I've only been keeping everybody at work updated about my approaching vacation for about 2 weeks. I've mentioned in passing, made schedule adjustments to fit into my time off and generally thought I was diong a pretty good job letting everyone know that I would not be around for the first two weeks of August. They were either in severe denial or not listening.

Nothing in the whole world is worse than working until nearly 8 pm on a Friday night in the middle of July. It was just wrong. Tonight I vow to leave before 6:30, mostly because I have to go to Williams Sonoma to buy a present. I still haven't purchased the flip flops I wanted. Or the black linen pants I'll have to do without. But I have a huge can of Deepwoods Off that probably contain some cousin chemical to Agent Orange.

While I'm moaning about all this work, and how did they forget and why me, why now, I keep overlooking the cloud/silver lining factor of it all. Casually, I was asked to author up a section. Granted, it is only a Appendix, granted it involves no fancy flair or impressive findings, but it's 3 pages I've authored leading to other small writing opportunities. Then entire reports, taking over the company and so forth and so on.

Monday, July 29, 2002

---

I was going to change my color scheme into blues and purples but realized I'm too lazy to go through my messy code and do this. I was going to clean out my closet last night, sort the winter clothes to one side and the summer clothes to the other, organize my shoes on the new shoe rack but then realized I was too lazy to actually do this. I was also going to share the story of dinner with Edward at Angel's restaurant which led to lots of questions about what the two of us are all about but really I can't fully explain it. I think I may be 15% hungover, but most of it is lazy. Vacation may not start until Wednesday, and I have 4 days of work to get through but I'm 75% already there.

Thursday, July 25, 2002

---

Coney Island is trash. I go there to be among the trash, the salty air. Actually, I prefer to spend most of my time at Brighton Beach and get on and off the train in Coney Island. There was Williamsburg-types wearing pants and long sleeves in the summer, hair dyed to dark and taking pictures of the beautiful oddity of it all. I hate the way the urban art scene acts like it's discovered something rustic and strange just because they've ventured away from their neighborhood of Starbucks and book stores that serve coffee with their digital camera and two or three friends in tow.

We went on the pirate's ship, a $3 ride. The one that goes back and forth like a huge swing and your butt lifts off the seat and you raise your hands and scream your head off while smiling until it almost hurts. None of the Williamsburg types were on this ride. The problem was a girl on the ride before us puked. They cleaned where she was sitting but didn't realize there'd be puke directly across from it,on the lap bar directly behind me. You could smell it, kind of. There were also children who were too scared, messing up the ride. This one little girl kept her eyes closed and was deep breathing. Another slid far down on the seat and gave the ride operator the finger, one solitary finger sticking up and we swung back and forth. They stopped the ride to let people off and restarted it. It wasn't so much fun the second time and made me feel a little ill. My stomach was weakened and I didn't go on the Cyclone as I'd planned.

You can buy beer and they give you a paper cup, so you can take it with you. You can walk up and down the street drinking and no one cares. I saw in the paper, or maybe I dreamed it because lately my dreams have been so vivid that I have trouble believing they weren't real, that Disney is interested in Coney Island. I'd rather they stay away and give me my dirty girty place, some 22 stops away from Manhattan but only half that from my abode.

When I was small, my grandfather lived in Bay Ridge and we went to the Aquarium at Coney Island. I don't recall much about the day except for the very end when I touched one of the hotdog vendors carts and burned my fingers. The guy was really nice and gave me tons of ice as well as an Italian ice to quiet my 4 year old self. The funny thing about the story is my older sister says she was the one that was burnt that day, though my mother can testify that is was me. I was the only on stupid enough to do something like that.

Tuesday, July 23, 2002

---

Half a conversation or what my officemate hears when I'm talking on the phone:

Yeah, but you know, he was all messed up.
He wears sun glasses all the time, you know.
Mostly pot, wanting to make us sing again and again, listen to us, you know man. He wanted to hear the love.
My sister and her fiance were there and he got a little jealous when the shirt came off.
Pretty damn sexy, but fighting the drugs the entire night.
Oh, that's okay, bye.

What the other party was asking: Was the Lenny Kravitz concert fun | what do you mean | what was he on | who did you go with, he's sexy | shit I have to go.

I could feel the officemate's head turn at stare at the back of mine, wondering what the hell I was talking about. I got back to work, letting him think everything but the truth.

Thursday, July 18, 2002

---

There was this dark tanned man of some background that allows you to tan to a leathery color with defined abdominal muscles. He also had random pieces of his black hair dyed white, was wearing tight pants and a tank top. Generally, he looked like a boy band reject and a good portion of the central to southern Jersey boys who seem to lack any sense or style thanks to the combination of too much sun shine and the contaminated ground water in that area of the state. He was with his girlfriend with no hops and hip huggers, long hair high lighted in some awful way and, of course, the obligatory lip liner outside of her actual lips and three shades darker than the lip stick. This is all a set up to inform you of the most disgusting part of this young man, the part that made me want to falls to the ground and curl up in a ball.

He grabbed the hem of his shirt, while talking about his new car, to wipe the sweat off his face. Across this tanned definted tummy was stubble. He'd shaves his stomach for vanity purposed and then walks around with stubble. He probably did it for when they tried to get into the MTV beach shack earlier in the week. If I girl was walking around with that much stubble on her legs, she'd be scorned. If shaving, bother with the maintenance, or let it alone. Sometimes, I understand exactly why people make fun of my home state.
Thursday, July 18, 2002

---

I highly recommend drinking immediately after work mid-week, I might make a habit of it. However, 4 glasses of wine before a movie generally means you are paying for an air conditioned nap and don't know how the movie ended. At least it was only a $5 nap and not $11.50 or however much they're scamming us for movie tickets at full price these days.

I was feeling a bit queasy this morning (because of a pill) and went to get my morning strawberry-kiwi / Focus Vitamin Water. When I opened the case, there was a Mango Madness Snapple at the front of the line of my pre-selected beverage (I wrote mange first instead of mango). This is the number one gross beverage on my list, only because of the massive projectile vomiting that occurred and hour after drinking a bottle while landing in a plane so small I swear the pilot went out first to start the propeller whirling. Whenever I see this beverage, I am reminded of opening my mouth to gasp and having myself covered instantly in its partially digested form. Yeah, so that and feeling queasy really made me want to go back home instead of sitting on the subway next to 3 separate men who were wearing enough cologne for me to actually taste.

I like referring to medication (over the counter & prescription) as pills because it makes me sounds more exciting. "Excuse me, I have to take a pill" "this pill is making me ill" "shit, I forgot my pills." As if they are something exciting and fun.

My new apartment on the second floor features a small balcony large enough for a chair and mini-grill and a few plants or no chair at all and my bird's cage. You can see pretty far from up there, the details of people's back yard, cars stopped at the light a few blocks away, and the sunset. While the small awning blocks the direct sun from entering the apartment, I realized it would be beneficial shelter when it rains to enjoy a cigarette. However, I then realized I look for positive things that support my cigarette habit which proves I'm not as willing to stp smoking as I'd like to believe. In Haiti, my plan is to smoke cigars, Cuban, in order to cut back on cigarette consumption.
Wednesday, July 17, 2002

---

Where’s my muse? Something to make me want to construct beautiful sentences, think brilliant thoughts. When even the most benign ponderings are works of genius, watching the peanut butter slide off the knife. Laundry lists are all I come up with now, without elegance or much interest. Tide versus Wisk based entirely on what is cheaper, and only purchased when needed. When I was younger, I felt bolder, maybe more fearless but it could be I really didn’t care.

Marie’s cheeks turn so pink in the summertime, her chestnut hair curling from behind her ears. She needs red lipstick, Capri pants and heeled shoes to complete the 1950s starlet those rosy cheeks make her look like. Poetry is a format that suits her, perfectly actually. She inspires me, sometimes.

The pendulum metaphor is often used, possibly abused, in cases when people want to illustrate their inability to make decisions. The motion is, however, ignored while the brief nanosecond that it hangs on either end is treated as if it comprised most of the pendulum's activities. I prefer the playground swing metaphor better, with the simultaneous up and down / back and forth range of motion. Linear movement pales in comparison, whether metaphorical or not.

I have never marched in a parade or joined a protest unless you count the Million Man March but I was more of an observer. This is the role I fill in life. We call the numbers of the variables or the measures at work observations. I think. I fill in these observation into excel spreadsheets. Spreadsheets lack substance, style. One cannot say luscious, adjective heavy sentences about them. If one did, they might be labeled a dork, maybe a dweeb but definitely not enlightened.

When I leave my desk, the dry spreadsheets and use my key to enter my apartment which houses the things I care for, I feel much better. Even though both contain much laminated particleboard, as both the office and myself are cheap, it’s definitely not the same place. Color for one. No spreadsheets for another. And the things that have substance to me, that contain worthwhile qualities are here. This is where I create and work on my schedule which frequently extends forever.

If someone was to sit and make a list of the different things I do, the dabbling and fleeting interests, they should start with the violin in third grade. Or maybe coloring books, with all those cheap rough paper pages or sometimes black crayoned outlines my mother drew. The line could be drawn through my life with those things I pick up and then put down. Musical endeavors were discarded at the most frequent basis follow by crafts that require more patience than anything else, like clay beads.

There’s the necessary need and then the starving desire. There’s painted boxes to hold items and butterfly handbags because I knew it would be beautiful. Frequently, the two would cross but that was called a writers workshop where 85% of the people pissed me off. Inspiration in those occasions would be completely faked, while what really inspired me was tucked away from eyes that I deemed unworthy within minutes of hearing them talk.

This is what happens when I work on a project that is mostly labor. I can twist it into interest, I can form complexities, but in reality I am partially bored. I want something to be completely exciting and compelling rather than laborious. I want a muse, or to be mused.
Tuesday, July 16, 2002

---

Among it all last night, I managed to find time to crochet. My fingers were stiffening, my body just not getting into that meditative mode I need to relax. I got the spins from either new medication and not enough food or getting my period and not enough food. It caused me to trip twice while trying to emerge from the subway. I suspect it's the first since I just took another pill and feel the same way; I had no idea this was a side effect of antbiotics. I felt dizzy and had to pack up things like books and board games, laterns and bobblehead chihuahuas. I also needed to return a video, which took too long. I lemon oiled the floors to bring out their luster since they are crappy floors. Painted around the light fixtures. Didn't complete what I wanted to, so I made lists.

But I crocheted, even for a little while. Maybe 45 minutes or so before going to bed. I managed to relax and crochet. And packed some yarn in my bag for the train since I have to go to Jersey to pick up a car so I can get my parents from JFK tomorrow. But while I was trying to buy some food before taking my pill, I realized I forgot my wallet. I got a bagel on credit so I could take this pill. Now I have to run to Brooklyn, get my wallet, go to Jersey, get a car, get back to Brooklyn, pack & clean, sleep 2.5 hours, move heavy things up one flight. My only regret right now is that I can't crochet and drive at the same time. I need more time to unwind.

My sister got into an accident in NYC yesterday on her way to class. This city seems determined to take out my family's cars one by one. This is why I'm bothering to go get my license, as accidents seem inevitable lately.

Edward asked what the overwhelmingly sweet smell in the neighborhood was last night. I asked him if it was strongest near the apartment building up the street and I determined that it was the blooming hydrangea bush they have. I was describing which one it was, saying it had these big flower clusters, huge blue balls. At which point Edward cracked up and the conversation was suspended for a good minute or two. While I had to pretend the interruption of laughter was immature, I surely wouldn't have wanted a roommate that just nodded and said uh-huh after me saying huge blue balls.
Friday, July 12, 2002

---

I'm getting anxious about moving on Saturday. I don't have to have everything packed but what if I don't pack enough and the many helper boys I'm having over get mad at things not being ready? What if they think my belongings are too dusty? What if they thing I have too much shit that needs to be disgared? Letting people touch your things in order for them to be moved makes me anxious. This is mostly because I am nuerotic. I used to have things packed to go to school weeks in advance and had school packed the night before, everthing perfectly ready. When I'm not perfectly ready, I get all anxious. Being a perfectionist is a serious disease.

In two and half weeks I'll be on vacation. I hope I don't forget my camera like I forgot it this weekend when I wanted to document the meeting of historical proportions. It was better than when Nixon went to China, really. But I forgot my camera so it wasn't on the front of the New York Times. If I forget my camera this time, I neededn't worry about having no pictures as one friend is a notorious picture taking (and this is the Plaza, and this is the Church, and the little girl I sat next to at lunch one day). But it will be through her eye not mine. Whatever, I probably won't be able to afford to have them developed. The film in the camera is about a year old now, since I forget to take my camera all the time.

We had a meeting today about the mentoring prgram I decided to participate in so that I could get some professional development going on. While my own personal grammatical/editing skills are pretty sucky, I am hawk-eyed about things I see. I couldn't help but to let the woman who was brought in and paid, runs her own consulting company, know about the typo in her footer, on each page of her booklets. It was the name of her web site, she needed to know. She said thanks but some of the people leaving the meeting (I waited until the end, not raising my hand right in the middle to let her know) looked at me like I was crazy.
Thursday, July 11, 2002

---