Better than a liger

I used to watch tons of TV a while back and was very into the show Heroes. I tend to like escapist stories, not because I’m dissatisfied with my life, but because I’m a bit of a dreamer. I can get very excited very easily with any one idea, only to realize that I’ve been day-dreaming for five minutes, and no, I’m not actually sky-diving in Hawaii tomorrow morning – snap out of it, crazy. I don’t know if the show is still on – I stopped watching it when it got too unrealistic for my taste [ahem] – but in its initial seasons, it spawned a few debates among friends as to what our ideal super powers would be.

Claire, the cheerleader, was pretty cool for obvious reasons; a cute young blonde who could fall off a building and manually reposition all her bones and heal wounds, thanks to her rapid cellular regeneration power. That’s badass. Kinda nice if you’re dating her too; she’ll have no bruises to report if you slap her around a little.

Biff

Space-time manipulation, Hiro’s power, is undoubtedly one of the top super powers. It’s my friend Dmitriy’s power of choice. He says he’d use it to win jiu-jitsu / MMA fights, fix stupid shit he’s done, etc. If I could travel through time, I’d pull a Biff Tannen in Back to the Future II; I’d go back a few years and bet on winning Mega Millions numbers, amassing a small [fucking huge] fortune. Then of course, there’s all the ninja training I’d do in preparation for my epic, gruesome murder of Hitler. Life would be sweet, being rich and able to fix any major fuck ups, but still… not exactly my ultimate wish. I don’t know why, maybe it just feels TOO powerful. Does that make sense?

Telepathy really doesn’t appeal to me. I once had a manipulative boyfriend who always left me wondering how the fuck I’d started with one idea and ended up scratching it to agree with his. It was a confusing and uncomfortable existence for a while, though I know better now. I know how to recognize and stay away from the type. Anyway, reading or controlling other people’s thoughts might be exciting for a few days, but I think it would get pretty lonely pretty quickly. It’s like being rich but ugly and boring; you know people are around you because of your money. I think I would feel like a cheating coward if I had to resort to mind control to get my way.

Flyyyyyyiiiiiiiinggggg!!! How. fucking. awesome. Seriously. That’s probably my #2 super power choice. First, of course, I’d do a shit-ton of travelling. I’d pick-pocket really rich people and just fly to escape – that’s how I’d fund my travels. After lots of aerial spying, I’d pick up Lloyd Blankfein and threaten to drop him in the middle of the ocean so he could die a torturous drowning death UNLESS he transferred millions of dollars to the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation right then and there. If he refused, I’d take just as much pleasure in dropping him in the water and taking pictures as I hover above his helpless evil bald head. I fear, however, that flying might just enable the escapist in me and lead me to fly away anytime shit doesn’t go my way. It’d be hard to maintain friendships and relationships. Fuck, I’d probably have a boyfriend in each continent, which surely would lead to lots of frustration and heart-break, thus fueling this cycle of social ineptitude. Not to mention I wouldn’t be able to keep it a secret, consequently spending the better part of my life in a cage in some laboratory. Flying’s not safe for me.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave" MY ASS, BITCH!

My ultimate power is the ability to control and manipulate technology.  I’d honestly feel like a GOD, but super inconspicuously. Lloyd Blankfein’s money would definitely be tapped into. Friends who need bank loans would suddenly be approved. Drunks leaving bars would find their cars inoperable, as would fuckers who tail-gate and/or drive recklessly around me. I’d print flight tickets at will, magically change my credit score, never have anything electronic break again, insert my name on Stanford University’s 2005 summa cum laude graduates list and kindly request a copy of my transcript… I could go on and on.  All of the little things I could change that would open massive doors to me and those I care about. And I’d be controlling computers – which begs the question: would I attempt having sex with robots?

This of course, is if no one else had super powers. Because if they did, my super power would be the ability to steal other people’s super powers.

Sad Psycho, I’ll miss you. Chicos who yell obscenities in Spanish; not so much

It’s embarrassing, but it’s true; I’m a bit of a Waltham townie. The people at More than Words know me for coming in all the time for a coffee and cookie, and the rockabilly dude who owns the Crescent St. laundromat waves when he sees me sitting by the window with my laptop and headphones – he always has something clever to say when we cross paths on my nightly Tori walks. Let’s not forget the Ecuadorians at Tara Restaurant – they must wonder how the fuck I “keep my figure” with all the empanadas I order on my fatty weeks. Planet Fatness, my friends. That’s where I burn (almost) all the cheesy calories while pretending not to stare at Brandeis University athletes who, in turn, make no apologies for staring at me in the weights room. I see you, boys.

Writing at home gets boring. Tori sucks me in with her cuteness, and I end up rubbing her belly for ten minutes. Then I eat. Then I turn up the music and get up to go to the bathroom… but on my way I see some nerf ammo, pick it up, locate the n-strike, load it up and shoot my roommate in the eyes. Not Tori. She’s my fuzzy-wuzzy wittle baby. I’m talking about this guy. He’s on my living room wall and we used to hang out a lot, when I had cable TV. Once I cancelled it, I began spending most of my at-home time in the bedroom. He took it personally – as he does with everything – and stopped talking to me. Sometimes I would forget he’s there and we’d go days without acknowledging each other’s presence.

I still think he’s a great guy – once I learned to see past the blood splatters,  I could tell he’s someone who just wants company. And he makes me feel really safe and empowered; like I could seriously stab an intruder to death.  So it was with a heavy heart that I sat on the living room sofa a few weeks ago – Tori and I, actually – and told him about the move. I thought it would be decent of us to give him some time to come to terms with the fact that we’re going away, forever. And that he’s not coming along. And that I may actually have to dispose of him if the next tenant doesn’t want him (and chances are, he/she won’t).  He wasn’t very happy, to say the least.

I mean, what do you want from me? You KNEW this apartment was a rental. And I told you about my history; I move around a lot, and I re-decorate every time. I never promised you forever! And I’m sorry, I really enjoy your company, but I just don’t want to live 10 miles away from the city anymore. I want to be closer to my other friends, closer to my favorite bookstores and theatres… you know? I wanna be closer to the T, and the BPL. And there just aren’t good sun-bathing spots around here. I hate having to drive INTO Brighton on summer Saturdays. I want to just LIVE there. Besides, there’s a fenced in pool for residents in the building. So when I don’t feel like walking to the Commons or the Northeastern campus, I can just sunbathe in my backyard with girlfriends. And Psycho – you more than anyone else know how I fucking hate doing the dishes. Moving into an apartment without a dishwasher was a huge mistake. You’re right by the kitchen and you see what a mess it is. This new place has a brand-new machine. I’ll finally be able to use real dishes instead of disposable ones, like an adult. I’m getting older, I need certain comforts in life, you know. I can’t not have friends over because my kitchen is a mess; that’s not cool. So, I’m sorry, but I gotta do what I gotta do.

And that was it. I could tell he wasn’t paying attention anymore; he zoned out.  I went back into the bedroom and didn’t come out for the rest of the night.

I understand he’s upset, but we still have two and a half months to spend together, and I’d like them to be cordial – fun, even. So I started shooting the nerf gun out in the living room with A Clockwork Orange playing on TV. He’s a sadist little fucker who couldn’t help but to start making small conversation with me. A couple of days later we were best friends again;  “Shoot me in the eyes!” he offered.

Things are finally back to normal. I’ll throw on a movie or music that we both enjoy and I’ll shoot his eyes. Sometimes I aim for his hand, or the middle of his forehead, or his ear. I tell him how my day went and he’ll tell me in detail about his latest homicidal thoughts.

I have to admit, I’m going to miss my roommate. Sad Psycho has been a great friend, and I really hope the new tenant sees the potential in him, despite the creepy first impression. But if I’m honest – I’m excited for the move.  If I’m going to be a townie, it can’t be in the suburbs, without a dishwasher. That’s too depressing. I need better bars, more wi-fi cafés, and a place to sunbathe without chicos pointing at me every five minutes. Not to mention it’s an excuse to finally get rid of my couch and buy a new one. I want to create a new environment, try a new color scheme.  Hopefully I’ll stay put for longer than 18 months this time. Breaking up is always hard to do.

[Intermission]

The Russians are so talented

Everything I Just Thought of Twenty Minutes Ago?

I’ve got a half dozen interconnected thoughts in my mind right now.  I can approach them from the outside; realizing their miniscule significance in light of all other thoughts and ideas floating around in the universe at this exact moment. Or I can approach them from the inside; from their confinements, from the tiny spores from whence they came – from what ails and over joys and overall consumes me at any given moment. And once I masticate and regurgitate them, hopefully they’ll escape my mind. At least until they’re reborn; but then they’re in a different shape at a different time and I consider them if not new, at least refurbished and fresh.  Understanding and embracing all this makes writing possible, freeing and enjoyable.

I’m usually in La La Land (isn’t everyone?). I’m not aloof; I’m aware and informed and I interact with the outside world rather well – I have no social ineptitude, is what I guess I want to emphasize. But I am most often in my own head. I *really* like it here. It makes my heart beat faster, gives me stomach butterflies, my breathing speeds up. Sometimes I feel so connected, tears come down my face, my palms gets sweaty and I lower my head and smile to myself (like now). It feels silly. It feels like a childish secret I’m keeping to myself. But this is when I feel most alive. I feel aware and connected and clear. My neck is tense at the same time as I feel the skin expanded. Does it make sense? It doesn’t have to, I don’t think. I know other people feel the same thing.

What brings the biggest smile to my face is living a moment where I feel this heightened state of existence with someone else who feels the same way.  When I can come out with my thoughts and expose myself in vulnerability to a whole ‘nother being whose eyes brighten, whose position shifts toward me, and who nods firmly in agreement because he’s there too. These are some of the most precious moments in life. I think my insatiability, eagerness, my energy come from a perpetual quest to live these moments. To connect. Most other things are secondary. Foolish or juvenile, this is how it is.

I’m reading two books at the moment; a collection of essays by R. W. Emerson and a collection of short writings by American writers under the title “Smoking, Drinking, and Screwing.” The former is a longer, infinitely eloquent rendition on the importance of the self; of being grounded in your skin, of trusting your mind, and of looking at the world from inside out. Within me is everything I need to understand the world and those around me. There is nothing you can feel that I can’t. If I can channel this energy and power, there is nothing I cannot do (yes, the man was insanely self-confident. But never does he come across as arrogant. Humility should never be a hindrance to self-actualization).  The other book, so appropriately titled, unapologetically recounts tales of indulgence. Some are explicit, carnal, embarrassingly frank. Juicy, if you will. I like them. I like them a lot. I read them at night, to the fantastic sounds of my dog’s breathing and exceptional music (more on that to come). Other stories are depictions of pathetic self-conflict: the hopeless romantic who drinks too much and cries too much over his inability to keep his loves; the single woman who’s too aware of how she’s viewed, of what is outwardly perceived as selfishness – it being only her conviction in self-reliance and acceptance of her physical needs without shame. I’m beginning to believe there is no place for shame.

These moments alone take me out of my body and lay me out on everything and everyone else. I’m not just me; I’m with this book, I’m with my dog, I’m sinking into my couch, I’m in the author’s mind and I’m telling him, “hey, I’m in here with you.”

I had a really great time a few weekends ago with friends. We stayed up day and night, indulging. We played as kids, we ate when we felt like it, we discussed books, people, tendencies, we watched movies, and when it was late and dark and quiet, we listened to beautiful music. It was my first time hearing these sounds put together just so. I remember being so very happy. I wanted to cry, but I held back (they’re boys, it would probably frighten them). I’ve been listening to the same music for the past two weeks.

There have been special moments like this before. Moments of inspiration with people who I feel are the most extraordinary I’ve met. Whether we are “friends” or not plays no part. There is something about them and me and the flow of circumstances that brought us together and allowed us to strip coats and refrain from time-keeping… we were being ourselves together.

And how is it that we come to such a moment? I don’t exactly walk into a room and start pouring my heart out. I’m quicker-than-most to cry, but tears don’t stream down my face without some intense internal experience… we come together through some tangible manifestation of human sentiment. I feel a feeling. You feel a feeling. They’re not quite exact because, well I’m me and you’re you. But however this feeling surfaces, there can be significant similarities between mine and yours. And it’s a piece of music, words from a story, movement in film, strokes on a canvas that bring my feeling and yours to the surface. And then we talk about it. And I understand myself better as I try to communicate it to you.  There is something fucking other-worldly about art. It’s beautiful and dangerous and man, it incites.

There is art in curing a disease, and building buildings, and in quietly doing a service that facilitates life (even if it goes mostly unnoticed). But I think my art lies with written word. There is nothing else I’ve cared to create with, to play with, to mold, and obsess with year in, year out. I absorb other forms, but this is the only way I know to passionately contribute. I know everyone has something. It just takes enough absorption and enough time standing still to let your nature figure out a way for the output. You (and I) may never win awards or make money off it. But creating and exposing is the recompense in itself. If we can understand that and be OK with the sweaty palms and the fast beating heart and the awful thoughts that come from outside and remain lodged in that dark little corner of our brain telling us… what does it matter what they tell us?… then we can indulge and create and contribute. And the happy outweighs all else.

He and this book and this coffee and this music
Should all come together
So I can sit in contentment
And hold the minutes as though they were hours.

Spout on Summer Sunday at Six

Rewind. It’s 10:30 on Saturday night. I took a nap and walked the dog, Brian’s still in the shower, so it’s Burger King fries because fat is still fuel. At Brian’s house, Ian’s found. Cups in the car and demon friend in tow (lunch bag style, my unwavering companion). At the venue we meet our friends and dance, dance, dance. Trance and bud move seamlessly through my system. He has a joint, no one else wants it so we go outside, and a roach is spared in his chest pocket. Back to dance, we make new friends. Two go home, we are Brian, Ian and me for salmon, crab legs, and eel. Back at the apartment we require a bigger apparatus, and take care of head. When restlessness kicks in, I get to church for rock n’ roll minus the sex. Bar manager and me plus joint, then it’s truly quite late. We agree we’ll meet outside the lot, but I get lost. Inside the garage, I try to pay for my parking, but the machine gives me a freebie. Find my way only to realize I have no gas. 24hr tow truck directs me to an open gas station; I’m saved. Inside I get a sandwich and a coffee, only to come out and see the truck driver waiting for me. He followed me. “My name’s Julian. Here’s my number. Call me if you need anything, at any time.” “Hey, can I call you now? I can’t get the gas to pump.” He does it for me. Good night forever, Julian. I’m driving away as I notice a kid standing on the side of road, in the rain, exactly where he was when I got there 20 minutes earlier. Shit. He looks feeble. “Excuse me, are you waiting for a ride?” “Umm I’m hoping for one.” “Where are you going?” “Allston” “OK, I’m going there too. Wanna hop in?” Hesitation. “I don’t want sex or money, I’m just offering you a ride.” “Yea, of course, thank you.” He’s 19 years old, plays bass in a band, but can’t seem to name a single musician as influence. I drive him home, turn around and get to Ash’s place. Waiting outside, Russell from apartment 1 and I become friends over a shared cigarette. Inside, karaoke machine doesn’t work, but hunger speaks loudly and we make: a hummus, baby carrot, tomatoes, cheese and olives wrap. One by one they drop, drool is complimentary but the delivery arrives and finally the mission is accomplished. I am fed. Drive home here I am, it’s 6am.

Innovators, Immitators, Idiots…

Originality is lost nearly as soon as it’s birthed. It is virtually impossible to remain single and unique – what you create now is copied an instant from now. A retrospective look is simply incapable of capturing the essence, context, feeling, strength, and experience of an innovative piece of.. anything. Arguably a paradox considering something cannot be conceived innovative without comparison. If it could, then everything would stand exclusively, untouchable in its singularity. In this case our analytical skills come to good use; we trust ourselves with the power to disseminate truth from lie; original from imitation; stimulating from bothering. A daunting task, but I digress. I feel an intense compulsion to remain on the cusp of new; a present and persistent committal to experience things in their entirety, with truth in feeling. It’s exhausting at times and often feels a type of trap. My greatest fear is not knowing why I follow the impulse and worst yet, where I’ll end up. My current goal, and truthfully in part borne out of this mentioned fear, is to track the process. The hope is that herein lies a journey worth narrating and that, via some miraculous, inexplicable supernatural force, the journey (and narration) resonate with other minds and manifest in… whatever vehicle fancies the receiver. Isn’t that the most beautiful prospective?

I’m holding on to dear life, with splitting nails dug into rough terrain, with might and sweat and full regard – as full as my 26yo aimless mind can – to my spot right on the brink. The wind rushes past, even swaying me, but incapable of penetrating or causing a drastic shift. I want to sink my toes into this spot, leaning my body over as deep as I can. Your wind, your rain, your noise and your chatter can’t move me. I want to know what I can see from here. I hope it’s something good.

Five Minutes… GO!

Once upon a time, baby is grabbed by the neck, cold hands, mean doctor, i’m freezing, i’m crying, wipe me off! mommy is warm, beautiful woman, i’m showered with love. my dad is my hero, my brother is my hero, my sister is annoying. play with the dog all day long, i love to learn, going to be a scientist or a veterinarian. beat up on the boys, daddy will protect me, grandmas spoil me, i’m a good liar, leader of the pack, i’m the funny girl, not the pretty girl, but that’s ok, ’cause i’m smarter than you. i’m on a fucking plane, never to go back, my friends, my dog, my house, my grandmas, my teachers, my catholic school uniform, my toys, my BARBIE HOUSE! my brother, my aunts, this is so unfair. new people are boring, but this place smells nice. new friends suck, everyone is rude, i miss my dog, she’s dead, i hate my mom. make new friends, learn a new language, independence, have a car, have a job, i can manipulate boys! kiss, kiss, make out, the system is fucked, fun now, fun later, your rules don’t apply to me, get into school, party time, 6am bedtime, miss my mom, damn it, best parents in the world. i’m a heart breaker and a manipulator, karma is a bitch, i’m crying and i miss you, gonna change the world, one kid at a time, meet my best friend, fall in love, life lived suspended, ignorance is bliss, please stop time, time catches up, we break up, boys boys boys, heart heals, reality sets in, school’s out forever, get a job, adult now, my own place, party time, charge it to my credit card. dog on a plane, companion forever, unemployed, bills to pay, apparently i’m awesome, employers love me, playing tricks on life, life plays tricks on me, fall in love, expect too much, not ready for this, ignore warning signs, perpetual disappointment, heart break, holy shit, thank you, i told you so, what were you thinking, age is more than a number, see the light, close my eyes, carve out a path, beat the pinata, smile at freedom, don’t want to settle, where do i go now?