“See those, there?” Grandma says to me as she points to the peaches hanging from the branches. Her wrinkled face crinkles as she smiles, “Almost, now.” She tilts back her head, exhales in happiness as she looks up at the bright blue sky, “We got real lucky with the weather this year, hm. Should be a real perfect crop, come Harvest Day.” I nod. I don’t know much about perfect peaches, but the scent of them is strong, dreamy. Bees buzz past our ears, and the spring sun is warm on our skin. Grandma’s blue eyes are twinkling in excitement as she continues to admire the crop; she looks forward to “Harvest Day” all winter long. She pats my cheek in joy, and I can’t help but smile, too.
“Hello, out there!”
We turn. Mom’s on the veranda, waving at us. My smile fades as quickly as it came. “Lauren, you mind helping me with this lemonade?” she calls. I sigh, nod, and jog up the yard back to the house.
The wooden steps creak as I climb them. “What’s up?” I say, somewhat defensively. “Are you going to go see your grandfather?” my mother asks, her sharp tone a stark contrast to her sweet smile. I roll my eyes. Even when she knows Grandma’s too far away to see shit, she still thinks she’s gotta hide that she’s pissed at me. I glare at her, “Yeah, of course I am.” Mom gives me a look, “When?” “Ma-” I start, my voice raising. Her eyes widen angrily in warning. I shake my head, but oblige as I growl out through gritted teeth, “After I’m done helping Grandma.” “She can manage, and if she can’t, I’ll help her,” Mom says, “You, go see your grandfather.” I groan inwardly. She clicks her tongue, “Go on!” “Fine,” I say in annoyance, and push the screen door open. It screeches softly, and bangs shut behind me.
The whole house smells of spring, the curtains at the open windows dancing in the breeze. Our house growing up, too, smelled the same when the warm weather came. It’s an ache of memory, and the jump through time leaves me dizzy as I breathe it in. I look up the staircase, and the spin of memory fades. Reality returns. I start to climb the carpeted wood stairs, slowly, quietly, the railing cool under my palm.
I knock gently on the bedroom door, which is only just ajar, and push it open. “Grandpa?”
I push the door open and pause on the threshold. He’s at the large curtained window on the left, his back to me, motionless in his wheelchair. The whole room feels motionless, with every window closed and his radio turned off.
“Hi, Grandpa,” I say. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t even budge. Not that I would even know what to say to him, even if he did. I walk over to him. Still, he doesn’t turn. All right, I think, whatever. I pull over the rocking chair from one of the shadowed corners and sit next to him. His eyes remain steadily outward. They’ve gone blue in recent months, from worsening cataracts and age. But they’re sharp as ever, even with his inability to talk or hear well, to stand or walk on his own. I see them darting, blinking, taking in everything they can possibly take in. And when I look out, I see his view is directly of the peach grove. Through the small opening in the ivory curtains, I can see Grandma is right there, with Mom now, strolling up and down the rows.
Without a word, I get up and push the curtains fully to the side of the large window. I slide it open, and a breeze rushes in, as if it’s been waiting.
Grandpa coughs. I turn, but he stops almost instantly. He’s still gazing out the window. Like I’m not even here. I look around the room, which, too, has remained the same. Framed photos have been added over the years, of graduations and weddings and babies, but the furniture is all exactly as I remember it from when I was a kid. That color scheme of white-gold, faded sea green, dusty rose. All of it with a hint of Asian influence, I realize now, as if for the first time. I can only assume is from the time the two of them spent in Japan. Grandpa first, during the war. Then Grandma and him together, later on. Little touches, but it permeates everything, down to the wood bowls Grandpa himself carved that line some of the decorative shelves. But then, maybe they always liked this style. Maybe before they even met.
“So,” I say, “How are you doing today?” He actually moves, lifting a hand in a disinterested sort of wave, a slight nod of the head. “That’s good,” I say, “Maybe we can get you outside, huh?” He doesn’t seem to acknowledge this. “I’m, uh, sorry I haven’t been to see you and Grandma for awhile,” I say, “Work’s been busy, you know?” My voice lapses into silence upon hearing its own bullshit. Again, I feel that burning frustration. With myself, the not knowing what to say, or do. This man right here next to me is the man who raised my own mom, the man I’ve known for as long as I can remember, and yet, he feels like a stranger.
Grandpa shifts in his wheelchair. Tries to sit up straighter. I make as though to help him, but he holds up a hand that says no. So I watch him as he finishes readjusting. Then, he speaks. I frown. His speech drawling and slow, his jaw barely able to shape vowel sounds, let alone words. “Sorry, Grandpa, what did you say?” I ask, almost hating myself for having to. My older sister, our younger brother, Mom, they all seem to understand him. I alone seem to be unable to, like some unseen force deems me unworthy. Grandpa seems to sigh with impatience, then tries again. Louder, though his voice struggles past a rasp. This time, thankfully, I manage to grasp it. “Ah,” I repeat, “’The peaches are almost ready’. Yes, yes, they are.” Grandpa sinks into his chair in relief, nodding at my words, dabbing the drool at his lips with his handkerchief. “You want to go out there?” I ask, and a pang of self-hatred stings me again. Because I know part of me would be relieved if he did. We could go out there, and the crutch of others would alleviate all of this…this feeling that’s crushing me.
To my disappointment, Grandpa shakes his head no. I nod slowly, then sit back in my rocking chair once more, settling in for the long haul. I rest my hands on the arms of the chair, the wood cool and smooth on my skin. I see his hand reach out then, shaky and covered in spots. Its skin is nearly to the bone, so thin he’s become, and his veins protrude like a map of swelling rivers. In silence, I watch his hand reach further still, until it lands on top of mine. I’m shocked at the contact. He’s patting my hand now, and I can see the effort it’s taking him to do so. But when I look up at his face, he’s smiling, as if it’s bringing him all the joy in the world.
Sunday, April 5, 2020
Friday, March 20, 2020
Until Then
He walks. Every day, he walks.
His beady eyes are sharp like a birds, trapped behind the glass of thick, near-sighted lenses. Eyes that only ever look forward. To pass by him, it’s as if he’s looking at something only he can see. Or perhaps, something that isn’t there at all.
Through the park, down the main avenues, weaving in and out of the small side streets. Sun, rain, snow. Hot, cold. Always, he walks. Never saying a word to anyone. Never a wave or a nod. His face remains steadily expressionless, even when the daily joggers and bicyclists recognize him, and maybe stare. At his beard, that’s grown unkempt and long. At his skin, that’s grown weathered and browned. Or even at his attire; he’s started to sport a neon reflective vest at all times, leaving some to wonder if he walks throughout the nights, too.
He never kicks rocks, he never picks up lucky pennies, he never waits for lights. He’ll turn a corner, go a different way, never wasting a moment in pause. He even only wears shoes with Velcro, to avoid the risk of laces untying and losing time. He walks and walks, and then, finally, eventually, he goes home.
He shuffles up a short flight of brick steps to a front door without a porch. He pauses in the soft light of the fixtures that illuminate the rusted house number. He reaches for the small leather pouch tucked away in his pocket, and removes a single key. He turns it in the dulled gold lock, opens the door, then closes it behind him.
He walks past a small, cluttered living room with a single recliner chair and a TV. Down the cramped hallway with walls filled with dusty photo frames, and baseboards lined with short stacks of paper and books. Then to the kitchen, the only room in the house that’s fully lit.
On the left, there’s a little white and black stove. Then, a short counter space with filled shelves above it, and finally, a table, which sits in front of a heavily curtained window. At the table, he makes a right, and then, he stops.
He’s standing before a wall. It’s covered in calendar months. Months that have passed, each day marked with a bright red number. At the edge of the wall hangs a red sharpie pen tied to a string, which he dutifully grabs, removes the cap from, and writes a neat number “8” on this day’s date. He considers the number, and sighs through his nose. He turns, and picks up a notepad that’s sitting on the kitchen tabletop. There, is a series of numbers that’s been added to, and then crossed out, over and over again, for several sheets back. He writes an “8” below the most recent number that’s there – 2,555 – and then, he crosses that out, and writes a new total: 2,563. He puts the pad down.
He sits at the table and stares at the wall, a clear shot from his seat. He mulls the wall, crossing his legs, hand at his chin. What had he said to her, always said to her? “Darling, I would walk 100,000 miles to see you again, if that’s what it took.” And now, a year she’d been gone. The day she passed, he felt in his bones that if he were to walk that 100,000 miles, he would indeed see her again.
He looks to the heavily curtained window to his right, and wonders. What would she say, he thinks, if she could see me now? “Bet you’re wishing you’d promised me a lower number, huh?” And she’d grin playfully, that dimple on her right cheek seeming to wink mischievously as she did. He’d pull her close, smell her soft hair, feel her in his arms-
97,437 miles to go. Until then, my love. Until then.
His beady eyes are sharp like a birds, trapped behind the glass of thick, near-sighted lenses. Eyes that only ever look forward. To pass by him, it’s as if he’s looking at something only he can see. Or perhaps, something that isn’t there at all.
Through the park, down the main avenues, weaving in and out of the small side streets. Sun, rain, snow. Hot, cold. Always, he walks. Never saying a word to anyone. Never a wave or a nod. His face remains steadily expressionless, even when the daily joggers and bicyclists recognize him, and maybe stare. At his beard, that’s grown unkempt and long. At his skin, that’s grown weathered and browned. Or even at his attire; he’s started to sport a neon reflective vest at all times, leaving some to wonder if he walks throughout the nights, too.
He never kicks rocks, he never picks up lucky pennies, he never waits for lights. He’ll turn a corner, go a different way, never wasting a moment in pause. He even only wears shoes with Velcro, to avoid the risk of laces untying and losing time. He walks and walks, and then, finally, eventually, he goes home.
He shuffles up a short flight of brick steps to a front door without a porch. He pauses in the soft light of the fixtures that illuminate the rusted house number. He reaches for the small leather pouch tucked away in his pocket, and removes a single key. He turns it in the dulled gold lock, opens the door, then closes it behind him.
He walks past a small, cluttered living room with a single recliner chair and a TV. Down the cramped hallway with walls filled with dusty photo frames, and baseboards lined with short stacks of paper and books. Then to the kitchen, the only room in the house that’s fully lit.
On the left, there’s a little white and black stove. Then, a short counter space with filled shelves above it, and finally, a table, which sits in front of a heavily curtained window. At the table, he makes a right, and then, he stops.
He’s standing before a wall. It’s covered in calendar months. Months that have passed, each day marked with a bright red number. At the edge of the wall hangs a red sharpie pen tied to a string, which he dutifully grabs, removes the cap from, and writes a neat number “8” on this day’s date. He considers the number, and sighs through his nose. He turns, and picks up a notepad that’s sitting on the kitchen tabletop. There, is a series of numbers that’s been added to, and then crossed out, over and over again, for several sheets back. He writes an “8” below the most recent number that’s there – 2,555 – and then, he crosses that out, and writes a new total: 2,563. He puts the pad down.
He sits at the table and stares at the wall, a clear shot from his seat. He mulls the wall, crossing his legs, hand at his chin. What had he said to her, always said to her? “Darling, I would walk 100,000 miles to see you again, if that’s what it took.” And now, a year she’d been gone. The day she passed, he felt in his bones that if he were to walk that 100,000 miles, he would indeed see her again.
He looks to the heavily curtained window to his right, and wonders. What would she say, he thinks, if she could see me now? “Bet you’re wishing you’d promised me a lower number, huh?” And she’d grin playfully, that dimple on her right cheek seeming to wink mischievously as she did. He’d pull her close, smell her soft hair, feel her in his arms-
97,437 miles to go. Until then, my love. Until then.
Friday, January 24, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK THREE
Last night was the most heartening class yet, and I’m almost…bummed out about it. Because, let's be honest here: when shit sucks, writing is just soooo much more inspired then when everything is happy and wonderful. Which is an interesting discussion in itself, right, and a topic I have wondered about since I had my first real breakthrough with my fiction writing. That is: do you need to suffer in order to create your greatest and most expressive art?
For me, that particular breakthrough piece of mine was written during a highly tumultuous and brutally emotional period in my life, and channeling those feelings resulted in the best fiction piece I ever wrote. Shit, even with my nonfiction writing, it was always something remarkable or powerful that urged me to put my thoughts to the page in a way that resulted in something meaningful, versus were I to write about something run-of-the-mill. So when everything is going great - like this class - well, what the fuck do I write here?
It should be noted that I have not made up my mind on that front, the whole suffering v. creativity thing. Not even with the totally convincing video we were told to watch as a precursor to the first class. (For those of you who are interested, it was a David Lynch written/narrated video about the idea of creativity. What stuck out to me was how he firmly believes you *do not* need to suffer in order to create, memorable mostly due to his elegant argument, which was, well: “if Van Gogh suffered from constant diarrhea, how could he ever have had the time to paint Starry Night between trips to the bathroom?” I shit you not, and, pun intended.) So yes. Even with such elevated prose as that, a small part of me will probably always remain in the school of thought that challenging situations will result in the greatest stories.
But, alas, in the meantime, here we are: class is going well, I’m actually learning things, I’m getting past my own inner obstacles, and holy shit, I have no idea how to make that humorously bitter at all.
So, instead of my usual grumblings, I’ve decided, at least for this week, to post what I wrote during one of the exercises.
To set the scene, what we focused on in class this week, was “point of view”, which was to me, a natural progression from last week’s theme of “authentic voice”. It was also much more in depth than last week, given that class didn’t simply open with a quote of an author’s take on the subject, but was promptly followed by a solid 15 minute discussion. What this quote said, in part anyway, was that in writing, there are two pictures going on at once: what the character sees, what the world is, and the writer’s job is to make the reader see only one – what the writer sees. I liked that, and I liked how when other students began to speak up, that many of them suffer from the same issues and questions that I do. Not that I’m rooting for my fellow students to be in the woods and filled with despair, but I felt a real sense of camaraderie in our grievances. Such as: what should I describe? What should I leave blurry and out of focus, and what should I make sharp and clear? Should I describe setting and landscape, or should I hone-in more on the characters thoughts and inner voice?
The take-away was for me was that a lot of that gets hammered out through practice, and that do what feels right to you.
All that in mind, the first exercise was us closing our eyes, and her talking about a doorway. She wanted us to visualize the doorway, what it looks like, what the room we're in looks like. Then through the doorway, what do we see? What do we notice first? A smell, the light, a feeling, what? I remembered thinking damn, I really should meditate because this is crazy how calm and focused I’m feeling.
But then, bam, “Open your eyes, write what you saw”.
Without further ado, what I saw:
The door is just barely ajar, a short sliver of light curling like a beckoning finger. My heart is racing as I walk slowly towards it, the floorboards under my feet creaking with each step I take. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and living in their threads are the echoes of children’s laughter, and then, of screams.
I don’t know why I came back here. I don’t know why I drove all this way. How many years did I try to put this place behind me? How many years did I try to gouge out my own inner eyes to the memories of this house-
“Jane.”
I whirl around in a flurry of heartbeats. I can barely see who has called my name from the darkness, but then he emerges, his face just as white-washed and sickly-looking as when we were kids. “Michael?” I say in disbelief, “How – when did you – “ “You felt it too, then,” is all he says. My mouth snaps shut, but too late – it’s utterly dry, my sawdust tongue unable to evade what is happening. His eyes, so big and brown, are still so filled with sadness. I stare at him, then slowly, I nod. We turn to the door. It hasn’t moved, and yet, it seems to open wide to call us towards it, to cross its threshold and enter a room we hadn’t stepped foot in for decades.
And...that's it, haha. As I retyped it from my notes for this post, I am considering maybe bringing a laptop to the next class, because hot damn, I write WAY slower by hand.
Anyway, til next week...
For me, that particular breakthrough piece of mine was written during a highly tumultuous and brutally emotional period in my life, and channeling those feelings resulted in the best fiction piece I ever wrote. Shit, even with my nonfiction writing, it was always something remarkable or powerful that urged me to put my thoughts to the page in a way that resulted in something meaningful, versus were I to write about something run-of-the-mill. So when everything is going great - like this class - well, what the fuck do I write here?
It should be noted that I have not made up my mind on that front, the whole suffering v. creativity thing. Not even with the totally convincing video we were told to watch as a precursor to the first class. (For those of you who are interested, it was a David Lynch written/narrated video about the idea of creativity. What stuck out to me was how he firmly believes you *do not* need to suffer in order to create, memorable mostly due to his elegant argument, which was, well: “if Van Gogh suffered from constant diarrhea, how could he ever have had the time to paint Starry Night between trips to the bathroom?” I shit you not, and, pun intended.) So yes. Even with such elevated prose as that, a small part of me will probably always remain in the school of thought that challenging situations will result in the greatest stories.
But, alas, in the meantime, here we are: class is going well, I’m actually learning things, I’m getting past my own inner obstacles, and holy shit, I have no idea how to make that humorously bitter at all.
So, instead of my usual grumblings, I’ve decided, at least for this week, to post what I wrote during one of the exercises.
To set the scene, what we focused on in class this week, was “point of view”, which was to me, a natural progression from last week’s theme of “authentic voice”. It was also much more in depth than last week, given that class didn’t simply open with a quote of an author’s take on the subject, but was promptly followed by a solid 15 minute discussion. What this quote said, in part anyway, was that in writing, there are two pictures going on at once: what the character sees, what the world is, and the writer’s job is to make the reader see only one – what the writer sees. I liked that, and I liked how when other students began to speak up, that many of them suffer from the same issues and questions that I do. Not that I’m rooting for my fellow students to be in the woods and filled with despair, but I felt a real sense of camaraderie in our grievances. Such as: what should I describe? What should I leave blurry and out of focus, and what should I make sharp and clear? Should I describe setting and landscape, or should I hone-in more on the characters thoughts and inner voice?
The take-away was for me was that a lot of that gets hammered out through practice, and that do what feels right to you.
All that in mind, the first exercise was us closing our eyes, and her talking about a doorway. She wanted us to visualize the doorway, what it looks like, what the room we're in looks like. Then through the doorway, what do we see? What do we notice first? A smell, the light, a feeling, what? I remembered thinking damn, I really should meditate because this is crazy how calm and focused I’m feeling.
But then, bam, “Open your eyes, write what you saw”.
Without further ado, what I saw:
The door is just barely ajar, a short sliver of light curling like a beckoning finger. My heart is racing as I walk slowly towards it, the floorboards under my feet creaking with each step I take. Shadows cling to the walls like cobwebs, and living in their threads are the echoes of children’s laughter, and then, of screams.
I don’t know why I came back here. I don’t know why I drove all this way. How many years did I try to put this place behind me? How many years did I try to gouge out my own inner eyes to the memories of this house-
“Jane.”
I whirl around in a flurry of heartbeats. I can barely see who has called my name from the darkness, but then he emerges, his face just as white-washed and sickly-looking as when we were kids. “Michael?” I say in disbelief, “How – when did you – “ “You felt it too, then,” is all he says. My mouth snaps shut, but too late – it’s utterly dry, my sawdust tongue unable to evade what is happening. His eyes, so big and brown, are still so filled with sadness. I stare at him, then slowly, I nod. We turn to the door. It hasn’t moved, and yet, it seems to open wide to call us towards it, to cross its threshold and enter a room we hadn’t stepped foot in for decades.
And...that's it, haha. As I retyped it from my notes for this post, I am considering maybe bringing a laptop to the next class, because hot damn, I write WAY slower by hand.
Anyway, til next week...
Friday, January 17, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK TWO
The only positive thing I felt today was, how positive I was that it was going to suck.
I had managed to move past the state of hopelessness with which last week’s class had left me, but now that the day of Week Two had arrived, its bitter taste was once again riddling my mouth and filling me with stomach-knotting despair. As a result, I plodded through my day with a sense of impending doom, checking the clock as I cooked, browsed Reddit, watched the news, and cooked some more. For there was a threshold: once it got to be 6:30, it was do-or-die. Well, do-or-just…don’t do. And I while deep down, I knew I was probably going to go, I was still throwing every possible sabotage in my path to delay the inevitable past that point of no return.
After hours of inner turmoil, the clock hit 4:45. The last vestiges of daylight were disappearing beyond the train tracks, and I too, was descending: into my bed, wrapped in a blanket, and snuggled with my two kitties. I knew I should go, if only to write this stupid follow-up, and if only to prove to my bar regulars that I wasn’t some pussy afraid of a dumb writing class, and yet…I was struggling. It would be so easy to just stay here, to throw in the towel before I even picked it up, and bow out of attending a class that made me feel so wildly and horribly inept.
I texted my boyfriend that I was having trouble, that I couldn’t scrounge up even the slightest will to go for my run, let alone to fix my bike’s flat, to shower, or to go to class.
“Start small,” he said, “Put socks on.”
I sighed inwardly, putting my phone down and mulling the wall.
Okay. Fine.
Ten minutes later, my bike was fixed. I was taking down the recycling, pausing at the door of our apartment. Deciding what I had the willingness, and time for, to do next. It was 5:30. And I decided: I’m going to run to class.
It was 5 miles each way, which, all tallied up, was a longer run than I’d ever done in my life. But, as I layered up and set my playlist, I figured that even if the class was another total and utter failure, at least I would be pushing myself past expectations physically.
I get there with 10 minutes to spare, and I feel…good. Running was a good choice. I immediately see that I’m the first to arrive, and I can also see the instructor isn’t thrilled. Who would be thrilled, after the joke of “writing” I put forth last week? I knew she’d rather have the stars of the class that had come forth last session, not me. But I force myself to stop thinking that way, instead engaging her in friendly conversation, and then excuse myself to the restroom to wash my face. Others start to trickle in, and when the door is locked and class begins, I see only half of us are here this week. And I feel a small sense of achievement: I could have been one of the missing. But I’m not. I made it.
And I’m glad: class this time is already different. Yes, it’s the same model: series of writing prompts, reading out loud if you want, and giving only positive feedback. But there’s an actual theme to the class this week – “authentic voice” – and instead of just leaving it at that, the instructor gives us tools to help us write authentically. I can hardly believe it: glimmers of hope start to pop up like small blades of grass within me. Because I might actually get something out of showing up today.
One of the tools, she says, to truly writing in your own voice is to avoid clichés. She’s scattered the tabletops with small strips of paper, each one with a different cliché. She tells us to pick one and write a story based on it, but without ever using it in the story itself. Maybe I should have picked a different one, because the one in my hand has me stumped. “Loose cannon”, I read, over and over. Loose cannon. Fuck me. I’m at a loss. I finally start to write about a time I was covering a shift and indeed, there was a VERY loose cannon customer. But I hate it as I write it. I don’t want my identity in this class to be “bartender”. I don’t want this to be what my writing revolves around. So in an effort to make it seem at least fictional, I try to make the narrator not sound like me. I try to make it more like a short story, and less like one of my blog posts. But by the time it’s Pens Down, I’ve still only managed to write backstory and hadn’t even gotten to the actual loose cannon part.
As you can imagine, I do not volunteer to read it out loud.
Others do, and they are all painfully good.
The instructor moves on to introducing the next exercise, during which I jot down notes for my future benefit: “GET TO THE POINT” “Just tell the story” “Skip the backstory”, which are things that the others all manage to do consistently, and seemingly, with ease.
The next tool she talks to us about, is that of using descriptors. Which, I admit, is good advice – everyone notices things differently, and everyone notices different things. We are asked to close our eyes as she places an item in our hands, hear her telling us to use our senses to explore it, and write a story about it.
She’s given each of us a cinnamon stick.
And well, I don't know about you, but I certainly never thought a cinnamon stick would be the thing to bring me to the brink of a breakdown, but here we are. All I can think of, as I hold and smell this prop, is how good everyone in this class is. How great they are at the things I am not. How I just can’t seem to do this. How maybe I shouldn’t be writing fiction at all. How I should just pick up my shit and leave, and tell the instructor: “I’m sorry. But I can’t write.” I swallow the tears and sobs, and force myself to focus.
I try one beginning, then another, then another, crossing each one out. God damn it. This was so hard. I try again. Okay. I like this opening, well, at least in comparison to the other shit I had written, and go with it.
I get three paragraphs in, and again, feel tears of frustration and disappointment ready to burst out of me. It sucks. I suck. Who was I kidding, ever thinking I could be a writer? Who was I kidding, thinking I might actually have a semblance of a chance of doing this, for real, when there’s so many better, more talented, writers out there? I look around the small space, its walls papered with signs for writing events and writing open mics, and think of all the other people trying to be writers too, and I become overwhelmed by the wave of reality, and have never felt more small.
But, no. Stop. I look down to what I’ve written, and try to focus on at least editing it, if I’m not going to move forward with it. It’s not awful, but I have no idea where the fuck it’s going. I think. Okay. It’s got two female roommates, polar opposites that no one understands how they are friends. A small but bright apartment that smells of cinnamon and cigarettes. I think back to when I had a roommate like that, and the time her ex came to the apartment threatening to break in and kill her, and we had to call the cops. If my two characters bonded over an experience like that, it could explain their friendship. So I go with it, writing furiously until times up. And when I put my pen down, I actually feel, once again, a sense of accomplishment.
It was sort of how I felt after class, when I ran home, and successfully planted my flag not only on my longest run, but also in pushing myself past nearly giving up on my writing. It had been a fierce and sharp reminder that my writing is mine, and I have the power to make it it's best. Where I had been feeling that my writing as so clumsy and pedestrian in comparison to others in the class, instead of letting my negativity consume me, I forced myself to hunker down. I did my best to forget about tearing myself apart in the moment, to instead really hone-in on writing on a level I know I can, even when it seems like I can't.
It was hard, man. It was harder than my 100 Days blog when all the shitty, dark truths I had to accept about myself, came to light. But that’s when I knew: this class is too important and valuable to stop now. Because when something is this hard, when something makes me want to give up so quickly, it means the growth that will come from it will be invaluable and incredible. But its on me to make that happen. And though I will probably face many near-breakdowns in the weeks to come, I know in the end, it will be worth it.
And if nothing else, I’ll come out of a it a much better runner.
I had managed to move past the state of hopelessness with which last week’s class had left me, but now that the day of Week Two had arrived, its bitter taste was once again riddling my mouth and filling me with stomach-knotting despair. As a result, I plodded through my day with a sense of impending doom, checking the clock as I cooked, browsed Reddit, watched the news, and cooked some more. For there was a threshold: once it got to be 6:30, it was do-or-die. Well, do-or-just…don’t do. And I while deep down, I knew I was probably going to go, I was still throwing every possible sabotage in my path to delay the inevitable past that point of no return.
After hours of inner turmoil, the clock hit 4:45. The last vestiges of daylight were disappearing beyond the train tracks, and I too, was descending: into my bed, wrapped in a blanket, and snuggled with my two kitties. I knew I should go, if only to write this stupid follow-up, and if only to prove to my bar regulars that I wasn’t some pussy afraid of a dumb writing class, and yet…I was struggling. It would be so easy to just stay here, to throw in the towel before I even picked it up, and bow out of attending a class that made me feel so wildly and horribly inept.
I texted my boyfriend that I was having trouble, that I couldn’t scrounge up even the slightest will to go for my run, let alone to fix my bike’s flat, to shower, or to go to class.
“Start small,” he said, “Put socks on.”
I sighed inwardly, putting my phone down and mulling the wall.
Okay. Fine.
Ten minutes later, my bike was fixed. I was taking down the recycling, pausing at the door of our apartment. Deciding what I had the willingness, and time for, to do next. It was 5:30. And I decided: I’m going to run to class.
It was 5 miles each way, which, all tallied up, was a longer run than I’d ever done in my life. But, as I layered up and set my playlist, I figured that even if the class was another total and utter failure, at least I would be pushing myself past expectations physically.
I get there with 10 minutes to spare, and I feel…good. Running was a good choice. I immediately see that I’m the first to arrive, and I can also see the instructor isn’t thrilled. Who would be thrilled, after the joke of “writing” I put forth last week? I knew she’d rather have the stars of the class that had come forth last session, not me. But I force myself to stop thinking that way, instead engaging her in friendly conversation, and then excuse myself to the restroom to wash my face. Others start to trickle in, and when the door is locked and class begins, I see only half of us are here this week. And I feel a small sense of achievement: I could have been one of the missing. But I’m not. I made it.
And I’m glad: class this time is already different. Yes, it’s the same model: series of writing prompts, reading out loud if you want, and giving only positive feedback. But there’s an actual theme to the class this week – “authentic voice” – and instead of just leaving it at that, the instructor gives us tools to help us write authentically. I can hardly believe it: glimmers of hope start to pop up like small blades of grass within me. Because I might actually get something out of showing up today.
One of the tools, she says, to truly writing in your own voice is to avoid clichés. She’s scattered the tabletops with small strips of paper, each one with a different cliché. She tells us to pick one and write a story based on it, but without ever using it in the story itself. Maybe I should have picked a different one, because the one in my hand has me stumped. “Loose cannon”, I read, over and over. Loose cannon. Fuck me. I’m at a loss. I finally start to write about a time I was covering a shift and indeed, there was a VERY loose cannon customer. But I hate it as I write it. I don’t want my identity in this class to be “bartender”. I don’t want this to be what my writing revolves around. So in an effort to make it seem at least fictional, I try to make the narrator not sound like me. I try to make it more like a short story, and less like one of my blog posts. But by the time it’s Pens Down, I’ve still only managed to write backstory and hadn’t even gotten to the actual loose cannon part.
As you can imagine, I do not volunteer to read it out loud.
Others do, and they are all painfully good.
The instructor moves on to introducing the next exercise, during which I jot down notes for my future benefit: “GET TO THE POINT” “Just tell the story” “Skip the backstory”, which are things that the others all manage to do consistently, and seemingly, with ease.
The next tool she talks to us about, is that of using descriptors. Which, I admit, is good advice – everyone notices things differently, and everyone notices different things. We are asked to close our eyes as she places an item in our hands, hear her telling us to use our senses to explore it, and write a story about it.
She’s given each of us a cinnamon stick.
And well, I don't know about you, but I certainly never thought a cinnamon stick would be the thing to bring me to the brink of a breakdown, but here we are. All I can think of, as I hold and smell this prop, is how good everyone in this class is. How great they are at the things I am not. How I just can’t seem to do this. How maybe I shouldn’t be writing fiction at all. How I should just pick up my shit and leave, and tell the instructor: “I’m sorry. But I can’t write.” I swallow the tears and sobs, and force myself to focus.
I try one beginning, then another, then another, crossing each one out. God damn it. This was so hard. I try again. Okay. I like this opening, well, at least in comparison to the other shit I had written, and go with it.
I get three paragraphs in, and again, feel tears of frustration and disappointment ready to burst out of me. It sucks. I suck. Who was I kidding, ever thinking I could be a writer? Who was I kidding, thinking I might actually have a semblance of a chance of doing this, for real, when there’s so many better, more talented, writers out there? I look around the small space, its walls papered with signs for writing events and writing open mics, and think of all the other people trying to be writers too, and I become overwhelmed by the wave of reality, and have never felt more small.
But, no. Stop. I look down to what I’ve written, and try to focus on at least editing it, if I’m not going to move forward with it. It’s not awful, but I have no idea where the fuck it’s going. I think. Okay. It’s got two female roommates, polar opposites that no one understands how they are friends. A small but bright apartment that smells of cinnamon and cigarettes. I think back to when I had a roommate like that, and the time her ex came to the apartment threatening to break in and kill her, and we had to call the cops. If my two characters bonded over an experience like that, it could explain their friendship. So I go with it, writing furiously until times up. And when I put my pen down, I actually feel, once again, a sense of accomplishment.
It was sort of how I felt after class, when I ran home, and successfully planted my flag not only on my longest run, but also in pushing myself past nearly giving up on my writing. It had been a fierce and sharp reminder that my writing is mine, and I have the power to make it it's best. Where I had been feeling that my writing as so clumsy and pedestrian in comparison to others in the class, instead of letting my negativity consume me, I forced myself to hunker down. I did my best to forget about tearing myself apart in the moment, to instead really hone-in on writing on a level I know I can, even when it seems like I can't.
It was hard, man. It was harder than my 100 Days blog when all the shitty, dark truths I had to accept about myself, came to light. But that’s when I knew: this class is too important and valuable to stop now. Because when something is this hard, when something makes me want to give up so quickly, it means the growth that will come from it will be invaluable and incredible. But its on me to make that happen. And though I will probably face many near-breakdowns in the weeks to come, I know in the end, it will be worth it.
And if nothing else, I’ll come out of a it a much better runner.
Friday, January 10, 2020
Elena and Her Neuroses Take A Writing Class: WEEK ONE
I finally did it. I committed to a seven week creative writing course, sacrificing my Thursday nights shift to attend the 90-minute class in Brooklyn. How did I feel about it, in the days leading up to it? It was weird. I didn't really feel much. I was trying to not, in order to avoid things like nerves or having a wall up. I was...open, if you will, to whatever it might bring.
So, how did my first class go?
This might sum it up nicely: I came home and stress-ate carbs for an hour, while watching “The Keepers”, a docu-series about a murdered nun, to help take my mind off things, until I passed out on the couch.
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty scarred when it comes to being open with my artistic creations I don’t feel confident in. Actually, generally speaking, I will not put myself out there at all, if I don’t feel confident. I’ve always been that way, whether it’s at a new job, or a new school, or a house party where I don’t know anyone while knowing all too well, how little I fit in. I will be quiet, observe, glean what I can, bitterly and inwardly admire those who are clearly more advanced and better than I am, and sit back until I feel ready and sure enough in myself to step up, and be heard. Which is sometimes, sadly, never.
At this rate, my time to shine’s gonna be my literal deathbed confession.
And knowing that fills me with a rapid, suffocating, sense of panic.
After I made the choice to stop pursuing an opera career, part of it was because I really thought writing was it for me. Nothing else I’d ever done came as naturally. I was never able to execute any other creative outlet as honestly and openly and even…powerfully, as I was with the written word. It was something I couldn’t stay away from, even if I tried, and where all other aspects of my life waxed and waned, writing was a constant. It was the one thing that could actually, literally, make my day. More than a crush saying they liked me back, more than cooking the best thing I ever cooked, more than making a shit ton of money in a shift.
And now I’m in this class, confused, deflated, humbled, and sad. Because…wow.
I’m pretty shit at this.
And that wasn’t the lesson I needed.
I am, probably more so than anyone else is towards me, extremely hard on and critical of myself. It’s a detriment, in many ways, because it stops me, more often than not, from pursuing something that even mildly interests me. I am so cautious about potential failure, of looking bad, of not being my best, that I don’t even try. It’s kept from committing to travel, moves, job changes, etc., and I’m left in this place where not much about me has changed. And in the mildly glaring lights of the classroom last night, I became painfully aware of how very stuck I am, of how very unevolved and uninteresting. It’s the mirror I tend to avoid, because it’s the mirror I polish with one eye closed.
And man, it sucked.
Yes, sure, as I write this, the hormones are raging. Which is pretty sweet; it’s a 7 week course, so it should conclude in a nice full cycle, if you will. But I don’t know, I don’t think it’s the hormones that are making me feel sad. I think it’s the notion that the one thing that makes me happy, the way opera used to, could be the one thing to break my heart more than anything else ever will – again.
It’s a hard exercise, to look at yourself under an even more critical lens than you already do. Like, dude, I know I got enough shortcomings to deal with, like, really? We gotta pile on even more? The irony is, this class is, eye-rollingly so at times, a “Safe Space” class. I mean it. No criticisms, no negative feedback, only positive and glowing responses allowed. For the entirety of the course.
And like, that’s cool, I guess, but how am I supposed to grow? Like this? Like sitting here, in the quiet corner, hearing how great the other writers are as they read aloud, while I look down at the filled page in my notebook with distaste and disappointment in myself? Like confirming what I already feared: that my fiction is hokey and mediocre and wandering, at best? Man, I don’t want my fellow classmates to sift through the pile of whatever shit writing prompt exercise I managed to eke out, and extract the one mildly-encouraging piece of feedback they might have. I don’t want them to affirm my shittiness, either; I want answers, god damn it! I want to know if what I’m attempting to do – writing fiction – is something I’m capable of. If stories don’t whirl around my mind at Stephen King speed, should I be trying at all? If my writing is somewhat…pedestrian, elementary, unrefined, should I even be here? If fiction doesn’t come as easily to me as, say, writing about my sex life and gender roles does, should I maybe not be writing fiction?
Self-doubt is an admitted plague within me, and honestly…I don’t want to have to resort to fucking carbs and true crime documentaries to provide me reprieve. I want to actually grow; will this class help with that?
I don’t know. I texted a buddy after, who also writes, who’s taken many a writing class, and he gave me a piece of great advice: “Don’t compare yourself to others. Compare yourself to you, now, to you in seven weeks from now.” That was pretty great. Not enough to keep me going back, but pretty great. No, I think my documenting my experience after each class will be the thing. Hold me accountable, make sure I go, so I can write some shitty prompt exercises, feel terrible about myself, and bike home.
Seven weeks, seven posts, seven nights of overeating and tears.
Let’s do it.
So, how did my first class go?
This might sum it up nicely: I came home and stress-ate carbs for an hour, while watching “The Keepers”, a docu-series about a murdered nun, to help take my mind off things, until I passed out on the couch.
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty scarred when it comes to being open with my artistic creations I don’t feel confident in. Actually, generally speaking, I will not put myself out there at all, if I don’t feel confident. I’ve always been that way, whether it’s at a new job, or a new school, or a house party where I don’t know anyone while knowing all too well, how little I fit in. I will be quiet, observe, glean what I can, bitterly and inwardly admire those who are clearly more advanced and better than I am, and sit back until I feel ready and sure enough in myself to step up, and be heard. Which is sometimes, sadly, never.
At this rate, my time to shine’s gonna be my literal deathbed confession.
And knowing that fills me with a rapid, suffocating, sense of panic.
After I made the choice to stop pursuing an opera career, part of it was because I really thought writing was it for me. Nothing else I’d ever done came as naturally. I was never able to execute any other creative outlet as honestly and openly and even…powerfully, as I was with the written word. It was something I couldn’t stay away from, even if I tried, and where all other aspects of my life waxed and waned, writing was a constant. It was the one thing that could actually, literally, make my day. More than a crush saying they liked me back, more than cooking the best thing I ever cooked, more than making a shit ton of money in a shift.
And now I’m in this class, confused, deflated, humbled, and sad. Because…wow.
I’m pretty shit at this.
And that wasn’t the lesson I needed.
I am, probably more so than anyone else is towards me, extremely hard on and critical of myself. It’s a detriment, in many ways, because it stops me, more often than not, from pursuing something that even mildly interests me. I am so cautious about potential failure, of looking bad, of not being my best, that I don’t even try. It’s kept from committing to travel, moves, job changes, etc., and I’m left in this place where not much about me has changed. And in the mildly glaring lights of the classroom last night, I became painfully aware of how very stuck I am, of how very unevolved and uninteresting. It’s the mirror I tend to avoid, because it’s the mirror I polish with one eye closed.
And man, it sucked.
Yes, sure, as I write this, the hormones are raging. Which is pretty sweet; it’s a 7 week course, so it should conclude in a nice full cycle, if you will. But I don’t know, I don’t think it’s the hormones that are making me feel sad. I think it’s the notion that the one thing that makes me happy, the way opera used to, could be the one thing to break my heart more than anything else ever will – again.
It’s a hard exercise, to look at yourself under an even more critical lens than you already do. Like, dude, I know I got enough shortcomings to deal with, like, really? We gotta pile on even more? The irony is, this class is, eye-rollingly so at times, a “Safe Space” class. I mean it. No criticisms, no negative feedback, only positive and glowing responses allowed. For the entirety of the course.
And like, that’s cool, I guess, but how am I supposed to grow? Like this? Like sitting here, in the quiet corner, hearing how great the other writers are as they read aloud, while I look down at the filled page in my notebook with distaste and disappointment in myself? Like confirming what I already feared: that my fiction is hokey and mediocre and wandering, at best? Man, I don’t want my fellow classmates to sift through the pile of whatever shit writing prompt exercise I managed to eke out, and extract the one mildly-encouraging piece of feedback they might have. I don’t want them to affirm my shittiness, either; I want answers, god damn it! I want to know if what I’m attempting to do – writing fiction – is something I’m capable of. If stories don’t whirl around my mind at Stephen King speed, should I be trying at all? If my writing is somewhat…pedestrian, elementary, unrefined, should I even be here? If fiction doesn’t come as easily to me as, say, writing about my sex life and gender roles does, should I maybe not be writing fiction?
Self-doubt is an admitted plague within me, and honestly…I don’t want to have to resort to fucking carbs and true crime documentaries to provide me reprieve. I want to actually grow; will this class help with that?
I don’t know. I texted a buddy after, who also writes, who’s taken many a writing class, and he gave me a piece of great advice: “Don’t compare yourself to others. Compare yourself to you, now, to you in seven weeks from now.” That was pretty great. Not enough to keep me going back, but pretty great. No, I think my documenting my experience after each class will be the thing. Hold me accountable, make sure I go, so I can write some shitty prompt exercises, feel terrible about myself, and bike home.
Seven weeks, seven posts, seven nights of overeating and tears.
Let’s do it.
Saturday, October 26, 2019
To Say Good-bye
"Look at that sky,” Mom says in a murmuring nod towards the window. It’s a large pane of thick glass, snug in the bottleneck of the far wall. Through it, we can see the sun has begun to pull the bright gold of the day down below the horizon of Brooklyn rooftops, leaving stretching brushstrokes of periwinkles and pinks in its wake. It’s Yontiv. And soon enough, we can hear it. The first melodies of Simchat Torah crescendoing from inside warm homes and stuffy temples and pouring out into the chilly autumn streets, empty of vehicles and exhaust, engines and car horns replaced by dancing feet and throats swelled with song.
In this hospice room there is no sound, save the ticking of the small oblong clock opposite the single bed. It’s jarringly loud, even more so in an air tense with waiting for the funeral home staff to arrive. “You know, I never heard that second hand, until now,” my sister mentions, to no one in particular. A brief discussion of removing the batteries, or perhaps smashing it entirely, ensues, then fades back into silence.
Seeds of other conversations take root in this way, none of them ever growing to a full bloom. For even the talk of arrangements and plans…it’s all just too much, and yet, not enough at all.
In between those sparse clusters of chatter, each of our eyes take silent turns to gaze at him, then at each other, and finally, at ourselves. I don’t know how the others feel, what they are thinking. I hardly know my own self, everything inside of me is a jumble of emotions. For some wild seconds, I almost forget he’s there. And then for other long and visceral moments, he’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking directly at him. Grandpa. His face is already so tight across his bones and the color of his skin is all but gone, yet all I can see is his unforgettable smile as he laughs, that light that was always behind his eyes. Laughter seemed to be woven into his DNA; always quick with a quip, always with some sort of play on words, always with a good joke at the ready, even when it grew hard for him to get it out. To give joy to others through humor is a gift in and of itself, but he was generous far beyond that. Whether it was lessons to us, fighting for his country, helping men dress their best, or aiding seniors in getting work, he was a man who gave without question. And he was loved, by all who knew him, even if you didn’t know him well. He had an ability to touch your life, even if it was only fleeting as a wave and a smile.
And the thing about that, in a species where immortality is so highly sought after, so many will chase things like dynasty and power, in hopes that they will live on long after they’re gone from this earth. But really, what makes someone’s memory cherished, lasting, and nestled in the heart like nothing else, is a spirit who is loving, giving, and full of sharing their light solely to make others feel better. That was Grandpa.
That will always be, Grandpa.
The clock is still ticking, but I don’t hear it anymore. Outside that same window, the sun is gone. Pinks and periwinkles have deepened into blues and indigoes. And there, high above it all, I see a single balloon. It winks down at us from high in the sky, its long string dancing in the wind, floating ever-upwards. And as hard as it is to watch it disappear past the frame of the window, impossibly out of reach, there's a sweetness to this sorrow, as if he's soaring playfully away, buoyed by a sea of joyfully singing voices rising up from the streets below in celebration of life and of faith. And for a man who filled people with joy in the way my Grandpa always did, I can't think of a more fitting way to say good-bye.
In this hospice room there is no sound, save the ticking of the small oblong clock opposite the single bed. It’s jarringly loud, even more so in an air tense with waiting for the funeral home staff to arrive. “You know, I never heard that second hand, until now,” my sister mentions, to no one in particular. A brief discussion of removing the batteries, or perhaps smashing it entirely, ensues, then fades back into silence.
Seeds of other conversations take root in this way, none of them ever growing to a full bloom. For even the talk of arrangements and plans…it’s all just too much, and yet, not enough at all.
In between those sparse clusters of chatter, each of our eyes take silent turns to gaze at him, then at each other, and finally, at ourselves. I don’t know how the others feel, what they are thinking. I hardly know my own self, everything inside of me is a jumble of emotions. For some wild seconds, I almost forget he’s there. And then for other long and visceral moments, he’s all I can see, even when I’m not looking directly at him. Grandpa. His face is already so tight across his bones and the color of his skin is all but gone, yet all I can see is his unforgettable smile as he laughs, that light that was always behind his eyes. Laughter seemed to be woven into his DNA; always quick with a quip, always with some sort of play on words, always with a good joke at the ready, even when it grew hard for him to get it out. To give joy to others through humor is a gift in and of itself, but he was generous far beyond that. Whether it was lessons to us, fighting for his country, helping men dress their best, or aiding seniors in getting work, he was a man who gave without question. And he was loved, by all who knew him, even if you didn’t know him well. He had an ability to touch your life, even if it was only fleeting as a wave and a smile.
And the thing about that, in a species where immortality is so highly sought after, so many will chase things like dynasty and power, in hopes that they will live on long after they’re gone from this earth. But really, what makes someone’s memory cherished, lasting, and nestled in the heart like nothing else, is a spirit who is loving, giving, and full of sharing their light solely to make others feel better. That was Grandpa.
That will always be, Grandpa.
The clock is still ticking, but I don’t hear it anymore. Outside that same window, the sun is gone. Pinks and periwinkles have deepened into blues and indigoes. And there, high above it all, I see a single balloon. It winks down at us from high in the sky, its long string dancing in the wind, floating ever-upwards. And as hard as it is to watch it disappear past the frame of the window, impossibly out of reach, there's a sweetness to this sorrow, as if he's soaring playfully away, buoyed by a sea of joyfully singing voices rising up from the streets below in celebration of life and of faith. And for a man who filled people with joy in the way my Grandpa always did, I can't think of a more fitting way to say good-bye.
Saturday, September 7, 2019
Peak Petty
I think, by and large, we can all agree: holy tits, red-eyes suck. Honestly, after the one I flew last night, the only conclusion I could make is that there needs to be some sort of Agreement of Basic Consideration of Others we all sign before being allowed to purchase our tickets, right before clicking the “I’m not a robot” box. Because goddamn people, some of y’all are awful. Loud, rude, unshowered, coughing disgusting coughs without covering your mouth. Leaving the blindingly bright light above your seat ON. This flight is ungodly enough, why are some of you seemingly intentionally making it worse for the rest of us?
But maybe it’s just me. Maybe. To be fair, more and more lately, I find myself annoyed by everything. Hating people who make phone calls or play music *on speakerphone* on mass transit or other enclosed spaces. Yelling at drivers who nearly run me over when I have the right of way. Cursing anyone who doesn’t use blinkers or appropriate signals. Sighing at customers who seriously, seriously, stare impatiently at me while I’m serving others, then when I go over to them, they have no idea what they even want yet. Wanting to pull my hair out at pedestrians who can’t grasp that in NYC we walk to the right on the sidewalk, and if you’re in a group, *you* move over for people walking in the other direction.
And so on.
Because I could go on, but I’m really not prepared to see the full scope of my pet peeves listed out in black and white.
You may have noticed the majority of my list of grievances revolves around the road, drivers, walkers. Because, oddly enough, it was me making the switch from lifelong NY pedestrian into daily commuting biker to really start noticing shit. Namely, the shitty things, the worst being how little consideration and awareness people have for anyone else but themselves.
It didn’t used to be so bad, I’ll say that. In my teens and very early 20’s, when I was still pedestrianing and subwaying, the MTA was still functioning and dependable, people seemed happy, and walking around the streets was enjoyable. Even *I* was relaxed then. But then, when I switched to biking at 24, my whole perspective shifted. I remember distinctly, after 2 full years of this new means of transport, I made a wish for 2012, instead of a new year’s resolution (because that’s how it works, right): for people to get their awareness back. I crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping 2013 would bring sanity back, bring people paying attention back, bring people being considerate and looking before they did things back.
Based on how this piece opened, I think you can guess how that panned out.
And I would think, in 2013, and even more so now, when boggled by the latest idiot not paying attention: has the city gotten this bad? Are people just getting shittier? Or, recently, and perhaps worst of all: am I turning into a boomer?
Fuck me, I don’t know. Maybe it just happened to work out that as I aged, the world shifted, too. That during my 20’s the world really was better, happier: social media wasn’t really there yet - no one was instagramming, Twitter was barely a thing, the MTA worked, no one had lost everything or worse in the recession, and no one had to go into debt to go back to school to maybe, maybe, get a job after months of being laid off. And that now, half-way into my 30’s, it’s… now. So maybe this low-level hum of rage isn’t my age at all, it’s just society going to fucking shit and me being painfully aware of it. Or maybe, I’m just turning into a cantankerous old cunt, and like the planet melting, it’s happening faster than any of us are ready for.
So what inspired me to write this, now, today? From the sound of it, I have remained at this level of intensity since I was 26 years old, so, why the delay of this masterpiece?
Well, dear friends, because of the goddamn red-eye flight.
Like I said, they’re always hellish, but something happened on this particular flight that made me snap.
The usual stuff I was braced and ready for, and sure enough, it was there to meet us at the gate. The impatient crush to get on. The family with four kids, all under 5, all of whom were crying. The freeballing coughs through layers and stalagmites of phlegm from the old man a couple rows back. The Chinese tourists sitting behind us that didn’t shut up or stop kicking and digging around the backs of our chairs for a single minute.
But what did me in, and most infuriatingly, was: the empty seat.
Ah yes, the elusive empty seat in your row. That wonderful surprise neither I nor my boyfriend ever, ever would have expected on a flight in general, but certainly not on one back to NYC. But there it was. The aisle seat of our row. Gate closed, we were all seat-buckled in, and the plane was off to the runway, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. We were reveling in the joy of not having to squeeze past someone to pee, and how glad we were to have sacrificed the extra $150 for this row, the one with extra leg room, because now: boom, this seat.
Fast forward a sleepy-eyed 15 minutes, I look over to see the flight staff coming around with water and snacks. And then…a hand, in between the attendant and my boyfriend, shoots out and snatches a pack of pretzels from the held-out box, and I am confused. I jolt to fully-awake, I lean forward, and I see a hooded figure seating in the aisle seat. The EMPTY aisle seat is no longer empty. I frown. Did a little kid move up here or something? But when I look over, no. It wasn’t a kid. Not an old person, not a handicapped person, not a person with a leg cast or ankle brace that needed leg room. Not even a sick person who needed proximity to the restroom. No. ‘Twas one of the women from the row behind us who decided - not asked, and not paid extra for - to sit herself there. So she can be more comfortable. Her now-former row has an empty seat, and now her two friends get the exact luxury my boyfriend and I were looking forward to having.
I was LIVID.
Because first of all, what the fuck? We have to pay extra for these seats, but you just get to leave your less-expensive seat and take this one, without even asking? And now your friends get to spread out over their whole row? Because fuck whoever might have been looking forward to having extra space for themselves, right? Fuck them wanting to get up to use the bathroom without the obstacle of climbing over someone else. Because why would you ever waste a second even maybe considering that? Because nah boo, it’s your world, your comfort, and everyone else is just background, right?
Now, I understand my anger is probably totally unwarranted and even, say, ridiculous. “What if she has a bad knee, Elena?” you might suggest. “What if she was sitting next to her mother-in-law and she hates her?” “What if she struggled to immigrate from China after a hard life of oppression?” “What if-“ See, now that’s the thing, right, empathy? Trying to understand why someone might do something, something that’s annoying or a hindrance or inconveniences you? But after living in NYC, man, I’m tired of trying to explain away people being selfish. I’m tired of always being the one to hold doors, move out of the way, notice you’re coming and give you space, make up a story in my head as to why you could possibly be moving furniture for an hour at 1 in the morning. I’m tired of seeing people do whatever the fuck they want because they want to, or because they’re too oblivious to care, and you’re the one who’s left being pissed while everyone else is sagely telling you with a shaking head, “gotta let that shit slide, Elena.”
No, I say, because you know why? I fucking can’t. I can’t let it slide. I try over and over and over, and I fucking can’t. Because there is no fucking excuse. Because if I can manage to be a decent person, or at least try to be a decent person on one of my shitty days, why can’t everyone else? And if I can at least make up a reason in my mind to justify the level of dickishness of someone I cross paths with, then why can’t they seem to do the same for me when I have to keep nudging their goddamn hands off the tiny piece of pole space I have on the subway when they have allllll the space in the world above theirs? WHY? GOD.
So, this lady on the plane. I’m still sitting, still seething. Her dumb friends are *still* managing to be loud and fidgety behind me. Everytime the goddamn attendant comes around, they’re in a tizzy all over again, pissing themselves with loud conversation over goddamn cups of water. I’m pissed for my boyfriend being so nice about it, even though I know he was reeeeeally looking forward to that empty seat - he must have checked the seat plan at least 8 times to see if it would stay empty for the flight. I’m pissed because she’s sleeping, and I’m here awake. I’m pissed because what the fuck is the point of paying extra when someone else can slide into the same seat without even asking?
It was at this point I really started to feel hopeless about myself. God, I think, I’m fucking awful. So angry, right, and over what, in the grand scheme? This, this is my big problem? This is the thing that mars a flight home? This is the thing that’s going to consume me with angry-stress? I can see myself, an 89 year old witch lady with deep eyebrow wrinkles and an unkempt yard who screams at kids. And it sucks, really. Yet I knew I wasn’t going to get past this just doing nothing. I also wasn’t going to talk to an attendant and start a thing on a red eye flight. I wasn’t going to be that Karen. So what did I do?
I decided to be petty. The pettiest of the petty moves, is what I chose. I scheduled a bathroom break, every 20 minutes. And further petty still, I convinced my boyfriend to do the same.
Because fuck you. You and your friends gonna take the lap of luxury for yourselves, without a blink of concern for anyone around you, or thinking that it might possibly be a bother to someone? Fine. Then Imma take that cushy sleep you thought you were gonna get, I’m gonna stroll back and forth in that extra legroom you thought you’d stretch in to for the whole flight, and I will keep waking you up to “go”. I won’t even have to pee. Oh, I won’t be in there long. I’ll let those who have to go, go first. Better for me, maybe I’ll catch you *just* as she starts to doze off--
Ugh. See, there I go again.
In truth, this lady was probably a fine person. Let’s see... She has a family, friends, and they all like her. She did okay in school, but has a job that pays pretty good, good enough to travel internationally and with her friends. She’s dating, and she really likes him. I dunno. She’s a person. She’s got thoughts and feelings, she’s had her heart broken. She’s succeeded, she’s failed. And as I write this, I could almost start to feel better, not care that she’s there, not even be mad at her for being there.
But as the back of my chair rattles for the 1,071st time and loud babble re-emerges, that calm feeling vanishes in the blink of an eye.
I gotta go - bathroom break.
But maybe it’s just me. Maybe. To be fair, more and more lately, I find myself annoyed by everything. Hating people who make phone calls or play music *on speakerphone* on mass transit or other enclosed spaces. Yelling at drivers who nearly run me over when I have the right of way. Cursing anyone who doesn’t use blinkers or appropriate signals. Sighing at customers who seriously, seriously, stare impatiently at me while I’m serving others, then when I go over to them, they have no idea what they even want yet. Wanting to pull my hair out at pedestrians who can’t grasp that in NYC we walk to the right on the sidewalk, and if you’re in a group, *you* move over for people walking in the other direction.
And so on.
Because I could go on, but I’m really not prepared to see the full scope of my pet peeves listed out in black and white.
You may have noticed the majority of my list of grievances revolves around the road, drivers, walkers. Because, oddly enough, it was me making the switch from lifelong NY pedestrian into daily commuting biker to really start noticing shit. Namely, the shitty things, the worst being how little consideration and awareness people have for anyone else but themselves.
It didn’t used to be so bad, I’ll say that. In my teens and very early 20’s, when I was still pedestrianing and subwaying, the MTA was still functioning and dependable, people seemed happy, and walking around the streets was enjoyable. Even *I* was relaxed then. But then, when I switched to biking at 24, my whole perspective shifted. I remember distinctly, after 2 full years of this new means of transport, I made a wish for 2012, instead of a new year’s resolution (because that’s how it works, right): for people to get their awareness back. I crossed my fingers and held my breath, hoping 2013 would bring sanity back, bring people paying attention back, bring people being considerate and looking before they did things back.
Based on how this piece opened, I think you can guess how that panned out.
And I would think, in 2013, and even more so now, when boggled by the latest idiot not paying attention: has the city gotten this bad? Are people just getting shittier? Or, recently, and perhaps worst of all: am I turning into a boomer?
Fuck me, I don’t know. Maybe it just happened to work out that as I aged, the world shifted, too. That during my 20’s the world really was better, happier: social media wasn’t really there yet - no one was instagramming, Twitter was barely a thing, the MTA worked, no one had lost everything or worse in the recession, and no one had to go into debt to go back to school to maybe, maybe, get a job after months of being laid off. And that now, half-way into my 30’s, it’s… now. So maybe this low-level hum of rage isn’t my age at all, it’s just society going to fucking shit and me being painfully aware of it. Or maybe, I’m just turning into a cantankerous old cunt, and like the planet melting, it’s happening faster than any of us are ready for.
So what inspired me to write this, now, today? From the sound of it, I have remained at this level of intensity since I was 26 years old, so, why the delay of this masterpiece?
Well, dear friends, because of the goddamn red-eye flight.
Like I said, they’re always hellish, but something happened on this particular flight that made me snap.
The usual stuff I was braced and ready for, and sure enough, it was there to meet us at the gate. The impatient crush to get on. The family with four kids, all under 5, all of whom were crying. The freeballing coughs through layers and stalagmites of phlegm from the old man a couple rows back. The Chinese tourists sitting behind us that didn’t shut up or stop kicking and digging around the backs of our chairs for a single minute.
But what did me in, and most infuriatingly, was: the empty seat.
Ah yes, the elusive empty seat in your row. That wonderful surprise neither I nor my boyfriend ever, ever would have expected on a flight in general, but certainly not on one back to NYC. But there it was. The aisle seat of our row. Gate closed, we were all seat-buckled in, and the plane was off to the runway, 20 minutes ahead of schedule. We were reveling in the joy of not having to squeeze past someone to pee, and how glad we were to have sacrificed the extra $150 for this row, the one with extra leg room, because now: boom, this seat.
Fast forward a sleepy-eyed 15 minutes, I look over to see the flight staff coming around with water and snacks. And then…a hand, in between the attendant and my boyfriend, shoots out and snatches a pack of pretzels from the held-out box, and I am confused. I jolt to fully-awake, I lean forward, and I see a hooded figure seating in the aisle seat. The EMPTY aisle seat is no longer empty. I frown. Did a little kid move up here or something? But when I look over, no. It wasn’t a kid. Not an old person, not a handicapped person, not a person with a leg cast or ankle brace that needed leg room. Not even a sick person who needed proximity to the restroom. No. ‘Twas one of the women from the row behind us who decided - not asked, and not paid extra for - to sit herself there. So she can be more comfortable. Her now-former row has an empty seat, and now her two friends get the exact luxury my boyfriend and I were looking forward to having.
I was LIVID.
Because first of all, what the fuck? We have to pay extra for these seats, but you just get to leave your less-expensive seat and take this one, without even asking? And now your friends get to spread out over their whole row? Because fuck whoever might have been looking forward to having extra space for themselves, right? Fuck them wanting to get up to use the bathroom without the obstacle of climbing over someone else. Because why would you ever waste a second even maybe considering that? Because nah boo, it’s your world, your comfort, and everyone else is just background, right?
Now, I understand my anger is probably totally unwarranted and even, say, ridiculous. “What if she has a bad knee, Elena?” you might suggest. “What if she was sitting next to her mother-in-law and she hates her?” “What if she struggled to immigrate from China after a hard life of oppression?” “What if-“ See, now that’s the thing, right, empathy? Trying to understand why someone might do something, something that’s annoying or a hindrance or inconveniences you? But after living in NYC, man, I’m tired of trying to explain away people being selfish. I’m tired of always being the one to hold doors, move out of the way, notice you’re coming and give you space, make up a story in my head as to why you could possibly be moving furniture for an hour at 1 in the morning. I’m tired of seeing people do whatever the fuck they want because they want to, or because they’re too oblivious to care, and you’re the one who’s left being pissed while everyone else is sagely telling you with a shaking head, “gotta let that shit slide, Elena.”
No, I say, because you know why? I fucking can’t. I can’t let it slide. I try over and over and over, and I fucking can’t. Because there is no fucking excuse. Because if I can manage to be a decent person, or at least try to be a decent person on one of my shitty days, why can’t everyone else? And if I can at least make up a reason in my mind to justify the level of dickishness of someone I cross paths with, then why can’t they seem to do the same for me when I have to keep nudging their goddamn hands off the tiny piece of pole space I have on the subway when they have allllll the space in the world above theirs? WHY? GOD.
So, this lady on the plane. I’m still sitting, still seething. Her dumb friends are *still* managing to be loud and fidgety behind me. Everytime the goddamn attendant comes around, they’re in a tizzy all over again, pissing themselves with loud conversation over goddamn cups of water. I’m pissed for my boyfriend being so nice about it, even though I know he was reeeeeally looking forward to that empty seat - he must have checked the seat plan at least 8 times to see if it would stay empty for the flight. I’m pissed because she’s sleeping, and I’m here awake. I’m pissed because what the fuck is the point of paying extra when someone else can slide into the same seat without even asking?
It was at this point I really started to feel hopeless about myself. God, I think, I’m fucking awful. So angry, right, and over what, in the grand scheme? This, this is my big problem? This is the thing that mars a flight home? This is the thing that’s going to consume me with angry-stress? I can see myself, an 89 year old witch lady with deep eyebrow wrinkles and an unkempt yard who screams at kids. And it sucks, really. Yet I knew I wasn’t going to get past this just doing nothing. I also wasn’t going to talk to an attendant and start a thing on a red eye flight. I wasn’t going to be that Karen. So what did I do?
I decided to be petty. The pettiest of the petty moves, is what I chose. I scheduled a bathroom break, every 20 minutes. And further petty still, I convinced my boyfriend to do the same.
Because fuck you. You and your friends gonna take the lap of luxury for yourselves, without a blink of concern for anyone around you, or thinking that it might possibly be a bother to someone? Fine. Then Imma take that cushy sleep you thought you were gonna get, I’m gonna stroll back and forth in that extra legroom you thought you’d stretch in to for the whole flight, and I will keep waking you up to “go”. I won’t even have to pee. Oh, I won’t be in there long. I’ll let those who have to go, go first. Better for me, maybe I’ll catch you *just* as she starts to doze off--
Ugh. See, there I go again.
In truth, this lady was probably a fine person. Let’s see... She has a family, friends, and they all like her. She did okay in school, but has a job that pays pretty good, good enough to travel internationally and with her friends. She’s dating, and she really likes him. I dunno. She’s a person. She’s got thoughts and feelings, she’s had her heart broken. She’s succeeded, she’s failed. And as I write this, I could almost start to feel better, not care that she’s there, not even be mad at her for being there.
But as the back of my chair rattles for the 1,071st time and loud babble re-emerges, that calm feeling vanishes in the blink of an eye.
I gotta go - bathroom break.
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