the place also served food, and he'd be unnecessarily taking up space by taking a table), he'd bribe and charm his way into my section.

One night, he walked in just as I got on the floor for my shift. It was early and there were hardly any customers, so I decided to talk to him a bit. That's when he started asking me questions. I lied about where I lived, what school I attended, et al., and instead made friendly banter. He asked how much money I made working at the bar. I demurely side stepped the question. He made an offer. Since I was such a busy woman, with work and school and responsibilities, how about he pays me the same I would make on-shift? All I'd have to do is get someone to cover my area for an hour, and walk down the street to another bar with him. We'd talk and drink a bit, and I'd get paid... He ended up being the reason I got fired.

4) Sex Toy Reviewer - There was a penis ring that I reviewed once. It was silicone and had spikes in it. I thought it best to test it out thoroughly. So I used it with four different men, all of them having different penile and testicular girths. It was like I was Goldilocks and they were my bears. I had to figure out who fit the ring just right. [And, yes, I cleaned and sanitized the ring thoroughly between each use, thankyouverymuch.]

5) Intern at Penguin Publishers - While I was an intern at Riverhead/Putnam, I worked for publicity/promotions. Even so, my cubicle was in the enchanted and bitchy land of the editors, who were all inexplicably a hybrid of hipster-yuppie and named "Rachel." One Rachel in particular - the one in the adjacent cubicle - was a cunt with me. She went so far as to imply to someone that I was incompetent.

So what did I do?

On the day that I'd had it with her bitchiness, I made it a point to walk past her desk more times than usual. And every time I crossed her desk, I said under my breath (so only she would hear) in my most menacing growl, "I'm gonna cut this bitch."

She shut her trap after that.

But it was too late: I had realized that publishing, like all businesses, is more an industry than an artform. And I had written it off.

Like the rest of my misadventures in the land of the dollar, it wasn't for me. Not for the long haul, anyway.

You can get ALMOST ANYTHING... FOR FREE!!!

2008-06-15T03:17:00.004-04:00

The hippy tree hugger liberal in me - who, by the way, is slowly dying - wants to furnish her next place with stuff she found under the "free" heading on craigslist. I mean, SHIT, you can get anything for free on there. Why the fuck not?

Chase and Baker Spinet Piano---Free! (Upper West Side)
This Chase and Baker spinet piano has a sweet tone. All the keys work. It has a natural wood finish---with a little wear (minor). I am moving and won't have room for it---it needs a good home!

Vegan COOKIES (the yummy kind, not super-healthy hippie) (Lower East Side)Hello, I'm Scott Alexander,

I am making a bunch of incredibly tasty chocolate chip cookies Sunday JUNE 15th.. I will be giving them out during a concert of sorts at 9:00pm at Pianos- 158 Ludlow (at Stanton st.)

I happen to be an underappreciated rockstar. I want to show you how much I appreciate your attention. The music is complex and bittersweet. So hopefully the cookies will help balance things out!

If you can’t make it, I have my cookie recipes available (also for free) at www.scottalexandermusic.com

I’d love to hear from you!

RABBIT with Cage, food, books (central Brooklyn)
Lovable grey and white rabbit, floppy ears, would like a new home. The children grew up and left home, we don't have a need for this soft, cuddlely rabbit any longer.

Big pieces of CANVAS-- free! (Park Slope)
I have two big pieces of off-white canvas that I used as projection screens for a play a couple years ago. They're each about 5 or 6 ft. square... Free to whoever can pick them up at my apartment on Carroll St. between 4th & 5th Aves. in Park Slope sometime soon!

Please email me if you're interested.

Thanks!

Free Gazelle Exercise Machine (Brooklyn NY 11206)
Free Gazelle Exercise Machine. Great shape. Gives a really good work-out. Just come pick it up.

Free Closet AND TV STAND Available-free free free (EAST NEW YORK)
CLOSET AVAILABLE FOR PICK-UP -REMOVE YOURSELF, MIDDLE DOOR IS MISSING BUT ITS IN STURDY CONDITION

MAY NEED 2-3 PEOPLE TO MOVE

Giving anyway all my groovy threads-!!!! (north bronx)
artist trying to purge-looking to let go of my clothes!!!
have some great stuff
free to first come first serve
guys clothes only
med-shirts
32/33 pants

I am in north bronx
on d line
please only contact me if seriously thinking about coming by
many thanks
PEACE!!!! if u are 420 cool-throw me some!!!!!!!

Notice of Hiatus

2008-06-13T23:55:00.002-04:00

I don't think there'll be much blogging going on in my little bit of the world wide web. Please don't take it personally if I don't comment on your blogs for a while. I'm tryna take It to the next level...

Midnight Brain Vomit

2008-06-13T02:11:00.003-04:00

Some of us have problems of more pressing concerning than others'.

Take, for example, that opening sentence. I'm almost certain that the grammar and/or syntax is waaaaayyy off, but I'm too busy burying my nose in literature whilst burping my 1 year old godkid and simultaneously blogging/baking a late night snack/monitoring my 5 year old godkid to really pay too much attention to that sentence... And I'm pretty sure that's okay. That little problem - my horrid grammar and/or syntax - can suffer a wee bit longer while I put down American Gods and see how the popovers are doing in the oven. (Yes, I make my own. Betty Crocker ain't got nothin' on me.)

*walking afk to tend to popovers*

But really... Problems... It's always been hard for me to walk away from other peoples' problems. Being the oldest and only girl will do that - especially when, say, your father has a ridiculous Peter Pan complex and your mother has never come to grips with the fact that shit is never gonna change. Other peoples' problems have always been at the cruxe of who I am. They were the developmental cornerstones to my personality.

It makes sense, then, that up until I was a teenager, I had a very hard time telling the difference between a "matter of urgency" and an "issue." Having always been thrust with other peoples' problems, I had assumed that ALL o' dem were "matters of urgency." It hadn't occurred to me, for whatever reason, that "My stepdad rapes me while my mom's at work" is a matter of substantially more importance than "I can't get rid of my pimples." I'd seen/heard/done it all, and whenever a minor problem like "I can't get rid of my pimples" entered my periphery via the loud mouth of a close friend, it was always closely accompanied by, "And that motherfucker STILL hasn't paid child support, and my job cut back my hours, and I swear to God if I find out that my sister's fucking my first baby's daddy, I'm gonna kill BOTH o' dem..."

What you have to understand is, my friends and I (for the most part) grew up poor or working class. There were some days when a few of us would be doling out food at a church or homeless shelter, and some days when we were on the receiving end of the welfare line; it was all just a matter of time and circumstance. We learned early on that shit changes quickly, and if you're not prepared for the inevitable shift in tide, you'll be drifting off to sea. We were good at telling when the tide would turn, and even better at rolling with the punches. Problems, we learned early, were inevitable and horrible and unstoppable. They popped up unexpectedly on the best day of your life. They made it impossible for you to reach your dreams. They derailed peoples' entire life stories.

We understood problems.

We knew problems.

Problems, to us, were BIG deals.

So imagine our surprise when, as we got older, we peeked out of our ghettos and projects, and realized that there were Other People with Other Problems. These Other People worried about whether their gardener was syphoning gas from their Lexuses and Beemers. They worried about the Riff Raff coming into their neighborhood (read: us). They worried about brand names and hair styles and the color of their nails - and God almighty, did they spend time and energy into those aspects of life that we had regarded as menial and unimportant.

My girls and I (all minorities) would laugh about the white girls we'd see in the city, who'd gab to their friends ad nauseum about their manicure. We'd scoff at the price of designer jeans or shoes - "$560 for a pair of heels?!" - and swear that we'd be shopping at Payless even AFTER we made it outta the 'hood. We'd watch diners walk into chi-chi restaurants and exclaim proudly that our Mama or Gran'ma cooked just as good. We relished our otherness, our strife, our roots. We drew pride and honor and character from our backgrounds.

And then, one by one, we realized that there's no shame in being able to afford an exorbitantly priced pair of Jimmy Choos or extravagantly priced meal at Le Cirque. Not only that, but why not splurge? We'd obviously made It if It was an option.

Unfortunately, more often than not, It was not an option. It was simply a place to pretend to be one of those Other People. One of those "better people." One of those people whose problems were more about which Ivy League to send their kids, and not the gang initiator who will be knocking down your door for your oldest son.

Those Other People, we'd decided, had the kind of problems that We wanted. Fuck what Biggie said. If we dragged our asses out of the 'hood and got paid, we wouldn't have more problems. We'd have better problems. The kind of problems that equaled status and respect and power.

Yes, it's really THAT serious.

2008-06-09T23:17:00.004-04:00

I dunno why, but I'm all about Fashion right now. [Yes, with the upper case F. It's that necessary.]

And in case you didn't get the memo, by "right now", what I really mean is, "at this moment, wherein I may be the third brokest I've ever been in my life."

AAAAAHHH!!!

Why, oh why, did I have to look in my closet this afternoon and have a "nothing looks good" moment?

And why did I have to be right about nothing looking good?!

WHY?!

Damnit. Damnit damnit damnit. Damn. It.

It's too fucking hot to sew shit together, and I just can't deal with not looking the way I wanna look. I don't think I should have to deal with it.

See, the way I look at it, there isn't much I have control over. In my world, fifty-one year old moms suffer from strokes, dads cheat on moms on mother's day, best friends become estranged in the blink of an eye, trips to France are arranged within a five-hour period, teenage godsons drop dead after getting shot in the face, gynecologists say that you deserve cervical cancer because you've had an abortion, 'quitting jobs that you love' becomes a necessary action because you're not getting paid or you're getting sexually harassed, et al.

This - how I look - is something I can control. Or, at least, I should be able to control it. The facebook profile of an old friend says, "I can not control how I am perceived. I can only control how I am presented." That's how I feel right now.

The weather is hot. My schedule is booked solid. Communication and correspondence take up huge chunks of my time. I'm busting my ass, making as much cash as I can without holding down a regular-paying job.

The least I can do is like the way I look.

So tomorrow I'm getting my hair permed and cut. Maybe colored. [I don't wanna damage my hair beyond repair by doing all of that in one day; maybe I'll hold off on the dye job.] My homeslice, Chanel [one of the first Filipino drag queens to make a name for herself in Atlantic City], is taking me to Sephora and doing my make-up. Then we're gonna hit the thrift stores for some chice vintage-y threads.

And, in the meantime, I'm hitting up the usual online stores to see if there's a wardrobe out there that'll fit my non-existent budget. I'm writing away and keeping my publishing/literary contacts fresh, because there's something real that I'm working towards. I'm dealing with drama after drama after drama and getting so lost in all of it that none of it seems real to me anymore.

It's all becoming kind of cut-and-dry, black-and-white, easy/hard. It's all becoming doable. I don't know how that happened. When did I turn around and have all that I needed? Did the self confidence always exist, or did I work up to this point?

It's taken me a long time to reach a point where my greatest concerns revolve around Me. Now that I'm here, I don't care if I seem shallow or narcissistic. I've earned this privilege. I've earned the right to put myself first. And if I'm currently about fashion - not politics, nor romance, nor family, nor friends - then so be it.

Tomorrow, the winds will change and I'll no doubt be all about something else.

Either way, I don't give a fuck about what anyone thinks.

Rob Doesn't Sing Well

2008-06-08T12:17:00.005-04:00

But when he starts strumming his fingers along my fretboard and makes excuses for his less than perfect singing voice, I can't help but swoon a little. He plays the opening once twice, curses, catches himself, then sings the first verse and cuts straight to the chorus (which he fucks up). His voice breaks, his fingers fumble.

But oh, on those first few chords, when I recognize the song and remember the hints on the phone - "I'm working on a going away present for you." "Why'd you ever date me? I'm not a musician or a writer or a film maker." "I wish I could be creative for you." - my heart melts a little.

[To the tune of "Hey There, Delilah", by The Plain White-Ts.] "Hey there, Maria / You're leaving New York City / I'll be a thousand miles away / But girl, you'll still be the prettiest / girl in the world..."

The rhymes and meter aren't perfect, but in my bedroom, on a sweltering Sunday morning, with our clothes strewn on the floor and text messages clogging my cell phone, I'm in heaven.

This is what I've been waiting for.

Not just this moment of romantic persuasion, but the last few days. The culmination of my attempts to teach him how to communicate. The conversation we had in the shower when he spouted off philosophies and I stood, shocked, as I realized how humble and sincere and intelligent he is. The sex. OH, the sex...

I know I go back and forth about he and I. Maybe, if I didn't have my trust issues and he didn't have his honesty issues, and I wasn't so sure that I deserve The Best (and that he may not be it), and he wasn't so sure that I deserve The Best (and that he may not be it), we wouldn't constantly be in limbo.

But that's us.

There are times when he drives me crazy with his inability to articulate himself. There are times when he makes me cry out of sheer frustration because he can't pick up on what I need (even when I clearly articulate what I need). There are times when he reminds me that I can't trust in him to be Everything that I need.

But then he sings a song or philosophizes in the shower, and I realize that he's learning how to say what he feels. He gives me what I need long after I need it, and in the meantime I have the space to remain an independent, strong woman. He reminds me what it is to be human and flawed, and loves me fiercely despite my many very human flaws.

Last night was the first time we really communicated about important issues. I talked about my needs and my issues (with family, friends, lack of funds, et al.), and he voiced his concerns and opinions. I was surprised at how intelligent and heartfelt and sincere he sounded; I was also surprised at my reaction to his newfound articulation. He'd go off on a philosophical/anthropological/sociological tangent, and I'd be upset that the spotlight was off of me. I needed to talk, to vent, to reach conclusions - and I couldn't stand the thought that my ideas were being cut off by his ideas. I got frustrated that he was talking instead of listening.

The irony is, I've been complaining that he doesn't know how to articulate himself. The second he shows that he can articulate himself, I wish he would just shut up and wait till I'm done talking before he commented.

And maybe that's the problem. We haven't worked on our communication, and now I know that in order for us to talk, I have to talk. I have to get it all out, and then he can be his intelligent, articulate self. We'll both feel like we contributed to the conversation, and both of our feelings will be heard...

Two and a half years, and only NOW does this dawn on me.

Updates!

2008-06-02T01:02:00.003-04:00

The very abridged version of what's been going on:

- Mom went to the hospital for a minor stroke. She's only 51, and the docs say she's fine, but I'm making her see as many specialists as her coverage will allow; I'm not taking any chances.

- I've all but quit my job, as they haven't been paying me and I need to make cash pronto. I still love the work, and would totally still teach if my schedule/budget would allow me to go pro bono; as it stands, though, neither are that generous.

- Bills are piling up like leaves in autumn, and my ability to leave the country in September hangs in the balance because of this fact.

- Rob's been helping me out with my bills, which is so strange for so many reasons (et al., I'm too proud to accept anyone's money, he doesn't have a job, etc.). He and I are (as always) in a strange gray area wherein we (at the moment) don't fornicate with each other [every other word/phrase - "make love", "fuck", "have sex" - seems wrong for some reason] and we have to make a real effort to even like each other most of the time.

- I found out that my dad's been "seeing another woman." Again. [He's been cheating on my mom for at least the past 15 years.] I promptly called the other woman and gave her a talkin' to; I threatened to cut off all ties with my dad if I found out that he continued his indiscretions.

- During my talk with my dad, he employed these mind games that I instantly recognized. He asserted his "father knows best" dominance over me - and neglected the fact that I'm too grown to fall prey to that bullshit. I will respect him because he's my elder and my father, but I will NOT eat up whatever he attempts to spoonfeed me.

- My bonds with certain friends have been developing nicely. They make me feel like I'm never alone, and that I'm a good person - and both of those things are severely lacking from a lot of the friends I've made over the years.

- I took care of two of my godkids, ages 1 and 5, and got a crash course in motherhood. Allergies, ear infections, food poisoning - Jesus! I had them for only four days [they arrived at my house, sick], and let me just say: CRAZY PROPS TO ALL THE MOMS OUT THERE!!! I seriously don't know how you do it.

- I had this moment today where I realized what's wrong/hard about having so many friends in different social circles. It's something about always wanting them to be on your side... I need to think more about this and get back to you.

- I'm breaking out like crazy, feeling ridiculously hormonal, and bloated. Plus, there's a huge and painful zit on my left butt cheek that I'm sure was caused by running around the five boroughs wearing itchy wool pants in 70+ degree weather. (I needed to look "professional" for work, and I misgauged the weather!)

- I think I'm ready to put the comments back on here. No pressure to actually comment or anything, *laugh*

In a Hard Place

2008-05-31T12:08:00.003-04:00

If I haven't said so before, let me state the plot of this stage in my life.

Young woman has no savings; her job has stiffed her two months pay; her libido and sense of romance have shut off; she is attempting to finish off a degree (or two) while making money at a respectable job and getting herself and her family out of severe debt.

Her family means well but is mired in problems. Health issues and money issues dominate their priorities. Their decidedly un-Americanness makes it hard for her to find a common ground to stand on: how is she to deal with problems? Who can she trust? Who understands her plight?

Currently, she is thinking about her boss lady, and the other hands that've lent help: Is she wrong for believing that white people have a profound and real sense of entitlement, which minorities (subconsciously) feed into? That, as such, none of them could ever really know what she's going through, despite their golden intentions?

She wishes that she'd foreseen this stage of her life, so that she could've finished off her degree in one fell swoop, ending at least one part of her journey; but she knows that it's useless to utter one's coulda-woulda-shouldas. She likes to think that nothing was for nothing; but secretly she wonders if her optimism is unfounded and trife.

She knows that she's not regressing, but finds it hard to believe that her present state is progression. Maybe she's in the eye of the storm, and all seems static but everything is really changing. She's almost certain that that's right.

There are things she knows now that she once was weary of. Like her habit of leaving things "unfinished" or "unresolved." She is positive now that she has taken away all she can from events that seem half-done. She no longer feels the need to question her motives; this is do or die; she must think fast and worry about consequences later.

There are people she trusts, with whom there is mutual love and mutual respect. She is thankful for these people, but also weary of the ones who shape their schedules and routines around her. She knows that inevitably, she will let them down, and although she understands that the changes in their relationships will be for the best, she does not want them to change.

There are situations looming on the horizon that look like nothing she has ever thought of. She feels her tendons tightening, her muscles readying, her brain whirring consistently to the beat of her heart. For the first time in her life, the future is wide open. There are no safety nets to catch her fall, no set in stone boundaries of school, career, family, friends. Everything seems up in the air, like balloons that may or may not fly to Heaven. Like Icarus's wings, apt to melt.

This is the part of her story when it becomes a tragedy or a comedy, and for the first time, she does not entirely feel like the writer.

I'm a Woman's Woman

2008-05-27T11:44:00.006-04:00

With a continuation...

I never take for granted the lessons I learn from my woman friends, but as I'm thinking about last night - *le sigh* - and the tiff I had with Rob, I'm realizing there are lots of times that I neglect the men in my life.

Often, it's because they're useless. (And by that, I mean that they don't fulfill the roles I need/want them to fulfill.) From my woman friends, I get love, and support, and understanding, and hours upon hours upon hours of no strings attached laughter and crying and venting and craziness.

From my man friends?

For the most part, I get confusion, and sex, and frustration. I'm not trying to sell them short. I'm just sayin'...

When I was younger, I took pride in the fact that most of my friends were men. I thought it showed that I wasn't the typical girlie girl, and that I could hold my own, and that I was gangsta or some such nonsense. Also, I used this manliness to mean that I was a catch; I could relate to men in ways that other women could never do, and I damn sure as hell looked like a woman "should."

I've still retained some of that logical, no BS, straight-to-the-point, "fuck you - I'm The Man" mentality. That'll never go away. But as I've gotten older, I've forged friendships with women that will likewise never go away. These women have taught me how to love and laugh and live. They've helped me embrace the feminine sides of me. They've taught me what it is to have a true support system, one that I can count on no matter what happens in my life or theirs. And while men come and go, it's my female friends (mostly), who remain by my side.

Of course there are a few exceptions to this rule. DDS, BGF, Black Jew, B and Will certainly spring to mind; they're the guys I can always count on for level-minded insight into life.

But with every other man, there's a sexual tension that complicates our relationship. We can't talk about anything without flirting, or alluding to a sweaty incident from years ago, or wanting to fuck like rabbits on meth.

I think what it boils down to is trust. I am more willing and able to trust a woman. Even if that woman is sexually/romantically interested in me (and I might be sexually/romantically interested in her). Even if that woman is a stranger. Even if that woman is prettier, hotter, more sophisticated, has more money than me; or vice verce. The odds are simply higher that I trust her over the average man.

I'm not sure what this all means, but I'd like to even that out. I'd rather be a true People Person than a real Woman's Woman.

Virginia (Gina) calls and asks about this post, and we start talking about my argument last night with Rob, and how he keeps on inserting himself into my life, and how it's easier for me to trust women than men.

In the middle of talking to Gina, Texti texts comments about this post and I find myself interrupting Gina (which is perfectly fine by she and I!) to delve more deeply into my feelings about guy friends. I've just finished telling Gina what I'm texting to Texti, and the more I repeat it, the more real and true it sounds: I think the sexual tension between myself and my male friends is caused by the fact that we don't know how else to translate our feelings for each other.

Gina laughs in agreement as she remembers the relationships I had down south. "Somehow," she says, "you just know how to tap into people... and with women, that's so appreciated, and we reciprocate by being your shoulder to cry on and all that."

I remind her of the time, when I was 16, when I couldn't find a black dress to wear to a masquerade ball, and I freaked out. It was the same day that my then-boyfriend and my father both confessed that they had illegitimate children - and somehow, even though I stoically dealt with their news, not having a dress to wear to a Sweet 16 brought me to tears. Gina had to drive me to the mall (I didn't have a car back then) and buy me the only black gown available in August: it looked like a reject from a high school production of Swan Lake.

"We [women] have these ill ass moments," Gina continues, "when we know each other and there's an unspoken bond between us... But with men- I dunno. It's trickier to have those moments, and so easy for those moments to translate into romance or sex."

And now I'm listening to Ben Harper while waiting for the laundry machine to be done washing, and Gina's on the phone, feeding me stuff to type on here.

"Besides," she laughs as I tell her what I'm typing, "back then, you were like Hugh Hefner in Jessica Rabbit's body. You related better to men because you thought like one. You probably trust women more now because you've learned to relate better to them... You're not as competitive. You don't keep frienemies. You've developed a crazy level of confidence. All of that makes you a threat to men, in a way..."

The laundry's done washing and Ben Harper's played out. I'm running late to meet an acquaintance for a walk in the park... I think I'll continue this talk (which is veering toward the subject of feminism), and have him wait for me...

Thank God for good friends and cell phones...

Non-Date

2008-05-27T11:12:00.003-04:00

There I was, in a park in Fort Greene, sitting on a bench next to B and realizing that he's a smart, funny, down-to-earth, attractive, politically-inclined, educated, liberal, moral, well-read, humble, honest, straight, and single man.

We were eating baked goods from a shop a couple blocks away; yummy cookies, a decadent muffin, and a rich slice of cake lay between us like a metaphor for what I was feeling. We shared the tempting morsels while we continued our (so far) five-hour long conversation.

And maybe it's because we're good friends that go back a ways - we met 5 or 6 years ago, and at the time we both worked for the same non profit - but the conversation took awesome turns that I hadn't expected. We were talking about our mutual love for a film that was panned by critics. We shared stories about books we'd read on trains, and how they made us cry. We listened to old school reggae and I swayed my hips as he shyly smiled down at me.

And it felt good. Not in a romantic kind of way, but just in a really good way. Spending time with B brought out sides of me that have been dormant for a while. The sex kitten inside of me bubbled just past my skin, but she remained still and quiet; the cultured and educated nerd came out in full force.

When was the last time that I could talk about books like that (with a man)? When's the last time I could talk about obscure films with someone? When was the last time that I engaged in an 8-hour conversation with a man, without the pretense of sex, and without my getting frustrated with his lack of conversation skills, and without my grimacing at his righteous right-wing indignation?!

It's been too long.

Thoughts after a 6-mile jog

2008-05-26T09:52:00.003-04:00

It's Memorial Day, and I woke up at 7 a.m. I picked Mommy up from work, took her grocery shopping, then ran to the park, did laps around the park, and jogged back. I'm surprised that I was able to run (albeit, with intermittent breaks), what with my having gone back to smoking cloves and all... I definitely think that the inhaler I've been pumping every morning makes up for the damage I'm doing to my lungs. Steroids will do that...

Opera Singer is training for a run. She does it every year, and I'm sure its aim is to collect money for a worthwhile cause, though at the moment I don't recall which disease its seeking to cure. She mentioned a technique for running, wherein you match your gait with your breath and heart rate; I must learn it.

I looked like ass, sans make-up or purrty hair. At least, I think so. My sweat pants fit in that comfortable-but-ill-looking way which emphasizes all of my flaws and none of my good attributes. Yet, there at the park, amidst the gads of fly ladies and gents, I seemed to have made an impression. Maybe it's because I have DDs and no sports bra can really tame em as I'm running, but heads definitely turned.

Men smiled, made small talk, stared. Eyes bugged out. One guy literally drooled when he saw me, though I'm sure that had something to do with the fact that he was out of breath and panting.

And women? Well, it seems that I've mastered the art of making myself a girl's girl. I don't come off as wanting or needing (to be) competition. I'm innocuous. Non-threatening. Women smiled, kindly offered tips to increase my momentum, shared inside jokes about men.

It felt good to do something so right: jogging, playing nice with men and women, biting my tongue from being a complete bitch, putting away my poison-tipped claws...

Okay, now that I think about it, those last two had more to do with a woman I met yesterday at a bbq. They don't really apply to my morning jog.

I'd gone to high school with the woman, though I don't really know her at all. We'd had mutual friends, and what little I summised of her personality was read through the limited experiences I'd had of her actions and attitutdes. Let's call her Shauna...

Shauna's a friend of a very close friend, and though I recall having a bad first impression of her, that was very many years ago, and I figured I could put that all behind me.

But Shauna's one of those people who talks as if she knows. She rushes into assumptions into who you are and what you're about - and I don't like that. I don't particularly like her. I knew it off the bat when I saw her yesterday. There was something about the way she talked to people - no sign of being humble, no self-awareness or self analyzation. She's the kind of woman that knows she's got you pegged, and doesn't take the time to figure herself out because she knows that she's doing the right thing.

So Shauna the know-it-all remembers me from high school and greets me. I return the greeting, and don't correct her when she calls me "Marie." What's the point? If she mentions me in the future, it'll either be to someone who already knows me (so they'll already know my name), or it'll be to someone who doesn't know me at all (and they wouldn't care what my name is anyway).

So she calls me "Marie" and asks how I'm doing, and I say I'm doing well and ask about her. She says she's doing fine, then starts making all of these assumptions, which seem like a conversation, only she's talking to herself while staring at me. "Are you done with college? You must be done with college! It's been years! Right? And I bet you did really well- Oh! I remember! Sura told me that you went to Brooklyn College with her! You two started an organization together, right?.... etc. etc. ..."

My first reaction was to interrupt her rambling by saying, "Actually, I had a baby, got cancer, then was a welfare crack addict for a little while. My addiction's mellowed, thank God! But you know how it is: court dates mess with class schedules."

She would undoubtedly give me a faux-concerned look, at which point I'd say glibly, "No, no. I was joking. Everything but the cancer part was a joke!" At which point, I'd excuse myself to the restroom and leave her hanging.

But, no. Even though I felt the words forming on the tip of my tongue and the full scenario played out in my head, I said none of that. I saw no point in catching an attitude with Know-It-All Shauna.

I also saw no point in correcting her or informing her or clarifying what she thought she knew. I spend too much time analyzing myself, and when I finally come upon a grain of beautiful truth, I don't feel the need to waste it on someone I have no allegiance to.

The Harsh Reality of a Hypothetical Situation

2008-05-25T22:21:00.003-04:00

Ya know how, sometimes when you're in a group of friends, or when you're watching something provocative on TV, or when you're thinking really hard about something in particular, you start asking yourself questions?

Like, Is that something I would do?, or How would I react to that?, or I think I would do ____, but given the opportunity to show my true colors, would I really ____?

Well, I just had one of those moments.

Kind of.

Rob and I went to my friend's birthday dinner (the food was vegan, Rob and I have been doing well as ___, and there's too much to cover so I'll leave it at that), and I glanced at my phone. In between hearty laughs and chuckles, I'd missed a call. It was from Rob's house. I listened to the accompanying voicemail. It was Rob's cousin; he said that their grandfather was doing really badly and that Rob had to come home asap (turns out, he didn't even know that Rob was with me, nor did he try calling Rob's cell phone first; his first reaction was to call me).

In a flurry of worry, we called the house and left the restaurant. My high spirits - it had been an awesome day, with very few hang-ups - were immediately dampened. My plans - to bar hop with Opera Singer and hit on sailors - were put on hold. Rob's whole family was at his mom's house, doing what they could to stave off their grandfather's inevitable meeting with his Maker.

When we reached the house, everyone was on the phone. They pummeled me with variations of the same question: Did I know where to get an oxygen tank?

My father's a respiratory therapist, and he takes care of peoples' breathing for a living, so I called him. "Tell them to take him to the ER", was his advice.

But Rob's grandfather refuses to go to another hospital.

My father's second job involves homecare, and I figured that of all of us, he'd be better suited to handle this kind of emergency.

Sensing that my dad was growing weary of me (we had a minor tiff earlier today), I texted him. Could he maybe call his boss from his second job, and try to pull some strings?

I got the text back: No, there was nothing he or his boss could do; it didn't work that way.

Rob was growing impatient. He cursed under his breath at his own futility and at the frustration of the situation. He told me to get home, rest, then have fun with Opera Singer. There was no backhanded anything, no sideways implications, nothing. he honestly just wanted me to do whatever was in my best interest.

As a flurry of phones continued to dial medical supply stores and Rob told me of his fear that his mother and aunt be tried by judge and jury for taking into their own hands the old man's medical well-being, I sat there and winced. I was at a loss. All I knew was that I'd feel too guilty to have fun with Opera Singer while Rob and his family were in such a bind.

Twenty minutes after I went into Rob's mom's house, I left to drive my own mother to work. On my way home, my brother called.

"It's a good thing no one noticed what's in your trunk," he said absentmindedly.

And that's when I remembered: My dad keeps an oxygen tank in the trunk, for his homecare job.

My first impulse was to turn around - but I knew that my dad might get fired for giving the oxygen tank to Rob's grandfather. Also, I knew that I might be under legal duress for that action as well.

My second impulse was to call Rob and tell him about the irony of the situation, but I felt like that would be in poor taste.

So I just laughed at my thoughts and myself and my situation. There was no way I'd be willing to risk so much - my dad's job, possible trial, etc. - in order to (maybe) save Rob's grandfather's life.

If I had the means to save a dying old man's life, but had to risk imprisonment and my father's career, would I?

No, I wouldn't. That's what it boils down to.

Hold back my hair! I'm gonna spew!

2008-05-23T08:52:00.005-04:00

With a continuation...

Every morning, for as long as I can remember, I've engaged in a ritual: my daily brain vomit. I took the exercise from a writing self-help book. The idea is, your brain is stuffed with so many thoughts that it's hard for you to jot down literary ideas. So you sit down with a pad and a pen and you write for 10 or 20 minutes straight. You don't stop, you don't think. It's free association, word association, nonsense, stream-of-conscious - whatever you wanna call it.

I have dozens of journals filled with my oozing mental yuckiness. Fears, ambitions, secrets (mine and my friends'), analyzations, stuff that I don't realize I'm thinking until I jot it down, et al. It's incredibly cathartic to have a place of purity in which to release your insides.

But writing is an art, and artists thrive on showing off their innards. This remains true and applies to me. There is a part of me that will forever be cloaked by mystery, and that is the part that allows me to write so feverishly. The more clear-headed I feel, the less like "myself" I feel, and the more likely I am to write innanely and/or mundanely. I guess this means that my most artistic self is fucked in the brain.

I met with Seli at the Shake Shack on Madison Ave. Over yummy goodies - I had the 'shroom burger, she had a cheeseburger - and a gorgeous park, we assessed our lives.

We were celebrating a monumentous occasion, one that I hope will live on in posterity after we've become famous writers: After much doubt and back-and-forth, Seli's going to Texas in a few weeks to live in Austin and pursue an MFA - and I'm ridiculously happy for her.

Me? Well, at the time, I was still in limbo about the next step in my life - should I stay or should I go? - and sought advice.

Seli is one of those rare gems: someone who understands her craft up and down, backwards and forwards, and still doesn't have a big head about it. She's the only female writer friend of mine whose bread and butter isn't poetry or fiction. (She primarily writes scripts.) And every time I read something of hers, I know it's genius. Oscar caliber genius.

Unfortunately, Seli's a perfectionist and nothing she writes will ever uphold her high standards. She is battered by self esteem issues, would-be mentors who constantly put her down, and her humble nature. But there, in the air, were words that confirmed what I already knew: someone else was bound to find and recognize her art. Someone else was bound to realize that she's golden.

Some things you should know about Seli:
- Three MFA programs accepted her, one of which (in Boulder, CO) I'm a HUGE fan of.
- Her mother has always been supportive of her creative ventures, mainly because her mother believes it's the only endeavor she can achieve. (A backhanded compliment?)
- I met her during my last year of HS.
- Seli's religious. Christian kind of religious. And though this might derail others from seeing people for who they are, this facet of Seli's personality only makes her more interesting.
- In college, she graduated magna cum laude (or was it suma cum laude?) , was on multiple dean's lists, and often finished a semester with a 4.0.
- She's incredibly sweet and susceptible to peoples' manipulations.
- She is so pure and innocent (in sooo many ways) that it's almost off-putting; it took me a long time to realize that she wasn't playing me for a fool - she really is as sincere as she makes herself out to be.

Because of all this, and the history we have, I knew that she was a good person with whom to share my thoughts - about my move to the Philippines, the next step in my writing career, the craziness that goes on in my head, et al.

We talked shop for a bit, mentioned writers we're currently really into, gabbed about writing styles that we find provocative, alluded to up-and-comers we know/the other might know. I mentioned an upcoming meeting with a writer-mentor-acquaintance who's a frequent contributor/freelance editor-writer for such publications as Vogue and Mademoiselle.

As the meal wound down and our topic of conversation drifted from writing to work to moving to family to friends to trust, we found ourselves sharing our personal histories with psycho analysis. I mentioned my fear that "I'm broken", and that it's that broken part of me that allows me to write. I told Seli that if that's the case, I don't want to be fixed. I don't want that part of me to stop working. I don't care if it means that my quality of life will not improve. I want to write and I want to write well. That's all I want.

By this time, we were on the subway station platform, waiting for our trains.

"I'm so afraid," I was saying. "My boss wants me to see a therapist, and even got her therapist to come to work so I could meet her. And I felt so good to meet this woman, and she felt so real, and something in me knew that she could heal me. Something in me knew that this woman was a healer.

"But I'm afraid that if I get healed, I won't be able to write like I've been writing. I feel it happening now, as my mind evolves and becomes more clear and defined. The pathos is gone. The struggle. The urgency."

Seli nodded in understanding. "Ya know," she said. "In college, I studied Walt Whitman for an entire semester, and I learned that despite all of his amazing writing, he was actually a very clear-cut, simple and happy man. He was also very mentally stable. There were no dark psychoses or melodramas in his past. He was not haunted... I guess it's possible to be mentally healthy and also write."

"But that's my fear - I have a feeling I'm not a Walt Whitman. I think I'm a Sylvia Plath or a Jack Kerouac. That that's who I am as a writer, and I need the craziness to fuel my art. I think I need the dissonance, the mystery, the excitement, the blind analyzation of everything."

Seli laughed at my frenzied pitch of voice.

"I know I must sound so stupid, saying that I'm willing to give up mental health in order to write..."

"No, no! I completely understand. I would, too..." She nodded furiously, then her eyes became quiet. "But, ya know, when I was suicidal in high school, I wrote poetry. And it was good poetry. I mean, I don't really write poetry, but people - adults, peers - would read it and think that it's a piece I took from the internet or something, and they were really surprised to hear that I wrote it. Well, I wrote this poetry when I was suicidal, and there was this allure to it, like you got caught up in it. It felt-"

"Urgent! Mysterious! Like true life, encapsulated in words, so people felt it."

"Yes! Yes, exactly!" Her eyes shifted, as if trying to figure out how best to state the following thought. "I know that I'll never be able to write like that again. That was a phase of my life, and now that I'm more mentally stable, I write more-"

"Concise! Precise! Analytic! Sterile!"

"Yes!" she laughed. "Exactly!"

"I know what you mean! As I become more clear-headed, I can see what's going to come next in my writing more clearly. Everything has become more straightforward. There is little second-guessing, and a lot more logic. The roads to my brain are no longer blocked."

"Yes!" she exclaimed, happy that I came to the same conclusion. "It's a different kind of good writing."

We talked about art and artists and what makes someone more of an artist than another. Is a "true artist" someone who needs the outlet of art in order to feel more "like him/herself"? Or is a "true artist" someone who just happens to create work which affects/effects others?

Some people, after suffering from strokes or other incidents of brain damage, begin to write and draw and paint and create at an alarming and amazing rate; their art is gorgeous and profoud. But are they "true artists", or have they become "true artists" via their ailment, or were they never "true artists" at all?

As I'm continuing my latest short story collection and noticing myself changing, and my writing style evolving, I am faced with the fact that different things make up who I am.

I am no longer the girl who needed her thoughts provoked or her muse tickled by some dark pathos. Now, the biggest problem I have when writing is the inevitable futile fishing for the right word.

My writing doesn't necessarily have the same kind of urgency; while writing I've lost the feeling that I'm sharing something sacred and real which everyone must understand and relate to. Now, everything I write is truly for me, and I know that if a piece provokes a sense or emotion in me, that it has fulfilled its purpose.

I think, after many years of trying to decipher some misplaced intention to be an artist, somehow I molded myself into the role. It isn't merely a skin that I wear and shed as if I'm some sloughing snake. It's who I am through and through, and I know that the things I come up with are art. They're indicative of me - the person I am now - and that's what they're supposed to be. Anything else would be a pale imitation of a former self, and that isn't real. That isn't my kind of art.

Even now, after I was distracted by the sound of the TV, I am cognizant of the fact that I have lost my train of thought, for which my former self would have severely criticized herself. But this - this - this writing, spewing out of my thoughts, rambling, craziness, is what's happening, and somehow that makes it good. The true translation from physical action to the written word is what makes it art. It's something that I would never have been able to do before - I would be kicking myself in the ass to retrieve a train of thought that's long departed the station. But thoughts are not stationary and another one comes up next, and the ability to project happenings into minds is not monopolized by any single thought.

Writing is a process, and different writers employ different techniques, skills, focuses. I am simply writing in a different way. And it doesn't make it any less good or any less me. It doesn't make me any less of an artist - just a different one.

should I stay or should I go now?

2008-05-19T09:26:00.013-04:00

Am I willing to trade in my paradise home of New York City...

...for three years in the tropical paradise and home of my parents, The Philippines?

This seems like a question I've answered innumerable times.

I made up my mind this past November that I needed a change. I needed to grow and evolve and I wanted to feel connected to people. Not just the way that I've been connected here in the States - where I have a large social network, lots of friends, many different social circles, etc. - but I wanted family. I wanted to be in on something that's bigger and better than myself, and to be sure that I belonged there. I wanted acceptance and understanding and hope that in my later years of life, I won't be plagued by indecision about my closest compadres. I didn't want to continue asking myself if my friends are "good enough people."

And maybe it's my fault that I have to take it there, with all the questioning and worrying and analyzing. But I do need to take it there. I've been played for a fool by people that are close to me, and I've done the same; there's no way for me to just relax and socialize. I have to constantly be questioning the goodness of people; I have to constantly be wondering what peoples' motives are. Very seldomly do I meet people with whom I can let down my guard - and when I find those people, I let them know that they're special to me. That I really love them, would walk over hot coals for them, would kill/die for them because they're that special.

Those people are my family. And I will admit, I do have some of those people here in New York, specifically, and the States in general.

Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to make up my mind...

Let me recap the last 6 months, in terms of my trip:

In November, it became apparent that my family and I are really broke. And I mean really broke. We couldn't make enough to pay the mortgage on time (if at all). We were struggling to put food on the table and gas in our tanks to go to work. We were going to extremes in order not to feel/seem full-out poor...

My mom (who is an LPN) had twisted her ankle and couldn't work. She wasn't out of work long enough to collect disability, but she was long enough to miss a substantial number of paychecks. When the union finally got their act together to get my mother paid, it was many, many weeks after she should've gotten paid, and we were already in a huge financial hole.

Add to that that my father was in the Philippines, so he was getting vacation pay. Vacation pay, for average people, is a blessing. However, my family needs to scrimp and save and work at least two overtimes a week in order to make end's meet - and that's under normal circumstances. Each of us - my mother, my father, and I - work ourselves to the bone in order to make as much as possible. But with my mom out of commission and my dad not raking in as much income as he normally would, things were really bogged down.

My brother was starting his schooling overseas. He'd decided that he didn't know what he wanted in terms of higher education, and my parents used that fact to foist upon him the opportunity to learn more about our homeland. It being a third-world country and all, the cost of living is dirt cheap, and my brother could simultaneously mingle with the relatives and absorb some of the culture.

I had at least another year left in school until I earned my philosophy-creative writing degree, and I wasn't even sure what I wanted to do with it once I got it. Ever since I was 16, I've been earning a substantial paycheck (my annual gross is oftentimes larger than my mother's or father's), and it seemed to me that with the recession looming, the odds that my liberal arts degree would help me earn more cash was nil. I started to hate going to school. What was the point? I was reading reading reading on my own and talking to informed/knowledgeable sources all the time. I was writing up a storm and earning a good paycheck by teaching at afterschool programs. I was a respectable adult with responsibilities, and that flimsy piece of paper which said that I could talk with hifalutin condescension was not gonna help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities.

What would help me be a respectable adult with responsibilities? A job that assured me I was helping people; one that paid well; one for which I would not have to pay large sums of cash to gain accreditation/a degree; one that guaranteed a career, recession or no recession.

So I turned to the medical field.

I knew off the bat that I don't want to be a doctor.

My career has to be something that has a set-in stone schedule. I can't be dealing with any of that "on call" nonsense. I don't want to stop fucking someone, or stop an intense conversation, or stop writing, in order to save someone else's life. I'm not that selfless.

The idea of nursing bugged me because, like I've said in previous posts, all Filipinas are expected to show an interest in nursing. I have a natural aversion to all things expected of me.

So I thought about physician's assistance. I started looking up schools and programs, getting used to the idea of saving lives, et al... And then I found out that physician's assistants are also on call - just like doctors - and that put me back at nursing. Sure, I would fit a stereotype - something I completely abhor doing - but for my family, I'd set aside my pride.

The question then became: "How will I become a nurse?" There are lots of programs to choose from, but seeing as I have no money and my grades took a fall after I was diagnosed with cervical cancer, I had limited options. Should I try to get into a private nursing school? Should I transfer to Hunter (a public, city university), which has a very good nursing program? Which would offer me more money? Which would take the shortest time? Which would guarantee me a better job upon graduation?

At the same time this was happening, I was plagued by my usual worries about life: my writing, my family, my friends. I was feeling very distant from most people. I was (am?) constantly uneased by social interaction. Like I said, there have only been a handful of people that can settle the voices in my head; most of them don't realize that they do that; and a lot of people who think they can do that, don't. It's easy for me to seem comfortable in a social situation, but it's hard for me to feel comfortable in a social situation. My mind doesn't shut off.

Around this time, my brother came back to the States to celebrate the holidays. It was decided that he would take some time off from school in the Philippines; I decided I would join him when he went back.

*****

I've only been to the Philippines twice since I hit puberty, but on each occasion, I was greeted by warmth and understanding and love. There was no rivalry - overt or covert - between anyone. There was no reason to knit-pick or nag or question or analyze. Things were refreshingly straightforward: you lived, you loved, you laughed, and you went to school and worked, too. Bills got paid (for the most part) and ends got met (albeit sometimes barely), but somehow, none of that mattered. Maybe it's the culture, or maybe it's the country, or maybe it's my family, but things got done and people struggled - and, somehow, happiness and mental/emotional health were still intact.

My father's side of the family has always been very closely knit. Despite the fact that my cousins' ages range from early teens to late 40s, all of then know each other and make it a point to hang out. My fathers' siblings (there were 11 of them) are tried and true friends. And it's not forced. They spend time together and laugh and cry and act the way you would expect a family to act after watching Family Matters and Full House and all of those other TV shows that feature functional, happy, healthy households.

I decided that I wanted a part of that. I wanted to experience that kind of lifestyle at least once while I'm young. I wanted to earn a BS in nursing, too, and have some tropical adventures, and bond with my family.

But on a more sinister level, there was great pathos in my decision. I've never easily completed any stage of my life. I've always jumped, head-first, straight into whatever was ahead of me. I didn't wait until the timing was right or anything like that, either. The moment I caught a glimpse of what lay ahead, I dove right in.

This has caused me to be a very rash and persistently evolving individual - and for that, I am grateful. However, there are times when I question my inner motives. Could it be possible that somewhere, deep inside my psyche, a part of me wants to abandon things before they abandon me? Could it be possible that a fear of failure drives me to leave off on things, before a conclusion can be reached? Could it be possible that, in all seriousness, I have no idea what I want to do with my life, so I wait for the wind to shove me in a direction? (And if the last is true, is that what everyone else really does, and does that matter?)

Looking back on November, all of these questions, I'm certain, were true in their acknowledgements of my deep character flaws.

But that was my decision: to leave the country, start over, become a nurse who has close bonds with her extended family (at least, on her father's side). That was the plan.

I told everyone my plan, I was so excited about it. My uncle in the Philippines asked if I'd be interested in working at an orphanage, as a teacher and counselor; I agreed to take on the role. The date was set for April - and then I got sued by Chase Bank. I owed money, wasn't able to pay it, and thought it best to stick around a few more months and scrounge up the cash to pay off my debts. I didn't want to burden my parents with that responsibility, and I knew that there was no way I could pay off my monthly minimum balance with Filipino pesos. So I delayed my trip till September. In order to keep my spirits up, however, I bought my ticket. It was really happening. September 2nd was the last day I'd be in the States...

Then my case went to trial, a judge said that I can't leave the country until I pay off my debts, and my whole world was rocked. I consoled myself with addages and platitudes, the most potent of which was, "Perhaps it simply is not time for me to go."

And, despite all of my excitement and enthusiasm over leaving the country, this sentiment certainly rang true. I still had those voices in my head, analyzing my reasons for leaving. How did I know that I didn't want to go simply because I'm used to bailing on situations/lifestyles? How did I know that I simply wasn't afraid of going back to Brooklyn College, facing people I don't really want to deal with, and having to make do with the fact that my grades have slipped? Besides, I was (and still am) a teacher, with students I love and a work atmosphere that is awesome and beneficial to my soul and mind. Didn't the excellence of that experience warrant more of my time?

All of a sudden, everything good about my present life seemed to hint that the potent platitude was right. I cried about my lost opportunity, but quickly shook it off and rearranged my plans. My mom told me that her union would pay for me to attend an accelerated nursing school, so that in the better span of two years, I'd be a registered nurse (something my mom's never achieved). I would go back to Brooklyn College this August, reconcile all of my flimsy grades, show myself what I'm made of, and then cut back on classes so that I could simultaneously attend nursing school. I would work only two or three days a week (if that), so that all of my waking hours would be spent on schoolwork or pay-the-bills kind of work, but in the process I would prove to myself that I'm not a quitter, that I'm not just looking for an easy way out, that I have character and morality and ethics.

While I worked that out, I also worked out a bunch of my other issues. I finally shed the skin that was my relationship with Rob. I started to feel good about exercising regularly. I fell in love with the teaching profession. My dad's lawyer took up my case, so that I didn't have to deal with my finances. Meetings with credit counselors were scheduled. I got laid off from one of my teaching gigs, but my favorite boss lady took it upon herself to offer a hand - in every way possible. I started writing academic papers to offer to professors (so that I can turn my incomplete grades into actual grades). I wrote letters to people who I've wronged, and felt a little more at ease about my past.

In short, life was good. My head was clear. I was being productive and more mentally and emotionally healthy than I've ever been.

And then, this morning, I got a call from my dad's (mine, too, I guess) lawyer. He clarified some ins and outs of the judge's ruling, and has filed several motions on my behalf. In a matter of weeks, the case and my credit should be worked out in a plan, and apparently the odds are in my favor. Today, also, I learned that after much heeing and hawing, my brother has decided to return to the Philippines this coming September. And, on top of all that, I did research and found out that my mom's union isn't exactly willing to pay for my nursing education; they're willing to reimburse me for it. This, of course, stipulates that I have the funds to pay for it in the first place - which isn't the case.

I hate see-sawing on whether or not I'm going to leave the country. I hate being ambivalent and unclear. This whole process has forced me to confront a lot of my mistakes and flaws, and I've become a better person for it all. But does it lead me to a true conclusion, as to what the best course of action is?

Yes, I think so...

What is it about me..

2008-05-18T09:54:00.003-04:00

...that makes so many of my mentors believe that I need therapy?

Is it their own dependence on professional mental/emotional health providers?

Does something about me positively scream "psycho" or "sociopath"?

Am I so broken that they believe I need to be fixed?

Do I strike them as someone who is incapable of figuring things out on my own?

Have I fulfilled the role of "daughter" so well in their lives that they dispense onto me advice that they'd otherwise reserve for kin?

If my willingness to be open about my thoughts/feelings is the catalyst for this strange anomoly, am I being too open?

Other than this persistent internal questioning, is this affecting me? Should it?

Do I need therapy?

Thoughts at 3 a.m.

2008-05-17T02:40:00.004-04:00

There's a lot I want to say, but it's a quarter to 3 in the a.m., I just got home 10 minutes ago, and I still have stuff to write up for work (which starts in 7 hours). In the past week, I've gotten fired, gotten paid, gotten fed up and gotten laid... and it all keeps happening. The rhyming parts: yeah, they're great. But damnit. I wanna just watch the wheel keep on spinning so that I can write down what happens. This whole living thing - this "life is not a spectator sport" thing - this grab the bull by the horns yada yada - insert cliched platitude here - - - it's all running me down. There's so much for me to catch up with.

Money, friendship, work, family - it's all great and it all needs work, and I have a feeling that's just what life is. Ya know that thing you sentimentalized in high school? All those questions about "what are you gonna be when you grow up"? The fantasy of what adult life would be like?

That's here. That's now. There's no time to waste, to procrastinate, to hold off on. This right here is what it's about and you only get one chance to make it right.

And that's wonderful and awful all at the same time...

I'm thinking about adopting...

2008-05-13T00:12:00.010-04:00

...babies, yes... in the far-away future.

For now, though, animals. Dogs and cats, to be exact. To be more exact: ones that need saving from near-certain death, are small, get along well with other animals (since I have a pug), and are free.

It's part of my need to set roots. And to also stop myself from leaving the house too often and inevitably and unnecessarily spending money.

I figure I might as well start my impending future as a woman with lots of cats, and dogs, and kids... (But probably no long-term beau, since my standards are apparently too high and I refuse to settle for anything less than what I deserve/want/need in a partner.)

Lately, I've been thinking a lot about the future - and not just in the ambiguous and arbitrary way. It's been of the really deep, thought-provoking, oh-gee-golly-I-never-realized-I-thought-about-life-like-this kind of way. Creepy.

I'm thinking this has something to do with the flashbacks I mentioned in the last post. I'll be making soup or grilling veggies or cleaning the house or in the middle of a conversation about Irish writers, and right there, in the middle of a fully formed thought that has nothing at all to do with the oncoming memory - DING! - there's the memory. It's almost always a happy, positive memory: a Spring day 8 years ago, when I wore an outfit that made the whole school take notce (baggy fatigues that my grandfather wore during WWII, tight mid-driff baring brown cotton tank top, and black Timbs); a great date that I had with an ex boyfriend, 9 years ago; a very specific moment in the local high school's yard, when I initiated what would become my first threesome; the first time I kissed a girl; failing my first exam on purpose, just to see what it would feel like; the day I found out I had cervical cancer...

There are lots of other moments that have surfaced, astonishingly vivid and amazingly clear. I remembered details that I won't be able to recall about yesterday - smells, EXACTLY what I was wearing, whether or not someone was shaved, the color of my pedicure... It's eerie. I mean, yeah, I remember stuff. But the stuff I remember is usually either stuff that happened A LOT, or stuff with real poignancy and importance.

Not to say that the moments that have resurfaced don't have innate poignancy and importance... but they're definitely not as important as the stuff I know I've stored in my memory.

Anyway, this sort of strange glimpse into my past has made me think long and hard about my future. It's made me a lot more pragmatic about the way I handle things. For instance: Last Saturday, while talking to one of the students about what they'd like to major in, nursing came up as an option. Now, I'll be the first to admit that I've been bucking against becoming a nurse since I realized that 90% of the Filipinas I've met have been nurses, but whatevs... I've made my decision, I know my reasons, and that's all there is to it. But my student... well, she had the same idea that I did. She wasn't Filipina, but she also didn't think it was right for her, and even though this career provides financial stability and assurance of a job, she'd rather choose something else.

I surprised myself by not feeling hurt. It's not that I meant to not feel hurt, but when I realized that I didn't feel hurt by her apparent letting down of my would-be profession, I was surprised. It made me proud. Every molecule in my body truly believed that it was okay for her to pick a path that's nowhere similar to my own. And that, to an egotistical person like myself, is a huge step to shedding my skin.

Also, though, I found myself wondering if the economy would continue to falter, and if she'd be forced to join the ranks of the medical field - as I have, sort of - in order to make end's meet. I wondered if that's the main reason or the only reason that I've made my decision... And then the mother of my recently deceased godson called. She thanked me for attending the funeral, asked if I'd mind looking after her two other boys when they're in town next week, and insulted the EMTs that were first to arrive on the scene. (My godson was shot.)

In that moment, when I listened to her talk about what the EMTs should've done, I realized I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about. I mean, sure, I've watched a few episodes of Grey's Anatomy, but I don't know dick when it comes to biology or medicine. If, somehow, I had been there when my godson got shot, there would've been nothing I could do but call 911 a little sooner. I'd have been useless.

The other huge reason that made me decide to go into nursing is a desire to expand my skill set. Writing is a talent and my passion, but it doesn't save lives. Not literally, anyway. I should be able to give more of myself than fancy articulations of my thoughts and egotistical analyzations of my experiences.

So, yeah... I want to adopt puppies and kittens.

I'm not really sure how I got so derailed from that thought. But, yeah. Puppies and kittens. Fo sho.

Beyond Glass Ceilings and Brick Walls

2008-05-12T22:49:00.007-04:00

It's official. I've hit a brick wall in my writing. And it sucks. Big time.

Now, before you ask the obvious question: I know why I've hit the wall, but that doesn't necessarily change anything.

Lately, I've been poring over my next move, money, going back to school, body issues, family stuff, looking for a job... All of that makes it harder to concentrate on working on fictional people and their lives - especially when just 24 hours ago ideas were sparking and igniting amazing riffs of magic and music and light and fire and genius and.... God! You shoulda been there. My crazed face had enough insanity to make Andy Warhol and Jackson Pollock suggest that I see a doctor.

Anyway, this is what I'm thinking about: I used to think that I was talented at writing precisely because of my ability to compartmentalize. I was able to lead separate lives - school, home, social circle 1, social circle 2, et al. - and the people who lived in my imagination were simply an extension of all that. Having different identities for dealing with each facet of my life surely helped.

But now my life is more homogenized. I've broken the holy grail of my old social schematic by introducing key players of different social circles. Everything seems fluid and easy. There is no separation of information about moi. There are no compartments, per se. There is only one world to deal with, one real set of problems, and one agenda. All this breaks down my daily routine and makes me feel sane and emotionally healthy.

Sounds great, right?

Well, yes and no.

On the real life tip, it's awesome. There are no secrets, no real privacy. I am only one person. There is no inner conflict, no push and pull between different parts, no dissonant flavors within the buffet that is my life.

On the artistic side, it's not so awesome. I need secrets. I need real privacy. I need to be able to ascertain different sides of me, different sides of situations, and how they coalesce and combine into something that resembles Life.

To stick with my food metaphor: What I have now is shit. Literally. It's post-processed, all the nutrients taken out, compost-fertilizer. It's useful and healthy, yes. But I can't verify the components. I can't gain much in the way of personal wellness. I can only plant gardens and maybe tell if there's a corn kernel in there or if I ate beets....

Maybe I took that metaphor too far.

Anyway, the point is, this whole transparency thing ain't good for my writing mojo. My greatest fear about psycho-therapy is being realized: apparently, just as my egotistical ramblings have topped out and I've become a good, decent, happy, healthy, and mentally stable person, I've lost my ability to create.

Is it worth the trade?

I dunno.

I definitely won't be attempting to regain my aforementioned literary prowess via drugs, sex and alcohol - so cliche! - but that's only because I'll be too busy staying awake, exercising my ass off - literally! - reading like a maniac, and writing academic papers.

Why?, you ask.

Well, partially it's because I need to continue using parts of my brain that haven't been utilized since taking a break from formal academics. Mostly, it's because I think I'm going back to Brooklyn College to finish up my Philosophy-Creative Writing dual major. I have to get back to prime student state. I want to fulfill all of my unused potential as a scholar. And, yeah, I wanna be able to out-run, out-fight, out-swim anyone, any time. All this is part of a bigger plan to be happy here in NYC.

Oh, the pain and humor of it all....

See, I was totally set on leaving behind the ivied walls of BC for going back to my roots in the Philippines. I had many reasons - a need for a change of scene, lack of funds to continue higher education in the states, a desire to get to know my extended family and my culture, an opportunity to teach English in an orphanage - but then a judge decided that I owe too much money, and that I've been so irresponsible with my handling of finances that I shouldn't be allowed to leave the country until I've sufficiently paid off my bills.

My boss lady, who I love to death - despite differences that might have plagued my opinion of her had this been three years ago - offered to hook me up with credit counseling and extra funds. My mother hooked me up with her finance lawyer. My father decided to ink a deal with the legal authorities, stating that he would take responsibility for my financial dealings, which would therefore lead to my ability to leave the country.

But somehow, even though only a short time has passed between the judge's ruling and my subsequent short-term depression, I've had a change of heart about leaving the country. I want to handle my responsibilities by actually handling my responsibilities - as opposed to letting Mommy and Daddy handle them for me. I want to close this chapter of my life - the BC, English-major chapter - by getting a degree in that field even though I know damn well that I can't earn any more money with it than I'm earning now. I want to earn my nursing degree via my mom's union - free tuition, y'all! - so that I can make a lot more money than I'm making now. And I want to parlay that money into sound investments, real estate, a small business or two, and several college degrees to boot.

Somehow, in the short time that's elapsed since the judge said I can't leave the country, I've decided I don't want to leave the country.

Maybe it's because I've revived and strengthened many relationships because of my financial ordeal. Maybe it's because I now have the option of earning two bachelor's degrees in two years. Maybe it's because I've been having really strange glimpses of moments I've forgotten - my life flashing before my eyes? - and I'm paranoid about a dream that Texti had. Maybe it's because I have a deep faith that I'll regain my writing momentum and that I'll have a manuscript or two to peddle.

I'm not too sure.

But I'm taking in more Life than I'm writing about. I've become the listener, the one who'll let you rattle and ramble till you've run out of words - just because I'd rather bust a move than talk. (Oh, and because I think highly of you and value your insight. That, too. Of course.) And when I do write, it's explosive and impressive and I wonder if I'm dreaming or if I'm delusional about actually finishing what I've started.

I've started planting roots. I've started to take things more seriously. No more fucking around about my health (I really wanna be able to kick some serious arse when provoked) or my relationships (oh, the responses to my letters!) or my writing career. (Yes, career. That's exactly what it is, damnit.) No more passively taking things in and regurgitating them solely for the purpose of writing. (I've been watching the last season of Sex and the City on cable, and it's amazing how many things I didn't catch the first time around!) No more forgetting that relationships are a secret. (A reference to my newest favorite author.)

I'm busier than ever, and I'm only gonna get busier. Wish me luck.

After Being Robbed...

2008-05-08T19:47:00.005-04:00

...it's hard to feel normal.

I refer, of course, to being with Rob - not actually having my possessions taken from me.

I mean, if I were pandering, I could say that Rob stole my heart*, took too much of my time**, replaced my good will with a hole***... but none of that is really true.

Now, the thing that takes up the most time/energy when dealing with Rob is doing things expressly so that I don't have to deal with Rob.

Every morning, when we hadn't spent the night together, one of us would call or text the other. Every night, if we weren't together, one of us would call or text the other. Then there were the rituals: taking the dog out for his first walk, cooking breakfast/lunch/dinner together (depending on our schedules), cleaning house, going grocery shopping, entertaining our friends... Okay, now that I think about it, we were pretty much married.

Which goes to show just how hard it is to get him out of my system. It's not so much that I want him per se, but I miss the thing that is now a void. My synapses need time to snap to something else, my neurons need time to realign.

So, now, when I wake up, I fight the urge to text him, and I go running instead. Or I clean up the house. Or I do laundry. Or I turn on Exercise On Demand (thank God for cable!) and do yoga or tae bo.

When I'm at work and I get a few free minutes (in which I used to text him and get all giggly), I scour Craigslist for job openings. My internet connection at home is still wavy, so I get to the school early and use their internet connection. (It's the least they can provide me with, since the last two paychecks have bounced!)

When I'm at home at night, too broke to go out, I do sit-ups till I hurt. Then I write, and I immerse myself in the lives of fictitious characters who are so incredibly different from me that I have no choice but to forget about Rob. (Note: This is the first time that my characters bare so little resemblance to me. Weird and awesomely wonderful.) I read until my eyes hurt too much to keep them open, then I try to teach myself guitar (with my eyes closed). If I still can't sleep and my eyes don't burn like jalapenos have been rubbed into them, I call someone. Or I try to finagle the internet connection so that I can resume my job hunting. Or I paint.

It's incredibly liberating and fortifying to be reminded of my own strength of will. And when Rob calls me, which he does several times a day, and I choose to answer the phone, there is little resistance to feeling good. I know that I've earned his friendship and that I want nothing more from him, and that whatever happens next - cutting off ties with his family, permanently losing contact, becoming good friends - I'll be okay. I'm ready for anything.

*I let him have it.
**Again, I let him have it.
***Not even close. I just like the way phrases sound in threes.

She's Ba-ack!

2008-05-05T06:30:00.003-04:00

Loud Maria is back, and it feels so fucking good... To have this self-trust. To know my boundaries. To understand the repercussions and be fully responsible for them.

The last incarnation of Loud Maria was simply rude and obnoxious, and she felt the urge to let her id out just because. She never took responsibility for anything - good or bad - and was in constant need of thinking and analyzation. Passive Maria dealt with that by being very accomodating and understanding and zen. She analyzed ad nauseum, and let other people do the loud and obnoxious. She felt the need to apologize, even if the situation didn't necessarily call for it (for fear of "being rude"), and communicated alllll thhheee tiimmmeee why she did what she did.

But this new Loud Maria, with her better grasp of the world's ways and her aptness to say "I LOVE YOU, BUT FUCK YOU IF YOU WANT ME TO CHANGE!" is coming into her own. She won't go out of her way to rub you the wrong way, but she doesn't mind so much if she does. ("You'll just have to grow some cajones and deal.") She still loves people, but now sees this love as a mere option. ("I need to focus on me before I can help you.") She still has those pretentiously deep thoughts all the time, but she reserves them for her writing. ("A place for everything and everything in its place.")

And communicating why and how she does things seems moot and repetitive... I dare say, I'm becoming more conservative*. And I like it.

*****

I've gotten replies to my letters, and it's funny how people have reacted to them. I didn't know exactly what to expect, but it's gone something like this:

Of the 30-someodd letters I've sent, I've gotten more than a dozen replies, and 2 have come back to me, unopened. (I didn't put my name or my address on the envelopes, so I'm guessing I just got the wrong addresses.) Of the 15 or so replies, nine of them were emails or letters, telling me some elaborated variation of "it's all good." One of them is inviting me to their wedding next month. A few of them wanna get together and talk.

And, it seems, all of them have wondered from time to time about me and how I'm doing, but they didn't know how to get a hold of me (most of these people are of the too-cool-for-the-internet ilk).

I've talked on the phone to a few of them, laughed, had "moments" on the line, shared stories, apologized whole heartedly. And always, there was a sentiment of "Hey, back in the day this was a big deal, but as you grow older you learn ________, and you realize there's no reason to feel bad. Shit happens."

Funny, but rekindling a relationship with these people, they seem closer to me in mind and spirit than a lot of the friends I've kept along the way...

*****

Opera Singer talks a lot and she feels bad about this, but I love her more for it. Sometimes it's good to bathe in the way another person thinks, and just take it all in. I'm pretty sure I'm being an emotional spy, but also, it takes the edge off of having to come back with the witty repartee. And it gives me time to acclimate to offering the witty repartee, which is strangely antithetical to the deep, philosophical ramblings that I'm prone to.

I'm not used to being encouraged to speak on subjects that my interlocuter might find disagreeable. (I think that came out wrong. It's not the subject itself that Opera Singer might find disagreeable, but my opinion on them.) But, anyway, Opera is cool with that. She's respectful and open-minded and awesomely intelligent, and I can feel like a two-way street of information is being crossed when we converse. She offers me a glimpse of what may come, and I haven't felt that in a while.

*****

Rose Madder emails me and asks about my blog: Why wasn't she aware that I had one? Why didn't I message her about it? And, most importantly, why haven't I mentioned her in it?!

Apparently she found it while blog hopping, and instantly recognized some of the people I mentioned... Funny. You know a person for almost 20 years, and the way she finds out that you're a former phone sex operator with designs on the world is through the 'nets...

*Conservative, in this sense, as in "I'm winnowing down the choices of who I can be, until my personality is more compact and manageable."

Currently craving outlets for my energy...

2008-05-04T10:29:00.006-04:00

I've been pontificating a lot these past six months. There was a lot of relative quiet and passivity on my part, and though I did a lot, I didn't really act much on anything...

I confess that I haven't learned how to/if I should/when to let Loud Maria out to play. She hasn't seen the light of day in about two and a half years, when I was with my last great love, Caleb. (Not enough time has passed for me to really know how I feel about the latest serious relationship.) See, Loud Maria is obnoxious and turbulent and volatile. Loud Maria gets into lots of fights. She doesn't hold her tongue. She doesn't philosophize so much as act out her ideas. And if you want an explanation or justification or rationalization out of Loud Maria - well, as the Leaving Brooklyn signs say on the Belt Parkway: "Fuhgeddaboudit".

Loud Maria doesn't care about decorum. Even if she cares about you, she will tell your best friend that she doesn't like her. Then she'll chalk that up to "not everyone can get along" and assume that things will be all right between the two of you.

Loud Maria will not hesitate to metaphorically or literally throw elbows. She does not care what you think of her.

Loud Maria will be a bitch. She will not consider your feelings or your sensitivities or proclivities. She will very well take advantage of your good will. (<--Actually, I've stopped doing this altogether.) She will... She will... Be me.If I can remember how to sum up her parts.

Its like relearning how to do math problems or win at logic games. At first, it seems unbelievable that you once excelled at something so different from what you presently are. Then you remember how you used to be that other person, and the two mesh into a symbiotic whole.

May[, I] Flower

2008-05-03T21:53:00.001-04:00

It's the first day of a new month. I tossed and turned until 5 in the morning. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't get my mind off things. So much has changed. So much is different. And better. And new.

But death comes in 3s and in the past 10 days there have been 5. [<--I don't believe in that per se, but it sounded damn near poetic to be so fucking mathematical.] My godson, SoHo's father, Indiana Poetess's grandmother, my mother's coworker, my former coworker... I've mourned and respected their deaths and celebrated their lives and helped others do the same. Some I loved very much, and some I didn't know enough about, and some I respected, and some I barely knew, and some I never met.

But there was mourning and tomorrow there will be morning, and in between now and then so much will happen.

*****

I can't leave the country... A judge has ordered that I pay my debt before I can leave, and since I don't make enough money to live - really live - and also pay off my debt in a timely manner, I'm stuck in the States. I cried and screamed and was a bitch-reculse for a day and a half, but now I'm taking this development in stride.

I'm going back to Brooklyn College to finish up my dual bachelor's in creative writing and philosophy.

My mom told me that her union will pay for me to go to nursing school. In less than a year, I can be a Licensed Practical Nurse (what my mom is), and in an additional 11 months I can become a Registered Nurse. I'm looking into finding a school/program that I can start this September.

If I find a nursing program to start this September, I'm going to try to juggle it at the same time that I work and attend Brooklyn College.

I really need to feel like I'm moving. I need to gain momentum so I can coast in the future.

In the meantime, I'm settling grades from past semesters at Brooklyn College, writing like a madwoman, looking for more (and/or better-paying) work, and working my tailbone at my current jobs.

The job market is sooooooo dry. It used to be that I could fish for jobs on craigslist like it was a river full of salmon and I was a huge bear straddling the steep bank. 'Tis no longer.

I feel good about my immediate family. Really good. Everyone's doing everything they can to keep us afloat. I have to really, really try to spend more time with them. I feel like we're all working around the clock (my brother's been on the job hunt for several months now, and he's not slowing down), and sadly we don't bond enough. we need to talk more, play mahjong together, play dominoes... Of course, we (READ: I) wouldn't be in such a financial pickle if they'd have had their game on a little earlier, but hey. I can't change the past; I can only learn form it, try to teach from it, and hope that people are on the up-take.

On the subject of my extended family, though... *clears throat and coughs* That's an entire blog onto itself.

I really love my friends.

I confessed to Sura the other day that I've lied to my Best Guy Friend. [I've actually been doing a lot of thinking, and I think he's my "Former Best Guy Friend". He doesn't know/understand/respect/love me as much as he should to deserve the moniker of Best Guy Friend. Plus, I kind of think he's a jerk. And not in the loveable way. More like, in a racist bigot kind of way.] Actually, I lied by omission. We hadn't spoken in about a year and a half, and in our first conversation, he assumed that I'd graduated college. Mind you, I shouldn't have felt self conscious seeing as he took 5 1/2 years to graduate and I'm on schedule after having taken two years off... But anyway, I simply didn't correct him when he made the assumption... I realize that I did this because he's a pompous jerk in a lot of ways, and I was afraid of incurring his loathing wrath. If you saw the way he treats his own mother, you'd understand...

I want to find a job that I like. By that, I mean that I want "the office" to be synonymous with a joyous, productive, challenging and fruitful feeling of accomplishment. One that, might I add, does not make the world a worse place. And one that pays me decently and regularly.

I was sitting in the train, writing, reading, writing, reading, writing... And I got really tired of this input and output of words. Really tired of it. I just wanted to curl up in numbers for a little bit. So I came home and did soduku and logic games and mathematical problems. And it felt so fucking good. I think that part of my brain (the right part, I think?) almost atrophied from lack of use.

On that same trip on the train, I wrote a list of things I want to do:
1) Practice guitar.
2) Practice piano.
3) Really exercise---I mean, really exercise. Get myself into G.I. Jane condition.
4) Clean house more.
5) Spend more time with Military Mother's kids while they're in town.
6) Cook more, and share my cooking with more of my loved ones.
7) FIND A JOB THAT PAYS BETTER THAN MY CURRENT WORK!!!!
8) Continue writing at least 1,000 usable words every day.
9) Fix up all of the drama with my incompletes.
10) Commune more with nature.
11) Take advantage of the fact that I have health insurance---and USE IT.
12) Go to museums as much as possible from now till September.
13) Take dance classes.
14) Limit my alcohol intake. (I've been imbibing like a fish in a Tanqueray sea.)
15) Pay off my debts. To EVERYONE. Credit card companies. Medical bills. Friends. Doctors. The whole shebang.
16) Get a couple excerpts/short stories/essays published...
I'm not really sure what else is on the list, since I don't have my journal in front of me, but suffice it to say, there's a lot that I want to do. And dating/sex ain't really on that list.

I'm not intending to be celibate. If it happens, it happens, and that's fine. I just realized that I spend a lot of time fucking and gabbing to my friends about fucking. I spend a lot of time talking about relationships - mostly the one with Rob, aka Would-Be Romantic - and I'm sick of it. I want to be able to be in a functional, healthy, happy, wholesome, sexy, fun relationship with someone special... And, unfortunately, I have way too much on my plate for It or anything that even remotely resembles It or It's variants. I just want to get back on the highway again. My time on the vista is over.

Does "It" Exist?

2008-05-01T01:54:00.010-04:00

Lately, I've been bombarded with questions about love: What is it? Does it really exist? With whom can I have it? Are there variations of it?

There's platonic love and family love. There's love for your country and love for your self. There's fleeting love and useful love. All of these seem believable and real and almost ordinary. We encounter them regularly, take into account their varying kinds, and sometimes take them for granted.

But love in its most romantic, idyllic state - the It love - remains elusive, and therefore the most sought-after.

What is this It love that I'm talking about?

You already know.

We give It many names: true love, real love, finding the one, fairy tale love, perfect love, soul mates... It's that thing that Disney and Valentine's Day companies capitalize on. That thing that *we* crave. To be complimented. To be understood. To be completed. To be partners in perfection.

While we spend our lives actively figuring out the other kinds of love, It's this kind of love that most of us falter on. We learn soon enough how to trust people just enough to keep us from being isolated and perpetually hurt. We come to grips with the correct way to handle our families and understand ourselves. We manage somehow to put things in a perspective that we understand.

The difference between It and other kinds of love is pretty simple: ideally, you only get one chance to make It right. With friendship and country and morals and yourself, you have your entire life to figure out how you feel. You're under no pressure to know right now, at this very moment, who your best friend is. Or what kind of a patriot you are. Or who you are. You're free to be transitory with your beliefs, to actively alter your opinions on things, to change and evolve and come up with new ideas and new ideals - Because there's no pressure.

You don't have to worry about living up to this ideal of forever and always. You don't have to worry about damaging your ultimate relationship. You don't have to worry about being alone.

But It is the opposite of being alone: you feel like you're never alone. Someone else knows who you are and what you're about and what you mean. Someone else validates and acknowledges and understands and experiences the entire breadth of your personality and character and influence and beauty. Someone else took the amazing, alive, exhuberant, wonderful experiencing person that you were - and raised the bar to what you could be and experience and know.

It is so great that It can't be duplicated.

Attaining and retaining It is the ultimate accomplishment.

Unfortunately, however, most of us never attain It. And those of us who do, don't retain it.

I was reading nerve.com the other day when I came across this essay. In it, the writer talks about her feelings concerning marriage and the eternal question of true love. She hints at her romantic notions of love and those of fellow writer, Lori Gottlieb. And, most importantly, she deals with the question that's been pointing at me like the barrel of a gun: Is it better to be alone, or to settle?

Given that choice, I am ultimately and unequivocally a fan of the former.

stealing myself from the past

2008-05-01T00:51:00.003-04:00

Sister Superhero calls me twice every hour. She knows how I get when I'm upset. How irrational I get. How quick-tempered. How crazy.

When did this kind of behaviour start? When I was 12? 13? I just remember needing to "clear my head" a lot. I remember seeing the bruises on my mother's face and still adoring my father. (I still do.) I remember my parents breaking things, threatening each other with knives, my toddler brother safe in his playpen. The first time I ran away from home, my father canvassed the neighborhood until he found me. He made me promise not to run away again. I agreed. After that, every time I left my house in the middle of the night, it was only to walk and think. I'd follow the Belt Parkway to Brooklyn, lose myself in thoughts, and then find myself on a filthy street somewhere near Starret City. I'd realize that I was a young girl in a place I didn't know, a place my parents didn't know how to get to, and that I didn't have money for a ride or food or a phone call. So I'd find a commercial street and stay in a McDonald's or a gas station or a 7-Eleven until the morning looked like it was close to breaking. Then I'd hurry home, shower, and go to class.

When I was 15, I bought a train ticket to Georgia. I think maybe one of my cousins lived there at the time. If not, I'm not sure why Georgia popped in my head. Maybe it was because I'd heard Atlanta's small enough to jog around, and I wanted to run around its circumference while smoking Newports. I loved being contradictory like that. My brother was in the fifth grade and things between my parents were getting really ugly. The night I was supposed to leave, my parents were having it out downstairs, in the dining room. I could hear them screaming, hear the threat of violence like the Jaws theme, thumping in my temples. My brother walked into my room and sat on my suitcase. He made small-talk, blinked away his tears, pretended not to hear the thud of a fist planted somewhere on our mother's body. I couldn't leave.

That same year, I passed out after taking some X and snorting a couple lines of coke. Carlos had come over to my parents' house. He'd been wearing eyeliner. I'd paraded slutty outfits in front of him and gotted loaded. Then I was out. When I woke up, Carlos was hunched over me, crying and praying. He said I'd been out all night, and at one point I'd stopped breathing and he'd given me mouth-to-mouth. I asked why he hadn't just woken up my parents. He said he would've if he couldn't have gotten me to start breathing, but that he just knew I'd be okay after I'd started breathing.

I was 17 and living with a man six years my senior in midtown Manhattan. For reasons I still can't fully grasp, I'd cut off ties with my friends and started thinking that I knew what I was doing. (Maybe I did know what I was doing?) Days were comprised of high school mundanity, evenings consisted of dinner with the beaux, and nights were spent bartending or waitressing at a neighborhood joint. By September, he'd propose to me and I'd use my parents as an excuse to say No. I was in the familiar territory of being adored by a man most women would kill for, and I couldn't use the L word. It was beyond me. There I was, picking out curtains and china patterns, and I still played the role of a visitor in "our" apartment. By October 1st (my 18th birthday), he'd broken up with me. During a drive from Ohio, he'd said that I'd "shown my true colors" - and apparently they were too "ghetto" and "street" for his taste. I went back to dealing "designer drugs" and weed. Antics would ensue until my lawyer (a father figure) scared the shit out of me.

When I was 20 and full of self-loathing, I went out with SoHo Suit, Military Mother, and our friend Parole Officer, who's a sexy 4-foot-8-and-a-half-inch Peruvian woman we went to school with. Parole Officer left early, and the rest of us figured we'd get into trouble like we usually do. That night, I guzzled glass after glass of chardonnay. I hadn't eaten all day and SoHo Suit kept on asking if maybe I wanted water instead. We walked out of the restaurant, somehow got to West 4th Street, and paid for tattoos. Then we went to the bathroom and I passed out. I vaguely recall SoHo Suit crying and smacking me. Military Mother was telling her to make sure I was breathing. Someone called 911 and a butch lesbian carried me to the ambulance. I spent the night at St. Vincent's.

There were so many more episodes. So many stories that evaporated into the air after they first escaped my mouth. So many (mis)adventures that only therapists and co-deviants know. So many times, I know, that I should've died. Or gotten severely impaired. Or lost all of my innocence.

But, somehow, I managed to hold on to a bit of wonder. A sense of naivety. A desire to love and be loved.

And now, as I think of the changes that've happened in the past 24 hours - my inability to leave the country, the crumbling of my relationship with Rob, the hospitalization of Latina Princess, my thankfulness at having such amazing people in my life (you know who you are) - I know that I'm not going to add to my list of crazy, illegal, life-threatening misadventures.

I'm calling Sister Superhero and letting her know: she has nothing to worry about.

Under Construction

2008-04-30T12:07:00.004-04:00

I'm bugging out a little bit over financial woes. I need to do arbitrary things to keep myself from mentally imploding... The Maria from back in the day would've done something extremely unhealthy - drank herself into a stupor, fucked her worries away, smoked two packs in half an hour, etc.

But I'm gonna do something less harmful to myself and others.

Uh-huh.

*inhaling deeply*

That's right.

*exhaling loudly*

I'm gonna... try out... different blog templates.

*inhaling deeply*

Yes. Blog templates.

*exhaling extremely loudly*

AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!

*calmly lighting my weed pipe*

Yes. Blog templates. That's what I'll do....

To Everything, Turn Turn Turn

2008-04-29T14:49:00.004-04:00

My friend, Sura, thinks that it's because I'm "too cool." SoHo Suit thinks it's because I'm a loveable but temperamental (READ: sometimes very cold) bitch. I think it's because I may or may not have hit some pseudo-godly plateau of zen.

But anyway, I don't get bothered by things.

Not really, anyway. Things'll annoy me, people will piss me off, I will inevitably become angered at the world. But do I get bothered ? No. "Bothered" has this lingering connotation, like I wake up in the middle of the night and really smolder about something or another. Like my orgasm is interrupted by some memory that won't leave me alone. Like my vocabulary becomes limited because I'm using too many brain cells on some problem.

I do not fall prey to those sorts of ailments.

At least, that's how things usually go. This week, I was just plain bothered by everything. And I mean EVERYTHING.

Things that usually make me smile, people who are my favorite in the world, situations that I would usually derive pleasure out of - I just couldn't stand any of it. I was rude, stubborn, immature, bitchy, egotistical... I took to my computer and wrote for hours on end, and luckily, my internet access was limited at home, so I didn't have too many distractions. I wrote and wrote and wrote, ad nauseum. (Due to all that sitting and writing, I'm sure that I'm pasty and out-of-shape, but that's okay.)

Today I'm forced to take a break from writing in order to drive my mom to her doctor's appointments, and it feels really good to not have to feel what a dozen imaginary characters are feeling. It feels good to talk on the phone to friends, reconnect through text with friends, complain about the general state of male-female-relations/the war/the rising price of gas and cosmetics and everything else with real-life human beings. It feels good to have conversations with trusted individuals and put my mind at ease about a number of thoughts that've been plaguing me this past week.

For one thing, I've noticed that I've been starting to feel something that's akin to envy. I wouldn't know for certain if it's envy because I've never felt that. (I've felt instances of school-girl jealousy, but that's an entirely different bag of tricks...) But the more I write and the more I elaborate on the feeling, the more I realize that it's really misplaced regret: I cannot help but feel a twinge of longing when I meet someone who will probably succeed in the opportunities that I passed up. And even though I had valid reasons for passing them up, and even though I don't know/think that I would've been happier per se had I taken up those opportunities - I dunno. I think I just want those opportunities to still be available to me. It's like seeing your ex with someone else. Even though you're happier where you are, a part of you still wants them to want you. Or, at least, find you attractive. (<--As I'm writing this, I don't even know if I still subscribe to this feeling... Hmm...)

In a strange way, writing this short story collection is helping me re-evaluate myself and everything that I know. So is the process of writing letters to people I've wronged, and the task of writing out queries to literary agents*. It's incredibly liberating, to set all of my knowledge down on paper and stake claim to who I am as a person. At the same time, however, it's incredibly daunting. I know that I'm actively improving myself, but I'm a little afraid of what I might uncover. I'm a little embarassed about the conclusions I might make.

Maybe I'm just so enamored by the intensity and excitement of getting caught up in the process of becoming something, that I just feel (felt?) odd having gotten somewhere. Maybe, no matter what the vantage point, or how beautiful the scenery, I'll always crave the open road, the roll of experiences, the chance at doing something else.

Anyway, I have to fill up the tank. I need a new skill set, new ideas, and a new repertoire if I want to get to someplace else. Moving to southeast Asia, publishing a book, and learning a couple more languages seems just the ticket...

* When I was 17, I wrote a socio-political novel - novella? It's 150 pages. I dunno what that is - in one day. This past week, I revised the last 1/3 of it, and even though it's nowhere near my best work - my writing style has improved and altered substantially in the past 6 years - I figure, what the hey? Every retarded idea under the sun is getting published. Might as well throw my 6-year old hat in the ring, right?

BANG, BANG

2008-04-25T02:09:00.003-04:00

That right there is the sound of me jumping the gun.

But I'll do it anyway.

I'm really flowing with the prose, and it's turning out good. Like, actually good. Not hypothetically good.

Holy mother of Jesus, I might actually finish this thing. Within my lifetime.

Before my self-imposed deadline of October 1st, 2008.

Before the end of the summer.

*gasping for breath*

Must... Go... On...

"The world calls me great, like nothing else..."

2008-04-24T21:31:00.003-04:00

Twenty points to whomever can guess off the top of their head where the title comes from.

The closest thing to a religion that I've ever had was knowing how to read people in order to get what I want. If that makes me a con artist, then I wear the moniker proudly. At least I was an honest con artist, only following that code before I was wise enough to question it.

Ignorance keeps people stupid - but honest, too.

Like everyone else does, I went through the phases: angst, faux-maturity, skepticim, God-complex, hippie-dom, et al.... I started out investing all of myself into whatever belief accurately described my actions, but started realizing how difficult it was to leave off on one belief and start another. Doing so was like packing all of my possessions in one truck, carefully placing them in neat boxes and rows, and then abandoning that truck for one that seemed to depict me more accurately. I had to spend more time and energy and patience in packing up my life into something else.

So finally I stopped packing up so neatly and carefully everything that encapsulated me, and there were no true delineations or characterizations or categorizations to describe me. I stopped investing in these trucks, which were meant to symbolize simply something I had become.

There was a freedom in not having a box in which to fit my self. But also, there was a fear. If I stood by nothing, did that mean I stood for nothing?

This past week confronted me with many characters from my past, and I realized more the permanent deviations between myself and other people. I made more concrete the boundaries that separate "my people" from "other people". And I made decisions as to what I will deal with and what I won't deal with, how I will deal with things that I don't like, and what I am willig to do to not have to deal with things I don't like.

Finally, my load had dwindled until it fit on my back, and I could take any truck I pleased to carry me around. I was set on hitchhiking my way to wherever I felt like going, but then I started writing and reading and informing myself and others of who I am and what I'm about - and I came across a way of life that was in me all along, I just didn't know what to call it.

I've done a lot of fucked up things in my past, and I've wronged a lot of people, and I've loved a lot of people the wrong way, and I've walked away from people who needed me. I think, in order to move on to the next step, I should write letters to 25 people. Sure, it's an arbitrary number, but it sounds right. Like the protagonist on "My Name is Earl" or "Billy Madison", I've decided to apologize for the strangeness and pain and drama that I've caused - and if I'm really honest with myself, I'm sure there are 25 people that I need to clear something up with.

Only afterward can I really know where I'm at and where I'm going. Only afterward can I really know who I can trust and why I should trust them.

So if I ask you for your address and/or ask you to help me hunt down someone else, don't be surprised...

Word.

2008-04-23T19:00:00.006-04:00

Queries, Quotes and Confessional Observations.

"Advice is a form of nostalgia, dispensing it is a way of fishing the past from the disposal, wiping it off, painting over the ugly parts and recycling it for more than
it’s worth."
- From "The Sunscreen Song", by Baz Luhrmann

We all go through the same patterns, bigger schemes, emotional hangups, psychological phases, personal triumphs/heartbreaks, etc. Those of us who are able to take note of and accurately relate/report these themes are called artists.

Ever fuck someone knowing that your parents are fucking in the room next door? It's exactly like watching porn - sex augments sex. You get this strange competitive streak and wanna outdo everything you think they're doing... until you realize they're your parents and you're a sick pervert.

Not that I'd know or anything... *looks away and turns deep crimson*

"With the greatest leader above them,
people barely know one exists.

The second-best are praised and revered.
The next, merely respected.
Then the despised.

When trust is unattainable,
there is no sufficiency.

Trust the cautious sage
whose words are most carefully chosen.

With all we accomplish, we can say
only that we did what comes naturally."
- From "Tao Te Ching", written by Lao Tzu, translated by Sam Hamill

As I'm writing the stories in "23", I'm taking some passages directly from my blogs. It's funny how you do something in following the zeitgeist, and end up making real use of it in the future.

The word "opportunist" is defined and implicated with such negative connotations. Aren't we all opportunists? At what point do we go from "taking advantage of situations" to "manipulating people"?

I started writing out my list of people to write letters to. I meant to write 25 letters. So far, I've found 28 people to write to.

The thought crossed my mind that after sending out these letters, I could compile them into the most confessional and true-to-life collection of my indescretions.

But that would be trife, right? I mean, the intimacy between me and the recipient of the letter would be compromised, and my apology would seem more like an afterthought to an artistic endeavor... So I'm not gonna do it.

It's all for the best. As much of an "artist" as I say I am, I don't know how comfortable I'd be knowing that all of my biggest mistakes were on display, together and in public.

Given the level of responsibility and obligation in keeping a relationship on the up-and-up, is it possible to be "good friends" with lots of people (10 or 15)? Or are there simply not enough hours in a day/days in a week to make that kind of commitment?

I felt a pang of insecurity
as close friends hovered over me.
Sitting so close to The Past, I
wondered if all the better days
had passed, and imagined they'd have
benefited from the lingering of my
immaturity.
But The Future beckoned
and laughed at my worries, and smiled
with the unflinching resolve of the wise.
And I discarded my self-depracating ways
in a hurry, and remembered there's no
reason for my Present presence to be shy.

I don't know what exactly I mean to resolve, fix, or change with these letters that I'm writing. I just have an overwhelming feeling that writing them is the right thing to do.

I kind of wish I'da kept my sex toy reviewer gig. I coulda gotten my hands on some chice merch.

your choices are half chance, and so are everybody else's

2008-04-23T18:54:00.003-04:00

I spent last night writing. Feverishly. Poetically. Non-sensically. I have the first full-length drafts (approx 30 pages each) of 3 stories for "23", as well as the first dozen or so pages of 2 more stories for the same collection. It's exciting and draining and sub/consciously exactly what I need to be doing.

There are at least four voicemails for me to check. Three people that I really need to get back to. Two people in town that I should see. Dozens of emails for me to send. But these stories: they're EXACTLY what I need to be doing right now.

How insane is that?

I mean, really: a lot of my friends talk about being taken captive by a muse and needing to bide their every whim, but very few of them risk losing touch with friends, throwing themselves out of their social circles, getting out of sync with their realities simply to finish a story. Or song. Or painting.

The few that do risk the death of their social lives in order to fulfill their artistic credo are lucky - their social lives consist of like-minded artistic folks, so it's expected they be a narcissistic recluse.

Not so for me.

I've made it a point to make commitments/connections/relationships with people from all walks of life. And, in a weird way, I feel like that fact assists the evolution of my character and my work by immersing me in different mindsets and situations. [NOTE: Darrell Brown wrote a really interesting op-ed in the NY Times that called artists "Emotional Spies". I completely agree/empathize with what Brown says, but many people replied harshly to his candid observations, saying that the term "Emotional Spy" has a negative connotation.]

At the same time, however, most of my friends - though attempting to empathize and/or forgive my disrespectful/misplaced egotistical-artistic energies - will write me off as a less worthwhile friend.

It's a fact of life I've come to accept and understand. Friendship is a lot of give and take, and problems arise when the person with whom I have the friendship wants to take more than I can give. In this state of artistic mania, when every little whimper from my muse begs my attention, I do not give. It is a choice, though most of us artistic folk will contend that it is not a choice. Creating art is what keeps us alive, and we will die if we don't heed the call to greatness, yada yada yada.

But I'm not so delusional as to believe it's not a choice to write about a fictional person instead of meeting a friend for drinks.

On the same token, I'm not so delusional to believe that I'm the only person emotionally available to fulfill that role of drinking buddy. If there's one thing I've learned from life, it's that as special as each person is, we are also replaceable. Each and every one of us is only worth as much as the emotional investments other people make in us. And other people... well, let's just say that voids are filled with different emotions; it matters less what emotions do the filling than the void be filled.

I'm happily restrained to my home for the time being, and I'm thinking about the people I'll inevitably let down. Their disappointment will change the way they interact with me, and our relationship will be forever altered - however small or large the change - by my (alleged) mistreatment of our friendship. Then forgiveness will or won't happen, and things will go on, and everyone involved will find happiness and beauty and joy and good health... at least, for a time, before their lives descend into a dark abyss of tragedy.

When I was younger and more wreckless, I would glibly reply to writing such as this that the person was being morbid or unnecessarily emotional. I'd make a comment about what I'd experienced and rationalize that only x amount of years separated myself from this person; or that I understood where the person was coming from, so I knew better how to look at the situation; or that I was bubbly and outwardly jubilant and obnoxiously more happy - so my perspective had to carry more weight than one from a person who seems weighted down by their views.

But as I'm writing these stories, each told from the point of view of a different 23-year old person living in New York City, I'm realizing just how little we all really have in common. We have the big ideas in common - the thriving, the striving, the will and the won't - but the smaller caveats, the more personal gradations of understanding, the minor and simple that are in ways the only barrier between me and you...

A person goes to bed wearing two matching socks and wakes up with one sock hanging precariously from their foot - and that makes all the difference in the world. You read their expressions five minutes later, take note of their body language, put their story into a context you understand and assign them a role in your life. They are evil or loveable, your best friend for life or your sworn mortal enemy, your saviour or your accomplice in crime - and yet that relationship will be limited if most of your ideas and actions and perspectives don't match.

If you stop seeing that thing that initially attracted you to this person, you have to find another reason to keep them around - or you two will eventually lose contact. If this other reason to remain friends is lost, no matter how much loyalty or love or respect you muster for one another, your relationship will be a shallower, synthetic version of the authentic ideal. You will always know that they are not what you had initially believed them to be. They do not fit into the reality you meant to create.

And that's where the big problems arise. Crime. Infidelity. Hate. They're all external representations of the chasms we feel with our relations/realities. Someone reaches a point where they can't handle what's happened with their lives - the relationships they can't/don't want to foster, the persona they no longer fit, the farce they've been presenting as reality - and then something breaks. Something deep inside the fabric of our reality shatters like glass. The tenuous strings of faith are clipped until they exists no longer.

It's just what happens.

Those among us who "make it in life" are the ones whose ideals are so simple and beautiful and our wills so strong and courageous that our realities match our desires. We are victims, too, of the mismatch of chance and circumstance; we just know what we're looking for, respecfully decline what we don't need, and keep on going.

Any other protocol for action is a recipe for disaster.

we're flat broke, but hey, we do it in style.

2008-04-22T09:57:00.002-04:00

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

How is it possible to be so fucking poor?! *laughing hysterically* I mean, seriously, I had a six-figure payday two years ago and now I have twenty bucks in my name.... HOW IS THAT FUCKING POSSIBLE?!?!?!?!

AAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

*breathing deeply*

Okay... Okay... I get it. It happens. You don't know how to invest money. You feel obligated to give your family things that'll make them happy. You pay a shitload of debt off. And inevitably, this happens. I get it. I really do. Especially since this "you" is "me" and I'm feeling the brunt of all this right at this very moment.

I get it. I really do.

But WOW.

The highs and the lows? Yeah, I've got em.

Stories? In spades.

Experience and introspection? No doubt.

But, inevitably, when I'm in the midst of going through all that, it still unnerves me. It still shocks me. It still makes me feel something other than stable and static.

And I've gotta admit, I love it.

Not the drama, per se. But that I know how to deal with the drama, and it still affects me.

What I fear more than problems is not being affected by problems. I fear being cold, isolated, unfeeling. I fear not flinching when I hear about rape. Not crying when someone's used me. Not laughing when someone says/does something amusing - even if it's not exactly something I'd say/do myself.

If I was isolated or cold or unfeeling, I wouldn't be in a position to hear about rape, or get used by someone, or hear/see something I might consider crude or unclassy or a mere deflection of judgment. I wouldn't be in a place to consider and learn and feel. I wouldn't know any of the good stuff.

And that's exactly what I don't want.

*****

I spoke to Will-to-my-Grace (heretofore known simply as "Will") about a week ago on the phone, and I confessed to him that I like drama, and that I think this facet of my personality makes me like teaching: My abilities to see the light at the end of the tunnel - almost any tunnel - and weave a path toward the light, make me unafraid of problems. I don't shy away from dispensing advice when called upon to do so, and this makes me uniquely suited to teach at-risk youths.

When I employ these gifts at work, I feel like it's proof that I'm a good person. But more than that, I feel like it's proof that I'm not living in vain. Right there in front of me, every day, are signs that I'm a worthwhile individual, trying my best to make other peoples' lives better.

No matter how zen I seem, I will always admit that these verifications of virtue are necessary components to my day-to-day ritual. They fill me up with more pride than any validation brought about by men hollering at me in the street, dudes pushing up on me in clubs, and compliments about my looks. And no matter what kind of crap people might throw at me, this keeps me going.

wake up, kids. we've got the dreamer's disease.

2008-04-21T20:19:00.006-04:00

A continuation from this past Friday...

When my phone buzzed, it was like an omen.

While pumping gas at the local station and talking on my cell phone to Military Mother (who I've known since I was 6), I had run into a guy from around my way, Chigger (as opposed to "Whigger"). Chigger had tried to get with me all through junior high, then dated Military Mother after I moved to Virginia.

A little after running into Chigger, I got a text from my two other best friends (who, along with Military Mother, are my sisters from other misters), asking to meet up with them the next day for lunch.

And a short while after texting back my girls, I'd bumped into Whigger 1 and Whigger 2, two dudes from around my way that have signed minor baseball league deals and now drive fancy-schmancy cars.

The more my day continued, it seemed, the more back in the day I was being dragged... Then Flo.

By the time I was in Williamsburg with Groovy Girl (heretofore known as "GiGi"), I had readied myself for some serious flashbacks. After all, an acquaintance from high school had invited me to the very same party, and the theme of the day seemed to be "Blast From The Past"!

But no. I didn't see anyone from high school. I did see, however, lots of cute breakdancing boys, and ghetto-pretty dudes who could get some. And, man, did they get some---*ahem* I mean, man, did I have fun!

In case you didn't get the memo: I've been getting my groove thang on. A lot.

Okay, okay, I know I don't write much on here about my recent sexcapades, and maybe I should, but the fact of the matter is, I ain't the type to kiss and tell. To strangers, at least. Out of context. For no reason.

(I think that covers it...)

I mean, yeah, back in the day, I woulda loved to leak out all of the wet details of my shenanigans, but my private life.... well, it exists now. There are certain details that I'd rather leave for my nearest and dearest to hang over my head when they really need a favor. Not all of the two strangers that read this (sorry, Pugs & Joe) need to know all of that.

But anywhos, yeah: Friday.

I party-hopped in Williamsburg with a couple female acquaintances, and ended up spending the night with a beautifu mixed-Latino man whose friend GiGi found attractive. [NOTE: If there are any coming-of-age chicas reading this, pay attention. There is always more safety in numbers. Maybe not a lot more safety, but enough that you should skip on the sultry sex god in favor of the .14-less-attractive guy who has a roommate your friend wants to fuck. At least both you and your friend are in the stranger's apartment. I'm just sayin'...]

So I'm having a fuckalicious time with this random beautiful man, and the next morning, I wake up at 9:14, and I'm not really sure where I am.

I mean, I hadn't been so terribly wasted the night before that I forgot that I'd hooked up with a guy. I just didn't remember how we'd gotten to his apartment. I vaguely recalled a cab ride with GiGi, Beautiful Boy, and Beautiful Boy's roommate - but the details were sketchy, at best. Had we left the county of Kings? Had I somehow found my way back into my borough of Queens? And if the latter, could I be close enough to my house that I could hurry there, take a military shower, and be on my way to work?

Because, yes, ladies and gents, I work on Saturdays. Starting at 10 a.m., to be exact.

And yet there I was, in a sranger's bed. In an undisclosed (or, at least, unknown) location. Having lost my bra. And I had 45 minutes to get to work.

Unbefuckinglievable!

Beautiful Boy woke up with a jolt (no doubt after having felt me wake up with a jolt and rustle the sheets). He offered me coffee, commented on how crazy the night had been, and very amiably asked if I wanted breakfast. From the expression on his face when he woke up, and the subsequent way in which he spoke to me, I'm sure the first few thoughts in his head were: 1. FUCK! I had beer goggles on, fucked a girl, and she's STILL IN MY HOUSE! 2. THANK YOU SWEET JESUS, she's actually kinda hot... 3. And I remember the sex being really good. 4. Decision: I'll be nice to her.

Needless to say, beside the usual pleasantries of the morning after, I didn't speak to Beautiful Boy much. In fact, I was sure that his name was David or Michael or some other arbitrary and ubiquitous Hispanic God-type name, but according to GiGi, his name was Ralph. (Neither of us are too sure, so he'll remain Beautiful Boy.)

In the midst of my getting out of him the location of the nearest subway station, and his offering to drive me to said subway station, I searched for my bra - to no avail. (What did he do, eat the thing?!) I washed my face, gargled with mouthwash, ignored his polite musings about random hook-ups and the morning after, thought really hard about taking him up on his offers to 1) make me coffee, 2) buy me breakfast, 3) take me to Duane Reade for assorted toiletries, and 4) drive me to the train station, and answered only the last suggestion affirmatively.

So there I was. Wearing the black dress that I'd picked out for hanging out with Flo. Thankful that I'd been sensible enough to pack a pair of "cute shoes I can run in" (another noteworthy item to all coming of age young women). And worried that I 1) stank of booze, 2) stank of sex, 3) appeared ridiculously dis-sheveled, 4) left necessities in Beautiful Boy's apartment, and 5) would be late for work.

Thankfully (or maybe not so much), only 4) ended up being right on the money.

Work went well. I'd texted some of my nearest and dearest, and Indiana Poetess, about my morning, and I was able to laugh at myself. My boss lady asked about my slightly too-stylish duds, and I told her up-front that I still hadn't slept in my own bed. And I spent the time walking around the lower east side with some students, taking note of the various community gardens (E6 Street, between Aves B & C - go check it out. It's bananas, it's so beautiful! And the treehouse is awesomely Robinson Carusoe-esque).

Before long, it was time to meet up with two of my sisters from other misters. I'm sure I've already given them cute nicknames, but I'm too lazy to look for references to them in previous posts, so they'll be Jersey Girl and SoHo Suit. (I'm giggling to myself as I realize after-the-fact the pun in "SoHo Suit" - but whatever...) We had set on meeting up in Fort Greene, at Habana Outpost, at 4 p.m., but my class had let out early and I'd decided on sitting in the sun and reading my NY Times.

The first high school I attended (the most notable one of the four I attended), Brooklyn Technical High School, is in Fort Greene, and while I was a student there, the neighborhood was just approaching gentrification. Now it's fully hip and hipster-fied, and despite the dwindling battery on my cell phone, I decided I had to call up some high school buddies and discuss this fact.

I talked to Lawyer Lady, Will-to-my-Grace, and Best Guy Friend, (all of whom attended Tech with me) and even spoke for a minute to Clairvoyant Symphony and Opera Singer. (Most of these conversations, I'm thinking, will be referenced one time or another in the near-future...) Then, with my phone almost dead, I met up with Jersey Girl and SoHo Suit.

Jersey Girl's been in a tumult about whether or not she's gonna marry the man she's engaged to, but she told me that she's finally set on being Mrs. Man-She's-Engaged-To.

At first, I didn't believe her, so I turned to SoHo Suit.

"No," Jersey Girl said, cutting off my query to our friend. "I'm serious."

The secret to her new happiness with Man-She's-Engaged-To?

"I stopped being an asshole."

From her lips to God's ears, lemme tell ya!

Like the other three of us, Jersey Girl tests the limits to every relationship she has. SoHo Suit winds up being whiny, Military Mother becomes extremely passive-aggressive, I end up (sooner than later) a blatant bitch, and Jersey Girl becomes an asshole. It's just what we do: somewhere in our hearts, we believe that the person we end up with will know how to deal with this very negative side of our personality, and we'll be convinced that they're "the one."

Jersey Girl had stopped being quick with her temper and her actions. She stopped picking apart her fiance. She stopped doing the things she usually does at this stage of a relationship... And she started to enjoy herself.

Two weeks had passed, Jersey Girl said, without an incident. Then another two weeks had passed. Before she knew it, a month and a half had passed and she and her fiance still hadn't gotten into an argument. A little while later, they did get into an argument - but that's to be expected between people, sooner or later. And besides, it was the right kind of argument: not so petty as to be confused as anyone pickig a fight, but not so big as to be an indicator that they're not right for each other.

Habana Outpost was crowded with yummy-looking people and yummier-smelling food, and the three of us were knocking back margajitos (you guessed it: margarita-mojito concoction). Jersey Girl had already gone through the last couple of months, up to the point where she described how her husband-to-be has just acquired a couple new properties, how her engagement ring and wedding band are too large to be put on the same finger, how her fiance has stopped working and wants to buy a house in Florda.

A year ago, I would've quickly written off Jersey Girl's sudden change of heart as an excuse to start a more comfortable life, but last Friday I simply took the news for what it was: a joyous and life-altering change of pace. For whatever reason, one of my best friends is going to enter a new stage of her life - and I stopped being a bitch and got really happy and excited for her.

When Jersey Girl got up, I quickly assailed SoHo Suit with similar questions. How was her rapper-boyfriend? Work? Her family? She said, without missing a beat, "Everything's good."

I knew she was lying.

"No," she insisted when I pushed. "Seriously. I have nothing to say because everything's been really good with Rapper Boyfriend."

A year ago, I would've launched into a whole tirade. "Why are you lying to me?" I would've asked, indignantly. "You're my sister and I love you and I'll support you 100% in whatever you want to do with your life. Just tell me the truth. I just want to know more about you."

But I knew why she didn't owe up to her lie. Just like I knew why she always texted and called me with such trepidation in her voice. And just like I knew why there were no pictures of me in her apartment... Not only have I failed to be there for SoHo Suit when she needed me, but like it says in a book about love that's in her apartment: "I dislike you because I see reflected in you things I dislike about myself, and it's easier to dislike you than it is to dislike me."

I read SoHo Suit like a book and I find faults in things that Military Mother will write off as a "quirky peronality trait" and Jersey Girl will call "just the way shit is." I'm the one who's looked SoHo Suit in the eye and told her that I think she can do better than her current boyfriend - even though she's set on marrying him. I'm the one who will tell her that she deserves more out of life than a man who treats her like an inferior person who is to be put up with. I'm the one who will tell her that it's cool to have fun and swing on stripper poles, but that it's an unhealthy form of ignoring deep-seeded problems if she uses sex to distract from what's really bothering her.

On Friday, I played along with the charade even after the three of us made it back to SoHo Suit's apartment and smoked bud and drank some more liquor. But it stopped the second Jersey Girl and I realized that SoHo Suit was crying to her boyfriend on the phone and pleading with him not to leave her.

"Does this happen often?" I asked Jersey Girl.

She nodded. "At least four or times a week."

I knew what was happening even before we walked into the bedroom. It isn't that Rapper Boyfriend is a bad guy, I know. He's faithful to my sister in that he isn't cheating on her. But he doesn't have faith in her. He isn't in love with her. He is always playing mind games with her to prove that he's the superior intellect.

I know this because I used to do this all the time with guys. I picked apart their words and preyed on their insecurities. I knew how to manipulate them to get exactly what I wanted and to make me feel better about myself. I know that that's what SoHo Suit's boyfriend is doing, and I know that she's feeding into it.

"I knew it", I said to Jersey Girl. "When I asked SoHo earlier today about things with Rapper, and she said they were fine - I fucking knew she was lying to me! Why doesn't she get it, that she's my sister and that I will support her 100% no matter what she chooses - but do I think there's someone out there who's a better match for her? Yes! Do I think there's someone out there who won't make her cry every other day? Yes! Do I think there's someone who knows and appreciates how her mind works, and will love he? Yes!"

Maybe I should've said all that to SoHo when Jersey and I went into her bedroom - but at the time it felt like an elaborate way to say "I told you so." I couldn't find the words that would make everything okay, so I let Jersey reach for them instead. I patted SoHo on the back and kissed her and hoped that she could read the space between us and know that it was full of empathy and feeling.

We went out to eat later on that night, and when we all parted ways in the wee morning hours of Sunday, we were in downtown Brooklyn. Queens was at least an hour and a half away. I was too broke to take a cab. I hadn't changed clothes or showered since Friday afternoon. My father had gotten into an accident while driving my car a few days before. And I was tired. Emotionally and physically, I was just tired.

If I hadn't been so sure that SoHo hadn't read the space between us, and that I was too spent to go into all of it with her, I would've asked to stay at her place. Instead, I made my way to Would-Be Romantic's place. We talked and laughed and slept together and had sex. I couldn't sleep soundly.

Maybe it was all the alcohol, or maybe it was the events of the weekend, or maybe I felt guilty for treating him a little like Underground Rapper treats SoHo Suit, but I kept on tossing and turning and waking up whiny and annoyed.

At 5 a.m., I lay in bed next to Would-Be Romantic and thought about everything changing. Jersey Girl deciding to get married to a man she'd been convinced she didn't/couldn't love the way she'd like to love her future husband. Military Mother saying that she'd contradict her plans and desires to leave the military if her lover asked her to re-enlist. SoHo Suit settling for a man who makes her cry. And me...

Would-Be Romantic woke up and asked me what was wrong. I said that the alcohol had left me dehydrated and that I wanted water.

"But we don't have water", he said.

"Also", I said, feeling the craving define itself, "I dunno why, but I want mangoes."

It was five in the morning and sunlight was only a promise to the sky.

"Sure", Would-Be Romantic said, begrudgingly. "I'll go out and buy you water and mangoes."

So he did. And we stayed up for a couple of hours, talking and laughing.

Fully hydrated and happy, I kept trying to think up Best Guy Friend's phone number, so I could tell him that I had to cancel our plans to walk aimlessly - but the digits escaped me. Even though they'd been etched into my memory years before and I'd been implying to Jersey Girl hours before that he might be the one unrelated man to really get me...

My phone was dead and Would-Be Romantic and I would have sex and cuddle and laugh and talk and be happy all day, and the rest of the world be damned...

I didn't get home till the wee morning hours of Monday, and by that time all of my thoughts about giving in and giving up were safely surpassed.

It is the artist's and philosopher's way to always analyze, and I will always wonder why I do what I do and whether or not I could've done something differently in order to make positive changes to my life. But when it comes to people, in general, who cares if we become hypocritical or hyper-critical of statements and decisions we've made in the past? Does it matter why we turn over new leaves or make changes to our lives or steal ourselves away from a future we'd once coveted?

At the end of the day, I can never really know if other people have given in or given up. Sometimes, I guess, everyone just has to give.

every new beginning comes with some other beginning's end...

2008-04-21T13:55:00.004-04:00

Where to start, where to start.

It seems like the more into "blogger territory" I traverse (i.e., making comments on other blogs), the more I find it easier to stay with my original scheme: write what I want, respond to what I want, but mostly WRITE and feel like I might have an audience.

Here I am again, needing for my temp agency to call me about another job, and on break from teaching till Friday. I don't have enough time to really sit and marinate on any of the writing projects I'm working on, but I'm definitely itching to set thoughts down....

This past weekend was crazy - especially since I intended for it to be relaxing and borderline-bummy. It was my first weekend 95% healthy, and I wanted to get home on Friday night, relax after a long day, wake up early on Saturday, jog a couple of laps at the park, then go to work and write write write with the kids. I completely intended to go back to the park after work, lie in the grass with Cloudsplitter, finally finish the book, then write a little bit more, maybe meet someone for a drink or a meal, then order in some delicious take-out (curry and roti?! mmmmMmmmmmmMmmm), and spend some time with the family. Throw in some candlelit yoga on Sunday and maybe meeting a friend or two for brunch and a brisk walk in the park, and that woulda been SUPER. Really, it would've.

Instead, Flower Power called me up on Friday afternoon - and what could've been a relaxing weekend doing absolutey nothing became... well... the typical craziness of hanging out with Flo - despite the fact that I didn't really hang out with Flo.

Flo is one of those women who completely EXUDES confidence and sexuality. She's the only girl in a brood of six children, has a presence that landed her a couple of cameos on TV and a Guess? ad in the late 90s, and she's gorgeous. She's gorgeous and loud in the way that men always smile at and women always suck their teeth at. And I owe so much to her.

I might never have become the woman I am now if not for Flo. She and another friend, VT (VT died when I was nine or ten) were the first strong, independent women to take an interest in my well being. They let me watch as they lived their lives, and never let me feel ashamed for being a fly on the wall. I could never keep up with the quick pace of Flo's life, and when I saw her on Friday, it felt like I was coming full-circle and meeting the woman I'd subconsciously modeled myself after.

Flo was sixteen when she started modeling and promptly got her GED. She'd always been rough-and-tumble, always with a quick mouth and a sharp wit - but she'd also been smart. She'd sooner talk her way out of a tight jam, but wouldn't hesitate to draw some blood if that's what it came down to. And gorgeous - oh God, was she gorgeous... I remember being fifteen or sixteen years old, and her younger brother, Carlos (who was my best friend for many years) would regail me with tales about Flo's adventures. She fucked only models (and men who could've been models), flew in private jets, sailed in yaughts, backpacked through Europe. She had grown up speaking Spanish, English, and ebonics, and had had the foresight to also pick up proper grammar along the way - but she managed to learn Italian and pick up some French and Portuguese while overseas. She invested her money wisely, bought extravagant things for herself only if she was sure that she could either give them away later as presents or that they'd become collectables, and she loved with all her might.

Now in her early 30s, Flo is what I want to be at her age. She studied anthropology in France, lived with a bevy of handsome men, settled down with a woman (they had a child together), then separated from her wife after being cheated on. Now newly single and very experienced, she is very much free and her own woman. But gorgeous - oh man, is she gorgeous as ever!

When I met her on Friday night in the Lower East Side wine bar, all eyes fell on the statuesque beauty that I seated myself in front of. She feigned ignorance of this fact and graciously smiled when she saw me. Men coughed so they could turn away from their dates and steal glances of her. Women either smiled lasciviously or sneered at her. And yet her entire attention was lavished on me. Me, who in my flats, could be no more than 5'6". It felt in that moment like I was in the cast of the most all-engrossing fairy tale to ever be realized.

"I was gonna cut you if I found out you changed your number without telling me!" she said, not missing a beat.

I laughed and screamed, I was so excited to hear her voice and see her in person.

The sedate wine bar tensed and shirked at my shriek.

Flo's voice was the same street-smart cadence of Puerto Rican-Brooklynite that I remembered.

"Me?!" I countered, incredulous. "I called you like four years ago, and your number was disconnected!"

"Why didn't you call my folks?"

I hesitated, hating the feeling of being grilled by so close a friend.

Flo laughed. "I know, I know. It's hard talking to them..."

If it had been any other time, I would have felt dwarfed next to Flo. Not only is she a full five inches taller than me, but she is one of those women who looks positively air-brushed the moment she wakes up. (Granted, of course, that a lot of the times I saw her upon waking up were after long nights of partying, and she'd slept in her make-up, but still...) She'd cut her hair into a short boy-cut, she said, and was now growing it out. It was dark brown, with light brown highlights, and her choppy-wavy layers accentuated her high cheek bones and perfect bone structure. She'd permed it while waiting for it to grow out, so that the tight, big curls looked forced and exaggerated, making her look like she'd just walked off the runway of some haute couture fashion show.

When we hugged, I quickly noticed just how different the actual woman looked from my memory: The tight curves of her body looked positively elegant in a full-length, wine-colored cashmere column dress, and a black pashmina draped effortlessly along her shoulders. Even her sparse jewelry selections - flawless diamond studs in her ears and the noticeable but unobnoxious diamond bangles adorning her wrists - seemed contrary to the around-the-way-girl rocking the latest Pumas and Tommy Hilfiger bubble jacket.

But that voice, that attitude, that va-va-voom that got the boys from Bay Ridge to the Grand Councourse drooling - it was all still there. Despite everything she'd been through, she was still Flo.

After two bottles of wine at the wine bar, and a short walk to Little Italy for gelato, three hours had passed and I'd gotten a text from a new teacher-friend that I've been partying it up with, Groovy Girl. Flo and I had wound our way around our shared past, as if to compare notes. Two of her brothers have passed away, one of them is in jail, one is a family man in upstate NY, and another is still running around the barrio chasing skirts. [Flo: "I can't believe you dated all of them." Me: "I didn't date all of them!" Flo: (laughing so hard her body is convulsing) "Oh. My bad. You just fucked all of them! - Except the gay one!" Me: (laughing as hard as she's laughing): "Yeah! But not for a lack of trying! Carlos was fiiinnneee." Flo: "Stop talking about my fine-ass dead gay brother!"] Her parents have recently retired and moved to Miami [Flo: "I told Pa, I said 'See? You got so mad when I was showing my goodies in ads, but you wouldn't be watching half-naked young girls fraw-licking on the beach all day if I wasn't spending my younger days half-naked! It's the circle of life!' (busting out in full Lion King mode)The ciiiircclle of Life!"]. And Flo's decided to buy some property on the east coast while the market is good [Flo: "You know what a buyer's market is, mija? It's when the economy is so fucked that even good, moral people like myself take advantage of the fact that none of the poor folk can pay their bills, so I buy their property right from under them."]

Her younger brother, Carlos, had been the real-life rendition of the My So-Called Life character, Rickie - but with a lot more bite to his bark. I had been drawn to Carlos like a moth to a flame: he was gorgeous, and passionate, and could dress like a mofo. He had talent for the arts, could dance circles around anyone and had a knack for getting me into trouble and then bailing me out. Looking back, I'm pretty sure I was a little in love with him - even if he was gay, and man, was he gay! Carlos was gay before I even knew what gay was, and though it didn't sit well with his folks, he didn't go through the usual growing pains of angsty adolescence. Maybe it was because he had his big sister, Flo, to back him up; or maybe some of that patented Puertoriquena attitude rubbed off on the two youngest kids of the fam, but Carlos worked it. At eleven years old, I'm not sure I fully grasped what it meant to "work it" - until I saw Carlos wearing his purple and black Perry Ellis suit. (Yeah, I had to bring it back...)

Flo was the cool older sister, to whom Carlos and I would tell all of our secrets, in the hope that she would deem us worthy of shared escapades. She taught us how to measure an ounce of bud, introduced us to very unsavory Italian characters, and got us into clubs with more coke than Coke.

Flo was the be-all-and-end-all of cool, and looking back, I realize that the 2 or 3 years we had bad blood was all just a test; I had to endure the pangs of being without this ghetto goddess as my saving grace. She had to make due with saying things like, "You're either stupid or you think I'm stupid," to some unsuspecting hood, and not have me and Carlos finish with her famous tag phrase, "And I know you don't think I'm stupid."

Even though I was more a voyeur than a participant in those adventures, it was all part of my becoming me, and it was enough for me to get a contact high.

Friday night. There I was. Sitting across from Ms. World-Traveler-Been-There-Done-That Matching her stories with stories of my own. I was talking about picking up after high school and driving along the east coast. I was remembering the union organizers I met in North Carolina and the Navy boys I met in Virginia, the fishermen in Florida and the wanna-be cowboys in Texas... And Ms. All-Perfect-And-All-Experienced was laughing and nodding her head and fully immersed in everything that I'd done and been and become.

Groovy Girl was inviting me out to Williamsburg to a B-Boy battle that she hoped to win, and I texted her back that a friend from high school had invited me to it weeks before. Flo nodded her head while paying the bill and looked at me like I was crazy when I reached for my wallet. "Mija, you're either stupid or you think I'm stupid," she said, lowering her gaze at me, "And we both know you're not stupid."

In the old days, she would've said, "And I know you don't think I'm stupid" - but there it was: Verification of my coolness. Validation. Victory.

We hugged and cried and promised to talk in the near future. I walked away, toward the L train, and called her parents in Miami. I got the answering machine, and left a message saying that I miss them and I love them and I hope they're doing well. And just as me and my cell phone were sinking deeper into the subway, I got a call from Flo.

"Maria?"

"Yeah?"

"I hope you don't mind me calling you mija. It's just so deeply engrained in me, ya know, from back in the day. I was walking away and rethinking our conversation and I didn't want you to think that I still think of you as that awkward 11-year old girl..."

"I know you don't," I said with a smile that permeated the phone waves.

"Good," Flo said, feeling me smile.

We hung up and I joined my friend in Williamsburg, and even though I know I'm probably not going to talk to Flo again for another 4 or 5 years, it doesn't feel like we lied to each other about talking soon. I'd smiled and she'd smiled, and somewhere in there was a lot of deeper meaning that words could never begin to describe.

Those who can't do, teach...

2008-04-18T15:31:00.001-04:00

If I stick with a teaching career in writing, am I admitting that I can't "make it" as a writer?

Toeing The Line

2008-04-17T18:32:00.002-04:00

I had a really weird dream last night. It involved going back to Brooklyn College to take classes, dating and fucking a student of mine, having sex with my best guy friend, attacking a bunch of evil spirits, rescuing a box of kittens from getting thrown onto the subway track, taking photographs, eating jell-o at a park, and proving to someone that I'm the same person they met at the beginning of my dream.

Not in that order, and not in that same vain. But still. That's what I dreamt about. It was intense and strange and somehow made a lot more sense when I woke up than it does now.

I should've written it down, but I got the basic gist of it. I'm writing a story now that's based on it, called "See-Saw." The basic premise goes like this: A, B, C, D, & E happen, and people either figure that A, B, C & D happened to legitimize E, or that E happened to legitimize the occurrence of A, B, C & D. It's like the chicken and the egg: which came first? Does it even matter?

The fact remains that A, B, C, D, & E happen, and each letter is like a pivot point, like on a see-saw. You put your weight in one direction, and shift the pivot just a little bit, so that when you move in the other direction, it's definitely not the same way that you've moved any other time. Every little change and every little movement alters the proceeding action - even if it's only by a minute measurement. In this way, you don't change the future so much that you can't logically deduce what'll happen next; you just change it enough so that it's different from the first time around.

It might not sound like much, but that's my idea for ya. We'll see where it goes...

I'm working on a lot of writing ideas right now. Some of them interlap, so that when they're not working for one story idea, I just add them onto another story.

Along with my See-Saw idea, I'm working on something called "23." Basically, I want to pour every little bit of knowledge, wisdom and experience I've accrued before my 24th birthday into 23 interwoven short stories. I've written three of them so far, and I'm excited to continue the series.

I'm working on a collection of poems for National Poetry Month also. I think I'll call the collection something like "Snapshots of Myself in April" or "Self Portraits in April." Each poem is supposed to capture something of myself, a moment, a glimpse, a rendering of who I am at any particular time within this month.

And, of course, there are the other things I'm working on: Beautiful Prison, Pieces, Exercises in Futility - all of them works in progress that I've been hard at work on for years. Lately, I've actually been getting some work done on them, and it feels good to be at a place where I can ask opinions of people I respect and have the means to show off my writing, too. Maybe I spent too much time marketing myself to people in the know, but now that part's over and done with, and those people in the know know me. I can concentrate on the craft at hand.

I didn't sleep well last night. A student of mine had an emergency and called me, and I did everything I could to make everything all right.

Still, the ambiguity shakes me: How did I know what's all right? How do I know what I should do in an emergency? Is it all learned knowledge? Or is it naturally instilled in us?

I'm an adult and a teacher and a responsible human being - but never before did any of that feel so real than it does right now. It's springtime, and the warm breeze kisses my cheeks. Somewhere in Richmond Hill, a teenage girl is mourning the loss of her virginity and wondering if she would've gotten raped if she had played the part of "prim princess" more accurately.

Opportunities are ripe and reality seems tangible, and I tell her that it's not her fault, it can never be her fault. She nods her head even though she doesn't fully believe me. All the prep seems to have been valuable. Shame and anger can only be aimed at herself because it hurts too much to feel the repercussions of a single, life-altering event; the realness cuts like jagged glass. She is much too humbled by culture to accept anything less than full responsibility. She hopes that she can look herself in the mirror and learn to like the person she sees.

So I write and I live and I try not to confuse the two. I act and I think and I know when to do either. Life is good and what I'm feeling is real. Life is bad and what I'm feeling is real. Life is not a dress rehearsal, a run-through, a backstage pass to the main event. It is the only event. The real event. The one true test and defining matter.

And when it's all over, who knows what we'll have?

read the directions, even if you don't follow them.

2008-04-15T13:03:00.004-04:00

Sometimes, you meet someone and off the bat you know that you don't like them.

Sometimes, you get to know someone a bit and then realize you don't want to get to know them.

Sometimes, you make a life-long connection with a person and notice hindrances to your relationship, but you figure out a way to deal with those hindrances.

Everyone makes their minds up the way they want, but it's your choice to do what's right for you.

My advice?

You know yourself. You know what kind of drama you want and/or can handle. If that person doesn't fit what you're looking for, take note, be amiable, and move on. The world is big enough for us to harmoniously exist on it; if we distance ourselves enough, we can sing different tunes without creating a cacophonous dissonance.

It's Never as Good as the First Time... Part 2

2008-04-15T10:45:00.003-04:00

The comfort and safety of staying in one place - they’re components of what I like to call “static electricity”. Static electricity powers mundane existence and shocks people whose systems naturally resist the blind perpetuating of norms.

I am one of those people.

*****

That's part of something I came up with while doctoring the last post. I'd been trying to make it more palpable to journalistic minds, as I was attempting to send it in for a contest in the NY Press... And, well, voila! The above excerpt didn't really fit into what I was doing, but it sounded purrty...

And the contest? After careful observation, I've come to the conclusion that the editors are looking for something that isn't me. And that's cool.

It's now been a full three days since I had that conversation with Clairvoyant Symphony, and my lungs are full of mucus. My mind keeps flitting to other topics: finishing up Cloudsplitter so I can return it to Jazz Star Crony, the need to take antibiotics so I can heal once and for all, wondering about blogging and why it's pulled me in.

I'm thinking about the rest of the conversation that I had with CS, and all I remember is saying that I'd "date a 10."

We'd been talking about dating and fucking, and somehow got to the point where CS was saying that all the guys she's fucked have been hot, but a lot of the guys she's dated have been lukewarm, at best.

I agreed; I'd thought that lesser-looking men would try doubly hard to get me off, and for the most part I'd been right. I dated them and fucked them without a second thought. The narcissistic part of me thought that every average-looking guy I slept with should consider themselves lucky; they'd been deigned worthy enough to experience my pussy and (sometimes) my affection.

But what about the hot guys, CS had countered. What about the guys who knew they were hot? The guys who could bag a girl simply by innocuously bumping into her? Would I be willing to date one of them?

CS had done extensive research on the subject, having asked men if they were willing to date a woman who is a 10, and women if they were willing to date a man who is a 10. All of them had hesitated to answer in the affirmative. Fucking a 10 was understandable and legitimate - but dating a 10 seemed stupid.

The logic went like this: As a woman, I know that men are (mostly) dogs and that women are (mostly) shady; so the odds are stacked against me in the first place - why test them? It seems logical that the result of dating a 10 would only be heartbreak. I'd fall for them, they'd play me, and at the end I'd feel bad for having ignored my own advice. Why go through all that?

Better to stay with the less-than-10s, to not trip up the red flags, to live and love safely.

At least, that's what the majority said.

I objected.

I hadn't realized it while I was talking to CS, but I've met men who have started out 10s. Caleb was one of them. He was charming, intelligent, passionate, talented, and oh-so-good-looking. He was the type of guy that girls would fall over - literally.

Being Caleb's girlfriend was a lesson in humility.

Each day, I was reminded that I could be replaced at any moment. Flirtatious come-ons and come-hither stares were directed at Caleb by strangers, and it was easy to get jealous. These women were gorgeous, funny, talented, brilliant people - and they'd obviously recognized the same attributes in Caleb that I had seen.

But then again, I ain't too shabby, either. And Caleb wasn't lost on the idea of losing me to another gorgeous, funny, talented, brilliant person.

Anyway, there I was, with my 10, unabashedly and unhesitatingly cavorting sexually with a real-life 10... Until I wasn't any more.

Long story short, I wasn't mentally or emotionally prepared for a real-life, you-for-me-and-me-for-you relationship. I liked the idea of it, but the reality of it was just too real. So we ended our relationship, and I haven't dated a 10 since.

"But what is this '10' nonsense, anyway?" you're probably asking.

A 10 is someone who satisfies the more blatant and obvious prerequisites of attractiveness: physical good looks, financial stability, status, et al. But more than that, a 10 has those sought-after qualities that you don't realize you want until you see: the ability to make decisions at a split second's notice, the calming effect s/he has on your soul, the hours spent pontificating on the merits of a dual party political system, etc. A 10 has all of those qualities and is rare to find.

So, given that definition, why shouldn't you go after a 10?

According to the people queried by CS, you shouldn't go after a 10 because there's a heightened possibility of loss. If things don't go the right way, not only will you feel bad about yourself for getting dumped (since that's the presumed outcome), but you'll feel worse about it because you didn't listen to yourself in the first place. You'd been telling yourself that this 10 is going to play you for a fool - and look! It's happened!

I say: Why assume that, in the first place? Why assume that you'll be this 10's fool? Why stack the odds against yourself and your possible future from the get-go? It's a self-fulfilling prophesy!

Sure, a pragmatic world-view relies on statistics, and your experience tells you that you'll be left in the dust... But... S/HE'S A 10! DO NOT FORGET THAT!

May I remind you again why this person is a 10?

This person is a 10 because your conscious and your subconscious minds see things in them that are worthwhile. These parts of your brain feel safe about the conclusions they've drawn. They know you and they know what you're like and what you like and what you can handle, and they're screaming at the top of their lungs: "10!"

So why ignore them?

There's obviously something about this 10 that's drawing you in, and you should see where it goes. It's the case with 6s and 7s and 8s and 9s - and to stop yourself from possibly being with a 10 just because they're a 10 seems ludicrous. Following this logic, you're only willing to date people who are less than your ideal - because you're afraid of what may happen if you fall for your ideal. You're afraid of putting yourself out there, becoming completely vulnerable, assuming the role of a susceptible victim, joining the hordes of stupid people who put themselves in a position to get played.

But getting played only happens when you let yourself fall, and letting yourself fall is what happens when you love wholeheartedly. You should let yourself fall for people who are good for you. Otherwise, you're just setting yourself up for pain and resentment.

"It's easier said than done."

I know that old addage and I know that it's true.

There are times when I catch myself ignoring my own advice. In these moments, I'm shying away from opportunities that may be too good to be true. I tell myself that I'd rather preserve the untainted memory of something perfect than fuck with it and possibly disturb my opinion of it.

Then I remind myself that hypotheticals are for writing, and living is for life.

I remind myself that it's just as possible that I fall for an 8 and he cheats on me, than I fall for a 10 and he cheats on me.

I remind myself that I will not regret dating a 10 because I will have looked the possibilities in the eyes and have said, "So what?"

If, at the end, my 10 plays me for a fool - it's okay.

I'll have lived and loved some more, and at the end of any relationship - with a 10 or not - isn't that what we all say, anyway?

It's Never as Good as the First Time... Part 1

2008-04-14T08:18:00.004-04:00

I need to kill some time before I take my car to the wash; it doesn't open for another two hours and the inside reeeeeeks... Luckily for me, there's a bunch I wanna say today. My mind's on a cloudy hyper-overdrive and I'm challenging myself to recollect the conversations of last night.

See, I was in the midst of spouting out philosophical ramblings about my personal growth to Clairvoyant Symphony, and my yammerings were on point. At least, they seemed that way. I hadn't had a real meal since ten o'clock in the morning, and by six o'clock in the evening I'd been plied with mary jane and caffeine, and words and their meanings seemed at my fingertips.

In moments like those, with a good friend and some mental lubrication, it feels sometimes like the meaning of life is just beyond my grasp. My mind formulates reality into logical equations of truth and experience, and though I spend considerable time having to repeat my meaning in order to come up with a succinct way of phrasing my thoughts, I usually get there soon enough. I can stay on my metaphysical jag for as long as my buzz, and then some. Unfortunately, it's only within this window that the words and their meaning smile so easily at me; the morning after, all that's left is the memory of my mental sluttiness.

So be warned: none of this might even make sense.

The relationship I have with Clairvoyant Symphony is far from the norm. In her, I see hope and beauty and life and wisdom. But more than that, I see myself. It's not that superficial kind of mirroring of a personality; I don't see in her the same fashion choices or circle of friends or musical tastes. I look at CS and see the same* mental processes that I went through, the same** hurdles I had to overcome, the same*** conclusions that I've made. In a narcissistic and not unparental way, I love her because she is so much cut from the same cloth as myself. I'm a couple of years older than her, and it just so happens that in the process of becoming something, I'm a little farther along - it's that "something" that we're always talking about.

What and who are we? What should we do with our lives? What do we have control over? What will/should we become? And, how do the answers I come up with relate to the answers other people come up with? It seems like every conversation I have with CS boils down to one of these questions.

We met up by Prospect Park so that I could take her to one of my favorite Mexican eateries, Cafe Enduro. Amidst a cozy set up, good music, awesome food, and quirky (in a positive way) service, we began to talk about our lives. She delved more deeply into her need to go into hibernation; I described my recent experiences of being a teacher. It was while telling stories of my time in teacherland that I mentioned a very telling anecdote: while seeing one of the students dancing, I was struck by the realization that I'm no longer young and sexually "new".

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm cognizant of my age. I'm ONLY 23. I know, I know. But there isn't much in the way of sex that I haven't done. An orgy, several threesomes, a gangbang, girl-on-girl, tricking, sex in public, role playing, S&M, phone sex work... I mean, the list goes on and on. And at that moment, when I was watching a 15 or 16 year old girl perform her choreography, what I thought was: She's so young and beautiful. Not in a creepy, "Notes of a Scandal" kind of way. Just in a thoughtful, intuitive kind of way. I remember what it's like to be a teenager and become newly acquainted with the fact that I have a sexual power to harness. It was new and exciting to see the attention I elicited simply by strutting down the street. I thought I was the shit.

But that's a very different feeling from the one I have now, when I know I look good. When I was a teenager, I emanated a feeling of "newness." Men wanted me because I was uncharted, impressionable new terrain. Now, when men want me, it's because I'm savvy and seasoned when it comes to sex.

This realization hit and I couldn't help but think: Where'd the time go? It also made me very aware that a career in teaching would only intensify and highlight different nuances within this change of phase; I would be in a perpetual vantage point, able to compare my static place to the ever-changing psyches of my students. That's when it dawned on me how much I hate being at "vantage points"; I much prefer being in the thicke of "process."

Being stuck at a vantage point, for many, signals the reaching of a goal. You graduate college, or become a doctor, or land your dream job, and then you've stopped actualizing. All the personal evolution that you'll experience from that point on will be in the realm of that life choice, to be a college graduate, or doctor or ______. It's incredibly relaxing and rewarding because you have an immense sense of self respect; you can say that "you've made it" somewhere.

But for people like me, who need to continuously find new things to experience and become, being lulled into and staying at a vantage point means little more than limiting my opportunities to evolve, limiting my chances to experience all there is to experience, limiting my abilities to taste with a huge appetite the many flavors of life.

Vantage points are great to stop and stretch and inspect the scenery, but I much prefer the open road. I much prefer the trip to the destination, and the process to the goal. Luckily for me, I never have to stop going.

* The way we think may not be the same, but the answers we articulate seem synonymous.

** No one has the exact same experiences, but some people are affected the same way from similar situations.

*** Refer to "*"

Some of My Earliest Memories

2008-04-11T11:47:00.008-04:00

When I was in the third grade*, a really enthusiastic middle-aged man visited our classroom and talked about creative writing. He had the caffeine- or crack-induced high of a self-help guru, and spoke in a really loud voice.

Ever the type-A student, I sat politely in my seat as my eardrums felt like bleeding, my hands folded neatly in front of me. My teacher, Mrs. Wiland, sat at her corner desk, disciplining us with her eyes; I silently refused to make a fool out of her by pointing out that the visiting speaker was a few decibels short of a jackhammer.

The man talked about how a particular phrasing can unlock and open up doors of the imagination. His thick brown hair barely moved, and his smiles seemed too quick. He led a discussion about literary and grammatical devices, and all the while made exaggerated hand movements. He walked us through a few word game exercises, and simultaneously leered as if overselling his methods. He laughed amiably along with our guffaws and triumphs, and smugly turned to our teacher. It was like he hadn't realized he was pandering to a bunch of seven- and eight- year olds. What the hell was he trying to sell us? What was my teacher a conspirator to?

The whole time, I was patiently waiting for his time to be up. I didn't want to be forced to write. This gift of linking up written shapes and audible sounds, catering to the expectations of an audience then surpassing them - it filled me with a pride and power that scared me. I didn't want the coos of praise from adults. I didn't want the attention. It all perpetuated a cycle: praise had to be followed by more praise, attention by more attention. It was like a line on a graph; I could accept and understand if its slope remained the same, but climbing would only accentuate falling. And falling...? I'd been taught that failure was unacceptable.

Writing was my first home, but my first dwelling was with my mom and my maternal grandparents, in Brooklyn. My grandmother, ever the racist, elitist bigot, taught at a public school at the time. She came home with stories about all the black kids being rude and mean and always calling her "chinky." (Back then, no one knew what a Filipino was. Now, the general familiarity of my heritage never ceases to amaze me!) She said that poor people were dirty and black people were poor, and espoused this kind of verbal attack despite the fact that we lived in a working-class black neighborhood.

The good thing about my grandmother, though, was that she always brought home books for me to read and learn how to write. I can still remember sitting in the daybed in the front room as my mom called my dad, who was still in the Philippines. I was maybe two or three years old, and it was nighttime. My mom would pick up the receiver with its long curly cord, spin the dial - (We had an-old school rotary phone. Damn. I wish I knew where it was!) - and talk in her native tongue. I would be lying in bed, with one of those workbooks with lined pages. It was a big, light, rectangular, book with a sky blue cover. There were letters to trace, and I carefully adjusted each straight line and squiggle as I listened to my mom, on the phone with my dad, giggle. Those were heady days, when I knew nothing but whatever I directly experienced.

By the time I was three and a half years old, I was scribbling away on dozens of sheets of loose leaf paper, doodling in boxes that I'd made on each page, and stapling the pages together to make them "catalogues." I'd go around the house asking my mother, grandmother, grandfather, father, aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends, if they wanted to order from my catalogue, and I wouldn't be deterred by hesitation. "Keep it with you!" I'd insist, my business savvy potent.

An hour later, I'd return and throw my hands up, exhasperated: "WELL?!"

I can still remember my father pointing to a picture and saying, "I want apples."

"No, Dad!" I'd screamed, taking the catalogue from him and turning a dozen pages. "These are the apples."

"Ooooh!" he'd said. "Of course they are!"

"Duh, Dad!" I shook my head, annoyed, then took out a small notepad and a smaller pencil to record the order. "How many do you want?"

I guess maybe my writing and my drawing hadn't coalesced yet into talents, but I'd definitely had the enrepreneurial spirit at three and a half years old. And I had moxy, too. Thinking back on that, I wonder where the shy wallflower of early elementary school came from, and when I peek into elementary school classrooms, I wonder which student most resembles me. I was bookish and quiet, I think. My memory fails me because it's full of the high-jinx and shenanigans that started in my 'tween years.

Anyway... Yeah. Third grade. Mrs. Wiland's classroom. The energetic (possibly high) visitor who taught us about creative writing.

His final and most time-consuming activity with us was the first creative writing exercise I remember doing. He had a stack of postcards, each with different pictures on the front. There were landscapes and still lifes, caricatures and cartoons, surrealist and Renaissance styles on those postcards. He was to blindly reach into a bag of these postcards, present us with one, and then wait for us to finish writing a story about the picture on its front.

Excited and conflicted about beginning the exercise, I waited with bated breath for my postcard. Then got it. Fuck. It was religious. And not just religious. But uber religious. An angel stood in front of a woman (the Virgin Mary?), its wings stretched out as light cascaded out of its backside and the rest of its crevices, it seemed to me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Religion has always been a strange and slightly touchy subject for me (one that I'll get into some other time), and I didn't know what to do with it. Then, suddenly, I did.

I don't still have the story I wrote that day, but it sticks out in my memory still. It was a first person narrative of an angel visiting a family, there were many gem stones in the story, and it had at least one really long word that started with "multi-" ("multi-colored", I think? "Multi-dimensional"?). It started something like: "Look! There, coming in from beyond the window! It is an angel, its multi-colored wings glistening. Look at the emerald green, the amethyst and citron and diamond-like hue of its wings!...."

Clearly, I'd spent too many hours perusing my mother's jewelry catalogues. But, anyway, that story is what did it for me. There had been many earlier indicators of my proclivity toward the written word, but after the class oohed and aahed and Mrs. Wiland looked at me with pride, I knew that I was hooked. This talent that I had for weaving tales - it gave people almost as much pleasure as it did me. And ever since then, I've been pursuing the ultimate high: writing something enduring which will always be a source of pride.

* = According to Susan J. Breen, author of Fiction Class, lots of writers get their epiphanies in the third grade.

Lost Without You

2008-04-10T10:14:00.003-04:00

I used to blog with a sense of urgency. It was important to me that I lay my words out in cyberspace. They served a purpose, and even if no one but me read my words, at least I had an intended audience. The audience gave my words meaning and direction; I knew how to phrase my thoughts because I knew how best to communicate to my audience.

But lately, it's not that way. When I blog, I feel like I'm talking to myself. My audience has become Me, and I can't write to Me because it seems pointless. Why communicate to myself things I already know?

My last blog had been a lesson in what blogging could be like. I was amazed when strangers found me on facebook and myspace. Seeing new messages in my inbox filled me with a kind of heightened glee, then gradually felt like living in a glass house. I grew afraid of people throwing stones.

At the same time, I outgrew my persona. No longer in need of any covert barriers between myself and other people - descriptions, titles, statuses - I felt the exterior manifestation of my personality wane. Loud outbursts, hysterical laughter, crude escapades, violent tumults all lost their appeal. They no longer seemed like organic extensions of the person I'd become.

I became more quiet and intense. A know-it-all complex began to brew in me, or rather a strange paradox involving the know-it-all complex: I knew that no one knows everything, and that made me feel like I knew everything.

Then a realization hit. It wasn't everything that I'd learned, but an elusive and eternal truth. I'd come to the point where opposites are enmeshed and bleed into each other, and I understood that everything and nothing really matter. The feeling inferred from this realization was compatible with the little I knew about Eastern philosophy and zen.

It's this paradoxical chasm that typifies my experiences as a philosophy student. We'd sit in class, dissect the mind ramblings of (mostly) old, white men, and come to the conclusion that every viewpoint had a grain of truth, and no one monopolized that particular truth. The real truth, the big truth, involved beliefs that stretched the gambit of thoughts, and it was an uphill battle to figure out where one notion left off and another began.

It's an altogether simpler task to figure out where one phase of life starts and another begins. Sometimes the starting point is a new job, a new love, marriage, children, a break-up, the death of a loved one, realizing that you don't fit into your favorite pair of jeans/that you're gay/that your parents are swingers, being diagnosed with a disease, ending a personality-defining habit or relationship. I had faked my way through life, making up answers and escape routes as needed; I knew that I was a different person when I became certain of what I knew and what I didn't know.

So this blog came into being, and with its growth came the diminishing of my old writer's voice.

I know that it's probably just a matter of getting used to who I've become, but there are parts of who I was that I miss (even though they weren't necessarily healthy). I miss the danger, the excitement, the feeling of not knowing. Now, everything feels sublime; therefore, nothing feels sublime.

All this time, I've worked to hit my stride, and now that I've hit it, I am certain that I much prefer the activity of working towards a goal than I do the achievement of a goal. Perhaps I've known that all along, and I was subliminally and subconsciously delaying the inevitable.

Throughout all of this, I've blogged and maintained a record of who I am and what I've become, and I've come to realize just how important it is to have a target audience, to feel like you're communicating with someone, to have someone specific to want to speak to through your writing... Without that person, those people, that audience: the activity feels empty.

So I'm thinking up ways to feel not so empty. To rock the boat a bit. To feel abrupt jolts of life, instead of a steady stream of it. I guess I'll always be the adventure-seeking, wise-cracking, unconventional hoodrat. That's good to know.

The Student-Teacher Relationship

2008-04-09T16:10:00.007-04:00

It was in June of sixth grade when my teacher, Ms. Stein, started to sing along with the radio. The class must've been having a pizza party or something, because I remember Ms. Stein ran a tight ship. Her voice was light but crisp, kind of like her teaching style. She was singing along to Sophie B. Hawkins.

"You know this song?" one of my classmates asked, obviously surprised.

Ms. Stein laughed. "You think teachers don't have lives outside of the classroom? That we just stay in the school building and recharge every night, like robots?"

Years later, I'd realize that that feeling was common of the students in my elementary school. I'm one of the privileged few who can attest to a superb public school education, and that feeling that most of us had about our teachers was probably a testament to their amazing teaching abilities. We thought they were amazing and infallible. For the most part, at least.

Fast forward to last week, when I encountered one of my students on the train platform with her mother. I'd hurried home after work to change into my decidedly casual and un-marm-like clothes for a night of yoga and beer. (Yeah, strange, I know!)

My student excitedly introduced me to her mother, who turned to me and said, "You're a teacher?"

I pretended not to notice her snide attitude. "Yes, I am!" I gleefully replied. "Guilty as charged! And your daughter is an absolute pleasure, I have to say!"

"You're a little young to be a teacher, aren't you?"

"I'm twenty-three."

She gave me the once-over, then snarled, "You don't dress like a role model."

My smile tightened and I blinked several times. "With all due respect," I said to her, "I'm off-hours and can dress any way I like." I smiled at my student and then forced a smile at my student's mother. "It was nice meeting you."

Fast forward again, to a few hours ago. One of my students saw me from behind, in pom-pom shorts and a tank top, walking to my house from my car. I'd seen them - Wiseass, Sweetheart, and Joe - in my periphery when I made the turn onto my block, but their identities hadn't registered until I heard the smacking of lips and cat-calls. Then, the inevitable holla: "Yo, shortie! You lookin' good!"

I almost walked into my house without confronting them. Maybe I would've, if it wasn't for the fact that I'd just attempted to sweat out the rest of my flu, and my attempt did nothing but cause hot flashes.

Anyway, I looked behind me and sucked my teeth. "'Yo, shortie?'" I mimicked mock-menacingly as I walked off my stoop. "'You lookin' good?!' Is that what you really think it takes to garner the attention of a young lady, Wiseass?"

Their jaws were on the floor. Their eyes were bugshot. No way in hell it could be their afterschool poetry teacher. No. Way. In. Hell.

I teach an afterschool poetry class in my neighborhood, Monday through Friday, to high school students. I also teach an afterschool poetry class on Saturdays, through a different employer. The mood, attitude, course work, and emphasis in learning are very different between these two jobs, and it shows in the way my students view me.

My Saturday job uses an "It take a village" approach to teaching. There are several teachers and no outright heirarchy or division of power. It's egalitarian and shows the students by example that they are strong, smart, capable individuals who need only to learn how to find reliable information, and how to think for themselves.

My Mon-Fri gig is more authoritarian. They're still under the impression that teenagers know nothing about sex, violence, life... They infantalize the students, make them believe they don't know how to make decisions, mold them into future-yes-men and -women. I attempt to curb that infantilization with lessons about humility, tolerance, acceptance. I talk to the students in group discussions about sexuality, religion, and body image. Students have come to me to ask for guidance about abortions, STDs, problems with their boyfriends/girlfriends, physical and emotional abuse, gang violence/initiation... You name it, I've heard it.

Maybe it's the nature of a poetry class to uncover the heart of a person, or maybe I come across as the kind of teacher who honestly cares about her students' well-being. Maybe it's a combination of the two. Anyway, I find myself building relationships with these teenagers that are definitely not cold or lukewarm. I let them know that I'm available to talk whenever they need an ear, and that I'll write a recommendation if they need one.

Still, there's a big difference between this gig and my Saturday gig. In this gig, I'm an authoritarian figure, and part of that is withholding my own insecurities and flaws and misadventures and doubts. Maybe it's because my boss isn't as liberal as my Saturday boss, or because most of my students are west indian, caribbean, and southeast asian (where traditional, paternal authority is coveted), but I can't show too much of my personality. I can't read them a poem I wrote about sex. I can't discuss my teenage days, running amock with the wrong crowd, getting into fights, almost being sent to juvy, getting wasted every night, etc. I can't vibe with them on this level... whereas, at my Saturday gig, this kind of soul-baring activity is encouraged. EVERYONE - teachers, students - sheds tears and talks about being abandoned, fucking, gang fights, getting jumped, first love, the good stuff. The real stuff. The stuff that matters. There's no ambivalence about "protocol" or "the norm"; there's no hesitation to be one's self; there's no hypocrisy and there's no back-pedaling. We teach on Saturday that people should be real, and "real" means all sorts of things.

But from Monday to Friday, I wear slacks and button-up shirts, vintage blouses and blazers, sweaters and modestly-cut skirts, and slacks that don't accentuate my ass too much. I do it because that's the person that was hired, and she needs to get paid so she can pay her bills. I do it because I don't trust my teaching ability yet, and I'm scared my students would take advantage of me if I was myself with them. I do it because it's safe.

When Wiseass tried to holla at me, and I rebuffed him and his friends, I really and truly wanted to whip out my ebonics accent, tell them stories about talking my way into bars and clubs when I was barely thirteen years old, and blow their minds with my resume: phone sex operator, sex toy reviewer, cocktail waitress, high-end real estate agent, drug dealer, battered women's advocate, non-profit board member, bartender, et al... I wanted to show them the real me. I wanted to say that I might sound like I know all the answers, but really, I'm just playing a part that's loosely written by the New York Dept. of Eduation. I wanted to be fun and irreverent and yet mature and experienced. I wanted to be the obvious answer to a life spent incessently asking questions. I wanted to feel like these students of mine, who spend twenty hours a week with me, know something about me.

So I whipped out my accent and mentioned that I was coming back from the park.

Wiseass cracked that he'd heard I was sick, and that he'd tell the principal that I'd lied. I countered that the principal had seen me earlier today, and he'd said to stay my ass home because I'm still too germ-y.

The exchange wasn't long, and it wasn't obviously meaningful, but it was something. A start. They were too dumbfounded to form coherent sentences, and I pretended like I'd forgotten they were trying to pick me up. In two or three minutes, we'd established a repoire and I said I had to go inside. Then I left them there, on the sidewalk, in front of my house, aghast at what had just occurred.

In the shower, I thought about Ms. Stein, and my student's mother, and Wiseass and his buddies. I thought about how the different choices we make alter peoples' perceptons of us, and how things look so different when you reach the other side of a paradigm. Still buzzing with thoughts after my shower ended, I cracked open a notebook and finished up my lesson plans.

Packing Up

2008-04-09T10:13:00.007-04:00

Maybe it's a sign of acquiescence. Maybe it's a sign of maturity. Maybe it's a sign of wisdom... But I love my bedroom and my home office. I really and truly do.

After years of moving out of my parents' house and moving back in, taking on the mortgage, wanting to sell the house, coming thisclose to selling the house, deciding to keep it, all the while grappling with my own issues of financial/emotional/intellectual insecurity, I've finally made my place my own. I've finally made my house my home.

But this morning, still sick and groggy (albeit a lot less sick and groggy than I was initially) I woke up to the sound of my cell phone. I talked for three minutes with Would-Be Romantic, who got sick by taking care of me. I surveyed my room, which is orderly and clean thanks to Would-Be Romantic. I felt a quiet pride in having a place for everything and everything in its place. And then I fantasized about packing it all up and moving on, to another room, another house, another place in my life to grow into and grow out of.

As Would-Be Romantic's cousin, Bootylicious, observed via text message last week, "It's courageous that you pick up and leave just as you find a place in life where you're comfortable."

Indeed.

As I replied to her text, and I said later to Puerto Rican Poet at a stinky booth in a Brooklyn McDonald's, the comfortable place where I'm at isn't a physical place. It's a mental/emotional/intellectual place, and as such, it goes wherever I go. True comfort and self-esteem don't easily fade away or deteriorate.

Yesterday evening, I received a text from Indiana Poetess that my favorite Boss Lady was freaking out because she'd misplaced my bio for the written program. I called my favorite Boss Lady, and I croaked through a ten-minute conversation in which she said she loved me, and that it's been such a pleasure to get to know me these past few months. I said that we should definitely get together outside of the classroom, and that she'd better come visit me in the Philippines. And then she offered to come by my house with whatever I needed since I'm so sick, and I thanked her profusely, and we hung up.

I want to write a piece about my favorite Boss Lady, and how thankful I am for the experience of the past few months: sharing my poetry with youthful minds, and having them do the same, soaking up knowledge and experience and friendship and love while earning a solid paycheck. The whole experience comes so close to perfection that it all feels like a dream.

But then, so much of what I've been going through lately feels sublime and ideal. Even the bad stuff, the hard stuff, the ugly stuff, seem like life lessons, from which to extract goodness and vitality. Even in this ill state of understimuation, I know that much.

Whatever the reason - my sickness or the homogenizing of goodness surrounding me - it's hard for me to be creative. I can't write with the poignancy of one who is actively rising out of the ashes, because I'm soaring above the clouds. So I'll write funny, happy little ditties that stretch my imagination and are suited for young adult readers. I'll finish light stories that I started ten or fifteen years ago, and be grateful when seeing the elevation of my style and vocabulary. And then, later, when there's a shift and I'm grounded again by school and work and the business of figuring out for myself another infinite truth, I'll be dark and a little cynical and brooding and romantic in the way that hobos end up being so unexpectedly handsome.

Right now, I'm preparing for that stage of the circle. I'm reading, reading, reading, and wondering if it's possible to simultaneously observe and live wholeheartedly and completely.

Why Waste Your Time On Negativity...

2008-04-08T22:30:00.005-04:00

... when there's so much good to do in the world?

In my incapacitated and vulnerable state, I've had a lot of time to think. I keep getting phone calls from my bosses, wondering where something is or if something got sent out or what kind of tea Mr. Rosenfeldt of the 4:15 meeting prefers. I answer my cell phone, albeit begudgingly, and I am aware that I sound like a prepubescent F to M trans who has laryngitis. There was a time when I'd do everything I could just to stave off any showing of weakness - maybe quitting my jobs, just to avoid having to admit that I get sick - but those days are gone. Now I relish the opportunity to show that I'm human.

"(The Perception of) Weakness v. (The Perception of) Strength" is a topic I've been thinking a lot about. I spent a great deal of my life with power struggles: with my family, with my friends, with my lovers and love interests, with employers, etc. I always had to prove something to someone: to my parents, that I'm a capable individual who needs to find her own way and be her own person; to my friends, that I wasn't some punk with no life experience aka street cred (read: aka value); to my lovers and love interests, that I'm not just some kid to be taken advantage of; to anyone I meet in an office or job situation, that I'm worthy of the position and, further, that I'm their work salvation, able to do anything and everything and still be pleasant. I've always raised the standards for myself particularly high.

Maybe that's why I was drawn to politics; with high standards came high opinions of me. I scrambled to get to the pinnacle of whatever I was engaged with, and people responded positively to this facet of my personality. Doors that other people - most people - covet were ceremoniously opened to me. Situations that seem unfathomable - work experiences, dating experiences, sexual experiences, educational experiences, et al. - were conjured into reality. I'd found that in faking an all-powerful persona, I could have anything I wanted. Anything less was admitting fault and weakness, and would definitely not lead to success as easily.

I'm no longer that aggressive, attention- and success-craving would-be mogul of all things under the sun. I now take my time in deciding what it is that I want, and why it is that I want it. I've wasted too much time blindly attaining the highly-coveted, and when I look back on it, I realize that I was the personification of the cold-blooded, machine-like psueudo-personality that proliferates our culture. Even though I denied it at the time, money, material wealth, status, and other markers of elitism were what I aspired to gain.

Ironically, after taking the time to figure myself out, know my own motivations, and accept and relish my place in the greater scheme of things, I am in more of a position to aspire to great heights. Only, now I don't have the pressure of failure or doubt or regret. What I have is the engrained knowledge that at my core, I'm a good person, and everything I do - travel to a foreign land, befriend strangers at a coffee shop, rise to a position of perceived power, take out the garbage, plant flowerbeds all day - is beautiful. What I don't have is a necessary goal with which to hang myself. I just know the general trajectory of where I want my life to go, and what I need to achieve that track. In this weightless and positive existence of opportunities and adventures, sky's the limit to the good I can do.