The only stream I’ve seen in months is the sewage water that flows through the subway. I wonder where it goes. I don’t stop pacing as I wait for the train because I fear the tiny mice I’ve spotted, crawling into my boots. I know I won’t be able to get that feeling out of my head, or off of my skin. I’d also feel the pain of my swollen left knee if I stop, so I don’t. The walk from my house to Williamsburg was a pleasant one, but it's wear is starting to show- especially with the rain. I’ve just attended a wonderful drag show and walked to Greenpoint. It’s 3:40 A.M. and the train is just arriving.
“Tell me about your life. What are your passions? And don’t tell me about your job, but when you get old and you’re on your death bed- what do you hope you’ve done?”
It rolls out my mouth the way it always does.
“I want to know that I’ve created a beautiful home, raised an amazing family and created as much shit as possible. I am a creator of things.”
“Well can I get an AMEN!” He held my hand when he said this. I had moved closer to him in the first place because I wanted to get a better look at him. I wanted to tell him that he was beautiful. I noticed him when he came in from smoking a cigarette, and here he stood smoking again. I touched his jaw-line as I told him that I wanted his face. I fingered his lips when he sang me praises. It would’ve been nice to kiss him on that red-lit patio. Just because.
It was easy to approach him. When the fear of rejection is removed from the equation, it’s easy to open a conversation to anyone about anything. Knowing… well assuming, his sexuality allowed me to expose my fleeting desire for him. The lack of sexual attraction released the crippling sexual tension and, simultaneously, an alluring sexual energy.
This is why I love being around gay men.
On a very basic level I feel very connected to gay men, when we’re all in a nightclub. (Stereo)typically, the men I’m with are all eyeing every other man with or without intentions for a pit stop in an alley way on the way home, and so am I. We all want to dance; we all want to be fierce and beautiful. The testosterone awakens the instinctual desire to pounce and it becomes okay to be more forceful, more direct, and honest. Leaving the club, I want to be more like a gay man. I think we- well I, could learn a thing or two from those queens.
Actually, gay or otherwise, those are all just stereotypical male bar/club/mating tendencies. Harumph.
P.S. I gave birth to Ms. Maturna T. Bear tonight. She might be amazing.
13.7.11
I don't like to think that I live to make people's lives a nightmare, but this experience at Heartland Brewery in Union Sq. was awful. The manager there was terribly rude and did not give a shit about customer retention. Anyway here's the letter I wrote to their corporate office.
Hello,
I hope this message is directed to the proper person, as I received your email address from the website- I dined at your Union Square location yesterday and had a pretty terrible experience when dealing with the Manager, Drew (I believe that is his name, bald white male). We were seated at about 6:50 P.M. At 7:20 our drink order, along with water finally arrived. It was 90ยบ F out that particular evening, I was really disappointed to not have had water by 10 minutes after sitting. Once food arrived I excused myself to talk to the manager. Upon approaching him I was greeted with "Back and on the right." Not a hello, but the bathroom directions. Awesome. I really just wanted to know why service was so slow. I also work in the service industry, so if they were understaffed that particular evening I understand- it's really not the server's fault, but management's for not doing the scheduling properly or other staff member's who called out. But I did expect some sort of compensation from the manager. Instead I received a confrontational attitude and remarks like, "We had a party of 100 up here. He was taking care of both sections" and "Well if you don't want me to get the server in trouble (which I didn't) what do you want me to do? Do you want something for free? (which I did)" I suggested a free round, or maybe to remove an appetizer from our check, which was over $400. He said he couldn't do that. So I walked away. Speaking to him was more infuriating than the service. What is the point of having a manager that is not backing their staff and not pleasant with customers? Why was ONE server taking care of a party of 100 upstairs and a section downstairs?
I went back to my table and got the check. The server asked if everything was okay with me and I told him no. Drew managed to figure out how to deduct 10% of the check which a nice gesture, and appreciated. His attitude towards me however, was not. He needs to learn how to turn on a smile, even if it's a fake one: Customer satisfaction is his job.
Thank you,
Atiya Jones
Hello,
I hope this message is directed to the proper person, as I received your email address from the website- I dined at your Union Square location yesterday and had a pretty terrible experience when dealing with the Manager, Drew (I believe that is his name, bald white male). We were seated at about 6:50 P.M. At 7:20 our drink order, along with water finally arrived. It was 90ยบ F out that particular evening, I was really disappointed to not have had water by 10 minutes after sitting. Once food arrived I excused myself to talk to the manager. Upon approaching him I was greeted with "Back and on the right." Not a hello, but the bathroom directions. Awesome. I really just wanted to know why service was so slow. I also work in the service industry, so if they were understaffed that particular evening I understand- it's really not the server's fault, but management's for not doing the scheduling properly or other staff member's who called out. But I did expect some sort of compensation from the manager. Instead I received a confrontational attitude and remarks like, "We had a party of 100 up here. He was taking care of both sections" and "Well if you don't want me to get the server in trouble (which I didn't) what do you want me to do? Do you want something for free? (which I did)" I suggested a free round, or maybe to remove an appetizer from our check, which was over $400. He said he couldn't do that. So I walked away. Speaking to him was more infuriating than the service. What is the point of having a manager that is not backing their staff and not pleasant with customers? Why was ONE server taking care of a party of 100 upstairs and a section downstairs?
I went back to my table and got the check. The server asked if everything was okay with me and I told him no. Drew managed to figure out how to deduct 10% of the check which a nice gesture, and appreciated. His attitude towards me however, was not. He needs to learn how to turn on a smile, even if it's a fake one: Customer satisfaction is his job.
Thank you,
Atiya Jones
10.7.11
28.6.11
22s 12s
I finally took a leap and went to Ikea today. I had a 4 item list and was determined to stick to it. Unfortunately, when you venture to the ol' yeller 'n blue with friends whom are ill-prepared to waltz into the mecca, you tend to stray. I went for fabric to construct curtains, curtain rods, a vase and a drawer unit.
I left with a fabric in a print not of my intentional purchase, a hacksaw (which broke upon first stroke), S-hooks (i needed them for months), new sheets, shams (in more ways than one) pinking sheers and curtain rods that are tremendously too large. I have to go back tomorrow... or buy a new hacksaw at the HD and just forget about the $8. But all of this shopping made me realize how much I love the fact that I'm building a home-space. I finished one set of my curtains tonight and I can't wait to get home tomorrow to start sewing the other two panels. I love to create things, if only for the pleasure of knowing that I made something. There's something about being in my house alone that makes me realize all of it's/my potential. The more I wake up in my room, the more I can't wait to wake up in my room with new improvements.
I finally cleared my desk. I haven't sat at it, sewn at it, or typed at it since we moved in... That was January. Thank you for letting me borrow your chair Jess. I suppose now I officially need to buy/score (a high back vintage) one. I might be on a roll.
I left with a fabric in a print not of my intentional purchase, a hacksaw (which broke upon first stroke), S-hooks (i needed them for months), new sheets, shams (in more ways than one) pinking sheers and curtain rods that are tremendously too large. I have to go back tomorrow... or buy a new hacksaw at the HD and just forget about the $8. But all of this shopping made me realize how much I love the fact that I'm building a home-space. I finished one set of my curtains tonight and I can't wait to get home tomorrow to start sewing the other two panels. I love to create things, if only for the pleasure of knowing that I made something. There's something about being in my house alone that makes me realize all of it's/my potential. The more I wake up in my room, the more I can't wait to wake up in my room with new improvements.
I finally cleared my desk. I haven't sat at it, sewn at it, or typed at it since we moved in... That was January. Thank you for letting me borrow your chair Jess. I suppose now I officially need to buy/score (a high back vintage) one. I might be on a roll.
16.6.11
Earl Jones did his job by not doing his job at all.
Like a turtle-heading-turd, I think I've taken my final literally dump in this Father's Day piece. For those of you reading that don't know me well, I haven't the best relationship with my father... or one at all really. I stopped talking to him when I was 10, 13, 16, and finally again last Christmas after he contacted me via Facebook. His contacting me was rather overwhelming; he'd been reading this blog and looking at my pictures of the ol' FB. He got the privilege to see who I've become, and even that small glimpse was too much (thus my profile is on the uber private business). If he doesn't catch this little ditty of a letter here, I've also sent it to him on the FB. Oh wait, I guess I deleted those messages... I guess this is my message in a bottle. I have got to get moving with my life, and there's nothing heavier than the weight of a Dead Beat Dad.
Dear Earl Jones
If I had something to say to you it would probably be this.
You owe me a lifetime of “sorry-s” that, quite frankly, I never want to hear.
Fly to New York, and bring some money,
You owe me a lifetime of that too.
Tell your mother I’m sorry she was too much of a coward
to continue a relationship with me
I never did forget about that herringbone necklace.
She promised me that.
I wonder about you often. Pains me to give you the pleasure to know.
In fact, your suffering is actually where this all stems from.
I never want you to know me. Ever. You actually have no right.
That, you brought down upon yourself far too long ago.
I on the other hand deserve some form of satisfaction.
The strands of your existence are strings I need cut
I fear I’ll never find the blade.
The effect of absence on those present lingers.
I don’t have normal relationships with men.
I don’t see a husband with my children, and me at my picket fence.
I’m a runner. And it’s you I thank for that.
I heard Father’s Day was coming around.
I wouldn’t know. But I’ll send my mother a card.
She’s done a wonderful job.
Now that’s most of that is off of my chest I’ll tell you this: I have a wonderful life. My mother, sisters, teachers, friends, and parents of my friends raised me well. I’ve never gone hungry. I’ve never been homeless. I don’t travel much, but I know that I will one day. I went to college. I lived in Los Angeles. I work in a restaurant, but I find my joys in writing, photography and consider myself an artist. I don’t miss you. Ever. I wonder about you, but I don’t miss you. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling animosity towards you. I wonder why you didn’t fight harder when I sent you that letter as a ten year-old girl. I wonder why you let me push you away. You should’ve been a man. A father. Not a coward. For that I hated you, in my older age, I’m able to try to understand the overwhelming emotions that may have left you with. I’m happy that you didn’t die. I’m sure you’ve had sometime to wallow and think and the thought of that suffering brought me grave pleasures in the past. I’m done. I need to be happy. Unfortunately, as we are blood related, I believe you may need to also find some satisfaction in order for me to carry on. I hope you do. I want to be a better person in spite of the damage done.
I deserve that.
Dear Earl Jones
If I had something to say to you it would probably be this.
You owe me a lifetime of “sorry-s” that, quite frankly, I never want to hear.
Fly to New York, and bring some money,
You owe me a lifetime of that too.
Tell your mother I’m sorry she was too much of a coward
to continue a relationship with me
I never did forget about that herringbone necklace.
She promised me that.
I wonder about you often. Pains me to give you the pleasure to know.
In fact, your suffering is actually where this all stems from.
I never want you to know me. Ever. You actually have no right.
That, you brought down upon yourself far too long ago.
I on the other hand deserve some form of satisfaction.
The strands of your existence are strings I need cut
I fear I’ll never find the blade.
The effect of absence on those present lingers.
I don’t have normal relationships with men.
I don’t see a husband with my children, and me at my picket fence.
I’m a runner. And it’s you I thank for that.
I heard Father’s Day was coming around.
I wouldn’t know. But I’ll send my mother a card.
She’s done a wonderful job.
Now that’s most of that is off of my chest I’ll tell you this: I have a wonderful life. My mother, sisters, teachers, friends, and parents of my friends raised me well. I’ve never gone hungry. I’ve never been homeless. I don’t travel much, but I know that I will one day. I went to college. I lived in Los Angeles. I work in a restaurant, but I find my joys in writing, photography and consider myself an artist. I don’t miss you. Ever. I wonder about you, but I don’t miss you. I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling animosity towards you. I wonder why you didn’t fight harder when I sent you that letter as a ten year-old girl. I wonder why you let me push you away. You should’ve been a man. A father. Not a coward. For that I hated you, in my older age, I’m able to try to understand the overwhelming emotions that may have left you with. I’m happy that you didn’t die. I’m sure you’ve had sometime to wallow and think and the thought of that suffering brought me grave pleasures in the past. I’m done. I need to be happy. Unfortunately, as we are blood related, I believe you may need to also find some satisfaction in order for me to carry on. I hope you do. I want to be a better person in spite of the damage done.
I deserve that.
more.
In my room I have four windows. Three lining one wall, a single one on the adjacent side (it's times when I get to use the word adjacent that I'm happy to have paid attention, sub-consciously, in math). The cross breeze effect caused by this is so calming. I need that right now. To be calm. To think. Alone. I've been listening to nothing but Gang Gang Dance today and I feel full. I always seem to feel full of something. When the wind stops blowing I feel stagnant and hot again. My mind becomes so clouded and I stop writing.
I keep thinking of all of these oxymorons. Temporary permanence keeps coming up. I can't stop writing it on things. Thinking about it. The mental trap of being a mature child. I'm having one of those days where I feel really trapped in my own mind, not that it's a bad thing... I just want to stay home and use my hands. I'd like to come home to a clean room. I'd like to come home. I'd like to look at my bank account and not want to cry, panic or laugh. I'm in one of those wishing moods. But to the contrary I'll work instead.
My room convinces me that it's about 10˚ cooler than it is outside. When I really think about how I feel, I become very frustrated and on the verge of tears. The tears that well up rush to my head and I get that feeling of drowning again. It disorients me a bit and I stop.
I keep thinking of all of these oxymorons. Temporary permanence keeps coming up. I can't stop writing it on things. Thinking about it. The mental trap of being a mature child. I'm having one of those days where I feel really trapped in my own mind, not that it's a bad thing... I just want to stay home and use my hands. I'd like to come home to a clean room. I'd like to come home. I'd like to look at my bank account and not want to cry, panic or laugh. I'm in one of those wishing moods. But to the contrary I'll work instead.
My room convinces me that it's about 10˚ cooler than it is outside. When I really think about how I feel, I become very frustrated and on the verge of tears. The tears that well up rush to my head and I get that feeling of drowning again. It disorients me a bit and I stop.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
