crashing jets @acynicaloptimist - Tumblr Blog

Met a woman, Irina Rose. She asked if I could watch her coffee while she used the restroom. She talked to me about the art on the walls. $4,000 is a bit much for that one. Later, oh, it's a frog. She's been in New York since the 80s, she said. She called me a nut. Round glasses, round face, big lips. I tell her what I do. She called me an independent woman. She's blunt, very unapologetic. Russian. We talk for two hours. I give her my name and my phone number. Eventually we part ways. She gives me a pin, a maple leaf, "2014." She wants to travel to Canada, she says. I tell her I'm at the coffee shop some weekdays around 4 pm. I give her a hug.

Sometimes we have a perfect understanding, But always we have a perfect understating, In regards to the two of us.

Last night you came to see me again. A favor for a favor. Reality is both less and more favorable than this dream world.

Lately I have been dreaming of you again. Have I ever dreamt of one person more than I have of you? With some time, I'll come to terms with what we are. I promise.

The last time I was here, we had just eaten pizza and were busy giving our selves up to Godspeed. All the while you were busy dying.

We miss you.

When the flavor in your life walks away from you and into the arms of a drowning state, again you start to think about escape from this city.

You nap on every train when you used to read because you’re so tired of seeing faces and blurred stations and losing your place in this chapter where every character is trying to solve a problem and suddenly the climax and here a solution.

You watch movies alone and turn down invitations because you forget why you ever liked these people or why you break bread with them and listen to their daily mantra of who has ruined their lives and what they’ve bought and what they’re doing tomorrow.

You think about how you used to hear about other countries dying and now your country is dying and should you even care because maybe it’s better for it to crash and burn since it never helped when others crashed and burned.

You skip meals because you just don’t feel like eating them.

You stay in bed.

...I think need a vacation.

There are nights when minutes are longer than hours, and you sit there waiting. There is nothing, but you are waiting. You make dinner because it is dinnertime. You eat your dinner because you’ve made it. Then you continue to wait. Everything is wrong, feels wrong. Still you wait.

You decide to go to bed. So you climb into bed, and for sleep, you wait.

How it feels to suddenly feel inferior; Like suffocation, like desperation.

A dream about the death of a patient.

I am sent to pick up a requisition from the printer on the 9th floor. My hospital, but not my hospital. The hallways are wider, darker. Why is there a 9th floor? A lone nurse pushes a vomiting patient on a stretcher down the hallway. She looks overwhelmed, nauseated by the sounds of retching.

I am past her now. She is open-mouthed, pale. Yes, the patient, but also the nurse. After I pass, I hear a sound that is grotesque and unusual, worse than the others. The nurse looks aghast. I get to the front desk. I wonder if I should ask someone to help. Before I have a chance to speak, Rani walks past me. I better go help her, she says, she just killed the patient. I look at her. She's dead?, I ask. She's dead, she replies.

What can I do? I move on to pick up my papers, passing by the body of the patient. Face down, a pool of blood under her head. As I reach the elevators, I see the new nurse. She's returning to her dormitory on the 9th floor. I ask her how she is. She begins to rationalize what happened to the patient. I realize that I don't empathize with her. She should've asked for help. It was, in fact, her fault. And she stands here trying to pass the blame. The elevator starts moving. It should be going up, from 6 to 9. It feels like it's moving up but differently. The number changes between 5, 6, and 9 repeatedly. A man in the elevator says, it's stuck, going up and going down. It doesn't stop on any floor. Because the elevator will not stop, the door will not open. We press the emergency button and finally exit. Back on 6. A few nurses are theorizing how the patient died, Dinah acting it out on the floor. Someone mentions that the nurse did not have an oxygen tank on the bed; she should have had the oxygen tank, she says.

I don’t have the requisition papers. Returning to the front desk, I see the nurse who asked me to get them. She has moved on to another task. It appears she no longer needs them.

A dream about missing the train.

Running, a group of hippopotami in an enclosure on my left, sand under my feet, difficult to keep my footing. Waves on my right; large, crashing, deep blue-grey. The thought of being in England.

A trio of women passing by me, walking in the opposite direction. One is Gina from elementary school; we say casual hellos with no small talk.

I keep running.

A dream about the police and a box. The roof of your building. I defend you.

A dream about a car ride or a train ride or a bus. A limited view from a window. The world outside is rubble, desolate, still. Two cyclones in the near distance. No visible wind. A broken bridge, dark, wet wood. Snapped logs, crushed cars. Silent. A feeling of calm.

Fleeting moments of panic at the chance of running into you. This was supposed to be my side of the world; you had the other.

You were supposed to stay there.

How it feels to want someone to touch you:

Foreign. Unexpected. Here, I look at your shape and your face, your hands. Somehow they are sexual and intimate. Those hands you eat with, tie your shoes with, fix your hair with, somehow they are sexual and intimate, and I want them near my skin and on my body. Next to you, I instinctively know the inches we are apart.

I experience occasionally a calm dread. It feels like I have no future; everything ends here, there’s no point in crying over tasks that I’ve been planning yet haven’t achieved, my tide is only going out. I am not afraid.

I am vulnerable to men who exhibit a spark of genius, who are charming, with good teeth. They enjoy a challenge, love to travel, speak with wit and self-deprecation. They relish their popularity, their good looks, their skill.

They pass through life with ambivalence and a fear of stagnancy. They feel unfulfilled; they are plagued by societal pressures. They stay nowhere and run forever.

I feel the urge to give them a home inside me.

#men

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crashing jets