Writing in Different Times

The laptop is still dead. It won't go past the gray screen.

I think I will return it to my old work and that will be the end of that.

It's interesting to write my blog entry outside the morning hours. I have done it before, but not often. Mornings put me in a very specific mood. Despite waking up so insanely early, I manage to be most alert. I think that's one reason they recommend people do yoga in the morning. Mind is ready but the body isn't.

So instead of writing, for the first time, on my morning ride to work, I did something different. Doing different things almost always enrich one's life. I decided in a hurry to take my iPod along. I hadn't figured out what to do with it. How I got it involves a different story. It is the first iPod touch, "first generation", so it doesn't automatically have the minimum operating system needed to download and install fancy "Apps". It doesn't have a camera. What it does do is what iPod were made to do in the beginning, and largely still do: play music. I never owned a portable music maker, or haven't since I was in high school when I had a Sony cassette player. Oh wait, I finally bought a CD player after college when I thought I could afford such luxury. I remember seeing a friend with a CD player when it first came out during my junior year in high school. She was bragging about it. I wonder what happened to her. Lost weight? Gained more? Lost her acne scars? Married? Liberal? No clue. I think her name was Cynthia. She's significant mostly because she was the first girl I dared to pad on the shoulders. That was junior year, so I was, what, 16? What woman problems I grew up with. No surprise at the mess I am in these days.

So with that 21st century portable music player called the iPod Touch I started listening to one of my favorite classical music pieces: Fauré's "Requiem". It was funny to listen to such somber and hopeful music while watching the the sad dilapidation of Bridgeport transformed into the rich Fairfield County residential luxury. (For those who don't know what "Requiem" is, it's the music played on Easter to celebrate Christ's rebirth, though the classical music you hear is by no means meant for the religious people.) I usually don't like earplugs in my ears, not only are they uncomfortable, but the idea of having music separating me from my environment always repulsed me. I always want to know what's happening around me, which explains why I notice a lot more than people realize. But sitting there, watching the movie that was the transformation from the poor half to the rich half of Southern Connecticut, the music was beautiful, made me feel very peaceful. I didn't have to notice anything; I created images.

Last night I decided to start writing in my journal again. Then I realized I haven't written journal entry with a pen since at least last March, when my current "mess" started. I was surprised because whenever there's a woman involved, I often find myself writing a lot in my journal, for the simple reason that it's more often than not a very unhappy experience. And unhappiness drives my writing in journal entries, usually.

Not so different this time. I wanted to return to the simple way of channeling out my discontent. But I couldn't find the last journal book I used. The latest one was this big white one a very good friend gave me before she returned to her country (really, her resident country) of Spain. She is getting married, she told me. I hope she remembers to invite me. It would be a damn cool excuse to visit Barcelona again. She was one of the people in my life who, though didn't spend much of it with me (just a year), never ceased to find me amazing, never ceased to remind me how wonderful I am. Of course, I never really believed her, or at least, wanted to believe her, but her insistence and persistence left a positive mark in my growth of self-esteem. I try to do the same with people in my life, remind them they are great, they are perfect. I would do the same to strangers if it weren't for the fear that they would think I was about to sell them something next.

The same friend made a drawing of me, smiling, with my military haircut, and a symbol of tango made of a couple dancing in the background, and since she specializes in literature, she wrote a poem for me too. I don't think about her much, but when I do, I feel lucky to be me.

In any case, in her big white journal I finished my last entry in the spring of 2009. That was my last entry until last night. When I opened that white book, surprise! I opened up to March 2nd, 2009, exactly exactly two years before. I was having a really hard time then breaking up with this girl (who would have the great privilege of breaking up again for the second and final time a few months later after India). I read a few of the entries and felt no regret, no self-pity, but rather, a lot of hope. I realized no matter how much I complain and how angry and frustrated I got, I always got through and forgot the pain. I was right yesterday about passing through the worst of my pain now. Yesterday I was too distracted by the pain, but as expected, today I felt better. I am not recovered, and far from having changed significantly. But just four days, it took four days to reach the peak, better than a flu!

After reading a few entries, I decided to start new. I chose one of the pretty journals I bought in Thailand. I was going to use it as a gift, but now it was a gift for myself. I started writing, freely, about whatever was bothering me, whatever hopes I felt, whatever positive or negative feelings, not in sentences, just let the words dig themselves out of my thick skin, frozen from this winter of too many unhappy moments. Now I was writing it down on this journal bought from a time of happy thoughts, on a happy journey with my best friend on a busy corner in the tourist district of Bangkok.

I know I am far from having healed. I thought about this coming weekend, and the prospect of spending it alone again. I still have the papasan chair laid out in front of the computer from last Saturday when I watched a movie alone. It bothers me to no end that I have to spend weekends alone. It bothers me just as well that such things bother me since I always end up enjoying the movie, enjoying spending time with myself. It's never about spending time alone, which I really do enjoy; it is always about failing to feel loved even when alone. Today I thought that it is truly better to have no woman in my life because that way, all I can see is the love of my friends and family. Having a woman who doesn't want you just makes you focus too much on how much you are unloved rather than how much you are loved.

The journey continues, but at least for now, I can breathe more easily. There are no more panic attacks, no more anxiety from despair. Just moving on. I hope to sublet my room out soon, and have an apartment ready for me in Queens before the end of the month. I keep myself busy enough not to think about the useless topic of loneliness. Work today was very productive and fun, kept me away from that quicksand of self-pity. This weekend I hope one of the New Yorkers will hang out with me. I don't need new friends, but I love new connections. We will see what the weekend brings.