September 16, 2014
misc. notes on great fondness and on drinking and on boots

I’ve decided to stop drinking for a month, because I need that money for Winter clothes and because it is probably not a good sign that a week’s worth of not-drinking will pay for the soft warm waterproof Sorel boots I ordered today.  My skin is going to glow from the lack of money stress and lack of “Do I Drink Too Much?” stress, and from lack of alcohol.

The exception being Caroline’s birthday because obviously the day upon which Caroline came into this world is a day of great Jubilee.  The other day I was out in Williamsburg with some friends and Caroline sent me a Pin Drop and was a couple blocks away and walked over to say hello with Ben and she was only there for a minute or two but she brought sunshine and fresh air into the bar with her face and I was reminded of how happy her face makes me, but that seemed weird to say, so I said, “I like your dress,” and I did like her dress, but I guess I’m saying the other thing now so I hope that’s not weird.

The boots are similar to ones I borrowed from my Mom one very cold night last Winter when I was meeting Emma and Evan and Maggie at a bar near her work, and they were cozy and snug and my toes were warm for maybe the only time that month, and for those reasons and because I’ll have the same boots as my mom, I picked these.  Plan to see me all over New York City this winter in cozy practical sturdy winter boots that I paid for with not drinking.

Assume that my toes are warm and my heart, too.

September 16, 2014
"Remind yourself of the power you used to have in your legs, of the power you still have in your feet: in the ability to run away and the choice not to. Don’t panic; you’re never trapped."

camaraderie:  

Guys I wrote this two years ago and I was a mess back then, but I left myself some pretty good advice to find in my archives two years later.

September 15, 2014

Emma and I are doing some important coast-to-coast Business Casualing.

September 15, 2014

I’ve got this feeling of nonspecific uneasiness, keeping me awake on a Sunday night as per usual, and I’m going to try to subsume it by going in to work tomorrow and again making the effort to be completely on point with every detail which is impossible and satisfyingly consuming, but also I just remembered that on Friday night we bumped into a couple guys we know at a bar and one of them is this super bro-y guy who used to be basically like my little brother even though he’s two years older, and at one point when we were talking about the new iPhone/U2 situation—so this is about a week after it was Facebook trending or w/e—and about 2 minutes into the conversation he suddenly goes, “WAIT.  THAT’S WHY I HAVE THAT ALBUM??” and I BURST out laughing and he went on, “I was at the gym like, Is this U2? Did I download U2?” and it was probably one of my favorite things that’s ever happened.  Like, maybe I’m not explaining it right or maybe it’s not as funny as I thought it was, but a) he hadn’t heard about it yet, b) he’d already bought the new iPhone, c) he was at the gym when U2 started playing, and d) he doesn’t like U2 and didn’t remember downloading it but just kind of shrugged and went with it.  

Like, ugh, enjoy this with me, this is a treat of a moment.

September 13, 2014

8:18pm
Filed under: raised on promises 
September 13, 2014

The thing about racism and sexism and homophobia and classism the way it’s all so institutionalized and ingrained is that—you know, it’s terrible and toxic and all those obvious things—but it’s also so boring?  Like, comedy based on old stereotypes just isn’t funny and conversations based on the same old assumptions are dull and people who don’t want to think critically about why the world is the way it is are not very interesting people just, like, not that it’s not a problem for other reasons, but also your casual racism is boring and your classist jokes aren’t funny god bye.

September 12, 2014

Note that I feel happy and fragile and thin skinned this week, like a water balloon, like an Easter egg, I read once about Claire Danes and Hugh Dancy’s legendary Easter egg decorating parties and will never be fully satisfied as a human being until I get an invite. Note that once this feeling would have made me drink an inhuman amount, made me fuck a man I’d met that night, made me wild and frightening and sad. Note I want credit for that not happening. Note it’s only Friday night and I’m waiting for a friend in a bar in SoHo. Note the stranger next to me just ordered mozzarella sticks and I’m seconds away from asking him if I can have one. Note he’ll say yes. Note we’re all ok, but fragile, note be careful.

6:51pm
Filed under: be careful 
September 10, 2014

When Harry Met Sally (1989)

Meg Ryan’s face in every single minute of this movie is sublime perfection.

When Harry Met Sally (1989)

Meg Ryan’s face in every single minute of this movie is sublime perfection.

(Source: cinyma, via joaniepepperoni)

September 10, 2014

The Tuesday morning meeting is actually an enormous impediment to the day, and means that everybody has to get there at least a half an hour earlier than they normally do, I’ve got two inboxes and two fax machines full of things to do, but I love it.  I love watching everybody come in to the conference room one by one, sluggish, laughing and drinking coffee and shuffling papers and putting on glasses.  There are so many women I work with who offer such different models for professionalism.  I mean, yes, there are 2 or 3 men in the room, but mostly the room is full of women, and this feels safe, I feel safe here.  There are women coordinators and managers and directors and they all have different styles of business casual and different email protocols and different ways of talking to their employees, but there are so many different examples of competence and ambition and generosity and that is overwhelmingly assuring.

I’ve grown confident enough in the role, at least, to start making comments under my breath, later one of the other coordinators laughs quietly when she hears me.  Two directors tell me I’m a “rockstar” for my work last week and I duck my head, genuinely embarrassed and genuinely gratified.

I have lunch with my boss in the restaurant at work.  She is intimidating and smart and has a deep voice and blonde eyelashes and I want her to like me and respect me and teach me everything she knows.

I call Lauren around 7:00pm, “I’m walking North on 6th, what are you doing right now?”  The three of us sit around laughing and drinking wine, I order Thai food in to her apartment from a restaurant we can see out her window.

On the train home, I exchange stares with a man.  He’s tall and dark-skinned and handsome.  He stands up to get off at the next stop.  Mouths, “You’re beautiful,” I smile, I know, I saw in the train window, my hair a wild halo around my head, I started riding the bus in 8th grade, I’ve learned this ten years to trust the reflection in the dirty dark glass, anyhow why do I have to explain, yes, I’m beautiful, yes I’ve been told, yes I know, no I never believe it, yes I trust my reflection in the Subway windows.  We pull in to West 4th street and I mouth, “Bye,” he smiles, shakes his head.

On the next train there is a woman and a man singing and it’s not irritating it’s beautiful.  When they finish, another man walks through the car selling water bottles, “and positivity,” he says.  He keeps up a running patter on positivity, “Here, I found another positive person!” when someone trades him a dollar for a sweating bottle.  Something about 333 angels chasing away the devil.  Everyone on the train laughs, makes eye contact with each other, it’s a rare moment of casual camaraderie on the late night G train, though it stops at Jay St and isn’t running at night this week.  I get off and walk the rest of the way home when I can’t find the shuttle bus stop.

After 10:30 on weeknights is a different world, and it was my only one for so long that when I walk late now, I feel almost a homesickness for that other country, even though I wouldn’t take those hours again for anything.  Out now are the aspiring artists without set schedules who have been in the bar too long drinking too much, the couples who had unexpectedly good dates and are dragging them on, the occasional rare overextended coworker happy hour, and anyone who works in the service industry.  Everybody else is at home, asleep or watching Netflix or loving each other.  In windows, bartenders and waiters close up, flip chairs over, I feel twinges of familiarity and nostalgia like missing old friends.  Men in bars wave at me and I wave back; after all, these are my people.  It’s not my world anymore, but it was for so long that I think I’ll always have a visa.

My boss asks me if I’m done with the weird hours, service, operations, front-of-house side of things and I hesitate for a minute before the same old honesty rolls out firmly, “Yes.”

I’ll keep my late night visa, but I wouldn’t trade it for the happy hours, for the rush hour train rides, for the morning meetings, for the business casual and the waking up to a sun just rising.  I wouldn’t trade late nights for a lunch hour in the midday sun and grocery shopping on weeknights and feeling a part of this world again. For swinging down Varick street at 9 in the morning in a pencil skirt and blouse, hot $1 egg-on-a-roll in one hand and Etta James in my headphones and the feeling that this world is for me.  This is the best world, you can tell because they’re only doing track work on the G line after 10 pm on weekdays.

September 8, 2014

My father and I, I practice saying in my head, My father and I are not on speaking terms.  I practice the inflection, firm, quiet, solemn but composed, My father and I are not on speaking terms.  I will be ready for the day someone asks.  I wonder how long it will be before he notices that we are no longer on speaking terms.  I think maybe he never will, think he might die never having noticed.  I think I’m fine.  Someone says he sent his dad an email and I feel a jolt behind my sternum.  The looking down the long tunnel of life and all down that tunnel My father and I, I’ll say, are not on speaking terms.  The feeling Caroline cracked open this morning in an email: light dextrous keen words like a tap in just the weak spot, what she said I won’t tell, it’s mine, an answer to what I wasn’t saying without me even knowing what I was trying to say.  

And the fear, the sudden overwhelming blow that makes me have to hold onto the pole to stop from doubling over on the Subway floor, the what if I have too many of his hateful qualities and not enough of his likeable ones.

September 8, 2014

Today at work I got somebody’s Out Of Office message that said they were out from 1pm to 4pm, and I’d like to make a personal and professional goal to NEVER be that indispensable.

September 7, 2014

September 6, 2014
i found this in my gmail drafts folder the other night:

This is the brief tale of magic in the time of the full moon.  Dawn Powell books to be enjoyed at their very apex: alone in the corner of a restaurant. Vessels on the table for mixing the complete charm: Champagne coupe, water tumbler, espresso demitasse, bowl of French fries, ramekin of ketchup.  Caramel-soaked sponge cake with a dollop the same size of whipped cream on the side.

Coffee and Cava cancel each other so that there is nothing but sleepiness, which after nights of insomnia is a downy drunk enchantment itself.  Wander through Washington Square Park, people are gathered around the fountain, even at midnight on an August Tuesday.  Especially at midnight on a Tuesday.  Late summer.  Late summer is soft and desperate and reverberant and slouching.  It’s humid warm, the Empire State Building pink in the distance, a wild friendly sylvan spell over the whole of the island.

Feel skin-inflated, lit from inside with some mad sorcery of confidence and love and exhaustion.  Feel like a coupe of Cava filled just to the brim, waiting to be sipped.  Feel like a witch, or like witchcraft.  Lips a rune, legs that crackle with prophecy.  Look up at the full moon.  Things are going to happen this month.  There’s an uncanny augury in the air.  Something’s going to happen, something’s going to happen, something’s going to happen.  After years of apprenticeship, a wanting.  The rest of the incantation yet to be learned, but a powerful potent wanting is the first thing thrown in the cauldron.  And it spits and it bubbles and something’s going to happen.

2:36pm
Filed under: witchcraft 
September 6, 2014

When I ran back through the Prospect Park greenmarket, there were some overturned pallets of ripe cherry tomatoes, and a couple men gathering them up.  It seemed like something out of a fable or a fairytale.  One of them was probably a sorcereress.  I didn’t stop and offer to help,

But I was careful not to step on any stray tomatoes.

September 6, 2014
Good morning everybody’s fine here we’re all fine drink some water we’ve got shit to do.

Good morning everybody’s fine here we’re all fine drink some water we’ve got shit to do.

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