I didn’t realize the last time you came to see me you were saying good-bye. I guess I should have known; the tides were pulling us away. Still when it occurred to me, I was stunned, treading water in the ocean, having found a cold current, the shiver caught me unaware, and goose bumps rose up on my wet skin. You are a sly, sharp, sliver of metal that has burred its way under my skin. You are metal and I am wood; I am softer than I seem. I’ve been feeling lost and tender, like a new wound after the adrenaline of injury has worn off. I have been restless and fearful, transitioning. I am more certain now that I am on the verge, the cusp, with the haunting, familiar voice of inspiration whispering sweet promises to me. I’m about to be sucked into the vortex of creativity, a place where I am found but lost, doing what I am meant to do but still searching for meaning. I wish it was enough but it is not everything.

For months I have been consumed and pulled away from you, inadvertently, from life, unintentionally, from everything, accidentally. It wasn’t personal but I forget to articulate these things. Everyday was filled with dread. I felt like I was moving through sludge. I was unproductive, endlessly frustrated and angry.

Often the inconceivable comes true. An unlikely scenario plays out, an uncontrollable fate unfolds, a puzzled victim recovers, analyzing and repeating the incident, living in the past suspended in the present, a thick fluid congealing around every attempt to struggle, to break free, to resume one’s life. The limbs on rusty little hinges, every movement reminding you of limitation, every bone in its socket creaking and lumbering into place finding its nook among settled and worn pockets. Spiky bones of rotting fish, brittle nails grown long but weak, twisted bed sheets and hard dry crumbs on countertops, this is the caulk between shower doors, precariously sheltering wet from damp. Proceeding grave is gallows. Then tomb, catacomb, sea or ash:  a lengthy withdrawal into eminent domain.

The scissors scratch through the itchy twine, unraveling edges. The dog’s saliva softening bone; carving toothy grooves. Calling back into focus the wrongs you have committed, the people you inadvertently hurt by not loving, the ones you left without remorse; the distance you maintain. In silence you suffer the wish you left hidden, in the world you witness the life you weren’t given. You attempted to love but were held by the truth of all you had witnessed.  The memory of scrap yards with hollow shells of automobiles, surrounded by tall weeds and stunted grass. Sun-bleached logos on crushed aluminum cans; abandoned filters of cigarettes.

Your past is a disposable diaper still waiting to decompose. Nothing organic remains. Illuminated with the buzz and hum of a fluorescent bulb, smolder creeping in from the ends, blackening its resolve. Walking, shuffling feet, casting shadows underneath doorways, the weight of fear pulling like gravity, your spine to the bed. Paralyzed, you wait for the many tiny sutures to dissolve. The scar can be traced with a finger too calloused for nuance, toughened by persistent injury. Prickled by the needlepoint, burned by the impatience. Knuckles bleed from daily fumbling with indifference, your voice a hoarse whisper reminding you not to fail. Spine compressed, your neck misaligned, pride takes its toll pushing the cartilage, tugging the monofilament.

Barefoot on rotting tree stumps, cobwebs clinging to splinters, bugs parading in disintegrating bowels; shadow at my back, sun blinding me. The future is hard to walk towards with hope, the present being defined by successive moments of hesitation. Sometimes I venture to walk sideways, scuttling like a crab, hitting my hipbones on jutting corners and corridors too narrow to navigate. I feel like the woman who kept adding rooms to her house for fear if she stopped building she would die. The inevitable comes no matter what we do to ward off its threat. No tincture or spell to undo the undoing.

Better to be out in the world than at home alone with my thoughts. My undoing has always been my thoughts maybe also my feelings and my struggle to control things outside of myself. The tricky way I refine thoughts, smooth their edges, shaping them into an hourglass, waiting for time to dilute them, expel them, staining my hands. The thoughts that trigger the feelings, the feelings that are valid but irrational and then the explanation that tries to rationalize the feelings. It is all a tricky dialogue between self idealized and self-actualized. The person I want to be is unencumbered by insecurity and does not interpret the actions of others as personal and internalize them as an inward struggle.

Protecting yourself, building your armor, a black insect shell.
Tightening the abdomen, twisting the nettles, like a cyst with teeth and hair, the uncomfortable feeling grows. Outside the world is indifferent. Inside the walls of the apartment seem plaintive. Chalk drawn on asphalt, erased with a palm. You wander into yourself, cyclonic. The vortex is death; the resistance is life.

Being ignored, abandoned or simple not being wanted conjures thoughts of vast deficiency. This is an old wound. The unlovable, the old record the familiar tune.

Under the stairs, the cellar, the attic. Call to me now from force of habit. The smell of black dye in fabric, a promise you made now rescinded: Keep in touch. You crawled like a wounded animal to its death, never to be heard from again.

So I posted this missed connection on Craigslist on Wednesday August 6^th, 2009:

_____________________________________________________________________________________

Verb-Wednesday-1:30PM-raised eyebrows – w4m

I’m not sure if this counts as a missed connection but I’ll post it anyway.

Wednesday at Verb, as I was coming in you were walking out. You smiled at me I think I smiled at you, but I for certain raised both eyebrows simultaneously. You were carrying an iced beverage, I held the door for you. I sat inside on a stool looking out the window, you sat outside with your back to me. You were talking with a 40-something bespectacled Verb lurker and when you got up to smoke you walked over with him to look at a bicycle. As I was leaving I walked by you as you stood smoking. You turned, we made eye contact, you exhaled smoke in my face. I don’t think it was intentional and I tried not to wince. I like to think I just took you breath away.

You-reddish/blonde hair?, blonde arm hair, wearing large silver ring on left hand (middle finger?), taller than me but not tall, you had a black shoulder bag/briefcase you left on the back of your chair.

Me-blonde, pony-tailed, dimples, straight from the gym, green deep-v t-shirt with a 2 headed cock on it (not sure you would have noticed it) we mostly made eye contact, you seemed to keep your gaze upstairs.

If this sounds familiar, maybe tell me something you noticed, something I missed.

__________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I never got any responses from this post and it expired after a week.

Today, September 4^th, 2009, I was at the Verb and saw someone resembling this description sitting outside. He looked different than I remembered, no ring and seemed taller, but it was hard to tell because he was sitting down. I was inside reading an article in the New York Times about a man in Texas who builds low-income housing out of recycled and discarded building materials. I glanced up and he looked through the window at me, he had piercing blue eyes. I made eye contact, sort of smiled my furrowed-brow inquisitive but suspicious smile and then went back to reading the paper. When it was time to leave I just walked away in the opposite direction. I went to the drugstore and seeing that they were out of my favorite face wash, I retraced my steps, and passed by him sitting outside the Verb and tried, non-chalantly to see if he had a black shoulder bag/briefcase hanging off the back of his chair. On the way back from the second drugstore, it occurred to me that I could determine if it was my missed connection by conducting a short interview if he was up for it.

So on my third pass, I walked up to him and said “hello.” He looked up, smiled and greeted me; he had a German accent. Right away I thought to myself, this isn’t the guy. Although I had never spoken with my missed connection, I would have guessed that he was American, Californian if I were to speculate, because of his laidback posture and the fact that he looked like a surfer. I continued, “I think I’ve mistaken you for someone but I’m pretty sure I can figure it out by asking three questions, do you mind?”

“No, would you like to take a seat?”

“Thanks. Do you have a black shoulder bag/briefcase?”

“Um, I’m thinking…of all my bags. It’s possible.”

“Do you have a large silver ring that you sometimes wear?”

“Definitely, not.”

“Hmm…I think I might already have my answer. Do you smoke?”

“Yes, I do. Do you want a cigarette?”

“No, thanks, I don’t smoke.”

“I’m from Berlin. Have you ever spent time in Berlin?”

“Yes, a lot.”

“Really?”

“But I definitely know this person from here.”

“Well I was here, maybe two years ago.”

“No, it wasn’t so long ago. May I ask how tall you are? It’s hard to tell because you’re sitting.”

“I am one meter ninety-four.”

“So nearly 2 meters, you’re too tall.”

He was nice but he wasn’t the guy and having determined that, I excused myself.
“Well, thank-you.” I said and got up and left.

I could tell it was kind of abrupt end to the conversation and that he wanted to continue talking. There’s a strange vulnerability that comes with summoning the courage to approach a stranger and strike up a conversation. So never mind however successful the exchange, I tend to hightail it outta there.

I Have a Secret To Tell You on National Television. That was title for the episode of Ricki Lake I appeared on in 1994. My friend Aurelius was obsessed with Ricki Lake from John Water’s movies. She had been watching her talkshow for weeks searching for topics we could meet the criteria for. One day she told me that I “should be getting a call from Ricki Lake.” She had told me the title of the show but not the secret. Someone from the show called me for a telephone interview,

“Do have any idea who might want to reveal a secret to you?”

“No, I can’t think of anyone.”

“Can you think of a secret that someone might be keeping from you?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Has anyone mentioned anything about the Ricki Lake show to you?”

“No.”

“Are you in a relationship with anyone?”

“Yes, I have a boyfriend Greg.”

“Do you think he would be willing to come on the show?”

“I don’t know, I can ask him.”

Later someone called to get our address and ask our meal preferences. We were all in college together at Pratt. They picked us up in limos, Greg and I together and Aurelius separately. Greg and I were vegan at the time and they had gotten us Falafels.

Greg had purple hair and an eyebrow ring. He had this weird style, kind of a cartoon hobo. He had this thing for really big round shoes with platforms. He wore fat old men’s pants, the widest he could possible find with a belt and pins to hold in all the excess fabric. He was into stripes, Sonic Youth style. He made a lot of his own clothes; he liked polyester and the color brown.

I had bleached blonde hair and a tongue ring. I was in between my rave, punk and gothic stage, never fully committing or identifying with any one scene. I had made a spiked collar out of velvet and metal drywall screws that security tried to take away from me until they realized I was a guest. I was wearing an infant’s shirt, one of those ribbed lap tees, where the collar overlaps the shoulder. I had been getting them at the discount stores and buying the largest size I could find, this one was royal blue and I had painted a black bat on it. I was wearing black vinyl pants that I had made, let me remind you it was the early 90’s and cool.

Aurelius had a shaved head with a patch of bangs in the front Tank Girl style and was the most tattooed and pierced. She was wearing her usual uniform of black: baggy guy’s shorts, combat boots, a Christian Death t-shirt and as many silver chains and necklaces she could manage-a walking metal detector’s nightmare.

After eating falafel in the Green Room they walked me out to backstage where I had to wait in a booth listening to music on headphones. I was nervous walking out and as the audience kind of cheered and gasped I felt it necessary to expose my tongue ring. Aurelius was waiting for me on this little loveseat. Greg was sitting next to her in a chair. Aurelius began her speech.

“I just wanted to bring you here because—I LOVE YOU RICKI! I’ve watched all your movies—“

“Thank-you” Ricki says,

“What did you want to tell your friend?”

“Well I just wanted to say that Greg didn’t get even get you anything for Valentine’s Day (audience boos) and I would treat you much better than that (audience awes). I’m in love with you and I want you to dump him and go out with me (audience goes crazy, clapping, screaming, gasping).”

I feigned surprise. I opened my mouth and covered it with my hand. I opened my eyes wide as if in shock, realizing I had all the acting abilities of a cartoon. Ricki said,“You seem really surprised.” I was thinking do I? Am I believable? That was so FAKE. Greg just kept cursing, they bleeped out everything he said. I just played dutiful girlfriend and said that “it wouldn’t be fair, I couldn’t just dump whomever I was with” as if etiquette was relevant given the spectacle we had just made of ourselves.

I had told my Dad that I was going to be on the show, he had his friends at the bar recording it while he was at work. When he came by to get the tape they warned him

“I don’t think you want to see this.”

After watching the tape he told them that he thought that I “had handled myself very well.”

My aunt couldn’t even watch the tape “with all those things in your face.” I can’t remember if I had the cheek and septum piercing then, but I had them when she picked me up from the train station when I came home to visit once. She had just gotten a new used car and her son began asking me about my piercings as we were pulling out of the parking space. Just as he was contemplating out loud what would be his first piercing she ran into a parking meter and ripped off her side view mirror.

Ten years after the show I was still being recognized from the show, which was miraculous since I was kind of a chameleon with my ever evolving style and hair color, eventually returning to bleach blonde or as I like to call it, a failed attempt to recapture my youth. We lived in Fort Greene/Bed-Stuy where people would ask us on the street, the subway and yell out of car windows:

“Yo, you were on Ricki Lake!”

“Whatever happened with that girl?”

“Did you dump that guy?”

We’d usually be recognized apart and would make up different answers. Aurelius would say, “Yeah we got married,” pointing to her girlfriend, being white and blonde could pass for me since all white people really do look alike. I’d say. “Yeah, I dumped that guy,” which was true but not for reasons that would make for good TV, not yet.

I know what you are thinking: skip the interview and get on with the audition. But for me, and I’m guessing some other women out there, anticipation is part of the excitement. Not only do I need a little time to fantasize and imagine how it could be, I need to get to know the object of my desire.

My inspiration comes from a profile on an online dating site I’m on. I was looking at who had been checking me out and saw a photo of a half naked man. Generally there are some ‘body shots’ usually of the torso but since the thumbnails are cropped randomly (well they are centered) I always hope their heads have just been cropped off and in the original photo there is a fully formed person. This is usually never the case. This person was looking only for sex partners and in their profile clearly stated that they were looking for a lover.

They went on to describe their sexual tastes as ‘slow vanilla lovemaking’. I know, I should have stopped right there. I mean, vanilla? Really? I’m sure those women are out there, all 1% of them, and I’m hoping they’re happily married and very comfortable in the missionary position.

But this gave me an idea, how would one interview for a lover? What would they ask?
Firstly I would establish that the interview would be held in person, at a very public place, in the middle of the day. I would choose coffee, so very non-committal, much like the role of loverdom. I would sit out of earshot of other patrons. This is difficult for me because I often find myself wanting to talk about wildly inappropriate things, and as I become more engaged in whatever subject I’m talking about I tend to misplace my indoor voice. Then I become annoyed because other people, lurkers with less interesting lives, tend encroach upon us and try to live vicariously through eavesdropping.

I would bring a clipboard, a sharpened no.2 pencil, my naughty librarian glasses and a series of well thought out questions:

1. Would there be any out of the bedroom dates?
2. Would sex ever be preceded or followed by a meal? A movie?
3. Would there be conversation?
4. If yes, would there be any subjects that are off-limits?
5. Would the role of lover involve overnight stays?
6. If yes, does this mean cuddling and generally affectionate behavior?
7. Would there be backrubs?
8. Describe your lovemaking style. (Follow-up) So you described yours style as ‘slow vanilla lovemaking.’ Please elaborate.
9. What’s your idea of dirty talk?
10. Does it involve the words ‘bitch’, ‘slut’ or ‘whore’? (that’s a dealbreaker, ladies!)
11. You mentioned you are ‘disease free’ does this mean you’re expecting unprotected sex?
12. Write a personal ad headline from the perspective of members of the animal kingdom. (Ex: Baby seal seeks company of friendly polar bear).

I had borrowed my boyfriend’s bike when he was in LA. We lived on the Notorious B.I.G.’s block. I had been riding it during the day and locked it to the gate outside with a u-lock and forgot about it. I usually either bring it upstairs at night or lock it with a kryptonite bike chain for the frame and back tire and use the u-lock for the front tire. It was about 2AM and I was sitting in the living room at the front of the apartment with the windows open, it was summer. I was up way too late for no reason at all and found myself watching some really bad softcore porn. I heard the sound of metal against metal and jumped up to look outside the window. I saw a homeless guy with a huge crowbar; about six feet tall, trying to pry open my lock.

I yelled down from the window, “Hey, that’s my bike!”

He looked up and said, “Ok, I won’t take it.”

I came downstairs with the bike chain in tow; a weapon I now know as a ‘smiley.’
I had no intention of leaving the bike downstairs now.
The homeless guy was still there, riffling through the garbage.
I was trembling as I began to unlock my bike.

The homeless guy said to me, “I told you I wasn’t going to take it.”

I’m thinking I’m going to trust you? I just caught you stealing my bike!

I met up with Gramanchula so that he could return my concrete drill. We got something to eat and at a certain point I noticed he had spinach in his teeth. I was angry at him for keeping the drill for so long so I didn’t say anything about the spinach. Later he passed a mirror and said, “Hey did you notice I have spinach in my teeth?”

I said, “Yeah.”

Then a wave of realization came over him. “Were you going to tell me I have spinach in my teeth?”

I said, “No.”

He refilled the ice cube trays. I would engrave that on a ring. I didn’t know that it meant so much to me. I rarely use ice and I’m in the habit of leaving the trays in the freezer long enough to grow a layer of fur. But last night I opened the freezer and they were waiting for me. Perfectly filled and newly frozen. It set off a little ache in my heart, a good ache, like when an animal does something hopelessly cute. He refilled the ice cube trays. I could just…hug him.

In my brief foray into online dating, I took the advice of a friend and veteran virtual dater, to initiate contact with candidates of my own choosing. It’s difficult to find things to write someone about just based on information in their profile. You find yourself scanning it for details you can expand on in a message. This particular site operates on a series of questions and quizzes and compares your results with other users. One person had taken the “Death Test,” which I had also taken. It’s a test, based on studies from Harvard that uses a series of specific questions to determine the precise age that you’ll die and what you will die from. I know it’s a morbid subject for a first exchange but considering we both took the test, apparently we were not bothered by it.

I noticed that this person’s death age was 81 and mine was 83 but because he was 2 years younger than me I realized that we were going to die at the exact same time. I wrote this to him and then concluded, “I hope it’s not a murder-suicide.”

I never heard back from him.