Only in New York: Six Years Spent, Eighteen (And Life) To Go(-o)
May 24, 2010, 4:13 pm
Filed under: REBECCA

Nothing remarkable, or maybe that’s the revelatory milepost. Humid afternoon sweating through government forms, plowing through Uzbek immigrants. One, two, three. How do you spell that? Boom! Done! The cold evening was spent clutching stupidly my threadbare sweater, drinking nimbly and mooning winsomely (but not like that, although winsomely mooning could certainly be worthwhile in its way… watch out for our forthcoming photo gallery).

What’s happening? Well, a nice congregation of individuals watches a makeshift movie screen; a friend; other people: Hot humans wholly hirsute. It’s not enough! But at least I know what I want now, so that’s one step in the mature direction. Dusty, desolate tablelands of the open-industrial North spew iron/tin/aluminum tumbleweed upon the shallow-land/dull-autumn-colored Central South, represented by me, clutching my sweater and being totally attracted to everyone. Well, not everyone. Standards, improved, to a degree. Sentences, not properly formatted. Drums! Leis, buttons, ricotta cheese spread all over the dance floor. I’m hanging, quick-talking, admiring with qualifications, swiping gigantic greasy olives, wanting certain kinds of conversation with certain kinds of people that don’t come to pass but that’s cool, man, because the infrastructure is weirdly solid, however disappointing the sloughing off. No trepidation, not much at all. I don’t feel desperate anymore.

Five years ago at this time I was waking up in Jersey City with that fool—Sarah knows who I’m talking about (Barb, we should have shout-outs and secret messages to each other through these lines. Maybe we can mark them by writing the text in different colors!). Shaky, raw, grasping, starving, directionless desire perhaps indicative of disorganized attachment(?); a sunstroke-struck baby chick whose mother has died mid-flight; kicked in the face by gigantic horse hoofs and left for dead/utility at the side of that cur’s bed. Yes, I’m still talking about Jersey City, my first sadistic sort of relationship. What a terrible idea that was. But I couldn’t help it! It was programmed in me, imprinted experientially. Goddamn it. Shy, downward glances, sucked-up words. Very crisp, unremarkable, acceptable humanity drowned in my lungs and throat. I hope that never happens again, and I don’t think it will.

So, on the humid noon-turned-chilly night of which I spoke in paragraph one, well, things were alright. The aura was one of fun and familiarity. It was nice to feel briefly a tenuous member of a kind of community. Does this higgledy-piggledy sketch of a story in any way qualify as operating under the header Only in New York? My hard growing-up trajectory is universal. I am, in fact, the human avatar; the emblem of all… that has gone wrong. Oh, melodrama. In fact, I am nothing but cool-headed realism. Calm, clear and acceptant. I swear. I don’t know how to end, but I think it should go something like THIS WAS HOW THEY KNEW-SIX YEARS LATER-THAT REBECCA HAD BEEN. No, I don’t like that. Aaahh, depleted. I’m stopping.


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