It was July. The city was hot. The Mormon was gone and I was deep into rehearsals. He had left a blazer at my apartment and his scent clung to it and I clung to that scent. I would come at night exhausted after 8 hours of work and four hours of rehearsal and grab the jacket, curl up on the floor and inhale his scent. I needed it. The scent faded quickly. Finally, I knew it was best to fold the jacket up and put it into the closet. I was still occasionally emailing the Mormon. We talked on the phone one or two times. I made a point of saying, "It's JV" every time I called him and thought he was overstepping the bounds of intimacy by saying, "It's me" when he phoned. He sent me a text one morning from an IHOP, remembering our IHOP experience in Miami. But most of the time, he was cold. Distant. Lost to me.
Instead of clinging to that jacket like Emma in 'Song & Dance' singing 'Tell Me On a Sunday', I knew it would be better out of sight.
Rehearsals for 'Icarus' were intense and extraordinary. The play explored lots of issues and themes that I found uncomfortable in my own life: self-worth, beauty, worthiness. I invited the Mormon to our final rehearsal in the city. He said, "maybe." I stood outside 520 8th Avenue smoking a cigarette and waiting until the last possible minute. He didn't show. I remembered how a month or so before he casually tossed of an "of course I am" when I said I hoped he would come to Texas to see the play. Now I couldn't even get him in the same room with me in the same city.
'Icarus' was a blessing for me. It remains the best show I've directed before or since. It was a combination of striking visuals and mostly strong performances. There was a rawness and a power to it that I haven't felt often. I enjoyed being in Texas. It was different. It was fresh. The days were hot and dry. We came to the theatre and into piles and piles of sand in front of a staircase that reached to the sky, an angel's wing in the process of being painted on to it. Magical Realism at it's best.
The days went quickly and the nights were painfully slow. I would have trouble falling asleep, but no trouble waking up in the morning. I would go for long hikes in the woods and return energized, sweaty and ready for rehearsal. The closer we came to opening, the more I felt all the elements of the show coming together. Tech is always my favorite part of any rehearsal process. It's usually the first time that everyone involved in the production is in the room together, working toward the same goal. I could sit for hours and play with light and sound, watching the actors get comfortable in the space, adjust their blocking, or just sit around talking. It's magic.
I had had a single date right before leaving. It was a set up; a friend of a friend. We met in Soho and went to some expensive, fancy seafood place. He was nice, nondescript, older than me, stuffy. We had little to say and the evening was prolonged by drinks after dinner. At least he paid. I was surprised to get a text from him in Texas wishing me a happy opening. But would I hear from the Mormon.
On opening night, I was in the theatre before the house opened. The actors were backstage, the crew was backstage and I was, surprisingly, all alone. I stood there in the sand looking up at the giant angel's wing and I thought about what I had done, what I had created, what I had dreamed into life here. And I thought about the Mormon and what he had destroyed, what he had killed, what he had given up. There was a tap on my shoulder and one of the interns handed me a note. "Someone wanted me to give this to you." My heart jumped. Was it the Mormon? Was he outside in the lobby? Was he here for me, finally? I opened it up and it was something scrawled in blue ink on a piece of notebook paper. Silly lines about someone having a secret crush on me. I crumpled it up and tossed it in a waste basket. He wasn't coming. He wasn't ever going to come back to me. I knew it and I didn't want to know it.
The audience began to file in and I put him out of mind. The set designer, the lighting designer and I sat next to each other grasping hands as the lights went down. We all knew we had created something beautiful, but would the audience know? Would they get it? To a point, they did. But asking people to face the ugliness and insecurities inside of themselves is never easy. They were polite, hushed. The critics were kind. Opening nights are lonely for me. The director puts the show behind him and leaves the family. They go on playing without you.
The rest of my time flew by quickly. I went rock climbing (see an earlier entry). I hit all my favorite spots: Papasito's, the Paris Coffee Shop, etc. And I got ready to go home. I knew when I did, the Mormon needed to be faced. I had to return his jacket and some other items. He had some of my stuff as well. My friends told me not to do it. "Don't see him in person." Why not? Shouldn't he have to see me? Shouldn't he have to face me and hand me things I had left with him?
On a rainy Sunday afternoon we met at a coffee shop on Bedford Ave in Williamsburg. I was first and I grabbed a table outside, under an awning. I sipped my coffee. I heard a rumble behind me and I watched his truck back into a parking spot. What was I thinking? What did I want? For him to say, I was wrong. I miss you. Take me back. And would I have? At that point? Yes. I would have. But he didn't. We chatted over coffee. I handed him a paper bag with his things. He handed me a plastic bag with mine. We said goodbye. Immediately upon returning home, the skies cleared and the sun came out. It was late August but cool for that time of year. I went online and wrote him an email. "I know this is difficult. I would like to keep you in my life. I don't want to burn the bridge...etc." He emailed back directly: We'll see. I usually find it necessary to burn the bridge, etc.
Very few emails were exchanged after that. I told him I was taking a writing class he had taken, with the teacher who had been a sort of mentor for him. Maybe it was a bad idea, maybe not. It started me writing again. But on Monday nights I would come home late, cross under the BQE and hope to see his truck parked in front of the house waiting for me because he knew where I was and when I'd be home. In class, I didn't write about him. The exercises took me back to another time. Another person. Other relationships. But on my own I began to craft a piece about our short time together. Almost six months but it felt longer. How can one touch you so quickly, so deeply and then disappear? It's a part of life.
I went to the gym. I went to work. I started internet dating (see earlier entry) and I got on with my life. We no longer emailed. The city began to be mine again in a way it hadn't been in a long time. Walking the streets by myself at any time of the day or night, I remembered that feeling I had when I first moved here. I had changed so much. And then I realized I didn't really want to be dating so 'goodbye Match.com.'
I've only seen the Mormon four times since that last coffee meeting. Once on 42nd Street as I cleared a barrier and there he was waiting for someone who was taking him to the opening night of 'Mary Poppins.' I told him I had left at intermission when I'd seen the show in London. I made sure that when I passed him again I was smoking a cigarette and he could see me and I "ignored" him.
Once on the subway platform at 42nd Street on my birthday. I was going through a particularly rough time at work. I was reaching the end of my rope (the first time) and the Loved One and I had just spent a weekend at his parents. As I heard the subway approach I turned and there he was, standing on the platform; hair uncharacteristically slicked back, a fancy coat and all dressed up. Pretending to be someone he wasn't. I don't know if he saw me. The Loved One and I got on a different car, I made sure of that.
One morning on the G train he appeared before me. I recognized his swagger as we made our way down the long hallway in which you transfer from the G to the E. I'm a fast walker and he was in no rush, his head held high, whistling. Like a maniac I made my way to the moving platform (I hate the people who use the moving platform, by the way. It doesn't get you there that much quicker and just fucking walk.) I weaved my way in and out of people to pass him and go on.
And, finally, only a few months ago. Once again going through an extremely rough time at work, I had a particularly intense therapy session. I had committed to meeting the Loved One and his friend for dinner in Chelsea afterwards. With my iPod on and tears in my eyes I made my way on the L to 8th Avenue. I exited on 17th Street and 8th to avoid as much of the cold as possible. When I hit 8th Avenue, the street was busy. When I crossed 18th Street, everyone had mysteriously disappeared. The street lights cast there amber glow on the street and I saw the world through a haze of tears in my eyes. I glanced up the street ahead of me and there he was, walking toward me with an American Apparel bag and a coat and hat I recognized from two years ago. It had been two years. He saw me and opening his mouth either in surprise or to say something and all I could do was laugh, shake my head from side to side and turn in to the restaurant, to the Loved One and leave the Mormon behind, alone, on 8th Avenue, in the cold.
30 April, 2009
27 April, 2009
Sad Sunday
Every night I have dreams revolving around work. When you have almost nothing to do at the office during the day, then fall asleep at night dreaming of the importance of nothingness...it gets taxing.
It reminds me of when, during my freshman year at NYU, I had a work study with the Morse Academic Plan. This was a new program designed for incoming freshman at the College of Arts and Sciences. Every student had to pick classes from a core curriculum; NYU's version of Liberal Arts education. A small part of my job was ordering teacher copies of books through publishers and distributors. A large part of my job was photocopying class schedules, curriculums (curriculi? finiculi finicula finiculi finucula....). I would often stand at a copy machine for 3-4 hours a shift. At night, I would dream I was standing at a photocopy machine. Tedium begets tedium.
Taking a break from working in our own garden, the Loved One and I ventured out to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on Sunday. The weather was perfect and the grounds were lovely. The experience was ruined though by the sight of EMT's furiously working on a young person that had passed out near the cafe. Security were keeping the perimeter clear around the kid and I could see an EMT worker administering CPR; another had an oxygen tank at the ready. The Loved One had to walk away. I scanned the crowd and there was no sight of parents around. Onlookers mostly tried NOT to look.
We went into the conservatory to look at the Bonsai trees but I could still see the scene taking place. I couldn't see the kid, only the soles of black sneakers. From this view, I could see the EMT worker massaging the kid's heart.
We moved on from Bonsais and into another room. I was distracted. I wanted to know what was going on. When we finally left the conservatory we had to walk around the scene where the action had just taken place. At some point they had managed to move the kid and the only sign of the event was a pile of medical paraphernalia or, rather, the packaging it comes in. We walked past two park officers and I heard one say, It doesn't look very good for her, man. Does it?
My heart sank.
I had a dream involving water this weekend. No, I didn't pee the bed. But whenever I do it often portends big changes in my life. Fingers crossed.
And I'm obsessed with the story of the Craig's List Killer.
It reminds me of when, during my freshman year at NYU, I had a work study with the Morse Academic Plan. This was a new program designed for incoming freshman at the College of Arts and Sciences. Every student had to pick classes from a core curriculum; NYU's version of Liberal Arts education. A small part of my job was ordering teacher copies of books through publishers and distributors. A large part of my job was photocopying class schedules, curriculums (curriculi? finiculi finicula finiculi finucula....). I would often stand at a copy machine for 3-4 hours a shift. At night, I would dream I was standing at a photocopy machine. Tedium begets tedium.
Taking a break from working in our own garden, the Loved One and I ventured out to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on Sunday. The weather was perfect and the grounds were lovely. The experience was ruined though by the sight of EMT's furiously working on a young person that had passed out near the cafe. Security were keeping the perimeter clear around the kid and I could see an EMT worker administering CPR; another had an oxygen tank at the ready. The Loved One had to walk away. I scanned the crowd and there was no sight of parents around. Onlookers mostly tried NOT to look.
We went into the conservatory to look at the Bonsai trees but I could still see the scene taking place. I couldn't see the kid, only the soles of black sneakers. From this view, I could see the EMT worker massaging the kid's heart.
We moved on from Bonsais and into another room. I was distracted. I wanted to know what was going on. When we finally left the conservatory we had to walk around the scene where the action had just taken place. At some point they had managed to move the kid and the only sign of the event was a pile of medical paraphernalia or, rather, the packaging it comes in. We walked past two park officers and I heard one say, It doesn't look very good for her, man. Does it?
My heart sank.
I had a dream involving water this weekend. No, I didn't pee the bed. But whenever I do it often portends big changes in my life. Fingers crossed.
And I'm obsessed with the story of the Craig's List Killer.
24 April, 2009
Potential. Not Yet.
At 13, I was probably around 5'5" tall and 135lbs or so. For every inch I grew taller, I grew two inches wider. My hair was blow-dryed and moussed until spiky. I had big framed, semi-tinted glasses. I had braces. What did I know? It was 1989.
The Prep was an imposing building. Jesuits are all about community service so the school is located in the heart of the Philadelphia ghetto of North Philly. The building itself, oddly enough, seems designed to let no one see out and no one see in. How's that for community? The classroom windows were at the very top of the wall right below the ceiling and barely a foot tall. So they let in some light. But it mostly was like going to school in a three-story bunker.
During our first week of school, a group of us were standing in a line on the corner of 16th and Girard waiting for the #2 SEPTA bus to take us home to South Philly, or Center City, or the train station, or wherever. A trolley went by and a group of young kids hung their heads out the window, yelling and screaming at us. Someone said, "they're from the school for bad kids. Don't mess with them." We stood there, waiting.
Suddenly, the group from the trolley turned the corner. They had gotten off at the next stop. They started going down the line taking money off of kids, stealing watches, tossing bags, instilling fear. One of them came up to me and lifted up the sleeve of my sports jacket, eyed my watch and then walked by. What? Didn't he want a Phantom of the Opera time piece? None of us said anything or moved a muscle at first. But then, as if on cue, we all ran down the block and back into the school. That half a block was as far as I had ever run and I was panting, but I was safe. Our parents were called to come pick us up.
I didn't care. This was better than grade school. I was surrounded by new people, which excited and terrified me, and there was theatre here! The entrance to the theatre was located right in the lobby of the building and if I was lucky enough to have Dad drop me off in the morning, I would walk in the main entrance and sneak into the theatre just to look at it. Intimate, red-bricked walls and a small stage, this is where my dreams of performing would come true. "Into the Woods", look out!
Imagine my surprise when I learned that the priest who was head of drama left the school. But..but...that's why I came here! I was going to star in musicals for him! I was going to be the person I always wanted to be by pretending to be different people! I had made friends with this priest, speaking with him after all three performances of 'Evita' we had come to see. Gone.
The Cape and Sword players had been taken over by a middle-aged English teacher by the name of Mr. Griffin. I didn't know him. When auditions were announced for 'Our Town', I wondered what kind of musical that was. Much to my dismay, it wasn't a musical at all. It was a play. An ooooold play. People standing around talking? So boring. Being on stage means singing! But I would audition anyway. There was talk of a musical in the Spring and I would have to be in that.
I was terrified when the audition day actually came around. I made my way into the theatre with my heart in my throat and my stomach churning. Other students were scattered throughout the theatre but no one I knew. Girls and boys giggled in groups together. I recognized some from the cast of 'Evita.' I recognized other boys from the hallways. But no one I knew. I made my way down the aisle and took a seat.
I must have signed up for an audition spot. I can't recall. I must have prepared something for the audition. I can't imagine what. Perhaps we had to read from the play; a speech of the Stage Manager's? That sounds right. I'm sure my body trembled as I stood downstage center proclaiming lines in my young voice over which I had no powers of modulation. I was always either extremely loud or quiet as a mouse. There was no in-between. And I was loudest when I was singing. It was like God had deposited a microphone in my voice box. Self-amplification.
So there I stood, center stage, script in one hand the other hand waving wildly butchering the words of Mr. Thornton Wilder. I wonder if my voice shook as hard as my leg most likely did. I probably adjusted my weight from side-to-side in an effort to stop from shaking or because I was nervous. This was my first time actually doing it. Outside of my bedroom. But there was no nuance. No drama. Just youth and fire.
I finished. Was that a smattering of applause I heard? In my head there was a roar; the relief of getting it over and done with.
I walked to the back of the theatre where Mr. Griffin was sitting. I stood by him as he talked to someone else. I snuck a look at his notepad. Under my name he had scribbled: Potential. Not yet.
My heart broke. I knew write then and there this was not to be My Town. I also knew there was a ton to learn. But tears in my eyes, I shook his hand and thanked him. I walked out the door and into the library. I had work study to complete.
The Prep was an imposing building. Jesuits are all about community service so the school is located in the heart of the Philadelphia ghetto of North Philly. The building itself, oddly enough, seems designed to let no one see out and no one see in. How's that for community? The classroom windows were at the very top of the wall right below the ceiling and barely a foot tall. So they let in some light. But it mostly was like going to school in a three-story bunker.
During our first week of school, a group of us were standing in a line on the corner of 16th and Girard waiting for the #2 SEPTA bus to take us home to South Philly, or Center City, or the train station, or wherever. A trolley went by and a group of young kids hung their heads out the window, yelling and screaming at us. Someone said, "they're from the school for bad kids. Don't mess with them." We stood there, waiting.
Suddenly, the group from the trolley turned the corner. They had gotten off at the next stop. They started going down the line taking money off of kids, stealing watches, tossing bags, instilling fear. One of them came up to me and lifted up the sleeve of my sports jacket, eyed my watch and then walked by. What? Didn't he want a Phantom of the Opera time piece? None of us said anything or moved a muscle at first. But then, as if on cue, we all ran down the block and back into the school. That half a block was as far as I had ever run and I was panting, but I was safe. Our parents were called to come pick us up.
I didn't care. This was better than grade school. I was surrounded by new people, which excited and terrified me, and there was theatre here! The entrance to the theatre was located right in the lobby of the building and if I was lucky enough to have Dad drop me off in the morning, I would walk in the main entrance and sneak into the theatre just to look at it. Intimate, red-bricked walls and a small stage, this is where my dreams of performing would come true. "Into the Woods", look out!
Imagine my surprise when I learned that the priest who was head of drama left the school. But..but...that's why I came here! I was going to star in musicals for him! I was going to be the person I always wanted to be by pretending to be different people! I had made friends with this priest, speaking with him after all three performances of 'Evita' we had come to see. Gone.
The Cape and Sword players had been taken over by a middle-aged English teacher by the name of Mr. Griffin. I didn't know him. When auditions were announced for 'Our Town', I wondered what kind of musical that was. Much to my dismay, it wasn't a musical at all. It was a play. An ooooold play. People standing around talking? So boring. Being on stage means singing! But I would audition anyway. There was talk of a musical in the Spring and I would have to be in that.
I was terrified when the audition day actually came around. I made my way into the theatre with my heart in my throat and my stomach churning. Other students were scattered throughout the theatre but no one I knew. Girls and boys giggled in groups together. I recognized some from the cast of 'Evita.' I recognized other boys from the hallways. But no one I knew. I made my way down the aisle and took a seat.
I must have signed up for an audition spot. I can't recall. I must have prepared something for the audition. I can't imagine what. Perhaps we had to read from the play; a speech of the Stage Manager's? That sounds right. I'm sure my body trembled as I stood downstage center proclaiming lines in my young voice over which I had no powers of modulation. I was always either extremely loud or quiet as a mouse. There was no in-between. And I was loudest when I was singing. It was like God had deposited a microphone in my voice box. Self-amplification.
So there I stood, center stage, script in one hand the other hand waving wildly butchering the words of Mr. Thornton Wilder. I wonder if my voice shook as hard as my leg most likely did. I probably adjusted my weight from side-to-side in an effort to stop from shaking or because I was nervous. This was my first time actually doing it. Outside of my bedroom. But there was no nuance. No drama. Just youth and fire.
I finished. Was that a smattering of applause I heard? In my head there was a roar; the relief of getting it over and done with.
I walked to the back of the theatre where Mr. Griffin was sitting. I stood by him as he talked to someone else. I snuck a look at his notepad. Under my name he had scribbled: Potential. Not yet.
My heart broke. I knew write then and there this was not to be My Town. I also knew there was a ton to learn. But tears in my eyes, I shook his hand and thanked him. I walked out the door and into the library. I had work study to complete.
23 April, 2009
Free Ride
There was some drama surrounding which high school I would attend.
Most all of the boys from grade school assumed they would attend the local all-boys high school, St. John Neuman. Most of the girls attended the sister school, St. Maria Goretti.
My parents had bucked the trend seven years earlier by sending my brother to St. Joseph's Preparatory School, an all-boys Jesuit run high school in north Philadelphia. You went to the Prep with the expectation that you were going to college. The Prep was a better school than Neuman. The focus on academics was fierce. The classes were small. Not many from grade school would be attending. I was pretty much sold.
Then I was given a full scholarship to Neuman. What would we do? There was a big dinner/ceremony at a local hall. I attended with my parents and the principal of my school, Sister Something Something. Nuns always had two names. When we first started school, they had a man's name (Sister William Anthony, Sister Bob Jim). Then there must have been some kind of Papal decree allowing them to feminize themselves and suddenly they were women again (Sister Mary Rita, Sister Clair). I don't remember the name of my principal but she was very sweet and very proud and it was very awkward going to a dinner with my parents and her.
At the same time, I was making numerous trips to the Prep to test it out. These trips mostly consisted of dragging my parents to see their Spring production of "Evita", that's right I said "Evita" at an all-boys Jesuit school, three times and talking endlessly with the priest who was in charge of drama there, The Cape and Sword Players. I was thrilled to learn that he was planning on doing "Into the Woods" next year. There really was no decision, the Prep it was to be.
A few days later Mom received a phone call from Neuman. They wanted to confirm my attendance for the Fall. "Actually," Mom said "He'll be attending St. Joseph's Prep." I was sitting on the living floor in front of her, doing homework. All I heard from the other end of the line was yelling. Finally Mom said, "Yes, I know. Thank you very much and hung up." Then she burst out laughing. "That man just yelled at me! 'Are you crazy, lady? Do you know how much that school costs?! You'll be paying it off forever. He's got a free ride here!'"
Well, there are no "free rides" anywhere. And I would have had to pay dearly had I attended Neuman.
So alternating between playing Eva Peron and the Witch in my bedroom, I prepared for high school.
Most all of the boys from grade school assumed they would attend the local all-boys high school, St. John Neuman. Most of the girls attended the sister school, St. Maria Goretti.
My parents had bucked the trend seven years earlier by sending my brother to St. Joseph's Preparatory School, an all-boys Jesuit run high school in north Philadelphia. You went to the Prep with the expectation that you were going to college. The Prep was a better school than Neuman. The focus on academics was fierce. The classes were small. Not many from grade school would be attending. I was pretty much sold.
Then I was given a full scholarship to Neuman. What would we do? There was a big dinner/ceremony at a local hall. I attended with my parents and the principal of my school, Sister Something Something. Nuns always had two names. When we first started school, they had a man's name (Sister William Anthony, Sister Bob Jim). Then there must have been some kind of Papal decree allowing them to feminize themselves and suddenly they were women again (Sister Mary Rita, Sister Clair). I don't remember the name of my principal but she was very sweet and very proud and it was very awkward going to a dinner with my parents and her.
At the same time, I was making numerous trips to the Prep to test it out. These trips mostly consisted of dragging my parents to see their Spring production of "Evita", that's right I said "Evita" at an all-boys Jesuit school, three times and talking endlessly with the priest who was in charge of drama there, The Cape and Sword Players. I was thrilled to learn that he was planning on doing "Into the Woods" next year. There really was no decision, the Prep it was to be.
A few days later Mom received a phone call from Neuman. They wanted to confirm my attendance for the Fall. "Actually," Mom said "He'll be attending St. Joseph's Prep." I was sitting on the living floor in front of her, doing homework. All I heard from the other end of the line was yelling. Finally Mom said, "Yes, I know. Thank you very much and hung up." Then she burst out laughing. "That man just yelled at me! 'Are you crazy, lady? Do you know how much that school costs?! You'll be paying it off forever. He's got a free ride here!'"
Well, there are no "free rides" anywhere. And I would have had to pay dearly had I attended Neuman.
So alternating between playing Eva Peron and the Witch in my bedroom, I prepared for high school.
22 April, 2009
Bedtime Stories
As obsessed as I currently am with reading 'Columbine' by Dave Cullen, I can't seem to allow myself to pick it up once I'm home at night.
I can read it in the morning.
I can read it on the subway to work.
I can even read it on the subway home after work.
But once I walk in my front door, I have to put it down. The Loved One is still out of town and I think the book causes anxiety in me. Maybe I fear someone will come in and gun me down in the middle of the night? Maybe I fear I'll be plagued with bad dreams in which I'm gunned down? I don't know. I just accept it. The book is a fascinating study of the events that surrounded the shootings. Previously I was unaware that the two shooters had planted three bombs around the school that, if successfully had detonated, could have killed more than 2,000 students and teachers. Thankfully, Eric Harris was not so adept at wiring. But still, to think that they planned it for a year and half and got away with as much as they did especially when there were so many signals blaring in their direction that help was needed.
Be more aware of signals.
So at night I climb into bed with my dad's old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales illustrated by Maurice Sendak. I take comfort in each story as the main character triumphs over their many obstacles. Of course I haven't reached the truly violent or scary stories yet so maybe they too will plague my dreams. At the moment, I'm comforted by them and they remind me of when I would grab the fairy tale book my mother had as a child (in my possession now but too fragile to read) and crawl into my father's lap and make him read to me at night. One story was never enough. There was one I made Dad read to me over and over. The name escapes me but it's about a young boy who's perceived as dumb by his father and older brothers. There is a contest to win the hand of a princess in marriage. The silly young boy wins each and every contest through his creativity. There's something involving a dead bird and mud in a wooden shoe...I'll have to look at it again. Along with the traditional Rapunzel and Cinderella story. Although not Grimm, I recall these tales as being dark and violent as well.
Stymied by more rejections this week. I would start keeping track of them but that would be too overwhelming. Also overwhelming is the amount of people saying, "I know something will happen. I can feel it." No, you don't know that. So stop saying it. In this business, it could never happen. And that's the risk we take. Blah blah blah.
Had drink with the Muse last night. She's trying to push me to finish the play. So close. But then it needs a revision. And then it needs to be sent out. Meaning, more risks need to be taken.
I'd like my life to be like a fairy tale, though.
And he lived happily ever after...
I can read it in the morning.
I can read it on the subway to work.
I can even read it on the subway home after work.
But once I walk in my front door, I have to put it down. The Loved One is still out of town and I think the book causes anxiety in me. Maybe I fear someone will come in and gun me down in the middle of the night? Maybe I fear I'll be plagued with bad dreams in which I'm gunned down? I don't know. I just accept it. The book is a fascinating study of the events that surrounded the shootings. Previously I was unaware that the two shooters had planted three bombs around the school that, if successfully had detonated, could have killed more than 2,000 students and teachers. Thankfully, Eric Harris was not so adept at wiring. But still, to think that they planned it for a year and half and got away with as much as they did especially when there were so many signals blaring in their direction that help was needed.
Be more aware of signals.
So at night I climb into bed with my dad's old copy of Grimm's Fairy Tales illustrated by Maurice Sendak. I take comfort in each story as the main character triumphs over their many obstacles. Of course I haven't reached the truly violent or scary stories yet so maybe they too will plague my dreams. At the moment, I'm comforted by them and they remind me of when I would grab the fairy tale book my mother had as a child (in my possession now but too fragile to read) and crawl into my father's lap and make him read to me at night. One story was never enough. There was one I made Dad read to me over and over. The name escapes me but it's about a young boy who's perceived as dumb by his father and older brothers. There is a contest to win the hand of a princess in marriage. The silly young boy wins each and every contest through his creativity. There's something involving a dead bird and mud in a wooden shoe...I'll have to look at it again. Along with the traditional Rapunzel and Cinderella story. Although not Grimm, I recall these tales as being dark and violent as well.
Stymied by more rejections this week. I would start keeping track of them but that would be too overwhelming. Also overwhelming is the amount of people saying, "I know something will happen. I can feel it." No, you don't know that. So stop saying it. In this business, it could never happen. And that's the risk we take. Blah blah blah.
Had drink with the Muse last night. She's trying to push me to finish the play. So close. But then it needs a revision. And then it needs to be sent out. Meaning, more risks need to be taken.
I'd like my life to be like a fairy tale, though.
And he lived happily ever after...
21 April, 2009
Another Weekend in the Country: Part 2
Sunday was quiet and lovely.
The Loved One and I went on a long drive.
A garden store/nursery amused us with their sign:
Spring
Is
Here
Pansies
How'd they know? We laughed over that for a while.
Sunday evening on the drive back to Albany, we passed a store that had a long, confusing sign. All I made out was "specializing in Church septic systems."
I yelled out "Holy Shit!"
The Loved One and I went on a long drive.
A garden store/nursery amused us with their sign:
Spring
Is
Here
Pansies
How'd they know? We laughed over that for a while.
Sunday evening on the drive back to Albany, we passed a store that had a long, confusing sign. All I made out was "specializing in Church septic systems."
I yelled out "Holy Shit!"
20 April, 2009
Another Weekend in the Country
The Loved One was sent to Vermont for eight days to open up a store.
I was going to let the time pass, lonely and depressed, but after suffering an unwarranted amount of self-imposed stress and anxiety at work, I decided it might be best to get out of town and join him. Unfortunately, this meant missing "Ruined" with the Muse on Sunday; a play I still have to make a point to see (and which, I'm expecting, will be announced as a Pulitzer Prize winner in just about an hour).
I left work early on Friday evening to catch a 5:43pm train to Albany, the closest station to Manchester, VT. I actually had some work to do last week, intermittently, and was trying to negotiate a deal pertaining to an industrial that my company is producing in the Bahamas in June. The details of the negotiation are pointless and boring but the factors around it were completely unmanageable and I was convinced, in my crazy head, that the deal would fall apart (it did, today) and that I would be held responsible (I wasn't). But in my head I was. And it kept repeating like a broken record. And I was negotiating in my head. And I was thinking of what I could have done differently. And the Producer was out of the country so we'd only been going over the details of the negotiation over email. Thus, my stress. I can't gauge her mood or state-of-mind through written word. So I heap these feelings and thoughts upon myself. Unhealthy, yes. But out of my control at the moment.
Perhaps, I thought, a weekend in Vermont would be good. It would be nice to be with the Loved One and not alone. And I secured a dog sitter at the very last moment. I was off.
Amtrak was slow. It seemed to take forever to get from Penn Station to Poughkeepsie. It was obvious we were running 15 to 20 minutes late. The Loved One would already be on his way to meet me though, so to call and warn at this point was pointless. I restlessly paged through Mary Roach's "bonk" and stared at the setting sun through the dirty train car window. I didn't feel like listening to music. So the noise of the machine on the tracks and the conversations of strangers around me where my soundtrack. When the final bit of sunlight disappeared I put on my iPod.
The Loved One was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. He had been working without much time for food all day so he was starving. I was dealing with never really being hungry as a result of the anti-depressant. It was late though and something needed to be done. The restaurants in the Vermont hotel, over an hour away, would be closed by the time we got there. We decided to eat in Albany.
God bless the citizens of this city. We drove around for almost as long as my train ride looking for a parking space -- Friday night in a college town. The streets themselves though were oddly quiet and empty. We went to a Mexican restaurant, whose name escapes me, that the Loved One had been to before. Another symptom of my depression is that details are fuzzy. I'm unfocused and not quite here most of the time. I can get through the days but I function on a different plane; one somewhere above the level my body inhabits. I'm assuming its a protective measure. If I'm too present, I'll feel too much. And if I feel too much, I won't be able to function. So, I float in a fuzzy hemisphere, in a fog.
Where was I? Mediocre Mexican food! Yes, and a margarita. So much for not drinking when on the anti. Then the long car ride to Vermont. I can't describe the scenic drive because it was pitch black outside the car window and so nothing to see. The Loved One and I made infrequent conversation and I tried to quell the voice in my head that kept repeating "Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece.
Miss Reece is the former athlete whose presence I was trying to negotiate for the industrial. A week ago, I had no idea who she was. I'm still not entirely sure. But she was on "repeat" mode in my brain.
The Loved One had described the Equinox Spa and Resort as "The Hotel Fauchere but on a bigger scale." As we drove up to it, he was right. The long white columns stretched up to the heavens. Green rocking chairs were lined up on the porch, matching green shutters graced both sides of every window. We drove around the front entrance, past the town houses the Equinox rents and to the back parking lot. As we wrapped around the property I was able to see just how big it really was. Three floors in some places, four in others, the Equinox's arms wrapped around the property like the piazza in front of the Vatican in Rome. It also reminded me of the Dreams Tulum hotel the Muse and I stayed at for a few days while in Mexico. The pool, gym and spa area were housed separately from the main building in a complex all their own. A huge bubble-like enclosure a few feet away housed tennis courts. The falconry school was to our left.
The Loved One was exhausted from working all day and had to be up early the next morning to be back at the store. We went to bed, my mind still racing (Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece) and the anti-depressant keeping my awake. A few hours later as I was drifting in and out of a dream-like state, I was awakened by a loud noise above me. It sounded like a stampede that was moving furniture on their way. I was shocked by the severity of the noise because the carpet was so thick. It took a lot of energy to be that loud. I looked for the clock but realized the Loved One had turned it over, face down, because it was so bright. I put a pillow over my head and tossed and turned til daybreak.
With the Loved One off to work, I took a walk. The streets of Manchester are, oddly, paved in marble. I was fascinated by this as I followed the trail away from the hotel, down past beautiful houses and into the woods. The marble ended abruptly and I found that the path I was on ended at a private home. My shoes covered in mud, I headed in the other direction. People in cars stared at me as they drove past, as if no one walks in the suburbs when you can drive. But I'm a walker. I said hello to the few people I passed. I stopped in a home store that sold some of the brightest, ugliest home furnishings and decorations I've ever laid eyes upon and went back the hotel. It not even 11am yet but I assumed the stores in Manchester Village would be opening soon. First a bite to eat.
I had walked around earlier looking for breakfast, which I was told was in the Marsh Room but wasn't. On my walk around the property I had seen the room where in fact breakfast was. I had pulled a random book off my shelf as I was running out the door that morning because I knew I was almost finished 'bonk'. So I had Martha Quest by Doris Lessing in my hand as I walked into the bright breakfast room. But much like the title character in the first few pages, I was restless and couldn't concentrate on anything. And I wanted attention. I ordered some waffles at the grill station and waited. It was late for breakfast and few people were in the room. A couple and their 20-something child who struck me as not a very nice young woman. I couldn't hear what she was saying but the know-it-all tone of her voice carried through the room. Waiters carried tray after tray out the door. I guess a lot of people order room service. A waiter finally came by and asked if I wanted orange juice. Then disappeared.
My waffles were ready. I piled them high with fresh fruit and then some warm Vermont maple syrup. They were slightly undercooked but I was hungry. A few strips of bacon and I was set. I passed on coffee when the waiter finally came around. My eyes ran over the words in the book in front of me but nothing really computed internally. Finally, I finished and I wanted to leave. The waiter and the grille chef were having some sort of argument, not even behind closed doors, so I packed up my bag and stood around awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Story of my life. Finally I was seen and the waiter came over with the check. "One breakfast buffet," he said. Well, not really. I just had waffles. I opened the bill. $25! For waffles and fruit! That's more money then I spend on two meals in the city! I grudgingly handed him my ATM card and made a note to avoid that mistake again. $25 for undercooked waffles, bacon and a glass of OJ? Ridiculous.
I asked the concierge for a ride into town. The staff here were no where near as friendly as at the Fauchere. I was greeted cordially, but not warmly. My request was weighed heavily as if I had asked for something out of the ordinary, not clearly defined in the amenity section of the hotel's information guide. Each concierge tried to push off the duty to another until, finally, a crazed looking man with an orange toupee on top of some white tendrils came bounding towards me. "I'll take you, sir!" Thanks, I said. And please don't call me sir. I looked at his name tag. Howard.
Howard opened the door for me and bounded around the SUV like an excited child off to playtime. "Where in town do you want to go? Do you have a coupon book?" Oh, anywhere really. No, I don't have a coupon book. "You can't go out without one!" And before I could stop him, crazy Howard was out of the SUV and bounding into the hotel. He was more like a baby golden retriever actually; all energy and eager to please, limbs akimbo. He came back down the stairs with things in his hand. I couldn't find the button to put the window down and he opened the door, instead of just going around to his side of the car, getting in and handing me the papers. "Coupon book and a map!" Great. Thanks.
He bounded around the SUV again and took a seat beside me. "Now. Where did you say?" Uhm, I think there's an old bookstore in town, kind of in the center. I think I'll start there.
"Well, it's not actually an old bookstore. It sells mostly new things. There's a nice cafe inside as well. I'll point out some things on the drive..." And he kept talking but I tuned him out, finding the safer shores of my invisible depressive plane a welcome respite from Howard's conversation. Every once in a while, I would tune back in. "There's the Maidenform outlet. But I guess you don't need anything there, huh? Ha ha ha ha ha." Away again.
When we pulled up to the bookstore Howard handed me a card. "Call us when you want a ride back. Just tell us what store you're at and give us about five minutes or so to get there." Ok. He made a move to open his door and come around to get me but I stopped him. You don't have to do that Howard. I'm perfectly capable.
I offended him. "We're a four star hotel. We like to provide four star service." I appreciate that. But I've got it.
And to offend him even more I said, Listen. I don't have any cash on me so can I leave you a tip at the front when I get back?
"That's not why I was doing it," he said, puppy dog eyes and wounded ego.
Thanks, Howard. And I got out of the car. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wasn't assuming anything about him. Besides the fact that he was a little off-center. But, so am I. A bookstore would remedy that. The Northshire Bookstore is very large. It's badly laid out and difficult to find anything specifically. Luckily, I wasn't being specific so I lazily browsed the shelves and made mental notes about books I'd want to buy at a later date, when used copies go on-sale on B&N.com. But I did need something to read. I picked up a few things but still couldn't concentrate. My depression had locked me in limbo and not even books could break me out.
I walked down to the Loved Ones store and he took me on a quick tour. From there, I hit the J. Crew outlet. Suddenly, shopping became the sole cure. Stacking my arms full of clothes, I wandered the second floor like a man on a mission. These deals were too good to pass up. $29 for a shirt regularly priced at $69? I'll take two. Shorts for $30 a piece instead of $70? I need three pair. Oh! Blue-striped pants. I can't have enough of those. $25! Add them to the pile. I've always wanted a pair of Seersucker pants. I'll try those on too!
Luckily I was able to ween down the pile of clothes once in the dressing room. Mostly because some things did not fit me and I refused to go out in search of a larger size. This medication had better take some weight off of me.
At the register I remembered the coupon book Howard at given me and I paged through it to see if a J. Crew one was in there. Score! $10% off purchases over $150. Done. And I walked out with a bag overflowing with summer clothes. Now, I needed shoes. I crossed the street to the shoe store and picked up a pair of Clarks. Nothing in Ralph Lauren. Nothing in Michael Kors. Nothing in Maidenform...
I called the Loved One and asked if I could dump my purchases in the car before heading back to the bookstore, by way of the GAP outlet. I picked up a short-sleeved button down shirt at GAP and a pair of jeans for $12. Nice. Thrifty. And as I carried those things to the bookstore I suddenly had the thought, It's probably not the smartest idea in the world for someone thinking of quitting their job to be going on a shopping spree.
The realities of retail therapy far outweigh the high of buying. And never had it struck so quickly and decisively. I retreated to my plane, happier (?) in the hazy hemisphere.
I remembered reading something about a memoir that sounded interesting. I thought it was called "If You Find This Letter..." or "If You Find This Note..." or something like that. I had picked it up a few times at Barnes and Noble in Union Square and then read about in a magazine recently. It's about a woman going through a terrible divorce and in the midst of it she learns that her sister has been murdered by her boyfriend. The relatives find a letter that basically says, "if you find this that means that X has killed me..."
But I wasn't certain that was the title. I didn't know the author. And I couldn't find paperback non-fiction. I asked one of the clerks who said, "They sometimes get mixed in with Fiction, actually. Also you could try the Biography section." I had to bite my tongue from saying not every memoirist is James Frey. They don't belong in fiction. And you have about 100 shelves of fiction, I can't possibly go through each and every one. Instead I huffed over to Biography because it was a smaller section. Book by book I went though to no avail. The entire time I was listening to two men on the other side of the stacks talking about the local theatre scene. One of the men was in Blithe Spirit somewhere in town and the other was asking why he wasn't in some musical at the other theatre in town. "Well," the first man said, "They asked me to do it. But I'm just so happy working at the other theatre and the artistic director really gets me that I don't know if I wanna work at the other place anymore." And I thought, could I possibly make a life in the theatre for myself in a town like this? In Vermont? Is that even possible. The Loved One and I spend lots of time of moving to the country, opening up a store or a B&B or both. Would I be directing Community Theater at the local Rec Hall and would that be enough? It would be more than now.
I couldn't find the book. I walked over to new non-fiction and kept picking up a new book on the Columbine shootings but it was $26 and did I really want to immerse myself in that. I really wanted the 10th Anniversary edition of Nerve photos and essays but that was $40...and not after a $25 breakfast. Columbine weighed heavy in my hand. I looked at my watch. I had hours before the Loved One was free. My bag was in the car and I didn't feel like going back to get it to write. I picked up a copy of a book called The Kindly Ones that sounded fascinating. But it was huge and $29. So, Columbine it was.
I grabbed a coffee, pulled up a chair in the cafe and started reading about an American massacre.
I was going to let the time pass, lonely and depressed, but after suffering an unwarranted amount of self-imposed stress and anxiety at work, I decided it might be best to get out of town and join him. Unfortunately, this meant missing "Ruined" with the Muse on Sunday; a play I still have to make a point to see (and which, I'm expecting, will be announced as a Pulitzer Prize winner in just about an hour).
I left work early on Friday evening to catch a 5:43pm train to Albany, the closest station to Manchester, VT. I actually had some work to do last week, intermittently, and was trying to negotiate a deal pertaining to an industrial that my company is producing in the Bahamas in June. The details of the negotiation are pointless and boring but the factors around it were completely unmanageable and I was convinced, in my crazy head, that the deal would fall apart (it did, today) and that I would be held responsible (I wasn't). But in my head I was. And it kept repeating like a broken record. And I was negotiating in my head. And I was thinking of what I could have done differently. And the Producer was out of the country so we'd only been going over the details of the negotiation over email. Thus, my stress. I can't gauge her mood or state-of-mind through written word. So I heap these feelings and thoughts upon myself. Unhealthy, yes. But out of my control at the moment.
Perhaps, I thought, a weekend in Vermont would be good. It would be nice to be with the Loved One and not alone. And I secured a dog sitter at the very last moment. I was off.
Amtrak was slow. It seemed to take forever to get from Penn Station to Poughkeepsie. It was obvious we were running 15 to 20 minutes late. The Loved One would already be on his way to meet me though, so to call and warn at this point was pointless. I restlessly paged through Mary Roach's "bonk" and stared at the setting sun through the dirty train car window. I didn't feel like listening to music. So the noise of the machine on the tracks and the conversations of strangers around me where my soundtrack. When the final bit of sunlight disappeared I put on my iPod.
The Loved One was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. He had been working without much time for food all day so he was starving. I was dealing with never really being hungry as a result of the anti-depressant. It was late though and something needed to be done. The restaurants in the Vermont hotel, over an hour away, would be closed by the time we got there. We decided to eat in Albany.
God bless the citizens of this city. We drove around for almost as long as my train ride looking for a parking space -- Friday night in a college town. The streets themselves though were oddly quiet and empty. We went to a Mexican restaurant, whose name escapes me, that the Loved One had been to before. Another symptom of my depression is that details are fuzzy. I'm unfocused and not quite here most of the time. I can get through the days but I function on a different plane; one somewhere above the level my body inhabits. I'm assuming its a protective measure. If I'm too present, I'll feel too much. And if I feel too much, I won't be able to function. So, I float in a fuzzy hemisphere, in a fog.
Where was I? Mediocre Mexican food! Yes, and a margarita. So much for not drinking when on the anti. Then the long car ride to Vermont. I can't describe the scenic drive because it was pitch black outside the car window and so nothing to see. The Loved One and I made infrequent conversation and I tried to quell the voice in my head that kept repeating "Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece.
Miss Reece is the former athlete whose presence I was trying to negotiate for the industrial. A week ago, I had no idea who she was. I'm still not entirely sure. But she was on "repeat" mode in my brain.
The Loved One had described the Equinox Spa and Resort as "The Hotel Fauchere but on a bigger scale." As we drove up to it, he was right. The long white columns stretched up to the heavens. Green rocking chairs were lined up on the porch, matching green shutters graced both sides of every window. We drove around the front entrance, past the town houses the Equinox rents and to the back parking lot. As we wrapped around the property I was able to see just how big it really was. Three floors in some places, four in others, the Equinox's arms wrapped around the property like the piazza in front of the Vatican in Rome. It also reminded me of the Dreams Tulum hotel the Muse and I stayed at for a few days while in Mexico. The pool, gym and spa area were housed separately from the main building in a complex all their own. A huge bubble-like enclosure a few feet away housed tennis courts. The falconry school was to our left.
The Loved One was exhausted from working all day and had to be up early the next morning to be back at the store. We went to bed, my mind still racing (Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece) and the anti-depressant keeping my awake. A few hours later as I was drifting in and out of a dream-like state, I was awakened by a loud noise above me. It sounded like a stampede that was moving furniture on their way. I was shocked by the severity of the noise because the carpet was so thick. It took a lot of energy to be that loud. I looked for the clock but realized the Loved One had turned it over, face down, because it was so bright. I put a pillow over my head and tossed and turned til daybreak.
With the Loved One off to work, I took a walk. The streets of Manchester are, oddly, paved in marble. I was fascinated by this as I followed the trail away from the hotel, down past beautiful houses and into the woods. The marble ended abruptly and I found that the path I was on ended at a private home. My shoes covered in mud, I headed in the other direction. People in cars stared at me as they drove past, as if no one walks in the suburbs when you can drive. But I'm a walker. I said hello to the few people I passed. I stopped in a home store that sold some of the brightest, ugliest home furnishings and decorations I've ever laid eyes upon and went back the hotel. It not even 11am yet but I assumed the stores in Manchester Village would be opening soon. First a bite to eat.
I had walked around earlier looking for breakfast, which I was told was in the Marsh Room but wasn't. On my walk around the property I had seen the room where in fact breakfast was. I had pulled a random book off my shelf as I was running out the door that morning because I knew I was almost finished 'bonk'. So I had Martha Quest by Doris Lessing in my hand as I walked into the bright breakfast room. But much like the title character in the first few pages, I was restless and couldn't concentrate on anything. And I wanted attention. I ordered some waffles at the grill station and waited. It was late for breakfast and few people were in the room. A couple and their 20-something child who struck me as not a very nice young woman. I couldn't hear what she was saying but the know-it-all tone of her voice carried through the room. Waiters carried tray after tray out the door. I guess a lot of people order room service. A waiter finally came by and asked if I wanted orange juice. Then disappeared.
My waffles were ready. I piled them high with fresh fruit and then some warm Vermont maple syrup. They were slightly undercooked but I was hungry. A few strips of bacon and I was set. I passed on coffee when the waiter finally came around. My eyes ran over the words in the book in front of me but nothing really computed internally. Finally, I finished and I wanted to leave. The waiter and the grille chef were having some sort of argument, not even behind closed doors, so I packed up my bag and stood around awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Story of my life. Finally I was seen and the waiter came over with the check. "One breakfast buffet," he said. Well, not really. I just had waffles. I opened the bill. $25! For waffles and fruit! That's more money then I spend on two meals in the city! I grudgingly handed him my ATM card and made a note to avoid that mistake again. $25 for undercooked waffles, bacon and a glass of OJ? Ridiculous.
I asked the concierge for a ride into town. The staff here were no where near as friendly as at the Fauchere. I was greeted cordially, but not warmly. My request was weighed heavily as if I had asked for something out of the ordinary, not clearly defined in the amenity section of the hotel's information guide. Each concierge tried to push off the duty to another until, finally, a crazed looking man with an orange toupee on top of some white tendrils came bounding towards me. "I'll take you, sir!" Thanks, I said. And please don't call me sir. I looked at his name tag. Howard.
Howard opened the door for me and bounded around the SUV like an excited child off to playtime. "Where in town do you want to go? Do you have a coupon book?" Oh, anywhere really. No, I don't have a coupon book. "You can't go out without one!" And before I could stop him, crazy Howard was out of the SUV and bounding into the hotel. He was more like a baby golden retriever actually; all energy and eager to please, limbs akimbo. He came back down the stairs with things in his hand. I couldn't find the button to put the window down and he opened the door, instead of just going around to his side of the car, getting in and handing me the papers. "Coupon book and a map!" Great. Thanks.
He bounded around the SUV again and took a seat beside me. "Now. Where did you say?" Uhm, I think there's an old bookstore in town, kind of in the center. I think I'll start there.
"Well, it's not actually an old bookstore. It sells mostly new things. There's a nice cafe inside as well. I'll point out some things on the drive..." And he kept talking but I tuned him out, finding the safer shores of my invisible depressive plane a welcome respite from Howard's conversation. Every once in a while, I would tune back in. "There's the Maidenform outlet. But I guess you don't need anything there, huh? Ha ha ha ha ha." Away again.
When we pulled up to the bookstore Howard handed me a card. "Call us when you want a ride back. Just tell us what store you're at and give us about five minutes or so to get there." Ok. He made a move to open his door and come around to get me but I stopped him. You don't have to do that Howard. I'm perfectly capable.
I offended him. "We're a four star hotel. We like to provide four star service." I appreciate that. But I've got it.
And to offend him even more I said, Listen. I don't have any cash on me so can I leave you a tip at the front when I get back?
"That's not why I was doing it," he said, puppy dog eyes and wounded ego.
Thanks, Howard. And I got out of the car. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wasn't assuming anything about him. Besides the fact that he was a little off-center. But, so am I. A bookstore would remedy that. The Northshire Bookstore is very large. It's badly laid out and difficult to find anything specifically. Luckily, I wasn't being specific so I lazily browsed the shelves and made mental notes about books I'd want to buy at a later date, when used copies go on-sale on B&N.com. But I did need something to read. I picked up a few things but still couldn't concentrate. My depression had locked me in limbo and not even books could break me out.
I walked down to the Loved Ones store and he took me on a quick tour. From there, I hit the J. Crew outlet. Suddenly, shopping became the sole cure. Stacking my arms full of clothes, I wandered the second floor like a man on a mission. These deals were too good to pass up. $29 for a shirt regularly priced at $69? I'll take two. Shorts for $30 a piece instead of $70? I need three pair. Oh! Blue-striped pants. I can't have enough of those. $25! Add them to the pile. I've always wanted a pair of Seersucker pants. I'll try those on too!
Luckily I was able to ween down the pile of clothes once in the dressing room. Mostly because some things did not fit me and I refused to go out in search of a larger size. This medication had better take some weight off of me.
At the register I remembered the coupon book Howard at given me and I paged through it to see if a J. Crew one was in there. Score! $10% off purchases over $150. Done. And I walked out with a bag overflowing with summer clothes. Now, I needed shoes. I crossed the street to the shoe store and picked up a pair of Clarks. Nothing in Ralph Lauren. Nothing in Michael Kors. Nothing in Maidenform...
I called the Loved One and asked if I could dump my purchases in the car before heading back to the bookstore, by way of the GAP outlet. I picked up a short-sleeved button down shirt at GAP and a pair of jeans for $12. Nice. Thrifty. And as I carried those things to the bookstore I suddenly had the thought, It's probably not the smartest idea in the world for someone thinking of quitting their job to be going on a shopping spree.
The realities of retail therapy far outweigh the high of buying. And never had it struck so quickly and decisively. I retreated to my plane, happier (?) in the hazy hemisphere.
I remembered reading something about a memoir that sounded interesting. I thought it was called "If You Find This Letter..." or "If You Find This Note..." or something like that. I had picked it up a few times at Barnes and Noble in Union Square and then read about in a magazine recently. It's about a woman going through a terrible divorce and in the midst of it she learns that her sister has been murdered by her boyfriend. The relatives find a letter that basically says, "if you find this that means that X has killed me..."
But I wasn't certain that was the title. I didn't know the author. And I couldn't find paperback non-fiction. I asked one of the clerks who said, "They sometimes get mixed in with Fiction, actually. Also you could try the Biography section." I had to bite my tongue from saying not every memoirist is James Frey. They don't belong in fiction. And you have about 100 shelves of fiction, I can't possibly go through each and every one. Instead I huffed over to Biography because it was a smaller section. Book by book I went though to no avail. The entire time I was listening to two men on the other side of the stacks talking about the local theatre scene. One of the men was in Blithe Spirit somewhere in town and the other was asking why he wasn't in some musical at the other theatre in town. "Well," the first man said, "They asked me to do it. But I'm just so happy working at the other theatre and the artistic director really gets me that I don't know if I wanna work at the other place anymore." And I thought, could I possibly make a life in the theatre for myself in a town like this? In Vermont? Is that even possible. The Loved One and I spend lots of time of moving to the country, opening up a store or a B&B or both. Would I be directing Community Theater at the local Rec Hall and would that be enough? It would be more than now.
I couldn't find the book. I walked over to new non-fiction and kept picking up a new book on the Columbine shootings but it was $26 and did I really want to immerse myself in that. I really wanted the 10th Anniversary edition of Nerve photos and essays but that was $40...and not after a $25 breakfast. Columbine weighed heavy in my hand. I looked at my watch. I had hours before the Loved One was free. My bag was in the car and I didn't feel like going back to get it to write. I picked up a copy of a book called The Kindly Ones that sounded fascinating. But it was huge and $29. So, Columbine it was.
I grabbed a coffee, pulled up a chair in the cafe and started reading about an American massacre.
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