The only reason I'm staying up as late as I can is because I know I'm waking up just after 5 in the morning for work. It's like I'm constantly willing to play games with myself to test my endurance or mental toughness. It does keep life more interesting, especially when the work is as brainless as my gig tomorrow. Anyway the emotions of music have swept me to distant shores and I haven't been able to crawl into bed and it is nearing midnight. Will I ever learn a lesson? Will I ever push myself to become responsible for my health and well-being? I'm fighting against myself and enjoying it, but the war must end. Evacuate the troops. I'm in search of a unified front to march me to higher ground.
Today was different from all my previous days but for many of the same reasons. I woke up early after getting to sleep late, worked a 13+ hour day and met a friend afterwards to talk about a writing project. I've only just made it home around 11pm and now I am playing with my new computer which will be used strictly for writing and editing as soon as I install those programs, which currently elude me. Once I figure it out I'm sure to achieve all my dreams. Let us all look forward to that glorious day, much like all other days yet fresher and more up-to-date.
Well, until I figure out how to control original content on my beautiful new website, you will be linked here to discover what it is you'd like to know about me. Feel free to read some selected thoughts and journal entries written by me over the last few years. Thanks for visiting!
While I was drying my laundry, a woman entered to begin washing hers. We barely spoke, both continuing our laundry process. I put quarters in a machine and listened to her shuffle to the washers, and noticed that the first thing she did after saying hello was to apologize as she moved past me. When I had shoved in all my coins and the dryers spun, I looked back at her and she caught my gaze, and I could feel the sadness behind her eyes. She was older than me, almost forty, her high cheek bones withered from wind or years. I whispered good night and she nodded, and I walked to the elevator and I felt her watching me. As I turned around before the elevator doors slid shut, I took note of her large blue laundry bag, her sandaled feet and frizzed hair, the loose cargo pants that nearly covered her slender brown ankles, the simple grey frock draped over her shoulders. This woman is a poem, I thought, and a mother. She is herself, her life is so different from mine. I can see her at home, lonely, or else frantically cooking a stovetop dinner for four. She must cry often, she must laugh tightly, she drinks tea, she makes beds, she writes letters that always go unanswered. In my memory I see a small dark mole on the left side of her face, just an inch below her eyelid. I think it is perfect, and then I am not sure it is real, and I am losing sight of her already, and I know we will never speak to each other again. Comfortably alone now, I can say anything I want to about my laundry woman, she is no longer herself but her essence as deciphered through my lens. She is my poem now, as well as herself. Here I will keep her, in this moment, before our clothes were clean, in the first and last time our eyes met, in the space before she entered the room.
There has been little progress in the last month, although now I am in a room in Inwood and I can see trees through my window and I feel slightly more at peace. I still don't want to see anyone. Fleeting contact with friends and a few phone calls suffice for me to feel socially plugged in. I haven't written anything either. I feel bad about that, and then I decide it's okay and I continue not to stretch those muscles. I wake up early and think about the earth turning and the day passing and wonder how I would most like to spend every day that I am here. If I can get closer to that, that could be the ultimate goal of living. Discovering what I want, that's a tricky one. How do I know what is compulsion and what my body truly desires? I'm thinking about that a lot lately, as in the last several days. What pleasure can I get out of denying myself the rewards of compulsive behavior? I don't need to eat as much, or masturbate, or sleep late, or smoke cigarettes or spend lots of money on almost nothing. It hurts to deny, but a few minutes later I can pat myself on the back because I've managed not to hamper my spirit with worldly trivialities. What does it add up to? Where am I going with this? The idea is to feel better in my body while I have it. I'll keep it that simple for now. I did jumping jacks this morning, and meditated for a few minutes before my mind became too agitated. Baby steps. Baby steps towards progress that I still don't understand the direction of.
I haven't seen anyone all day. I'm weirdly okay with it. I walked around the neighborhood, figuring I would try a Polish restaurant that yelp recommended to me. I guess it's closed on Mondays, so I resigned myself to walking through a quiet park in Bay Ridge, overlooking the Hudson. An hour and a slice of pizza later, I was back in the apartment, wondering what I should write today. So far, it's been nothing. I outlined an idea for a silly play. Maybe I'll write that. Anyway, I sat around, listened to Alec Baldwin's podcast, watched the new episode of Louie, thought about what I was doing with my life, which is not much. Didn't think about that for too long. Suddenly it's six hours later and I've got to do something before I go insane/do this again tomorrow. At least I emptied the trash. Tomorrow I've got to do laundry. I've simply got to. The night is still young and I'm not going anywhere. A full day of no one but me and disembodied voices from the internet. I guess I'll scratch out a few words onto paper and call it work, until I become exhausted with my ideas and fall peacefully asleep. Am I moving forward? It doesn't feel like that most of the time, but just by getting through another day I may have achieved something. When I know what it is I'll get back to you.
It's 8:15 and I'm still in the office. Do I bring my computer home to do some work tonight or not? Probably not...instead it's book-reading and journal-writing time. If I can even muster that much energy. Or I could put all my clothes away, fill empty drawers and hang up shirts. What's the point when I'm moving out next month anyway? So many unappealing options. Well, I've been here long enough. PEACE OUT suckas.
If I could I would stay naked in my room all day, thinking of nothing and dreaming of blooming flowers and listening to godly music. No more of that today, though. I am off to work, clothed, corners of my mouth downturned to blend in with the scene of drudgery presented by those around me. Someday I'll transcend this cycle. Today I'll be swept up in it.
Yeah, I'll start updating again. Writing about my life again. Because lately I haven't found much to write about, which only means that I haven't spent much time writing, because there is always something to write about, there is always action in a day that propels me off in the direction I'm going, and hopefully it is sacred to capture it here, or somewhere, or anywhere, before these fleeting moments are over and I'm looking back nostalgically at that crazy New York life I used to live when I was 24 and confused and flustered and exhilarated by everything crossing my path, this winding path that might lead to the edge of a cliff, to nowhere, or it might lead to the moon, or it might lead to the Taj Mahal, or I might end up right back where I am now. Wherever I'm going, I want to remember what I thought on the journey, because in the end, that's probably the more interesting part. Sorry for being out of touch. Not really though. I've just been living my life. Now I want to live my life and write my life simultaneously. That might make it feel a little more whole.
Sick. Gross. Go to a movie? Leave my computer at home. Sleep. Emergen C. I don't take anything for granted when my body feels so bad.