Forgetting

I forgot about my little sister's birthday. I haven't checked on the emails concerning the sale of my house, or the deadened nature of even starting the sale. I am neglecting a lot of things. I don't know where my time goes. I don't remember the last time I ate at home. I cook lunch and then I eat it at work. Every night I am meeting someone. My nights have disappeared. Often I am not even aware of my absence in the house. I go home and I check what's happening to my "friends" on Facebook, see what emails I get, and what horrific news on various websites. I have forgotten even what it means to be home. Perhaps a tea alone, without the computer, just with my thoughts.

I do that already in the subway. I don't listen to music; I often get lost in thoughts watching the different faces in the subway. My mind wanders and I forget to leash it so it doesn't go too far. Many things I am forgetting to do, even though I know perfectly well how to do most of them.

Tonight I am meeting up with my New Haven Italian friend who has just also moved to New York. She is the demanding one, but somehow I have grown out of being the one that always accommodates to her demands. It's ironic that while she always complains that my problem with women is that I am too accommodating, she is the most demanding of all, even though she was referring to my romantic problems and she and I have no romantic problems. She is Italian and it is in her nature, it seems, to be demanding. But even before I moved to New York I have learned to stand up on my own and not buckle under pressure. After all, she is my friend, and I don't need to be anyone except myself. She was unhappy that I wouldn't be able to stay long in our meeting tonight. I told her I shouldn't stay late anyway, but really, I was hoping to see the Swiss pianist one more time before she goes off to see her boyfriend this weekend. I don't think that would happen since she will be done teaching very late and very far away. Still, while I would like to see my Italian friend now that she's finally moved here, I want to do what I want, not what is convenient for her. She lives many blocks away from the nearest subway. She said I could take a taxi, and I realized she doesn't know that's not something I do.

Tomorrow I will not have any plans, unless the Swiss pianist decides to go away Saturday. I will finally have a night in my apartment, that foreign, expensive dominion of mine. Perhaps then I will get to collect my thoughts, sort out my feelings. Last night I went to the 92nd Street Y to hear a reading by this Israeli author who was presenting bits of his new book. I had never heard of his name until yesterday, and the excerpts of his book reinvigorated my desire to write. It is the style I enjoy. The style of details. The style of describing ordinary things. It reminded me of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and the fantasies and everyday details in that One Hundred Years of Solitude. The details, the solitude, the disconnection, especially that of the family, resonated with the chords of my soul.

I am tired of my job, less than ten months later. I am not learning new things. I am finding myself fixing a lot of things, investigating problems, most of which I didn't create. Solving problems is a joy in my life, but that's only because it requires creativity. Somehow I am feeling tired and discouraged. If I am doing these little things with requirements of little creativity but results of much frustration, I would at least like to get paid more for it. I am not getting paid what I should in finance.

I feel the channel of my creativity is all cluttered. Cluttered by the mundaneness of everyday life, by being absent from home, by fear of doing something different. Don't get me wrong; I like the time I have spent away from home. Not only for the attention. More than that: I like connecting with people. Nevertheless, I think it is time to rejuvenate the connection with myself. I was going to do nothing this week. I succeeded in not going to tango last night, to probably my favorite milonga. But I still went out last night. Listening to the writer read and talk about Israeli life, being among American Jews and Israelis, all had a positive effect on my connection to the world, my own life.

I was told of this reading event by the Russian-Israeli pianist, the one who broke my heart two weekends ago. She was there, of course. And we went out for a short dinner afterward. It was natural. As promised to myself, I haven't made drama out of anything with her, never mentioned about "us". We reconnected, through the topic of the reading, of Israel, of Jews, and about what she's doing now. She was happy to see me, it was obvious. I didn't allow myself to think much further than that. Each moment as its own event, disconnected to the past and the future. I enjoyed being with her, talking to her. And now I realize I am capable of living in the present, if I give myself the space to do it.