Bitter: Saying goodbye to Machiris :(.
Sweet: Meeting strangers on the train is perhaps one of the most special things about NY. Icy stares make me smile. Shared looks of horror when a fellow commuter does something rude or idiotic are appreciated. And occasionally you meet an interesting person. A person who lightens your mood. A person who reminds you of how small this world really is. This morning that person was named G. Sanchez. Mr. Sanchez and I were doing the subway waltz, careful to not encroach on each other’s “space” while balancing in between other floating bodies. The morning commute is always a bitch. At 96th street, a space in the corner opened up. Mr. Sanchez asked me if I wanted it, but I could tell he really did, and so I waved him on. Appreciative, he made small talk about it being the best place to stand on the train. Then he noticed the kindle in my hands, and said “Ah, so that’s the Kindle!” I smiled and nodded, familiar with this conversation starter, as many eyes are drawn to my shiny white e-book reader. “I’d like to get one of those. Actually I’d like to get 100s of those,” he said. “I’m a librarian at a college and I think our students could really benefit from going digital. Technology is the new world. No one wants to read books anymore.” I pondered in my head whether to acknowledge our chance similarity, or to let it go. On the one hand, I wanted to read my book, and I had no idea how long he’d be on the train. As I was getting off at 14th, it could be an 82-block conversation. On the other hand, how often am I going to meet a librarian on the train, so new in my own library education? “What school do you work at?” I asked. “Oh a small school, very small. LIM, we’re a fashion business school” he explained. Hm. I’m sure I’ve never heard of you but what the hell, “Ah—I just started Library School.” His interest piqued. We chatted about my school, then his, about technology and libraries and books. Strangers on the otherwise quiet train kept their heads down, but no doubt listened to the odd conversation between the sheik older man and the Friday-Jeans young lady. Finally, he took his card out of his wallet and handed it to me, offering to help me get an internship if I called him. I wonder if he saw my eyes flutter when I read “Director of Library Services” at the top of his card. I told him my name, he bid me good luck, and he was off. A sign.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Obsession is a wild thing.
Maybe it’s because I’ve been feeling numb for so long now that I’ve forgotten what physical emotions feel like—or maybe I am developing a super immunity against the chemical receptor blockers that I down every morning—but something is different. Something is stewing, burning, catching fire…
The first time was obvious. Like a slap in the face, it couldn’t be mistaken. I was crouched on a stool in my kitchen hovering over a stack of mail when I suddenly felt the urge to cry. A deep sorrow took hold of my frame, knotting my stomach and stealing my breath. My thoughts soared as they searched for an explanation—a name, a date, a memory—something that could have triggered the sadness as easily as if a button had been pressed. I stood in a daze, about to take myself to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and wait for the tears, when the distress disappeared as abruptly as it had come.
The second time was something else entirely. It began with what may have been a psychic premonition. Seated at my work desk, I was, as per usual, cold. The square shaped office was not exactly inviting, as the painted cement walls and the mustard-color floor tiles were reminiscent of the jailhouse they used to accommodate. Though 150 miles of thruway separated me from my somewhat intimidating and incredibly unpredictable fright of a boss, her icy voice was never far from my thoughts. As I moved my computer cursor across the monitor and toward the icon for my office e-mail, a flush of nerves overtook my senses. This time the sensation was marked largely by nausea—a panic screamed through my veins and stopped at my heart. I could not click on the icon. My pointer finger froze on the left click of the mouse and I stared blankly at the screen. Something felt wrong—dooming. Menacing. It would not be the first time to find a message filled with chastisement and disdain in my inbox. A surge of bravado pressured my finger down and the e-mail client fluttered open. No new mail. I waited for relief that didn’t come. My center churned and my heart rate raced. I felt trapped in a stiff body, afraid to move, as if the impending doom could be elicited by the slightest pulse. And then the phone rang, the piercing ring jolting my body with an awkward spasm. My co-workers stared. Good morning, Downstate Housing Office. The icy voice rattled off a slew of fragmented instructions. My note-taking hand twitched as it tried to keep up with the voice. And then she was gone. I expected the nausea to subside with the disconnection of the phone call, but it lingered. A heavy weight pressed on my chest and I questioned my sanity. Busy work sufficed as distraction, and hours later I realized that at some point, I had found equilibrium. It had ended without notice.
The third, the fourth, fifth, the tenth times have all been slight variations of the first two—always extremely physical, always with a heightened mental awareness, and never with logical cause or explanation. Electric waves of excitement, bursts of inexplicable happiness, hugs of warmth, torrents of anger—these have all found me at the oddest, most seemingly insignificant of moments. While sitting on the train, while putting on eye-shadow, while ordering a drink, while talking to a friend. I have interrupted others midsentence for the sheer fact that I cannot listen. I cannot help but to associate the visceral responses with the words that they speak. She explains the low point of her day and I have the urge to run around the room, overcome with excess energy. He rants passionately about a new project, and I long to hug him. Strangers ask me for directions, and I want join them.
When it first began I was frightened, afraid that I was slipping, moving backward in time toward the darkest of days. As the emotions evolved, matured, expanded, I realized a new expectation—a desire to feel with more power, more passion. Now as my heart flutters and my breath quickens, a smirk escapes my lips. This is not a return to normalcy. This is new. This is life. This is being alive and experiencing everything through everyone. A gift with which I have become wildly obsessed. An experience I wish could transcend every moment, every relationship. A part of me that words will never, could never do justice…but that forces me to try.
The first time was obvious. Like a slap in the face, it couldn’t be mistaken. I was crouched on a stool in my kitchen hovering over a stack of mail when I suddenly felt the urge to cry. A deep sorrow took hold of my frame, knotting my stomach and stealing my breath. My thoughts soared as they searched for an explanation—a name, a date, a memory—something that could have triggered the sadness as easily as if a button had been pressed. I stood in a daze, about to take myself to the bathroom to splash cold water on my face and wait for the tears, when the distress disappeared as abruptly as it had come.
The second time was something else entirely. It began with what may have been a psychic premonition. Seated at my work desk, I was, as per usual, cold. The square shaped office was not exactly inviting, as the painted cement walls and the mustard-color floor tiles were reminiscent of the jailhouse they used to accommodate. Though 150 miles of thruway separated me from my somewhat intimidating and incredibly unpredictable fright of a boss, her icy voice was never far from my thoughts. As I moved my computer cursor across the monitor and toward the icon for my office e-mail, a flush of nerves overtook my senses. This time the sensation was marked largely by nausea—a panic screamed through my veins and stopped at my heart. I could not click on the icon. My pointer finger froze on the left click of the mouse and I stared blankly at the screen. Something felt wrong—dooming. Menacing. It would not be the first time to find a message filled with chastisement and disdain in my inbox. A surge of bravado pressured my finger down and the e-mail client fluttered open. No new mail. I waited for relief that didn’t come. My center churned and my heart rate raced. I felt trapped in a stiff body, afraid to move, as if the impending doom could be elicited by the slightest pulse. And then the phone rang, the piercing ring jolting my body with an awkward spasm. My co-workers stared. Good morning, Downstate Housing Office. The icy voice rattled off a slew of fragmented instructions. My note-taking hand twitched as it tried to keep up with the voice. And then she was gone. I expected the nausea to subside with the disconnection of the phone call, but it lingered. A heavy weight pressed on my chest and I questioned my sanity. Busy work sufficed as distraction, and hours later I realized that at some point, I had found equilibrium. It had ended without notice.
The third, the fourth, fifth, the tenth times have all been slight variations of the first two—always extremely physical, always with a heightened mental awareness, and never with logical cause or explanation. Electric waves of excitement, bursts of inexplicable happiness, hugs of warmth, torrents of anger—these have all found me at the oddest, most seemingly insignificant of moments. While sitting on the train, while putting on eye-shadow, while ordering a drink, while talking to a friend. I have interrupted others midsentence for the sheer fact that I cannot listen. I cannot help but to associate the visceral responses with the words that they speak. She explains the low point of her day and I have the urge to run around the room, overcome with excess energy. He rants passionately about a new project, and I long to hug him. Strangers ask me for directions, and I want join them.
When it first began I was frightened, afraid that I was slipping, moving backward in time toward the darkest of days. As the emotions evolved, matured, expanded, I realized a new expectation—a desire to feel with more power, more passion. Now as my heart flutters and my breath quickens, a smirk escapes my lips. This is not a return to normalcy. This is new. This is life. This is being alive and experiencing everything through everyone. A gift with which I have become wildly obsessed. An experience I wish could transcend every moment, every relationship. A part of me that words will never, could never do justice…but that forces me to try.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Screw Girl
The hard linoleum was cold under her calves as she adjusted her position. Sitting cross-legged among sparse piles of sawdust behind the high school auditorium's stage was quickly losing its perks. Taking a break from pretending to hammer a nail into a two-by-four, she patted her skin, trying to regain blood flow in her numb limbs. Her thoughts were distant from the set design project assigned to her, floating beyond the double doors that were inches from where she sat, out onto the stage. The sound of amateur fingers pounding piano keys, fingers that should have been hers, vibrated through the air. The director's pause to note a flawed line, a line that should have been hers, interrupted the shaky song. And then a faint whimper, followed closely by a husky chuckle, found her ear.
Her interest piqued as she raised her eyes to the double-doors, her hands still flat against her calves. The low rumble of footsteps jogging up the stairs on the other side of the doors pushed her into a slight panic. There was a silent pause, and then a brief knock. The sound of the metal bar releasing the hinge clicked in her ear as the left door pushed slightly open, allowing a paper-thin stream of light to awaken the dark backstage. She crouched in attempt to stand, but her lifeless legs only stung with prickly pain, temporarily frozen in place.
An eye emerged between the two doors. "Hello?" a voice asked cautiously, as hands pushed more forcibly now on the door. His voice. She winced in mild discomfort as the sharp corner of the door nudged her thigh. The eye scanned down to find the object blocking its entry. A sly grin was now visible under the eye. "Excuse me," he whispered. In the same second the left door closed, the right opened. Two eyes now stared down at her, waiting. The grin reappeared shortly, before locks of shoulder-length auburn hair fell before it, covering it from view. He shook his head directing the loose strands back into place, before combing his hair instinctively with his free hand. "Um, I found this inbetween seat cushions out there," he said while placing his hand out in her view, holding a long, slightly rusted black screw. He waited. She stared, her faced flushed in confusion. The grin returned, loosening into a smile. "Well, actually," he started, pausing to glance back toward the hidden auditorium, "Heather found it. She sat on it." He chuckled. The whimper made sense now.
"So..." he hesitated. Her brain jolted to the present.
"Right," she murmured. "Sorry..." She leaned forward and stretched her hand out to receive the metal screw. Rather than handing it to her, he jerked his free hand from his side and clasped hers with his. In a surprisingly smooth movement, he pulled her to a standing position. The blood rushed down into her still sleeping legs. Shock and discomfort fluttered over her face before she regained composure. Act normal, she thought to herself. But the grin, his grin, ruined any chance normalcy might have had. "Right," she said louder now, nodding her head. After brushing off her shorts and smoothing out her shirt, she reached for the screw, realizing her hand was still in his. She pulled it away to take the screw. "Thanks for bringing it back here," she managed, impressed with her ability to speak. "I'll make sure it gets put away." He detected the false importance in her voice and laughed.
"Please, do," he cooed. His eyes, visibly green now, moved together as a look of frustration overtook his face. "You...look familiar," he suggested. Her thoughts ran wild for a brief moment, racking her brain for some non-existent connection that could sustain the conversation. Coming up empty, she shrugged and shyly smiled. He looked down at his empty hands, realizing the screw was delivered and his job was done. He placed his hand back on the door and turned to leave. She shifted her body to parallel his. He coughed. "I'm Jay, by the way," he offered, waiting.
Her lips parted, hesitating while her mind located those two words that should be so familiar by now. "I'm-" she started, interrupted by a loud call from beyond the doors.
"JAY!" The director called. "Line!" Jay's head twitched as he pulled the large door completely open, flooding the backstage in an awkward gold light. As he stepped through, he turned slightly back and grinned.
"See you later, Screw Girl." He chuckled. The dark returned. She smiled, and looked down at the screw in her hand. Screw Girl, she winced. Shaking her head, she stepped forward to throw the piece into a bucket of others just like it. But before she could release her grip, the grin, his grin, flashed in her mind's eye. Smirking, she pushed the screw down into her back pocket and returned to her hunched position over the two-by-four.
Her interest piqued as she raised her eyes to the double-doors, her hands still flat against her calves. The low rumble of footsteps jogging up the stairs on the other side of the doors pushed her into a slight panic. There was a silent pause, and then a brief knock. The sound of the metal bar releasing the hinge clicked in her ear as the left door pushed slightly open, allowing a paper-thin stream of light to awaken the dark backstage. She crouched in attempt to stand, but her lifeless legs only stung with prickly pain, temporarily frozen in place.
An eye emerged between the two doors. "Hello?" a voice asked cautiously, as hands pushed more forcibly now on the door. His voice. She winced in mild discomfort as the sharp corner of the door nudged her thigh. The eye scanned down to find the object blocking its entry. A sly grin was now visible under the eye. "Excuse me," he whispered. In the same second the left door closed, the right opened. Two eyes now stared down at her, waiting. The grin reappeared shortly, before locks of shoulder-length auburn hair fell before it, covering it from view. He shook his head directing the loose strands back into place, before combing his hair instinctively with his free hand. "Um, I found this inbetween seat cushions out there," he said while placing his hand out in her view, holding a long, slightly rusted black screw. He waited. She stared, her faced flushed in confusion. The grin returned, loosening into a smile. "Well, actually," he started, pausing to glance back toward the hidden auditorium, "Heather found it. She sat on it." He chuckled. The whimper made sense now.
"So..." he hesitated. Her brain jolted to the present.
"Right," she murmured. "Sorry..." She leaned forward and stretched her hand out to receive the metal screw. Rather than handing it to her, he jerked his free hand from his side and clasped hers with his. In a surprisingly smooth movement, he pulled her to a standing position. The blood rushed down into her still sleeping legs. Shock and discomfort fluttered over her face before she regained composure. Act normal, she thought to herself. But the grin, his grin, ruined any chance normalcy might have had. "Right," she said louder now, nodding her head. After brushing off her shorts and smoothing out her shirt, she reached for the screw, realizing her hand was still in his. She pulled it away to take the screw. "Thanks for bringing it back here," she managed, impressed with her ability to speak. "I'll make sure it gets put away." He detected the false importance in her voice and laughed.
"Please, do," he cooed. His eyes, visibly green now, moved together as a look of frustration overtook his face. "You...look familiar," he suggested. Her thoughts ran wild for a brief moment, racking her brain for some non-existent connection that could sustain the conversation. Coming up empty, she shrugged and shyly smiled. He looked down at his empty hands, realizing the screw was delivered and his job was done. He placed his hand back on the door and turned to leave. She shifted her body to parallel his. He coughed. "I'm Jay, by the way," he offered, waiting.
Her lips parted, hesitating while her mind located those two words that should be so familiar by now. "I'm-" she started, interrupted by a loud call from beyond the doors.
"JAY!" The director called. "Line!" Jay's head twitched as he pulled the large door completely open, flooding the backstage in an awkward gold light. As he stepped through, he turned slightly back and grinned.
"See you later, Screw Girl." He chuckled. The dark returned. She smiled, and looked down at the screw in her hand. Screw Girl, she winced. Shaking her head, she stepped forward to throw the piece into a bucket of others just like it. But before she could release her grip, the grin, his grin, flashed in her mind's eye. Smirking, she pushed the screw down into her back pocket and returned to her hunched position over the two-by-four.
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