Some piece of peace

My sister reminded me to stop and smell the roses.

There is a 24-hour supermarket right next to my building. I brag about that a lot. It's a huge change from having to drive to the supermarket before it closes.

I haven't felt this huge euphoria of now living in New York. Do people have this feeling? They have feelings. I guess the point is that I don't have any feeling. I feel like I never left. I am very comfortable here. I know a lot of little things that people who just moved here have no clues about. And more interestingly, I am very used to the massive stimulation of information.

Some people, like the little niece of my best friend, wonder why I pronounce everything I see. I wonder too. Now, I wonder if the reason is that having grown up in the overstimulating world of New York, I have to restimulate myself in less interesting places. Here I don't pronounce anything out; there are way too many things for that. Everywhere I go I find something visually or audibly interesting. My own neighborhood, or in Mid-town. Or in the belly we call the subway.

I don't feel suddenly like a New Yorker. But that's probably because I always have been one.

I have also been very tired. Sleeping about 3-5 hours a night.

Why?

For a girl. Of course. A girl with a voice that enchanted me again last night. I told her it was perhaps better to say that her voice was bewitching. She sang for us a tango song I have never heard of, but that was because the versions I have heard were very fast, tough, and even fun. But when she sang it, it was soulful; her interpretation of it, without instrumentation, carried the exact degree of sadness the words mean. The song is appropriate to the weather now. The song's title means On this Gray Afternoon/Evening. The raindrops remind the lovers what they had and what they no longer can have. All because of a mistake of leaving.

I almost allowed myself to pretend she was singing to me. It has been a long time since I was so genuinely touched, straight to the heart. I know that falling for a musician, an artist, is to say the least extremely dangerous. Not to mention that this is the wrong time to be with anyone, having still to struggle so much with that French woman and her rejection.

But maybe not. Maybe, if I don't make anything out of my feelings, something good will happen. Maybe the enchantment will help me heal. It's like a fairytale; a woman's voice carrying the weight of my wounds, my past, my sorrow. I would listen to her over and over again, to cry over the words that are so sad because we can all identify so well with their simplicity.

Yes, I have to be careful not to let this become more than just a hidden crush. I have a way of letting things go out of control. I almost did last night. I was hoping to spend some time talking to her on our way back to my place (she sleeps in the living room). But then she realized it would be easier for her if she went back with this musician (a guy she found in the subway!) who lived close to her friend's place. I was disappointed. I started acting like a child who didn't get his candy. I was feeling guilty being so childish, but I was also upset that I wouldn't get to talk to her or see her until maybe Saturday.

This is what I mean. The childishness, the exaggerated disappointment. These dark demons often prevent people from seeing the beautiful me.

I complained to my art friend about how I am always repeating the pattern of getting excited and getting disappointed and getting no woman. She told me I should, first, stop feeling guilty, and second, stop thinking I am stuck with a pattern, and third and most important, keep loving myself. She spoke with no hesitation and difficulty about all the beautiful qualities I have, qualities I so oddly forget when I am depressed and pessimistic.

Find yourself first, and others will find you.

I complain that women don't see me, don't appreciate me. Well, d'uh, how could they if I don't see myself and appreciate myself.

This girl, this singer, artist, future superstar tango teacher, my feelings for her are becoming intense, but I can let it be, let it make me a better human, not turn me into another monster I am ashamed of. I know almost always what the right thing to do is, but I don't often do them because I am afraid, because I am afraid of myself.

Anyway, because of me trying to see this girl as much as I can, I end up going to all the milongas during the week, and still having to get up at 6:45AM. Tonight she is with her folks for her sister's graduation, so I get a break. Still, her voice, singing about the raindrops, about regrets, about a beautiful future that will never come, that voice that made my heart weep, that voice still rings in my mind. Nothing will really come out of this. She will be leaving soon to go back to a different timezone. But life is about living the moment, not being afraid of yourself, of the future, of what others think about you. I believe my art friend is right; "people love you, G." They do, even the strangers, the once-in-a-while tango dancers. I don't know why they do. I guess my ignorance stems from my disconnection from myself. Maybe even the women I no longer talk to love me too. That girl from North Carolina, the India-trip girl, it was her birthday yesterday. I said nothing to her. But I wondered about her.

Tonight I get to sleep the normal time, hopefully, and I will have no trouble sleeping. Tomorrow I will have guests again, who are looking to move to New York, too. And my art friend will be coming to visit too. The house will be full. I am already invited to some pre-milonga BBQ Saturday. People really do like me, "like" in the sense, at least, that I am a welcoming presence in their lives. I hope I will learn to like myself, too.

For now, I count myself lucky to have such intense feeling for the owner of that voice I can't believe is used also to talk to me about life, about dancing, about hopes. I am lucky to be in this city where I meet people like her and feel loved, by the new people as well as by the old friends I don't get to see much anymore.

So what is there to complain about?

A leaky roof, I suppose.