if only i could. peek, that is.

in

to my one-day-pal,




did you do school plays as a child?

do you remember the heavy velvet curtains through which you'd peek just before a performance?

ours were green. hard to pull apart.

those moments just before were the most exciting, weren't they?

the lights backstage all off.

peering through to a lit theatre, or auditorium, or cafeteria: rear-window in reverse.

i always peeked. did you?

i remember looking out during my first-year discovery project at juilliard. there were no curtains. no dimmed lights. open-air. i was in love with a boy then and wanted only to know where he was sitting.

and i remember a production during my fourth year, looking through wooden slats and spotting kevin spacey. word spread quickly and more than one performance was charged with that knowledge. silly actors.

i think all actors do it. peek and peer. no matter the performance space or the cost of the ticket. if they don't i'm quite sure i wouldn't care to be friends with them--too uppity about it all.
it's one of those necessary rituals. theatre as religion.

the moment just before.

that's what everything feels like right now.
like you're on the other side of that heavy, green curtain. and if i could just push it to the side and catch a glimpse--poke a small hole through the black paper covering the window.

like i'm in the dark room waiting to emerge in the light.





love, love,

me





image via sabino.

beans in the elevator.

in ,


i'm not quite sure when i became so honest.


well, actually that's not true.

i think i've always been honest. but upon request only.

my truths were mine--they were private things.

i suppose the extent to which i have relinquished my privacy (by making these truths public) has everything to do with coping with a disease--the truth of which made manifest in my body each and every day.

much as i wanted to lie, much as i wanted to hide--my body exposed new secrets each day in fresh ways--the puffiness of my cheeks, the snugness of a favorite sweater.

it was ned who changed the game. he made the battle a public one. and my willingness to fight back with honesty is more response than anything else.

so yes. now i am forthcoming in hopes of staying a step ahead. of controlling the story, if you will.

and i rarely ever lie. (which is not necessarily a good thing. lying {like flirting} is a skill which can prove important and necessary at various times).

so when i do, i am out of practice. and i flail a bit.

there had been a stench coming from the kitchen for a while. more time than i'd care to admit, actually (omission). and i kept returning to the fridge. trying to suss it out (correct usage? oh, who cares.) where was it? what was emitting foul odor?

i threw pounds of stuff away. stuff that was not mine. frozen meat that had been there for years. (remember i moved into an apartment where girls had lived for many cycles of the moon). questionable milk. rotting vegetables.

and still the scent persisted.

and i despaired.

i took the trash out.

i lysoled. baking-soda-ed. scrubbed. put my nose right up to...everything.

i finally found the offender.

black beans. perfectly normal looking things. no visible mold or rotting. but one sniff (and after coming to) i knew.

so i pulled our a trash bag, dumped them in, and hopped in the elevator to get to the outside trash receptacles.

and just as the doors were closing, leaving me alone with the beans for a mere three floors, totally doable in light of the odorless freedom on the other side, a girl stuck her hand in the rapidly diminishing crack, halted the door and got on.

three floors with rotting beans, myself, and someone else in a small enclosed space? not doable, no matter the prize.

the stench was...horrific. and i was...mortified.

so i lied.

i lied like it was my job.

"flowers gone bad," i said. for indeed that's what it smelled like.

she smiled coyly. and honest to God, i don't even think she spoke english. a waste (play on spelling intended, thank you very much) of a lie.

so here's the thing. i'll tell the truth about anything. my feelings. my past. all those skeletons that bernard shaw recommends we teach to dance. but a rotting can of beans? nope, no way. it was the beans that brought me to my knees. forced me to lie. the truth of them was just too much to share.

i mean, my God, what 24 year-old let's a can of black beans go bad to the point of turning putrid (because indeed the beans were mine.)?

i told you, i'm really not skilled in the kitchen.


confused as to who ned is?
or want more info on him?
check my sidebar.

what began as an open letter to the boy who followed just behind me in the park yesterday.

in

{disclaimer: this whole thing only makes half-sense to me, so expect confusion.}

i knew immediately i wasn't attracted to you.

call it female intuition.

but i was impressed.

impressed that you asked for directions (a lie, no?) and then proceeded to follow two paces behind me as we crossed to the west side.

and then annoyed. annoyed that the guys who follow girls home in the parks are never the guys you'd like to interrupt your meditative walk.

you kept the conversation going (difficult since i gave you one to two word answers), you in your floppy hat and me in my black, below-the-knee boots.

and still i wasn't interested.

and you asked what i did, and i said writer. and you asked if i self-published and i said no (known lie #2) and you wondered why not, after all, you had a blog (discernible turn-off #2 {ironic, no?} the first being the hat). you went on to talk about grad school and working in a restaurant (turn off, again).

and i felt bad judging you harshly for those things that i myself did. but then you did it. you said you were off to the Met with a friend where you'd smoke pot and wander around the galleries marveling at all the artwork.

and there it was.

i have passed the point of finding such cliche's attractive (though i'm quite sure that was never a line that impressed me).

but bottom line is this: you're a boy. you're still a boy.

it's funny how taste changes over time.

but it does.

quickly, sometimes.

and you wake to find you want something else entirely. because the things that used to draw you in now serve as warning signs. index-finger-ring? keep walking. silver pocket chain? not for me. the brain has evolved into a multi-layered thinking device. step one: tatoos, heavy scruff, no nine-to-five job? immediate interest (and this is where it used to end), but now, the mind continues on to step two: that interest muted by other more pressing matters. like the knowledge that in the past, men with those things never provided any kind of meaningful relationship.

and believe it or not i do learn from mistakes.

yes, i want adventure. and yes, the bad-boy will always hold a certain lure, but i want so much more than that.

i had a conversation with a male-friend a few months back where i spoke of a changing set of attractions--one where stability ranked much higher than a proclivity for the grunge-band look.

and said friend said i was settling.

and instinctively (female intuition once more) i knew he was wrong.

this biological clock thing isn't just about wanting children. it's about needing to provide for those children. about choosing the right partner to bear children with. and as a woman you start preparing for the final step (children) years before you've ever even met the man.

(i think.)

because it's biology. evolution, even. it comes down to a working science that we don't even realize is in operation until long after the plates have shifted.

my friends used to joke about what high standards i have. and i would balk and say no. take me to a ballgame, feed me a hot dog and call it a day. i'm easy in that sense. but you know what? maybe they were right. take me to a ballgame, yes. but the guy sure as hell has to be worth it.

no floppy hats here, please.