As of right now, I have two jobs, one working as an under-paid Barista in Yorkville on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, and another as working under the title of “personal assistant”, and by “personal assistant”, I mean “slave to a 78 year old woman” who happens to have arthritis and depends on me to acquire her drugs on a weekly basis. A gram of weed here, a few benzo’s there, and of course, CVS trips to pick up diapers, enemas and 6 pack cans of diet pepsi.
Job #1, the one where I make skim cappacions for housewives and their friends usually fly’s by rather quickly, myself humming old folk songs while I subconsciously make the same drink for the third time in a row, but yesterday, something new happened. I was working the register, writing down drink titles and taking dirty money, and a man approaches and asks for a glass of water and then gets very close to my face, maybe three inches away and whispers, “I need to know the title of this book you have here because I can’t see very well and I left my glasses at home. I’m just going to take the book and look really close, is that okay”? Because of my taking Valium every morning before work (pathetic, yes), I find these situations neither startling nor scary, but merely another New York moment to remember for a train ride down the road.
Looking at my computer screen, I calmly and nicely mention that we can’t move the books without an individual purchase, but I’d be more than happy to write down the title of the author & novel and give it to him to use for when he has his glasses. While smiling and looking through his wallet, he says
“Did you know that I’m a psychiatrist? I had a stroke not long ago and that has a lot to do with my vision. Here, look at this, I am a part of the Mount Sinai psychiatric group and went to medical school at Columbia near Morningside Heights.”
I didn’t particurally care, and no matter how much Valium one might be on, creepy men are creepy men, and at this point, I was on the verge of telling him to move aside so I could assist the next customer. He wasn’t lying though. He should me identification of his being a part of the Columbia and Mount Sinai Psychiatric group/program/institute/whatever. I stated that it was nice talking to him and to take care and that I need to get back to work, but to take care and keep his chin up. He walked away, still smiling. His eyes were hazy.
An hour goes by, and the man comes up again. I roll my eyes, and he doesn’t notice. He asks for a piece of paper, so I take a small sheet from the receipt machine and give it to him. Thereafter, he asks for a pen. I begin to get flustered. He steps aside for a minute or so, looks in my direction and hands me the paper which says:
“Neuro-Scientist in Psychiatry - (his personal email address), his name, M-D PhD2B, Chapeau, N.Y.”
He then says,
“I would give you free sessions if you would like. I have my PhD. I don’t know if I mentioned that, you see, my memory is fading because I had a stroke not long ago, but here, I have this for you.”
The man hands me a tie, and a chamomile tea bag as a gift. He said that he collects ties and that he would like for me to have it. It was yellow with green stripes around it - a thick tie that would look horrendous on any of the clothing I own. I thanked him, and told him I would be in touch. I will not be in touch, but after that day, I came to the conclusion that one must always take every moment into consideration. Rather than considering this man to be a fucking nutcase, I stood straight, analyzed the situation and concluded that this 60 something year old man had a stroke. He might have once been brilliant, but in that moment, he was kind hearted, a little confused, but had lovely intentions and still smiled as he left the door.
As I left the store for my ten minute break to step outside 79th street to smoke a cigarette, he approached me and asked for his tie back because of him having dinner with his mother later.
“I feel really bad, you know. I wanted you to have the tie, but I want to look nice for my mom, so can I have it back please? Do you still have it?”
I smiled and said,
“Yes sir, I still have it and would be more than happy to return your tie. Give me 15 minutes and it will be my gift to you.”
I think I might be looking for a new job. The manager of American Apparel somewhere in SoHo wants me to model for her, and I said maybe, so we’ll see where that goes. Another part of me wants to transfer schools and study psychiatry.
1:12 am • 8 August 2011 • 2 notes
Berryman & I
John Berryman’s poem from “The Dream Songs” presents a dry and humorous approach to the expectations one holds for daily thought, and the honesty behind not exactly adding up to the standards you hold for yourself. Berryman wittingly begins his poem by stating “Life, friends, is boring”. A line as simple as this automatically gives the reader a smirk, a connection to the author and a desire to see what comes next. Starting from my early adolescence, I continually questioned my reason for existence, always punishing myself for not representing a type of cultural definition. I could never conquer the process behind learning the French language, which always disappointed me because of my constant need to prove myself wrong, to impress myself and expect the same recognition from my parents and friends of whom I never looked up to. It seems as if Berryman and myself are stuck in a pickle; one end representing truth, and the other standing alone, looking into a reflection of self-pity, having to admit that perfection is just as distant as internal acceptance and even more distant than self recognition.
John Berryman continues his thought by adding, “We must not say so.” On a very fine line, the admitting of life being boring and at often times dull is a step toward reaching a lifestyle where popping Valium isn’t necessary. “We must not say so” digs deep into my core, where the memory of childhood comes about, picturing my mother on our back porch in Arkansas with a cigarette in her mouth, and a frown on her face because of her knowing that I would never reach the super-human expectations that she and everyone else in my life held for me. Berryman might have a had a common experience growing up, reaching a point where the brainwashing of perfection becomes so prominent that it’s almost unrecognizable, a mask that is glued upon our face, not allowing failure to ever enter into the organized life that we created due to the stupidity and emotional blockage that our family and peers pushed upon us. “We must not say so”? No, we mustn’t say so. If we recognize the fact that life is only worth living by not taking ourselves, or our expectations seriously, the only result would be failure, and after all, who would ever want to be buried under a tombstone that read “They didn’t give a shit, so of course they had it coming”.
I find it interesting that something as simple as being honest with yourself is one of the hardest terms to come to. After Berryman shares his confession of his mother considering boredom to solely represent the isolation of inner resources, he calmly states, “I conclude now I have no inner resources, because I am heavy bored”. Considering that the author could have left out the word “heavy”, but decided not to is a great representation of the honesty he is finally coming to as a human and an artist. I relate to this daily. In January of 2011, I assisted the head director of Marymount Manhattan College, weekly rehearsing with actors in the attempt to create a European world of contrast and isolation. The process was wonderful, and I felt as if I learned a great deal. I was happy as an assistant until the very end of the show, where the cast and crew gathered together in a small studio apartment in the West Village (how any college student can afford this still stands to be a mystery), where alcohol accumulated on the granite counter, and actors gathered around one another like newborn wolves, dressed as sheep with the worst intentions. I stood alone until I reached the point of intoxication where my boredom no longer seemed a predicament, where I, myself could gather around the pact, grinning to see another grin, laughing to show assertion. Under ordinary circumstances, that is, without the use of drugs and alcohol, I would naturally find myself on the breaking point of boredom where even the most beautiful of all creatures seemed to be as ugly as I considered myself. Whether I be ugly or not could be up for debate, but in this particular moment, ugliness wasn’t an issue. The annoyingly bright and disillusioned company I surrounded myself with became the issue. I could be bored because I could leave without considering myself another one of “those”.
Berryman concludes his poem with the connection between man and dog by using a dog’s tail as a representation of the joy behind living a life that doesn’t hold pessimism and boredom. He and I both recognize the outside viewpoints toward life and happiness, and have willingly adjusted to the conclusion that you can’t change who you are. As the dog drifts off into “mountains or sea or sky”, the author is left alone. I suppose that the quote “Happiness is in the eye of the beholder” could be an appropriate way to conclude the isolation that our kind hold truly, but after all, the choice behind living under truth, and raw, emotional behavior or living a simple life where boredom is a distant stranger, is a microscopic mystery that holds the idea of happiness. Maybe Berryman doesn’t need happiness. I know I’m perfectly happy without it.
6:26 pm • 24 March 2011
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Crown on the Ground - Sleigh Bells
Because I’m feeling naughty.
3:12 pm • 15 April 2010
A message sent from a High School classmate
Keep in mind that I grew up in Arkansas.
“hey man you know for the longest time my family raised me to believe gay pple where wrong and they’re gonna burn in hell and all that shit basically my family is racist besides me and Remington well after high school I’ve started changing my ways to become open mindiness not meaning like that kind of open mindiness going the other way if that made since im not gay i kove females ive got a girlfriend about everything pple are
amazed how much I’ve
changed I don’t consider
myself a redneck or a
country person I’ve gotten
rid of all then friends
But what I’m trying g to say is that if I ever have offended you or made a remark about you being gay that’s made you upset I want to opologize for it I’ve changed my mind about gay pple there pple to they bleed the same I do and everybody else but I’m gonna shut up I’m making myself sound retarded but again I’m sorry if I’ve offended you about it. But holler at me sometime dude”
How beautiful.
11:45 pm • 13 April 2010 • 2 notes
Update after a semester
No, I didn’t pass away, I just stopped drinking and decided to start exercising instead of spending the night with drug dealers and watching Will and Grace every other day. I’m currently back in Arkansas and spend my mornings with thirty year old women in an intermediate algebra class unless I decide to skip so I can read Mark Twain, alone. My family doesn’t believe in me anymore, I associate with one friend of whom lives an hour away from me, and gave up on the idea of love about four months ago. Instead of dwelling on my series of misfortunes, I’ve come to the basic decision of enjoying every day whether I have a reason to or not. With so many books and so many plans, I smile even when I’m not smiling. Plus, I’m moving to New York in three months to finally feel something again and dream of it every night. That, and being killed, but like I said, I’m still grinning.
7:43 pm • 12 April 2010
I looked outside the window of this cafe I was sitting in, alone, to see snowflakes the size of dreams gathering around one another, creating mountains. I sat and wrote a new essay, and looked over to a woman sitting all alone, reading a romance novel and sobbing, over and over. She was alone too, but not as much as I was because she had a story, and, well, I was just trying to create one.
12:26 am • 31 December 2009
