ee cummings

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness

Mulligan Mobsters

So I stumbled across this site today... thought you would be amused by it. I was. My name is The Gimp, but don't mess with my 'cos my brother is The Enforcer, my mom Killer and my dad The Mortician. I may not be much, but my whole crew will FUCK YOU UP.

A Russian Lesbian Witch; the Worst Kind

Because I have a backyard and because I have food waste and because I've had the curiousity for some time now, I thought it only logical to have a compost pile.

My flatmate OK'd the idea, but said we can't just throw our food waste in a pile in the backyard and call it a "compost pile," that we would have to put a little more effort into it. So I've been doing research today on how to get this little project started. A friend suggested I "wander around Queens with a heavy duty trash bag and ask people for all of their yard waste." I thought it might be a good way to get to know the neighbors but that I might impress upon them the wrong idea of me. Then again, is that such a bad idea of me to have?

I'm told that cats will not compost (unless, of course, they're dead). But that a dead/decaying creature would make THE PERFECT START to a compost pile.

life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life...

Dream Log: #2

I'm trying to make it a habit to write down my dreams. I know some of you find them interesting and, on the days when I have nothing else to say, this can at least fill the void.

Pulled (and edited) from my dream journal this morning:

Last night I dreamed I had gone to Ireland to visit for two weeks, telling my folks I was leaving just before I left. When I got there I was with a companion, nameless and shy she came with me to watch me act in a play (it was the only work I could find). I wasn't coming back to America anytime soon; my parents were disappointed but understanding.

The British Chick came to the play and sat next to my friend. They were meeting for the first time, though they had known each other online. The Brit Chick was her superfriendly self, invading personal space and making the girl uncomfortable and nervous.

After the play, we all went out golfing; Brit Chick had all her camera supplies in tote (3 or 4 bags worth), to which I pissed and moaned at the thought of being photographed. Instead of playing golf, we walked 5 or 6 holes beyond all the other golfers (actors from my play) to a quiet spot with no one else around, upon which Brit Chick stripped to be more comfortable (it was all non-sexual at this point). I figured this was typical Brit Chick attire and tried to relax in her presence. Bear in mind we're meeting for the first time, so I had all the flutteries of first time meetings and now she was naked before me. Thankfully, she put her pants on (but was still topless). I relaxed and was writing something off to the side, leaning against a wall. She approached me and 'greeted me proper,' pressing her body against me. I suddenly became very aware of my horrendous garlic breath (I had a garlic sauce in my pasta before going to bed last night) and quickly excused myself to brush my teeth.

Once in a public washroom, I took off all my clothes (don't ask me why) and began brushing my teeth. Suddenly a Dutch-looking girl (sorry!) walked in and stood before me. I thought she might have been The Other Dutchie who I was supposed to meet up with, but wasn't sure if I recognised her. Naturally, standing naked made me nervous, but the girl just went about her way, showing me the contents of the package she had with her, asking me to help her write a love note to the recipient. I deduced that this was The Other Dutchie's Ex and vaguely considered advising her not to bother, that she had moved on, when I woke up.

Seasons Spent Lying There

Earlier today, as I was writing the previous post while lying, stomach down, on a futon/my bed/living room sofa/former bed of housemate, my face was about 5 inches from the sheet. I was propped up on a pillow and my chin was resting on it while I wrote.

A few minutes into writing, I detected a faint smell. Not a vile one, mind you, just a persistent one I had not noticed before. As I breathed it in, I realised a familiarity about it. Not knowing from whence it came, I sniffed at my pillow and hand looking for clues to its origin in an attempt to discern the memory seeping into my nostrils. Without recognition, I went back to writing.

Another minute later, I could think of nothing but the smell and my mind raced to figure out its cause. It was familiar and unfamiliar all at once, like my name misspelled or misspoken. There was a very wonted aspect of the scent, but not one to which I had been intimately acquainted. I sat up and sniffed the air heavily, my mind scanning all the reasons for its existence. Once there, the smell was completely gone, relegated, I decided, only to that corner of the bed, wiped there, no doubt, by a hand in need of a dry surface.

Unfamiliar Ground

I have never understood depression. That is, until I realised I had it. I always believed that our minds are strong enough to overcome any doubts or "emotional weaknesses." I never knew what it was to not be able to function until I couldn't.

No, my depression isn't filled with days laying in bed crying and starving myself. My depression isn't an overall negative or hopeless view of the world. My depression isn't filled with self-hatred or suicidal thoughts. It is not fueled with drug use or alcohol abuse (though, sometimes, it is). My depression is not without occasional joy.

My depression gives me apathy, causes me to lose interest in everything I was enamoured with before. My depression keeps me from answering the phone, returning phone calls and, when I do, I dread making them. My depression is an utter drain of my energy. I can't funtion on depression. I can't do schoolwork or get a job becauase I can't send emails or make the phone call. My depression keeps me in the house all day, even on glorious Indian Summer days. I feel completely powerless. I am frightened by depression. I don't want to give it power, but it is powerful.

Some days are, of course, better than others. I can still write, though that ability fluctuates. I can still laugh and make others laugh, but only when I have the energy to talk to them in the first place.

I have spent the last two months not understanding my condition, wondering what was wrong with me. I have felt shame and all manner of bad about myself. I have avoided friends and family in an attemptt to hide from myself and from their disappointment, as well as my own. I couldn't get an internship, not because of procrastination (procrastination is only procrastination if you eventually actually go through with the task), but because I didn't have the energy to do the necessary work to accomplish my goal. I am doing poorly in my English course not because it is too difficult, but because I can't find the will to work.

Because I never believed depression is a legitimate illness, I have a hard time accepting it as an excuse for my behaviour. Maybe you prefer to call depression "laziness." If so, then laziness is debilitating and I need help overcoming it. And few words of encouragement have helped thusfar, so please don't tell me to 'just do it.' It's not that simple. I mean, I know it is, but it's just not.

Last night I had a ritual in the backyard to help rid me of my Love Demons. I burned letters never sent to clease my mind of my fixation. I released myself from my own shackles, maybe I even released her in some way. Then I came inside and took a candle-lit bubble bath to physically cleanse my body, taking time to admire my newly gained weight and stretchmarks (beautymarks). I came to bed and fell asleep listening to Tori and had dreams where I was thrust into a situation of living with people I didn't know, à la The Real World or Fear Factor. In the dream I took out mounds and mounds of trash. In fact, aside from choosing a turkey, that was the focus of the dream. I thought about what a wonderful metaphor that was, how getting out of this depression will require a lot of trash removal and how, last night, I was actually taking out the emotional trash I had been pack-ratting all the way from janvier.

Now that I understand my condition better, I feel better equipped to handle it. I don't expect you to understand it, but ask that you are patient with me as I move through it. For the time being, I am planning a period of understanding and absorption. I want to try to slog through this without the aide of prescription medication, though if it comes to that it comes to that. This is a strange place for me to be, but rather than fear and hide from it I'm going to accept and welcome it in. Perhaps I need this before I can function again at full tilt. My worry is that if I don't indulge this, I will never be at full strength again.

If you'll excuse me I am now going to get dressed, open the shutters and let out the cats.

Keeping You Posted

Just so you guys don't think I'm intentionally keeping you in the dark or puposely depriving you, I have created another blog; this one is parent-friendly and most often will be an edited version of this one. The address is: hellomothahellofatha.blogspot.com. Help yourself to it if this one is just not enough for you, but please remember that people who only have that blog address don't have access to this one for a reason.

Closed Shutters

The Times just landed on my front porch. It's been a while since I've played til the paper came. Insomnia is rather nice, particularly when accompanied with burning Nag Champa and crooning Ani. Now if only the cats would stop ripping at the screens.

Beer Money, Not Kitty Litter Money

Last night I learned that none of the liquor or beer stores on Grand are open past ten. I also learned that, in a pinch, I can carry an 18-pack of longnecks from the Shop 'n Stop home. I can even get lost on the way home and still make it back without incident.

This morning, like baby birds from the nest, I kicked the cats out. They will learn to piss and shit outdoors. Oh, yes. They will learn. And they will learn to love it. And, eventually, they will stop meowing to get back in. Welcome to life, ladies. Breathe the fresh air.

Bless New Yorkers*

*Of whom I am not one yet.

This came from "Metropolitan Diaries," a column published in the Metro Section of the NY Times every Monday. I saw it on the train coming home this evening and nearly cried. It is poorly paraphrased.

I was riding on the Lexington Ave local the other day when I noticed a woman and her seeing eye dog sitting next to her in the aisle. As the train slowed to a stop at "59th St", the dog started to get up to leave. His mistress pulled his collar and said, "This is not our stop."

When the train started up again, she was apparently concerned she had been too harsh to her friend. Oblivious to other passengers, she said to him, "I"m sorry if I was abrupt. I know you are not a stupid dog, but that was not the correct stop. Perhaps you lost count."

Her dog looked up at her with full attention during her whole speech, after which he licked her hand. They got off at the "51st St" stop.

Oh, and on the way home today, I caught the Q45 and rode it all the way past my stop to the end of the line, up near Juniper Park. As the last passengers unloaded the bus and the driver turned off the engine and began to exit as well, I asked him if I could stay on the bus. He said, "Sure. What'd you miss your stop?" I smiled and responded, "No, I'm new to the neighborhood so I thought I'd take the .50 tour." He smiled back and went to smoke his cigarette. When he got back on the bus he said, "You know, this area here has lots of places to shop and get your groceries..." and proceeded to give me the pointing tour of what was around there. We talked about the area, he pointed out Juniper Park and told me it was a safe place to live (he knew this, he told me, because he lived around here). As we started back on the route, he gave me my own private guided tour and, as I was stepping off the bus at my stop (71 St and Calamus), he advised me that I could take the bus to the Roosevelt Ave/Jackson Heights station to catch the subway into Manhattan. I thanked him and wished him a goodnight.

I think I made my first public transit friend. [grins]

More Interesting Than Pussy (Cats)

I don't know that I can express the vibe I get while rambling around this great city. There is something so magical about mingling with complete strangers, something so fulfilling. Any sense of loneliness I had prior melts away as I brush shoulders and touch outer thighs with folks I have never seen before and will, likely, never see again. So many different faces to study, so much to wonder about. I know I make it out to be more dramatic than it is, but I just adore being a part of it. I can't wait to be a contributing member of this society. Have a purpose when I walk down the street, as opposed to just meandering along.

My favourite part may be the mass transit. I love sharing that cramped space on a bus or train with people I don't know. I love secretly studying their features and averting my eyes when they catch me. This game greatly amuses me. I love the stark silence between us. Most of all, I love how people rub elbows and shoulders for 15 minutes at a time without looking at each other once, let alone knowing their name.

I love flashing grins at complete strangers and getting broad smiles in return. Today I was walking down the street with an origami flower in my hand. As I approached a man walking in the opposite direction, we caught each other's eye and he pointed to the ground behind me and said, "Hey! You dropped your flower!" Without thinking, I immediately looked, panicked something else had fallen from my bag. Sure enough my flower was still in my hand, enveloped in my palm and five fingers. He laughed heartily and I grinned as we walked past each other.

I picked up the flower at a theatrical protest across the street from the UN building; General Assembly was in session and they were there to inform people about the travesty of Falun Gong in China. I was excited that the General Assembly was in town; it's one of the rare occasions the UN flies all the world flags in front of the building, so I was there to take pictures and observe, catch glimpses of world leaders and diplomats. As I walked down 42nd St from Grand Central Station, a police-escorted motorcade 15 cars long drove by, stopping traffic and me dead in our tracks. There were cars full of armed men in military attire carrying big guns, security guys wearing sunglasses and talking into their cuffs, and dignitaries with turbans. No flags were flying on any of the cars. I got excited at the prospect of being inside the building amonst those people.

As I approached the UN block, I discoverd that fantasy was exactly that; I wasn't even able to be on the same side of the street as the UN, hahaha. Nope, getting across the police line required a special badge and a purpose for being there (other than observation). Oh, well. I sauntered around by the barriers, took pictures of the flags, looked at all the important do-gooders walking by and wanted desperately for my life to have the kind of meaning theirs did.

Oh. And I succeded at avoiding schoolwork and finding a job for the third straight day in a row. Bravo me.

Trust Issues

Pickles and Cow Pies are insomniacs, I've decided. I can't remember the last time I saw them sleeping. And if they're only awake when I'm in the room- what's up with that? What kind of cats do you know who are ALWAYS awake in your presence? Cats with issues, that's what we've got. I wonder when they'll finally be able to sleep in my presence.

Oh, Gods. I have begun to identify neuroses in my cats. Pretty soon I'll be considering cat therapy for them... Man, these creatures aren't going anywhere for a while...

Oh, and the UN General Assembly is in session this week. Guess who is going to Mannyhanny to take pictures tomorrow.

Honesty Is Punishable By Unemployment

I just applied on-line for a job at my local Blockbuster. The bastards. They asked me if I had even been reprimanded at a job for attendance problems. I thought it over, knowing the truth, considered lying, and then chose honesty. Then they asked if I'd even been fired for attendance problems. Again, I thought it over, knowing the truth, considered lying, feared the consequences of lying (being found out), and then chose honesty again.

Guess who won't be gettin' Blockbuster employee discounts anytime soon?

Back to the want ads...

Cat Diaries

So, my new flatmate and I have two cats. To protect the innocent, our names are "Darren" and "Fizz" (the felines' names are "Pickles" and "Cow Pies." "Wammy" and "Yogi" named them, not us). Neither Fizz or I really want them, but we have them, so obviously a small part of us is choosing to keep the cats. For the time being. I suspect we are growing to love them, however much we über resent their presence in our boiler room (what?! it's not like we keep them locked in there or anything; they can roam the kitchen and bathroom all they like).

Of all the shitty flats in NYC we could have signed a lease on, we found a haven in Queens with a backyard. Pickles and Cow Pies have never seen a backyard; I don't know as they've ever felt the earth between their paws. They certainly don't act like it. When we first started letting them out, Pickles would slink around the yard doing her best impersonation of a cat who has never seen the outside world, while Cow Pies would nonchalantly hang out and eat the plants. At first, Fizz and I were concerned that Cow Pies might get sick from eating the plants; then we thought the plants were actually poison ivey and stopped worrying as much- it would mostly likely be a quick death (death by poison- file that under "natural causes," right?). Now, Pickles has taken to eating the plants, too. (Two down! Can we get a dog now?) She is still skittish, but less so than before. I am thrilled to learn of Cow Pies' one redeeming quality- she is not afraid of the outdoors. (Now if only she didn't have those horrible dreads in her fur which make her look mange-ridden. Sick.) Tonight she even wandered over into the Russophobe's backyard and near an open window into her basement. Much as we would love to be rid of the cat, we did all we could to coerce her back into our yard, though now we've discovered a whole new problem with the cats- keeping them contained. (To be honest, Fizz is more concerned with this than I, though I feign concern to humour her.)

While making dinner tonight, we let the creatures out back. We went upstairs, forgot all about them for three hours and, in the interim, the wind closed the screen door, locking them outside. We had left them outside unattended for three hours outside and they didn't whine a bit! Or perhaps they did, though we couldn't hear a peep over the roar of Monday Night Football. We have no idea what they did out there for three hours and, really, we don't want to know. We're just glad they weren't in Our Space.

Quirks about the cats:

• Pickles finds security in bathtubs. Don't ask why- aren't normal cats supposed hate water?
• Cow Pies doesn't like her ass or tail abutted, adjoined, bordered, brushed, butted on, caressed, contacted, dabbed, examined, felt, felt up, fingered, fondled, frisked, grazed, groped, handled, hit, impinged upon, inspected, kissed, licked, lined, manipulated, marched, massaged, neighbored, osculated, palmed, palpated, pet, pawed, percussed, probed, pushed, rubbed, scrutinized, sipped, smoothed, struck, stroked, sucked, swept, tagged, tapped, tasted, thumbed, or tickled. You've been warned.
• Both cats lick plants (for however long we allow them).
• As a kitten, Cow Pies had a traumatic experience being stuck inside a refridgerator for hours and now that you know it, don't bring it up in front of her- she gets pissy about it.
• Pickles has symmetric freckles in the corners of her eyes which often disappear for days on end before returning. This is still a mystery to us.

Oh, yeah. And today I went out to Manhattan (and down the Coney Island). I've decided that NYC is just a small town with a big city name.

O

Dammit, Damien- your music is much too loud and I'm far too intoxicated. And it's been far too long since I've thought of your words. Sometimes, though, they just gotta come out.

What I am to you is not real
What I am to you you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains and I ask for the sea.

I promise: next time, my blog will be good news. [smiles]