Even though I feel like the above Christian Krohg painting, I went shopping again today.
Looking at the various strangers waiting with me in the Essex station, I thought:
"I love you all. Bless you."
Sometimes it's so easy to love strangers. From afar (in terms of familiarity, not proximity), humans seem so vulnerable, with unmistakable insecurities no different from one's own. However, this doesn't mean they are really flawed. Nobody is less than whole, I believe-- it's only our observing ego and limited physical senses that falsely deem them so.
In comparison to the often-judgemental (despite my best efforts) manner in which I relate privately to others of my acquaintance, the way I view people I don't know is often ideal-- they are, in my estimation, perfect strangers. After hello it's all downhill, I usually find, but before then!-- each person is an unbroken vista of perfection and possibility. That familiarity breeds contempt is an unfortunate notion many have expressed before me, yet I still wish-- foolishly, perhaps-- that nobody ever felt so.
Anyway, although I am assiduously saving money for plastic surgery, apparently my need to buy home decor trumps all. I am so happy to be nearing the finish line in terms of making my house a lovely little nest that I just can't bear to stop now. Also, since I spend so much time in my house-- especially my bed-- the half-finished state of my surroundings is beginning to drive me mad. So. If my nip and tuck is delayed by a couple of weeks, so be it.
From my favorite Indian curio store on Second Avenue I bought a pretty cotton bedspread and a white, wicker-trimmed mirror missing half its curlicues (it wanted to come home with me, what can I say?) and, by a really Herculanean effort, managed to shlep the heavy thing all by myself from the LES to my home in Brooklyn. I suppose I could have gone with a friend or date, but I didn't want to see anyone. At all. I'd rather just take care of everything by myself right now.
Tomorrow I'm going back to that store to pick up a few pillow shams and some fabric for my bedroom wall. I need two goes at everything in life, it seems, including shopping excursions. I love to haggle with the proprietors of the store. It's so fun, in fact, that I'll be happy to do it for the second day in a row.
My body is starting to go limp now and then in the afternoons, especially if I leave my house. I feel faint and dizzy often. Lately my ankle sort of dips mysteriously and dangerously now and then when I dance. This week I almost lost my balance twice. If this is the onset of cataplexy, as I think it may be, I am in big trouble.
That's ok.
I have few ambitions left to be thwarted.
Is this despair or the inevitable malaise of maturity?
Actually I think malaise is totally avoidable, and the reality of the situation is I'm very ungrateful, and feeling the well-deserved negative affects of refusing to recognize my blessings.
"Have a good day, sweetie!" says the stranger as he exits the train.
"You made me joyful," the man writes in his email.
"I miss you so much." another man says via text.
I respond to none of them, though I am lonely, lonely, lonely.
So much adoration, yet they all run away when I don't have sex with them. For me, romance seems like one big exercise in futility, so I will be a really good hermit instead. At least I know I can excel in that capacity.
