Archive for January, 2009

Reflections from the Shadows

Posted on January 30, 2009

In the frame...

In the frame...

I’m thinking about the framework. I’m considering the fringe. I’m feeling pedantic. I’m reeling on the inside and suppressing for the good of mankind. I’m radiating and reliving and moving through time. I’m preposterous and self-aggrandizing.  I am nothing you thought and everything you expected. Or the opposite.

I am realizing that for the first time in forever. I don’t want to be anyone but me, which doesn’t mean that I don’t want to be different.

I’m caught in a reverie that I wish would last.
I cannot understand how it got so late. I never understand how it gets this late. Still, I flourish here. This is when the darkness shrouds the world and my mind rests as much as it knows how. I ignore the niggling loneliness that comes with being awake while the rest sleep.
I deal in the theoretical. And the philosophical. But not much in the reality. The reality makes my brain bored and my insides hurt, so I do avoid that recurrently.
I don’t know the capital of Missouri (OK, I do now, for I looked it up) but I can quote Miller, Hawthorne and Emerson with equal dexterity, so does that make me a dumb American or a literary snob? Or does it make me average? Good with some things, not so good with others…average. That’s the most frightening thought of all.
I used to know all the state capitals.
But seeing as how I had known that Jefferson City is Missouri’s capital in the 3rd grade and have not had cause to draw upon this knowledge in the past 20 years, perhaps it could be considered wise that I hadn’t stolen valuable brain space from the “daily use” shit. Einstein didn’t know his phone number.

I’m thinking about the shabbily constructed facade and those who don’t bother to peer beyond it. I pity those who judge Others based on their own template of propriety.
I never allow myself to forget that the same people who ask me for favors now, believed themselves to be superior when I was bartending. It wasn’t that long ago.

I consider those surveys regarding the “happiest” places to live in the U.S.
I am obviously wary of the results. Who are they asking? Perhaps expectations have something to do with the outcome. If you ask a group of New Yorkers if they are happy, it is my great hope they would collectively deny such a strange possibility. This City was built on the battle. It lives and breathes the struggle. It will never be one of the happiest places to live. It will always be amongst the most satisfying.

I’m thinking of the “Assassination of Jesse James” and opining on why it moved me so.
Perhaps, it was the morality tale. I love a good morality tale. Especially those which affirm that the answer is that there is no answer. We should never be so presumptuous as to believe that we understand the actions of anOther. Or their reactions, for that matter.

Precocious. Preliminary. Disobedient. Bold. Insecure. Infinite. Provocative. Internal crusader. Veiled in the rabbit hole. Patriot. Detractor. Extremist. Heretic. Hopeless believer. Defiling definition. One tangent at a time…
“Think you’re escaping and run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home.”  ~James Joyce  “Ulysses”

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“I want to feel that again…” A Continuing Tale of Discontinued Desire

Posted on January 27, 2009

Just not gonna sound like it used to...Just not gonna sound like it used to…

“I think he’s going to break up with me,” she weeps.

This sentence actually takes a solid 3 minutes for her to communicate amidst shallow gasps for air, tear-filled halting and hysterical hiccups, but for our purposes, I thought I’d give you the benefit of the upshot.

I mentally search for the verbal balance between “reassurance” and “reality check.”

I am once again listening to the sad chronicle of my broken hearted friend, Lady Earth.
I am also making a conscious effort towards increased compassion and empathy.
“Well, what do you want or need him to say?” I gently ask, “What would make this better?”
Her answer doesn’t surprise me.

“I want him to tell me he’s sorry. That I’m his best friend. That he can’t see his life without me. That he loves me. That he’ll try…”

I wish she wanted the couch. The couch I could help her with.

Making someone feel something that they simply do not feel… hmph.
Sadly, there is nothing anyone can do to reinstate emotion gone AWOL.

I contemplate her situation and find myself running through a litany of my own futile attempts to manipulate people and situations.
Ugh, I swear it was like meeting the Ghost of Absurd Actions Past.
I cringe in the face of the memories.

To be fair (to myself) and not allow a crazy spiral into the abyss of self-loathing that the rehashing of mortifying thoughts can cause, I remind myself that to “desire” is human.
In some religions, desire is the considered the divide between “human” and “Deity.”

I suppose, in the religion of my own mind, desire is a blessing. I thrive on that internal pinging which reminds me that I’m a bit off course. That I’m not fulfilled. It’s like sonar for the soul.

The sonar just gets really fucked up when it encounters foreign objects. Like other souls. It gets confused. It wants to ping and guide and dictate the course for everything and everyone within its functional radius. Soul sonar can be pretty self-absorbed…it doesn’t recognize that Others have their own path.


I attempt to reason my way out of this…for her, of course.
We are in a perpetual struggle, from birth until death, to get back there. To feel as good as we once did. Even if it wasn’t actually that good, for the mind has a funny way of glorifying the past.

We are born and desperately reach for the first breath of life. We struggle and suddenly feel the relief of the oxygen seeping into our lungs and tissues and vital organs and we spend the next 80 years chasing that breath. It’s probably good that we don’t remember how amazing that first breath felt, for I’ll just bet that an inhalation has never been as gratifying as that initial gulp.

We move through the tunnel of childhood and peek our heads out at the end and we glimpse Oz. Everything is new. Everything is unusual. But it’s scary. So we rush about trying to assimilate and make it feel normal and then complain about how mundane life is.
We wish we could see Emerald City as we had when we first emerged from the tunnel. Before we were scarred. Before we were forgotten or left behind.
Before. Then. Not now.
Still, we try. To revive the mutual amazement.

We fall in love and see the amazing beauty in anOther. We long to incorporate pieces of that person’s extraordinary facets of being into ourselves and we hope that they see us as equally intoxicating.
But occasionally, amongst all the incorporation and assimilation, we stop exploring the “extraordinary” facets within ourselves. We become wholly entrenched in our mate. Sadly, our Other also sees this and the equilibrium of mutual stimulation is thrown perilously out of whack.

And then suddenly, you’re gobsmacked by reality and you’re friends are giving you corny nicknames like “Lady Earth” and blogging about you. Sigh.

Essentially, my sweet Lady friend lost herself. She quit her important-ish career. She became cash-dependent, attention-needy, and high-powered-telescope-style focused on her relationship and forgot exactly what made it “cool” and “challenging” (in the positive sense) in the first place. Her Other, however did notice the change.

I don’t mean to seem like I am placing blame solely on her. There is never a single defendant in the Court of Broken Promises. We are all guilty. We are all at fault. We all wandered down the path that led to here.

We deserve to feel gratified and validated, but we cannot ignore the way “Today” looks. And the reason “Today” and “Yesterday” have different monikers are because they are not, in fact, the same.
Ignoring that fact and hitting the mental “Repeat” button on that track entitled “Days of Yore,” may invoke emotion in you, but will just annoy someone who is “over” that tune.

I pray that there will peaceful and expedient resolve for my friends. I pray that she realizes that she cannot forcibly make him see her as he once did.

And I pray that I’ll remember to re-read this musing the next time I am tempted to take “What Is” back to my mental General Store and exchange it for “What Was…”

“Thou art to me a delicious torment.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

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Marinate on This…

Posted on January 26, 2009

Take the time to let it all seep in...

Take the time to let it all seep in...

Today, these feel so strikingly beautiful to me…

“Yes! You are the ruin–the ruin–the ruin–of me. I have no resources in myself, I have no confidence in myself, I have no government of myself when you are near me or in my thoughts. And you are always in my thoughts now. I have never been quit of you since I first saw you. Oh, that was a wretched day for me! That was a wretched, miserable day!” ~“Our Mutual Friend” Charles Dickens

“What I want is to be needed. What I need is to be indispensable to somebody. Who I need is somebody that will eat up all my free time, my ego, my attention. Somebody addicted to me. A mutual addiction.”~ Chuck Palahniuk

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Speed Bumps

Posted on January 23, 2009

Real or Perceived?

Real or Perceived?

Last Saturday, I shared a most enjoyable Brunch with one of my most enjoyable friends. We dined at her “maybe” married “boyfriend’s” restaurant (he is both “may-be married” and “may-be” her boyfriend… she isn’t completely clear on either subject, but if he were actually married, he certainly would NOT be her boyfriend.)

She speaks of the Spanish class she’d just come from. She tells me about her teacher and his floppy, perfectly messy curls, Barcelona-inspired bohemian style and easy, accessible manner. She sighs in summation and adds, “he was wearing a ring, so it didn’t matter.”  This is not the first conversation I’ve ever had with a girlfriend that has ended abruptly once this notation has been verbally acknowledged. That’s the thing though… with women there IS an acknowledgement. For the most part, a cursory glance at the left hand, will determine whether we cross into the netherworld of flirtation or promptly retreat.

That brings me to yesterday. It was my 27th consecutive hour of consciousness. If I look half as awesome as I feel, I am positive I’m making stellar impressions all around.
We arrive at our third and final press stop of the day, an in-studio with a well-known DJ (DJ as in spins records, not from the Ryan Seacrest school of “DJ”.)
We’ve met before but it’s been awhile, so we go over “where we know one another from” and play a bit of the “mutual acquaintance name-game” which is ever so popular in our industry. The show wraps, we all talk a bit longer, and he asks me for a card on the way out.

I get the text message 20 minutes later. He invites me to a show he’s doing Tuesday. This presents the ultimate conundrum. One that I thought a somewhat massive engagement ring and a sparkly wedding band would prevent me from having to deal with…the unbidden advance.

I assess my response technique and examine the possibilities.
I can, A) act like I don’t realize he’s flirting (in spite of his decidedly flirty “textual” tone) and ask for details on the show, thus alluding to the idea that I may go (I won’t), but also creating the possibility of super-awkwardness later on or worse, the assumption that I am basically flirting back by default (absolutely NOT my intention.)
Option B) is no more enticing, for I abhor the idea of one human asking another human a simple question (even if it is a completely transparent “simple” question) and the odd need we seem to have to immediately fire back with “I’m married” or “I’m in a relationship.”

It seems tacky, somehow. Since when does “Excuse me, do you know if there’s a Citibank around here?” warrant a detailed list of all previous and current romantic encounters?

I once heard someone state that, “in the case of a man wanting to “hook up” with a woman, a boyfriend is a non-issue and a husband is a speed bump…maybe.

While I know plenty of men who do NOT adhere to that quip-py ideal and do in fact, believe that relationships are to be respected, I will admit that I’ve encountered the other side. In previous lives, I’ve been the other side.

Indulge me for a moment. Before I got married, I was absolutely convinced that I would never participate in this “antiquated notion of societal normalcy” (yeah, I’d totally said that.) It was sort of on the level of eating red meat; while I could see the merit and even joy within the idea, I just innately felt that it wasn’t “for me.”
Still, even then, in my harshest, most cynical state, I would instinctively check for a ring on a man. It wasn’t that I was looking to marry that person; it was simply a “red light”, “green light” situation.

I guess the point of this catatonic rambling is that I am currently wondering if the ability to conveniently ignore context clues, the same clues that some seem to specifically seek out, doesn’t all boil down to ego.

Ego on everyone’s part (for we have already established that the Girl is not convinced that female’s are truly the “fair-er” sex.)

Still, a woman sees a wedding band and her ego screams “Oooohhh, challenge!” or (for the more morally sound) “Next!”

But perhaps, the ego of some men simply will not allow him to see a ring at all. Perhaps it is just part of that uniquely “male” distillation process. The same one that allows a 5’8” man with a lazy eye and a cheap suit to walk up to an exorbitantly hot woman and hit on her. He simply relies on his ego to remove the smallish details (in this case, her being completely out of his league), which might, in any way, threaten achievement of his ultimate goal (to sleep with her.) Could the presence of a ring be considered a mere speed bump? More easily hurtled through and reacted to only when necessary than regarded from the start?

Just hypothesizing on the mysteries…one at a time…

~ Girl

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The Girl has Very Poor Bedside Manner…

Posted on January 19, 2009

Great Wall of Girl

Great Wall of Girl

I think I am the friend that I’ve always needed and wanted but never had. Or something that doesn’t make me sound completely egotistical and self-righteous.
I will now (obviously) clarify.

But first, a parable…

There was once a couple (let’s call them “Water”) who were friendly with another couple (we’ll call them “Earth”.) The Water people had long been allies of Gentleman Earth, and were delighted when he found his Lady. Spring had sprung and love seemed to blossom exactly as it should (no cynical sarcasm here AT ALL.)
But just as the Earth had rotated round the Sun nearly three full times, the temperature started to change. It was almost imperceptible at first, but the Earth was cooling. Sometimes, things are a wee bit clearer from the Water. Sadly, Lady Earth seemed not to acknowledge this change. Unwilling? Unable? Hard to say.
But, the fact remained that the environment was quickly becoming inhospitable. The Water people opted to “Judge not, lest…” (you get it) and remain loyal to all in a nod toward blissful ignorance. They hoped to pretend that they didn’t see it. That they didn’t always know what a smooth operator Gentle Earth could be…
Sometimes Water people don’t like to make waves.

And now the Lady tearfully reveals her torrid tale of perfect love gone wrong. She describes all he said. All he didn’t say. What she suspects. What she knows. What she hopes.
Therein lies the problem. There is no “hope.”
And being one of the only people in her life who is a known associate of both parties in equal measure, I feel it necessary to tell her so.
For this Lady is one of those people who has many “close” friends. She has plenty (read: too many) girl friends in her life who will lend a sympathetic ear and reassure her that he “loves her more than anything” and that this was a “blip”, “a bump in the road”, a “phase”, or some other such nonsense.
“There’s no hope.” I state. “He’s not in love with you anymore.” “Your goals have completely diverged and you would be best to wrap this shit up and seek that which is closer to what YOU want.”
OK, so I didn’t say it EXACTLY like that, but that was the Cliffs Notes version.
I am simply stating the truth, with hope that she’ll acknowledge that which she most assuredly already knows somewhere deep within.
Further, I have a deep and abiding love for Gentleman Earth. He’s an ass, perhaps. But he is my friend and I adore him. If there were even an inkling within me, which stated that he wanted this “thing” with them to continue, I’d have played the role. But he doesn’t and I didn’t. I felt that my tough love approach was appropriate, if not easily digestible.

This is but one example in a growing file, of recent instances where I have felt the need to call a situation out as exactly what it is. Or at least how I see it to be. Even when the parties involved are seeking something else entirely.
It’s like this facet of me that I am reluctant to put a cap on. I’m not being deviant to make an impression. I don’t do it to cause friction. As I’ve previously mentioned, more times than not, I’ll opt out of opining aloud at all. Deaf ears are challenging to converse with.
But perhaps, when impassioned about a topic, I hope to offer options. The option to flip the script. The option to pinch the power from the source and redirect the current.

Please understand that I am the product of the liberal mafia. No one ever told me what to do.  Ever. Which is all well and good towards creating a “strong” “self-reliant” young adult, but is there not worth in guidance? I’ve broken up with more than one therapist based on the principle that if I am paying you $200 an hour, the least you can do is not answer a direct question with another question.

If the old adage about “that which we do not like in others being exactly what we grapple with within ourselves” is to be believed, then I think my “harsh” nature is completely justified.
Perhaps, at times, my own moral compass could’ve used a few verbal recalibrations. Maybe I’d have done well to know that others cared enough to tell me when I was out of line.  To know that “arrogant” and “self-assured” don’t exactly live in the same place. Or even in the same neighborhood.
I think on some level, I try to tell those closest to me what I think they need to hear instead of what they want to hear, because I was never given a definitive solution. I never had anyone else to blame or credit for my choices or their outcomes.

So here I am. Staid in my unpopular opinions. Encouraging Others to act decisively and with great confidence. Attempting to do for them, that which I seem unable to do for myself. It is a flaw in mankind as a whole, to be sure… this need to be correct. To act only when victory is assured. To chill in the transition until construction of the next phase is complete and seemingly move-in ready. Trouble is, it will never be complete. For the most part, we must be open to the idea of movement with expectation and even excitement regarding the unknown.  Of finding beauty in the undefined and strange.
I’m getting there.

“And I’ll shout and I’ll scream
But I’d rather not be seen
And I’ll hide away for another day…” ~ Zero 7 “In the Waiting Line”

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Marinate on This…

Posted on January 18, 2009

Take the time to let it all seep in...

Take the time to let it all seep in...

“I have wandered all my life, and I have also traveled; the difference between the two being this, that we wander for distraction, but we travel for fulfillment.” ~Hilaire Belloc

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On Sex…

Posted on January 14, 2009

See? Now you're thinking about it too...

See? Now you're thinking about it too...

The Girl loves the word. The Girl loves the act. The Girl loves the physical, the emotional, the set-up, the breakdown, and the aftermath. Fuck. Sex is awesome.
But sex has caused a major rift in my life.
You see, I am seriously considering disowning my gender.
Who are these women who constantly misrepresenting red-blooded American Girls like myself and participating in these “studies” where they get to “report” THEIR opinions on acts of corporal pleasure as those of all of womankind?!
Why must they speak out regarding the fact that they “rarely” think about sex (I think about it constantly) and how porn makes them uncomfortable (porn can be hot, as long as it’s not that gnarly, illegal stuff.)?
Here’s the thing, if you are feeling like sex is not important to you, whatever, but kindly shut up. Don’t share with your friendly neighborhood scientist. You are fucking with the curve. Trust me, contrary to the study that my “people” apparently “reported” to, 67% of us would NOT be happy having sex “less than 12 times a year.” Honestly.
Let’s use basic tricks of the trade, so that we can stand united on this stuff, ladies.
If you’ve started dating someone and you are playing the “courting” game, would you offer up the fact that you would rather go to the movies than have sex? No, no you would not. Thus, perhaps you should not be divulging these tidbits to published studies. Besides, who elected YOU the voice of a gender?
Please, let’s tow the company line on this. Do it for your sisters who are willing to admit and embrace their slightly more deviant sides.
Sincere apologies (not really) to anyone reading this who feels the Girl is merely being “provocative” for the sake of the thing, but this is a very real issue that threatens my membership within a gender group that I have always been very welcome in.
I’m sure we’ll come to some form of conclusion, but I for one am staid in my opinion on this one…
In the meanwhile, the Girl will totally see the 15-year-old boy next door’s daily number of sexually oriented thoughts and raise his number of fantasies.

Not at all obscene or depraved,
The Girl

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Introducing: “Marinate on This…”

Posted on January 13, 2009

Take the time to let it seep in...

Take the time to let it seep in...

“Axel,” replied the Professor with perfect coolness, “our situation is almost desperate; but there are some chances of deliverance, and it is these that I am considering. If at every instant we may perish, so at every instant we may be saved. Let us then be prepared to seize upon the smallest advantage.” ~Jules Verne    “Journey to the Center of the Earth”


“People don’t want their lives fixed. Nobody wants their problems solved. Their dramas. Their distractions. Their stories resolved. Their messes cleaned up. Because what would they have left? Just the big scary unknown.” ~ Chuck Palahniuk

I shall allow you, sweet reader, to determine on which side of the above marination, the Girl sits…

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Girl in the Ghetto: A Tale of Being Defiled by the System

Posted on January 13, 2009

Actual Photo. I'm ballsy when sick.

Actual Photo. I'm ballsy when sick.

I am having an anxiety attack. I cannot breathe. I am walking through the ghetto with tears streaming down my face, absently brandishing my wallet in one hand, while sobbing into my fancy, overpriced “smartphone.” I am wailing about the “injustice” that has been foisted upon me.
Innocent me.
Coddled me.
Woe is me.
Me who jokes about being a germaphobe and having OCD…
Me who is presently convinced that both “self-diagnosis” can now be logged as “official diagnosis.”

Where am I? How did I get here?
Let me back up.

I don’t get sick.
Sure, I see plenty of doctor’s, but mostly for pleasure as opposed to business.
I tell him that I can’t sleep. He writes me up a script for some Ambien. Pleasure.
I tell her that I am concerned about premature aging. She writes me an Rx for topical crème, which will ensure taut facial skin for decades to come. Pleasure.
Since these medicinal journeys are largely elective, I choose my physicians much as any New York girl chooses, well, anything…based on location.
I select those on the Upper East Side and those in Grammercy Park. I avoid Midtown because it’s irritating and avoid the Upper West Side, because there are too many uptight Jewish grandmother types with severe hypochondria. Location, Location, Location.

But now I’m sick. Really sick.

And in my 72nd hour of swollen glands, inability to swallow, fever, and horrid body aches, I deem a non-pleasure generated medical visit necessary.
I peruse the list of 43 “general practitioners” located within 2 miles of home. Location wise, Hoboken is the obvious choice. Like a trendy extension of SoHo, I could go to the doctor and then grab coffee and biscotti while I wait for my prescription to be filled. Genius.
But I can’t swallow the biscotti and I can’t smoke while I drink the coffee and I’d have to call the car service, which necessitates, you know…effort. And energy. Of which I have zero.
Based on the facts that Dr. Gilberto Gastell is a quick .7-mile jaunt from the Boat (a 13 minute walk according to Google Maps) and that he can see me at 2pm, I conclude that proximity (even in a way shady neighborhood) and the promise of drugs by 3pm, win the day. I’m off to meet Dr. Gil.

What a difference a half a mile can make. I cannot fathom that my city views and tree-lined sidewalks are technically so nearby.  I am in another world. I find the address and walk into the office, which can only be described as a half DMV, half Immigration Office.
I have to literally back out of the door, so that the other sick people can re-arrange themselves so that I might join their ravaged motley crew.
There are seven rows with six chairs in each row. Filled. Every last one. Plus several standees. They hack. And sneeze. And they smell. I’m not being mean. They just smell collectively…sick. I suddenly feel like I’m getting hives. I prepare to make a break. Hit up the local Walgreen’s. Sudafed, here I come.
But I can’t get out.  There is no visible path.
The lady with the severely broken English demands my insurance card, and it is then that I notice the Post Office-style plexiglass windows, complete with security door, which only opens on one side at a time. I gingerly lift my side, place my card within the safety barrier, and pull it down until it clicks shut. She takes the card and tosses a clipboard full of forms inside, and motions for me to run along and answer them.
I notice a sign printed in Spanish, with the loose English translation at the very bottom: “Please no ask how long wait. Doctor move fast as can.” Seriously. Can’t make this stuff up.
Just then, a nurse calls Hector Gutierrez into the office and in my first victory in what feels like weeks, Sr. Gutierrez vacates the chair directly next to the wall I am currently smooshed against. I seize the opportunity without bother for the usual analysis of those who might be more deserving of the accommodation. Sorry elderly women and sickly children. This one is mine. It’s MINE, bitches! Muhahahahahahaha! The lady next to me chooses that moment to begin extracting the wax from her ear. The dude next to her is doing the “wake yourself up” snore.  I root around my bag for my antibacterial hand sanitizer, and attempt to quell my thoughts that if I hadn’t arrived with some acutely heinous disease, I’d surely contracted at least seven by now.
I focus on the task at hand. Name. Date of Birth. Emergency Contact. Consent. Sign. Date.
I finish in record time and triumphantly deposit the clipboard in the lock box. The nurse requests my $30 co-pay, and I pull out my MasterCard just as a 300 pound man barrels into me after an unfortunate encounter with an errant chair leg. He gives me a dirty look, but not so much as a cursory “Lo Siento” and limps off, just as the nurse is informing me that this is a “cash-only establishment.”
What. The. Fuck.
This is a Doctor’s Office.
This is NOT illegal gambling. This is NOT a brothel. This is NOT your local drug den (though even THEY accept credit cards at this point…)
I stare back in disbelief, “Um, not even like, personal checks? Just cash?!”
“Si” and she slams the partition between us.
I knock timidly… “Um, hi… is there an ATM around here?”
“Down the block.” Slam.
I grab my coat silently cursing America and it’s shitty healthcare system, me and my “pioneering spirit” which begged to shun corporate life in favor of “freedom”, and it’s Freelancers Union Insurance PPO-grade medical practitioners. I brazenly shove my way out in search of an ATM.

And that’s how I got here. Having an anxiety attack. Not breathing. Walking through the ghetto, tears openly streaming… Not looking even a quarter as crazy as I feel.

In my defense, it was just all so MUCH. I haven’t had even a gulp of fresh air since Friday, and this was not exactly the biscotti-laden transition back into the world that I dreamt of…

That was nearly two hours ago.
Four ignored business calls, two over the top Spanish soap operas, and sixteen resolutions to burn every bit of clothing currently on my person and finally my name is called.

I emerge twenty minutes later with a prescription for 10 days worth of antibiotics.
Uhhhh, yeah… I could’ve done that.
I want a prescription pad for Christmas next year. Seriously. That would totally be the best gift ever. “The Prescription Pad… the gift that REALLY keeps giving!”

“A bodily disease, which we look upon as whole and entire within itself, may, after all, be but a symptom of some ailment in the spiritual part.” ~Nathaniel Hawthorne “The Scarlet Letter”

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Judge, Jury and the False Idealism of The Fairer Sex

Posted on January 11, 2009

The Fairer Sex? Hmph...

The Fairer Sex? Hmph...

Without getting into unnecessary and apparently falsified details, there was something of an alarming threat directed at my City earlier this week. I was informed by multiple unconnected yet reasonably reliable sources. I was asked to tell “only who I must.”

I did.

When I’d completed my best impression of Paul Revere meets Chicken Little, I consulted my gut regarding the validity of the “imminent danger.”
I was feeling something, but it wasn’t exactly registering as fear.
Not in the global sense, anyway. That familiar “terror chill” that I’d previously experienced when hazardous situations were at hand, wasn’t kicking up.
But something was stressing me…and I sensed that it might be more centralized than I’d been preparing for.

Before first light had officially broken, the tempest descended.
He presents himself as the exceedingly boisterous, unbidden party guest. The type whom no one who had actually been invited to the gathering will admit to bringing along.
He is at first quiet and soft, then suddenly shocking and reckless. He is pleasant and dignified then abrupt and wretched. He is unapologetically hypocritical. He is maddeningly hypothetical.

Dickens once said “It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade.”
And that is all I shall say on that.

I look to the sky. I mull the mysteries of Birds, Aero-planes, and other Wing-ed Objects…

The Boat is located on the water. Exactly where the flight patterns of all three major NYC airports intersect. Each day I observe aircrafts on their final approach. Sometimes, they are so near that I imagine that I can actually see the little kid with his face mashed against the window peering out at the cityscape below.

When they clouds hang low over they the metropolis (as they often do), the light from the descending jets illuminate the night sky long before the airplane itself is visible. The glow cuts the darkness and my mind drifts to the hundreds of souls on board. I contemplate the idea that each individual is anticipating. Some high on the possibilities which await. Some wishing they could just keep circling.
Everyone with a story. Everyone with a plan.

“I am a citizen of the world, and I have met, in my time, with so many different sorts of virtue, that I am puzzled, in my old age, to say which is the right sort and which is the wrong.” ~Wilkie Collins “The Woman in White”

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