I haven't been writing as I've been in a bad mood for days now. I don't sleep well, I'm perpetually tired and have little motivation to do anything other than clean, craft and wander. My mother told me to think about the cause rather than just wallowing in a bad mood. Amusingly, she never spoke to me in this manner when my bad moods effected me much more as a teenager. That's besides the point.

In part, I'm going through an crisis of what do I want, where do I want to be, what is it that I'm doing. This revolves heavily around my job and the fact that if asked to change this particular set of figures that, in my opnion, don't say all that much, I might kill someone. The repetitive, worn-out, boring tasks have been occupying more and more time, cutting into the more free and experimental job tasks I tried to get myself assigned. I've been a little disgruntled and whining about my job frequently these days. The on-going annoyance with personal habits of my cellmate doesn't help any.

Lately, I've seen several postings on telephone poles and the like in my neighborhood about incessantly barking dogs, and how you can be fined if your dog just barks and barks. I guess some people hear dogs barking incessantly, while I haven't taken any notice. At 4 am this morning, there wasn't a sound anywhere as I stood on my balcony, wrapped in a cuddly blanket and smoked since I surely wasn't sleeping. The summer-bugs of night were mostly quiet, the neighbors all had their lights out and were safely dreaming under the summer weight cotton bedspreads. The traffic on the nearby street had disappeared. I watched the light 3 blocks away go through it's entire red/orange/green cycle once, twice before I heard the wishy hiss of tires flying up the street. I went back to bed, and didn't wake until I heard Michelle by the Beatles on the alarm clock.
Song of the day: Winter
Wednesday, September 25, 2002

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“You know what I did last equinox? I knocked over people’s eggs.”
So said Alex. Because, supposedly, on the equinox, the world is so in balance that you can stand an egg on its end and it’ll stay that way until the equinox is over and things become unbalanced again. I did feel more centered, together, level-headed than I had in a while these past few days. I felt as if months of working towards clarity, joy, and so forth were starting to show some results. But what’s even better is to get your egg knocked over. Because that balance is just temporary.

I am currently playing matchmaker and carefully arranging the meeting between a boy who is borderline obsessed and a girl who has officially given up on the other sex. I get to carefully select the information that comes through from one to the next until their first meeting occurs, thus altering the perceptions each has on the other. Unlike in my non-matchmaking life, where I’m honest and no not delete, select, or premeditate on my communications. Admittedly, I give more of the truth/ basically the truth to the female in the situation since I’ve known her longer and feel that females deserve the upper hand anyway. To a certain extent, this is enjoyable. It’s playing a game and trying to get it just right. It’s also somewhat exhausting as I must keep the motives and interests in mind at all times.

This has led me to view myself more of as a character composed of particular traits. I watch myself and comment on the things that I am doing. “Oh, there’s Tara being charming, polite and generally adorable.” “Moody black and nasty, but pouting in a way that makes people feel responsible for your predicament.” I suppressed my obsessive desire to scrub the bathroom by sweeping floors instead, saving my sore cuticles from any further damage by way of chemicals.

Vanity has been getting the best of me. While investigating my pores and plucking fine hairs from between my eyebrows, I noticed a quarter centimeter fold along my upper lip, near that little dip below my nose. It was a wrinkle, much like the one on the inside of my right eyebrow I got from scowling, worrying and stressing shortly after my house burned down. This new tiny wrinkle is not from worry. I know precisely the cause and now must make drastic decisions I am wholly unprepared for. This wrinkle is definitely attributable to smoking. It’s a pucker line from sucking down nicotine.

When my hair was longer, I would spend an hour or two every weekend in front of a window with good light with a pair of scissors. I would hold the ends of my hair to the light and search for split ends, trimming each individual hair that contained an end that was not perfectly smooth. Thankfully, cutting my hair short made this habit impossible, breaking this part of my obsessively vain behavior.

Vanity is much stronger than the health reasons they give to scare people into not smoking. Will it win out and be the final thing that drives me away from the delicious, enjoyable cigarette? I stock-piled some 6 packs while in New Jersey so we shall soon see. For now, I’ve never wanted a cigarette more.
Song of the day: You’ve Got to Hide Your Love.
Monday, September 23, 2002

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This morning, while lying in bed, deciding what to wear, knowing this was just a tactic to not get out of bed since I never put on whatever is decided while lying there I heard a screech. And then a crash. Another screech. Crash. Crash. There was a pause, a stillness, and a woman's panicked trembling shouting of "Oh my God, Oh no, Oh NO!"

I looked outside and saw a town car rear-ended. A luxury sedan sandwiched. A mini-van served as the caboose. The three cars where taking up the pace that normally two would occupy. Cars take up a lot less space when their trunks are smushed in. The world was completely still. There were no other cars on the streets, no people milling about going to school. The yellowed morning sun made the green shine brightly. And three cars stood smushed.

The street at the end of mine is frequently busy in the morning. Cars fly up it much faster than they ought to. Late nights, I can heard trucks rumble by, taking the street like a highway from the Verrazanos to the BQE. I've frequently heard tires squealing, smelt burnt rubber. Angel once called me morbid when after a particularly long screech I shouted "Cer-ash! Bang! Aaah." But never before had there been an accident. There's something disappointing about this. Where you expect there to be accidents, where things sound like they are to go wrong, but never do.

I've seen plenty of accidents in my life. At 13, a Jeep rolled over feet from where I was walking, tossing the shoes of the driver across the street. The man pulled himself up, walked across the street and picked up his shoes. As if the problem was that he lost his shoes, and not that his Jeep was now upside down. Another time, I saw two cars at an orange flasher when I was about 50 feet back. I pulled over and said "those cars are going to collide." They did. I pulled away from the curb and drove around them. There is something about the expected "ooops."

The inevitable finally happened this morning. Like teenagers fooling around, eventually the deflowering just occurs. The entire time I was getting ready for work, I could hear the cops talking to people, people yelling, cars beeping their horns as they had to drive around the accident and generally more noise than is ever heard in my neighborhood. Just about everyone was out on their stoop, giving me house after house of "good mornings" to say and receive. It was kind of nice, in its own way, and I'm only saying this because no one was hurt.

And, yeah, I completely watched the Growing Pains reunion last night. It was better than The Facts of Life. Mostly because it made me laugh out loud at one point. When the family was having it out with dad, Alan Thicke, about all the things he said wrong, his political points, the concluding grievance was "And you took an Anti-Canadian stand?"

If you don't get why that's remotely funny, I don't know if we can be friends. Song of the day: All I really want to do.
Friday, September 20, 2002

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My life has been pretty boring lately. Proof: Last night I watched the Facts of Life reunion that aired years ago when my life was too busy and my sister invited me to watch it but I had to decline since my life was less boring at the time. While watching this program, I saw a commerical for the Growing Pains reunion and got all cheesed and excited. This is probably what I will be doing on Thursday.

Rather than sharing, lately I've been in the mood for secrets, surprises and the unknown. I walked over the Brooklyn Bridge yesterday and wasn't filled with the normal excitement and vigor but felt tired of it. I feel tired of a lot of things so I've been trying to mix things up. But how much can do you when you must spend the first 10 hours of your day at work, preparing for work or leaving work? The tasks that work is presenting, the minute details that must be filled in before I can move on, don't help alleviate this boredom.

Maybe this is all a pre-seasonal change anticipation agitation. I am waiting and waiting for the new season to come upon us but still have the windows wide open, dress in short sleeves and am phasing out my sandals. I can't wait for sweaters. The song of the day is: Rambling Man.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002

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Friday night, a the foot of the stairs to my subway was a teenaged couple, probably seniors in high school or freshman at Brooklyn College. They were having a bit of a fight, blocking half the stairwell and requiring me and my evening companion walk down single-file. The male of the couple was a tall broad black Brooklyn boy wearing baggy clothing and corn rows. The girl was a thin angular Polish or other assorted Eastern European type, either an immigrant or first generation American-born, with still the distinctive accent, wearing tight jeans, hair tightly pulled back and tight high heeled shoes.

Boy: Nah, you not listen' to what I'm sayin'
Girl: You are saying that you don't vant to create scene?
Boy: Nah, there's a difference between creatin' a scene and listenin'.
Girl: But I do not understand difference you talking about.
Boy: Exactly, that's exactly what I'm sayin'. boo.

And then he took her hand swipped her through the turnstyle. They stood on the platform silently, hand-in-hand. I don't understand how their conversation led to a resoultion, but in their world it was resolved. The mix of their Brooklyn ghetto slang and Brooklyn immigrant accent struck me as so funny. It's something you only see in Brooklyn.
Monday, September 16, 2002

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Spending Wednesday with Jesse was good for me. I had a constant companionship throughout the day that seemed terribly long but eerily short. It was nice to have the thoughts out when they came along. It was also nice to hear his little songs he sings all of the time, the music in his head coming out of his mouth. Thursday morning we woke and he got to see exactly how aloof I am when preparing to leave for work. After he dressed in a baby blue cardigan and a Farrah Faucet t-shirt, he walked into the kitchen and Conrad, my dear bird, began to flap around and become irritated and aggravated. Jesse asked him to calm down and I walked around, doing whatever it is I exactly do in the morning that magically makes me ready to leave, seemingly without care that my bird was freaking out. Pausing in the hallway I turned to Jesse and said, "I think Conrad was unprepared to see Farrah Faucet this early in the morning."

To rouse myself from bed this morning, after hitting snooze at least 10,000 times, I said, out loud, to myself “Rise and shine, it’s Friday!” Seriously, I’ve been talking to myself a lot lately. I had a full on conversation with whatever new magazine was on ABC last night. Telling myself to get up helped since I did indeed wake, shower, talk to Conrad, and watch a little bit of television to make sure the world out there was okay to enter. All day long, it’s been a pretty nice day. Maybe the anxiety of not knowing how I’d feel earlier in the week going away can be held accountable. Maybe it’s just because it is indeed Friday.

Regardless, I got a “Tiger Woods” sandwich for lunch today (grilled chicken, roasted peppers and watercress) and bought a bottle of “Determination” VitaminWater even if it’s $2. It does not taste too much like Jello. It sold me on its clever description:

But you gotta admit, ever once in a while you need a little encouragement, especially when you don’t have a dental plan, haven’t gotten a raise in, say, over a year, and you’re forced to sit in an unventilated cubicle 10 hours a day, writing labels over and over and over again.

Or something like that are my tasks at hand for work. Except, I’ve been moved passed writer of appendices that no one except for obscure researchers read to Chapter 1 material. It’s basic but it’s first. Maybe it’s exciting work, or a step up from writing labels over and over and over again that has made my mood sunny. Maybe it’s the crafting I’m up to, including a crocheted “tapestry” I’m designing in my head for Jesse’s box project and a new skill I’ve acquired. Maybe it’s the coffee I knew better than to drink.

Whatever it is, I’m happy it’s all mine.
Friday, September 13, 2002

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I have a lot of trouble believing in the lotto now. Why, you ask? Yesterday's winning numbers were 9-1-1.

Thursday, September 12, 2002

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My feelings are no more important than yours. My feelings are not the offical ones spoken from platforms with a camera panning the listening, tearful audience. They are not meant to be on a platform, because they are mine.

I spent the night in New Jersey, because it's my family and I didn't need them but I love them. When I woke, showered, shaved my legs, deep conditioned my hair, applied work-not-realy-make-up make-up, dried my hair and went to Jesse's to get breakfast and get to work, eventually. I did not want to deal with the bullshit at work, the ringing of bells and gathering of people. It's simply not my deal. I work here, not share and emote. This is my employment, not my therapy. So I skipped out on their hand-holding because, for me, it's mine to deal with. And then entered work, after buying Jesse a VitaminWater (orange-something) which he mentioned tastes a lot like Jello. And, you know, he's right.

craft night!
Wednesday, September 11, 2002

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Who puts it better? Bess or The Onion? Obviously Bess is 10 times more witty.
Tuesday, September 10, 2002

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Late last August, I registered to vote. Mostly because no one was asking me to "Rock the Vote" or "Rap the Vote" or throwing any slogans at me to pressure me into participating in the so-called democracy our republic is founded on. It was for pure patriotism, before it was the hip thing to do. I also had a personal thing against Mark Green and I didn't want him to become mayor. I applied for a job in his office about a year earlier and didn't even get a second interview. If I wasn't good enough for him, he wasn't good enough for my city. I actually wanted Bloomberg because he wasn't telling anyone at the time that his money generating schemes would be higher cigarette taxes and recycling programs which are really the two things I care about in the end.

In the end, I didn't get the opportunity to vote. My registration was held up for too long with all the chaos going around in the world at the time. But finally, this morning, I voted. I voted for primaries for political offices that I can’t even remember. I also can’t remember whom I voted for. I just went to vote because I was allowed to. There were about 15 voter volunteers in the gym of the local elementary school and only 1 voter, me. I didn’t plan special to vote today, I was actually running later than usual for work but saw the “vote aqui”, “vote here” and however it’s written in Chinese on signs on my way to the subway. And stopped in to vote.

It would be fun, if we could just swing by out local voting place to vote each day. “Does Cheney need a hair piece? y/n” “Do you want a higher cigarette tax?” “Want to take back your vote for Bloomberg?” “Who misses Guiliani?” “Vote for your new bodega store owner aqui.”
Tuesday, September 10, 2002

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I'm very anxious to see how this week pans out. Mostly, I'd like to just be a New Yorker with a hole in the sky and not all this bullshit on television, newspapers and practically up my ass 24/7. Wednesday is not just the first anniversary of a terrorist attack for me, but importantly, it's the first Craft Night I'm attending. I'll celebrate every day for the rest of the year using 9/11/02 reference as the first craft night because what everyone else is running around doing is painfully morbid. "3/11/03 - The 6 Month Anniversary of the First Craft Night, tonight on my brain." Plus, Brooke's making pot pie.

I had a lovely party followed by a larger than imagined group of people staying over (9) which everyone who reads this page in my life was at, I believe. Bess has lovely pictures that she snapped in sleuth mode, or at least the appearance of trying to take them slyly. I still didn't do my laundry and really must tonight as I am basically busy until next month or Saturday, which ever comes first.

Lately, I've been having trouble saying what's on my mind, afraid to offend, annoy or have a different opinion. For example, I'm supposed to be cheesed at Brooke making pot pie but honestly, I don't like it. I'll shut up now then.
Monday, September 9, 2002

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