A quick note before I go to another short sleep.
A friend told me he was a little heartbroken that he suspects his ex-girlfriend is dating someone. He wants her to be dating, but the suspicion was hurtful. He wants to ask her if it's true, knowing that it's true. For what, I asked. So he could feel the pain and be over with it.
One Wednesday night ago I finally got an email from the French girl saying she was seeing this guy. I had suspected it before, suspected something would happen even months before, seeing how he was in his own idiosyncratic ways trying to court her, suspecting that such idiosyncrasy would be her fancy. But like my friend, the suspicion was more tormenting than the truth itself. When I got that email I was about to let go, let the emotions come out, finally accepting that I wouldn't want to talk to her again. Like my friend, I would have asked her if she hadn't told me first, to feel the pain just before the catharsis.
I took a taxi home, alone, and I passed by 51st street, on Third Avenue as we raced toward the 59th Street Bridge. I remember the shops there. Why? I never lived there, and it wasn't some place interesting. But I saw that corner twice and I remember, because it was where the hotel was, where I booked a room for a weekend of tango, when she came with me for one night before going to brunch on the other side of the island. I remember things so clearly it's starting to feel like a disadvantage.
I came from that direction because I wanted to walk this girl home, the girl in red and black (not tonight, of course). She was going away for a month, most of the time with her boyfriend. But live for the moment. I wanted to enjoy the last bit of time with her in the present. We shared more. If she didn't have to pack and I didn't have to go to work in five hours, we would have kept talking all night. We danced half the time I was at the practica (the other half I was practicing, you know, to be the best dancer, etc, etc). And we walked all the way to her building. I was happy. Despite that corner on 51st and Third, despite remembering that I was not chosen while someone else was, despite still going home alone (well, to a guy), I was happy that someone thought I was cool enough to walk home with at 1AM at night. Now I need to sleep.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sweatshop
I'll keep this short, unlike the novel I wrote yesterday. I am tired. The heat kept me awake, but also my guest, who was talking on the computer 3 in the morning. I need to talk to him about that. It's very hot in my apartment. The irony is that there's an 80-lb air conditioner still sitting in its box by the door. I simply have no time to open it.
I didn't have time last night to take care of the AC. I hardly had time to cook for the week and eat some dinner. I went to kungfu after work. It was an oven in there. Some men were sweating so much that their kungfu suit (or whatever you call it) was soaked entirely and sticking to their skin. Gross.
The elevator wasn't working, so I had to walk up the stairs, for the first time. When I passed the second floor I saw through the door that it was a sewing factory. A Chinese woman was putting things in order, standing among mountains of cloth. I didn't think any clothing factories still existed in New York. Even sweatshops couldn't compete with the sweatshops of Mexico and Indonesia, or, for that matter, China.
Then I spent the next two seconds remembering my childhood in the sweatshop. I wasn't really working, though my confused memory suggests that I at least helped. It was illegal to have minors in a factory, but then again, the factory was illegal in more ways than you can count. I remember the spindles, the sewing machines, and of course, the mountains of cloth waiting to be transformed into clothes. I remember the smell, which was the same here, on the second floor. I remember the sounds of the spinning machines, the presses, and people all talking as loosely and angrily as my Mother, the person who dragged us there because she couldn't watch us at home without working. I remember my little baby sister was there too, toward the end of my high school when I no longer wanted to have anything to do with the so-called family. The factory wasn't a fun place. It wasn't a horrible place, but it wasn't fun. Nothing to do, pretty boring.I remember my mother complaining often about how she was cheated of her wages. She wasn't an illegal resident, but there was no way for her to pursue an employer who skipped town with the workers' wages. I remember one time she even tried to write a defamation note to whatever authority exposing the illegal nature of such and such factory.
I realize I have forgotten about the sewing factory as a part of my growing up in this city, as much as I have forgotten that there were roaches here, there was suffering in many corners of this city of thousands of bars and restaurants and trendy clothes and fancy cars, and tango.
Slowly, living in New York, I am remembering the things that I thought were gone, disappeared with the new face of a city I really didn't know, only pretended to know so I could tell people I was a New Yorker. There was an article on the Times about how the weekend ridership on subways was actually increasing to nearly that of the weekdays. It attributed this phenomenon partly to safety of a city that wasn't there before. True, I would not have ridden the subway past 11PM. The train back home went through the bad bad neighborhoods that are now more expensive to live in than New Haven, have more trendy shops and galleries and restaurants. Now I go home at 4 in the morning and the 7 train is packed, the same 7 train that brought me out of Jackson Heights where the Colombian drug cartels operated while I was busy visiting my best friend and waiting for her attention.
Every now and then I saw those old subway trains with the corrugated exterior. I think the E-train is the only I have seen like that, though most of them were now the modern kind that has robot announcing the next stop. When I see those trains, I wonder where the graffitis are. There were so many graffitis on the trains I took to school, including the inside. I wonder where the heroine addict was that I saw one morning in my sleepy mode to school. Dead? A writer? Politician, of course. Or perhaps found God.
I have been here for about two months. I haven't thought much about my past here, as you can tell from the kinds of blog entries I write, most of which are about some girl or another. I guess that's good, in a way. Why let painful memories drag you down. But perhaps part of growing new roots back in the old pot is about searching the places of the roots left behind.
Besides, I thought plenty about how girls were torturing me already when I was going to high school in New York. That's never news….
I didn't have time last night to take care of the AC. I hardly had time to cook for the week and eat some dinner. I went to kungfu after work. It was an oven in there. Some men were sweating so much that their kungfu suit (or whatever you call it) was soaked entirely and sticking to their skin. Gross.
The elevator wasn't working, so I had to walk up the stairs, for the first time. When I passed the second floor I saw through the door that it was a sewing factory. A Chinese woman was putting things in order, standing among mountains of cloth. I didn't think any clothing factories still existed in New York. Even sweatshops couldn't compete with the sweatshops of Mexico and Indonesia, or, for that matter, China.
Then I spent the next two seconds remembering my childhood in the sweatshop. I wasn't really working, though my confused memory suggests that I at least helped. It was illegal to have minors in a factory, but then again, the factory was illegal in more ways than you can count. I remember the spindles, the sewing machines, and of course, the mountains of cloth waiting to be transformed into clothes. I remember the smell, which was the same here, on the second floor. I remember the sounds of the spinning machines, the presses, and people all talking as loosely and angrily as my Mother, the person who dragged us there because she couldn't watch us at home without working. I remember my little baby sister was there too, toward the end of my high school when I no longer wanted to have anything to do with the so-called family. The factory wasn't a fun place. It wasn't a horrible place, but it wasn't fun. Nothing to do, pretty boring.I remember my mother complaining often about how she was cheated of her wages. She wasn't an illegal resident, but there was no way for her to pursue an employer who skipped town with the workers' wages. I remember one time she even tried to write a defamation note to whatever authority exposing the illegal nature of such and such factory.
I realize I have forgotten about the sewing factory as a part of my growing up in this city, as much as I have forgotten that there were roaches here, there was suffering in many corners of this city of thousands of bars and restaurants and trendy clothes and fancy cars, and tango.
Slowly, living in New York, I am remembering the things that I thought were gone, disappeared with the new face of a city I really didn't know, only pretended to know so I could tell people I was a New Yorker. There was an article on the Times about how the weekend ridership on subways was actually increasing to nearly that of the weekdays. It attributed this phenomenon partly to safety of a city that wasn't there before. True, I would not have ridden the subway past 11PM. The train back home went through the bad bad neighborhoods that are now more expensive to live in than New Haven, have more trendy shops and galleries and restaurants. Now I go home at 4 in the morning and the 7 train is packed, the same 7 train that brought me out of Jackson Heights where the Colombian drug cartels operated while I was busy visiting my best friend and waiting for her attention.
Every now and then I saw those old subway trains with the corrugated exterior. I think the E-train is the only I have seen like that, though most of them were now the modern kind that has robot announcing the next stop. When I see those trains, I wonder where the graffitis are. There were so many graffitis on the trains I took to school, including the inside. I wonder where the heroine addict was that I saw one morning in my sleepy mode to school. Dead? A writer? Politician, of course. Or perhaps found God.
I have been here for about two months. I haven't thought much about my past here, as you can tell from the kinds of blog entries I write, most of which are about some girl or another. I guess that's good, in a way. Why let painful memories drag you down. But perhaps part of growing new roots back in the old pot is about searching the places of the roots left behind.
Besides, I thought plenty about how girls were torturing me already when I was going to high school in New York. That's never news….
Monday, July 11, 2011
Revealing Weekend
A weekend has passed and thoughts swim like the fishes of a coral reef. Many but none stands out, but collectively they are the dynamo of this weekend passed. Instead of writing about what happened, in some boring prose form, I will just lay down my thoughts, each a fish that is important in its own right but stands in equal terms as other thoughts. I am in the train now. Usually I fall asleep on this first morning of the work week. But my mind is scattered and restless. Those fishes of thoughts still swimming but more like phantoms in a haunted house without the drama of scaring any living human. It is this empty house I am describing with these thoughts, this coral reef now quiet despite the movements. Of course, I have many other thoughts, much less significant, such as why my subletter isn't responding to whether she has sent in the check, whether I am just worrying too much, about the roof, about not finding the time to cook for Monday (today), about preparing for Kungfu again after an hour of grueling class and another hour of practicing on Saturday. Many other thoughts. But right now, these are the thoughts that are keeping me from my Monday morning nap in the quiet train that is creaking through the tunnel below the Upper East Side before emerging out to Harlem. There are more than one player here, and the thoughts aren't listed necessarily in the same order they had emerged in that coral reef of mine called the head.
She's not here. I guess that's good. I wouldn't know what to do if she were here. But my friend is here, and he seems nervous, because, I can relate, in some way, because his ex-girlfriend is here. He's sweating, smiling difficultly, and there's an invisible wall between them, at the table, more visible than the one I am leaning on.
She is here. She appeared without warning. There was warning. She was coming. Of course she's coming. He's here. The man with the red shirt and dark pants, whereas I am wearing dark shirt and red pants. He said earlier that if he and I were to dance, we would look so gay. Now she has arrived and the wall around me has risen.
It's impossibly insane to not talk to her. To not even look at her. I don't think she knows how much pain that gives me. I don't think she remembers how much more pain it would be for me to even look at her. She's here, in the same room as the man who would look gay dancing with me.
I am talking to this girl. At a milonga, when I usually don't talk much. We're talking about relationships. She falls in love too easily. Now after all those broken hearts and disappointments she remains single, sort of. I don't expect us to be good friends, but somehow I like being with her. She asks me if I am going to her festival in San Francisco; if we were close friends I would tell her that the girl just behind her was my travel partner last year to that same festival, but that now, I am not even looking at her. Still, I couldn't help it. I told her that there's a girl in the room that is distracting me. She smiled and we both felt a bit more connected with the trust we are building.
"They are everywhere." My friend was referring to all the beautiful girls walking on the streets of New York. I said I didn't know what they were eating, but yes, all these beautiful girls. He's a young boy who wants to settle down but has all the hormones to drive his attention to all these cute girls. "That chick was like a pornstar, big boobs, skinny, and platform shoes." I thought, really, that's what a pornstar looks like? I missed my opportunity to see who such a creature was. We were having ice cream in Washington Square. We wee sharing thoughts about women, well, more he was sharing his. I talked to him about things related to him. I didn't talk to him about last night. I don't know why. Perhaps because he's still, nonetheless, a guy.
"You wanna wait too?" The same young man asked, next night. "No," I said, very uneasy. I didn't feel I could say that without an explanation, and yet, I didn't feel like giving one now. I didn't want to wait a minute longer to create an awkward situation. I looked at her, and looked then him, both in the distance, cleaning up the milonga, and I told my friend, without looking at him, with a mixture of shame and frustration, "I can't. I will explain later." Yes, he can go back to our neighborhood together, in that man's car. But I can't. He and I had this implicit agreement that her presence would mean my absence in his car. It's silly. It's drama. But it's there to keep order, emotional order. "You should stay and wait for him. You will get home before me."
Then I ran out. For another reason. Not just to run away from the two people I am too ashamed and angry to be next to, but to be with someone whose voice I wanted to hear, whose timid smile I wanted to see, whom I want to give a fake hard time to so that we can both smile.
I screamed her name, not only to get her attention, but also because I was relieved I didn't miss her. She disappeared after I told my friend that I couldn't wait with him for the ride home. There she was, disappearing into the night. Like me and that man two nights ago, she was wearing red and dark. She was funny earlier by saying she almost texted me to warn me she was wearing the same color combination I was on Friday. Now she disappeared.
And I ran.
And I screamed her name. Twice because the first time was a little suppressed. She stopped. That was a good sign. She didn't just wave and continued. A car was about to hit me as I ran across the deserted street. The car stopped, the driver, a tango dancer, smiled to let me cross.
And just like the previous day, we talked, very naturally, nothing contrived, nothing forced, no awkward silence.
I had to take the bus, supposedly, to get closer to the bridge before taking the taxi. So now we had a reason to stand at the corner continuing our chat. The bus was within sight, and I had to say goodbye. No dramatic hug, just a natural one you'd expect from someone hurrying to catch a bus. But then the bus just ignored me and drove past. I turned around and saw her back disappearing again into the darkness. This time I didn't scream her name.
I jokingly gave her a hard time because she stopped dancing with me after one set for the reason that she didn't want me to miss an opportunity to dance with all these great dancers with just fifteen minutes left in the milonga. It's silly, but that generosity and caring nature of hers reminded me why she's such an appealing human being.
Who was I dancing with this whole night?
Let's try this pizza place the brother of a friend of mine says is the best in New York. OK, I am up for it.
You've lived in all these places? I hate you, I want to leave. Silly, you can do the same, but don't leave New York so soon yet.
I think you are really beautiful, not just physically, but also your generosity, your overt display of love for others, that's attractive, maybe not for the superficial men like me who like playing the physical attraction game, but you don't want their attention. You're a good human being.
I am realizing what I need to do from now on; for too long I have fallen for women because of the game, the game of attraction, that I fall for their looks and for how they look at me, the game even if they aren't conscious of the game, the game of I will give you a little but you have to come running after me for the rest. In the end, they don't take me after I've run so hard after them. I am understanding what my art friend had said. There's a deeper level of attraction, attraction for the humanity in a person. Like this woman who is generous, giving, loving, to everyone. She has what I am told I have, what I know I have, those same traits. But I am not confident enough that I am attractive because of those traits. Those traits are for friendships, I have thought for a long time, and so with someone I am attracted to I don't want those traits to come out, but instead, I am stubborn, petty, and my love and generosity is conditional, when it comes to someone I want to be my girlfriend. But here's a woman who has those traits. Here's a woman I never really even noticed for the past year and a half, almost, mostly because she was a good human being, that I saw nothing "attractive" about her. And now, she was sitting before me, talking to me.
Talking to me again.
Talking to me yet again, since the sun had fallen, since the stars have risen, and now the clock says 3AM. I am in the train back home. I am exuberant that I had such an amazing conversation. I haven't had it in a long while, not since two Aprils ago when I met that French girl and we talked a long time, into the night.
Be proud of who you are, because you are a great person. She couldn't look at me when I told her that. She didn't know that those were the words for myself too.
His bike was still in the apartment. I knew she had a boyfriend, a boyfriend she would leave New York for. But I didn't care. I don't want that to be the reason we would miss the opportunity to connect. I have today in my memory, the day I spent more than eight hours just talking, sharing thoughts, connecting to a human being. I was being generous to myself, not letting those dramas and barriers get in the way of happiness. I am happy.
A little sad she has a boyfriend, but I am happy we are friends.
I'm happy there's hope for me to meet someone who is actually good for me. I look back at the last handful of people. Again, the words of my art friend, "I think you want girls that everyone wants, at least that's the image. It would make you feel good." Often sources of happiness is about finding the hidden gem, the lady that not everyone is looking for, but I, if my eyes and mind were open, could see the beauty of.
Above on the roof of her building, we looked down at the tall concrete trees of Manhattan. Not only is she smart and beautiful, but she is also successful. She told me before this boyfriend she had only three others, and long before, too. It did take long for the world of superficial men to notice her.
Before she arrived in red and black, my heart had already started beating like a wild horse. That's because the French girl was there. I shouldn't be surprised. I looked for her, to prepare myself, when I walked in. I didn't see her until I had put my guard down.
A line of people sitting, a line of friends. I started from the left and she was the last one in the line. Do the mature thing. I did. I gave her a hug and kiss like I did with everyone. I sat awkwardly in the only empty chair in the group.
A milonga comes up. How can I be sitting here already pretending she doesn't exist in the room and not dance with her to the music we always danced to when the cold war wasn't heating up. She didn't change her seat but I, having felt stupid sitting in front of everyone alone, sat next to a friend. An empty seat separated us, while the milonga was sweet and beautiful, taunting me. Can I do the right thing? What is the right thing? To interact with her risked repeating the cycle of hopes then anger. But something was becoming ridiculous. I was nervous, but I was also trying not to laugh, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
The first song is over. Two more to go before the set ended. I couldn't contain that joker inside me; I would just start laughing like a crazy in front of everyone. So I got up and asked her. I half expected her to say no, or at least asked me what the point was. After all, I didn't even look at her in her face on Friday.
It's dangerous. The scent, embrace, the voice, all so familiar. I was nervous, I thought my heart would leap out like a wild horse tearing through the hurdles. I forgot that her man was there, DJing. I forgot that I have taken a very risky step that could soon cause another ending full of anger and frustration. I listened to each note in the music, I listened to each step she took at my suggestion, I followed her. It was one of the best dances I have had in all these years, and it was my first dance of the evening, and it was a milonga (which is still not the easiest dance for me). But because it was a milonga that I asked her, to stop laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to embrace her. Listen to her. Letting her in my life for just a little bit.
I forgot about the stubbornness, the declaration of not wanting friendship, of not talking to her until she's single again. There was music. There was her there. I did not want to talk. Talking would open up reminders of what I have forgotten.
I looked at her in her eyes, no doubt making her feel uncomfortable. I wanted to know who this woman was. I wanted to know if it was about ego and winning a Yes from her, or if I really loved her. Or how much of each. We danced another two sets.
And another couple of sets after.
And the last two sets.
Maybe that was all. Leave it as it was. To imagine more would mean opening wounds and creating more pain. She still went home that night with someone else. She has been reading at least some of my blog entries, knowing at least of my lofty goal of becoming the best tango dancer. I was touched. But let's just confine the memory of the evening to just the beautiful dances, because, in the end, she went home with someone else.
It was enough to remember how much I missed embracing her.
So I left without waiting for a possible ride with them. I left to join someone who reminded me that there are actually good women out there who are emotionally available to me. But I had to open my eyes. Focus away from the games, the superficial attractions. Here was someone who liked me enough to stand there 1:15 in at night chatting with me until the bus came (and went). Someone who wanted to travel the world, live the world, live life. Someone who thinks I am smart and funny. She can't be the only one.
When I stop, I don't just smell the roses that are so easily noticeable, but also the hidden lilac somewhere among the bushes, among the groves.
So that was my weekend. So full of thoughts, full of events.
Sitting there in the middle of West Village, among half-drunk teenagers, we sat side by side, commenting on people, philosophizing about life, relishing the its simple beauty of allowing us meet, every now and then, wonderful people.
But sometimes, we have walls that should be laughed at. Here we are, in the middle of the infusion of beautiful music, all I could think about was laughing at the absurdity. She and I could also be sitting somewhere, without plans, talking about impromptu topics, exchanging ideas, and ultimately, making each other feel safe and away from the loneliness that are our shadows. She said she hasn't been doing well. In my mind, I thought I wish I could be there. But the wall said she had abandoned me in the path that she refused to take. The wall said she had chosen a similar path with someone else with whom she was going home tonight. The absurdity is that two people who could make each other happy choose to do the very opposite. I had to laugh.
Now I have to lean on that wall.
She's not here. I guess that's good. I wouldn't know what to do if she were here. But my friend is here, and he seems nervous, because, I can relate, in some way, because his ex-girlfriend is here. He's sweating, smiling difficultly, and there's an invisible wall between them, at the table, more visible than the one I am leaning on.
She is here. She appeared without warning. There was warning. She was coming. Of course she's coming. He's here. The man with the red shirt and dark pants, whereas I am wearing dark shirt and red pants. He said earlier that if he and I were to dance, we would look so gay. Now she has arrived and the wall around me has risen.
It's impossibly insane to not talk to her. To not even look at her. I don't think she knows how much pain that gives me. I don't think she remembers how much more pain it would be for me to even look at her. She's here, in the same room as the man who would look gay dancing with me.
I am talking to this girl. At a milonga, when I usually don't talk much. We're talking about relationships. She falls in love too easily. Now after all those broken hearts and disappointments she remains single, sort of. I don't expect us to be good friends, but somehow I like being with her. She asks me if I am going to her festival in San Francisco; if we were close friends I would tell her that the girl just behind her was my travel partner last year to that same festival, but that now, I am not even looking at her. Still, I couldn't help it. I told her that there's a girl in the room that is distracting me. She smiled and we both felt a bit more connected with the trust we are building.
"They are everywhere." My friend was referring to all the beautiful girls walking on the streets of New York. I said I didn't know what they were eating, but yes, all these beautiful girls. He's a young boy who wants to settle down but has all the hormones to drive his attention to all these cute girls. "That chick was like a pornstar, big boobs, skinny, and platform shoes." I thought, really, that's what a pornstar looks like? I missed my opportunity to see who such a creature was. We were having ice cream in Washington Square. We wee sharing thoughts about women, well, more he was sharing his. I talked to him about things related to him. I didn't talk to him about last night. I don't know why. Perhaps because he's still, nonetheless, a guy.
"You wanna wait too?" The same young man asked, next night. "No," I said, very uneasy. I didn't feel I could say that without an explanation, and yet, I didn't feel like giving one now. I didn't want to wait a minute longer to create an awkward situation. I looked at her, and looked then him, both in the distance, cleaning up the milonga, and I told my friend, without looking at him, with a mixture of shame and frustration, "I can't. I will explain later." Yes, he can go back to our neighborhood together, in that man's car. But I can't. He and I had this implicit agreement that her presence would mean my absence in his car. It's silly. It's drama. But it's there to keep order, emotional order. "You should stay and wait for him. You will get home before me."
Then I ran out. For another reason. Not just to run away from the two people I am too ashamed and angry to be next to, but to be with someone whose voice I wanted to hear, whose timid smile I wanted to see, whom I want to give a fake hard time to so that we can both smile.
I screamed her name, not only to get her attention, but also because I was relieved I didn't miss her. She disappeared after I told my friend that I couldn't wait with him for the ride home. There she was, disappearing into the night. Like me and that man two nights ago, she was wearing red and dark. She was funny earlier by saying she almost texted me to warn me she was wearing the same color combination I was on Friday. Now she disappeared.
And I ran.
And I screamed her name. Twice because the first time was a little suppressed. She stopped. That was a good sign. She didn't just wave and continued. A car was about to hit me as I ran across the deserted street. The car stopped, the driver, a tango dancer, smiled to let me cross.
And just like the previous day, we talked, very naturally, nothing contrived, nothing forced, no awkward silence.
I had to take the bus, supposedly, to get closer to the bridge before taking the taxi. So now we had a reason to stand at the corner continuing our chat. The bus was within sight, and I had to say goodbye. No dramatic hug, just a natural one you'd expect from someone hurrying to catch a bus. But then the bus just ignored me and drove past. I turned around and saw her back disappearing again into the darkness. This time I didn't scream her name.
I jokingly gave her a hard time because she stopped dancing with me after one set for the reason that she didn't want me to miss an opportunity to dance with all these great dancers with just fifteen minutes left in the milonga. It's silly, but that generosity and caring nature of hers reminded me why she's such an appealing human being.
Who was I dancing with this whole night?
Let's try this pizza place the brother of a friend of mine says is the best in New York. OK, I am up for it.
You've lived in all these places? I hate you, I want to leave. Silly, you can do the same, but don't leave New York so soon yet.
I think you are really beautiful, not just physically, but also your generosity, your overt display of love for others, that's attractive, maybe not for the superficial men like me who like playing the physical attraction game, but you don't want their attention. You're a good human being.
I am realizing what I need to do from now on; for too long I have fallen for women because of the game, the game of attraction, that I fall for their looks and for how they look at me, the game even if they aren't conscious of the game, the game of I will give you a little but you have to come running after me for the rest. In the end, they don't take me after I've run so hard after them. I am understanding what my art friend had said. There's a deeper level of attraction, attraction for the humanity in a person. Like this woman who is generous, giving, loving, to everyone. She has what I am told I have, what I know I have, those same traits. But I am not confident enough that I am attractive because of those traits. Those traits are for friendships, I have thought for a long time, and so with someone I am attracted to I don't want those traits to come out, but instead, I am stubborn, petty, and my love and generosity is conditional, when it comes to someone I want to be my girlfriend. But here's a woman who has those traits. Here's a woman I never really even noticed for the past year and a half, almost, mostly because she was a good human being, that I saw nothing "attractive" about her. And now, she was sitting before me, talking to me.
Talking to me again.
Talking to me yet again, since the sun had fallen, since the stars have risen, and now the clock says 3AM. I am in the train back home. I am exuberant that I had such an amazing conversation. I haven't had it in a long while, not since two Aprils ago when I met that French girl and we talked a long time, into the night.
Be proud of who you are, because you are a great person. She couldn't look at me when I told her that. She didn't know that those were the words for myself too.
His bike was still in the apartment. I knew she had a boyfriend, a boyfriend she would leave New York for. But I didn't care. I don't want that to be the reason we would miss the opportunity to connect. I have today in my memory, the day I spent more than eight hours just talking, sharing thoughts, connecting to a human being. I was being generous to myself, not letting those dramas and barriers get in the way of happiness. I am happy.
A little sad she has a boyfriend, but I am happy we are friends.
I'm happy there's hope for me to meet someone who is actually good for me. I look back at the last handful of people. Again, the words of my art friend, "I think you want girls that everyone wants, at least that's the image. It would make you feel good." Often sources of happiness is about finding the hidden gem, the lady that not everyone is looking for, but I, if my eyes and mind were open, could see the beauty of.
Above on the roof of her building, we looked down at the tall concrete trees of Manhattan. Not only is she smart and beautiful, but she is also successful. She told me before this boyfriend she had only three others, and long before, too. It did take long for the world of superficial men to notice her.
Before she arrived in red and black, my heart had already started beating like a wild horse. That's because the French girl was there. I shouldn't be surprised. I looked for her, to prepare myself, when I walked in. I didn't see her until I had put my guard down.
A line of people sitting, a line of friends. I started from the left and she was the last one in the line. Do the mature thing. I did. I gave her a hug and kiss like I did with everyone. I sat awkwardly in the only empty chair in the group.
A milonga comes up. How can I be sitting here already pretending she doesn't exist in the room and not dance with her to the music we always danced to when the cold war wasn't heating up. She didn't change her seat but I, having felt stupid sitting in front of everyone alone, sat next to a friend. An empty seat separated us, while the milonga was sweet and beautiful, taunting me. Can I do the right thing? What is the right thing? To interact with her risked repeating the cycle of hopes then anger. But something was becoming ridiculous. I was nervous, but I was also trying not to laugh, laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
The first song is over. Two more to go before the set ended. I couldn't contain that joker inside me; I would just start laughing like a crazy in front of everyone. So I got up and asked her. I half expected her to say no, or at least asked me what the point was. After all, I didn't even look at her in her face on Friday.
It's dangerous. The scent, embrace, the voice, all so familiar. I was nervous, I thought my heart would leap out like a wild horse tearing through the hurdles. I forgot that her man was there, DJing. I forgot that I have taken a very risky step that could soon cause another ending full of anger and frustration. I listened to each note in the music, I listened to each step she took at my suggestion, I followed her. It was one of the best dances I have had in all these years, and it was my first dance of the evening, and it was a milonga (which is still not the easiest dance for me). But because it was a milonga that I asked her, to stop laughing at the absurdity of the situation. I didn't want to talk. I just wanted to embrace her. Listen to her. Letting her in my life for just a little bit.
I forgot about the stubbornness, the declaration of not wanting friendship, of not talking to her until she's single again. There was music. There was her there. I did not want to talk. Talking would open up reminders of what I have forgotten.
I looked at her in her eyes, no doubt making her feel uncomfortable. I wanted to know who this woman was. I wanted to know if it was about ego and winning a Yes from her, or if I really loved her. Or how much of each. We danced another two sets.
And another couple of sets after.
And the last two sets.
Maybe that was all. Leave it as it was. To imagine more would mean opening wounds and creating more pain. She still went home that night with someone else. She has been reading at least some of my blog entries, knowing at least of my lofty goal of becoming the best tango dancer. I was touched. But let's just confine the memory of the evening to just the beautiful dances, because, in the end, she went home with someone else.
It was enough to remember how much I missed embracing her.
So I left without waiting for a possible ride with them. I left to join someone who reminded me that there are actually good women out there who are emotionally available to me. But I had to open my eyes. Focus away from the games, the superficial attractions. Here was someone who liked me enough to stand there 1:15 in at night chatting with me until the bus came (and went). Someone who wanted to travel the world, live the world, live life. Someone who thinks I am smart and funny. She can't be the only one.
When I stop, I don't just smell the roses that are so easily noticeable, but also the hidden lilac somewhere among the bushes, among the groves.
So that was my weekend. So full of thoughts, full of events.
Sitting there in the middle of West Village, among half-drunk teenagers, we sat side by side, commenting on people, philosophizing about life, relishing the its simple beauty of allowing us meet, every now and then, wonderful people.
But sometimes, we have walls that should be laughed at. Here we are, in the middle of the infusion of beautiful music, all I could think about was laughing at the absurdity. She and I could also be sitting somewhere, without plans, talking about impromptu topics, exchanging ideas, and ultimately, making each other feel safe and away from the loneliness that are our shadows. She said she hasn't been doing well. In my mind, I thought I wish I could be there. But the wall said she had abandoned me in the path that she refused to take. The wall said she had chosen a similar path with someone else with whom she was going home tonight. The absurdity is that two people who could make each other happy choose to do the very opposite. I had to laugh.
Now I have to lean on that wall.
Friday, July 8, 2011
A Different Side of Dad
The week ends, the work week, at least.
And here I am, in the train, through the rain, under the gray sky.
Speaking of rain, I wonder how bad the leak is on the roof of my house in New Haven. The roofer will have something complicated and distressing to tell me, I am sure, perhaps Monday. I have called two other roofers and see what they think. They haven't called back.
These phone calls and getting the news are all very annoying. Emotionally they take a toll, and they disrupt my work flow, not only the act of calling but that emotional toll distracts me from working. I wonder still what the worth is of keeping the house. Is it really making money for me now? When will its price go up? Is the wait and possible income worth the trouble? It also costs me money to keep it. I don't know if I have the time to figure it all out.
In an hour I will be having Turkish food with that guy friend of mine. The one that I had steak with. His birthday is coming up, next weekend, a week from now. He shows his birth year on his Facebook page. He's turning 41. How did he celebrate his 40th? I wonder. That was around the time he moved to New York. Maybe he, not being Chinese, didn't care about the number 40 and coinciding it with his move. Maybe he did. If I were him, it would mean a lot. Forty. Me, I have three years left. I wonder what those three years will be. Hopefully, I won't be worrying about my house, by whatever means. Maybe I will have my own apartment in New York by then. Maybe I will be the best tango dancer among the amateurs. Maybe I will be done with finance and start something else.
Looking back a human being sometimes wants to know the meaning. I haven't done that yet. I am guessing you do that as you get older. Some years I go over the old letters, journal entries, and reflect upon the steps I've taken, and the ways to go. I think about this now because I think my Dad has been asking himself this question for a while now. Specifically, he has been insecure about being a good father. I suppose, knowing him, he has always been insecure. I wonder if he has ever thought he was good enough of a father. Probably never. He apologized about a year ago being a failure, failure to put his children into "middle-class" America (by that he meant I didn't have more than one fancy car and didn't even have a flat-screen TV).
This time his insecurity manifested in a darker way, at least in a way that upset me. He called a couple of weeks ago, actually, two weekends ago, asking if I could pick up Granny again from that infernal traffic swamp of Chinatown. I explained to him that driving was one of my most hated activities, and driving in Chinatown was just about the worst thing I would let myself do. He didn't sound upset, not terribly disappointed. I felt I needed to justify this because I didn't think he would understand. Then, I forgot about it.
But later in the week, Mother called and told me how I upset my Dad to no ends, how he wept after hanging up in pain and anger, how he was disappointed not only in me but also in himself in being a failure to raise a son that would do the right thing. The right thing, to him, was sucking up whatever inconvenience I had to help a woman who suffered many years to bring us happiness. He complained that if I wouldn't do this for my Grandmother, how could anyone expect me to do anything good for him, who's already old.
I was seriously upset hearing this. At one level, I hated the face that he hid this from me, that I had to hear it from someone else. At another level, I hated the way he said everything was fine but really he was exploding inside. Furthermore, he was setting up a trap for both of us. He knew, and Mother told him so before he called, that I hated driving and hated it a thousand times more driving in Chinatown. He nevertheless tested the impossible, tested to see if really even his own son would refuse him. He never likes asking for favors, and it's not only because he's self-reliant, but also because he is afraid of rejection. He set up this trap to play out that rejection onto himself using me. Then the icing on the cake is his childishness. He said later in the week, after I called (not knowing he was upset) about all of us meeting together because my little sister was in town, that if it weren't for my little sister he wouldn't want to see me. How does a seventy-something year old man behave like a seven-year old?
The deepest anger I had is reserved for myself and how I became like this. If you know me, you know that I do more or less the same thing as I have just described about my Dad. I have inherited a lot of these traits from him. Suppressing anger, letting people do as they wish, not asking for help, and being childish. I am sure other people do this too, but other people didn't inherit these traits from my Dad.
When the anger subsided, I started to forgive myself, because finally, I realized, I wasn't at fault. I didn't choose these traits. Someone spoon-fed them to me just as he spoon-fed me the best food he could afford. Parents do what they can, and it is never perfect in the sense that every spoon is full of the right thing to do at the moment. So I forgive him a little bit, too.
I saw them along with my little sister. It was a little awkward at first. But we talked more, nothing out of the ordinary. They still needed me to be the bridge between my sister and them, the same sister I rescued from them. I was still angry, however. But with a greater concentration of disappointment. Here was the man I had until college relied on to be my moral and intellectual guide. He's the person I could always turn to for an answer. Now I see he was childish, insecure, and didn't know still how to love a son. If you love your son, how do you manipulate him to do what he explicitly says is painful for him. How do you put tradition before filial love? He's not perfect in that sense, and no father can really do that all the time. But I felt a lot of disappointment.
I also felt I had to make a greater effort to walk away from the legacy of those spoons of bad traits fed to me. Or reconcile with them, I guess. I don't want to feel dishonest with my friends. I want to be more straightforward. I don't think the Chinese culture is deceptive and dishonest; but it can feel like that when it is implanted in the Western culture where there are fewer rules and more explicit communications. I want to show my anger when someone so much as annoys me, I want to be able to tell people what I need and be prepared for refusals.
As for my Dad, I haven't decided on what to do with him. I need to tell him this, even though my Cantonese isn't strong enough to express my thoughts thoroughly. I don't want him to feel even more inadequate as a father. I guess I need to get over my anger first through some other channel before I can talk to him in a rational way.
A friend of mine wrote me an email (to which I still haven't found the time to respond, so busy) in which she stated that her Dad was diagnosed with cancer. She's one of the reasons I can speak Spanish so well. She was in New Haven for just two semesters, but because she wasn't comfortable speaking English, we spoke a lot in Spanish (she's actually Italian). Her email reminded me that parents, if you're "lucky" in the most twisted sense, will not outlast you. So while they are here, find your path back to them if you have broken the the connection. No matter how bad the relationship was, you will lose a piece of yourself once that parent disappears permanently. Lost it forever. So when I am done with being angry, I will talk to him. For now, I will rest.
And here I am, in the train, through the rain, under the gray sky.
Speaking of rain, I wonder how bad the leak is on the roof of my house in New Haven. The roofer will have something complicated and distressing to tell me, I am sure, perhaps Monday. I have called two other roofers and see what they think. They haven't called back.
These phone calls and getting the news are all very annoying. Emotionally they take a toll, and they disrupt my work flow, not only the act of calling but that emotional toll distracts me from working. I wonder still what the worth is of keeping the house. Is it really making money for me now? When will its price go up? Is the wait and possible income worth the trouble? It also costs me money to keep it. I don't know if I have the time to figure it all out.
In an hour I will be having Turkish food with that guy friend of mine. The one that I had steak with. His birthday is coming up, next weekend, a week from now. He shows his birth year on his Facebook page. He's turning 41. How did he celebrate his 40th? I wonder. That was around the time he moved to New York. Maybe he, not being Chinese, didn't care about the number 40 and coinciding it with his move. Maybe he did. If I were him, it would mean a lot. Forty. Me, I have three years left. I wonder what those three years will be. Hopefully, I won't be worrying about my house, by whatever means. Maybe I will have my own apartment in New York by then. Maybe I will be the best tango dancer among the amateurs. Maybe I will be done with finance and start something else.
Looking back a human being sometimes wants to know the meaning. I haven't done that yet. I am guessing you do that as you get older. Some years I go over the old letters, journal entries, and reflect upon the steps I've taken, and the ways to go. I think about this now because I think my Dad has been asking himself this question for a while now. Specifically, he has been insecure about being a good father. I suppose, knowing him, he has always been insecure. I wonder if he has ever thought he was good enough of a father. Probably never. He apologized about a year ago being a failure, failure to put his children into "middle-class" America (by that he meant I didn't have more than one fancy car and didn't even have a flat-screen TV).
This time his insecurity manifested in a darker way, at least in a way that upset me. He called a couple of weeks ago, actually, two weekends ago, asking if I could pick up Granny again from that infernal traffic swamp of Chinatown. I explained to him that driving was one of my most hated activities, and driving in Chinatown was just about the worst thing I would let myself do. He didn't sound upset, not terribly disappointed. I felt I needed to justify this because I didn't think he would understand. Then, I forgot about it.
But later in the week, Mother called and told me how I upset my Dad to no ends, how he wept after hanging up in pain and anger, how he was disappointed not only in me but also in himself in being a failure to raise a son that would do the right thing. The right thing, to him, was sucking up whatever inconvenience I had to help a woman who suffered many years to bring us happiness. He complained that if I wouldn't do this for my Grandmother, how could anyone expect me to do anything good for him, who's already old.
I was seriously upset hearing this. At one level, I hated the face that he hid this from me, that I had to hear it from someone else. At another level, I hated the way he said everything was fine but really he was exploding inside. Furthermore, he was setting up a trap for both of us. He knew, and Mother told him so before he called, that I hated driving and hated it a thousand times more driving in Chinatown. He nevertheless tested the impossible, tested to see if really even his own son would refuse him. He never likes asking for favors, and it's not only because he's self-reliant, but also because he is afraid of rejection. He set up this trap to play out that rejection onto himself using me. Then the icing on the cake is his childishness. He said later in the week, after I called (not knowing he was upset) about all of us meeting together because my little sister was in town, that if it weren't for my little sister he wouldn't want to see me. How does a seventy-something year old man behave like a seven-year old?
The deepest anger I had is reserved for myself and how I became like this. If you know me, you know that I do more or less the same thing as I have just described about my Dad. I have inherited a lot of these traits from him. Suppressing anger, letting people do as they wish, not asking for help, and being childish. I am sure other people do this too, but other people didn't inherit these traits from my Dad.
When the anger subsided, I started to forgive myself, because finally, I realized, I wasn't at fault. I didn't choose these traits. Someone spoon-fed them to me just as he spoon-fed me the best food he could afford. Parents do what they can, and it is never perfect in the sense that every spoon is full of the right thing to do at the moment. So I forgive him a little bit, too.
I saw them along with my little sister. It was a little awkward at first. But we talked more, nothing out of the ordinary. They still needed me to be the bridge between my sister and them, the same sister I rescued from them. I was still angry, however. But with a greater concentration of disappointment. Here was the man I had until college relied on to be my moral and intellectual guide. He's the person I could always turn to for an answer. Now I see he was childish, insecure, and didn't know still how to love a son. If you love your son, how do you manipulate him to do what he explicitly says is painful for him. How do you put tradition before filial love? He's not perfect in that sense, and no father can really do that all the time. But I felt a lot of disappointment.
I also felt I had to make a greater effort to walk away from the legacy of those spoons of bad traits fed to me. Or reconcile with them, I guess. I don't want to feel dishonest with my friends. I want to be more straightforward. I don't think the Chinese culture is deceptive and dishonest; but it can feel like that when it is implanted in the Western culture where there are fewer rules and more explicit communications. I want to show my anger when someone so much as annoys me, I want to be able to tell people what I need and be prepared for refusals.
As for my Dad, I haven't decided on what to do with him. I need to tell him this, even though my Cantonese isn't strong enough to express my thoughts thoroughly. I don't want him to feel even more inadequate as a father. I guess I need to get over my anger first through some other channel before I can talk to him in a rational way.
A friend of mine wrote me an email (to which I still haven't found the time to respond, so busy) in which she stated that her Dad was diagnosed with cancer. She's one of the reasons I can speak Spanish so well. She was in New Haven for just two semesters, but because she wasn't comfortable speaking English, we spoke a lot in Spanish (she's actually Italian). Her email reminded me that parents, if you're "lucky" in the most twisted sense, will not outlast you. So while they are here, find your path back to them if you have broken the the connection. No matter how bad the relationship was, you will lose a piece of yourself once that parent disappears permanently. Lost it forever. So when I am done with being angry, I will talk to him. For now, I will rest.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Window to a Wedding
I called the roofer today, and he says the roof is a mess. Disheartening, but at the same time not so surprising. Like the flooring in my apartment, the roof has multiple layers made by people in the past who didn't want to spend the money to actually remove the previous layers before putting on a "new" roof. The roofer says it's getting really heavy, with seven layers already. He will give me estimates for different options at the end of this week. I wonder how I will pay for this. But it didn't bother me long. I take things as they come, I guess.
I am sleepy. Last night came home around 2:15 and went to bed 2:45, four hours of sleep. I have a new guest, a guy. A friend. A teacher. An ex of someone else I know. I don't think they are talking much. In some twisted way I am relieved to see that not all breakups eventually become friendships. Relieved that it's not so abnormal to never be friends with people who have disappointed you in giving you the connection you want.
I just finished going through the pictures I took at the wedding last Saturday. I like them. I still don't know what direction to take next with photography, but at least, I like them. I want to tell stories. Personal. Subtle. Not big ones like in photojournalism. Personal smiles, personal relationships, personal struggles, small ones, ones we don't think anyone cares. But of course, if we didn't care about the small ones, then we wouldn't know how to connect to people on the big issues they have.
The wedding was unorthodox. It took place on a rooftop of a friend. The newly weds managed to make friends, deep friendships, enough to be able to pull this off, without hiring caterers, without renting a venue, without even sending out fancy invitations. On a budget, but more importantly, fun. Fun in that bohemian way, without totally throwing away the old institution of marriage. The gay communities of the world are struggling to make their marriage recognized legally, but then marriage can be too traditional for the people I hang out with. I don't know anyone who says for sure they would like to get married, including those with longterm partners. One of the people who attended the wedding had been with her partner for over 28 years. And someone who didn't attend said she didn't because she didn't want to support the institution of marriage. These are the type of people I hang out with.
Still, here we were, on the rooftop with an invisible alter and a secular "priest" who made sexual jokes and said in the end, "With the power *not* entrusted in me, I pronounce you man and wife." She's the best friend of the bride. There is no mockery of marriage because they wanted this ceremony with their closest friends in their new city. If there's any mockery, it is about the materialism and formality of marriage that hasn't changed much in centuries. There were some formalities. The father of the bride still brought her to the "altar". We had to wait a bit for them to show up (walking very steep stairs to the rooftop). And they read each other their vows. The bride's was so moving that many people had wet eyes. The groom's was moving in its own way, memorized, filled with nervousness.
She made her promises. They promise to be together and when things are tough and rough they will remember that day when those promises were made. You don't need formalities to make these promises more real, more keepable. Their sincerity was not hindered by formalities that often could make things look contrived. For me, no better sign that they loved each other enough to make those promises before their friends and family (without reference to God) is they couldn't stop looking at each other. I've never seen a couple so involved with each other after all these years dating. They came to the scary city of New York together, for New York, for themselves. Not for a job or for anyone else.
I was jealous, as you can guess. I have always wanted to move someone with someone for us. To start an adventure together. To make a decision together and implement it, not because we can't do it ourselves individually, but because the sum total of happiness and value of experience outweighs the individual happiness many folds.
It was also a time to get to know this tiny clique of tango dancers even more. I had already known them, been welcome to their world before. But now I am getting to know them. I don't think I've made real friends, apart from my "date" (my art buddy) and the teacher I always want to hang around with. There was, surprisingly, hardly any tango danced or played.
Looking back at the photos I saw a lot of joy, from the newly weds, of course, but also from the people around. While we don't always want to be in a crowd, while we sometimes desperately want to be alone, something about the rooftop, about the view of Manhattan, about the sunset over the skyscrapers, about the view of the surrounding factory-converted-to-lofts, about this artsy neighborhood of Bushwick, something about all this that made us feel connected in one way or another, to at least some extent, to ourselves, through this surrounding, through the people we know. I was not ecstatic, but more peaceful. The wedding made me a little pensive because, of course, I wish something like this would happen to me. But much more than that, I was happy to be there. I was happy my closest friend in this country was my date.
When I saw the couple again (at a milonga, of course), they seemed like before the wedding. The exchange of vows didn't make them look older, more mature, didn't make them grow wings of angels. That wasn't the point of the wedding. The exchange of the vows were internal. The enjoyment with friends was an event. But still, when I see them being sweet and beautiful together, I remember the sunset, the Manhattan skylines, the rooftops of Bushwick. I feel happy that day happened in my life.
I am sleepy. Last night came home around 2:15 and went to bed 2:45, four hours of sleep. I have a new guest, a guy. A friend. A teacher. An ex of someone else I know. I don't think they are talking much. In some twisted way I am relieved to see that not all breakups eventually become friendships. Relieved that it's not so abnormal to never be friends with people who have disappointed you in giving you the connection you want.
I just finished going through the pictures I took at the wedding last Saturday. I like them. I still don't know what direction to take next with photography, but at least, I like them. I want to tell stories. Personal. Subtle. Not big ones like in photojournalism. Personal smiles, personal relationships, personal struggles, small ones, ones we don't think anyone cares. But of course, if we didn't care about the small ones, then we wouldn't know how to connect to people on the big issues they have.
The wedding was unorthodox. It took place on a rooftop of a friend. The newly weds managed to make friends, deep friendships, enough to be able to pull this off, without hiring caterers, without renting a venue, without even sending out fancy invitations. On a budget, but more importantly, fun. Fun in that bohemian way, without totally throwing away the old institution of marriage. The gay communities of the world are struggling to make their marriage recognized legally, but then marriage can be too traditional for the people I hang out with. I don't know anyone who says for sure they would like to get married, including those with longterm partners. One of the people who attended the wedding had been with her partner for over 28 years. And someone who didn't attend said she didn't because she didn't want to support the institution of marriage. These are the type of people I hang out with.
Still, here we were, on the rooftop with an invisible alter and a secular "priest" who made sexual jokes and said in the end, "With the power *not* entrusted in me, I pronounce you man and wife." She's the best friend of the bride. There is no mockery of marriage because they wanted this ceremony with their closest friends in their new city. If there's any mockery, it is about the materialism and formality of marriage that hasn't changed much in centuries. There were some formalities. The father of the bride still brought her to the "altar". We had to wait a bit for them to show up (walking very steep stairs to the rooftop). And they read each other their vows. The bride's was so moving that many people had wet eyes. The groom's was moving in its own way, memorized, filled with nervousness.
She made her promises. They promise to be together and when things are tough and rough they will remember that day when those promises were made. You don't need formalities to make these promises more real, more keepable. Their sincerity was not hindered by formalities that often could make things look contrived. For me, no better sign that they loved each other enough to make those promises before their friends and family (without reference to God) is they couldn't stop looking at each other. I've never seen a couple so involved with each other after all these years dating. They came to the scary city of New York together, for New York, for themselves. Not for a job or for anyone else.
I was jealous, as you can guess. I have always wanted to move someone with someone for us. To start an adventure together. To make a decision together and implement it, not because we can't do it ourselves individually, but because the sum total of happiness and value of experience outweighs the individual happiness many folds.
It was also a time to get to know this tiny clique of tango dancers even more. I had already known them, been welcome to their world before. But now I am getting to know them. I don't think I've made real friends, apart from my "date" (my art buddy) and the teacher I always want to hang around with. There was, surprisingly, hardly any tango danced or played.
Looking back at the photos I saw a lot of joy, from the newly weds, of course, but also from the people around. While we don't always want to be in a crowd, while we sometimes desperately want to be alone, something about the rooftop, about the view of Manhattan, about the sunset over the skyscrapers, about the view of the surrounding factory-converted-to-lofts, about this artsy neighborhood of Bushwick, something about all this that made us feel connected in one way or another, to at least some extent, to ourselves, through this surrounding, through the people we know. I was not ecstatic, but more peaceful. The wedding made me a little pensive because, of course, I wish something like this would happen to me. But much more than that, I was happy to be there. I was happy my closest friend in this country was my date.
When I saw the couple again (at a milonga, of course), they seemed like before the wedding. The exchange of vows didn't make them look older, more mature, didn't make them grow wings of angels. That wasn't the point of the wedding. The exchange of the vows were internal. The enjoyment with friends was an event. But still, when I see them being sweet and beautiful together, I remember the sunset, the Manhattan skylines, the rooftops of Bushwick. I feel happy that day happened in my life.
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Independence Thoughts
He had a short haircut perfect for the summer. His face seemed almost gentle, a smile perfect for the camera. One wouldn't know what a face for the world champion hotdog eater (gorger) should look like, and I am not sure if the marketers had an idea, but his face looked good on the big screen, on the newspaper next day. He's not some big fat human eating machine, not your average American obesity freak show. He's actually quite muscular, without a visible belly, but then again, that smile might just distract you from any sign of that if the big Nathan's T-shirt doesn't cover up any evidence to the contrary.
I didn't see him in person. I saw the woman who won the women's competition while we were waiting for our own one hotdog (which I shared with my sister). She walked past behind us and the crowd cheered. She's a tiny woman with a big smile. Unlike her male counterpart, she was not white and well built; she was like some sort of Hispanic tennis player. How she managed to devour 48 hotdogs in 10 minutes I didn't witness because we came just as she was getting her trophy and belt (yes, a belt, like the ones they give to boxing champions and American "wrestlers").
That was how I spent the first part of my Independence Day with my sister.
Before meeting up with our parents, we walked on the boardwalk all the way to Brighton Beach, the closest beach to where I had grown up. It is the beach where my first best friend in the country, if you recall, a Slovak immigrant defected with his family, showed me his boomerang right after he opened it from the mail, flung it to the sea, and did not see it boomerang back to land. It is where I snuck in to a theater to watch part 2 of Robocop. Brighton Lane was the approximate name of the first real crush I had that lasted a whole semester. (The brother of this crush was also the person who showed me for the first time a condom he kept, of all places, in his wallet.)
I had never walked the boardwalk from Coney Island to Brighton Beach. It was beautiful. Though my sister was getting thirsty and hot under her non-summer getup. She's a good sport. She's the only person I can feel comfortable dragging around doing stuff I want. With my friends, I always feel I have to cater to what they want to do and don't have the courage to tell them what I want, lest they leave me, or worse, feel obliged to do what I want.
Coney Island itself was a slightly new experience for me. I went there once before I left for college. I can't remember why I was there. Or maybe it was after college. Maybe it was much more recent, when I returned to New York for that one year, maybe with my girlfriend who came to visit me from Switzerland. She's like me, always wanting to explore things. So maybe we went exploring a place I had actually never been to even though Coney Island is a famous landmark of New York. In any case, it was different from whenever it was that I went last time. New rides, and plenty of Latin Americans, whose food stalls and markets stand side-by-side with the decades-old shops you see in vintage photographs of this New York landmark. The old Cyclone still was running, and still making that rickety danger-sounding creaking sound as the old car rumbled on that wooden frame. In all the twenty odd years since I had heard of the Cyclone, I had not heard of an accident that I had sometimes been dreading to happen.
We ended our tour of this part of Brooklyn with a visit to a Russian store, where I found these dairy treats that a Russian friend had introduced me to a while back. I got to practice my farewell greetings with a typical-looking middle-age Russian woman who didn't understand enough English to answer my question, "Is this white inside?". My sister was tired and thirsty, and hot.
I thought she needed new clothes. I thought this woman needed to have a collection of clothes beyond the thick, black, long types that protect her from the world, from human beings. So we went shopping. But it was a failure. The vintage stores in Williamsburg were, as I feared, closed for the holiday. These yuppies apparently didn't share the same profit-seeking spirit as the big chains we ended up going to in Midtown later. I thought it was a waste of time. I even though I should get a Smartphone so I could find the number and call to see if these places were open. But I remembered, eventually, that I was spending time with my sister, in whatever form, and it wouldn't, from this perspective, be a waste of time.
In the end, she didn't find anything her size, which was teeny. In the end, I felt perhaps I was not the right person for her to go shopping with. Not because I wouldn't have a clue what goes well with her, but because I didn't have that feminine bond with her that would encourage her and give her tips.
I thought, who would? Maybe one day, if I have someone close, someone who would bond with my sister. But it's Independence Day, and I didn't want to think about that "someone", because too many "someones" have come on Independence Day and have left.
We parted ways and I went home finally to have a moment to myself. As you know, I have trouble with the idea of being alone. When I am alone, I complain that I am left alone. But then I get antsy when I have no alone time and thirst for it at the end of every weekend when every weekend I am with someone. So finally, some alone time. I did some business with the house in Connecticut, reviewed a bit my budget, read some emails, and practiced my Kungfu. Then a quick shower and before I knew it, it was way past my bedtime.
I thought about who my best friends are, or is. I thought about it because of the tension I have with my Dad. I wondered who to call. I have been here for nearly two months. Really, a little more than a month if you start counting when I stopped going back to New Haven. I have met up with people here. I have gone to different social events not counting milongas. But a best friendship takes years to develop. My art friend was here for the weekend. Being with her is part of developing a best friendship. I sometimes feel awkward with her, but that, I realized, was because it's normal to feel the disconnected parts of a relationship when you're with someone all the time. It's one of the reasons I want to be in a romantic relationship, to take up the challenge of building a connection with someone who didn't grow up with you, but whom you have chosen and whose relationship you chose to build. We went to a tango wedding on Saturday, and we both got teary eyes when the bride read out her promises to her now husband in front of their closest friends in the city as well as family from a different timezone. I don't know exactly why we got teary; it was my first time at a wedding. But I think it has something to do with our common desire, despite all our cynicisms, for promises to be fulfilled at least with one person in this world, one person that we choose.
The same goes with best friendships. It's not as intense as a romantic relationship. But it is equally important. And I wonder who in this world I can call and say what is on my mind. My best friend in London I hardly talk to, though we are strong together, strong enough that each time we talk we feel close, and hopefully I will see her in September. My art friend I have done many times calling up with anger and anguish. And she has done the same with me. But like I said, we are still walking that road, and we have a long way to go. There's the friend with whom I shared the last moment of her dog. That moment was arguably the most intense moment I have shared with anyone. And I have called her up once when I was on the verge of explosion not too long ago. And she has called me a few times to just not feel alone. Nevertheless, we have a distance between us, marked by difference in personality, mutual desire for the other person's presence. I still call her once a week to check on her, which is more than I do with my family or my best friend in London. That's because I am trying.
Then there is that crazy Latina from New Haven. When I get her attention, she's great, in sharing her thoughts, in calling me out on my misjudgments. But she disappears very often, sometimes because of family, sometimes she needs her space. That's fine. And there had been times when I couldn't reach my art buddy, when she picked up the phone. I hope those days won't repeat soon, but I am glad I have someone like her to be around. Still, she can disappear. Still, she's one of the few people I could say "I love you."
I think about the French girl. I miss her, sometimes a lot. I miss her for many reasons, many of which need to be put in their resting place of the past. I do miss that she came closest to being my best friend since my best friend left for London. Despite my complaint that she didn't listen well, she tried and did quite well. More than once she figured out how to give me the right mixture of space and attention to let me feel safe with my dilemmas. I never had doubt that if that relationship had continued to grow, a beautiful bond would have been forged despite all our differences. But we could never agree on what that relationship looked like, and so there is none.
Before parting with my sister we had dinner with our parents. But I will write about that another time because it involves some background that leads to more background involving my Dad. I will also write about the tango wedding another time. This has been a very long weekend. The train ride is nearly over, and then I will start my first day of work of this shorter week. Now some rest.
I didn't see him in person. I saw the woman who won the women's competition while we were waiting for our own one hotdog (which I shared with my sister). She walked past behind us and the crowd cheered. She's a tiny woman with a big smile. Unlike her male counterpart, she was not white and well built; she was like some sort of Hispanic tennis player. How she managed to devour 48 hotdogs in 10 minutes I didn't witness because we came just as she was getting her trophy and belt (yes, a belt, like the ones they give to boxing champions and American "wrestlers").
That was how I spent the first part of my Independence Day with my sister.
Before meeting up with our parents, we walked on the boardwalk all the way to Brighton Beach, the closest beach to where I had grown up. It is the beach where my first best friend in the country, if you recall, a Slovak immigrant defected with his family, showed me his boomerang right after he opened it from the mail, flung it to the sea, and did not see it boomerang back to land. It is where I snuck in to a theater to watch part 2 of Robocop. Brighton Lane was the approximate name of the first real crush I had that lasted a whole semester. (The brother of this crush was also the person who showed me for the first time a condom he kept, of all places, in his wallet.)
I had never walked the boardwalk from Coney Island to Brighton Beach. It was beautiful. Though my sister was getting thirsty and hot under her non-summer getup. She's a good sport. She's the only person I can feel comfortable dragging around doing stuff I want. With my friends, I always feel I have to cater to what they want to do and don't have the courage to tell them what I want, lest they leave me, or worse, feel obliged to do what I want.
Coney Island itself was a slightly new experience for me. I went there once before I left for college. I can't remember why I was there. Or maybe it was after college. Maybe it was much more recent, when I returned to New York for that one year, maybe with my girlfriend who came to visit me from Switzerland. She's like me, always wanting to explore things. So maybe we went exploring a place I had actually never been to even though Coney Island is a famous landmark of New York. In any case, it was different from whenever it was that I went last time. New rides, and plenty of Latin Americans, whose food stalls and markets stand side-by-side with the decades-old shops you see in vintage photographs of this New York landmark. The old Cyclone still was running, and still making that rickety danger-sounding creaking sound as the old car rumbled on that wooden frame. In all the twenty odd years since I had heard of the Cyclone, I had not heard of an accident that I had sometimes been dreading to happen.
We ended our tour of this part of Brooklyn with a visit to a Russian store, where I found these dairy treats that a Russian friend had introduced me to a while back. I got to practice my farewell greetings with a typical-looking middle-age Russian woman who didn't understand enough English to answer my question, "Is this white inside?". My sister was tired and thirsty, and hot.
I thought she needed new clothes. I thought this woman needed to have a collection of clothes beyond the thick, black, long types that protect her from the world, from human beings. So we went shopping. But it was a failure. The vintage stores in Williamsburg were, as I feared, closed for the holiday. These yuppies apparently didn't share the same profit-seeking spirit as the big chains we ended up going to in Midtown later. I thought it was a waste of time. I even though I should get a Smartphone so I could find the number and call to see if these places were open. But I remembered, eventually, that I was spending time with my sister, in whatever form, and it wouldn't, from this perspective, be a waste of time.
In the end, she didn't find anything her size, which was teeny. In the end, I felt perhaps I was not the right person for her to go shopping with. Not because I wouldn't have a clue what goes well with her, but because I didn't have that feminine bond with her that would encourage her and give her tips.
I thought, who would? Maybe one day, if I have someone close, someone who would bond with my sister. But it's Independence Day, and I didn't want to think about that "someone", because too many "someones" have come on Independence Day and have left.
We parted ways and I went home finally to have a moment to myself. As you know, I have trouble with the idea of being alone. When I am alone, I complain that I am left alone. But then I get antsy when I have no alone time and thirst for it at the end of every weekend when every weekend I am with someone. So finally, some alone time. I did some business with the house in Connecticut, reviewed a bit my budget, read some emails, and practiced my Kungfu. Then a quick shower and before I knew it, it was way past my bedtime.
I thought about who my best friends are, or is. I thought about it because of the tension I have with my Dad. I wondered who to call. I have been here for nearly two months. Really, a little more than a month if you start counting when I stopped going back to New Haven. I have met up with people here. I have gone to different social events not counting milongas. But a best friendship takes years to develop. My art friend was here for the weekend. Being with her is part of developing a best friendship. I sometimes feel awkward with her, but that, I realized, was because it's normal to feel the disconnected parts of a relationship when you're with someone all the time. It's one of the reasons I want to be in a romantic relationship, to take up the challenge of building a connection with someone who didn't grow up with you, but whom you have chosen and whose relationship you chose to build. We went to a tango wedding on Saturday, and we both got teary eyes when the bride read out her promises to her now husband in front of their closest friends in the city as well as family from a different timezone. I don't know exactly why we got teary; it was my first time at a wedding. But I think it has something to do with our common desire, despite all our cynicisms, for promises to be fulfilled at least with one person in this world, one person that we choose.
The same goes with best friendships. It's not as intense as a romantic relationship. But it is equally important. And I wonder who in this world I can call and say what is on my mind. My best friend in London I hardly talk to, though we are strong together, strong enough that each time we talk we feel close, and hopefully I will see her in September. My art friend I have done many times calling up with anger and anguish. And she has done the same with me. But like I said, we are still walking that road, and we have a long way to go. There's the friend with whom I shared the last moment of her dog. That moment was arguably the most intense moment I have shared with anyone. And I have called her up once when I was on the verge of explosion not too long ago. And she has called me a few times to just not feel alone. Nevertheless, we have a distance between us, marked by difference in personality, mutual desire for the other person's presence. I still call her once a week to check on her, which is more than I do with my family or my best friend in London. That's because I am trying.
Then there is that crazy Latina from New Haven. When I get her attention, she's great, in sharing her thoughts, in calling me out on my misjudgments. But she disappears very often, sometimes because of family, sometimes she needs her space. That's fine. And there had been times when I couldn't reach my art buddy, when she picked up the phone. I hope those days won't repeat soon, but I am glad I have someone like her to be around. Still, she can disappear. Still, she's one of the few people I could say "I love you."
I think about the French girl. I miss her, sometimes a lot. I miss her for many reasons, many of which need to be put in their resting place of the past. I do miss that she came closest to being my best friend since my best friend left for London. Despite my complaint that she didn't listen well, she tried and did quite well. More than once she figured out how to give me the right mixture of space and attention to let me feel safe with my dilemmas. I never had doubt that if that relationship had continued to grow, a beautiful bond would have been forged despite all our differences. But we could never agree on what that relationship looked like, and so there is none.
Before parting with my sister we had dinner with our parents. But I will write about that another time because it involves some background that leads to more background involving my Dad. I will also write about the tango wedding another time. This has been a very long weekend. The train ride is nearly over, and then I will start my first day of work of this shorter week. Now some rest.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
New York between New York
Tomorrow two acquaintances will be getting married. The guy's bachelor's party was where I went last week. Yesterday they went to City Hall and was officially married, so tomorrow they will have their spiritual ties and then party in the evening. But then, one of the largest monthly milongas comes after and it is organized by two of their closest friends. So I guess we will all head over after.
This is my life. Building ties with people I hardly know. How strange it is. When I was here in 2001, when I returned to live in New York for the first time since leaving for college, I was by myself a lot. I couldn't make friends. Partly it was because I was involved with my family, its drama between my mother and my soon-to-be married sister, and with my little sister who was sinking deeper into her dark teenager hole of depression. I remember looking for people to hang out with. I remember meeting this girl who lived all the way at the tip of Far Rockaway, at the end of the A-train. I remember taking the A train that far, beyond JFK Airport, to meet up with her. I remember she drove a Saturn, a company I hardly heard of except for the few commercials from college when it first came out. I remember how desolate the place was. People complain New York is crowded and a concrete jungle. They haven't been to Far Rockaway.
We were friends, and I saw her a couple of more times, including after she moved from Far Far Rockaway to Hamilton Parkway. I remember going to Lower East Side and discovering that there were so many bars and restaurants in New York.
I didn't know New York. I wasn't a New Yorker because I knew where the hip and fun places were in New York. I am not that kind of New Yorker. I behaving like an old New Yorker who never went out but my past with New York was one of teenager. I remembered New York as a dark and scary place, and that night when we all went out for pizza and beer I realized how little I knew New York. So for that year I went out a lot to the city, not in the sense of partying, but to discover it. It was during that year that I took a class in photography and actually stayed in Times Square at night, something all tourists do but I didn't when I was growing up that concrete jungle. I spent a lot of time with my little sister, to get her out of the hole called our parents' home. (It never really felt, for me, and probably for my little sister, our home.) I took a lot of photos, film photos, long before I bought my first digital camera. I tested with slide film, and reverse slide (developing slides as if they were negatives). I did that when I was living in Boston, and did a lot more in Europe. It was the first time I did so with my little sister, whom I had disconnected since I left college, probably since I was in high school.
For some reason I still don't understand, despite the disconnect, she was the one I was concerned about most of everyone in the family, enough to rescue her and uproot her to New Haven. But I will leave that story for another day.
That year I had trouble finding a job. The World Trade Center was destroyed just after I moved back. The mood of the city was somber. I got a part time job through connection with my ex-boss in England. My first job in the concrete building, just below the tallest building in New York that was the second tallest just a few days before I started working. I finally got a full time job a few months later, in December, at the NYU Medical School. It was a depressing job. I worked with a burly man who was in love with his solitude. He was a middle-age geek who prided in being the only bioinformatics person in the prestigious research institute. I saw him a few years later, actually, about a year ago. We said hi but nothing more. Our relationship was not complicated or bad. Just not very interesting. He isn't talkative, but I could tell he loved attention, but was too proud to show it. I remember one time a stranger knocked on our door and showed a summons when my boss opened the door. When he saw the summons, he screamed at the stranger and threw him out. I didn't know what that was about. I didn't ask.
It wasn't the first time I heard a New York boss screaming. The manager from the part time job before NYU screamed at the phone once, with lots of curse words too. I thought he was also crying, from the whimpering in his voice. It always startles me when someone screams. Maybe that's natural. Maybe because my parents always screamed at us. And during that year as things got more and more sour between my other sister and my mother, the screaming between my parents got louder and more frequent. I was 26, and I felt I was living as a teenager again. I had to leave.
So I left New York after just one year. I realized it was a different city. It was safer, cleaner, even the stinky Chinatown was cleaner, just by a bit. It was also expensive. I almost bought an apartment there, but I couldn't afford a nice one. It would have to be two-bedroom, for me and my sister. It would have to be outside my parents' neighborhood. Too expensive. Too popular.
From an investment point of view, I should have bought one. But I guess life didn't care much for investment back then.
From the point of view of my social life, I am not sure if I could live in New York. I had no friends. The girl from Far Rockaway, I can't remember, but our fragile friendship just faded. I remember her name, Veronica, because it was a pretty name. She was a nice girl. Not crazy. Not stunning. In other words, not like the girls that I've been getting in trouble with. I made no friends from my photography class. And beyond that I didn't know what else to do. I had no guidance. I was too preoccupied with the drama of my family to really figure out what I could be doing outside work. Looking back it's funny how now I am aware of all these possibilities: yoga, kungfu, opera, and many more, and, of course, tango. A few years ago I heard about gyrotonics. And now so many people are doing it as if it were some fad among the tango dancers.
I was very disconnected with myself that year. I had just returned from two years abroad, just broken up with the last real relationship, had to tie up the dramas that accompany most breakups. Then there was my little sister. Looking back, it's no wonder that I needed my best friend's help, once again, even though she didn't plan on talking to me again. (More drama, already talked about it in one blog entry or another.) So I left New York, who showed me she had changed but still remained a stranger, remained a stranger, remained distant from me. I left without the same nostalgia I had felt before, when I returned from college or from Boston or from Europe. I was starting a new life, scary, new life, with my heart and mind placed in the care of someone who wasn't sure if she wanted to talk to me again, in a little city that was pretty in autumn but I didn't know more.
I left. And now that I am back, it feels different again. I feel more connected. I am about to make my first guy friends. I will meet up with one now, in Brooklyn. He has agreed to dry clean his white blazer for me to wear tomorrow. He's the one I went to the birthday gathering for a few weeks ago. And I will make friends with the groom. After his bachelor's party, all the guys agreed we needed more guy time, and have already tentatively made plans to meet once a month. For so long I thought making friends with men was the most impossible thing to do. Now it seems easy when I am ready. It seemed so hard to make friends that year in New York, but now I am having trouble finding time for myself. Funny how life works, when you have some patience, when you live your life for your own connection first. Maybe it will work out with me and my bachelorhood, that really, some girl will discover me while I try to discover myself. For now, I am happy for the soon-to-be-wed couple tomorrow. I am happy to be in New York.
I feel home, finally.
This is my life. Building ties with people I hardly know. How strange it is. When I was here in 2001, when I returned to live in New York for the first time since leaving for college, I was by myself a lot. I couldn't make friends. Partly it was because I was involved with my family, its drama between my mother and my soon-to-be married sister, and with my little sister who was sinking deeper into her dark teenager hole of depression. I remember looking for people to hang out with. I remember meeting this girl who lived all the way at the tip of Far Rockaway, at the end of the A-train. I remember taking the A train that far, beyond JFK Airport, to meet up with her. I remember she drove a Saturn, a company I hardly heard of except for the few commercials from college when it first came out. I remember how desolate the place was. People complain New York is crowded and a concrete jungle. They haven't been to Far Rockaway.
We were friends, and I saw her a couple of more times, including after she moved from Far Far Rockaway to Hamilton Parkway. I remember going to Lower East Side and discovering that there were so many bars and restaurants in New York.
I didn't know New York. I wasn't a New Yorker because I knew where the hip and fun places were in New York. I am not that kind of New Yorker. I behaving like an old New Yorker who never went out but my past with New York was one of teenager. I remembered New York as a dark and scary place, and that night when we all went out for pizza and beer I realized how little I knew New York. So for that year I went out a lot to the city, not in the sense of partying, but to discover it. It was during that year that I took a class in photography and actually stayed in Times Square at night, something all tourists do but I didn't when I was growing up that concrete jungle. I spent a lot of time with my little sister, to get her out of the hole called our parents' home. (It never really felt, for me, and probably for my little sister, our home.) I took a lot of photos, film photos, long before I bought my first digital camera. I tested with slide film, and reverse slide (developing slides as if they were negatives). I did that when I was living in Boston, and did a lot more in Europe. It was the first time I did so with my little sister, whom I had disconnected since I left college, probably since I was in high school.
For some reason I still don't understand, despite the disconnect, she was the one I was concerned about most of everyone in the family, enough to rescue her and uproot her to New Haven. But I will leave that story for another day.
That year I had trouble finding a job. The World Trade Center was destroyed just after I moved back. The mood of the city was somber. I got a part time job through connection with my ex-boss in England. My first job in the concrete building, just below the tallest building in New York that was the second tallest just a few days before I started working. I finally got a full time job a few months later, in December, at the NYU Medical School. It was a depressing job. I worked with a burly man who was in love with his solitude. He was a middle-age geek who prided in being the only bioinformatics person in the prestigious research institute. I saw him a few years later, actually, about a year ago. We said hi but nothing more. Our relationship was not complicated or bad. Just not very interesting. He isn't talkative, but I could tell he loved attention, but was too proud to show it. I remember one time a stranger knocked on our door and showed a summons when my boss opened the door. When he saw the summons, he screamed at the stranger and threw him out. I didn't know what that was about. I didn't ask.
It wasn't the first time I heard a New York boss screaming. The manager from the part time job before NYU screamed at the phone once, with lots of curse words too. I thought he was also crying, from the whimpering in his voice. It always startles me when someone screams. Maybe that's natural. Maybe because my parents always screamed at us. And during that year as things got more and more sour between my other sister and my mother, the screaming between my parents got louder and more frequent. I was 26, and I felt I was living as a teenager again. I had to leave.
So I left New York after just one year. I realized it was a different city. It was safer, cleaner, even the stinky Chinatown was cleaner, just by a bit. It was also expensive. I almost bought an apartment there, but I couldn't afford a nice one. It would have to be two-bedroom, for me and my sister. It would have to be outside my parents' neighborhood. Too expensive. Too popular.
From an investment point of view, I should have bought one. But I guess life didn't care much for investment back then.
From the point of view of my social life, I am not sure if I could live in New York. I had no friends. The girl from Far Rockaway, I can't remember, but our fragile friendship just faded. I remember her name, Veronica, because it was a pretty name. She was a nice girl. Not crazy. Not stunning. In other words, not like the girls that I've been getting in trouble with. I made no friends from my photography class. And beyond that I didn't know what else to do. I had no guidance. I was too preoccupied with the drama of my family to really figure out what I could be doing outside work. Looking back it's funny how now I am aware of all these possibilities: yoga, kungfu, opera, and many more, and, of course, tango. A few years ago I heard about gyrotonics. And now so many people are doing it as if it were some fad among the tango dancers.
I was very disconnected with myself that year. I had just returned from two years abroad, just broken up with the last real relationship, had to tie up the dramas that accompany most breakups. Then there was my little sister. Looking back, it's no wonder that I needed my best friend's help, once again, even though she didn't plan on talking to me again. (More drama, already talked about it in one blog entry or another.) So I left New York, who showed me she had changed but still remained a stranger, remained a stranger, remained distant from me. I left without the same nostalgia I had felt before, when I returned from college or from Boston or from Europe. I was starting a new life, scary, new life, with my heart and mind placed in the care of someone who wasn't sure if she wanted to talk to me again, in a little city that was pretty in autumn but I didn't know more.
I left. And now that I am back, it feels different again. I feel more connected. I am about to make my first guy friends. I will meet up with one now, in Brooklyn. He has agreed to dry clean his white blazer for me to wear tomorrow. He's the one I went to the birthday gathering for a few weeks ago. And I will make friends with the groom. After his bachelor's party, all the guys agreed we needed more guy time, and have already tentatively made plans to meet once a month. For so long I thought making friends with men was the most impossible thing to do. Now it seems easy when I am ready. It seemed so hard to make friends that year in New York, but now I am having trouble finding time for myself. Funny how life works, when you have some patience, when you live your life for your own connection first. Maybe it will work out with me and my bachelorhood, that really, some girl will discover me while I try to discover myself. For now, I am happy for the soon-to-be-wed couple tomorrow. I am happy to be in New York.
I feel home, finally.
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