It's been almost a week since my iPod was stolen.
I don't know who took it. But, I forgive you.
I think of you everyday. Whoever you are.
You are walking around with my music. My stories. A part of me. I had playlists on there that were tailored to Lynn, the Nurse, Chris. I had lists that were specific to my feelings. There was a sleep list. A California list. A Karaoke List.
I feel a sense of violation.
Your iPod is engraved on the back with my initials (CR+ music = True Love). Do you feel anything when you look at the back of it and see those initials. Maybe it's a coincidence and your name is Chester Robertson.
I hope you love music as much as I do. I hope you love my music. I hope you learn something about the person who created that iPod.
What I hope you learn is how to be sorry for taking something that ultimately can become so personal to another person.
I forgive you because of all the things I just gave you.
You should feel lucky. You have just be enriched by my music, my stories, my life.
Thursday, November 30, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
A song
The thrill of standing in a pool of warm light and the power of a hushed crowd can overwhelm a performer. But, it was exactly those ingredients that made for an amazing flourish of adrenaline that fed my performance last night.
The song was called "Just Like Magic."
It couldn't have been more appropriate.
Last night was like magic. There was magic everywhere. Magical performances. Magical meetings. Magical laughter, applause, screaming and hollering.
I live in a city that is so full of life and character. I work in a bar with so much talent and creativity. I am a part of a community, at a workplace, in a city that makes me proud and happy.
I am so glad I made it out of my small town life, but more importantly my small town mentality. I could stand on that stage last night and be embraced by my audience, my peers, my friends.
It was not always like this.
"I will not take these things for granted."
The song was called "Just Like Magic."
It couldn't have been more appropriate.
Last night was like magic. There was magic everywhere. Magical performances. Magical meetings. Magical laughter, applause, screaming and hollering.
I live in a city that is so full of life and character. I work in a bar with so much talent and creativity. I am a part of a community, at a workplace, in a city that makes me proud and happy.
I am so glad I made it out of my small town life, but more importantly my small town mentality. I could stand on that stage last night and be embraced by my audience, my peers, my friends.
It was not always like this.
"I will not take these things for granted."
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Revolving around Evolvement
I want to scream.
You look at me like you always do. You don't have a clue.
I can't tell you what I am really thinking.
In this age of provactive thinking and stubborn mindsets, we all look like we are clawing for an inch of platform on the ladder of individuality.
You don't get it. I don't mind. But, sometimes.
Don't say I trust you. Don't say I need you. Don't be so sure.
You cling to the rough edges of this world like the frayed ends of the scarf that twirls between your index and pointer. Like a security blanket. With nervousness and aniexty you hope the world around you will remain to blame.
In a world of self-analysis and self-reflection, when do we see ourselves evolve. We pull out our mirrors to reflect on ourselves when we know people are seeing us, reading us.
Then we stop.
It's about one moment and one second. Sometimes we have to go around an unexpected bend. There nothing is the same as it was before the sharp turn. Your life may be different than you planned.
Plan. Plan on facing it. Face the facts.
The fact remains, I am not you. You are not me. You do not know all that you think you do.
The choice is yours. As it is mine.
Continue spinning around the outside of evolvement with your skirt spinning and lifting with the wind sometimes with reckless abandon sometimes with nauseating dizziness. OR, or...
Step inside the world that is evolving and stand still. Be a witness. Learn just from your stillness how the evolvement will orbit you through this life, and then...
Scream.
I want to see, feel, be the change I expect in others.
You look at me like you always do. You don't have a clue.
I can't tell you what I am really thinking.
In this age of provactive thinking and stubborn mindsets, we all look like we are clawing for an inch of platform on the ladder of individuality.
You don't get it. I don't mind. But, sometimes.
Don't say I trust you. Don't say I need you. Don't be so sure.
You cling to the rough edges of this world like the frayed ends of the scarf that twirls between your index and pointer. Like a security blanket. With nervousness and aniexty you hope the world around you will remain to blame.
In a world of self-analysis and self-reflection, when do we see ourselves evolve. We pull out our mirrors to reflect on ourselves when we know people are seeing us, reading us.
Then we stop.
It's about one moment and one second. Sometimes we have to go around an unexpected bend. There nothing is the same as it was before the sharp turn. Your life may be different than you planned.
Plan. Plan on facing it. Face the facts.
The fact remains, I am not you. You are not me. You do not know all that you think you do.
The choice is yours. As it is mine.
Continue spinning around the outside of evolvement with your skirt spinning and lifting with the wind sometimes with reckless abandon sometimes with nauseating dizziness. OR, or...
Step inside the world that is evolving and stand still. Be a witness. Learn just from your stillness how the evolvement will orbit you through this life, and then...
Scream.
I want to see, feel, be the change I expect in others.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Feed Me...Read Me
I am beginning to feel like Audrey 2 in "Little Shop of Horrors."
I want more. I want you to feed my ego. I want you to stroke it. Nice and easy at first and then just pump it until my head swells and you can't stand to be around me.
This attitude rarely comes around. I have never cared much about what people think. I have never cared if people cared. But, sometimes, you do care. Sometimes you want to know. Not the bad stuff, but the good.
So today is one of those days. I am out and about soley for my ego. Looking for someone to say they think I've got it. Someone to say "that's hot!" Someone to say they read it.
This too shall pass, and I will continue to write about nothing and little somethings again and again. With no expectation and especially no ego.
I want more. I want you to feed my ego. I want you to stroke it. Nice and easy at first and then just pump it until my head swells and you can't stand to be around me.
This attitude rarely comes around. I have never cared much about what people think. I have never cared if people cared. But, sometimes, you do care. Sometimes you want to know. Not the bad stuff, but the good.
So today is one of those days. I am out and about soley for my ego. Looking for someone to say they think I've got it. Someone to say "that's hot!" Someone to say they read it.
This too shall pass, and I will continue to write about nothing and little somethings again and again. With no expectation and especially no ego.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Scents Memory
If I could put time in a bottle....
September 8th, 2001
The weather was terrific. It was warm without the balm. The breeze was slight; warning you of a "light jacket evening" to come. TallBoring Gary and I packed a lunch and walked all the way from Murray Hill to Battery Park City. We found an unpopulated stretch of grass surrounded by blooming bushes and a few large shade trees. In front of us mostly sky and the buildings of Jersey City. When we laid on our backs the Trade Centers stood so tall you could see them without arching your head back. We hadn't been dating for more than two or three weeks yet. The conversation was never difficult between us, but it was never flowing either. Per his suggestion we both packed a book.
Gary always smelled of nearly nothing. His scent so light and airy it was as if he bathed in Woolite and dried and powdered with Snuggle fabric softener. Nonetheless, on September 8th, 2001 I began to smell Gary as we soaked up the late summer sun. Not just his neck, but the small dent in the center of his chest where maybe a dozen hairs lived. The downy hair in his armpit. I smelled his forearms and felt their smoothness. The smell that resided on either crease of his nose. I reached up his shorts and stroked his inner thigh and then smelled my hand. It turned me on. It began to turn him on. He eventually took the hint and threw down his copy of the latest Alan Hollinghurst novel. We kissed so sensually and so tenderly. We caressed with secret passions. And I smelled him. He smelled so real. So perfect. So new. So clean. I kept smelling him. As I smelled him I become almost ferocious. I was making a memory.
"Your smell, it's everything. It's perfect. It's barely a smell yet so fragrant. It's shampoo and sex. It's soap and slutty-ness. It's sweat and tears. It's salt and sweet. It is here with me but yet it hardly exists. How is this possible? Am I crazy for loving this?" I thought to myself.
Eventually, Gary had to pry me off of him. Although, he did have a huge grin on his face and a smile stretched across his shorts. I am sure he didn't expect me to have this side to my personality. We finished the afternoon fighting to keep our hands off of each other. We strolled back to his place and rolled and frolicked among his sheets and pillows; all which radiated his scent.
Years later I would be in need of some basic moisturizer while vacationing in California. I stopped at a SaveOn picked up a bottle of Lubriderm (the one with purple writing). The instant I applied the lotion, butterflies burst from their cocoons in my gut and my testicles rose up with anticipation.
I am a complex man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life.
But, I would love to put the smell of September 8th, 2001 into a bottle. Just to have forever. To return to as a reminder, when I feel I can't find the simple things to love and adore in another man.
September 8th, 2001
The weather was terrific. It was warm without the balm. The breeze was slight; warning you of a "light jacket evening" to come. TallBoring Gary and I packed a lunch and walked all the way from Murray Hill to Battery Park City. We found an unpopulated stretch of grass surrounded by blooming bushes and a few large shade trees. In front of us mostly sky and the buildings of Jersey City. When we laid on our backs the Trade Centers stood so tall you could see them without arching your head back. We hadn't been dating for more than two or three weeks yet. The conversation was never difficult between us, but it was never flowing either. Per his suggestion we both packed a book.
Gary always smelled of nearly nothing. His scent so light and airy it was as if he bathed in Woolite and dried and powdered with Snuggle fabric softener. Nonetheless, on September 8th, 2001 I began to smell Gary as we soaked up the late summer sun. Not just his neck, but the small dent in the center of his chest where maybe a dozen hairs lived. The downy hair in his armpit. I smelled his forearms and felt their smoothness. The smell that resided on either crease of his nose. I reached up his shorts and stroked his inner thigh and then smelled my hand. It turned me on. It began to turn him on. He eventually took the hint and threw down his copy of the latest Alan Hollinghurst novel. We kissed so sensually and so tenderly. We caressed with secret passions. And I smelled him. He smelled so real. So perfect. So new. So clean. I kept smelling him. As I smelled him I become almost ferocious. I was making a memory.
"Your smell, it's everything. It's perfect. It's barely a smell yet so fragrant. It's shampoo and sex. It's soap and slutty-ness. It's sweat and tears. It's salt and sweet. It is here with me but yet it hardly exists. How is this possible? Am I crazy for loving this?" I thought to myself.
Eventually, Gary had to pry me off of him. Although, he did have a huge grin on his face and a smile stretched across his shorts. I am sure he didn't expect me to have this side to my personality. We finished the afternoon fighting to keep our hands off of each other. We strolled back to his place and rolled and frolicked among his sheets and pillows; all which radiated his scent.
Years later I would be in need of some basic moisturizer while vacationing in California. I stopped at a SaveOn picked up a bottle of Lubriderm (the one with purple writing). The instant I applied the lotion, butterflies burst from their cocoons in my gut and my testicles rose up with anticipation.
I am a complex man who appreciates the simple pleasures of life.
But, I would love to put the smell of September 8th, 2001 into a bottle. Just to have forever. To return to as a reminder, when I feel I can't find the simple things to love and adore in another man.
Friday, November 03, 2006
This Woman's...
My mom wakes up at 6:00 a.m. Even on weekends.
She does her stretches and her aerobics; the same set of exercises she has been doing since 1987. Religious exercises that shape her mentality more than her body. She then tidies up the house, packs a lunch for herself and puts out some ground beef to thaw. Jake is now at the door wagging his tail demonstrating the canine pee dance. While she waits for Jake to do his doody, she rummages through her purse for the first of what will be numerous times looking for nothing in particular. A quick breakfast of 1/4 cup of Grape Nuts with skim milk then she hits the shower and spends 20-30 minutes "putting her face on." This prep, with her age, now includes plucking a few random hairs on her chin and upper lip. After the hair spray and earrings are placed it's back to the purse to take inventory of what she may or may not need in there for the day.
Mom sits in the car for a few seconds. I imagine she is giving herself a pep talk. I imagine she is prepping herself for her day. She goes through her mental check list. With a deep starter breath she puts the key in the ignition of her Dodge Caravan and when the mini-van revs the car speakers vibrate enough for her to realize that her boyfriend was the last person to drive. She quickly brings the volume down to barely a whisper of a song. She pulls out a folded piece of scrap paper where she scrawled the address of a vacant apartment. She checks the time and puts the car in drive. She doesn't hear the lyrics unfolding silently through the radio. She only hears a background filler of the faint sound of a female's fragile, air-filled vocals...
"Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside
This woman's work.
This woman's world."
Across town, at the only hospital, my grandmother paces the halls outside Ray's room. In between visitors and passers-by offering their condolences, she talks to herself. It's hardly audible because she doesn't want people to think she is crazy. But, she is. She doesn't feel it happening, even though everyone else can see it. She furiously chants about Ray, curses God, reprimands her children. She scolds the weather, the timing of it all. She aches in her stomach from the sobbing jabs and the starvation grief brings out.
A life is leaving her. It's only a matter of time. A life she shared. Her new life, if you can call it that, will be so foreign after Ray. She's forced to leave the house after his death because it isn't her's and because my mom thinks it wiser for her to downscale her life. The thought of a tiny apartment makes my grandmother's breath short and her hand clutches at an imaginary strand of pearls.
There is a nurse about 10 feet away sitting at the Nurse Station. She is eating one of the hospital's pudding cups, catching up on her charts. The tiny, dusty, beat-up AM/FM radio is softly adding a calming white noise to the otherwise anxious and chilly hospital hallway. She notices my grandmother. She nods an understanding smile her direction. My grandmother stares at her blankly and takes a seat.
Grandma clasps her hands in prayer. She hasn't decided to pray for his life or to pray for his soul to depart from pain. She bows her head, silently sobs and as she begins to greet her lord with unknown words, the voice on the nurse's radio heartbreakingly sings...
"I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking..."
My mother hurriedly signs the lease for the apartment she just viewed in an attempt to beat the trepidation to the dotted line. Grandma will like it. She will spruce it up and make it her new home. Mom has to do these things for grandma. All these things that will need to happen while grandma grieves.
As the dear life of our beloved Ray passes, my grandmother moves into a new life and my mother takes on a new role in life. She begins the last cycle of her mother's life by parenting her parent.
The song remembers when...
"Oh, darling, make it go,
just make it go away now."
She does her stretches and her aerobics; the same set of exercises she has been doing since 1987. Religious exercises that shape her mentality more than her body. She then tidies up the house, packs a lunch for herself and puts out some ground beef to thaw. Jake is now at the door wagging his tail demonstrating the canine pee dance. While she waits for Jake to do his doody, she rummages through her purse for the first of what will be numerous times looking for nothing in particular. A quick breakfast of 1/4 cup of Grape Nuts with skim milk then she hits the shower and spends 20-30 minutes "putting her face on." This prep, with her age, now includes plucking a few random hairs on her chin and upper lip. After the hair spray and earrings are placed it's back to the purse to take inventory of what she may or may not need in there for the day.
Mom sits in the car for a few seconds. I imagine she is giving herself a pep talk. I imagine she is prepping herself for her day. She goes through her mental check list. With a deep starter breath she puts the key in the ignition of her Dodge Caravan and when the mini-van revs the car speakers vibrate enough for her to realize that her boyfriend was the last person to drive. She quickly brings the volume down to barely a whisper of a song. She pulls out a folded piece of scrap paper where she scrawled the address of a vacant apartment. She checks the time and puts the car in drive. She doesn't hear the lyrics unfolding silently through the radio. She only hears a background filler of the faint sound of a female's fragile, air-filled vocals...
"Pray God you can cope.
I stand outside
This woman's work.
This woman's world."
Across town, at the only hospital, my grandmother paces the halls outside Ray's room. In between visitors and passers-by offering their condolences, she talks to herself. It's hardly audible because she doesn't want people to think she is crazy. But, she is. She doesn't feel it happening, even though everyone else can see it. She furiously chants about Ray, curses God, reprimands her children. She scolds the weather, the timing of it all. She aches in her stomach from the sobbing jabs and the starvation grief brings out.
A life is leaving her. It's only a matter of time. A life she shared. Her new life, if you can call it that, will be so foreign after Ray. She's forced to leave the house after his death because it isn't her's and because my mom thinks it wiser for her to downscale her life. The thought of a tiny apartment makes my grandmother's breath short and her hand clutches at an imaginary strand of pearls.
There is a nurse about 10 feet away sitting at the Nurse Station. She is eating one of the hospital's pudding cups, catching up on her charts. The tiny, dusty, beat-up AM/FM radio is softly adding a calming white noise to the otherwise anxious and chilly hospital hallway. She notices my grandmother. She nods an understanding smile her direction. My grandmother stares at her blankly and takes a seat.
Grandma clasps her hands in prayer. She hasn't decided to pray for his life or to pray for his soul to depart from pain. She bows her head, silently sobs and as she begins to greet her lord with unknown words, the voice on the nurse's radio heartbreakingly sings...
"I know you have a little life in you yet.
I know you have a lot of strength left.
I should be crying, but I just can't let it show.
I should be hoping, but I can't stop thinking..."
My mother hurriedly signs the lease for the apartment she just viewed in an attempt to beat the trepidation to the dotted line. Grandma will like it. She will spruce it up and make it her new home. Mom has to do these things for grandma. All these things that will need to happen while grandma grieves.
As the dear life of our beloved Ray passes, my grandmother moves into a new life and my mother takes on a new role in life. She begins the last cycle of her mother's life by parenting her parent.
The song remembers when...
"Oh, darling, make it go,
just make it go away now."
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