(flight back to NY)
I need a sophisticated, mature woman, possibly older than I. However, my current station in life dictates such persons be wholly uninterested in the likes of me, at least upon second meeting – I apparently make an impressive first impression. Until the questions:
“What do you do?” (nothing)
“Where do you live?” (nowhere)
“Where are you from, originally?” (Bronx gutter)
“Are you really sick?” (toss up between no comment and go eff yourself)
And the spell is over. The more thoughtful stick around, and are rewarded. Until. I speak of tropical weather, and they see what’s been called my “fatal flaw”: I loathe New York (as if having both knowledge and taste were, in fact, a problem).
That joint no place to meet my mate. If she exists beyond those I’ve had.
Listening to Hair Nation, on Sirius. Kiss’ Crazy, Crazy, Crazy, Crazy Nights. Warrant’s Down Boys. Golden oldies. So be it.
Adore flying. Looking down. With my fear of heights I’ve always pushed past (used to repel off cliffs as inner-city Boy Scout and why I can’t do as adult what I always did as child – knowingly transcend limitations – I don’t know).
Did not write journal whilst in Florida, as I do not write when I am happy, except to friends – want to, but have no idea how to express joy on paper (though I’ve managed to do so for few blessed friends make me swoon with love).
As I am back in New York City – for the time being – I will be writing much.
Flight arrives half-hour early to thirty degree weather (a veritable effin heat wave) and I slowly but surely slip on two pairs of sunglasses, so as not to see, though at this point I can walk this town blind.
I am the only on the plane not only not excited to be here, but downright suicidal.
It’s a few minutes before I notice my Fuck You mask has instinctively bled out onto my face.
Doctors and ghosts – my father, dead friends, molester(s), predator(s), Marissa, Habiba, Keleigh, to name a few. Cold and crowds and my sickness. Shame, tragedy, defeat. Two frustrating female family members – New York leftovers – unknowingly, inadvertently strangle my spirit. Best male friend in rehab for hardcore addictions apparently no one but his demon dealer and I knew he had. One woman (the only once made this place a happy one for being in it) loves me but is too afraid both to be with me and to leave the ungrateful asshole she’s with. Another with a son I can’t provide for might be moving to London anyway. Friends counted me out no longer talk to me. Too much effin history. On every street corner, in every alleyway, every subway station. All what’s here. Too much. Not enough.
It will be a struggle to avoid the liquor cabinet and oncoming buses. It will be a struggle, period.
Piss on elevator floor and a lone janitor scrubs spray paint off hallway wall near apartment door.
Obama can’t help this. No one can help this.
“It is what it is,” a like-minded fellow (on his lucky way out) said to me at airport upon noticing my shuffling gait, but it’s not. It’s much fuckin worse.