Diners are where I get my sustenance, both physical and otherwise. Eros is one of my favorites. The vinyl seats squeal as you slide in, as if to welcome you. At night the place glows with an amber light no longer approved by decorators. Everything is brown, or gold, except for the walls which are mosaiced with murals out of Greek history books. The menu is a dozen pages long, but the service is what makes it exceptional. They have a spice and delicacy that their food does not.
They care for the stooped, grayed woman curving over a bowl of soup at the counter. They remember when babies have grown, and chide me for my absence. They let me wait on a Saturday morning, accepting my refusal to sit in the back, on rickety tables pushed too closely together for comfort. They give me permission to stand in repose as families bustle around me. Waiting for a window booth that provides some of the best people watching in the city.
Each time I pass they wave, filling my belly with a joy warm as their crappy coffee. Today I'm here listening to the cacophonic symphony of Saturday brunch. The clatter of china against china, and slide of plate on counter. I taste coffee, bitter and milky-sweet, before we are even seated.
I resist the impulse to stare at Dave and let my eyes glaze over in fantasy. Maybe it's the shirt he's wearing, but I'm betting it's the free floating lust that has followed me like Eeyore's little black rain cloud.
I met Steven a few weeks ago. Immediately he treated me as if we'd grown up braiding each other's hair and talking about boys. His warmth and affection was like a blanket, one that I couldn't quite trust wasn't infected with smallpox. Mind you, that is my fear talking, not any menace on his part.
When we are (quickly) seated I'm next to Meg, who is all sharp angles and beauty. Meg, who I knew would be my friend when I heard her talk about putting on a full face of makeup and looking in the mirror asking herself what she was doing.
We order, cups of tea for Dave and Meg, and a combined bounty of pancakes, turkey bacon, and eggs over easy for Steven and me. Dave is talking about the path of dating that's let up to his current girlfriend,
"The only thing my bad relationships had in common was me"
See, I've heard that clever remark before. In my case its wisdom falls on deaf ears. I mention that today is my last day of match.com membership.
"Oh yeah, I didn't get anything out of online dating" says Dave
"I met my boyfriend online," replies Stephen "I thought you'd broken up"
"Still met him online" he counters
We go from choosing partners, to first date etiquette, to the place where all conversations go if they go long enough: sex.
"How many dates are you supposed to wait before you sleep with someone?"
"I think it's three," I say "sounds like a good number."
"I've noticed a lot of gay men I know don't really wait to have sex"
I'm not sure if he is asking a question or expressing an opinion but either way Dave is doing so cautiously. Simon replies,
"Generally"
"I know a lot of women who don't wait either," I point out
"Well" Stephen's voice has an undercurrent of amusement "I think you have a little gay man in you"
I raise my eyebrows and deadpan
"Is he paying rent?"
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Monday, August 20, 2007
When (Ralph Marston)
I heard this tonight and just adored it. Do you ever feel like the universe picked up the phone and whispered-shouted-coaxed a very clear message into your ear? That is how I felt when I heard this.
When
When your reasons to move forward outweigh your excuses for staying put, you will move forward.
When your thirst for success is more powerful than the desire to stay within your comfort zone, you will succeed.
When the reward is meaningful enough, you will act.
When you connect your deepest purpose with the goals you set, those goals will be achieved.
When you understand that there is a real and accessible pathway to the most magnificent dreams you can dream, you'll get yourself on that path.
When you know without a doubt that every action has a consequence, you'll focus all your actions in a positive and valuable direction.
When you love what you do, you'll do it with grace and ease and excellence.
When you do what you love, you'll provide a steady stream of unique and extraordinary gifts to life.
When you are completely clear about why, you'll be able to figure out how.
When you let go of the need to need, you'll fall into a massive sea of beautiful abundance.
When you are ready, life is here to fully live. Choose it, and now is when.
~Ralph Marston~
When
When your reasons to move forward outweigh your excuses for staying put, you will move forward.
When your thirst for success is more powerful than the desire to stay within your comfort zone, you will succeed.
When the reward is meaningful enough, you will act.
When you connect your deepest purpose with the goals you set, those goals will be achieved.
When you understand that there is a real and accessible pathway to the most magnificent dreams you can dream, you'll get yourself on that path.
When you know without a doubt that every action has a consequence, you'll focus all your actions in a positive and valuable direction.
When you love what you do, you'll do it with grace and ease and excellence.
When you do what you love, you'll provide a steady stream of unique and extraordinary gifts to life.
When you are completely clear about why, you'll be able to figure out how.
When you let go of the need to need, you'll fall into a massive sea of beautiful abundance.
When you are ready, life is here to fully live. Choose it, and now is when.
~Ralph Marston~
Sunday, August 19, 2007
These shoes rule
These shoes make me wish I had a rich husband willing and able to indulge my shopping habits.
This video makes me laugh uproariously.
Friday, August 17, 2007
cultured
I went to the museum today with Dave and Jenny. The impressionists made me cry (they always do). Not sad crying, just wow-I-can't-believe-something-so-transcendentally-beautiful-exists kind of crying.
Next was the Whitney (much more modern stuff). The flourescent colors, flashing lights, and swirling concert posters made me wonder "Is this art?". I see the beauty in it, I can see how it is artistic. But to me, art is defined in part by its ability to last. This show was more a documentary of an era. Or maybe I just don't get modern art. The whole museum leaves me feeling very "meh" about its contents.
The last time I'd been to the museum with Dave we took scores of photos. Him posing arms akimbo next to Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Me rubbing my tummy and smiling in anticipation of Cezanne's juicy apples. Another where with my furrowed brow, raised eyebrows, and extended pinky, I criticized Rodin for not endowing his naked man with a bit more naked man.
Today, we were behaved.
Today, we were behaved.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
heart
My theory was that all the pieces, heart, body, mind, are split for the safety of the general public. Snicked into brushed steel boxes, tight in black foam, unstable parts of an explosive whole. A woman would be too powerful as one cohesive unit, bubbling with such chemical reactions. I didn't think you could take all of me at once.
That was my theory anyway. I thought it worked so well. That I was broken into bits so that i could hide away what I wanted to protect. Leave my heart tucked away as I ran riot. Like a pair of shoes saved for just the right occasion. The shine of their fabric and the sharp of their heel saved for the right dance. I imagined the disconnect would keep it away from harm. I didn't trust myself with its fist sized, fleshy passion stuck in a cage of blood and body.
Where were you heart? Were you hiding away like a child hearing her parents fight? Or knocking at the door like a persistent Jehovah's Witness trying to show me a new way of life. Was the thud-thud not my pulse, but you wanting to be let in.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't keep you out of the equation. I couldn't fuck without feelings. But I won't feign regret; I don't wish to cauterize the wounds left by twisted sheets and limbs. I
don't want to forget the time I spent with him, my last experiment.
But this time I promise to be a better caretaker, oh heart of mine.
That was my theory anyway. I thought it worked so well. That I was broken into bits so that i could hide away what I wanted to protect. Leave my heart tucked away as I ran riot. Like a pair of shoes saved for just the right occasion. The shine of their fabric and the sharp of their heel saved for the right dance. I imagined the disconnect would keep it away from harm. I didn't trust myself with its fist sized, fleshy passion stuck in a cage of blood and body.
Where were you heart? Were you hiding away like a child hearing her parents fight? Or knocking at the door like a persistent Jehovah's Witness trying to show me a new way of life. Was the thud-thud not my pulse, but you wanting to be let in.
I couldn't do it. I just couldn't keep you out of the equation. I couldn't fuck without feelings. But I won't feign regret; I don't wish to cauterize the wounds left by twisted sheets and limbs. I
don't want to forget the time I spent with him, my last experiment.
But this time I promise to be a better caretaker, oh heart of mine.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
cupcake
Lulled by the bath-water warm air my head dips down and for the space of a few heartbeats I rest. My body shivers itself awake with a twitch. Again, leaden eyelids fight a losing battle to stay open and my chin sinks down to my breastbone. This jerky dance of not quite awake leaves my brain cottony and my mouth empty. I walk to the door, shaking my head in attempt to clear it.
I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved
with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.
The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.
I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.
Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.
The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.
The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.
There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.
"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.
My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,
"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"
"Oh no, that's okay"
I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.
"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask
"No, no of course not" He insists
"Well, okay"
I walk briskly, trying to find a breeze or create my own. My golden heels click on the small concrete paths. Sidewalks never widened to accept the girth of the new American. Walkways that remind me what New York looks like in movies. These streets were never gilded or paved
with yellow brick. Rather they are grey with flecks of glass and sand making them sparkle in the sun. And abrade young knees like a cheese grater.
The streets are dark and leafy. Colors muted to shades of brown and black bearing only a shadow of their original brilliance. There are no streetlamps here.
I feel like I'm walking in a kaleidoscope. The leaves act as bits of glass, blocking what meager light remains. The gleam makes the environment more liquid than gaseous. I'm not sure whether I swam or walked, but my head was no clearer. I was in a fever dream of Manhattan, lost in a forest of brick brownstones and fluid light.
Stairways lead up to each impermeable brownstone. Everywhere are dark corners in which to hide and kiss. I remember walking here with Lucia; both of us all dolled up more for the world than for each other. I remember how we posed on stairways and kissed, and all I could think was what a good photo it would have been. What a pretty postcard we were.
The streets of the village braid in and around each other. They have no respect for the sensible grid of midtown. They loop and disappear, claiming pretty names and scant real estate.
The destination is my favorite bookstore. The shelves are jammed with original picks; the lighting is bright yet flattering, prices are excellent, and the folding tables outside hold unknown treasures. Doesn't hurt that it is across the street from Magnolia Bakery.
There is a line outside the famed confectionery. I ask the baker/bouncer who stands guard at the door whether they are closing. "Yes, we're closed. Good night" he tells me with a flash of white teeth in the dark night. "Oh, okay" I say, turning to cross the street.
"I was joking! Please, come in!" he yells an apology after me. I see that the bookstore is closing and wave a hand to him, "No, that's okay" I yell back.
My visit to the bookstore is brief. I don't want to keep them open late, so I leave quickly. As I exit the baker/bouncer is waiting for me. He calls out another apology, approaching this time. He wraps an arm around my shoulders,
"Please, I'm so sorry. Come in, I will give you a cupcake"
"Oh no, that's okay"
I get a whiff of the frosting on the humid summer air; the smell of sugar, butter, and fresh baking impossible to resist. I can feel vanilla butter cream melting on my tongue with a sandy crumble of dry cupcake.
"I don't have to wait in line?" I ask
"No, no of course not" He insists
"Well, okay"
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
books
KIRA, KATE, JENNY, and KEVIN sit in the tech office passing time till the lunch delivery gets here. JENNY has given her seat to KIRA in hopes that the latter will spill less food than usual. Jenny is now sitting on an upturned milk crate. KEVIN types on the computer not paying attention to the proceedings.
KATE
Oh my god, I'm so excited for this class now that I've read Atonement
KIRA
Yeah I loved that book
JENNY
I couldn't get past the first part
KIRA
See you just need to get past those first 80 pages, the rest of it is great. I'm really into Tender is the Night but it's a bit of a slog
KATE
Who's wrote that?
KIRA
Fitzgerald. Have you read The Great Gatsby yet?
Both respond at the same time, Kate with exuberance Jenny with ennui.
KATE
Oh my god, I loved it
JENNY
-meh- I didn't like it
KIRA and KATE in unison, in voices that sound more like gasps of horror
KIRA/KATE
What??
JENNY
Well, I thought the plot was boring and predictable, and I didn't like the characters
KIRA
Well, you suck
Jenny makes a noise of annoyance, Kate gives a surprised giggle
KEVIN
That's the best you could come up with? "You suck"?
KIRA
I thought you weren't listening because we were talking about books
modern-day progress
Progress is... reading a year-old e-mail and realizing what a dick he was. Realizing he wasn't worth your time, your body, or your thoughts. Progress is not looking at his window when you pass his building, or not even looking at the building. Maybe you'll delete the e-mails soon, but for now progress is deleting him from your myspace page.
Sunday, August 5, 2007
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