i think it's the heat, but man am i having strange dreams. Last night I dreamed that Dave and I were late to catch a plane. But I was in the back seat of the car and he and Sharon, yes- hereandnow Sharon, were in the front. They were totally having a good time, but leaving me out entirely. I was so hurt. So, we got the airport and they run ahead of me. We have to get to the check in, but I have to walk through all these seedy bars and Chili's-like restaurants first and im getting annoyed because the plane is going to leave in 10 minutes. I cant see them anymore. I finally find the check-in and I have to pay with Metro North coin dollar change. I run out to the tarmac (sp?) and Dave and Sharon are standing close together. I ask Dave if he's mad and me and he gives me a pissed off look. I ask him what I did, but he wont tell me. I beg him, but he says maybe he will tell me later. I'm crying and he doesnt seem to care and I'm very confused. And then I woke up. And I called Dave and told him about my dream and never to hide anything. All this in my creaky just-woke-up voice. :)
So, Dave calls me back this morning while I'm walking from the F train to the office. And we chat about this and that. And then he prefaces his next statements with "Okay, so Im totally happy with us so don't get mad. I just have a little confession." (Words we all love to hear!) And then says that he's been emailing old friends from college duing his night float this week. and he's was feeling very lonely as the only radiology resident in the big hospital during the nights this week. And his friends had asked him about Daria, I guess, and what he thought about her wedding. Daria is a college girlfriend of 2 years whom he lived with and thought he was going to marry. And then she cheated on him. So, anyway, Dave says he never felt bad about her new engagement, but this past week, it started to bother him a little bit. So, he was emailing his friends about how it bothered him and he was scared to tell me. But, he got brave and just told me. And, of course, I told him it was pretty natural to feel odd about one's first love marrying somone else. It's bittersweet and nostalgic and not comfortable at all. He said he was really relieved and surprised that I had taked it so well. I think he thought that I would see it as some sort of threat. But I love him, and I feel the same way about my ex. In fact, I think I'd have to spend some serious alone/ getting a grip time if I got wind of a wedding there. And not because I'm unhappy in my relationship. But just because.
Okay! I did it! I wrote a random email to an old friend. Actually, Anthony is one of the few things/ people I remember off the top of my head about middle school. Well, besides the building burning down in 7th grade. Or was it 6th? sigh. I remember Ms. Betz's cheek being soft too, and powdery with blush. But soft like an old woman, not soft and firm like a young person's cheek. why was I touching her cheek anyway? Was I on her lap? Or was she leaning over me at some point during group work (aka: let's get the answers from Lisa because she seems to know them. Uh, yeah....right.) I think I remember a kid named Dennis too. We sat in a group with 4 desks together near the door. He was short adn tried to act tough, but I could make him laugh. Was that before or after we switched seats and I became part of the city of "Sendai" during a Japanese sociology game where you decided whether or not to grow wheat or move your army or go to war. There was a big map of Japan on the wall to this effect with different colored thumbtacks. We were Sendai. I think there might have been an Osaka, and there should have been a Tokyo, but I can't be sure. We are talking about the Idaho educational system and small details like capitols (and good grammer, u-hem, case in point) are sometimes left out.
My mother sent me all my yearbooks from 6th grade to 12th. They were in the heavy box during my recent move. That's where I've been all this time, you know. Moving. and going backwards: packing, paying brokers, saving, planning, hoping, yelling at the neighbors, plugging ears. Thats the order. backwards. the new bar downstairs opened up for a small yet loud party: the last straw. the welfare state, otherwise known as my neighbors, took all the things I didnt want: my old TV, my dresser, queen boxspring and frame, old clothes, knickknacks, and other crap that gets installed into your life that you dont really need or want to lift around when a move comes along. Even the 1/2 full, 3 month old bottles of red wine that I put out got taken! (I have to admit, it was a secret experiment.) In between the words of the backwards timeline, i've forgotten the most important part: building the loft. Dave and his father built it on the deck of their house in Jersey. In the hot 100 degree sun over an entire weekend. If that's not love, I dont know what is. They disassembled it, loaded it into a van, and the next weekend, trucked it to my place in Brooklyn and reassembled it while I entertained Dave's mom with a walk though Prospect Park and some overpriced diner food at Katinas. And then Dave helped me move. And let's not forget to mention that Dave did all this with a broken finger. He smashed it while helping me chop to size an enormo rose bush a few weeks back. this rose bush was so huge that it took up the whole width of my 13' garden and a good deal of the 20' length. It must have been 10' high. Such a monster that we discovered 2 trees underneath when we cut it back.
I am rambling. I am the last one in the office. I have completed my quest. It's time to leave the internet and go have a beer at the bar across from my apt. The bar that's quiet this time because I dont live on the street side of the building.
oh, and BTW, im on myspace now. Thank Evil rrrrrachel. See website link over there ------>
I almost disappeared entirely. The website is gone because I don’t do the stream anymore. All the pictures are achived on zip discs and stored in a suitcase on the wire utility shelf above the closet bar or in the nifty hidden storage space beneath the gray cushions of my new couch.
It would have been so easy, but what draws me back again? The readers? The words? My ego? A need to write and get it out of my head? A strange addiction. To “show for” this life. Then again, what draws me out of my anti-social swings and back into the mainstream? Maybe just the same things in the long run.
Ifrit the Orange has put the crinkly clear plastic that sealed the organic peanut butter into his food dish. The food dish is the main and sometimes final destination of Ifrit’s favorite toys and trash. If I were smaller, I wonder if I would be placed in the food dish, to climb over large and grainy pieces of dark brown kibble, or become like last week’s bouncy ball toy collecting cat hairs strand upon strand in the corner near the couch.
I ran into Jeanie tonight on my way into the building. There are 2 doors that have to be unlocked to get inside. I was beyond both and checking for mail in the last silver box with someone else’s name on it because I haven’t gotten around to writing my own. There was also a pile of misc envelopes and publication on the long radiator underneath the mailboxes to check though. The radiator is painted a cream color like the rest of the entry and I wondered if the thin plastic on the window envelopes ever melted when it got hot in the winter. I was thinking along these deep and intellectually stimulating (hah!) lines when I noticed Jeanie and her boyfriend outside. She was searching deeply into one pocket of her white shorts and then the other. Her boyfriend looked frustrated but in a way that was practiced. As if Jeanie locking herself out was a not-so-unusual occurrence. Here we go again. Can’t you just remember you keys for once? I opened the outside door while propping the inside door open with a foot so it wouldn’t lock on me. I think his name is Vince. I assumed it was him from past conversations about her boyfriend Vince. She was carrying an orange bucket that was slopped with the same white paint that was smeared on her legs. She said that he’d hired her to paint so she could make a little more money. The landlord is trying to kick her out. Not because she can’t pay her rent but because she’s lived in that apt for 11 years and pays such a low rent compared to the rest of us. He’s taken her to court on small little items in his attempts, but so far, she’s holding out. I think it’s shitty. I understand that he wants a fair market rate yada yada, but trying to evict a paying tenant? NYC can be so sick sometimes. But it doesn’t surprise me and it happens all the time, especially in a neighborhood like this where large chunks were undesirable until within the last 5 years. Landlords and building owners want their investment to pay off. Interesting how my current landlord goes to court to try and get a higher rent while my past landlord did nothing about the welfare state that inhabited his buildings--buildings with apartments he could start charging ridiculous amounts for because they are now part of “Prime park Slope”. Buildings with hypodermic needles in the back yard that he never cleaned up. Buildings with children and dogs and people who walk around in those backyards.
Jeanie cooed at KT the Cripple as I opened the door and he fell over on my foot. Yes, handicaps can be endearing folks. Especially if one is furry and gray with small feet. Goodnight. Goodnight, take care. She must have had to have keys afterall to open her apartment door.
I am spending Friday nite alone with my classical guitar concertos, the cats, and my old microwave that lights up the time, but for some reason, no longer nukes anything. The timer counts down, but there’s no lighting up or turntable action or hum. For now, it serves as an oversized bedside clock. Bedside, of course, meaning the fridge within view down below my new loft bed. I have 12 foot ceilings. When I sit up in my loft, my head just barely scapes under the ceiling. Dave is not so lucky. Not only does is limit his upward mobility, it limits the sorts of nightime activities that can occur on the loft. Not to mention the fact that it’s ever so slightly wobbly and positioned in the corner of the room as to bang on the walls with any excess sway. No need for that. And no worries about it tonight. Dave is on his shift of a week of night call. I don’t mind the quiet time. We’re going to the Mercury Lounge tomorrow night with a bunch of friends to hear a Brit-pop band that Dave is interested in. And on Sunday, we have dinner and a show with his parents and sister. Plenty of time to socialize later. For now, it’s just me and da felines. My fan blows air back and forth and sometimes the windchime above the sliding door tinkles like musical pins dropped on crystal. 5 1/2 years living in Brooklyn. Am I an NY’er yet? 2 weeks in my new place, the first place that’s ever been mine, that for no part of my residence has been shared with a roomie or significant other. And I have my own garden to boot! I don’t feel like it’s home yet, but Im not overwhelmed by a sense of unfamiliar visiting anymore. I know that Im never going back to 4th Avenue. The bed over there was taken off the curb by the neighbors anyway.
It’s hot in here again. No more strange dreams, please.