find the joy find the joy find the joy find the joy.
I'm trying to rise above the 13 days straight I'm in the middle of working (in an industry that has a flagrant disregard for labor laws i.e. things like breaks and overtime), my knees and feet are giving up due to standing in high heels for 6 hours at a time, the weather is absolute shit, and I just ate Mexican food made by Chinese people. I feel like someone has literally beaten me, physically and emotionally.
All of that being said, my sister is getting married and that is infinitely joyous and certainly has brought a great deal of light to this weekend. There is absolutely nothing more amazing or important than two people that are in love enough to make that kind of promise to each other. I'm deliriously happy for them, and despite my own personal doubt that I'm capable of an functional relationship I have unending faith in them. They deserve the best, and they've found it in each other. I wish I was closer to their joy, because I feel pretty far from it up here in Asstoria.
There is a purpose to this rant beyond mere bitching. I'm getting there, I promise. I know that I've absolutely chosen every bit of my current state. I chose to live in New York, I chose to get a second job, I chose to put myself in the crosshairs of emotional destruction. I think I wouldn't have it any other way, for many reasons, not least of all this:
and we've reached the actual story I wanted to tell. Today, after I went in (on my one day off) to train behind the bar (without pay) I was riding the train home. It was slow at the restaurant, so I spent most of the day playing Taboo with the other bartender's boyfriends. One of his clues was "New Yorkers use these so they won't have to talk to anyone" and I instantly shouted "headphones!" Oh, too true. I was sitting on the train with my face buried in Vonnegut and Rilo Kiley blasting in my ears (aren't I so cool? meeehhh) and generally avoiding human contact (such is the way of the NYC commuter... and interesting concept on a packed train car) when the group of guys came on who always sing gospel in four part harmony walked on. I'm not gonna lie, I usually like these guys and other subway musicians, even though I admit to often being way too hungover for early morning N train mariachi music. About 50 percent of the time I reach into my pocket to crank up the volume on my own music and act too involved in my book to make eye contact so I don't have to feel artist's guilt when I don't tip them. But today, I glanced up as the guys began to sing and noticed the little girl across from me, she was probably about 8 years old. She was sitting with her parents, and when they started to sing she got the biggest smile on her face and looked at her parents with such awe. I couldn't help it, she was just so delighted that -I- became also so delighted and I took out my headphones and fished a dollar out of my wallet. She literally brightened my entire day.
There it is, that sneaky joy. It's not that hard to find, really. I guess. particularly when stop hiding from connecting with one another.
it's not all for nothing.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
walking in a wonderous winterland
Somewhere between the front steps of a trendy gay bar and a small apartment in Astoria, something almost mystical transpired.
She pushed open the obscenely heavy door and took in the street before her. Between the tiny Asian drag queen picking a fight with the bouncer and the snow blowing sideways all she could muster was “Goddamnit.”
Up went the fur lined hood and the fierce city girl defenses. Dodging sideways looks and unctuous comments she made her way for the subway after weighing the financial consequences of a cab ride.
An untimely full bladder prompted a desperate stop into a McDonald’s populated by a 2:45 am crowd of late night snackers, snow beaten evangelists and wayward midtown spirits. Once relieved, she faced the next challenge: how long would it take for the N(ever) train to arrive?
Fortune strikes and she waits less than two minutes for her train home. She boards, and feels the mood of the exhausted straphangers around her. Once one the other side of East River she digs out her gloves, ties back her hair and dons her hood once again, ready to face the miserable 7 minute schlep through the tundra to her modest apartment.
Then, it happens. She can’t help it. The perfect one inch layer of powder on the streets is…. Lovely. The month old piles of melted and refrozen, melted and refrozen dirty snow are coated by a frosty layer of fresh snow. The sounds of the neighborhood are muffled to a peaceful near silence.
Halfway through the 7 block trek she realized her pace has slowed to a crawl. She stops at an intersection and gazes up the quiet street. She looks behind her, and is taken aback by how tiny the footprints she’s left behind her are.
As she turns on her street, she stops completely when she realizes that the only tracks on the street are hers, and, just for a moment, in a city of nine million people, she feels like a pioneer, like the first person ever to set foot on this path. She looks up at the sky, and remembers: She loves the snow. She always has. And she realizes, that this is all there is; these moments when we drop our emotional armor and find the beauty in what we have come to only know as inconvenience. And for a brief moment, it didn’t matter any more; who she was supposed to be, who she would ultimately become. It was just …. White, quiet and beautiful.
She pushed open the obscenely heavy door and took in the street before her. Between the tiny Asian drag queen picking a fight with the bouncer and the snow blowing sideways all she could muster was “Goddamnit.”
Up went the fur lined hood and the fierce city girl defenses. Dodging sideways looks and unctuous comments she made her way for the subway after weighing the financial consequences of a cab ride.
An untimely full bladder prompted a desperate stop into a McDonald’s populated by a 2:45 am crowd of late night snackers, snow beaten evangelists and wayward midtown spirits. Once relieved, she faced the next challenge: how long would it take for the N(ever) train to arrive?
Fortune strikes and she waits less than two minutes for her train home. She boards, and feels the mood of the exhausted straphangers around her. Once one the other side of East River she digs out her gloves, ties back her hair and dons her hood once again, ready to face the miserable 7 minute schlep through the tundra to her modest apartment.
Then, it happens. She can’t help it. The perfect one inch layer of powder on the streets is…. Lovely. The month old piles of melted and refrozen, melted and refrozen dirty snow are coated by a frosty layer of fresh snow. The sounds of the neighborhood are muffled to a peaceful near silence.
Halfway through the 7 block trek she realized her pace has slowed to a crawl. She stops at an intersection and gazes up the quiet street. She looks behind her, and is taken aback by how tiny the footprints she’s left behind her are.
As she turns on her street, she stops completely when she realizes that the only tracks on the street are hers, and, just for a moment, in a city of nine million people, she feels like a pioneer, like the first person ever to set foot on this path. She looks up at the sky, and remembers: She loves the snow. She always has. And she realizes, that this is all there is; these moments when we drop our emotional armor and find the beauty in what we have come to only know as inconvenience. And for a brief moment, it didn’t matter any more; who she was supposed to be, who she would ultimately become. It was just …. White, quiet and beautiful.
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