Wait, Loss

    

I'm still thinking about Manuela, the pet red-footed tortoise who was found after 30 years. Seems her family was cleaning out their upstairs storage room this past January and took a bag of trash to the curb when a neighbor noticed Manuela, crawling around in an old box with a turntable to keep her company.

Never mind that all the online articles that reported this story referred to the reptile as both "he" and "she," or that this weird family had piled stuff in bags in 1982 and never touched them again, until now--what really matters is…what was Manuela thinking all that time? They surmised she survived on termites, but… did time go slow and floaty all lava lamplike? Or am I just thinking that because turtles seem to move and think in a way that one chelonian minute = one human hour? And OMG, not that she could exactly operate the turntable, but what 1 side of 1 album could YOU listen to for 30 years? (I love you, George, but what if you got stuck with, say, side 5 or 6 of "All Things Must Pass"? You'd have to listen to a crazy party over and over where you love all the guests but ultimately had to be there… But all you are is here…and "here" is in a box for 30 years…)

Anyway, it got me thinking about the turtles in the reservoir in Central Park, those red-eared sliders whom people buy as pets and then wind up dumping… They've been there, way down deep, all winter. Maybe they problem-solve and do a group turtle think, planning for the spring to come. Maybe they don't do much, softly jostled to awareness only if something juicy's happening on the roof…Like, did they hear the loafy, oafy echo echo echo of that buffoon who tried to walk across the not-frozen-all-the-way ice in early February? He fell through and a bunch of firemen had to come rescue him, as the rest of us who happened to be in the park that day watched… I wish all of them down there a safe journey back…or maybe it's the other way around--that being above the surface is the dreamier dreamworld.

Then, of course, there is the ain't-got-no-reservations, I'm-100%-happy-to-be Waiting, a la Elmer:

                                                      


Does the 4 seconds he has to wait to have the ball thrown feel like 30 years? And if you felt such gloriously excellent in-the-moment expectation, would you mind waiting that long anyway?

Slow or fast, slow or fast. Oh yeah, oh yeah.



Then there's the waiting you hear wax-and-waning off Bryan Ferry's voice in this next one.. you know, the delicious histrionic kind from which tiny poems slip and drip and gasp…



Random P.S. Those reading who are looking for love, take note--don't discount the power of that song. This sucker lured me into a crappy relationship a long time ago that ended in 11 forgotten boa constrictors and being banned from using the bathroom and having to pee on the beach instead, made even more enjoyable with a UTI. Yup, that powerful. Good luck, and don't leave your snake at home. And for that matter, make sure you know where your turtle is.

365 Days Without Bing

A year ago today, I said goodbye to the cat of my heart, my furry soulmate who always seemed person-sized to me, despite him being a low-riding short shorty with half a tail. His body was failing, and though I knew from working with the animal communicator that he wanted to make the transition on his own, we'd agreed that I would step in if he were at all suffering.

That morning he was, and I quickly-on-radar made arrangements at the emergency vet down the street. I also called my friend M. and asked her what mantra would be an appropriate send-off for my little loyal, royal meezer. Not only did she sing it to me so I could sing it to him, she recorded it and sent me the file so I wouldn't forget the tune. Bing told the animal communicator that he had been chanting for lifetimes, so I knew this would be important. It was the shri ram mantra, often chanted as a blessing before meals, so it just made sense… heaven, or whatever you wanna call it, has gotta be like a spiritual all-you-can-eat buffet, you know?

This morning, a big, giant year later, I pinned Bing's photo to my race bib and headed out to Prospect Park in Brooklyn to run in the (bing!) Cherry Tree 10-Miler. I'm a newbie runner, and I wouldn't say I necessarily *like* running, but I won't even entertain thoughts that go in that direction--I just keep showing up and putting in the miles. Race start was 10, and it's a good thing I got to Brooklyn at 9 because I got panickingly lost en route. At one point I jaywalked across the street because I knew the entrance to the park was in that general direction. From the side of the street I'd just left, I hear someone yelling at me…

"You're racist. A f*cking racist bitch…you know that?"

WHOA! I was stunned. I looked to see a young black guy, late teens or so, matching my pace as we walked forward.

"What are you talking about?" I yell back.

"You saw me coming and crossed the street. Racist bitch."

"I did not--I'm LOST!"

"I hope you die, you racist."

I am not the type to get into it with people who go all wonky and loose-canon on the street, and certainly I had a right to be pissed off/scared, but the whole thing was sort of ridiculous and odd and head-shaking, and I was more concerned about finding my way. So I asked the next guy I saw on my side of the street for directions; my 1-second assessment of him as a nice person was spot-on, as he took the time to explain that I was indeed far off from where I needed to be, but showed me one way to get there. As I turned around I ran right into the dude who called me racist, who must have followed me across the street when I was asking for directions.

"Are you lost, miss?" Without sarcasm or attitude. I thought: WTF!?! It's a big, albeit unstable, teddy bear.

"I TOLD YOU, YES! ! I'm trying to get to 16th Street and Prospect Park West."

"Do you like black men?"

"What?! I like everybody!" (Yeah, I did say that with an exclamation at the end.)

"Do you want to have sex then?"

If there's one thing I DO like, it's absurdity. In those 3 seconds you get to figure out what's going on in a situation, I realized how almost-silly this was. For one, he was like 18, and his bark was clearly way worse than his bite. And I wasn't getting the feeling this was really about race. I did not feel any fear or anger, but I also knew he wouldn't apologize or anything. He seemed to me equally sensitive and angry, looking for or maybe expecting trouble, and clearly had some, uh, communication challenges…  )

"No! I have a race at 10 AM." (See how ridiculous the conversation was? Like if I didn't have a race, I'd actually consider it!)

Somehow stating the time brought him back to a reality closer to mine, because he told me it was 9:25 and I'd better hurry, then proceeded to give me perfect and very detailed directions to the race start. I thanked him and told him it wasn't nice that he called me a racist. After some more mumblings and grumblings about having sex, he continued on his way.

What does this have to do with Bing? I'm really not sure. But I think it has something to do with being a peaceful warrior. Bing was such a love--the minute I sat down, he glued himself to my side, and he and Derrick were constantly cuddling--but strong, too. He'd greet everyone who came to the house, and never complained or got cranky with all the vet treatments and surgeries he went through in the last 18 months of his life. A lesser cat could/would not have withstood that. And looking back at that strange interaction today, I think it went the way it did because he didn't expect me to have the reaction I did. I didn't return his anger, and I wasn't scared. I'm rarely that "neutral," but today I was strong in myself and that negative energy just bounced off me. I would think peaceful warriors are all about deflecting that sh*t, too.

P.S. I just made it to race start at 9:57 and really enjoyed the run. : )

Meezer Monday: Being & Binglessness

We're somewhere in between Bing's birthday and the anniversary of a year without him, and I've been thinking a lot about what to write here. I'm pretty sure that some may think this/I is/am nuts, but, well, it feels like truth to me. No apologies.

Bing was young when I started working with an animal communicator, and two of the first things she told me was he often felt lonely when I was at work and he rearranged the energy in the apartment every day. Who wouldn't want a cat who does that? Because he was so naturally contemplative, and because I'll believe in any idea that's beautiful enough, she suggested I do the following meditative exercise with him. I was to imagine Bing's energy, and then imagine my energy separately, and then these 2 energies coming together. Pretty standard visualization stuff, 'cept one of the main characters was a Siamese cat with half-a-tail. So I gave it a try, and I can't remember how or when I tweaked the exercise to include elaborate tableaux, like me and Bing atop an ancient stone maze, looking down at a snowscape alit with flame-red trees…  In a summer forest, on a path leading to a big baby bay… That didn't always happen, and I never forced it, but it became a sort of go-to exercise when I was away from home, on a trip or something, and missed him.

Since he died, I find myself doing this exercise a whole lot more. It's a lot harder, but I think that's cause it's a-whole-nother ballgame--he's not in a cat body, but something strong yet elusive in my heart. Every once in awhile, I'll be meditating and he just sort of appears in that every/nothingness, distinctly different than the way a standard-issue memory or thought pops up… you can almost hear the air twinkle, and it's like, "Oh, hey, Bing." It's him. And then I'll try to do the exercise and see what happens. Sometimes the thoughts go fast and nowhere, or I try too hard and it's just me writing the story, not in it. But a few times--just a rare few over the past year--it's this different state that redefines time and space and place, and it's game on--me and Bing, Bing and me.

Like a couple weeks ago, he and I were running fast and joyfully on a trail of very hard-packed snow, but we were both the same kind of animal--dogs, or wolves maybe, definitely canines. It's like I could almost smell the wet wild woofness.  And before that, he was sailing a silent mountain through a star-lit sea of clouds, like a captain slowly, so slowly, navigating a ship through the ocean … It's not like he's the Siamese-shaped Bing I knew… he's Binger than that Bing. It's hard for my human brain to imagine what contains his energy, or rather, what his energy is contained in. How can a light body remain the same for more than a moonbeam… Is it the shape of a bucket? A flower? A  sped-up, time-bending hour?

And if by any chance light bodies have tails, I like to imagine that his is still bobbed.

LessWords Wednesday: Holy Rollers

It's true what they say, that New York City pulls 180s like a crazy mofo--one block can be completely different from the one next to it, and that one's completely different from the next one over. Like, after the snowfall last Saturday night, all the cars on my street were captioned with what you see here (that's a little heart symbol, if it's not really clear in the pic). Over on 21st Street, however, the back windows of 13--count 'em, 13--cars were decorated with cartoon-like depictions of a flaccid phallus.*

* Not sure, but I think that may be like saying someone has stick-straight curly hair.

I am lately obsessed with this next song. If you do click and play, I strongly recommend ignoring the images completely--the only other versions I could find on YouTube were either covers made in people's basements or distorted with 25 seconds of crazy hymn-ish music at the beginning to fool the copyright bots. This one has lots of Hallmark-white Jesuses and Marys instead, but hey, a beggar can't be a chooser. But perhaps a beggar should make her own YouTube videos.

The 12 Lays of Christmas, Part III

The sanitation department hasn't picked up all the Christmas trees that are lining the sidewalks, so I figure I still have time to finish this series, my holiday homage to young love--past years of crushes, ridonkulous encounters and hopefully, maybe, some sweet and impish bits to counter the lame moves (mostly on my part).

Part I was funny.
Part II was a little sad.
This one is kinda mean.

6 Pimples Popping
It wasn't quite a date, but it wasn't quite not a date either… nevertheless, the first thing he did when we met up: pointed to his nose, weeklong host to what he referred to as the biggest zit he'd ever had in his entire life.

WHAT?! What's so funny? You know, I appreciated that actually. We've all been there, and It's just like Andy Warhol recommended in The Philosophy of Andy Warhol (1975):

    When you're interested in somebody, and you think they might be interested in you, you should point out all your beauty problems and defects right away, rather than take a chance they won't notice them...On the other hand, say you have a purely temporary beauty problem—a new pimple, lackluster hair, no-sleep eyes, five extra pounds around the middle. Still, whatever it is, you should point it out...If you don't point out these things they might think that your temporary beauty problem is a permanent beauty problem...If they really do like you for yourself, they'll be willing to use their imagination to think of what you must look like without your temporary beauty problem.

The zit became the focal point of the evening, and we went on to discuss the various treatments that his friends had recommended; one suggested cover-up, but apparently the blemish was so large that make-up made it even more prominent. After dinner we went to the drugstore to find some medicine to heal the zit. I recommended an antibiotic cream, though we considered rubbing alcohol, Clearasil and calamine lotion. In the end, I can't remember what was purchased.

But you know what? The giant pustule wasn't the deal breaker--(c'mon, that happens to everyone! We talked about it as if were an old friend who came to visit and stayed way too long)--it was that he said, on a later opportune occasion, after the zit had long since gone, "Now's when I'm probably supposed to kiss you."

And didn't.

5 Effete Twins
Pickins' were slim in my high school, so when a pair of cherub-faced, super-cute tennis-playing twins joined our class junior year, it was a big deal. I thought they were beyond dreamy, but looking back, there must have been something off about them that they didn't achieve higher status, popularity-wise (not that being popular at my high school was an especially great achievement), and instead wound up having to hang out during study hall with me.

I had a mad crush on the shy one, which was just as well because I was completely inept in adolescent boy-girl relations myself. To my credit, I did have balls enough to ask him to the junior prom. He said yes, but ignored me the entire evening. Typical scenario: During the after-prom breakfast, I went to sit down next to him and he immediately got up and high-tailed it all the way across the room. I was sooo embarrassed. Was it the white cotton-cable Brooks Brothers sweater, baby pink leggings and red kitten heels I was wearing? (Don't laugh, it was the 80s.)

4 Bucking Broncs
It's the Tony Manero Syndrome--a guy with smooth moves on the dance floor has major Dionysian power. In the early days of my long-ago yet brief life as a country line dancer (I still have the silver boot medallion I won in a contest, yo), I often had to stand on the sidelines and watch since i didn't know all the dances yet. I found my eyes returning to one guy in Wranglers (yup, high rise and all--it's the cowboy way) whom I dubbed The Perfect Cowboy. Dark, mysterious, in spurs and a cowboy hat. Big belt buckle. I created a very elaborate fantasy as I watched him execute the Boot Scoot Boogie et al week after week.

I went on one, and only one, date with the Perfect Cowboy. I was very nervous, but when he showed up NOT wearing the cowboy hat and Western gear, I knew it was over. He was not a cowboy after all! I was a little crushed, even more confused, and a lot cranky. Who was this person from Connecticut who didn't come to my door riding bareback on a stallion?

We didn't have very much in common, and when he came back to my very minimal apartment, he completely ignored my white Christmas tree decorated with blue plastic seahorses (it was December) and instead asked where the TV was. (At the time, I didn't have one.) "Well," he said, pointing to the empty wall next to my tree, "what you need right here is a big flat-screen television."  It doesn't matter how good someone can do the Tush Push if you don't see eye-to-eye on home entertainment.

I don't know why I got so mad--cripes, it was not his fault he wasn't the person I was pretending he was--and to my great discredit, I was about as rude as you can get after that, not returning his calls, acting like no one's Perfect Cowgirl. I'm really sorry.

Will I redeem myself in Part IV?! I hope so!



Made it through the prom without speaking to your date? Got a zit that won't go away? This one's for you:

The 12 Lays of Christmas, Part II

Did you catch Part 1? It kinda explains what's going on here--my holiday homage to young love--past years of crushes, ridonkulous encounters with the possibility, but not the actuality, of bonkage and hopefully, maybe, some sweet and impish bits to counter the lame moves (mostly on my part) you'll read about here. Although this time we have a coupla doozies whose lameness actually eclipses mine…

9 Painters Painting
College is a time when everyone gets their rocks off, but sadly it was like I shot my wad for the entire 4 years in the first week of freshman year alone. I met the painter the second day there; he said "hello" as I sat under the Nike of Samothrace outside our dorm, drinking ice water out of a wine glass.  I remember walking around with him that evening, smiling and kissing, hidden in some sort of thicket. I was wearing a white cotton v-neck sweater, sans shoes and brazeer (wtf?!), and black pants printed with little postcards from all over the world.

As soon as the older chicks got wind of the smouldery, sleepy-eyed freshman in Adams, they swooped in, which likely caused me to act immaturely. Somehow it turned in to this choice he had to make between me and a perky sophomore with a perfect nose. Rather than tell him to eff off, I waited for his answer, as if I were waiting for the cast list to be posted. How thoughtful of him to tell me why (can we get another eye roll please?!) he didn't pick me--apparently,  I "reminded him of his pain." As it turned out, he also had a crush on my best friend and rabidly made a play for her. It was a good thing he transferred to art school at the end of the year--it took way too much energy to walk out of the room whenever I saw him coming. I guess my heart broke a little; after all, it was only 18.

8 Cyber Stalkers Stalking
I liked this next gent because he sounded vaguely like a Hollywood gangster, had a beagle and gave me a "Right back at ya," when I shook his hand and said, "Nice to meet you." This was in ye olden days of the web--1995!!--when everyone, gakk!, was on aol. Truthfully, I thought he'd be an easy mark. Emboldened, I got his email address from a friend, composed a message, dialed up and sent it off:

zing went the strings.
let's talk.

signed, 
and the dish ran away with the s****.

He responded, charmingly:

my mother warned me about talking to strangers. Are you a stranger? if so this must stop immediately. Do you know that i spent 5 hours playing monopoly on saturday night? The first time i've played in many many years. I lost (and for a while there it looked good. I had boardwalk).

Oddly, I came across copies of these emails the other day (usually upon rejection, I smash all reminders of rejector, forget I ever knew them and quickly move on), but hadn't saved the one in which he told me he had a girlfriend after I suggested we meet. A few years later I saw him in a bar, where he was taking pictures with a little instamatic camera. Rather than chance a bad picture, I ensured it by taking off my shoe and pretending to eat it, mumbling something about a photo from the Beach Boys' Smile sessions, in which Brian Wilson was doing the same thing. Only Brian had a fork and knife, and the shoe was on a plate.

7 Directors Directing
There's no crushing involved here, just a little humiliation and faux-seduction, so I think it qualifies…In my freshman year of high school, my friend D's big sis was in a play at Guild Hall, and they were looking for people to do bit parts, including a cigarette girl and ticket-taker. They thought I'd be a good cigarette girl, and I also was asked to sub for a regular cast member who was out that day. The guy I was reading lines with made a snide-ish crack about my size (I was just this side of plump in freshman year). I made it through the rehearsal, albeit with a bright-red embarrassed face, but thus ended my dramatic career--until senior year, when I tried out for the class play. The student director? The fat crack-maker, who actually turned out to be a semi-friend of mine. (I'd evened the score, not even realizing it, by repeatedly throwing his physics notebook in the trash junior year.)

So, part of the audition was this exercise in which he gave us an emotion or word and we had to act it out while reciting (or stuttering, or screaming, as appropriate) the alphabet. Everyone else got fun/easy ones like anger, joy and surprise, but he looked at me and practically licked his lips in smugness when he gave me my word--seductive. Yup, I was supposed to be seducing the audience. At that point, I think the extent of my boy-girl experience were some bad, drool-filled kisses, so I had little to draw from. I was too nervous to think the whole thing through, but somehow registered these fly-by images and soundbytes of Marilyn Monroe. My seduction alphabet was whispery and plaintive, and I think I held my hand over my heart, like I was, uh, I don't know, begging for it. I can't help but laugh now, but trust me, I confused everyone there, like I decided to act out "pathetic" instead. Do I need to tell you I wasn't on the cast list? ; )







As their bloggy punishment for bad behavior, two of the individuals here will be represented musically by this cheesy Supertramp song: 

The 12 Lays of Christmas, Part I

No, this 4-part series ain't about no potato chips--but it's not about getting laid, either. More like not getting laid. Behold my holiday homage to young love--past years of crushes, ridonkulous encounters with the possibility, but not the actuality, of bonkage and hopefully, maybe, some sweet and impish bits to counter the lame moves (mostly on my part) you'll read about here. No big hits, all fazed cookies, for the Stones fans in the audience. Hot rocks for sure.

P.S. This series was inspired by Lorenzo, who woke me up at 4:30 3 mornings in a row by mumbling and snorting to himself. Strangely, each time I was freshly mid-dream in a scene featuring one of the guys you'll be reading about. Why they would pop up after all these years, I don't know. Maybe the Renzolio does.


12 Preppies Groping
First off, I wanna say that everyone in my series will be nameless or at least incorrectly named--I think it's much more fun, respectful and mysterious that way, and frankly, I never even knew this one's name--just that he wore a pink oxford shirt and liked to hang out near bushes.

It was the summer after junior year in high school, and a cool, smart, college-age coworker at the Paper Place in East Hampton invited me and a friend to a bar. We were 17 and the drinking age was 18, so she gave us both one of her IDs to use… Clueless, maniacal and cackling like some rabid sibling raccoons, we went up to the bouncer one by one, and yes, he let in 3 Jennifer Yes-I-Could-Probably-Remember-Her-Lastname-If-I-Really-Trieds in a row. (That's not her real first name either, btw.) I proceeded to get totally plastered, probably on 1 beer.

Eventually we left the bar and went to some house party in Sagoponack, where I drank some more and wound up lying down on the grass by myself. The pink oxford guy seemed to emerge from the bushes, and kept asking me really difficult questions. How nice of him (insert eye roll here) to try to have a conversation before stroking my cheek (not that one!) and shoving his tongue in my mouth. I was more irritated than scared, which is perhaps a blessing. But not as much a blessing as when I hauled off and vomited, daintily and not especially voluminously, all over him. He didn't even get angry, just sort of wandered off like a bear going into hibernation.

11 Pipers Piping
Senior year in college, second semester: I was just back from a semester in Greece, and my friends had expanded their circle, which was sort of rare, to include a pack of really sweet and smart pot-smoking, Dead Head types.

In spite of myself (I had Mia Farrow pixie hair, smoked Silk Cuts, listened to the Cocteau Twins, wore mostly black and, oh was a pretentious snob), I was sizzlingly attracted to one of these, uh, pipers who looked vaguely like Malcolm McDowell in If. Although he had two additional strikes against him--he was super, super nice* AND a jock--one evening we wound up alone in his dorm room, where we smoked a joint and kissed each other in lots of places while listening to "Dark Side of the Moon."

I responded by not going to dinner, where we all always met up, for an entire week. Isn't that the way you're supposed to let a guy know you like him? (Insert second eye roll here.) Like Syd, I left too early and realized it too late.  I was just scared.

* Ladies who've fallen for that narcissistic creative-loner shtick will understand, and if not, it will become even more clear when we get to the Misogynist Painter Painting.

10 Balls A-Dangling
Oh gawd, it's not looking good for me, is it? In 4th or 5th grade, a boy in my class at Most Holy Trinity was teasing me. I told my brother, who explained what I should do if it happened again. Imagine the surprise on everyone's face on the playground the day I grabbed Frankie Napolitano's (nope, still not using real names) scrotum and squeezed it as hard as I could. You have to know, I had NO idea what I was really doing. Or,uh, that it would inflict that much pain.

I hope you'll join me for Part 2. : )