The Void

I’ve been having a lot of thoughts lately. Big, soul searching thoughts. In many ways it wasn’t until K moved out in early December that I was able to move on, to grieve, and go through an emotional process that was otherwise delayed.

I’m not going to lie — it’s been tough. Just when I begin to think I’m gaining on new ground, I cycle back into the grief that claws at my heart and forces me to take a hard look at reality. Who am I? What do I want? Where am I going. Just your normal existential crap.

Bear with me, reader. As much as it pains me to wallow, wallow I must. For now. Continue reading

Transitioning

It was on Thursday, unable to breathe life back into our partnership and wanting to let it go, that I told K that it was over. The grass of Madison Square Park was the backdrop for our conversation. I just couldn’t go back; the mere thought was a struggle. Instead, focusing on a future where we could still love each other as friends, I chose to spare myself a painful alternative.

K, wrestling with our new reality, emailed me the next day with the question, “Who will we be when when we’re not us?”

The words shot through my already aching heart. Indeed, what identity is forged when a couple ceases to be? Do we revert back to a younger version or do we find ourselves anew, yet feeling strangely lacking?

As K and I slowly navigate the unfolding terrain of our separateness, I am aware that it’s one thing to talk about being done and another to experience it.

"Ho ho ho. Santa needs some whisky."

For me, 2008 was one of those years. Profound. Seismic. Transformational. As December counted down, I thought I would feel a eulogy stirring in me, fingers itching to explain the year with wistful poetic words or some black humor. It didn’t happen and so I marked the transition into 2009 quietly and home with Ms. K, the both of us recovering from bad colds as we watched episodes of The Wire.

Like many I was glad to see 2008 go. The year had started off so nicely — Ms. K and I spent our first real stretch of time together, cooked a nice dinner, and drank successive glasses of prosecco between sessions with our new toy from Babeland. A week later her life in Pennsylvania imploded while I was spending the night in the emergency room of St. Luke’s Roosevelt Hospital with a debilitating case of the flu. (Ah, memories. $5,000 only gets you the best in this city.) So we spent the rest of the year trying to put our lives back together. We moved in together. We fought. We made up. We realized we want to spend the rest of our lives together.

What do I want for 2009? I want to continue to build upon the foundation I created in 2008. Smart money choices and even smarter career choices. I want to laugh more. I want to reconnect with the world. I want to travel — dear GOD my body aches for a beach and sunshine! I want a lot of things, but mostly I am grateful for what I have because it was hard earned.

". . . for a brief moment, you can see the interwoven whole."


I had one of those powerful moments of clarity this weekend when the proverbial curtain got pulled back and I saw the inner workings of Universe. I saw the cogs, the gears, the wheels grinding. I saw their intricate quantum parts, but I also saw how they were working towards a greater purpose. I saw the missteps and the triumphs in my life and knew with razor sharpness that those events got me to where I am.

There was peace with this realization. I felt the release; I felt the turn towards a new direction; I felt that I was starting a new chapter in my life. The last time I had such a powerful epiphany was in 2003 when I came to New York for the first time. And looked what happened after that one! I up and moved to New York within a year.

I should note that tonight marks the Scorpio full moon and its energy has been active for a couple days now. This quote sums up exactly what I felt:


Sometimes full Moons feel like the end of an Act in your ongoing life story. This is true both on the personal and the global scale. It’s like in a movie where all the plot points are pulled together, and for a brief moment, you can see the interwoven whole. [link]


Dear readers, the house lights are dimming and the curtain is rising. Get comfortable because the next Act begins now.

"You have a package here."

My heart sank when I saw the dark patch on the foot of my duvet this morning. Then I discovered its mate further in the tangle of sheet and duvet, a massive wet area that could only mean that one of my cats had peed on my bed again. And fuck me if I hadn’t only ten minutes before cleaned out their box and put in fresh litter. I wanted to cry.

Damn you cats, damn you.

Tears of defeat soon subsided to rage as I angrily stripped my bed — the kind of anger that weighs heavy on the body and that is only good for smashing and killing. I eyed my cats Jasper and Theo when I was done with my dirty work. They huddled together under the coffee table watching me for any sudden movements. Who peed on my bed?? I demanded. No answer. Theo looked the guiltiest. I grumbled an empty threat of stuffing and mounting him before seeking out the Spray & Wash from the kitchen.

The rage took a while to subside. I was late to work and the look I gave all my coworkers was a hearty don’t fuck with me. Then I lost myself in a cup of coffee, two Advils, a spirited G-chat conversation, and my iTunes.

Around 1 pm I got a phone call on my work line. The extension flashed that it was the front desk calling. “You have a package here,” the receptionist said.

What? A package? I wasn’t expecting a package. How strange.

The route it takes me to walk to reception means that the desk is in full view as I approach. Instead of some nondescript cardboard box or envelope awaiting me, I was met with the sight of a rectangular base of cellophane and tissue paper cradling two dozen roses of reds, oranges, pinks, and vermilions.


Were they for me? Were the cats trying to apologize?? I stared at the card in shock, blushing as red as the flowers. Yes, they were definitely for me. There was no mistaking my name typed on the rectangle of paper dangling from a brown bow.


“Just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you. XO”


Woah. Someone sent me flowers. Ms. K sent me flowers. But wait, I never get flowers. I am like the girl who always gets picked last for team sports only. But now it’s like I got an enviable top draft. Me? Me?? I got a little teary eyed. The receptionist smirked at me as I gathered them in my arms, blushing deeply.

This is the first time in my life a lover has sent me flowers. Seriously. As my best friend Dennise put it:


“Wow, she doesn’t want you to die AND she sends you flowers. I think my bones may be taking a shine to her . . .”

"You are the mac daddy of desserts."

I had an epiphany last night as I stood in the cold, steady drizzle of Central Park while watching Rufus Wainwright play SummerStage. It’s so refreshing to have artists back in my life. Although I already have a wonderfully strong cadre of women around me, the newest addition of Sinclair and Bird has stimulated a part of my creative brain that I hadn’t realized was not getting any love and probably has not been since I was a Studio Art major in college. As a stimulation junkie (the intellectual variety), my brain is very happy to have made these new connections — especially since Bird said that if she were to choose anyone to be her Siamese twin, she’d choose me. Sniffle.

Speaking of Rufus Wainwright, yesterday marked the third time I had seen him in concert and the first time whilst standing in the rain. And no offense to Maire, who graciously facilitated the evening, but I began to wonder if it was worth the effort as my gray hoodie grew increasingly damp despite huddling under an umbrella. But my doubts vanished when Rufus did an encore dressed as Judy Garland complete with choreographed dance numbers. A-fucking-mazing.

Now this is the point where I talk about the bottle of lube and half dozen pairs of black latex gloves I had stashed in my purse. They were a gift from Maire who along with Sinclair are my new sex positive role models, although I’m a little intimidated at the prospect of trying to work the whole lube avec latex gloves into my daily activities. And after the smutty conversations we were all having before and during the Rufus Wainwright conversation, I’ve come to the sobering realization that I’ve barely had the chance to wave my kink flag. As Maire said last night, “No more vanilla girls.”

At least I can console myself in the fact that I have been proclaimed the mac daddy of desserts because of my blueberry crumble making skillz.

"Third time’s a charm."

I think “Clair de Lune” by Claude Debussy is one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever created and I don’t care if you all think it’s as trite as a Impressionist painting. If OFAG the Musical ever sees the light of day, the song will surely have a feature, perhaps when our heroine spies a beautiful woman at the end of an unusually empty Manhattan street. The air will be crisp, the nighttime sky clear, and the song will play like a soundtrack. But until then I think you all should take five minutes of your time, shut off the mobile phone and the lights, put on the headphones, and close your eyes as you listen to “Clair de Lune” while imagining everything in the world fading away.

As it is almost midnight here and I have the song playing. It makes me forget that spent my entire Sunday working on freelance design, that my body aches from my desk chair, that I need to do laundry, that I have nothing to wear for my date tomorrow, that I ran out of cat food, that I think I may have my first ever UTI, that I have a crush on someone that I shouldn’t, that there is no more Harry Potter to read, that I have to go back to work tomorrow but what I really want to do is go on vacation, or stay at home and write and forget that I’m broke. It makes me forget all my worries, troubles, consternations, and lets me melt into one of the most beautiful songs ever written. I makes me wish that I was in a dark room and completely oblivious to the world at large, tricking myself into believing that I am floating amongst the stars.

". . . oh time’s a crooked bow"

There’s nothing better than Spring in New York. People are everywhere, happy, laughing, enjoying drinks at a rare outside table, clamoring onto roofs to watch the sun set and to smoke that last cigarette. Yesterday was one of those evenings — clear sky, cool evening air as my friend Wendy and I walked past Washington Square Park. Everything felt satisfying and when we took a cab back to Park Slope from the restaurant Blue Hill, the air running through the open window of the cab as we crossed the Manhattan Bridge, I felt so happy — apart from not being able to sleep lately.

I’ve come to the realization that I can’t remember the last time I slept through the night. Maybe it’s why it now takes two cups of Gorilla Coffee to get me through the morning, but my sleeping pattern has become woefully punctuated by cat chases, car horns, the occasional gunshots, and my next door neighbor’s alarm clock that somehow bleeds its sound through brick and plaster. Last night was especially bad as my cats Jasper and Theo spent the night crashing about the apartment. Around 3 am or so, after waking up to inspect what sounded like one of my lamps falling over and muttering obscenities angrily, I let the cats into the kitchen hoping it would calm their restlessness.

I just wanted to sleep.

But if there was an unintended consequence to navigating a darkened kitchen at three in the morning it was the rare glimpse of urban tranquility — dark blues of a perfectly clear sky over slumbering Brooklyn homes and the fierce brightness of a very full moon. I stood there and watched as the silhouette of a neighbor’s tree, moving softly with wind, sent patterns of moonlight against my body. The bright spot of a planet — either Venus or Jupiter — reminded me of astronomy books and long discarded aspirations. Calmed, I returned to bed and slept till my alarm rang for 7 am, two cats curled up closely next to me.

This is my 400th post, two and a half years of my life laid bare since leaving my hometown of Washington, DC. How many words is that? How many rants? How many entries where I opened myself up to people as far away as Australia and Croatia, revealing insecurities and heartbreak? Thank you all for reading and I do hope it’s been somewhat entertaining. We now return to our regularly scheduled screwball adventures in OFAG.