A Wordsmith, a Painter, an Indie-Film Maker: Part 2

I woke up at 8:30 yesterday morning when my alarm went off. I hit the snooze a few times. Then I got up, got ready for work and went to Gallery. After Gallery, I went downtown to close at Studio. I do this 5 of my 6 work days a week and yesterday was not unlike them. Except that I had only slept a few hours.

Sleep is incredibly important to me, both because I adore it and because I physically require a lot of it. My recent track record with dating has left me very wary of relinquishing precious hours of sleep only to prop myself up at a bar or across from a veritable stranger to share some beers or a meal while I tell my life story to a pair of increasingly widening eyes. The thought of even trying had rendered me almost catatonic, ready to cancel, and resentful that I had actually agreed to do this all over again.

Remember The VYNY? Just for shits and giggles, let's just call him...oh, I don't know, I'll just pick something. How about Michael Valdes? So one night, Michael stole my house keys. "What?" you're asking, "I thought that was just some clever metaphor to help Keenan get over a break-up, referencing the time in SF when someone stole your house keys and Keenan brought you a new doorknob." Well, you're correct, but Michael also stole my keys by giving me the impression that he'd be back in five minutes or so. He was not back in five, but instead took his alcoholic self to a bar with my keys in his pocket and got smashed enough to convince himself to return home to Astoria. Or to a club in Astoria. I was never entirely clear on that detail, but I think we can all agree that my house keys don't belong in Queens in the possession of someone young enough to require an explanation of who Kurt Cobain was.

But I tried again. Only to find that the only thing less appealing than a guy who hates his job and his roommate yet refuses to do anything about it is when the same guy is resolved to continue on like that until the day he dies. Also, I should add that he was likely the worst kisser that I have ever experienced in the whole of my life*. He was so horrible at it that I pitied him enough to try to teach him how to do it properly; unfortunately he was as lackluster a student as he is a dreamer and it was about that time when I simply couldn't trade anymore sleep for idiocy.

Cut to Thursday at work, and I'm talking to the person I spend the most time with these days given my workaholic lifestyle, my coworker, Noah. We were having another Medium Talk**, the topic being my upcoming date and my reluctance to actually go. Noah listens to all of my bullshit all of the time and rarely doles out his own, but this time we were in agreement on the dating front.

"I should go, I mean, I should at least try. I should be meeting people, but I'm just so tired, Noah. I'm just so tired." I am often tired at work. Albeit not generally as tired as I was yesterday.

So I guess it's obvious by now that I went on that date, and I told the brief version of my insane life story and received nary more than a raised eyebrow. Somehow we went from him drawing a thumb across the scar on my arm at a restaurant to a thick shock of my hair gripped in his palm in my bed and to my floor scattered with clothing and my to back arched to greet him. And when I shook beneath his steady hand I remembered that that hand was once mine: that calculated, confident, manipulative hand that pleased and controlled, that called the shots and collected playthings and locked the door behind them when they left. But it's so hard these days just to be in charge of me that it's just too easy to let someone else take over for a night. Late into the night. And then a few hours later the afore mentioned alarm went off.

So after Gallery yesterday, like every weekday, I walked into Studio and Noah was there and he asked me how I was. I answered that I was exhausted.

"Oh buddy," he said, as he calls everyone buddy and I am not excluded, "how was your date last night?" I smiled and he smiled back at me.

"It was amazing, amazingly enough."

Then he made a joke about me writing this on my blog, and slung an endearing jab about me not wanting to go in the first place, and we both knew that nothing will be purged this week because as much as it was fun and unexpected, even this date was not restorative, and they largely never are. And are you seeing the subtext of this? I have arrived inside the scenario where the only thing worth not sleeping for is being stripped of my will and then blamed for it***, and now I don't know what the fuck it means that I seem to have become the bad girl who enjoyed her spanking.

*I never do this! This is so fun. Seriously though, this dude opened his mouth as wide as would allow and then wrapped it around my face. My friend Sally has deemed this act "Fizzgigging", after the character in The Dark Crystal. This has been cracking us up all week.

**Oh, Medium Talk! This is what Noah and I have deemed conversations that lean past "it's sunny outside" but don't quite eclipse "I was abused as a child". We have a lot of Medium Talk.

***Okay, this is true. What was supposed to be a fairly platonic evening turned pretty naked pretty quickly. And I know what you're thinking: my fault, right? Well I was certainly blamed for it and it definitely was not the first time I have been blamed for inciting a sexual act, but this was not my fault; in fact I was the one trying to have a conversation about deciphering the mixed messages I was receiving*.

*Oh hey, right. Those messages? I mean the ones where in an accent somewhere between Hugh Grant and the BBC he told me that he definitely did not want to have sex, and yet his hand, which was somewhere in between my right and left thigh seemed to be saying otherwise. I finally have a day off tomorrow, and hopefully I wont lose too much sleep trying to figure out exactly what is is I'm enjoying here: being shamed, or being bad.

p.s.--I DID IT AGAIN. Seriously, I need to take a solid stock of my archives because I keep forgetting that I've already used some title or another for a post. I used to never do that. Anyway, I already wrote a post called "A wordsmith, a painter, an indie-film maker" back in March, 2008. So this should be part 2. And now it is.

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