self-destruct

i never write here. it's being used against me (which then simply sends me into a tailspin of anxiety and self-loathing). as soon as i figure out a way of salvaging the decent posts for my own interest, eruditemess will be signing off permanenetly.

my first new york summer

it's nearly drawing to a balmy end. after 3 steady months in the city, i feel like i'm starting to get comfortable.
in my job. in my shoes. in my new home.
not that it's a home quite yet.
a general contractor has been working on the basement i'm supposed to inhabit since june. for now, i'm still on the couch. it's glorious, really.
especially when the heavy evenings require me to stretch out in various states of undress before my unsuspecting roommates who have become all too accustomed to the shadow of a nipple too oft peeking over the edge of the blanket as i grumble in early morning half-stupor.
saturday started with a quick visit to the farmer's market to pick up a few pounds of brandywine tomatoes (that have now become my new obsession. i could eat brandywines, mozzarella, & basil every day until i die. and broccoli. but that's another story). afterwards, i helped my friend (and roommate carmine's gal) move into out apartment. i spent the day sweating and playing box tetris as i tried to maneuver her items into the space before our OTHER roommate moves out. carm & lulu rewarded my herculean efforts with the best cheeseburger i've ever had (bonnie's grill on 5th ave in park slope. AND they serve magic hat). we then proceeded to royale. i drank a few blueberry pale ales before getting in a cab to nurse my throbbing (... not head...) biceps.
sunday= brunch at olea in fort greene (which was a beautifully piquant bloody mary and cilantro scramble with olives & zucchini). then, we ran off to singsing, where i discovered that i do a brilliant shirley manson. we spent 2.5 hours (and ended with one verse of "only in my dreams" by debbie gibson. chosen randomly. i'm serious). later, brandywines & "a clockwork orange." 
this summer dribbles down my chin in sweet, seedy goodness. and this time, i don't mind the stains.

booty

damn widget only allows me to publish short posts.
the train of thought has left the station.
more later.

hello, sexy.

i was 13 years old, with dirty blonde hair halfway down my back and my pre-womanly bits just starting form under my then favourite sunflower-adorned short overalls (always paired with the black cardigan & imitation doc martens i didn't take off for most of my adolescence). 
only a slight nod to nabokov, i might have been the epitome of budding sexuality, but was utterly inept. i had let one or two boys try to kiss me in the dim corners of dances in the cafeteria of my suburban middle school, but rolled my eyes and cringed if their tongues tried to pry my mouth open. no pop music, but only pop kisses, i demurred.
it was my first time visiting new york. i had been dragged along to accompany my parents on the trip while my dad attended (or at least PRETENDED to attend) a medical convention. they managed to convince me by promising at least 2 broadway shows. i can admit it now- the surest path to my pubescent heart was seduction by overtures, choreography, and sequins.
i was trailing behind my parents as we walked around midtown (precise locations elude me now). a man pounding the sidewalk with a sure step and careful pinstripes was walking against traffic. he looked straight at me, gave me a sly smile and said, "hello, sexy." i remember running ahead to cling to my dad's arm in shock. both my parents had heard every word and were thoroughly amused, both by the stranger's manner and my response. so amused, in fact, that they still tease me about it to this day.
15 years later, i find that i still get attention prowling the same streets, now only slightly more familiar. not that i am by any means a great beauty or striking in a head-turning way, but strange men ask me a flirtatious question or simply give me a warm hello on a daily basis. the manner is always appreciative, quite unlike the drunken protestations i got behind the bar, but i still don't get it.
perhaps being in an anonymous city gives men carte blanche to say things they wouldn't in a place where you're bound to bump into them at the drug store or in line at the dmv. 

widget-friendly

desktop blogging will make it ostensibly easier for me to post. now, there are no excuses.

on top o' the world

guess who's jobby?
that's right, folks.
i landed a job. in ny full-time now. easing into the comfort of knowing that i won't be moving around for quite a while.
i love my new york life.
seriously.
not so bloody unfamiliar either. within 24 hours of my return from london (note: more on that later), i'd bumped into TWO friends of mine. completely randomly. in the middle of new york.

to which he could never respond

why does one call it
falling when it's more like
sinking?
honeysweet
quicksandsleep
deeply
into the marshes of his body.
his body.
his body is but
undiscovered territory...
a lush, savage country
where i seek to
leave my mark
(if only for a moment)
to make it seem conquerable,
mine.
i long to trace the lines
of every peak and valley,
use his sighs as the compass
to guide my step.
i will lose myself in the
jungle of him-
stumbling through
the tireless brush
naked,
speaking in tongues,
like a thick-lipped native
possessed by
primordial gods with
names unprounceable.
i will wait by the
drybed of his collarbone for
the rain to collect,
and i will drink.
i will crawl through the desert of
his belly
to find cool solace
in the cavern of
his navel.
i will track my paces with
a cartographer's detail
in fine ink
to guide the explorers
who will next follow my trail.
for there will be others-
lured to a sailor's death,
dashed against the flat stones
of his shoulders,
his sirensong
a last folly.

new york i love you, but you're bringin' me down

5:01 p.m., thirteeenth day.
i'm typing with one hand, leaning out the fire escape to smoke my first clove in a few days. the radiator beneath my legs spits angry bursts of steam to hasten my pending departure.
this isn't working out quite as i'd planned.
this city could swallow me whole. i don't venture out half as much as i should.
i'm lonely. and jobless. both to the point of desperation.
i hadn't told many people i was "moving" because i wanted to simply arrive, start working, then surprise everyone with all the good news.
there isn't much to report.
i find myself endlessly scouring want ads, sending my portfolio to countless agencies, and never getting a response.
even the headhunter i met with when i visited last month won't return my emails about either of the two jobs i thought i had in the proverbial bag.
at least in miami, i had the promise of a few hundred bucks a week and some welcome distraction. my cat. the man who's kept me warm for a few months. dinners with the goddess i call my best friend. the chance of bumping into people i know.
while manhattan can offer me anonymity, it has kept me locked up and silent.
i thought i knew enough people here to have a support system.
i've been lucky to spend time with two old high school friends. both lovely, fantastic, amazing women who i'm blessed to have kept in contact with over the years.
last weekend brought some smiles. friday night in the east village, smoking my first hookah, having a 3 a.m burger at a diner laughing about old seinfeld reruns. saturday afternoon in the lower east side, having brunch and singing karaoke.
(note: and as i write all this, my lovely laura calls to make plans. see? so very lucky to have her. every girl lately- jiji, jill, laura- back from my past makes me feel more at home than anything. i always forget how much certain friends from my past stood out as family- friends for life- and the surest path to my not being so goddamned isolated. let's admit it. it's a game i've mastered.)
"opposing forces" seems to be the phrase of late.
people i barely know have commented on how there's something intangible about me. about my simultaneous urge to be the extroverted, confident, boisterous girl ready to have a thrilling conversation with even the potted palm in the corner and my tendency to curl into myself whilst staring off, completely unable to form even the most basic, coherent thought.
everything about me is at odds with itself.
i used to write it off as being part of my charm, but i'm certain that it only makes me completely unavailable.
what can you expect? i'm a half jewish, half christian- half english, half irish- half creative, half intellectual- thoroughly maddening woman.
perhaps someone in this massive metropolis will seek to break the code.
until then, i'll go back and forth between comfort and struggle.

tabula rasa

the question arises: can one ever attain the state of being truly clear?

with each proverbial slap in the face that i've experienced for the past seven months, i try to convince myself that i've been given a clean slate, a fresh start, the opportunity to create a new perspective and a new life for myself...

...but it's hard to fool myself when everything seems like i've taken a huge step back to adolescence. searching for work, questioning every choice i've made, living with the parents for the first time in years while i take on small jobs to make ends meet and pay off my steadily increasing student loan bills.

that whole "freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose" is hippieshit. i've nothing to grasp onto and i'm damn ready for a big change. a vertiable tsunami would be welcome at this point, i tell you (and here i thought i'd gotten over the ubiquitous quarter-life crisis).

would i really WANT to be wiped clean, "eternal sunshine" style, of the past year, of every (both blessed and damned) trial that came my unassuming way?

to be clear of every thought of him that shocks me into remembering that he'll never be a part of my life again, when so many pieces of our life remain, badly-concealed artifacts of (cue violins) the way things were... his faded t-shirts still carefully folded by my able hands in the drawers of the cupboard in my once-sanctuary of a room, left behind when we moved to amsterdam. birthday cards tucked between pages of books that once crowded our shelves. the journal i created for our first christmas that chronicled the story of how we met. the album of photos from our trip to venice that he compiled on my 26th birthday, locked in our bedroom while i cleaned our flat and cursed him between numerous cloves and sapphire tonics. the white duvet cover with loopy red hearts that didn't seem sappy when we bought it. the alarm clock that played "the white album" the morning after our first night together while we laid in bed and i sang to him.

not that the break-up was all that felled me, but there are too many pieces of him left unclaimed in my ever-growing lost and found.

i wouldn't, and can't, clear my mind or my space of these remnants. wouldn't want to.

didn't think this would turn into a whiney post break-up rant. i certainly didn't intend for it to be.

perhaps i can be more eloquent when it's not almost three in the morning. i was about to quote a line from 'the vagabond' by colette, which has something to do with it being a perfect time for a woman of ill-refute to retire, but it escapes me. perhaps tomorrow.