Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York
We were going to go upstate to take a few days together alone and decompress after a stressful week of breaking up and not breaking up and going fucking crazy.
Marie's friend's car wouldn't start when we got up to leave around noon on Sunday. A couple of Orthodox Jews were the only ones who would stop to try and give us a jump on Havemeyer. They pulled up like urban do-good commandos. They were bad ass. They hopped out and went right to it, blocking traffic for a full block in front of our apartment in the process without the slightest hesitation, as though the good work trumped any minor traffic inconvenience. I like their attitude. This city's so fucked up that the only people who will lend a helping hand are bound to by God's law - Marie had sat outside for three hours the night before trying to bribe people to help her. "Hopefully it works!" our large payot haired helper in his understated black and white outfit said as the car horns blared behind us and he motioned for Marie to turn the key. It didn't. And horns blasted. But the imprint of the good deed of God's commando team left me beaming. It takes some real balls to go out of your way to help someone in the midst of stifling indifference.
An hour later the tow truck showed up as Marie and I sat on the ground, wilted under the shade of a tree, near an overflowing dumpster next to the car, drinking iced coffee, as little kids walking with their mothers turned and looked and I contemplated on how cynical and indifferent I'd become since I moved to New York City.
The day before I'd sat in the bathtub like a four year old kid with bubbles in my hair, staring blankly at the wall trying to figure out what to do with my life, thinking of how I despised the impersonal, harsh and unforgiving vibrations of the city. "What are you doing, baby?" Marie asked as she peeked through the open door of the bathroom. We'd been arguing, fighting, trying to sort things out after she'd come back from upstate. "I think I just need to get out of here," I said. "I just wanna get on a plane and go." "Where do you want to go, baby?." "I don't know. Somewhere where people give a shit." "Your not in your right mind, baby." "I still wanna go."
After the tow truck took the car away we walked through the heat to the silver bullet of an airstream trailer where my friend from Texas cooked in the blurred border between Williamsburg and Bushwick. Sweat beaded on our skin as we sipped our lemonades and read the Sunday Times, talking about an article that posed the question of whether or not happiness can be bought. The article said that once your basic needs are met, money means fuck all. What does seem to be important, however, is the quality the relationships in your life. "I wanna live somewhere where I feel part of the surrounding community, not isolated from it," I said. "It's too fucking impersonal here." "You're free to make friends here," Marie said. "Nobody has time for friends here." "I'm glad you've stuck with me though, baby," she said, "I think we can make a life for ourselves somewhere else. I'm up for it."
My head ached a dull, tired, stressed out ache as we walked, then stopped, then walked, then stopped, block after block, resting in the shade, Marie smoking, me thinking, until we made it all the way to the free summer Sunday concert series at the waterfront that looked out across to the shimmering starkness of Manhattan, as a guy in a cut off t-shirt jumped around on stage yelling into the mic, a dj pumping his fist at the ambling crowd, in between bands.
We sat on a rock watching the concert people as we alternately looked out at the skyline of the city, gray clouds billowing, diffusing the sun, as I thought to myself that I didn't know one person in the midst of all those people there, and that that was my neighborhood. "Thank you for not giving up on me," I said, leaning into Marie, my beard tickling her ear, causing her to laugh as she shot me a playful glance.
We left before the next band came on and caught a cab to see a movie playing at the Landmark Sunshine Theater on Houston St. The driver let us out in front handball courts teeming with activity. "I'm not sure about a city where smacking a ball against a wall is considered entertainment," I told Marie. "They don't do that other places." "No, baby. There's better things to do in other places."
As we exited after the movie a large white faced clock stood ominously atop a building surrounded by dark clouds as the ink blue sky faded into black.
We sat at an outdoor table on the sidewalk in front of a pizza place near the Lower East side, candlelight from the table glowing off Marie's face as crowds and cars passed by in a steady distracting stream, her private thoughts filling her eyes with a longing sadness as she smoked, and I reflected how the city mirrored her sooty stare.
After dinner we walked through the darkened grimy streets of the Lower East Side under the glimmering lights of the city toward the Williamsburg bridge, toward home. A cab stopped as we approached the arced lit cables of the bridge. "Come on," the cabbie yelled! "I'm goin' that way anyway. Just give me a couple of bucks!"
His cab was overflowing with with pictures, business cards and mementos from his life. He smiled gregariously. The meter was off. He had unruly hair, a beard and electric eyes. He gave me his business card as we sped across the bridge, suspended in air. 'Rolling for Jesus' it said. "I'm a preacher, seer, street evangelist!" he said, his eye catching mine in the rear view mirror as the Manhattan skyline reeled by in my periphery.
He pulled the cab off to the side of the road under the Brooklyn Queens Expressway as we rounded the corner near our apartment. "This is close enough," I said. He flipped on the light and turned to look at me and Marie. "Let me leave you two with some couples advice. For the man: don't be tempted. Don't let others into your bed. For the woman: Accept him for who he is. Don't try to change him. Grow together but give each other space. And love each other."
Peace
Showing posts with label Back in good graces. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Back in good graces. Show all posts
Monday, 9 August 2010
Thursday, 8 July 2010
Fourth Of July
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York
Marie and I spent the weekend in the Hamptons. She was cooking. I was doing dishes for people with names that only the very rich or the very poor can have. Whimsical names unconcerned with future employment.
The house was once owned by American royalty, surrounded by a garden with a lush array of greens and paisley pastels. Each day the sky was a wet blue streaked with wisps of clouds. The sunsets spilled rose'. All was surreal and peaceful, like living inside of a Manet painting.
A famous movie director lived across the street.
A writer for the New Yorker next door.
A rap mogul cruised by one afternoon under the sun in a lime green drop top Volkswagon Beatle.
People lightly gossiped while sunning by the pool.
Naked, blond and tanned children giggled and ran through people's legs while holding red popsicles.
Lunch was served under the pagoda in the garden.
Dinner on the patio by candlelight.
We had the day off.
It was sweltering out.
Bentleys and Beamers parked near the water. The sand was crisp and warm.
The water was chill. The air was quiet and reserved. People on the beach wore designer everything, huddled in small groups, stared at my body covered in ink, wondering how in the hell I had found my way into their wealthy sanctuary.
I paid them no mind.
My back hurt and Marie's legs were tired, from work.
We laid our towels down, kissed then fell asleep under the burning sun.
It was the Fourth of July with the rich and famous.
Love
Marie and I spent the weekend in the Hamptons. She was cooking. I was doing dishes for people with names that only the very rich or the very poor can have. Whimsical names unconcerned with future employment.
The house was once owned by American royalty, surrounded by a garden with a lush array of greens and paisley pastels. Each day the sky was a wet blue streaked with wisps of clouds. The sunsets spilled rose'. All was surreal and peaceful, like living inside of a Manet painting.
A famous movie director lived across the street.
A writer for the New Yorker next door.
A rap mogul cruised by one afternoon under the sun in a lime green drop top Volkswagon Beatle.
People lightly gossiped while sunning by the pool.
Naked, blond and tanned children giggled and ran through people's legs while holding red popsicles.
Lunch was served under the pagoda in the garden.
Dinner on the patio by candlelight.
We had the day off.
It was sweltering out.
Bentleys and Beamers parked near the water. The sand was crisp and warm.
The water was chill. The air was quiet and reserved. People on the beach wore designer everything, huddled in small groups, stared at my body covered in ink, wondering how in the hell I had found my way into their wealthy sanctuary.
I paid them no mind.
My back hurt and Marie's legs were tired, from work.
We laid our towels down, kissed then fell asleep under the burning sun.
It was the Fourth of July with the rich and famous.
Love
Tuesday, 30 June 2009
Prestigious Writers are Blow Hards
Williamsburg, Brooklyn, New York
I got yet another rejection letter for the book I'm trying to pimp - that makes 7 or 8 so far (but who's counting?) - which makes me feel like I can't write... but I can yoga!
I may not be the best or most flexible yogi in the world, but I can hold my gas in class - which I recently remembered is very difficult - and is more than I can say for some writers at America's top papers. Sure, they may be able to write in depth award winning exposes, host dinner parties and wow dignified guests with their intellect and wit while showing off their Ivy League diplomas in their glossy, oak decor studies over high priced whiskey. But, can they bend themselves into a virtual pretzel and not blow gas? I don't think so. In fact, I know so. And that's where I've got them beat. When it comes to holding my gas I'm phenomenal. But given the right set of circumstances, say, if I were invited to one of those high brow dinner parties I just might blow hard too.
My return to mastery of my gas began a week ago or so, just after I'd come back to New York from Salt Lake City on my bus ride through Dante's inferno. Marie'd left town for two weeks to cook at a yoga retreat Upstate at her friends place. And after having been jostled and throttled across the land for 56 hours straight, unrelentingly, mercilessly on a caravan full of crazy, the thought of yoga, stretching my body and relaxing my mind sounded okay. One day after my return, on my way to work I walked past a yoga studio a couple blocks from our apartment that was advertising a yoga barbecue for the next day. It sounded like a winning combination and I decided to do something rejuvenating and recuperative for myself.
I needed to love myself again.
The next day I went to the yoga barbecue.
I've done yoga in the past and I really liked the tranquility and almost euphoric sense of calm that I would often experience after a session. What I'd forgotten about were the volcanic like bursts that would sometimes shudder through my intestinal tract forcing me to clench myself tighter than a dolphin's butthole.
I remembered quickly.
The yoga barbecue started to seem like not such a good idea after all, as for almost the entire hour or more that I twisted myself up like a python my mantra was: "Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself!" It was a lot like the beginning scene of Braveheart when those Celtic warriors were bracing themselves for the attack with Mel Gibson yelling at them: "Hold! Hold! Hold! Hold!!!!!!" I held. But for the next few days thereafter I blew gas like Old Faithful in Wyoming.
My body and mind felt better after the class, and I wanted more of that feeling, so a few days later I went back.
Same thing.
Puckerin' up.
And for the next few days after class, again, I blew wind like the Santa Anas.
Over the next weekend I went up to the yoga retreat to help Marie out some in the kitchen.
Not long after I arrived in the early morning I was put to work, which meant that I'd be doing a sea of dishes. No problem. Fine. I'm a master dish technician. The first job that I ever got was as a dishwasher. My old Finnish boss (Finn) loved me when he wasn't berating me and the kitchen staff for being slow, stupid and incompetent. And under that caring guidance my hands became electric cleaning machines.
Twenty years later I found that I still had the touch.
By the time four o' clock and the start of the afternoon yoga session came around and I climbed out of the relentless piles of dishes, my back and neck were wrecked.
So I joined the yogis for class.
The session was grueling. I looked like I was slightly retarded, flopping around like a fish out of water compared to most of the other obviously seasoned twisters. On top of that I'd made the mistake of drinking massive amounts of coffee to get me through the dishes that'd paraded mockingly, in grand awkward stacks, in front of me all day long. Once in class I very quickly found myself near total ERUPTION! But not a peep nor blaring butt trumpet sounded from me the entire session - after which I glued myself to the toilet holding on for dear life (remember the scene in Dumb and Dumber? - It was a lot like that).
The next morning was the last class of the retreat, and after Marie and I made coffee and set the continental breakfast out for everyone I went into the session all hopped up on Java again (I just don't learn). And while I struggled to restrain myself from cutting loose, the mid thirties petite blond in front of me began to let go with galloping bursts of abandon. At first I thought that her foot had maybe slipped on her yoga mat causing the tearing, squeaking sound, but as she continued to blow horn like a light house signaling the incoming fog I saw heads around us turn, and particularly towards me, to see where the fire was. I just looked proud, held my pose, and my blow horn, and motioned towards the culprit with sideways looks and head nods as she let go a series of short explosions like a car getting going on a cold morning. I felt sorry for her, but was pleased once again with my intestinal powers.
After class I went and locked myself in the bathroom.
The next night after most everyone was gone I was recounting the story of the farting yogi to Marie, her friend and a couple other girls over dinner, and they told me that the woman who'd blown like Fog Horn Leg Horn wrote for the New York Times or some other prestigious publication, and I felt a sense of vindication wash over me, as even though I may not be a published writer, and I get rejection letter after rejection letter for my book I can hold my own when it comes to yoga and blowing my horn...
Love
I got yet another rejection letter for the book I'm trying to pimp - that makes 7 or 8 so far (but who's counting?) - which makes me feel like I can't write... but I can yoga!
I may not be the best or most flexible yogi in the world, but I can hold my gas in class - which I recently remembered is very difficult - and is more than I can say for some writers at America's top papers. Sure, they may be able to write in depth award winning exposes, host dinner parties and wow dignified guests with their intellect and wit while showing off their Ivy League diplomas in their glossy, oak decor studies over high priced whiskey. But, can they bend themselves into a virtual pretzel and not blow gas? I don't think so. In fact, I know so. And that's where I've got them beat. When it comes to holding my gas I'm phenomenal. But given the right set of circumstances, say, if I were invited to one of those high brow dinner parties I just might blow hard too.
My return to mastery of my gas began a week ago or so, just after I'd come back to New York from Salt Lake City on my bus ride through Dante's inferno. Marie'd left town for two weeks to cook at a yoga retreat Upstate at her friends place. And after having been jostled and throttled across the land for 56 hours straight, unrelentingly, mercilessly on a caravan full of crazy, the thought of yoga, stretching my body and relaxing my mind sounded okay. One day after my return, on my way to work I walked past a yoga studio a couple blocks from our apartment that was advertising a yoga barbecue for the next day. It sounded like a winning combination and I decided to do something rejuvenating and recuperative for myself.
I needed to love myself again.
The next day I went to the yoga barbecue.
I've done yoga in the past and I really liked the tranquility and almost euphoric sense of calm that I would often experience after a session. What I'd forgotten about were the volcanic like bursts that would sometimes shudder through my intestinal tract forcing me to clench myself tighter than a dolphin's butthole.
I remembered quickly.
The yoga barbecue started to seem like not such a good idea after all, as for almost the entire hour or more that I twisted myself up like a python my mantra was: "Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself. Don't shit yourself!" It was a lot like the beginning scene of Braveheart when those Celtic warriors were bracing themselves for the attack with Mel Gibson yelling at them: "Hold! Hold! Hold! Hold!!!!!!" I held. But for the next few days thereafter I blew gas like Old Faithful in Wyoming.
My body and mind felt better after the class, and I wanted more of that feeling, so a few days later I went back.
Same thing.
Puckerin' up.
And for the next few days after class, again, I blew wind like the Santa Anas.
Over the next weekend I went up to the yoga retreat to help Marie out some in the kitchen.
Not long after I arrived in the early morning I was put to work, which meant that I'd be doing a sea of dishes. No problem. Fine. I'm a master dish technician. The first job that I ever got was as a dishwasher. My old Finnish boss (Finn) loved me when he wasn't berating me and the kitchen staff for being slow, stupid and incompetent. And under that caring guidance my hands became electric cleaning machines.
Twenty years later I found that I still had the touch.
By the time four o' clock and the start of the afternoon yoga session came around and I climbed out of the relentless piles of dishes, my back and neck were wrecked.
So I joined the yogis for class.
The session was grueling. I looked like I was slightly retarded, flopping around like a fish out of water compared to most of the other obviously seasoned twisters. On top of that I'd made the mistake of drinking massive amounts of coffee to get me through the dishes that'd paraded mockingly, in grand awkward stacks, in front of me all day long. Once in class I very quickly found myself near total ERUPTION! But not a peep nor blaring butt trumpet sounded from me the entire session - after which I glued myself to the toilet holding on for dear life (remember the scene in Dumb and Dumber? - It was a lot like that).
The next morning was the last class of the retreat, and after Marie and I made coffee and set the continental breakfast out for everyone I went into the session all hopped up on Java again (I just don't learn). And while I struggled to restrain myself from cutting loose, the mid thirties petite blond in front of me began to let go with galloping bursts of abandon. At first I thought that her foot had maybe slipped on her yoga mat causing the tearing, squeaking sound, but as she continued to blow horn like a light house signaling the incoming fog I saw heads around us turn, and particularly towards me, to see where the fire was. I just looked proud, held my pose, and my blow horn, and motioned towards the culprit with sideways looks and head nods as she let go a series of short explosions like a car getting going on a cold morning. I felt sorry for her, but was pleased once again with my intestinal powers.
After class I went and locked myself in the bathroom.
The next night after most everyone was gone I was recounting the story of the farting yogi to Marie, her friend and a couple other girls over dinner, and they told me that the woman who'd blown like Fog Horn Leg Horn wrote for the New York Times or some other prestigious publication, and I felt a sense of vindication wash over me, as even though I may not be a published writer, and I get rejection letter after rejection letter for my book I can hold my own when it comes to yoga and blowing my horn...
Love
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