Recipe for a Bruised Heart

I’ve never been very adept at watching people shuffle in and then step out of life. This is probably because when I’ve learned something from someone I prefer to keep them around to keep learning. The act of losing a person is too physical, and the absence is heavy no matter how natural or positive it might be. I’m allotting myself only twenty-four hours to worry over the person who most recently stepped out of my life. And I think I’ll put into play the practice of using someone else’s words to cover up—

Application for a Driving License
Michael Ondaatje

Two birds loved
in a flurry of red feathers
like a burst cottonball,
continuing while I drove over them.

I am a good driver, nothing shocks me.

Dueling Perspectives

I was talking about blogging recently and a friend responded with "Don't you think self-referential writing, is kind of, well, over?" I didn't answer but later I thought to myself —How can anybody go through their days without thinking that others might share some slice of their perspective, or look at things through a similar lens, or atleast have the desire to learn from the way others perceive the world? Also what exactly did people do at their desks before having half a dozen blogs to hit each day?

Outlook-seeking is essential to memoirs as well. You are able to find yourself inside someone's life that is so far geographically, historically, or factually from your own and still relate those words to your experience walking down a block in your home city on any given day.

My boss gave me a book for my birthday, Air Guitar: Essays on Art & Democracy by Dave Hickey. I should use my thesaurus to find alternatives to the word "dense" to describe Mr. Hickey's writing. I think he used "quotidian" atleast 4 times in the introduction. I am mining my way through the first few essays and most will require second or third readings; But I've already found some gems.

Hickey often addresses the issue of perpendicular and parallel perspectives. In the first essay he describes his former career as a rock critic, and how he used to wonder why there are so many love songs yet "ninety percent of rock criticism was written about the other ten percent." To simplify things, Hickey comes to the conclusion that we need love songs to aid procreation, "perpetuation of the species."

But later he also says, "...it's hard to find someone you love, who loves you—but you can begin, at least, by finding some one who loves your love song."

I can't help but agree—since I suppose, self-referential writing is never over and we are all narcissists at heart.

Fresh from the Farm

I’ve always said that since walking away from office life, I’ve loved the fact that each day is different from the next. It’s not an entirely true statement of course, many days teaching blend into each other—helping students mix ink, make silkscreen separations, listening to complaints about stress over homework. This week, however, has truly run the gamut of expectations.

Yesterday I was knee deep in an industrial sink, cleaning small pieces of marble to replace a nitric-acid neutralizer tank. Today I was asked to mail a “Pump in Style” breastpump at the local UPS.

This particular breastpump was top quality including such tempting features as: Adjustable speed and vacuum control for maximum comfort. And a Stylish black shoulder bag to discreetly carry your pump. Not to mention Exclusive Personal-Fit Breastshields for maximum comfort. And finally, a picture frame for a photograph of your baby to slide in above machine for inspiration.

I swallowed my pride as I placed the box on the scale and asked the UPS employee, Anoosh, if he would mind packaging my goods.

Conversations

Ali wrote her last blog entry on the subject of relationships—how it’s more than common to overhear people discussing the ups and downs of communication with significant or not-so-significant others.

I’ve experienced this phenomena in the last week alone: Overheard in the supermarket, No there is nothing wrong with you, it’s him, it’s him...in the gym …and then I told him that if he couldn’t commit to not seeing his ex-girlfriend for the next few months that we are o-v-e-r... and in the subway I can’t believe he’s fucking that whore again.

This morning my cousin sent me some theatre options for a trip we are planning this July. I was asked to choose between—

Lady Windermere's Fan by Oscar Wilde
Determined not to trust her husband when circumstances suggest he’s been unfaithful, the effortlessly desirable Lady Margaret Windermere – modern, independent and deliciously free of self-doubt – resolves to leave him flat. But the true nature of her husband’s relationship with the “other woman” is very different from what young Margaret assumes it to be.

or

Create Fate by Etan Frankel
Love can be a brutal game. When the deck is stacked against him, Nathan does the only thing he can to get the love of his life to notice him: he calls in the professionals. When is true love a product of fate, and when is it just a set of well-choreographed accidents?

Doesn’t anyone want to talk about dinosaurs, or outer space or just play a game of Scrabble?

The Pariah on the Playground

This morning my friend, Ali, sent me a link to an article in New York Magazine, The Bitch on the Playground— An Amy Sohn piece about the ins and outs of mommy social circles. I’ve been dabbling in childcare for almost two years; since I left my desk job and needed some padding to fill out the teaching, sewing and printing jobs.

When I first became immersed in the Park Slope baby scene, most of the kids I took care of were under one-year. This placed us at the “tot lot,” an extra-mini playground at the Garfield entrance to Prospect Park for babies who enjoy pulling themselves up (otherwise known as “cruising”) and gazing at images of themselves in mirrors.

During my first few visits with either Ava or Jeremy, I tried to chat with the other moms who I was sitting in such close proximity to—literally hip to hip, balancing drooling tots on the metal bars. Most of the moms were naturally drawn to discussing their baby’s development, Oh he just loves to point! or She prefers Cheerios over Goldfish. And because there are very few Caucasian women in the child-care industry, it was usually assumed that I was a mom as well.

Inevitably a question would come up such as, How do you get her to sit still to cut her nails? and I would say Oh she’s not mine….. and immediately the mom would look me up and down, and the conversation would draw to a close. One might think my status as a narc in a high school locker room had just been discovered.

The next few visits I found that my status as non-mom had come into rapid acknowledgment. Pleasantries might be exchanged but in-depth conversations on the subject of teething were avoided. And then I discovered another social arena: the stay-at-home dad. The SAH dads were certainly fewer in number but much bigger in conversation. None of them took the time to notice the lack of a diamond on my hand or ask me if Ava’s shirt was Baby Gap or Gymboree. I struck up a nice friendship with one SAH dad who was a filmmaker and would roll in with his tot strapped to the back of his road bike.

We talked about post-war documentary for a few days, as I had one class on the subject during college. And then the following week, my SAH dad entered the tot-lot with baby and wife in tow. I happily introduced myself and the wife unhappily observed my acquaintance with her husband. I’m not sure what directions were given but right there my grown-up playground friendships ended, and I officially resigned myself to make friends with babies, not mommies or daddies.

Refilling the Glass

Last weekend I was running late for a Passover dinner at my cousin’s apartment in Harlem. Lately I’ve had the satisfying feeling that wheels are turning in my “career” and “life” arenas— like a new pencil mark has been made on a growth chart in an unused closet. It’s probably a result of the season, as much as thoughts I’ve had trying to map out the next few years.

However, last Saturday afternoon I was not experiencing the warmth of optimism. I was running late because I left my wallet at the Brooklyn Inn the night before during a night-cap pool game, and then lost 30 minutes looking for it in my apartment. I guess the "Inn" is as close to a living-room establishment as I’ll find and so I was extremely lucky that my money and plastic were all intact. I then clip-clopped over to the F train picking up two bundles of deli gerbera daisies on the way and stood, waiting for the train, taking several breaths.

As I rebalanced my bags, flowers, and book a G train pulled up and I made eye contact with a couple sitting in the window directly in front of me. I stood, still breathing and as the door closed and the train starting pulling away, the girlfriend offered me her middle finger and mouthed “Fuck you, fuck you.” I blankly followed her motions, turning my head to watch the couple and the train edging away.

The scene was like something out of a bad romantic comedy set in crazy New York City. Yet, had I been in even a slightly more pessimistic mood, I might have felt the urge to cry. Perhaps after living in Brooklyn for nearly four years I should be immune to such bizarre insults. It did feel more random than direct, but I kept thinking about the “communication” on my hour long subway ride and I felt a little poisoned by it.

At the other end, still fuming a bit, I buzzed my cousin’s apartment building and a man shouted out “Hey Barbie, are those flowers for me?” For whatever reason the randomness of that communication shook me out of my mood. I arrived to the dinner party welcomed by a room full of the warmth of friends, who feel closer to family. And the most beautiful food, and conversation— I was able to refill my glass.