Hold On To Your Panties; the Excitement May Just Be Too Much For Ya

It's 5am and I am sitting in the wreckage of what was most likely my room but seems to be a rather unidentifiable mass of crap at the moment. I can't sleep; surprising only in that for the past week its seemed very much like I have been blessed with mono for a fourth time, visibly inflamed spleen, diziness and all. I did, in fact fall asleep at the unheard of hour of 10-ish, but woke up in a fit of coughing and sneezing and have been unable to fall back asleep. I'm sure it doesn't help that it sounds like there's a wild boar with snorting Tourettes in my bed, but seeing as how said boar spent something like 10 grueling hours figuring out how to assemble the unidentifiable pile of lumber that's been sitting in my corner for months now into the world's sturdiest loft bed ever and completely rearranging the monolithic shelving units that encompass the rest of the room, I'm a bit reticent to send an elbow jab to his ribcage.

The upside is that while I may be awake in a completely exhausted sick body at an ungodly hour of the morning, I am awake sitting in the newly created sitting space underneath my super swanky new loft bed, and that's pretty damn exciting. So now when people visit, they won't be faced with my bed as the absolute only option other than standing. While this puts an end my primary theoretical seduction tactic, I don't like to bring booty home to my shared closet if I can help it anyway (tiny space, railroad apartment, roomate, and attack cat that opens the door all night don't add up to the sexiest of scenarios) so its really only a theoretical loss.

I am thrilled with my new super swanky new loft bed. I am less than thrilled with the prospect that awaits me later in the morning of trying to reassemble my room and find new corners to hide all the crap contained therein. It's also new and a change and of course freaking me out slightly because home no longer looks like home...never mind that I've been contemplating a loft bed for about a year now and planning for one for about that long. And I still have my good matress - the only good matress I've ever had in my whole life, courtesy of the wonderful Bhunjati, who defines generosity. The boxspring and frame, however, have to go and I will ridiculously mourn their loss for no logical reason whatsoever. I'm weird about change like that. I'm sure once my gigantic scene painting class relic (from an old shop supervisor freshman year of college) copy of a Chagall is up I will feel much better; Chagall's good for the soul in that comforting way.

Owning way too much shit in a tiny space in not good for the soul, just in case you were wondering. How do I keep amassing so much stuff and why am I saving stupid shit like an extra set of $20 plastic shelving? In the event that I suddenly discover an extra room hidden somewhere in the apartment I can traverse the entirety of in literally 2 seconds? There is one half of a microscopic closet in the whole place, so its not like I've got places to stash this crap; yet horde it I do. I also wash and reuse ziplock bags whenever I can, especially if they're the fancy schmancy zipper kind (well that shit's expensive and I'm piss poor okay?). So what does this say about me and my inability to let go of things? And people?

Shit! Anyone want some cheap plastic shelves? I'll throw in a boar with snorting Tourettes and a swollen spleen at no extra charge...

A Tiny Glimpse of Justice

Captain Resistance went to court today; his fourth and final appearance. At 4:50pm, he was found NOT GUILTY for the 2 charges of disorderly conduct (blocking vehicular traffic and failure to disperse) and 1 charge of parading without a permit. Bloomberg and Kelly, read 'em and weep pre-emptive mo'fos! NOT GUILTY!!

Considering we were arrested at the same time, same circumstances, I do believe this bodes well for my case too.

What wonderful news to brighten up this freezing cold miserably sick day. I still feel like total shit (not partial shit, mind you...total shit), but I'm happier shit so I guess that's good.

Yay for the first tiny glimpse of justice in this whole disgusting satire of legality!

Wounded (well, chilled and sick) at the Front Lines

Tonight's blog blurb is brought to you through a haze of over-the-counter cold and cough medicines far more potent than most weed when combined indiscriminantly, as I have done. Not to mention sloshy mucous head. On the way home from the subway, some guy who was in a hurry bumped my shoulder and I'm so out of it and so sick that he sent me flying into an embankment of brownish black snow piled 2 feet high from plowing. I laid there for about 3 minutes before I could even get up; I love being sick in this city.

I managed to get home at 11:30 last night, after much confusion and frustration. My first bus, the Hassidic version of the Chinatown bus, was cancelled. Good thing I bought that round trip ticket to save that extra $5, huh? I then got a ticket online for one of the Chinatown buses (Eastern, I think) for 6pm. I arrive only to find out that the 6pm bus is cancelled, or so we think. As no one who works for any of the Chinatown Bus lines speaks English unless its convenient, you're always kind of in the dark. So we waited in the unheated tiny room watching Chinese MTV (in Mandarin with Cantonese subtitles, of course) until about 7:45ish, at which point we finally boarded the bus. I thankfully ODed on cough meds and slept through the almost the whole trip. At the very end of the trip the guy sitting in front of me grabbed my leg and started shaking it to wake me up and ask me if he could turn off the reading light above me. I was asleep, asshole. Obviously I had no need for the light, or for you to wake me up and ask about it. I'm sure he was a young Republican.

So I'd love to post a huge update telling you all about the inaugural weekend and such, but I desperately need to lie down alternately whining and moaning until the cold meds cocktail knocks my ass out. Protesting in a blizzard sucks, just in case you were wondering. My mother predictably said "I knew you'd get sick protesting in the cold like that." I'm incredibly glad I went; I just wish I had worn an enitire whale over the 50,000 layers of long underwear I erroneously thought would protect me from the elements.

Whose streets?
Our Streets!
Whose pneumonia?
Our pneumonia!

Please send soup and wake me up in 8 years.

(moan, moan, whimper)

Still Safe

I've still managed to keep from being arrested thus far and with the exception of being close to hypothermia despite multiple layers of long underwear, have remained perfectly fine. There have been a lot of really positive rallies, and it feels really good to see things on a positive note, especially after Dubya's horrific speech and knowing that we're headed to Iran. And just so you know, I fucking love Amy Goodman and think she's a goddess. I'm going to bed; I'm exhausted.

By the way, I finally found my billionaire name - Maya Nawlmyne - received with much enthusiasm among the billionaires. The ball was awesome and it was good to be able to let loose after a long day.

J20 Update aka Not In Jail Yet (keep your fingers crossed) Post

So I just wanted to post and say that although fucked up shit is happening all over the place and we spent several hours helping a wonderful suburban mom who had been brutally pepper sprayed by overzealous and unnecessary riot cops rendering her bllind for quite a long perios of time, Captain Resistance and I are fine. We lucked out across the board and managed to get into the parade route after a very sucessful rally and funeral procession (the Ladies of Liberty were a HUGE hit - performed twice and did an encore) before they blocked the entrance and were able to get back out before they started blocking protesters from leaving the parade route. There was a huge riot gear clad police presence closed in around our protester-heavy area (though protesters were all along the parade route everywhere), but could not do much at all as we were mixed in with scattered Bush supporters.

We hit upon a very obnoxious and insecure young Republican on the way out who was denegrating protesters and being quite vile to women - he made the mistake of messing with me and calling me a fat bitch (funny how I succumb to great insecurity in that area until its directed at me - then I don't take it personally at all). I then proceeded to call out to the throngs of mostly protesters that I was searching for a "fat bitch" and were there any around because there was a very frightened and insecure man searching valiantly for a fat bitch. By this time he was fuming, and all he could do was point at me when I said "fat bitch"; quite ineffectual when everyone was laughing at him by this point.

I have to give big blogging kudos to Border's Books, corporate though they may be. They not only gave all the activists free and unlimited unhounded access to their bathrooms, but they also let us in with the poor freezing blind scared suburban mom, after they had already closed the store, to decompress and sit for over an hour. I've never seen humanity in a big corporate kind of place; you learn something new every day. It was heartwarming.

And like me after seeing what really happens to anyone wanting to raise their voice in dissent, this woman now wants to be far more involved. Their scare tactics don't dissuade us (blind some though they may), they encourage us. And now, a new activist is born.

Now I have to go get ready for the Billionaires for Bush Re-Coronation Ball - I still have to think up a good Billionaire name...I found one for Captain Resistance: Commodore Beau Wing.

Continue to keep your fingers crossed!

A Disclaimer of Sorts for Overly Emotional Posts

An unspeakable travesty has occurred at the stupid day job today; I was moved from my virtually secluded blogging enabling little corner and put back into the hideous land o' tiny cublicles. While this may be a nice change of pace in terms of forcing social interaction with my co-workers, it is horrible news in terms of blogging, e-mailing, keeping up to date on upcoming protest actions, and generally fucking around; the staple of my usual workday up until now. To add insult to injury, I am at the front of the class, so to speak, seated in a place where everyone can see what I'm doing on my computer. Lovely. As if it wasn't a crappy place to work already.

So because the work blogging has been nipped in the bud and my evenings have been taken up by the Ladies of Liberty meetings, rehearsals, banner making and general preparation for Thursday, I have been unable to post until now (now being 2:30am...tomorrow's gonna be a long long day). I've left you with only a partial vision of my existance of the moment, and one leaning toward a bit of the gloomier side of things as well; not very nice of me, but I never claimed to be nice so don't look at me buster. I've gotten a few personal e-mails from several friends (reason #5685280 not to send your anonymous blog to your friends, thus rendering it no longer anonymous...I am a genius indeed) who are concerned; the older friends being far calmer in this scenario and merely voicing their love while the newer friends fear I'm horribly depressed. I thought perhaps a disclaimer might be in order.

I'm not suicidally depressed people, I'm just a very honest and very emotionally raw and intense kind of person. I feel deeply. And what I wrote was a completely honest truthful account of the moment. The thing about moments is that they change, and that's great cuz it would fucking suck if I felt that badly still. I don't. At this moment, I'm obsessed with preparing for D.C., and that's my world at present. Perhaps I'll go back to self pity when I get return to New York, who knows? But for now, I've let that moment go, so you can too. I've been in the spin cycle a few too many times to let anything knock me down but so much. Either that or I'm really good at denial. Maybe its both. The bottom line is please don't worry about me because of anything I write in this blog. The blog exists as part excruciating exercise in forcing me to verbalize in a form more coherent than subvocal grunts and whimpers, part venue in which to keep the people who don't stay up until 4am when I can actually call them somewhat updated on my life, and part release for my own damn selfish purposes. I'd like to be able to use it as the latter two without having them conflict. That's part of the deal with honesty - you get the good, the bad, the funny, and the really fucked up all in one. I'll post something along the lines of "worry about me now" when its time to worry; until then, know that I'm tougher than I read.

Umm, at the same time, thanks for some of the really cool stuff you all said. You're pretty fucking insightful empathetic witty caring and a whole laundry list of other adjectives I don't feel like typing because its 3:15am and I still have to finish packing. I'm unbelievably lucky to have such great friends. Did my mom put you up to this or what?

Drunken Honesty

As if my last post wasn't fucked up enough, you now get treated to the lovely spectacle of a drunken mess; you know the secret voyeur in you is relishing the candidness. What's brilliant about blogging is that I won't erase it once its out there- you get the messy as well as the humorous. You probably can't really have one without the other. There is also something to be said about the liberation that comes from blogging honesty- the freeing aspect might even outweigh the humiliation. We'll see tomorrow morning.

So here's what's really shitty about unresolved guilt and anger- it comes back to haunt you through completely unrelated events. How fucked up is that? Could my emotions just please stick with the issues at hand? Nope. Not gonna happen. Instead everything eventually comes back full circle and suddenly I find myself dredging up the same old song and dance. There really should be some guidelines to this sort of thing, you know? Like I don't have enough in the present to regret? I mean , puh-leeze! What's the statute of limitations on life altering guilt? Shouldn't my time be just about up?

Okay, the humor thing actually isn't working for me here. I'm still feeling like if my friend Ms. V.L. Artsycam looks across the table at me in anything resembling a look of caring or concern the tears are going to pour forth in great abundance. It's that oh-so-precariously balanced cup of emotion and fragility. I'm frequently accused of being intense and emotionally raw (and intensely emotionally raw)...I guess I do feel things very deeply and very intensely, which is great in some respects and super shitty in others. This would be an example of the latter.

Don't worry, I haven't lost my sense of humor, nor am I inconsolable or severely fucked up (just mildly..); I'm just giving you an honest glimpse of a moment in time.

And now I have to pee. (a byproduct of too much beer)

The Post Ooozing With Mass Quantities of Self Pity and Self Loathing...A Synge Specialty

I can't figure out why at all, but lately a couple of my oldest and dearest friends have been saying incredibly beautiful things about me in their blogs involving my sense of self awareness and crediting me with knowing, unapologetically, who I am. I feel incredibly selfish that I have yet to devote an entry to waxing poetic about my amazing friends, but alas, it will have to wait yet again because I have some wallowing in self pity to do. Before commencing with the aforementioned wallowing, however, let me briefly address the eloquent sob-inducing posts twofold. First, I want to say that I am wholly undeserving of having the wonderful friends that I do. I still feel at heart that perhaps there's been some sort of identity mix-up and they think I'm someone I'm not. Regardless, I am indebted to my oldest friends in ways they cannot even fathom; they remain some of the most incredible individuals I have ever and will ever meet. Secondly, I regret to inform you that this month's bribe money to write really sweet things about me online will not be forthcoming as I'm beyond broke. I'll understand if you feel the need to retract the posts, again, I apologize. That's just what happens when you take friendship bribes from starving actors.

Here's the rub, though, in case you were looking for it. I don't feel like I know myself anywhere near the extent to which I'm credited. In fact, I feel completely lost at present. I feel like the only thing I know unequivocably is that I am self destructive and self sabotaging, and I'm not particularly endeared to that fact. Were I truly as self-aware and far along in terms of personal growth as you claim I am, I would not be so fucked up in terms of intimacy as I'm discovering myself to be. I charge Mr. Emotionally Unavailable with crimes that I am finding myself quite guilty of as well, and I don't know why (read that as I'm not willing to admit to myself). I don't like it though.

I used to close myself off at the drop of a hat, especially where sex was concerned. It's been a long time since I've closed myself off to the extent that I did this morning, and what I discovered was that its incredibly damaging now. It's no longer the self-protective mechanism it once was; instead it makes me feel unbelievably alone, frighteningly empty, and wholly unworthy of any connection to anyone. And instead of rectifying the situation and being open to attempts at closing the gap, I tried to close off even more and pretend I didn't really care about anything....an old trademark of the ghosts of Synges past. It worked...for a very brief time, or at least I pretended like it did.

Now I feel nauseous. I mean genuinely physically ill.

And hollow, like all the weight of my insides was scooped out by some giant ice cream scoop. I don't know where they went though. Maybe my insides are looking for me. Maybe they're in the ice cream dish of some giant like in Jack and the beanstalk, and I'm deaf to their cries for help. I think I cut them out myself though in an effort not to have any guts anymore. I was probably tired of them screaming passionately all the time. The shitty thing is I feel the hole just as much as the guts, if not more. Damn negative spaces attract more attention than the filled ones.

Juliette Binoche's character in the movie Damage (which my parents should never have sent me in whatever crack induced fit they were in when they thought it a good idea) says at one point something along the lines of damaged people being the most dangerous kind of people because they know they will always survive. That scares the shit out of me. I'm always holding a hell of a lot in reserve, even when it seems like I'm not. I do this so that when people suddenly decide I am no longer worth it, or perhaps when the ever anticipated tragedy or hurt arrives, I will have my secret cache that is all me, that I can exist off of.

So there you have it folks. don't give me anything good...not a single inch, because I'll inevitably fuck it up across the board, not to mention be an asshole to you in the process. I'm just self destructive like that. And certainly don't applaud me for a self awareness that I clearly don't posess, because I'm sorry but I can't pay you. And I can't accept or handle anything nice said about me right now (so please don't bother commenting), because I feel like the most I deserve is a bath in a pig-shit filled trough; that's the self-loathing raw truth of this moment.

And I think sometimes I really am a huge fucking lost overly fearful child asshole.

Hearing Impaired

It's raining that intensely cold to your very core sort of rain that really ought to be snow because it would be a hell of a lot warmer. But no, instead it remains cold and wet and settles in your bones with a perpetual dampness that claims squatter's rights and is there to stay despite the heated office and internal coffee warming attempts. To make matters worse, after waking up late (despite repeated wake up phone calls lasting the duration of an hour...mornings are not my forte), as I scrambled out of the apartment in my sleepwalking haze of a mad dash I forgot my umbrella was not in my overstuffed suitcase of a purse.

Its like one of the 10 comandments in the bible of nyc- thou shalt not leave thy dwelling place without thy umbrella. Everyone knows this; the one time you don't have your umbrella is the one time it suddenly becomes monsoon season in the city. Plus, your trusty umbrella is your only weapon of defense aginst getting your eye poked out by everyone else's umbrellas rapidly approaching at super sonic speeds with spokes headed straight towards the vicinity of your eyeballs. Unfortunately I discovered this oversight once having reached the bottom of my five arduous flights and decided to risk life and limb and eyeballs in the interest of already precious time.

By the time I reached 100 Centre street, my coat and hat were mere formalities. Dripping formalities, though, which made them all the more annoying to both myself and the security guards scanning my property through the x-ray machine thingy (I think that's the technical term for it). I squished my way to the information desk, where they were to hold my confiscated cell phone - dangerous weapon that is it for having a shitty useless camera function, and inquired as to the location of Judge Cataldo's courtroom. I recieved my three contradictory responses, and proceeded to comb about five different floors for the elusive location.

Finally, at about 9:45am (the hearing was scheduled for 9:00am), I happened upon it by sheer luck only to find it completely empty but for one lone harried lawyer barking quietly into a cell phone. I stood there for several moments staring blankly around like a complete idiot, and turned around to squish my way out. The barker followed at my heels, though he was now being the annoying frustrated sigher, so I asked him if the hearing was over already. He looked at me like I had cat vomit in my hair and replied that he knew nothing of any hearings. Pressing him further, I said "The city's contempt hearing?", as if this would be the magic key that would suddenly unlock his memory and provide some sort of explanation for my sopping sleep deprived question mark of a being. No such luck; the barker didn't know of any hearings against the city and why should he? He had too many people on his plate to go bark at.

I shared the elevator back down to the main floor with a small pool of blood, occupying the center spot, and several people desperately clinging to the walls in an effort to avoid the ostracized center occupant. I realized that I must qualify as a full fledged New Yorker by now, as I was far more frustrated by the unbearably slow pace of the elevator than I was freaked out by a little puddle o' blood.

I collected my dangerous contraband and made my way out into the monsoon to call the NLG and find out if the hearing had been cancelled. I only got the answering machine, which staunchly refused to answer my questions, despite my teary pleas. Seeing as how I was being rained upon with great vehemence, while standing under a covered construction scaffolding, I decided to abandon the quest and head for the stupid day job.

My well intentioned efforts garnered me no satifaction whatsoever, save the extra pages I got to read during the subway rides to and from. At least its a good book- far more interesting than this story to nowhere I'm posting. Ah, the excitement never ceases here folks.

Squatting at the Tombs With the Watchdogs of Our Rights

I was holding off writing anything else until I finished the epic piece de resistance (pun intended) about my day in court; as the projected deadline for completion has now been extended until 2007 (and the projected end of the trial too, no doubt), I figured perhaps its time to move on. Actually, I think part of the problem is that I moved on... to focusing on the upcoming counter-inaugural actions and got swept away in a wave of uberfocus, as I'm wont to do. Uberfocus is the inverse of multitasking; its the nice way of saying I can't walk and chew gum at the same time (I forget to chew). So the last few days have been spent jumping from one site to another, sifting through all the listserve e-mails, setting up my local dc contact in the event of an arrest, getting ready for this weekend's nyc rehearsal march and meetings, and getting mentally psyched for next week. The last few nights have been spent down by the Lincoln Tunnel, trying to earn back the money I'm losing from the missed time at work and the cheap crazy Chinatown bus ticket.

It is far too late at night to try and start a new post- anything above mundane rambling is far too ambitious considering my tendency towards the long winded combined with the fact that I have to be up very early to get down to the courthouse (100 Centre street...my favorite place in the whole city!) for the city's contempt hearing. Damn, now I have to go into it anyway. Oh well, it would somehow be wrong if I entered that building in any state other than sleep deprived.

The short version (if I am indeed capable of that) is that a NY State Supreme Court judge by the name of Cataldo repeatedly found the city of New York and the Bloomberg administration to be in contempt of court for holding the RNC arrestees for over 24 hours before their arraignments. The NLG filed a writ of habeus corpus while we were still in the process of being shuffled from cell to cell intentionally trapped within the system, and Cataldo ordered the city to release the protesters immediately. When the city did not comply with these orders, Cataldo found the city and the Bloomberg administration to be in contempt of court. The city was continually called back into court as Judge Cataldo's deadlines passed unmet; finally after 6 hearings and a threat by Cataldo to fine the city up to $1000 per person detained over 24 hours (which still might be implemented), all of the protesters were released. The city was then given a hearing date at the end of September with the State Supreme Court, but they appealled the contempt ruling and the hearing was postponed pending the outcome of the appeal. In mid-December, 5 Appellate Division judges unanimously dismissed the city's appeal and now they have to be called into account for their unlawful detainment. Tomorrow is the re-scheduled hearing and the process can now resume, albeit at a snail's pace.

The unsung heroes at the NLG (including my fabulous bad-ass lawyer who's the president of the NYC chapter) put a call out to pack the courthouse tomorrow; as an individual concerned about the continual theft of civil liberties and an arrestee held for over 50 hours without ever being charged or arraigned, I think its important that I attend. After all, this suit is in part on my behalf.

Big shout out to Norman Siegel, champion of rights, the NYC NLG whose volunteers and members have worked tirelessly (literally- they were sleeping in the crappy little office protecting the video evidence for months) on behalf of arrestees, and the Legal Aid Society for bringing this suit against the city in the first place. When we caught wind of it in jail, it lifted our dejected asses and barely recognizable spirits out of the toilets they were mired in.

For all that is so very wrong about what's going on in this country in terms of first amendment violations, its incredibly uplifting to see people out there fighting so fiercely for you and not allowing injustices to go unchallenged. This is my second trip to the tombs this week, a place I'd rather forget. Both are empowering in completely different ways, and its nice to know and own that places, memories and indignities can be reclaimed and vindicated.

In Solidarity,
Synge

Time for a Quickie?

I started writing a post about today's events, but as brevity is not in my personal lexicon, its going to be a while before I can post. The much abbreviated (aka bor-ring) version of things is as follows:

-My lawyer is the coolest most bad ass lawyer in the world and I adore him!
-My bad ass lawyer filed a very humerous motion to dismiss based on "gross facial insufficiencies" in the complaint against me written up by the DA's office. The funny part was that one of the facial insufficiencies is that I'm charged with parading without a permit, and the complaint "fails to allege that the defendant did not have a permit." Sounds pretty insufficient to me.
-The DA's office, despite their insufficiencies, is allowed time to prepare a response to the motion; the case has been continued until March 9th, at which time the judge may or may not grant the motion.
-The DA's office offerred me another ACD, which I declined.
-My lawyer's bad ass assistant's really cool too, and thankfully stuck like glue to my side.
-I think that building makes me bleed.

So I survived and feel totally confident and safe in my bad ass lawyer's capable hands. Thanks for all of the confidence boosting and back- getting that poured forth that made me remember to fight.

more to come later...

Heigh Ho, Heigh,,,Huh? Where Am I Going Again?

It's 7:30am and I'm awake. Not only awake, but already showered and the coffee is brewing. I couldn't resist; I just had to document this miraculous event, as its occurrance is a truly remarkable thing indeed (and I think all who know me would heartily concur). Too bad my mother has never even seen the internet and has a fear of computers only rivaled by mine in high school (I made my Dad take ours out of the house because I thought it was an evil machine that whispered subliminal messages to me in my sleep. I'm still not entirely convinced that this is a falsehood, but I have a codependent relationship with my mac nonetheless.); she'd love to see this post. With the exception of a sunrise hike with my Dad last summer in Capitol Reef National Park, the only time I'm up this early is when I've passed a nuit blanche (French for you're a stupid fucking idiot who stayed up all night and will now pay a dear price for it). Not only am I up on time without the use of a wake-up series of phone calls or physical force, but I'm up early, which was late for my warped stressed out math of last night (and that's pre-wine math, mind you). Now let's see just how gracefully I can slide through the day on jangled nerves and 3 hours of sleep.

And the adventure begins...


(can i crawl back into bed yet?)

Pity Party of One, Now Departing for The Tombs

Okay, so I think there might be a slight possibility that I'm just a wee bit anxious about tomorrow. My other gay boyfriend, Mr. Saucy Funnybuns (his buns aren't funny, they're cute. But he's funny), called tonight daring to ask a completely innocuous queation about my old computer that he's using and for such a grave unforgivable offense I proceeded to rip him a new asshole. Then I returned a call to my friend Queen Videoblog the Wacky, and snapped at her for having the audacity to invite me to see our mutual friend's band Stickerbook (how dare she?). Although when hormonal I can have the tendency to gravitate towards the bitch end of the behavioral spectrum, I'm not normally a super pissy person by nature. At least I don't think I am, and this is my blog, so that's all that counts. Tonight I seem to be in rare form- shape of...a wildebeast, an ice cube, and pissiness personified. This mode of acting out leads me to believe that perhaps I'm not feeling quite as confident and capable as I'd like to be right about now.

Technically, I really have nothing to fear. I have an excellent lawyer, plenty of evidence and witness to support me, and we're talking a violation here equal to a traffic ticket. It's not even a misdemeanor, and the worst that could happen is I get found guilty with time served (more than time served actually...can I bank the rest of the remaining hours and apply them towards the next bullshit charge I may incur?). Not to mention since we're filing a motion, chances are that if the motion is denied, then the case will be continued and I will be assigned another court date; that's the way things have been playing out for Captain Resistance.

But my fear has little to do with possible repercussions, and more to do with the horrible sense of powerlessness and violation surrounding my experiences with the law thus far in this case; which is, of course, exactly what those who would silence dissent are banking on with the first time arestees. That's why they expect us to meekly accept our ACDs (adjournment contemplating dismissal, which is technically not a plea of guilty or not guilty, but effectively 6 months probation and then the case is supposedly sealed) they keep offerring, never to venture out in the scary dangerous streets again to excercise our first amendment rights.

I chose not to accept an ACD because I broke no law in this particular action. I had been a part of a cd street party out of Union Square earlier that evening, which was rudely interrupted by the riot cops and where about 300 people were arrested; I was lucky enough to be let out...probably because out of fear and nervousness regarding the extreme violence the cops were using on the people near us, myself and 2 other women were clinging to eachother for dear life singing Amazing Grace with tears pouring down our faces. (I didn't choose the song, but luckily knew the words after having had to sing it in a production of The Laramie Project...see Mom and Dad? Theatre can be a very useful and practical career!) I am downright torturous to the ear when I attempt to sing and I'm sure the cops just wanted to get the awful noise as far away from them as possible. I tried this again at 17th and 5th, while standing in line on the sidewalk waiting to be cuffed, but it didn't work that time. I should've switched songs.

I pled not guilty because I am reclaiming my voice and not letting the feelings of fear and powerlessness win. But right now, I'm scared shitless.

Part of it is the fact that this will be the first time I've been back to 100 Centre Street, aka "The Tombs" (I'm not kidding- this is what they're called), which house not only the courts, but Central Booking as well. This is where I finally stumbled out at 10:45pm on September 2, 2004 (and stumble would be an understatement at that point) to take my first breath of polluted urine scented air as a free woman in over 50 hours.

This is where I was shuffled from cell to cell in a sleep deprived haze for about 32 of those hours.
This is where I was forced to change my tampon one-handed in full view of whomever I was held with at that moment, as there were no doors on the bathrooms.
This is where I was threatened with the loss of my paperwork (which did indeed become a reality) by an asshole cop when I, knowing my rights, refused to go to the emergency room for my injured shoulder despite being strongly urged to do so by the Orthepedic Surgeon who examined me during one of my many trips to the EMS room.
This is where I continuously called for water, as we were in a cell without any working running water, for 3 hours in full voice and was ignored.
This is where I was repeatedly laughed at and mocked when I would call in extreme pain to be taken to the EMS room for whatever meager dose of Tylenol they would hand out and an ice pack.
This is where I hurled my used sanitary products through the bars into the hallway in a fit of rage after no trash receptacle or means with which to clean my bloody hand were brought despite repeated pleas.
This is where i discovered the terrifyingly grotesque chemical burns (courtesy of the lovely accomodations at Pier 57, which Bloomberg declared wasn't supposed to be club Med) on the bottom of my toes which looked like the skin just melted away in the raw red center fading into pink and surrounded by these odd white bubbles of raised skin on all sides.
This is where I held some truly amazing women in my arms, stroking their hair as they cried, and where I was held in turn when I broke down sobbing.
This is where I, and the other protesters with me at that time, shared a cell with a crazy civilian (non-protester) who kept rushing our persons and screaming at us about how horribly we stank and how disgusting and offensive we were to her (and we did indeed smell, but there was absolutely nothing we could do about it).
This is where I never got my one fucking free phone call!

Alas, I could go on and on recounting the many treasured memories this building represents for me; suffice it to say I know that location intimately. If seeing the video of the arrest was as unexpectedly difficult as it was, I'm a wee bit apprehensive about returning to The Tombs. It was a nightmare of dehumanization, where we were referred to as bodies, and barely treated as such. I'm very emotionally associative by nature; I don't want to go back there.

I'm also a big fucking baby, who realizes that 50 hours and the treatment my priviledged white ass received is absolutely nothing compared to what many people have to go through for years and years in this country, let alone the travsties of Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib. I do recognize how lucky I am, even while writing this diatribe of self pity.

I'm sure the fact that it was my first arrest and this will be my first court appearrance ever, is a factor in my juvenile response to it all. Indeed, many of the seasoned protesters on the listserves posted comments to that effect regarding many of our responses. Out of over 2000 arrestees, the majority were not only first time arrestees, but first time protesters as well. When I went to pick up the garbage bag containing my possesions, the officer on duty asked me if I would do it again. I said "Absolutely". He looked at me, totally perplexed as I'm sure I was quite a mess to behold, and said, "Really? After all you've been through?" I replied, "I'm even more likely to now than before. How many people have answered no to that question?" He said, "I don't know, I haven't really asked." I replied, "Well you should."

I'm going down to D.C. to participate in the counter-inaugural actions on j20 with open eyes and much clearer vision. While I'm still going to be careful and have designated my arrestability level as 0 because my case will most likely still be open (you should always go with a buddy, and discuss the level of civil disobedience you're willing and able to engage in beforehand so you're on the same page arrestability-wise...Captain Resistance is meeting me in D.C. and has promised to be my buddy and watch my back), I'll be more prepared in the highly likely event that the same pre-emptive mass arrest bullshit is pulled and hopefully more emotionally prepared and equipped to deal with it.

I should probably try to get some sleep since I have to get up at the crack of dawn and usually find it difficult to make it to work by 10:30am most days. I've had just about enough to drink that sleep may be possible. Sorry about the self-indulgence of this particular post, sometimes you just have to thrown yourself a little pity party before you can remember where you misplaced your guts.

In Solidarity,
Synge

-note: for some reason, neither explorer for mac or safari are letting me edit or compose with any of the fancy stuff, so I'll have to go and add in all the cool links whenever I can get to a computer tomorrow. Be sure to check back so you can catch them and at least partially salvage the huge chunk of time wasted reading my long whining post to nowhere.

The Real Time Update

I'm sitting in my favorite local non-corporate coffee dive waiting for the video copies I dropped off at the weird creepy video reproduction place to finish their spawning so that I can send Captain Resistance the evidence to peruse himself, as his lawyer claimed to have only seen him once in the video and he was highly visible throughout. His lawyer, Mr. Scaredycat Pisspants is a real nutjob; I went down to meet him to give him my written testimony in case I will be able to testify and he talked on and on about his parents having been actors and said his mother would love to meet me. Okay...(to be read with a Mr. Artsy Hotpants inflection for those of you who know MAH) He also later called to ask me to see a movie. I forgot to call him back, not intentionally- I just suck at returning phone calls. Anyway, he seems to be a little flaky, at best, from what Cap'n Resistance has noted as well.

I'm a little nervous about tomorrow...and just as a write this, in another stunning example of the synchronicity that always not-so-subtlely hits me over the head with its obviousness like the old cartoon piano falling on your head trick only more symbolic, my lawyer calls and we make arrangements to meet tomorrow morning before court (I've never met him before). More importantly, he said he's going to file a motion for dismissal, because "Basically I think the complaint is insufficient. So I wrote up a quick motion for dismissal...". This comment was tossed off in a thoroughly cavalier self-confident way that I have to say makes me feel quite reassured. If good lawyers are smoke and mirrors, he certainly has the act down well...he'd intimidate the shit out of me with his overly confident somewhat condescending manner. Okay, he does kind of intimidate me (but I kind of like it...mmm, be brusk again Mr. Confident Condescending Cavalier ). Plus the NLG folks keep saying he's the gold standard for political activists' defense. So I guess we're filing a motion tomorrow...and there you go folks, the real time update.

My time's up, I'd better post. The clock's counting down....oh god, the pressure!

Weekend Field Trip With the Good Folks at the NLG

Yesterday I took an exciting field trip to the offices of the New York City chapter of the National Lawyers' Guild, where I then spent a lifetime-length 5 hours watching several different videos of my unlawful arrest in an attempt to identify myself on tape. This task required super-sonic vision, and I unfortunately forgot my blurry video decoder ring and binoculars. Not that I am ungrateful for the wonderful NLG volunteers who were out in full force ensuring that there was ample video evidence of the man silencing dissent; I just wish they had better zoom lenses and that there wasn't some fat cop's ass in the way everytime the camera got anywhere near me. After replaying the tapes about 5000 times and in slow motion, I was finally able to identify myself in several different places. One of the times I was dancing, as I am apt to do when protesting (the drums just call to my arrhythmic inner idiot); whew, no wonder they arrested me, I look like I'm an escapee from the psych ward at Bellevue...who really had to pee...while having a violent seizure of some sort. While that may well be a usable tactic, I doubt very much its effectiveness.

Those lovely 5 hours of hell, akin to constant nails on chalkboard screeching sounds while watching my father chew with his mouth open making loud slurping sounds, were spent in preparation for my upcoming court battle. Yep, the people vs. Synge Bleu begins this coming Tuesday. The angels at the NLG feel that our particular arrest scenario is pretty cut and dry; this does seem to be the case when one looks at the video evidence. Let's see, there's a group of 65 or so very peaceful protesters marching (with the exception of one idiot psycho having a seizure) on the sidewalk (legal in NYC), then waiting silently in the street with hands extended in the air in peace signs while the cops ostensibly search for the promised route through to the mythical "free speech zone". Then suddenly the barricades, which were blocking off the street at both ends of the block thus making the charge of blocking vehicular traffic rather inapplicable, were moved and about 25 scooters with cops aboard them were driven into the street. In fact, it was so ridiculously obvious how we were entrapped that it made me absolutely speechless with rage.

I didn't realize how difficult it would be to watch these videos. Logically speaking, it makes no sense; not only is it not happening right now, but I'm standing up for what should be my constitutional rights (excuse me, privileges, according to Bloomberg) and fighting the bullshit charge in court. Nevertheless, it freaked my shit out!

Shit, my laundry's done!
(How's that for an ending?)

Healthy Cheesecake and Evil itunes Messages from the Universe

This has been quite a week for me, full of the kind of conversations that stew somewhere in the back of my mind where I've tried in vain to push them over a non existant cliff never to be heard from again. These are the conversations which keep me awake at 4am, when I'm far too honest with myself to be able to push them back into a dark corner and merely roll over and fall asleep. The question of what do I want has been posed multiple times this week, by multiple individuals. Somehow this question has always been the hardest for me to answer, especially to myself. I think perhaps I am afraid to concretely state what I want because I'm too afraid of then not getting it and having to either abandon hope or settle, neither of which are very appealing options. I think I also have this ridiculous fear that if I commit to a statement of want I will be forever stuck with it, even if my wants and needs change. I am afraid of rejection and acceptance simultaneously...how the fuck do I untangle that one?

I want healthy cheesecake, and isn't it theoretically possible that this could exist?

It's too late an hour to blog about this, and I'm physically and emotionally exhausted; I don't want to write, I want to crawl into bed and have the good cry I stupidly won't allow myself to have.

Have I mentioned how much I despise PMS?

And once again (this always happens to me) the lyrics that just played from the random mix on my itunes are oddly in synch with what I'm writing: "I'm so tired, but I can't sleep. Standing on the edge of something much too deep. It's funny how we feel so much but cannot say a word. Though we are screaming inside, we can't be heard." Okay universe, I won;t let my life pass me by nor will I weep for memories, just let me get some fucking sleep.

Great, now it's playing Paul Westerberg "Your heart sends a feeling. It don't ache but baby it's gonna swing from the ceiling, break like a pinata. Break like a whitecap. In the sand you shiver, with eyes like two hubcaps at the bottom of the river." I think it's time to turn this stupid machine off and go knit or something. Blogger should block me from writing at 4am, is there a way to set that up?

The Making of an Administrative Whore

I find myself unable to devote as huge a chunk of my time to blogging as I'd like (ie the majority of the workday) because I have been awarded the oh-so-illustrious task of transferring the entire contents of several file cabinets who's keys are missing to other file cabinets with keys intact. This comes on the heels of spending about 6 hours earlier this week trying every single key in the disorganized unlabled key box in each of the 4 cabinets without keys. Sounds absolutely thrilling, doesn't it? Yup, that's why I get paid the whopping $11/hour unlivable wage.

My problems with being assigned this task (aside from laziness and a newfound blogging addiction) are as follows:
1) It really shouldn't take a series of 7 e-mails to get a task such as this one done. That's just plain gratuitous.
2) The sole reason for the sudden concern over the privacy of indivuals' personal health information is an upcoming URAC audit, not a sudden misplaced sense of honor and decency or respect for the poor wackos and druggies whose health care they routinely deny to line the greedy pockets of the evil company.
3) The afforementioned audit has been postponed until February. Granted I am not one for logic and reason by any stretch of the imagination, but wouldn't it make more sense to call a locksmith and have the locks replaced within that extra time, as this will eventually need to be done anyway? It seems like a waste of time to schlepp files only to end up schlepping them back. But that's just me, and from what I've gathered of the business world, wasting time is the name of the game.

Whoo-hoo! The excitement just never ends here in managed care land folks.

I can't believe I'm whoring myself out to a company that's so antithetical to my beliefs. I justify it by constantly reminding myself that as I am a (perpetual) temp, I am technically working for the temp agency and not the evil greed monster. Plus, truth be told, this temp job for the evil greed monster is 100% flexible; the gold standard in terms of stupid day jobs for actors. And voila, ladies and gents, the recipe for creating an administrative whore.

Are we having fun yet?

I'm going back to the junk machine to drown my sorrows and heal my papercuts with processed crap in an endless parade of refined sugar. (on second thought, after adding those links, I think I'll be strong and deal with the pain in a more productive manner)

Bad Boys, Bad Boys...Watcha Gonna Do? Watcha Gonna Do When They Come for You? RUN!!

I'm shocked, really, that my uber-hormonal weanie self waited this long to bring up this subject...I guess I didn't want to seem obsessed ("Which I'm not!!!" I type indignantly and furiously and more than a bit defensively). That's right, dear reader, you get to peer in through the half broken and in dire need of a good cleaning window to the bizarre surreality that is my love life. Or sex life. Or both...take your pick, you probably have a much better sense about these things than I do. Actually I have a paralyzing fear of the word love, so let's just dub it dating life. This is probably a much more apt moniker, and will prevent me from breaking into hives or spontaneously combusting or all of the above.

In case you couldn't figure out from my paranoia about a silly harmless terrifying word, I'm a little fucked up (and that's what we call a little understatement) when it comes to boys. And men, though those are a rare breed indeed, most often spotted with wedding rings or lip-locked to another man. I have yet to venture across the border to women, but as I'm sure I will one day, let me just say now I have no doubt I'll be equally as fucked up. And as for animals, that idea just really disturbs me; I'm very open minded and always want to try everything, but that's just taking it a bit far for this Synge. My vibrator and I, as of this posting, have no quarrels (though I really am not partial to the color hot pink).

I know, who isn't fucked up in regards to dating and all the four letter words associated with it, right? But I seem to always find myself in these situations that provide endless entertainment to my gay boyfriends, but that's about it. One of my gay boyfriends (I only have 2, I'm not that much of a hussy!), let's call him Artsy Hotpants because that will make him e-mail or call saying "What the fuck? Artsy Hotpants? Oh-kay.", told me the other day that I get more booty than anyone he knows. I replied that I also had more bad dating luck and weird stories than anyone he knows; He was thus forced to concurr. If it weren't for Artsy Hotpants laughing with me about all of this, I'd probably realize how pathetic it is, but luckily for the moment I've convinced myself that it's all very funny. Merci beaucoup Artsy Hotpants (I so enjoy calling you that).

The main thru-line of the long-running farce lies in the character of Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (self named, as per the ending of Round III). Guess what Mr. Emotionally Unavailable's problem is? You'll never guess, really, as subtlety is my strong suit. Mr. Emotionally Unavailable and I have been through three "rounds", as I like to call them due to the ongoing boxing match that has been our struggle to approach anything remotely akin to comprehension of eachother. Mr. Emotional Unavailability's capacity to push away exponentially surpasses any and all attempts I may have ever made to the same effect, even in my pushing away heyday (and I was pretty damn good at it; or so I thought). I have now become far more fluent in EmoUnav-speak, his native tongue, and have for the most part ceased to obsess over every little nuanced phrasing choice and constantly question my gut interpretation.

All of this is a moot point, however, as Mr. Emotionally Unavilable is, in his own words, "chronically emotionally unavailable"; therefore despite his admission that he has feelings for me as I do for him, we cannot be together. The mathmatical and scientific probabilities that he will hurt me are far too great, or some bullshit like that. I know nothing of mathmatical and scientifuc probabilities; that is not my department. My department is knowing that there is a deep strong connection there that resonates mostly in the silent moments and that when we dare to look really deeply into eachothers' eyes my stomach drops into my knees and I can feel his do the same. We cannot be in the same room for more than 2 minutes without either ripping eachother's clothes off, or at least wanting to. As he said, "there's a reason we keep coming back to eachother"; unfortunately either that reason scares the shit out of him, or he's a very honest asshole.

Mr. Emotionally Unavailable has graciously proposed a friendship with benefits; the most he can give at present. In an uncharacteristically self-aware and dare I say adult move, I respectfully declined, pleading already overloaded self destructive tendencies that need not be encouraged. Thus far, I have remained staunch in my resolve- difficult as its been. I am proud of myself for this; it shows great growth in the self love and self respect departments, as well as great fear of incurring the wrath of Mr. Artsy Hotpants.

So Tuesday, I had my first platonic lunch with Mr. Emotionally Unavailable (lunch: the safe date). It went fairly well, though I wonder if a little smooching violates the platonic part of the agreement. I'll opt for a response of no, as that's what I'd like to believe. He somehow seems to translate my decision to decline his fuck-buddy offer as me having ended things, and/or me running and abandoning ship. Despite my improved fluency in EmoUnav-speak, this is one I can't really figure out. Wouldn't his offer, despite his confession of having feelings for me, constitute the bolting out the door part of the story? I'm sorry, but I can't quite comprehend how my refusal to enter into an agreement to be a friendly happy-go-lucky vagina sans strings can be construed as running. I'd venture to call it, perhaps, an act of sanity.

Mr. Emotionally Unavailability asked if I was going to send him the link to my blog. Perhaps I will, though he will most definitely abhor my writing. Good for him. Nannie nannie boo boo, I'm so fucking mature in this moment!

Next you must flex your suspension of disbelief muscles, as this is by no means reality. It involves taking a vacation in your own apartment, and the lovely magical departure from your normal day to day life that even PMS and strep throat cannot intrude upon; but it is a mutually created illusion that is always the by-product of long distance. It's a very familiar story to me, and I've made the mistake of confusing the fiction with reality many times before. The great thing about the long distance illusion is that it can be whatever you create it to be- both ideal and dangerous for those of us with overactive imaginations.

I was unlawfully arrested with Captain Resistance (and 63 or so others in our little impromptu sidewalk march) during the Republican National Convention [I will be able to post about it when my upcoming trial is over], but I did not meet him in person until December. We spent a great deal of time communicating via the various arrestees listserves, as he was in Norway and I was away on a contract down south (which may as well have been Norway at times). As we had the same arrest scenario and were both awaiting trial after having pled not guilty, we maintained pretty regular contact and found we had a lot in common. Captain Resistance is a sailor, and I happen to have developed a great affinity for sailing and sailboats in another epoque. We became fast friends, and the first time we ever spoke on the phone it felt like we had known eachother our whole lives. There's an instant familiarity and comfortableness with Captain Resistance, like we've done this before and have already learned to navigate eachother.

When he came up in mid-December for a court date and visit, one thing invariably led to another and of course the newly purchased guest bed/camping cot was never used. It was a lovely surreal visit, despite my being horrifically sick, that I dubbed the vacation in my apartment. We connect seamlessly in endless conversations about politics, children, relationships, past fuck-ups, and life in general. It feels like coming home.

Yet I know all of this is only possible because it is our own personal fiction, and that to violate the protective bubble it was created in would destroy it all. The beauty lies in the disconnect from the real world, and such a disconnect is not sustainable in the long run. I tried for 3.5 years with Mr. Old Guy; reality, much as I choose to flee from it, always ends up intruding. While Captain Resistance is much younger than Mr. Old Guy, there is still an age difference to consider in addition to the distance thing. As much as I refused to admit it at the time, it does make a difference in the day to day compatibility.

Captain Resistance (pronounced with a fench accent of course) has used the dreaded "L" word, inciting great panic in my little world. While I have not run yet, as I have the protection of distance to fall back on, I hold back...as much for my protection as his. I know too well my proclivity for fiction. He told me last night (we're vacationing again- another court date) that perhaps I could be accused of emotional unavailability as well. My defensive response is a petulant cry of "This is totally different!"

Captain Resistance reads my blog as well; everyone smile and wave.

Hardly worth mentioning, except for comic value, is Mr. Txtmsg. Mr. Txtmsg is incapable of communicating via non-electronic means; while I am unsure if this disease is curable or not, this is why Mr. Txtmsg has been officially booted to the curb. On our first date, we went to see Supersize Me at the Critical Mass Space and to my supreme annoyance and humiliation, he drove! He also puts his underwear back on after sex because "adults don't sleep naked." Thank God! I was starting to fear I was approaching adult status, what with making some responsible choices and all, but now I can rest easy in the knowledge that unless I stop sleeping in my Birthday Suit I will not be considered an adult. (Though what kid do you know that sleeps naked? That's what I want to know.)

The final straw came when Mr. Txtmsg actually asked me if I would be interested in participating in a menage a trois he's been fantasizing about, via text message. Now I understand that he is clearly physically incapable of picking up a fucking phone on most occasions, and I won't mock the behaviorally challenged, but this raised the tackiness bar to new heights. My response was that I felt it just might be an inappropriate venue for this sort of discussion, but I was oh-so-glad that I was in his fantasies. Completely missing the sarcasm, he said something along the lines of "Ok. Whatever you want. Just keep it in mind and have a great weekend." Attempting to send a more blatant txt, I said "I can never quite decide whether to be insulted by you or not. Its interesting." His reply: "Thanks". That pretty much says it all folks, doesn't it?

Well, this post has been an epic affair, which turned far more serious than the lighthearted romp through my present collection of funny boy stories I intended. Oh well, I'm tired and have cramps, whaddya expect from me people? But I would like to point out that I did learn how to insert a link...it was very difficult, I had to press the link icon and then copy and paste an address...it's a wonder I ever figured it out on my own.

I'm a fucking mess. Mr. Artsy Hotpants, I'm right there with you...if I had an ipod, I'd date it too.

Speakerphone Shouting Olympic Champions

I think speakerphone has to qualify as one of the most annoying inventions of our time...far worse than the constantly ringing overabused cell phone surgically attached to everyone's ear. At least with cell phones you don't hear both sides of the conversation being shouted at top volume by a group of people not really listening to eachother at all. There's just nothing quite like trying to work (aka read all your friends' blogs and comment copiously to validate your own sad little internet existance while hurriedly pretending to look at files whenever anyone approaches your workspace) to the tinny background musak of the peanuts teacher gone corporate punctuated by hollow peals of fake ass-kissing laughter. If you're going to have a conference call/vocal strengthening excercises on speakerphone and expect your employees to remain somewhat productive, it might be a good idea to close the freakin door people! Either that or make it a little more interesting to eavesdrop on...I'm thinking yodelling or maybe spontaneous bursts of song, ala musical theatre style, you know?

Oh god...now Mr. Not-so-quiet-voice, a member of my "team" (which really does confuse me- in my experience this means sexual preference but perhaps that's the true difference between corporate america and non-profit land) who speaks like someone's very deaf grandfather in this odd overly pretentious manner, is now throwing his voice into the cacauphony of sound. Mr. Not-so-quiet-voice, while an incredibly sweet and well meaning individual, can try the hell out of my nerves on a daily basis. My favorite is when he asks questions directly pertaining to me and then seems surprised at the concept of sound travelling, when I emerge from my cocoon to respond.

Okay, something must be done about this...I think its time for Pride and Prejudice. There's nothing like a book on tape to make cubicle hell slightly more survivable...and I get ridiculously into it too. The last one I listened to was Jane Eyre, and instead of going to work every day, I got the pleasure of going to Thornfield Hall. There was some explaining to do when people would come back to my thankfully secluded cave and I would be a snotty sobbing mess- I think the many social workers and Psychiatrists I work with (who are all nutjobs by the way- just to renew your faith in the behavioral health industry) thought I was more than a little depressed. I wasn't depressed, just delusional, believing I was Jane Eyre. I still kind of do.

I'll show them, shouting voices and all....I have stinky tuna-fish for lunch! The ultimate revenge!

God I hate my stupid day job...I need a contract, quick!

I Hate PMS and Have Only 10 Minutes to Write This- AAAHHHHH!

I have PMS, which if you think is a fictional malady I freely invite you into my head to take part in the not-so-fictional war with my hormones, and am having a few anger issues at the moment. This is okay, I accept it as a general part of my fucking shitty life!! Oops, sorry. PMS is kind of like having Tourettes Syndrome but (hopefully) only in your mind and for just one miserable week...a month. This does not really serve as a consolation when my head is exploding and I'm feeling overly stressed out about my disgusting pigsty of a room I will have approxiamtely 2.461 minutes to miraculously render navigable for the week-long parade of houseguests that I will be an inferior hostess to. Luckily I am having sex with one of them, which generally tends to nullify any and all issues of slovenliness, provided enough of a space is cleared to enable horizointal positioning. This knowledge does nothing, however, to alieviate the knots in my back and tapping of my foot while I watch the minutes tick by and realize I should have left 5 minutes ago! Damn blogging addiction! AAAAHHHHH!

I Just Might Be a Bit of a New York Snob (written 1/1/05)

I’m losing the long-time battle to prove I’m low maintenance; I blame it on New York. The thing about New Yorkers is we’re completely spoiled rotten, and we’re damn proud of it. We even gloat about it, displaying our many conveniences and expectations as some sort of badge of honor while sneering down our noses at the lack of 24 hour options and copious wireless connectivity elsewhere. Of course, others laugh at us for being idiotic enough to pay the exorbitant rents we do, so I suppose it’s a bit of a trade off. I’m sitting in a Starbucks right now, as it’s the only thing open in this small southern town that seems to believe that New Year’s Day is a holiday so absolutely nothing should be open, and they don’t even have wi-fi! That’s just unfathomable to the petulant child New Yorker in me. They also have only 2 Starbucks in the whole town, which while equally unfathomable is also kind of refreshing so I’m not complaining.

Last night I rode in a car for a whopping distance of 5 blocks; I feel like a traitor of sorts, and I just may get my New Yorker status revoked if anyone reads this. I was coerced- there was a gun to my head and a house on fire with a burning baby to rescue and some quadriplegics who couldn’t navigate the stairs and lots of little old ladies and stuff! I swear! And kittens and puppies held hostage- really fucking adorable kittens and puppies at that! Yeah, that’s the ticket.

I also wear my pedestrian status as a badge of honor; these boots were made for walking, even if the heels are ridiculously high. You’d think I might enjoy the luxury of being chauffeured, but alas this just isn’t the case. Maybe I have a secret fear that I’ll like it and won’t want to walk anymore, or worse yet, that I’ll enjoy not getting soaked in the rain. What ever would I do if my calloused feet were allowed to rest or the blisters to heal? How would I survive?

But the absolute worst offense by far is that people are not constantly in a frantic hurried frenzy, plowing you down on the sidewalk and scowling at you for a moment of indecisiveness in line. They actually take their time choosing what they want, asking you how you are, and interacting with the world around them. While this may indeed make sense as a way to enjoy life, it’s freakin’ annoying!! Can’t you people see that I’m in a desperate hurry, despite having absolutely nothing to do for the next few hours? I have some very important lightening speed walking in the rain to do to maintain my callouses! I’m in search of wi-fi at 4am! Ahhhh! I think I knocked over a few little old ladies in my mad dash through the 1000 square foot airport, despite the fact that my flight was early. Of course the upswing is that I’m not thoroughly exhausted, and need far less caffeine to even step outside the door.

You’d think I’d enjoy a return to a slower pace, having grown up in the south. But as my old childhood friend J reminded me (while I was in the process of dragging her top speed through heavy NY pedestrian traffic, weaving and all), I’ve always been operating at a faster pace, its just that now I’m not a freak for doing so. Except when I cross that Mason Dixon line and become some cartoon character with my red faced head emitting steam and disconnecting from my shoulders from the pressure.

I’m not really a New york Snob, I just blog like one online.

The Post Where I Get Way Too Naked On Your Asses (written 12/31/04)

New Year’s Eve is always a very frightening prospect for me and I find myself placing a disproportionate amount of importance upon the evening- not because of the passage of time or embarrassing drunken revelries (though there is of course quite the history of those), but because New Year’s Eve was the last time I ever saw my brother alive. This was six years ago, and I was living in Virginia at the time. Despite being without the indispensable luxury of a vehicle (due to yet another of the many accidents in which I totaled a car), I found a way to get to the town my brother was living in at the time so that I could usher in the last year before the grand apocalypse with my only sibling who was just about my twin, only mentally ill. He had attempted to kill himself one year prior by setting himself on fire; he thought it was the most aesthetically pleasing way to die.

I have to take a slight pause for a very funny aside- as I’m sitting in a café writing this, at this very moment a song with the refrain “Don’t Try Suicide” is blaring on the speakers. I love the macabre sense of humor inherent in the universe. This song is now being followed by “Another One Bites the Dust”….okay, universe, I get it. Don’t worry, I had no intention of going into self-pity land, I’m merely telling a story….but thanks for the not-so-subtle reminder.

This particular New Year’s was spent hopping from one party to another to a predictably endless refrain of Prince’s (he is being called Prince again right?) 1999, with my brother and I bouncing perfectly off of one another as only siblings can do and enjoying the company of the only other person we knew who shared our own particular brand of quirkiness. It was shaping up to be one of my favorite New Year’s ever, as we returned to his house somewhere around 6am.

And then it became a garish demonic nightmare, which haunts me to this very day in sneaky surprise ambushes or in the quiet hours I lay alone pondering the sale of my soul to a devil I don’t really believe in for an hour of sound sleep. I have neither the inclination nor the need to vomit up the painful details from their heavily guarded hole in the center of my torso that I hear whistle when the wind blows through it, almost knocking me over with vehement force. These events are not occurring at this moment, therefore there is no need to relive them. Plus I’m not that brave and not that much of an exhibitionist as I sometimes lead people to believe.

The last words I ever said to my brother, whom I loved fiercely but not quite unconditionally, were “You have no idea how much you’ve fucked me up in my life. You have no idea how much you’ve fucked up my life.” Then I proceeded to drive my borrowed car, heavily intoxicated, to the nearest gas station where I emptied all remaining fluid in my body through my poor abused tear ducts to my two terrified parents. Unfair as that was, I didn’t know whom else to call in that moment. I implored them to come pick me up, not wanting to attempt the hour long drive drunk as I was, but found myself incapable of staying one more moment in that beautiful mountain town I had always found such peace in. It took two and a half hours for me to make my way across a 70 mile expanse of highway, and this feat was only accomplished with constant reassurance to myself that as soon as I arrived at my parents’ home they would put me in a mental institution where I would remain (hide?) the rest of my days.

I never spoke to my brother again, despite numerous pleas for help; some in the form of heartbreaking musical compositions played on the piano or clarinet into my deaf ears via voice mail.

On the Ides of March, as a well developed sense of dark irony runs in the family, my big brother went wandering in the snow with no coat and no possessions except for one state form of identification and wandered intentionally into the path of an oncoming mammoth 18 wheeler. I later was told by a well intentioned but very mistaken friend of the family, as I lamented for the umpteenth time the fact that the funeral home refused to allow me to even hold his hand to say goodbye, that the impact reduced him to a pile of body part debris scattered across the highway and collected in a giant trash bag. I’m so glad I know that…wow, that’s so much better to imagine than a little anger and regret over not having seen the body. Thanks!

So New Year’s Eve can be a bit tricky for me to navigate. It’s interesting, but I think for me it’s harder than the anniversary of his death, or his birthday or any other holiday. This is partly because I’ve always been superstitious, and believe that how you usher in the New Year dictates in part how the year will be played out. My nightmare New Year’s led to a nightmare year, replete with panic attacks and unimaginable depression and hopelessness, the likes of which I pray to any Gods, Goddesses, and Universal energies who may hear, I never come near experiencing again. Likewise the beginning tentative steps of ascension to relative normalcy stemmed from a wonderful healing New Year’s the following year, spent in Paris with my loving amazing cousin holding my hand throughout the journey.

This year, I found myself obligated to be away from home New Year’s Eve, as a close friend’s wedding was scheduled for the first of January halfway across the country, and the already expensive flights were $300 more to arrive on Saturday as opposed to Friday. The New Year’s fear and anxiety returned with a stronger than ever vengeance yesterday, and I spent a goodportion of my already unproductive workday quietly crying at my thankfully hidden stupid day job desk. I lingered at work more for a lack of direction and an overwhelming sense of loneliness than for the much needed hours. When I finally emerged onto the street, to the utter loss of awareness and the familiar wind boring through the hole in my stomach, I was encouraged by an unsuspecting but wise M to go to the public recreation center I just joined and work out. Thankful for direction, I complied with my orders and found myself feeling better and better the more in touch with my body (and the less with my unquiet mind) I became. And I came to remember that one of the fundamental tenants of my personal doctrine is belief in the power of choice- shit happens across the board, it’s a part of life…but the beauty and hope is the power we have to shape our lives, despite the shit, through the choices we make. The fact that fucked up shit is an equal opportunity offender and occurs with such regularity that a certain level of acceptance is necessary to survive is just a footnote; the real story always lies in the choices we make, not the ones we don’t.

My epiphany is thus- what better way to usher in the New Year than to choose to enjoy it? How wonderfully simple and empowering! This New Year’s is about the simple self- awareness and centeredness I wish to retain throughout the year. It’s about remembering wherein my deep reserve of strength lies, and trusting I will always be able to access it.

And in this moment I think a wedding is the perfect way to reclaim and reaffirm my hope for finding my own love, whether of self or a relationship that actually works, in the coming year…at least that’s how I choose to see it.

Happy New Year!