September 2006 Archives

Boston brings a flurry of snapshots for me every time I go there - and I don't mean the ones I take. Nights at Kristin's BU dorm playing "You Don't Know Jack" and drinking, sidewalks where we sat to eat, the way the ground shifted under us that night we left some club, Fenway, Ray Lamontagne, The Decemberists, the Citgo sign. Kristin talking about Jump singing the National Anthem. Davis Square. On and on and on.

But I never attached it to the Wrens. A good National show, the Frames at the Paradise, yes, but not a Wrens gig. So far, the most stellar sets have been KEXP's Yule Benefit (two nights) and CMJ at 2 am in the city - well, actually, they've all been good. I guess I was heading up to Boston to get what I knew was coming, which was an incredible Wrens set, and maybe a quick hello from one of the guys. I was more preoccupied with how the place was going to be to shoot, to be honest, and whether or not Raf and Tommy would like the music.

I wound up totally and completely getting my socks knocked off. Seriously.

It had to be the best I've ever seen them play. A thousand degrees, about four people back (I know, I know, but we were out wandering around the streets) on Greg's side of the stage. And like always, it was non-stop goodness, but... like I put in the email to Greg: it was like you were already amazing, and then you took it to this place I didn't even know it needed to go to. It was sweaty and loud and perfect. And, they threw in Built-In Girls and Darlin, Darlin - the only strays from the Meadowlands I've seen have been Fire, Fire or I Guess We're Done or something. They played for like, an hour and a half. My calves got sore from jumping up and down so much, screaming my head off, twenty people on the stage for Boys, You Won't and mind numbing goodness. I like the Middle East, I thought it was going to be horrendous - I can't say it's my favorite venue, but it was alright.

So - I managed a quick hi to Greg and Other Charles, and we stumbled back to the car around 1 am (all high with show) only to find a message from one of my friends - it turns out he had extra make-up game tickets for the Sox / Yankees game in the Bronx for 8 pm on Sunday, and did we want to go? Oh, and for free? Totally.

On to big city number two (get it?) around 5 on Sunday after very little sleep and very little... anything. Not even laundry. I have to say, Yankees Stadium is pretty dirty and annoying to get to and from. And the fans are HORRENDOUS. Mean, spiteful, awful people. I mean, I can understand some healthy banter now and then, but sitting four seats down from someone screaming "Cocksuckers! Faggots! We're going to eat your kids!" was pretty dismantling. But besides that, and overpriced parking back in Stamford, the night was a full thumbs-up. And then it got... different.

Halfway into the sixth inning, the Sox went down by two runs and we decided to catch the early train. We walked back to the subway and headed towards the Harlem / 125th street station. The directions I had gotten online said that the 4 would stop running after 8, so to take the D train uptown and cut over back to where Metro North picked up. Easy, right?

Wrong.

We got off the D and were nowhere near where we had been before, and after one tired looking idiot cop sent us in the wrong direction, we came back and found out from one of the locals that we had to go five city-blocks down 125th to get back to Park (where the Metro North station picked up). So, Cop #1, wrong. Local, right on the money. Cop #2 tells us, well, you're going to want to take a cab, or a bus - so we run across the street for the bus only to find out it's change or Metro Cards. No dollars. So we're like, fuck it. Let's walk. We go about a block and we see The Apollo - like, THE Apollo, seriously - except there's literally twenty cops in a line across both sides of the street blocking the sidewalks, and Cop #3, who doesn't even understand where we're trying to go, tells us to go up a block to 126th and to cut back over on the next street.

Thank you, sir. Why don't YOU go walk in the alley behind The Apollo, and let us know when you're at the other side? At this point, I'm starting to think of Public Enemy and Flavor Flav singing "911 is a Joke" and how the police are - well, mostly white, bloated, useless men... and how they either didn't tell us the right direction, or didn't know where the station was at all - and my suburban, sometimes-in-not-so-great-parts-of-New-Haven upbringing is going, is this what it's really like? I mean, all this stuff, these separations, everything I always hear about, all these preconceived notions - are they not kidding? It really was a completely foreign world.

The next three or four long blocks (it was about a half mile altogether) were just poker face walking for Raf and I. I wanted to smoke so fucking bad, I've wanted to alot lately, and instead I just put my hair up and took the walk. We talked when we hit empty spots about how out of place I felt, and he said he was fine, but even with someone who could handle it - like him - there was still a huge feeling of being like Colojero in A Bronx Tale, where he goes to get his girl home towards the end, and the crowd is like, get the fuck out of here... and how he takes off and goes back to his own street, his own neighborhood, his own... world. We saw Malcolm X corner. And Martin Luther King corner. And African Way. Low riders, rims, trash everyplace, huge clumps of people outside of clubs - glamourized poverty, I want to say? I'm sure it's not poverty, but those words are what it felt like if I don't think too hard about it. I kept wondering about all the streets beyond, and the homes, and the tenement apartments, and the dollar stores, and the locked-up windows - if this was the populated area, what was it like twenty blocks in? What is home, what does that mean here? In this place so rich with energy and culture and history - to be strewn about with trash and carelessness, it just felt so... disrespectful. To them, or us, I'm not quite sure which... and an understanding started to settle in: this was it. Right in the middle of "it", actually. And there were tired old white irish cops who didn't do much of anything. And there was trash everyplace because the city didn't work too hard to pick it up, and then that starts to feed on itself after a while. It felt like these people were all clinging on to everything they could - because this was all they had. Poor, but defined. I don't know. I'll take poor and defined over rich and lost any day of the week.

The looming arch of the train station was like an oasis, a haven. We pushed through the double doors onto the shiny linoleum, up the stairs to track number three, and waited. Like we were safe in our post far above those dirty streets. I just sat there for a while and let it all run through me... I don't think I've ever been a minority. I mean, there's plenty of times where I felt like I didn't fit, be it a football game in high school or a party I wasn't invited to or an uber-hip bar in Brooklyn where a band was playing - varying degrees of mildly uncomfortable. This was severe levels of uncomfortable, stricken mildly with fear, a hyper-awareness, a sadness, and then a profound amount of respect - all at the same time.

I'm sitting here now in my two room apartment I share with Raf, my Cha Cha, and some houseplants. We pay $695 to exist in this space, we park safely on the street and can be downtown in fifteen minutes walking distance whenever we want, any time of the day or night. About sixty to seventy five percent of my neighbors are people who are paying more for an education than I will possibly earn in the next ten years, and half of them act like they're very aware of it. There's old ivy and bricks that were here long before me (and that will be here long after me), but there's a piece missing now and again when I'm taking those downtown walks. And Harlem has thatmissing thing. It was tangibly alive. Even with the time I spent there being a snapshot of predjudices, from the cops to the stupid drunk Yankee fans, to the trash and the blunts in the back alleys - Harlem had something to it. A spark, an electricity, a history, a power, its own light almost.

I think something is permanently different in my hardwiring as a result of that walk.

And as a result of all that rambling, this girl is exhausted. Shower, Koffee staff meeting, and rest. Still no laundry, but I got around to the stores I needed to today, coupons and all. I saved twenty dollars at the grocery store today. Aren't you proud? I'm so fucking cheap, it's ridiculous.

There must be something I can do for a living around all of this - stuff I've got in me now from that half-mile in Harlem. There just has to be.

Here's to good shows, and culture shock for all -

V.

this should be interesting.

I'm back on track, by the way. in case any of you were worried.

photos to follow... for sure.

so on august 28th of last year, in the midst of bands and fun and bliss and such, I copped to not quite feeling right. and here I am a year later, not quite feeling right. now, all the stuff in between has changed - december of 2004, I was just waking up. and through december of '05 and beyond, I'm wide awake, and so forth. and I went after a bunch of bands. and I went after a bunch of photographs. and I wanted to move. and then I didn't want to move. and things waxed and waned.

I can't forget that these are periods of growth and change, that this is life, that life is not some gigantic exciting thing every single day. every day isn't a show, you know? there has to be time inbetween.

in december of 2004 I was in the branford apartment, waking up. I wrote and wrote about how I was finally able to say what I meant and to just - write. and just be. and then this december, being here with raf on christmas, and how much had changed... and then february, back to see malinda, and in march the wellbutrin starts, and the recovery process re-begins with a minor mental health bottom, and now that's flaring up again. but, like I said, even though I can see all that progress, I can't help but feel that something just isn't quite right.

all I know right now is that it's time for bed. I went from a girl going through a divorce, to an indie rock photographer and wannabe music journalist, to a barista and student and live-in girlfriend.

so I am doing something. okay. that feels better.

it's 11:09 on saturday night. everyone is sleeping (which would be raf, and cha cha), and I'm sitting here trying to figure out what to do with my life. I went off my wellbutrin for a week, and it all came back. I mean, not like I don't ponder life and stuff, am I living up to my full potential, what have you - pushing myself to do more, pulling back, learning, going through flare-ups of excitement and bands or pictures or what have you - but there's generally not a lot of panic.

we now have officially reached panic.

I spent some time in the grocery store this evening. there's so much going on there, it's easy to hide. a lot of lights and ruckus and people doing things in between doing other things, and I just slipped into my own world. walking slowly, forgetting things, doubling back, putting together some good salad stuff, chicken, mascara, I need that, no I don't, okay get out of the cosmetics section - so I just got to like, be there. alone, and just - well, there.

I walked by this older man with an empty cart, and he had one thing of some kind of meat, with an on-sale sticker on it, and I was just blown away by the sight of him - all of a sudden, I'm in his head, and his world, and I'm terrified for him - he's poor and can't even afford his medication and he's got to just get a few things that are on sale and he's alone and I'm going to get old and what if I don't have any social security or anything and I'm shuffling around, looking at people with their full carts, going, if they only knew...

but that's not the panic part. the panic just kind of sets in, when I think about stuff. I mean, the grocery store was good overall, and the part with the older man just kind of passed by, even though it really struck me. I liked the quiet mind and the purposeful meandering of it all. but I'm driving down my street, and it's just all the same street, and I've been here before, and am I supposed to be somewhere else - when I've been getting nothing but affirmations that I'm right where I'm supposed to be, and my teacher is perfect, and class is perfect, and the job at koffee? is perfect, and it's all right, and I'm in a healthy relationship, and meetings are fine, and - so why the discontent?

I went back on the wellbutrin this morning. and even in typing this, I want to throw the pills out the window, because I don't know what's coming from where, and I just want to embrace my madness like they used to and just let it eat me and I'd go nuts and do whatever real crazy people do. because it feels like I've tried so much that hasn't worked - even though I thought things were just working - I lived someone else's life, and that didn't work. I got all jacked up about bands, but that only works sometimes, and the bands themselves and the songs leave a mark, so I like that part, but just doing the band thing - it's like my life is about someone else's thing, and it's not my thing. so, all by itself, that doesn't work. so I gave up on that, and I gave up on being a hippie, and I still like bands but it doesn't run my life, and I still like pictures but it doesn't run my life, and I write, and I have to write, so that's what it is, and I don't quite know what to do with or about any of that.

I don't have any secret places. all of a sudden, it's not just work - home - meeting, it's work sometimes and koffee? sometimes and class sometimes and homework sometimes and cooking spanish food sometimes and I like it much, much better this way. but I can't help but feel like something is missing. the little things I do that catch me on fire. I'm even nervous thinking about going to see the wrens on saturday.

what the fuck is wrong with me?

television is crack, by the way. so is food. so is spending money, it's just all crack. it's crack-time, all the time. I hate it.

/end rant.

I can remember my fourth grade parent-teacher conference like it was yesterday. I had forgotten to brush my teeth, and my mother was bitching at me about it. I couldn’t see what the big deal was, it was an honest mistake, or maybe it was the onset of low self-esteem, who knows. All I can see are little clips of movies from that day: her being upset, and shushing the whole thing when my teacher walked in the room; the way they talked about me like I wasn’t there, but looked directly at me; the way the sidewalk looked through the window, and how it’s what I remember the most. It went along the side of the building to where we had recess, and the blacktop where we played kickball most days.

“Victoria could be driving the bus, but she chooses to sit in the back seat,” my teacher declared. “She’s just not working up to her full potential.” I usually got picked last, or close to last. They said I ran funny. I remember feeling like I ran fine, but taking on the role of someone who ran funny. How strange it was to be at this parent-teacher conference. I had gone ahead in my math workbooks and finished them, because they were too easy. I thought maybe I was getting in trouble for that. And those little movie clips keep rolling, moments of my life I’ll probably never forget, always available on instant recall.

Those statements Mr. Krampitz made about me turned out to be strangely profound. Looking back, I can see that I modeled my life after the pursuit of acceptance, not happiness. I was too scared to drive the bus, because I if I did it wrong, people might not like me. I’ve learned since that acceptance of self - whatever that may be - is far more critical than acceptance from others, and that being true to my inner voice is the one thing that will never steer me wrong. The good and the bad, the chances taken alongside the regrets, it’s all made me a part of who I am today. And every morning, when I get in that driver’s seat, I can look around and know that where I wind up - while important - is of little consequence. What matters most is that I‘m the one doing the driving.

It all goes from I am, I do, I love, I will, I made, I went, I did... to I can't, I'm sorry, I don't know, I don't fit.

Last week I was absolutely, positively on FIRE. I started School. I love School. I am enraptured with my one class (English comp.) and my Dead Poet's Society-esque teacher. I mean, it's not an all-boys college in a picturesque setting, it's more like - well, it actually is exactly - a cement building on Long Wharf next to the highway. No walking in step in the courtyard for us. Oh, and I'm one of three white people. Not that that matters, it's just an interesting situation in which to find myself. As he puts it (Tom, my teacher, who has written books with Henry Lee), open enrollment is absolutely fascinating. And that many of our great minds were derelicts, and the next Einstein or Poe could be among us - so who is he to judge? Write. Flourish. Find your voice. Existentialism. It's totally glorious.

I guess I am still on fire about it.

But today just feels a little less... everything. My essay isn't perfect, and it's killing me. I stopped taking my Wellbutrin, mostly because I forgot for a few days and then decided to go without. My apartment is small, and I really and truly love Raf with all my heart, but we're in a little space and it's taking some adjusting. I'll add in here, though, I wouldn't have it any other way. On top of all of that, I'm working - hard - and my hands are cut up and I burned myself at work and Tuesday went from being in work, at my desk at 8:45 straight through thirteen hours to leaving the coffee shop close to ten. I have a coffeepot, finally. Hurray! And I'm seriously, just torn up about this fucking paper.

Narrative essay. A story with a point. In my case, a story with a point, 300-500 words, in the first person, on the topic of rejection. Perfect. Except my first "perfect" go wound up at 930 words. Anything less seems inhumane. So Kristin enlightens me with the fact that it's what I do on this here blog, and I'm thinking of this and the two readings we had and the typical storyline:

Once upon a time there was a (blank) and (basic issue). S/He/It (verb) (noun), repeatedly, in different forms. Conflict resolution, for better or worse, and the moral of the story is (X). 300 words just doesn't seem like enough. I hand wrote, typed, edited, and still was at 7something... so back to the drawing board. Which is due tomorrow, by the way.

I'll put the draft up before I go. And Kristin, tell me more about the mood charts, will you?

(She sends) kisses, with visions of Wrens in just eight days,

V.

After reading Kristin's final entry, I realize that I just didn't put the work into this. I did about 55-60% of my updates, and I wanted the same result she got - which is living proof that half doesn't get you half. Half gets you nothing, in most cases.

Of course, that's not to say that it didn't make me write more, or serve any purpose at all, or that it's not about the end and the content was this and that - but still. I just didn't show up. Apparently this is a trait I share with many of my similarly afflicted brothers and sisters...

So, it's September 1st. Hurray! School starts today (yes, it's 6:20 a.m.) at 8 on Long Wharf. And we're getting television, so weird - I'll be back in the know of all things pop culture. I do have to say, I've heard a lot of people talking about some really good things HBO has been putting out, and I am kind of excited about it . On top of that, two people in one room with a few feet of snow outside is going to make for quite the long winter (!) so it should be a welcome distraction. Apparently there's a lot of sporting events we'll get to see... but yeah, like Jon says, summer just faded away - just like that. One day, it was cooler in the morning than it had been in a while... and that was just it.

I have to say I'm really not too thrilled with the weather patterns this past season - the trade off to a good summer is a bad winter, as far as I can tell (it hasn't been that many years that I've been paying attention, but I'll get back to that). The winter was mild - cold, but manageable, and not a ton of debilitating snow - well, there was that one storm where we left my car on the wrong side of the street for the snow ban and had to drive in the middle of the worst part of it over to Eve's because Raf locked my keys in the apartment. But besides that, it was fine. And then as the weather started to warm up, it rained. For weeks, it felt like. And then summer was finally thrust upon us, we had about a week of it, and then it was 100 degrees out with 99% humidity for two months. Then it was gorgeous for a week. Then the chill snuck in, just barely, and it was hard to enjoy the last two weeks of nice daytime and cool nighttime temperatures when it was becoming abuntantly clear that summer was being yanked out from underneath us.

So I kind of feel like we got dicked around. Yesterday morning there was a leaf on my car, a fall one, all brown and shriveled, but it had rained, and it wasn't pretty at all. It was sort of depressing, actually.

So we're adjusting, and the seasons are (literally and proverbially) changing, and there's all these college students all glammed-up to go get thirty dollar dinners at Gourmet Heaven every night, and I felt a little inadequate in the grocery store yesterday. I didn't feel exotic. Come to think of it, I've never really felt exotic, but somehow the regularness of grocery shopping with Raf was really eating at me. I wasn't fresh out of work, I wasn't dressed up, I wasn't going shopping to fill up my dorm - we were just like, going to the store. Non-exotic style.

The good news is that EVERYTHING was on sale for back-to-school time. Jars of chunky brand name peanut butter for ninety nine cents. (Is there no cents key on the keyboard? Weird.) Instant oatmeal was 2/$4. We wound up with an entire cart loaded - with meat - full of stuff for $124.00. It was awesome. We're going to start clipping coupons. I had oatmeal this morning with Splenda and wheat germ and cinnamon. Oh - the one thing that we very much were not able to procure was olive oil. Either I haven't had to buy it in a while, or prices to get it over here have skyrocketed, or something - but the shit was fucking expensive. Raf has turned me onto the joys of Goya products, and I think there's some homemade rice and beans in my near future... I'll keep you posted.

So I'm being loaded with domesticity-related events, I'm excited about grocery bargains, and by the end of the day, I will have gone to class, gone to my office job, installed television, and attended an AA meeting. Have I lost my edge? I was thinking yesterday, or whenever it was, a day or so ago, that it seems like life winds up being about waking up at a certain stage of the game, and dealing with the assets and liabilities you incurred during the previous stage, and then spending a good amount of time repairing that. Like, I get sober, and then have to deal with that for a few years - waking up, looking at what a mess I'd made of things, damage control, re-evaluation, etc., and then in the midst of all that, another one happens. Now I'm approaching thirty, and looking at my life choices and career choices and the chances I have and haven't taken up until this point, and what I want to do about it, and what steps I want to take in which direction. This time I woke up to a bunch of stuff I had no idea I was sleeping through. I wonder if that just keeps happening, or if you catch up at some point so that everything is going on in real time?

I think this all came after Kristin's entry about going backwards, income-wise, and then coupled with the article about how why you shouldn't have a job that I read last night. I have to just get with the process, and how there are no graduations (except for literal ones), and that it's not about me being, "I am here and I should know X by now" kind of stuff. There is no cutoff for being in the sorting things through stage. I am not debilitated by the confines of my mind, like, in a locked ward way, nor am I entrenched in a life that has nothing to do with who I am or who I am becoming. I'm just going through it, whatever "it" is. And right now, "it" is about taking a shower because I have to get out of here soon.

Because I'm going to class.

Because I woke up.

Morning pages are awesome.

~V.