face forward

It's getting colder, though it's been warm for the past few days, warm enough for a light hooded-sweatshirt that tonight seems woefully inadequate, even indoors.  The cold and the hum of the city puts me in mind of a howling winter wind.  The way it would blow across the sky would whiten everything in sight, blanketing it all beyond gray.  A whiteout wind, a blizzard, that's what the city is to me tonight.

When I came home, they were moving a couch in.  It was halfway in the door and wedged.  Four people combined their strength to torque one end up to lever the last foot of it the rest of the way through.  I stopped helping before they came to the second door.  The other day I helped a stranger with a TV for four blocks, but this seemed a burden.  Then I recalled that I have all of my possessions in the living room, and asked them to stop.  Enough has been broken. 

The relief from moving beyond this dormitory living, on the eve of it after a couple of months, ought to be enough to help me sleep like a baby.  I've liked this room.  I wanted it to last longer.  I want my own apartment, but as far as sharing goes I've been in worse situations.  I'm awake, wide awake, composing poetry in my mind and prose on the page.  I'm in a romantic mood.

I'm desperately seeking some validation.  I'm desperately seeking some attention.  I'm getting both, but not from the sources that would penetrate to the places I need them to.  Give me an inch and I'll take it.  I'm just doing what comes next.  I'm just taking opportunities, and working towards using them well.  I'm desperately seeking opportunities.  Give me an opportunity and I'll take it.

I feel like the last remnants of the year are falling away from me like flakes of skin, whirling in the whiteout as the white noise whirls beyond the window.  The blinds are closed.  In my new place, I'll have curtains.  There won't be a tree outside of my window.  I fantasize about getting a bird feeder and a little flower box.  The cactus seems to be doing well.  The weather has dried my skin.

Everything is dust.  Everything is the next thing it's meant to be already and already in the way.  I want to purge everything I own.  There is a lot I want.  Too much of what I want I had and lost or gave away.  Maybe this is the origin of a hoarder psychodrama.  I feel like a monk.  I want to retire early through a lucrative transaction between the coat-tails I've been riding and the little proof there is.  I want teeth.

Tomorrow I will see what resolutions stick.  I've forgotten that.  I'd forgotten that.  I'll try to remember tomorrow, if I don't forget.  Tomorrow I'll see what memories stick.  I lack discipline.  Going to a gym requires discipline, as does running, earning more money, writing more, producing three solo shows of paintings, working on PR, getting a logo together, learning how to beat a better drum, learning Cantonese, being more loving, getting over the past, letting go, forgetting and remembering.  All the time, remembering.  Nothing is this convenient.

When I am older I will wear a boutineer.  I will burn cigarette holes into my clothes, choosing conspicuous places where strangers might have gotten careless; above the right elbow, for example.  Nostalgia has served me well until now.  If I were a creature of pure consciousness, living in infinite abundance, I would meticulously craft a detail like that.  The hole would be the whole.  It usually is.  Now I'm looking in the right direction.

Home

I wish I had a home.  I have a room, now, for one month.  Finding an apartment is so difficult.  I just stare at the computer screen and when I leave the room I watch like a hawk for rentals.  It has been so difficult to focus on actually creating anything.  I feel like things are falling by the wayside.  I am not sure what I'm really doing.  I can't be bothered to do laundry or pack or anything.

Last night I pigged out and watched a movie with my friend.  She had no attention span, so it was pretty much just me watching a movie.  We ate pizza with extra cheese, then I went to bed overly full and overly alone.  Just myself and my dog.

My therapist is really funny because he keeps laughing at a lot of the things I say.  I'm not really trying to be funny, but I guess I have no choice.  I am in a really strange space right now.  I feel in limbo in a lot of ways.  I don't want to leave town, because then I will not only be giving up on my dreams, but I will be letting my ex ruin an entire city for me.  I'm just not going to let that happen. 

I have applied to this Hispanic Aids Foundation grant, so that I can get rent subsidies.  I hope I get it.  It would sure be great to be able to afford to live on my own, or in a nice place, and not worry about where rent is coming from.  I like where I am now, but the landlords are terrible and since they want me out I'd rather not prolong the inevitable.  I wish I had savings.  I'd like to work on saving. 

I feel like I'm just rambling today.  I didn't really want to write anything, but I want to keep the habit up so that I can work towards developing something out of my writing.  I would really like to be able to do that.  I tried to start a novel but it is entirely too depressing.  Most of what I write is very depressing.  I'm just depressed.

I wonder when this will end.  I wonder when I'll wake up and not hope for my lover to come back to me.  I know he won't.  He's a stubborn asshole.  I wish I could hate him.  I know it's my fault.  I know it's his fault.  I am a freak.  I have been painting my nails and I dyed my hair blue because I know I am a total freak and I want to look like one. 

I need money.  I need love.  I need a home.  I need a maid.  I need. 

tired

I'm tired.  I slept ok last night, I think.  I woke up only once to go to the bathroom, which is a change.  I'm tired of pretending I'm over my love.  I'm tired of pretending I still think this life of mine is worth fighting for.  I'm tired to going to a job I hate.  I'm tired of my dog. 

I'm completely exhausted with this job I have to go to this morning, where I do really basic computer things for a 72 year old man who just doesn't get it.  This morning I have to go all the way to the Bronx just to help him retrieve an attachment from a sent email.  I hope it's simple, because he's using AOL and I'm not too familiar with that system.  At least I'll get paid, which will help me afford to move.  I currently can't afford to move.  I currently can't afford much.

A friend posted a photo of my love on Facebook yesterday.  Every time I see him I just melt.  He's the sweetest looking man.  I know he's been no good to me for months and months, but when I see him I just want to fall into his arms.  I have this fantasy that he will text me and say, "How are you?"  I would respond, "if you genuinely cared you wouldn't have to ask right now because you would have been there when it really mattered."  He's never going to come to his senses.  He's never going to realize how special I am.  He's never coming back to me.

It's sad, and hard, to come to terms with that.  I just miss him so much.  I really don't have a lot of friends that I can count on.  He was my best friend, in addition to being my sexy lover, and my cuddle bunny.  I guess I wasn't anything special to him.  He's sure proven that.  Why I am holding on to someone who could so easily throw me away like a piece of garbage I just can't figure out. 

Partly, I think being with him was comfortable.  He was comfortable to be around.  I could use some of that.  I need some comfort.  My back hurts, and my head hurts, and my heart hearts, and there is nothing I can do about any of this.  There is nothing I can do.

Regression

Some days are better than others.  Last night, for instance, I accidentally saw my love's face because he posted some shirts on his wall.  I hadn't unliked that.  I have now.  It won't happen again.  I then spent the rest of the night thinking and dreaming about him.

I dreamed we were at an art supply store.  I may have worked there.  It was also a cafe.  I had my head in his lap.  I loved having my head in his lap.  I loved the way he would put on his underwear while looking in the mirror, making sure his package looked just right.  He is so sexy.  There will never be anyone in my life who is as sexy as he is.  I'm sure of that. 

I had done a painting of him naked with a hard-on.   It's been hanging on my wall.  I've decided to donate it to Sylvia Rivera Law Project's fundraiser this year, where they hold an art auction.  I like the organization and think it's a very worthy cause.  It's also a good way to turn something good out of something bad.  I re-titled it "Aging Overweight Porn Star."  This was a petty stab at him.  I'm so hurt, angry, and disillusioned.

I'm also all of those things when it comes to apartment hunting.  I've worked so hard in this city and I still can't really afford to live here.  I'm at an age where I'd love to be settling down in a nice quiet apartment by myself somewhere, just me and my dog.  It would be great if I could afford something like that in the east village, but it would be about $2000/month.  I'm a failure.  I'm a complete and dismal failure in every way.  No wonder he left me. 

It's not like I'm lazy.  I work hard.  I do everything I know how to do to both secure work and sell my art.  I just don't know how much more there is to do.  My ex has no problem.  He works hard every day at his studio and people just flock to him.  That was always inspiring to me.  I wish he would hold me and tell me everything is going to be ok.  I'm starting to tear up again.  I haven't cried in a while. 

I still miss him.  I still want him back.  It's really hard for me to do all of this alone.  I didn't get to go to therapy this week because my therapist was sick.  I don't know what I'm going to do.  I need a miracle.  I wish my love would be that miracle.  I would make him work his ass off to prove he's learned his lesson, but I would take him back.  I miss my little miracle. 

Late

I just got home from work.  It was a long day but work moved quickly for the first couple of hours.  While I'm there I just keep thinking about how I'm going to change this crappy job and poverty-stricken life into one that allows me to take care of myself, live more comfortably, and even move.  I started looking for places today, in earnest, and there's just nothing out there.  Everything in my price range turned out to be a Philippines scam to steal my identity.  Go right ahead, Manilla.

I started taking my meds today.  I've chosen to do that at 10am.  This is a good time because if I'm up later I can still wake up in time to make something to eat, and if I'm up early I can get a lot done.  I have to take them at the same time every day, and if I miss even one dose it could cause serious problems for the effectiveness of an entire line of medication, narrowing the options for me, and possibly closing a door.  I've never had to deal with that sort of pressure for tiny pills.  Technically, they're not so tiny.  There are 5 a day, now, including the one I was taking before.  I read all the info on them while I made a nice comfort breakfast.  The worrying thing is that the side-effects all seem like the very symptoms that have already been debilitating me every week.  I started taking these so I could stop having those fevers, pains, rashes, etc.  I went to the doctor in the first place to solve those symptoms.  Now it seems that I may have to deal with them forever.  I'm not sure if they're spontaneously generated, or, like the main effects of the drugs, cumulative.

Last night I had a really pleasant dream.  I was dreaming that someone loved me.  It wasn't my ex.  It was a man in a nice grey sweater that felt soft against my skin when I put my head on his shoulder.  It felt safe.  He seemed really together.  My ex always seemed really together to me, also, but how could he be if this is how he treats his enfianced?  I want the kind of love I deserve.  I want to be held and made to feel bigger when I feel small.  I feel so small all the time, these days.  I feel small and ugly.

I'm trying to work hard, move forward, put a brave face on.  I just don't have any answers, only questions.  In my life, I sometimes know exactly what's supposed to happen next.  This isn't one of those times.  I still don't know what just happened.  I really can't wrap my head around the way life has upended on me.  Everything is sideways.  It's no wonder I feel dizzy all the time. 

My lips feel like sandpaper, my tongue feels too big for my mouth, my throat hurts.  I can't drink enough water, but it's forced and doesn't satisfy.  It's been since I last spoke to my ex that I actively sought out what he was doing online.  It still flashes by on Facebook, and I look, but I don't click, or like, or pursue it in any way.  I just can't.  After the last time I cried out for help and he failed again, I know I have to give up on him.  I need something he will never be.  It's still so sad, but it doesn't bring tears to my eyes.  That may change tomorrow.

Morbid

I sleep like a corpse, arms crossed or hands folded in supplication.  Or, like the living dead, I moan and shift, seeking escape from these confines, dreaming of a world I will never see again, eyes forced closed.  When I do dream, it is of him.  He, who drags my bleeding entrails through the city, tangled in the gears of his ten-speed bike.  Miles upon miles of carrion call to the rats in the gutters, "take him, I'm done."

I spent the weekend in bed, feverish and dizzy, unable to open my eyes for a searing pain in my right frontal lobe.  There are no restful days when even the pillow betrays.  The betrayals of the body I'm growing accustomed to.  The betrayals of the heart, I never will.  On Monday I had to work.  Every turn or bend transformed me into a drunken ballerina, whirling precipitously close to the edge of full collapse.  Somehow, I made it through.  Miracles can still happen for the decayed.

As tears begin to rust these shackles of love I can feel them loosen occasionally, only to be countered by the bloating of rigor mortis, which pours my flesh over them the way foam overflows a tube.  If I am foam, it explains it all.  Soon, there may be no more shackles, only the shackle part of me.  Like rotting teeth or fingernails, another thing to maintain in poverty and solitude.  

I am a social and optimistic, highly morbid, person.  He wanted me waiting in the kitchen, but when my heart was on a platter he pushed it away.  Then, it was still fresh, or so I thought.  Perhaps prepared with too much sauce, he always claimed to like simplicity, but only from me.  I am not simple.  I am trapped in a world I no longer belong in, forced to feed on the brains of others who've made it through, or who haven't.

Grandma is one who has.  She says, "It's your movie."  Mine is a genre pic.  It's a tragic love story of a zombie's unrequited love for a stone.  Grandma says, "you decide."  So I did, and he didn't have a splash-guard to stop the fluid of my bleeding heart from spitting against my face as he spun away into the distance, never to return.  Grandma says, "I love you," to everyone, and means it.  He gives his love to a t-shirt, or a picture of auto-fellatio, or a stuffed animal, or to anyone at all who shows an ounce of superficial interest.  Really, he'll give his love to anyone but me.

A free-thinker, and a talent who has seen more days than I may ever, Grandma says all the right things.  I simply do all the wrong things.  That must be it.  For the most part, I have acted with integrity, wherever possible.  If anything, I spoiled him.  He was spoiled already, to a great extent, I now realize.  That last piece of fruit in the bottom of the bowl, browned and useless for anything but compost.  Except, I am the compost, a lily-gilder turned daisy-pusher.

Mephistopheles, where?  Only within.  Within us all.  Yet the angels abound, and she is one.  Powerful radiance and magical zest propel a strong mind and a lithe body towards ever greater triumphs.  Majestic faith and trust, not only in self, but in the future, inspire everyone she touches.  She always has a kind word, she always has an open heart, she is one of the good ones.

Death to Friendship

I have signaled the death knell of our attempt to be friends.  I needed him.  I called out to him.  I asked for help.  He doesn't seem to care or realize that I have proven time and again that I am not asking for anything I'm not willing to give.  I have dropped everything to be with him, I have dropped everything to worry him.  I wept and wept when I called out for help and his voice was so cold.  He is so mean.  He can be such an asshole.

I basically spent the rest of the day sending him text messages and emails reminding him what a terrible person he's being.  I told him things about how he's a failure and will always be a failure because he doesn't recognize true value.  I told him he needs a smack down.  I told him that I was always there for him 110%.  I told him that I am a better person and I am a better artist.  I told him he's hiding, and a coward. 

Early on in the day he told me that he couldn't contact me any more for his mental health.  I told him his mental health was atrocious but that his spiritual health was much worse.  I just kept going.  Right up until the end of the night, I just kept going.  Then I told him I wasn't going to keep doing the to myself.  Then I kept going. 

I'm so angry at him for being such a total waste of humanity.  What a failure he is that I still can't count on him for anything even after I've been there for him so many times.  When I thought he was suicidal I dropped everything to comfort and care for him.  He kept saying, "thank you for your light."  He doesn't want light, though.   He wants to hide in fear and selfishness.  He is so selfish. 

I'm selfish too, but I'm fighting the good fight.  He keeps saying that he wants to give himself to the world, use his gifts for the benefit of the world.  He's not, though, and I think he knows it.  He wants to seem altruistic, but in reality he is just a scared selfish little boy trying to get famous before he dies.  If he actually wanted to be a giver, he would recognize that I have every right to expect him to be there for me. 

He won't, though, and I am wasting my time hoping for it.  He may never have the eureka moment where he realizes what a complete idiot he is.  It's not my job to teach him, or help him, anymore.  He's made that decision.  It is my job to take care of myself so I don't die of AIDS, take care of my dog, and try to find a new place to live.  Every one of those things would be so easy if only I could lean on his strength, but I can't.  Somehow, impossible as it seems, I have to find my own.

I have a doctor's appointment to go to.  Today I start taking AIDS medicine.  Not sure what but I'm convinced I'm going to become another one with AIDS-face.  Who can love a face like that?  Not a healthy scared child of a man, I guess.  I never could, either.