Saturday, July 13, 2013

Chrysanthemum tea

It has been many years since I have had this tea. When I mention it to people in Michigan - like the owner of Tea Haus, or random herbalist types I run into at social events - they nod politely and have no idea of what I speak. 
My ex-husband worked for a short time in a Chinese apothecary. He brought this home to help me with my asthma. It is a beautiful tea, flower petals in your cup. May not even be a "real" tea but a tisane.  The scent and flavor are gentle, as you might expect. Pale gold, soft, no bitterness to sweeten away. Just a mouthful of warm air, tinged with the confusingly familiar smell-taste of dried herbs you can't call by name. 
The dried chrysanthemum bloom was packaged separately - it was expensive, so you were supposed to sprinkle it in on top as you brewed the pot.
I loved the idea of flower tea. I loved the process of brewing it. I loved this "medicine" so much more than my steroids and inhalers that made me feel broken, that tasted like disease and cost so much money. But once he left the apothecary, finding the tea was a bit like trying to find a perfume when you don't know its name.
And here it is. I wasn't hallucinating. Happiness is rediscovering the pieces you lost along the way.

Harmonied men

A friend posted this article


http://abovethelaw.com/2013/07/lawyer-apple-should-protect-me-from-my-porn-addiction/

Which inspired me to comment

"Men can't help themselves, which is why women should never be unchaperoned and should always cover their ankles, preferably with a burka. Naturally harmonied men cannot be expected to see girls in tank tops as human beings, as said girls are so clearly thumbing their uncovered noses at biological predator/prey rules. It is best for society if we all simply admit that boys will be boys and women are livestock. One hopes that each girl has a strong father/husband to protect her, but if not, it is probably God-ordained that she become a sex commodity.  In any case, the return to mom-and-pop values will protect more women by preventing their husbands from comparing their over-21 bodies to more youthful specimens and thereby, understandably, being unable to resist upgrading. I have a lot of women friends and they agree, even when it seems like they are saying no."

But more than that, I've been thinking about male-female interactions. Why my default position is men are predators, unless proven otherwise, and even if proven, can always revert back to predator at any moment. Why I always take the woman's side, even if she is a stranger, even if she is not making good choices, I still assume (until absolutely proven otherwise, which may never happen) that any guy involved is out to get her, in some way.

Because the social construction is such that a man ALWAYS has more power. 

But, then there's your personal life. And men you actually know. And it isn't supposed to be about power anymore. Right? But the mental power calculation is still going on in my head. As effusive and expressive as I am, there are still protected little fiefdoms whose existence I deny, distract from, even, by being so emotionally available in other areas. It costs me little to be effusive - it doesn't make me feel vulnerable, like it does to some people. But I'm not sure that that means I am any more willing to be vulnerable than someone who struggles to express himself emotionally.

One of my fiefdoms is my assumption that men don't act altruistically. That they don't truly act out of kindness or love or friendship (towards women) but that there is always, even if I can't see it, even if they aren't conscious of it, some hidden angle. 

Which sounds messed up when I write it out. Because I absolutely believe women act altruistically. And men are half of the species, and there are an awful lot of them, and unless I do really believe, like this guy suing Apple, that there is something inherently beastlike about the Y chromosome that turns men into creatures incapable of reason or compassion or self-control, then I don't even have an argument, just a belief I know isn't right but I know I still act on, everyday, as if I did believe it was right.

And I wonder, how much of this action on this belief I know isn't right, is an attempt to get approval, a pat on the back for being "smart," a round of applause from the female chorus, the matriarchal archetypes that question any trust I put in any man, any benefit of the doubt given, any relaxation of demands? Not real women, this chorus, though sometimes real women will deliver their lines. But the part of you that is suspicious. That refuses to trust. That is determined to be strong, inviolable. It's a good part of you - it's a good part of me. It stiffens my backbone when I am facing a strange man in an alley. It pools my experience with so many many other women's experiences, giving me stories to warn me and teach me and keep me safe. It sends me off on adventures, alone, to seek my fortune, because my gender is no reason I, too, cannot explore. It keeps me from cowing, when there is also a part of me that longs to let go and have someone else take over.

But this part of me is insatiable. It never is pleased, it never says, "Well done," and it never accepts any man's efforts. Maybe you don't have a part of you like this, but mine looks Artemis-fierce, coven-powerful. I assume everyone has something like this, but maybe yours looks different. But my problem now is, how do I turn it off?

For the coven's advice is not always correct, and Artemis is a virgin for a reason. And if I cannot look beyond this one part, this female power that has no room for the masculine, nor belief in its goodness, how can I progress? How can I bring my unspoken beliefs upon which I act into harmony with what I know to be true? 

My therapist has been telling me that I need to make fewer decisions with my head, and more with my gut. Which freaks me out a little because of course I want to, need to, be smart, be a scientist, be intellectual. But she isn't talking about financial decisions or health decisions - she's talking about decisions in how I interact with other human beings. And she says my "gut" decisions in these cases, the choices I make in the moment, are sound. It is my head, the questioning, the second-guessing, the worrying about whether a decision is strong, is noble, is considerate, is approved - that wears me down, wears me out, sets up battles for me against evil men who must be vanquished.

Psyche did listen to her sisters. She did follow their advice, against the wishes of her husband. The story hinges on this, and her ending would not have so happy if she hadn't - she would have remained ignorant, and undeveloped, and mortal. Probably overwhelmed by her husband, maybe bitter in the end. But she did listen to her sisters and follow their advice, and progress. She also killed them. I don't think I want to kill this part of me, because I like it. But I would like to master it. I dreamt the other night that I was Sherlock Holmes and I was fighting a Kraken. The secret was popping out its bulgy eyeballs. Not sure yet how this helps me trust men but I'm working on it.


Monday, July 8, 2013

Hey! Guess what? You are a human

Dumb things I do, chapter 1782:
Decide I don't have time to eat.
Decide I don't want to spend good money to eat meh food.
Decide I can eat in Manhattan after the train.
Decide I don't need a drink, because I can't take it on the train anyway.
Decide I can wait a little while to eat because that looks cool over there. What is that?
Decide I don't need to eat breakfast anymore, I should look for lunch instead.
Decide 1 glass of water every 3 hrs in summer walking miles every day is enough.
Decide I don't even feel that hungry after all. When was the last time I ate? Last night sometime? Weird. I usually eat more than this. Wonder why I'm not hungry.
Decide that's not a problem.
Decide that the euphoria & energy I feel after finally having some water, a little cheese & glazed nuts, & gin is better used hunting a dress than hunting a full meal.
Decide I will have no problem finding a place to eat, after I leave with my new dress. Even though I am noticing a bit of a headache.
Decide to have some water. Some more water. Weird how I keep draining the water glass.
Decide I am not eating bar food for that much money.
So thirsty.
Decide I should train south before seriously looking for dinner.
Hrm. Maybe I should go home before dinner.
Whoa. I do not feel so good. Lucky I'm almost at my stop.
I'll just drop the dress off, have some water, grab a few nuts & go find dinner.
Crap. Crap head. Crap crap. 
Maybe a few dried cherries. 
Huh, I didn't want to fill up dinner space with trail mix, but I guess I needed that.
Man my head hurts.
Going to have to take some aspirin. Then I'll go find dinner.
Ulgh. Thinking about dinner makes me want to hurl. I better lay down. In the dark. I need to eat something before morning, but I cannot stomach the idea of eating.
Huh. It is midnight. Sorta feel better. Headache still back there somewhere though.
I should probably not do that again. Brains want food. And water. They punish you for not giving them what they want. Even why you are trying to look after them by giving them only the most perfectly delicious and worth the money food! 
Brains. So demanding.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Alone in someone else's place

Being alone in a stranger's house is a little like being in the sanctuary of a church after everyone else has left. It is both unsettling and comforting. Even the home of a friend, once their energy has left, feels foreign, and a little holy. It is a space without the judgements of your unfinished projects or unending lists of things you should be doing.
In a stranger's house, in your friend's house, when they are not there.
You will wash the dishes instantly, as you dirty them. Clean up your messes as you make them, the way you always intend to at home, but never do.
Tiptoe, and smile at the carefulness with which you open doors or cabinets in order to maintain the hush.
You will, without thinking much about it, focus your time in one or two places. The altar. The pew. The aisles between them.  You will consider carefully each resource you use, a cup of milk, the electricity.
You will find yourself lingering. 
You will not behave exactly as you would if the owner were home, but neither are you the same as when you are alone in your own place.
There are thoughts to be thought here, and they are novel. Your brain is on a psychic vacation, at peace, alone but not in charge, not in your living space but not in a generic space. 

When I was in high school, or maybe my first year of college, and still part of church, there was at least one occasion where my pastor sent me home with another family. I was flipping out, emotionally spastic for some reason, and unable to deal with going to my own home. 
I was sent to a stranger's, or a relative stranger's. 
They weren't even there, for hours. I don't remember why. The house was on a lake, the couple had one small child, and I was alone.
I think I was supposed to be praying, or reading my Bible. 
Mostly what I ended up doing was just sitting alone in the quiet of someone else's life.
Their mail is on the counter, their snapshots on the fridge, their art on the walls and their shoes in the foyer.
Nothing in this space is you. You could be anyone. 
There is something freeing about it.
Something that makes it hard to be agitated. Without trying, your soul just pauses. Hushes. 
Something about the lack of obligation, of reminders or anchors of the expectations of who you are, allows all of the panic to slough off.
You lay down on the balcony, in the shade, with the breeze blowing over you. 
You sit on the deck, in the sunshine, and listen to the leaves brush against one another.
You stretch out on the sofa, somehow the most comfortable sofa you've ever been on, cool against your skin.
The other people, their life, seems perfect and completely in balance when you are in their space without them. They must feel this sense of constant peace and wholeness all the time, that you feel now, sitting in the quiet reading a book, or watching the lake.
Freedom to just be.
You have no things, but are surrounded by things. And you, the real you that exists minus your possessions and responsibilities, the child you, unselfconscious and simple in purpose, expands to fill up the space. 
You are more poignantly alone in a stranger's house, but more poignantly free as well, for there are no parents here.
No rules, other than what you create according to your bonds with the owner.
This is a healing space.
Who am I 
I am this peaceful quiet flow of thoughts 
I am whole

"Safe" neighborhoods

If you are likely to call me and try to get me to stop walking places alone, please don't read this post. I want to talk and think about safety and "safety" and I'd be interested to hear your thoughts but only if they are just thoughts and not piles of worry pillows you want to pack around me to keep me from moving.
I like walking places alone. I like going out at night. I love trains. I love the freedom that walking and trains give me to explore, with little cost and little commitment. The trains are dependable, ubiquitous, and cheap. I don't have to hunt them down, convince them to stop. I don't have to worry about parking or blood alcohol percentages. I don't have to coordinate my level of fun or comfort with anyone else's - when I stop enjoying myself, I can leave, instantly, could even throw my unfinished drink down and run out screeching into the night. 
If I wanted to. 
I can become annoyed at the smug bartender and very crisply deposit my single empty pint atop a single folded dollar on his cash-only bar and take my needs for food, water, and politeness to another establishment. 
I am the director and the star in the drama I am writing. My exit is my own and depends on no one.
Which also means if I start to get skeeved out by the lecher next to me, I have to time my exit accordingly. I have to pay attention, and watch him, and watch the streets. I don't mind doing this. It actually is a little empowering, trusting your gut reaction but then employing your primate brain to outwit the predator. To observe the skeeve and his mannerisms, to make predictions, to feint. 
There was a drunk skeeve next to me at The Dakota, probably a regular there, slurring at the pretty bartenders, fumbling with piles of cash he was blowing, staring at me with unblinking fishy eyes. I kept waiting for him to talk. He didn't want to talk. He wanted to watch. 
Well, ok. So watch. No matter how long you look, no matter how long your fish eyes are uncovered, you are not going to discomfit me. I'm not going to giggle nervously and start talking to you. I'm not going to leave the bar so you can corner me on the street. There are so very many things I am not good at, but this little game - I am very good at. I have lots of practice ignoring hostile or inappropriate stares, disengaging from people right next to me on the school bus, performing with crystalline manners. It is a game. The other person's goal is to make you uncomfortable and put you off balance - once you are off balance, all sorts of things are possible. Tara and I used to talk about the "monster magnet," the unnameable something that seemed to draw crazies and horrible boundary-disregarding boys to us in high school, and I think that this is it. The monster magnet is when you reveal a level of insecurity that says, "I won't stand up for myself. I don't trust my gut. I will do anything, even start a conversation with someone I absolutely do not want to talk to, just to avoid awkwardness. I am prey."  I know, because most of my adolescence and twenties were spent trying to escape situations I created for myself with my own monster magnet. But I was learning, taking notes, adapting. Wax on, wax off. And now I am a Jedi.
It's not that I never looked at Dakota Skeeve. I did, several times. I made eye contact, smiled shrewdly, and went back to enjoying my prosciutto (thanks to my mother, I can perform "eating hors d'oeuvres" in front of the Astors or a Jerry Springer audience with aplomb;  thanks to Marti Gukeisan, I can also add a little edge to the performance) or my book or chatting with the bartender about Ypsilanti. I just chose not to acknowledge that he was a giant slavering troll. For two hours. He got his check about 20 minutes after I arrived, and just slavered for the rest of that time. Finally, he realized he couldn't goad me into initiating conversation, and couldn't outwait me to leave, and so he opened conversation.
He said something about my book - asked me if it was good. I started to respond about the book, purely literary criticism, and he interrupted roughly, "It must be good, because you are so engrossed in it!" 
Pause. Beat. Beat. He realized, I think, his mistake. I smiled slowly, opened my eyes a little wider, "Why, haven't you ever seen anyone read at a bar before? Is that not done here in New York?" My voice was very sweet. I blinked at him once or twice, still smiling. He was stupefied. This is not the droid you are looking for. 
He left less than five minutes later. About two minutes after that, I asked for my check.
It was still daylight when I left, on the Upper West Side, sidewalks buzzing with people.
The situation was a little different in the pub I went to in "South Slope". Still a skeevey guy, still a busy bar, but this time the sun was down and the neighborhood was devoid of foot traffic. I could not figure out why. Did all these people drive? Do they just go to the one annoying hipster pub and then go straight home a few blocks away? Dunno, but I did know that I wasn't going to get served dinner at this place, that I needed water, that I needed to find a restaurant soon before I was out of luck. I didn't have the same luxury of wait time. And I didn't have the protection of the herd.
I left, and listened. There was a man behind me, but not the one from the bar. He was too close, though, and he was making the same turns. I stopped to look at him, but he didn't speak, smile, or defuse the situation in any way. There was light, but no businesses on this block, so not that much. Skeeve from bar could still be in shadows. I crossed the street. 
My target was about a block farther. The couple I spoke to there assured me that this was one of the safest neighborhoods in Brooklyn. "But where are all the people?" I asked. On a warm Saturday night, at 10:30? The man looked confused. The woman answered with authority, "On vacation. Everyone is away for the holiday." 
I suppose. I suppose because there were so many businesses, shops and shops, twice the size of Ann Arbor's downtown,(though it seemed to me, fewer bars and restaurants), and someone has to be supporting them. But how safe is your neighborhood if there is only one type of person in it, the type who drives to dinner, leaves town in the summer, and only uses the sidewalk to walk the dog? I've noticed, wandering around, the distinct disappearance of foot traffic when I walk into a "nice" (richer, whiter, more likely to have vegan restaurants, less likely to have active building construction projects) areas. Less foot traffic, no people gabbing with their neighbors on their stoops, no one lounging around with their kids on the sidewalk. People in the "nice" areas are gone? Inside their air conditioned apartments? On a mission, frowning with bags of groceries and cell phones? All of the above, I guess. Whatever the reason, the result for me, as a single female on foot, is that I feel less safe.
Is it scary to be walking down a street with a guy yelling at invisible people? Or a woman snarling under her breath? Yep. But there are also 50 other people not yelling or snarling on the street with me. I feel pretty good about the statistical likelihood that one of those 50 people would call for help if yelling man or snarling woman attacked me. Or maybe even intervene. And the very fact that there are 50 people with me makes me less noticeable as a target. And this doesn't even address the fact that yelling man and snarling woman, as scary as they are, are far less likely to be interested in me, less likely to approach me, less likely to harm my person, than skeevy guy watching me in the bar.
When I'm alone, on a street with lots of nice houses and no pedestrians, all it takes is one creep to put me in danger. One guy who thinks he's entitled to something or that he can talk me into something or that I'm an easy target. I better be able to handle it on my own. Fortunately, my route home takes me through busy train stops and blocks with lots of late night traffic. The better to shake off stalkers. But I'm still very curious about what makes us feel "safe." I tried to think about it in terms of familiarity. I feel comfortable walking home through Kerrytown late night, even though it is pretty empty. I still think it has more foot traffic, but let's say it doesn't. Is Kerrytown safer than Park Slope? Why or why not?
Do I feel safer in Kerrytown because it is more known? I know where the police station is. I know where there will be people closing up Zingerman's. I have done the walk so many times I have a good intuition of things that are out of place or off. 
Do I feel safer in Kerrytown because I have to, because it is where I live? Because I refuse to let fear keep me from doing things I want to do?
Do I feel safer in Kerrytown because it is tiny? No matter how empty it is, the next block over is a pile of drunk college kids at a kegger. You can hear them from where you stand on the empty street.
Do I feel safer because everyone looks like me? Because the economic divide between neighbors is not really that steep?
Do I feel safer because the men who sometimes try follow me home are college kids, rather than adult men? Is it even rational for me to feel less afraid of a 20something than of a 50something man?
I'm not sure. I know that I feel capable of handling Kerrytown at night. And I feel capable, though definitely more alert & watchful, in Bed-Stuy. But something about empty quiet streets at night freaks me out, and getting to the "downtown" block and seeing less people than are on Ann Arbor's Main Street at 2 am, watching the restaurants shutter up at 10, just makes me feel exposed. I just thought of something else - women. There weren't women out by themselves or in groups. Women were paired with men. And there were lone men. But no clouds of female voices. Maybe that was part of what made the scene seem so freaky. But there weren't clouds of any voices, because people weren't bar hopping or strolling or smoking or anything. They weren't outside. 
What makes you feel safe? What makes you feel unsafe? How does it change from place to place?

Friday, July 5, 2013

Little girl with her daddy

At a bagel shop in the Upper West Side, having some lox before the Natural History Museum. I saw a little girl get on the train with her daddy this morning. They sat down opposite me. She was about 7 or so, her hair pulled back from her face neatly, her clothes fresh, a small purse on her arm. She held her daddy's hand and talked to him loudly in that way kids do, not meaning anything by it. She said, "It would be a BIG problem if I left my bag on this train." Either because she didn't elicit daddy's attention immediately or because he asked her, "Eh?" in a voice too soft for me to catch, she repeated it, with a bit more punch. My face exploded with smile. I couldn't help it. I looked over at her dad, who looked like he was distracted, and then at her, and immediately was sorry, because she clammed up instantly & retreated, shy and surprised there was another person in her universe. I wasn't making fun of you, little girl! I swear I wasn't. I was wishing I was exploring the city with my hand in my daddy's. I was loving listening to you figure stuff out. I was missing my students. I was in love with the train, speeding so roller coaster fast I had to tilt my head back & expose my throat to the ride. I was hoping you have a wonderful day.
They got off the train a stop before I did, and as she passed me she peeked at me for a second with the tiniest smile.
Topside, I passed another mom with a slightly older daughter, maybe 9. They were giggling, heads together. When I approached on the mostly empty walk, mom straightened up a bit, glanced away from me, daughter gave me a huge grin.

I don't want to get work here anymore. I want to roam the streets and pick up small treasures. Pretend I am with a protective but playful parent, beaming with joy at random people because at this moment, I am loved and safe and special enough that the most wonderful person in my world wants to spend time with me, alone. I keep thinking I should be earning money to pay for all this, but I'm also remembering how when I got back from Florence and totaled everything up, I wished I had allowed myself a little more freedom, spent a little bit more on things that could only happen there, could only come from there. 
I've been falling into bed every night since Tuesday before midnight. I'm going to force myself to stay up tonight, see some nightlife, even if I'm feeling weary of adventure and being on guard. It doesn't have to be THE GRAND EVENING OUT. That's the point of a long stay. But no matter how "done" I am, I can do one small thing. I can try. I can have another glass of water & some fruits & veggies or chill out for a bit but get back up and do one more thing. Be both the parent & the child. 
Smile. Throat exposed. 

Thursday, July 4, 2013

Hormones are stupid

When you feel like crying because a stranger was a little grouchy to you for 20 seconds, it's probably got something to do with your brain chemicals. I know it shouldn't matter that there is a woman on the subway who doesn't like me, but when your goal is to make the entire world like you it does matter - even if you know the goal is selfish & dumb. 
On the most crowded train I've been on yet, coming out of Prospect Park headed to Queens on a holiday afternoon, tempers are short, people are hot & tired & thirsty & irritated, including me. I know this. I know I'm also stressed because I don't exactly know where I'm going, and I'm nervous about my google recommended route being wrong due to the holiday train changes. There is a context. I get it. The train stops, I am trying to get to the door through a mass of folks I thought would be exiting w me at the transfer stop. But no one is moving, and the door I was expecting to open is on the wrong side. I'm on the wrong side. And the doors are going to close. I turn, locate a path, note the liquid spill on the ground and move to step around it and around all the people and parcels. I don't say anything - I don't say excuse me. I don't know why. I usually don't say anything unless someone talks to me first, unless I'm trying to make them more comfortable - like the guy on the sidewalk this morning that told me I should go to the beach. I started a conversation w him because I was dogging his steps on a sidewalk that was otherwise empty, & I thought if he did that to me I would be weirded out. So I was just moving out of the train. I had a foot down safely, it was just 2 more steps out. But then there's a hand on my arm, not threatening but it is on my arm and I look down into the face of a woman standing behind the stroller in front of me. She says, "can you at least wait for me to move the stroller out of the way? You are killing yourself trying to get by."
Seconds are ticking by. She is mad, I register. How long do I have before the doors close? There's still another woman in front of me I have to get by. I'm trying to think, I didn't brush against your child, I don't think I touched the stroller either. Why are you mad at me? How much time do I invest in this problem? Also, my brain is crawlingly slow. I still am stupid with the realization that she is mad. Her voice isn't raised, her face isn't livid, but she is letting me know I am stepping on her boundaries. I freeze, and my always ready "I'm sorry" doesn't come. Why doesn't it come? I apologize to everyone. I apologized to my manicurist about ten times the other day while she laughed at me, for not doing things she didn't tell me to do or not giving answers to questions she didn't ask. Apologizing is just easier, it calms people down, makes them like you, & especially if you are never going to see them again, there's no reason not to. It costs you nothing. Let them think I'm a stupid blonde - whatever. If it makes the interaction less confrontational, smoother, if it means we can more quickly get "down to business," whether that is an overdue library fine or my manicure or moving past you in the grocery store, awesome.
Is this self-demeaning? Manipulative? I don't know. I know it makes life easier. People usually like me, or at least don't yell at me or give me Angry face. But once they do give me Angry face...
I don't know. I think all bets are off. I'm not apologizing unless I KNOW I'm on the wrong, feel it in my bones. Otherwise, I will fight you. How dare you show me your angry face. Here's mine.
But I didn't apologize to this mother. I was trying to think and my brain was so slow. I said, "I just didn't want to miss my stop," and she replied, "And you couldn't say, 'Excuse me?'" And I stood there mutely for a few seconds, ("how long do I have left before the doors close?"), and then I ran, one step, two steps, I'm out of the train and she's behind me and I'm free. Except I'm not free, I want to weep. 
It doesn't matter. Twenty seconds. Part of me wishes I'd apologized just because its appropriate to do when someone feels wronged, even if you didn't intend to wrong them. It's what I tell my kids to do. Just apologize. Defuse the situation. Don't argue - it doesn't matter. But I didn't. I wasn't trying to be careless with your child. I wasn't trying to be disrespectful to you. I was just trying to be self-sufficient, not needy or weak. If my kids feel like this, no wonder they resist me goading them to apologize. And I don't know what makes it better. Maybe asking the alleged offender, "Did you intend to cause harm?" and making sure the accuser hears that no harm was meant. But I think it's a tricky concept. My student did mean to get the wanted book or get to the front of the line, just like I meant to get off the train. The student probably was aware on some level that having a thing means someone else doesn't have it. What he or she didn't mean was to cause that deprived person pain, either physical or emotional. Did the student mean to cause harm? Is he or she sorry? Am I? 
I can apologize lightning quick when I am sure I've not caused real harm. I can apologize with more difficulty when I'm certain I'm in the wrong. It is hard, hard, hard, to apologize when I can't be sure what my own guilt, innocence, or negligence level was. It isn't a throwaway apology like the former but I don't feel it sincerely like the latter. I'm not sure if its a lie or a manipulation or a weakness or road-smoother. I'm not sure what the cost is or what I owe. And why are all of my social interaction structured like financial instruments, anyway?
I don't exactly want to cry any longer, three hours later. But I do feel bad, and wonder about my debt. My therapist tells me every session to stop apologizing so much, that I have to just be ok with not pleasing everyone, not being able to fix everything, not controlling everything. Let. It. Go. 
It's hard to put the woman down on the other side of the river/mud puddle/subway door, though. Especially when all the approval in the world doesn't feel like it would be enough. So here's what I did that I'm proud of today, so I don't need anyone else's approval: I did not get on a single wrong train, I did not exit a single wrong stop, I found my way from Bed-Stuy to Prospect Heights through the entire length of Prospect Park to Lefferts Gardens to Brooklyn Heights. I did not get a sunburn. I watched a foreign film. I got stood up. I looked at my beach options & travel time & decided against it. And all of this without bursting into tears. I spent my holiday alone, busy, & capable. And I'm proud of myself for finding my way, even if I made someone mad. It's ok. Now I just gotta go find the spot where George & Ed told me to watch the fireworks. And charge my phone. 

Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Growth

So Anaïs is talking about the importance of individual, independent growth now in my book. She keeps contrasting it with group action. Lots of passages about how and why people (particularly women) feel guilty about taking time for themselves, taking time to create, to think, to work out problems in therapy or discover new worlds. About how no useful group projects can happen until / unless each group member has this strong core built from solitary growth. Because there is no group growth, in her opinion.
This makes me think of a few things. One, what dynamic of groupishness is she reacting to? She keeps referring to such strong pressures in American culture to work in groups, & I've grown up only hearing about American individualist culture, unless you are talking about de Toqueville & Americans forming associations whereas Europeans just have a few powerful individuals. It kind of makes me think about Ayn Rand, and anti-communism, reactions against Red China, etc. 
Two, how happy I was to come home tonight and stay in. The immense array of options of THINGS TO DO and PEOPLE TO TALK TO is so exciting and on the one hand I don't want to miss a minute of it; being stuck inside with my stupid hair last night was giving me hives. But on the other hand, my brain is on Super Miracle-Gro 5000 and I need some space to back up & look at it all. I am someone who grows best through human interactions - observing people, listening to people, talking to people, talking to people about what I think about people I've observed & listening to what they say....and if in my regular life I get this at about a level 6 I am now at a level 9, and I don't want to miss anything through not processing the experience  even more than I don't want to miss it through not having the experience. So I'm wondering if I'm living what she's talking about - struggling to find a balance between independent growth and group solace from loneliness, between creativity and intimacy.

Tuesday, July 2, 2013

Guess who can't spell Stuyvesant ?

things I've seen in one day

Girl in front of me after I got topside from the subway was carrying identical polka dot umbrella to the one in my hand, and walking with girl with faded blue hair

Orthodox boy in yarmulke & payot on the tiniest big wheel ever, completely unattended & rocking out

Man sitting in parked van at streetcorner honks at me to get me to cross, "You've got to take chances," he shouts

Street of car repair garage places, after hours, alleyway turned into calypso party, shielded by greenery, dancers & steel drums snaking through the slips of light and shadows

Caribbean take out place packed at 11 pm on a Monday, ox tail soup appetites of hipsters UNQUENCHABLE

Beautiful woman with limp and fiddle arrives too late to play her guest spot at Live Jazz nite. Or maybe it was a banjo? She was sad & I tried to smile winningly at her but perhaps I was creepy

Black 60ish woman checking on me to make sure I wasn't getting creamed by traffic as I crossed the street behind her and a white 20ish man. "You've got to be quick," she laughed

My landlord, tossing delicious vegan dinner together out of what looks like absolutely nothing, saving me from having to go out in curlers. Next morning made me espresso out of vintage machine that quietly removed the beans' soul and slowly streamed it into a German earthenware wine cup

dude at Mexican grocery/diner frustrated by jukebox, offering me singles & speaking to me in Spanish. "No thank you," I repeat. Neither the waitress not several other customers interested in helping him, either

my mother, worried about me & calling to check on me. I love you but I can't worry about you worrying about me.



Monday, July 1, 2013

Welcome to Bed-Stuy

I AM SO HAPPY.  It is important to begin with this. Most of life might be filled with pac-dots, and I am dutifully munching them with my pink bow. Four to six times a cycle I get a power pellet and wreak havoc on ghosties. NYC IS NONSTOP POWER PELLETS. All those places that used to have pac-dots now have power pellets. Or to put it a different way, the oxygen content is higher here. I may combust if not careful but I can also leap small hillocks with a single bound. Because the rest of the world is Kryptonite & NYC is Earth. Just so you understand why I sound like I am flying. Because I am.

Ok, so some thoughts. First, you know how everyone says Italian men are pigs and women should have knives drawn? I have been a lone female in Florence. I have now also been a lone female in NYC. In one day I have been more aggressively approached in my own country than I ever was in Italy. Ok, sure, there was a plaza in Florence that weird men circled every night preying on women. I still have no idea what their end goal was: money? sex? keeping up appearances for Italian male machismo? All I know is that every night, the same 25 men were roaming this plaza, approaching every single or same-gender paired female(s). I watched them. Because the first guy who approached me was so completely covered in "DESPERATELY WRONG BACK AWAY" vibrations I was curious to know if other people just didn't feel those vibrations or if he was just really really bad at his game. THE POINT IS none of the creepy guys in Italy ever touched me. Maybe I am remembering it wrong, but I really don't think any man in Italy touched me except the guy who took me dancing and the old guy who wanted a kiss on the cheek after he spent an afternoon showing me around, teaching me how to work the public transit system & the cafes, & getting me a dinner reservation at John Cusack's restaurant.
AMERICAN MEN ARE MORE GRABBY THAN ITALIAN MEN. This is just my experience. Maybe I just met very liberated Florentine men & very pushy Americans. I dunno. But here's what happened today.
On the plane, a young Islamic wife sat down next to me and was agitated. Her husband was seated in a different row, and here she was between me and some ancient dude. But the cheerful 50ish Arabic descent man who is seated next to her husband offers to switch. NOTE: The book that seemed totally fine for the airplane may have a first chapter called, "Eroticism in women" which makes you VERY interesting. So he is chat, chat, chatting me up, about Edward Said and the French O.A.S. and the sixteen different businesses he owns.
Which is fine. Until he starts touching me. This is an AIRPLANE, mind. Coach. There is no place to back up, to say, "Hey, dude, enough with the hand on my arm." Except by saying that. So then I am in calculation mode, about when I can say it and how I can say it and OMG WHY CAN'T YOU JUST BE LIKE ITALIAN  MEN AND RESPECT MY PERSONAL SPACE?
Also, his breath was very ketonic and that beverage cart could not arrive fast enough. Could not arrive before he invited me to Morocco, in fact.
Do other women regularly get invited to foreign countries by men they barely know? Because it happens to me a lot and it amazes me every time that there is no voice inside the man's head saying, "Hey, this is probably pretty creepy and maybe you should keep it to yourself until you know her for at least, say, more than one single solitary day."
Anyway, I am practicing being ok with not pleasing people. So after about a half hour I tell Mr. Morocco thanks very much for chatting with me and I open my book. And frankly it is a relief just to have some quiet space for my own thoughts.  He tries again a few times but I am firm. I am practicing being ok with not pleasing others, and I will not be swayed by his fidgets or how desperately he wants to talk at me for every second of the flight.
Later today, after I am in Brooklyn and doing my peripatetic thing, a white long-haired hipster dude puts HIS HAND on my arm, too. I think he was all of 24 years old and his flowing wavy curls and ironic T shirts may make many women swoon but for the love of God I am an adult. Stop touching me, dudes.
You are worse than the Italians.

Ok, now for some good things.
Except I am too tired. Good things, tomorrow!