Locked Out

When we locked up the house at night,
We always locked the flowers outside
And cut them off from window light...
The flowers were out there with the thieves.
--Robert Frost

Friday night I practically kicked down my own front door trying to get my downstairs neighbors to hear me and let me in. It seems my keys fell out of my pocket at work, unbeknownst to me until I arrived home, upon which I proceeded to pound and then kick the door, trying to make enough racket to be heard.

I've rarely felt so pathetic. There's something about making an extraordinary effort to be let into one's own residence that makes one feel like a beggar-- as though the primary comfort and security of hearth and home were suspect of being as capable of cupidity and caprice as a lover of the inconstant sort...

This doesn't surprise me. I feel so separated from love, God, other people, my own emotions, my family-- life itself, really-- that the door churlishly deciding (I'm convinced!) to play its part in the latest miserable tableau on the stage of my life is far from shocking.

When paradise within is a locked gate, surely one's own terrestrial front door following suit is only natural. I suppose I shall awaken tomorrow to find my bed has collapsed. "No rest for the wicked" and all that...

Eventually I was let in by Senora Maria, the squat, redheaded mother of my close friend who owns the house and rents it to both of us. Her shrill voice generally annoys me greatly, as does the way she inevitably refers my very-occasional queries as a matter of course to my friend, never mentioned by name, but called simply and with weirdly smirking pride,"My son" (She's from Peru, and still definitely subscribes to its patriarchal belief system) but I still felt quite badly about scaring her by kicking so hard at the door that she had fear in her eyes when she opened it.

After all, the prospect of forced entry is enough to give one a heart attack--
ESPECIALLY in this scary part of the hood at night. Ah, Bushwick.

Birthday/Snailkiller/Kick the Dust

I know perfectly well my own egotism,
Know my omnivorous lines and must not write any less,
And would fetch you whoever you are flush with myself.
--Walt Whitman, "Song of Myself"




Is it possible to acknowledge the ego's existence without unwittingly celebrating it? I wonder. I also wonder what it's like to denigrate people from a standpoint of constant superiority instead of viewing the world through a lens of perpetual inferiority, although both modes of being are equally stupid...

Now that I've been dancing for a month (mas o menos), I'm starting to notice the development of some appreciable muscle tone in my heretofore jiggly body. The process of toning up would probably be considerably expedited if I could manage to eat during my shift instead of afterward, but I can't seem to sit still long enough to nibble more than a few almonds in the strip club just yet. In order to gain some upper arm strength I've been practicing dangling from the bottom of the pole on the bar stage when nobody's around; hopefully I'll be hanging upside-down like a pro within the next few weeks; no sense in doing a job if one can't do it well...

My downstairs neighbors moved in the other day. Though the layout of the house is such that randomly bumping into one another will rarely, if ever, happen, I'm unbelievably glad to finally be sharing this big house with two other warm bodies-- it was starting to feel like the drafty, haunted house I lived in as a child, a converted hotel which was built in the 1800's and so creepy there were locks ON THE INSIDES of the closets. Shudder...

Anyway, in the interest of coming to terms with the horrible fact that I am now a year older, I decided the only way to stay sane yesterday was to do something useful and physically exhausting, thereby (theoretically) achieving some peace through physical catharsis.

My spacious-for-Brooklyn backyard has functioned as a trashheap of almost fantastic proportions (kind of like the mile-high leaf pile/dumping ground in the garden of the Gorgs from “Fraggle Rock”) for far too long for my pathologically resourceful Midwestern sensibilities, so I decided I'd do my new neighbors and myself a favor and clean it up so we can make the most of the patio and barbecue pit.

It looked horrible at first.

I was delighted to resuce a snail from the underside of a log I moved. It was cute.

A child talked to me from the window of the apartment building next door for awhile. She was cute, too.

After awhile I noticed a strange crunching sensation under my feet, as if I were walking on eggshells. With horror, I noticed-- too late-- the bodies of about a jillion yellow snails, smashed to fragments unwittingly under my feet, tragic victims killed in the process of clearing away the wood and cinderblocks under which they had been living. I tried valiantly to avoid them afterward, but to no avail. I cringed every time I stepped on one inadvertently, feeling like an SS soldier under Hitler “just doing my duty”. I rationalized that killing the snails was unavoidable and, really, sometimes one has to crack a few eggs to make an omelette in the name of a higher cause-- in this case, the facilitation of the twin virtues of utility and beauty.

Still, I really felt like a murderess.

It was fucking horrible to my delicate vegan sensibilities... you know, the ones that easily weathered 6 months spent stabbing men with large-gauge needles and beating them bloody in a Dungeon without a peep because of that magic-wand called CONSENT.

Poor snails. I hate myself!

It took a few hours, but I got some major work done; listening to soulful music made the time fly even more rapidly. I tried to limit my itunes playlist to Bushwick-friendly jams such as “PYT” (“Off the Wall” is played religiously at every block party in the summer round these parts) and old-school Keith Sweat to avoid alienating my neighbors/ getting the “Damn that's some honky shit, Pippy Longstocking” headshake listening to, say, New Kids on the Block would probably inspire. This is the hood, after all.

“Looks like you're doing some hard work!” my little neighbor from next door called from her window.

“Guess so, honey!” I said back to her, realizing this is, by the conservative American ethos, the only honorable way I've used my body for “work” in quite awhile. Achieving a goal using my physical being without factoring sexuality into the equation is pretty rare for me these days. It was a nice change.

Afterward, like the hookers after a catfight on the North Avenue Bridge I used to observe in Chicago and the disciples following Christ's sage advice after preaching to a rough crowd, I kicked the dust (or mud, in this case) from my shoes, gave myself a good, hard shake and met the rest of the evening's events as a fucking adult instead of a whining brat*.

Later on, I got a fabulous dinner, a beautiful cake from Babycakes, a bunch of (non-sexual) toys, books, treats, DVD's, cards, and other nice presents chosen thoughtfully and with impeccable taste.

I even heard the magic words:

“We should go look at puppies for you.”

Awww, maybe I'll get that Pomeranian puppy after all. Regardless, I can always buy one myself in a few weeks, though-- it's mostly a simple matter of decision, I suppose. Just like everything else in this life...

I still have high hopes that a POMERANIAN will be like CONSENT in that it will confer absolution and/or comfort in the aftermath of certain sticky situations.

PS I'm so emotionally retarded/dead sometimes I can't believe it. Blowing out the candles on a birthday cake that's a present from one man while thinking more fondly of another has gotta be the karmic equivalent of shooting a speedball-- spiritually, I'm sure I'll be kissing the floor pretty soon, but what else could I have done? I've been patient for so long, but I can't wait around forever... although I would, I suppose, if the circumstances were just right and the reason was love...

But that wasn't what happened last night.

I'm going to pray for an answer to this one ASAP. No way I want to do intentionally anything mean to anyone. I'm too grateful for the affection I receive than to treat the giver callously, even if the relationship is, by my estimate, a temporary one. I guess I can't coast anymore, wastes too much time and ultimately feels like a sin.

* I'd say bitch here, but I wisely avoid using that term pejoratively anymore

Lonely At Home/Romance in Modern Brooklyn

I wish the composure but not the depression of solitude.
--Poe

Although I love spending quiet time on my own, I don't like living alone very much. With a couple of miserable exceptions, I've always lived with one girl at a time-- wry, skinny worry-worts who were gone all the time (that's my type of girl), but the idea that I'd see my roommate at least a couple of times a week always eased my mind and made me feel less isolated. In fact, until recently I've NEVER had a problem with loneliness WHATSOEVER, but these days I feel it descend on me like a heavy mantle fairly often.

What changed? Maybe my youthful optimism is being dampened slightly by the fact that I have been putting myself through the wringer coast to coast for a few years now. Maybe I feel so over-exposed from working in the sex industry I don't have the energy to emotionally bare myself after I leave work. Maybe I'm sick at heart, sick to death, sick and now scared of being an old maid. I know a person has to work pretty hard to maintain total disconnection from fellow humans in the NYC area, so I'm going to have to take responsibility for my condition when it gets totally intolerable, an eventuality which seems to be on the horizon. I know I'll only receive as much love as I give, so once I respect the immutability of that eternal equation and stop complaining, things will change. Maybe I just find romance in being miserable lately?! I need to pray about that one, what a waste of God-given life, which should be so full of joy...

Anyway, living alone on the second floor of a rambling old three-story house seems unnatural. Houses should be full of life and activity.

I rent my new place from a good friend... he's still renovating the first floor and basement, and his brother and father help him out. We all get along very well, and, when I need a break from the chaos in my brain and long to accomplish some innocent, tangible and constructive task, I ask him to teach me how to lay wall tiles or parquet flooring. He is, perhaps, the most honorable man I've ever met. I appreciate the company, and so does he...

I adore his wife, too. He's Peruvian, she's Hasidic, or was when they met... every time some guy doesn't call me and I start making excuses for him, I remember my friend's love story, and how he spotted his future bride on the train and knew no matter what, he was going to be with her EVEN THOUGH SHE WASN'T EVEN ALLOWED TO TALK TO HIM. He must have felt as though he was hit with a hammer the first time he saw her. He never let her go, that's for sure. What they must feel when they look at one another... I can sense it sometimes, but the inner reality must be paradise. They're the happiest couple I've ever met. She's a blunt person with a lot of integrity, which I admire-- being nobody's fool is one of Barbara's specialties.

Today I made everyone chocolate chip/hazlenut/coconut cookies and put hers in little heart-shaped tart forms. They gamely tolerate my vegan cooking, but I usually spare them and just make them baked goods instead, which are not so obviously weird.

It's so inspiring to know true romance really does exist in modern Brooklyn.

I wonder what they would think of me if they knew about my secret life.

To a degree, they probably have one, too.

PS I bought this print in a furniture store on Broadway. Bushwick is full of surprises.