mouths w/ nothing to say & eyes w/ nothing to look @

            The metal railing feels cold on my elbow, even though we are in the stuffy epicenter of summer.  I’m leaning back, both elbows up, wondering of I’m coming off as being too self-conscious of how I look, distanced as I am from just about everyone else while trying to give off the impression that I’m just indifferently relaxing in this low-trafficked corner of the roof.  I don’t care how I’m coming off, if I’m even coming off as anything at all.  But, I feel that if I saw me w/ my own eyes, I’d see an anti-social party-pooper flashing false grins and staring blankly out over the city.

            Although, my wooden stolidity has its own splinters of lies wedged in it.  I do care, but only up to the point where I know I’m neither anti-social nor a party-pooper.  I find it irksome—though, yet, not enough to rally against it—that I’ll be perceived as quite possibly the opposite of what I am.  Why am I grinning?  I’m content in the moment I’m in.  Why am I staring out over the city?  It intrigues.  It hums.  It hypnotizes.

            I should probably mingle more than I have been.  Earlier, I’d put minimal effort into a few conversations which I’d either excused myself from or just totally went blank in the middle of.  I didn’t even offer any obligatory uh-huhs or nods.  I just stared at mouths as words came out, most of them dropping names or  trying to convince me of the amazingness the here-&-now speaker embodied.  While someone I didn’t know and, by the mixture of the Laws of Probability and the good luck juju of crossed fingers, would never see again prattled incessantly & nauseatingly on, I’d scan the entire rooftop gathering for someone else I’d have the dubious fortune of feigning interest in.

            So, I took my drink—a scotch rocks which I still haven’t even touched and is now just an air-temperature watered-down scotch which is surprisingly creating a mist of condensation on its tumbler—to a corner of the roof where I’m currently standing, looking out over the parallels and perpendiculars of the city streets.  I have a vague knowledge of where I’m located, trying to figure out which thoroughfare down below is the ambiguous territorial line between Chelsea and Tribeca.

The deejay has been hitting my mood perfectly with his song choices.

            And I can’t seem to put a finger on what my mood actually is.  It’s not for lack of trying.  When I think I know if I’m cheerful or melancholy or bored, it gets out from under me and gets replaced by something else that doesn’t transition smoothly at all.  I feel like I’m being jostled.  My moods have hopped into bumper cars and aren’t listening to the underpaid ambivalent acne-infested teenager yelling to enjoy their ride safely.

            I can feel my cheeks wrinkle upward into the most infinitesimal of smiles.  I’m aware of my calm, regulated breathing pattern.  But I can sense a quickened pulse.  It’s not flowing thru me, not yet, but I feel it building up.  It is tightening its bootstraps, rolling up its sleeves, tucking in its shirt because it knows it is going to be called upon to act.  Soon.

            Large white outdoor Christmas-type lights are strung above the party, wound around pipes and poles and railings and antennas.  Some are burnt out.  Some reflect off the ever-shimmering surface of the water in the kiddie pool, in which is kept the soiree’s store of ice, beer, and soda.  Some give the party-goers luminescent domes, like haloes pressed down into their hair.

            There is a scuffle somewhere.  Up here.  On the roof.  My eyes dart around the goers, making everyone a phosphorescent blur, losing their defining line where skin & clothes end and the rest of existence begins.  They all look like giant glowing commas.  I can’t place the argument.  I hear shattering.  No heavy clunks, just the gentle chime of glass coming apart at newly-created seams.

            The deejay miscalculates a musical segue and I can see everyone subconsciously pick up on it.  A shift from one foot to the other.  A roll of tense shoulders.  A quick squinted glance upward into the starless night sky.

            I look across the street to what I have decided is an apartment building.  I am eye-level with one of the floors and, for the past 20 minutes or so, I’ve been keeping a sporadic eye on one window in particular.  Thru this window I can see the length of an apartment.  And pacing the length of this apartment is a man on a phone.  He walks up to the window, turns, walks to the far wall, turns, then returns to the window.  The almost half an hour I’ve been keeping track of him making this loop, his arm has been curled to the side of his head.  It reminds me of a mug handle.

            The gait of his pacing is not what I would call spry or bouncy.  He is, in fact, lumbering up and down the length or width of his apartment with a tilt to whichever side his foot falls to.  I can’t even imagine what he could be talking about for this long while pacing the same invisible path, without switching phone hands.  He’s a big guy, too.  An over-exerciser, I decide.  I my mind, I have him hurling the phone out of view, smashing the window with the double-team of his fists, leaping to the sill while pounding his chest and roaring.

            In reality, he only turns again at the window and heads back to the far wall of his pad.  In reality, I’m talking absolute nonsense to someone I don’t know…and enjoying it.  In reality, I’m the center of attention and greedy for it.  In reality, winter has fallen and I’m up here alone on the roof, shin-deep in snow.

From Skyscrapers to Silos (Intro, Revision #2)

Sunday June, 5 2005. New York City’s top 40 radio station Z100 blared from my surround sound stereo system within the walls of my spacious room in the town house that I had appropriately and most affectionately dubbed the “Brooklyn Blue Stone Estate” in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. There were clothes everywhere; I was trying to construct a cohesive Vogue worthy ensemble, which was absolutely necessary since I would be ushered through the velvet ropes of one of Manhattan’s hottest celeb hangouts: Marquee. In preparation, I danced around my room (dancing in stilettos is an art that must be practiced) sipping on a glass on Veuve Clicquot, periodically chemically bolstering my enthusiasm (i.e. confidence), excited that tonight I would be in the company of who’s who in New York’s entertainment scene. Seven miscalculated years in New York and, finally, I had it all: a high paying job at a club US Weekly Magazine had just named young Hollywood’s hottest new hangout, an amazing, over-priced place to live, a glammed up wardrobe, and a social network entitling me with VIP access and treatment at it clubs. I partied like a rock star surrounded by rock stars, unbeknownst to me that after reaching the pinnacle of that dreamlike existence I would stubbornly shake slumber mid afternoon on June 6th to reluctantly greet a cruel new world, with a champagne hangover Keith Richards would be proud of.

I woke up groggy and seriously dehydrated, with half of my two hour make up production, permanently transferred to my pillow; still fully dressed with one strappy stiletto on, my cell phone voice mail was maxed out with messages from my mother. The impact those messages would have on the course of my life was equivalent to the Mets’ left fielder, Endy Chavez, robbing Scott Rolen of a homerun, then completing the double play by throwing Jim Edmands out at first base in the sixth inning of game seven at Shea Stadium (the winner of this game would advance to the World Series). It was the intense, uneasy emotion in my mother’s sob-stricken voice as she informed me that something was wrong with Dad that kept my attention, clenched my diaphragm, restricting new breaths. Apparently, he had collapsed opening the doors to the hospital where he was to get his Monday morning dialysis treatment. His status was unclear. Still somewhat drunk and now both light-headed and jittery, my nervous system responded, fully alarmed; it countered with profuse alcohol-laden sweat and delirium, I thought…I thought I was dreaming. Why was my mother using a phrase like “status unclear”? My mind was combative, confused. MY dad…unresponsive? MY daddy…died, resuscitated, and in a coma? WHAT? After seven years of diligent faith in the unknown, I suddenly chastised my own indefinite beliefs. Up until this very specific moment, everything had been falling into place for me--this happening, did not seem possible. Quietly, ghostly apparitions began to frantically grasp at my phantomlike world as it began to dissipate.

Pacing, well, more like limping since my right foot had three and a half extra inches, I tried to comprehend what the fuck was going on. With each message I listened to, the more frantic I grew. Hysterics set in and with an expedited exhale, I collapsed right there on my beautiful hardwood floor: a true diva in distress. They don’t permit you to keep your cell phone active within the confines of the hospital’s intensive care unit, so I had absolutely no new contact with my mother outside of the voice mails, no confirmation (or explanations), nothing to contradict the gruesome scenarios playing repeatedly in my head.

When I boarded the plane out of JFK a few hours later, I had no idea if my father was dead or alive. And no amount of in flight vodka sodas could calm or at least stabilize my frenzied thoughts.

For the past seven years, I had been the sole focus of my life. My father was never a day to day necessity in my life, had not even occupied a passing thought in my day to day life. It sounds awful. But it’s true. It’s not that I didn’t love him, because I did. I idolized him (surreptitiously, of course). He was more like my secret weapon, always ready to intercept a late night phone call, redirect and reassure me, feed me his old school wisdoms. With this laid back, slightly cavalier presence, he skillfully educated me. I have been able to recite his (our) favorite poem, “Invictus” for as long as I can remember. According to my father, within each verse of this poem lay the answer to any and all of my life’s puzzles. But without him to repeatedly dissect it with me, would the words lose meaning? All of this time, I had him in my wings, at my disposal, and I was more concerned with whether to accessorize with a vintage clutch or a trendy boho bag.

An emotional wreck on the plane, selfishly whining “This is not fair”, I was consumed with guilt, tortuously playing the “what if I-coulda, shoulda mind fuck” roulette with no promise of producing a winner.

When you’ve learned to discard an upbringing in a neighborhood full of unlocked doors and have finally mastered the rubric’s cube-like puzzle of existing in a city of eight million people anonymously, you start to question the motives of anyone who looks you square in the eye. On that plane, for the first time, I truly embraced the fact that I was surrounded by strangers who didn’t want to know why I was a complete walking basket case, who avoided even looking in my immediate direction. If I had been allowed as much as tweezers on that flight, I might have been tempted to gouge out the eyes of each and every one of those carbon-copy cheery flight attendants (except when they were serving me). Welcoming my anonymity, I was almost annoyed when the lady sitting next to me took an interest and began to query. When I tried to order another drink, she ordered me milk and cookies (seriously). She had white-blonde hair full of curls that are only achieved after sitting hours in those bright pink foamy curlers. She asked the flight attendant for tissues (something this bitch neglected to offer me as I steadily and continuously cried and snotted, leaving the debris behind on my favorite stuffed animal, a puppy named Bunny). Through all of my emotional turmoil, this lovely old lady next to me continued to comfort me, even holding my hand at times. This random stranger, looking like she stepped off the set of “Golden Girls”, pried and pried and pried, not easily allowing me to brush her off as callously as the born and bred city residents had done me. Clutching Bunny, I slowly began to regain some composure, sipping what would be my last vodka on that flight (per grandma), wiping various limbs, now dripping faucets of snot. This old lady seated next to me, deprived of the most single detail of the nature of my flight that night said to me, “Now is not the time to be placing blame on yourself.”

Recently widowed, she explained, life is about moments like these. I was puffy and swollen, buzzed from the cocktails served at a high altitude, and yet, here was this angelic woman telling me that I was facing a moment that would ultimately define me and my character. There was no reason why this woman should have consoled me. She could have sat in her window seat, gazing out at night-time New York, pretending not to hear me crying, pretending not to see me slowly rocking back and forth in my seat, hunched over a soggy stuffed animal, sucking down cocktails. But she didn’t, she got involved and she redirected my fears and worries from me to my mother. She said (and I’m paraphrasing) you’re young and independent here in New York. Remember when you de-board this plane that your mother will need your support. Imagine what the past twelve hours have been like for her. This little old Miami bound lady was right. And when we landed in Burlington, Vermont, I hugged her and thanked her for reminding me about the importance of family and my place within that sacred circle. I thanked her for re-establishing a sense of clarity for me. She wished me well and said (and I quote) “Remember Sugar, clarity doesn’t mean clear liquor”.

I think back on that nosey granny and I smile; she restored my faith in happenstance on that flight. I was ready to give up; give in, relinquish my fidelity to fate, but I was seated next to her and not one of those hardened, citified people who would have gazed out of the window the entire flight.

Years later, my father is dead and I still look for the clarity in clear liquors, but as I search for personal meanings, asking questions, I hear my father’s voice. He’s still relentless in educating me; still my secret weapon, he armed me with an arsenal of information throughout my life. I venture forth still needing clarity, but I no longer ask “Why me?” because I know my father would lean back in his big blue recliner, adjust his glasses and reply, “Excuses don’t matter, results do”.

600 wordish

Some people swore the house was haunted. I couldn't understand why. It wasn't built on a burial ground, no one lived in it before us, and it hadn't been standing long enough to gain self-awareness. In the state it was in when my mother and her new architect husband moved into his “grand design,” as my mother called it, the house hardly seemed worth inhabiting, forget haunting. I managed to avoid its superfluous trimmings and pompous wanescotting for the better half of a year before the state declared my grandmother unfit to look after me. After one hundred and ninety seven days of inhabitance, when I first set foot in it, the house looked like a motherless child.

Around my sixth birthday, the glamour of being a single mother wore off and I was left in legal care of my grandmother. Maybe good sense skips a generation; my grandmother waited to have children, while my mother buttered her bun in the oven as if stocks in yeast were dropping. Or, maybe grandma's to blame for waiting so long. Either way, at 78 she was too old to take care of me and at 14, I was too young to take care of her. Together we moved into the lascivious, three story anachronism.

It's shocking how little you can accumulate in the first six years of life. I had nothing except clothes when grandma took me in. So I adopted grandma's things as my own and those are the things we moved in with. At first everything was in one room. “To sort through,” my mother said. It was clear her husband was uncomfortable with our things entering the house, but slowly grandma spread out. Whenever everyone was out, we'd return to another two tone lamp tucked in a corner, the paper towel stand replaced by dish towels, and generation by generation the entire family watched as you descended the stairs.

Two months after we arrived, grandma hung the last portrait while everyone slept. In the morning I was glad to see them together again, somber as ever, if not a bit more faded. I walked into the kitchen, hardly minding the faux-rustic stones under my feet that felt abrupt after coming off carpeting so thick grandma could loose her teeth in it. My mother's husband was reading the paper, only mildly perturbed by someone other than mother entering his life dream.

“Good morning!” My mom's forced pleasantry came from behind me.

“Is that what you would call this?” His tone grated against my skin. He never talked much, but when he did something inevitably negative came out. It made me want to tear down a wall and expose his ugly insides. Instead I went out to the yard. He acted like the only one having a hard time. The kids at school avoided me because of the rumor of blood-curdling screaming coming from the house after it was finished.

My mother started when she thought i was out of range; “How long are you going to blame me for losing the baby?”

“I built this house for our family. It's not easy to sit here and watch it fill up with someone else's, when our child was stillborn in the goddamn foyer!”

“You think it's easy giving birth to a dead thing just because I have a daughter? She might as well be a stranger to me!”

“Why did you invite these strangers into my house? To hang photos of their family as reminder that my family line died? All because you had your first child too young and it created complications?”

“There you go again. 'Your' house, 'your' family line, and my fault, my--” There was the sound of skin on skin and my mother fell silent.

“Without that baby, we share nothing.” Her husband's foot steps receded and I looked for somewhere to hide, but the landscaping, like the interior decorating, was unfinished. My mother came out of the house, check red and eyes stinging. I thought she might apologize for years of absence, or marrying an asshole. But she just looked at me and said, “Nothing was ever the same again after that.”