New York City

Miss you, darling. I’ve spent most of my time here indoors fixing things at my host’s place. It really needs a lot of work. So far I’ve cleaned the living room, kitchen, bathroom, fixed the garbage can, fixed the sliding keyboard tray, fixed a bracelet, paired up shoes, alphabetized DVDs, made enough room on the table to eat a meal, COOKED a meal, cleaned the table a couple more times when more crap was piled on it, made my bed each morning, secretly had the maintenance staff in to look at some problems that should have been fixed months ago, and found about $6 in change and a half a pound of assorted candies. I’ve made almost no dent.

I’ve listened to French accordion, a choir singing George Michael, a Chinese violin, two keyboard players, and a plastic bucket drummer while waiting for the subway trains. I’ve seen two off-broadway shows. Apparently off-broadway means “within a block of the broadway.” Snobs.  Spamalot was standing room only and great fun. I especially enjoyed “the song that goes like this.”

I had a sandwich that was 6 inches high, two kinds of pickle (in the same meal as the sandwhich), a pot of home made soup big enough for 12, a burger, oatmeal, 4 bananas, trail mix, two oranges, twelve glasses of water, three glasses of wine, and a 300ml coke, a giant pretzel with too much salt, a can of soda, and indigestion twice.

But I can’t remember where I put the spare key inside the apartment.

I’ve been deliberately lost once, accidentally lost once, I’ve had two bad dreams (only one of which I can remember), made friends with the people of the night, guided the lost in a city I don’t know, been helped in my hour of need, and felt rather lonely most of the time.

I did some computer work that couldn’t wait, watched about 9 hours of downloaded tv and movies, planned out the next evolution of my software, and decided that my birthday party will be a catered affair people pay to come to, just like the nyc house party.

The Times Square Toys-R-Us doesn’t have a Rock Band demo. WTF.

Tomorrow I go see Blue Man Group and during the day I’ll probably fix and surf some more. Thursday is the CS meet @ Revival and friday night I come home. I should land around midnight, I guess.

I’m off to find a 1am meal of some kind.  Provided I can find the keys.

Scary story time, children!

It’s 10pm and they are already in bed. Mr. Van Nilla at the finance section. Mrs. Van Nilla is lost in a Harlequin. There are slippers beside the bed that have never been off the floor, watched over by a lonely hairbrush on her vanity table. The table, mirror, and brush are all but forgotten. His belt hangs in the closet, asleep.

The cooking knives, spoons, and forks are all in their proper place.

When he got home he got himself a beer from the fridge and, while waiting for dinner to be ready, noticed that the tax papers had been left out on the table. Again. Well, she probably had a good reason for not putting them away yet.

When he sleeps, he dreams about going to the garage, prepping some rope and a rod and some rubber leggings and a bucket and then going fishing. She dreams about hiring some strong young men with broad shoulders and big tools to remodel the living room. One of the previous tenants had (for some inexplicable reason) installed rings in the ceiling and she has vision of being surrounded by hanging gardens like the ones in the far off places in her books, places she would never have the courage to visit on her own and that he had no interest in seeing. It never made any sense to him to go to a place just to look at stuff.

Educating your parents isn’t any fun, either.

*sigh*

Mom, we need to talk.  You’ve been alienating your daughter.

I spent three hours on the phone with my sister last night because she couldn’t talk to you.  Seriously, show her more understanding instead of making her feel dumb.  I mean, the girl is out buying things she doesn’t need because the sales people are friendly.  Do realize what that means?  She’s so desperate for warmth and compassion that she’ll try to get it from people selling her shit she doesn’t need.  I knew being a single mom was tough and that she didn’t have it easy but damn, that is a hard life to live.  Seriously, mom, hug her tight and keep her close, she really needs you.  I’m on the other end of the country doing what I can.  If this keeps up she may sell the house and move out here to be closer to me.  That might help her but it means you’ll almost never see your grandson.

Think about it.

Secret Elevator Dance

I’ve just checked the mail and I’m killing time in the elevator. Normally I would perform the secret elevator dance -

The secret elevator dance is any style you like and is a shameless act of anarchy.  It only exists from the time the door closes until the time the door opens.  Singing and music are also good.  If you do it with a disco ball, I want photos.

- but tonight I find myself fascinated by the heart on my keychain. You gave it to me, in Australia, in that other life. I remember when it was four different colors. Now it’s mostly grungy, with fresh wood showing where the keys have made their marks. Your wooden heart has taken a beating, a soaking, more than few man-handlings, and a definite beating.

I remember the one time I thought I’d lost my keys. Your heart was the only thing I cared about getting back. Everything else was replaceable, even the comemorative one for high school graduation (class of ‘97!), but I was freaking out at losing your heart.

Some days I wonder if I’ll ever grow up and let you go already. You’re half a world away, couldn’t care less.

Some days the voice in my head dictates a letter that tells you I’ve got somebody new, somebody really special, someone who doesn’t make me feel like dirt so effortlessly and consistently.

Some days I remember the first night we sat on that bench in Tel-Aviv and I told you that you were going to haunt me forever.

Some days I hate being right.

Some days I need a bottle of wine, a jay, and a massage because I’m probably just in a bad mood, my electrolytes are off, and I’ve been alone a bit too long.

Some days I have slap the smile back on and go on playing the game of being enough like everybody else to be well liked.

Some days I want to delete that last sentence.

Bah.

All this goes through me in the space of about two and a half floors.
(Ed: Ah, drunk journaling, the internet equivalent of drunk text-messaging.  Man, was I ever in a wierd, morose, “what could have been” mood last night.)