Photographs: July 2008 Archives

"And you may tell yourself, 'This is not my beautiful house.' And you may tell yourself, 'This is not my beautiful wife!'" - Talking Heads

No, these are not my peaches. I am peachsitting for a friend. Yes, they do taste just like they look like they would. Peachsitting comes at a price.

It's good to have some lovely things to look at, even if only temporarily, because I am, at the moment, and for the last several weeks, quite sad.

I realized it after taking a few self-portraits the other day, and being aghast at them.

And today I had one of those night-rides where my eyes got all half-weepy as I pedaled slowly, and then faster, to get over it, home. Yuck.

I mean, it was a nice cool ride. The rain never came, only the fresh air that comes after it, and the traffic was much lighter than it'd been at rush-hour, when I'd had one of those near misses that used to make my fingers prickle, but this time only made me very angry.

I was going out to photograph a bicycling event, but I'd left late (had to pick up those peaches), and couldn't find it. Either it was over by the time I got there, or it was in a different location than redhead #1 had thought. And anyway, I was feeling sort of like a dork wannabee for even showing up. So I sadly turned the bike around and headed back home through the chic throngs of Billyburg pedestrians. Enh.

"So what. Big Deal." - Black Lectroid from Planet Ten.

Several big important things have come to my attention lately, and I am trying to figure out what to do about them in the larger scheme, and what to start with in the smaller scheme, and it's a whole lotta figurin', and I really just want to lay low, or lie on a beach, or somethin' of that nature, and let my brain sort it all out in its sleep.

Sometimes you need to think about things with your conscious mind, and sometimes you need to let your mind drift into those altered states where it can see its way clear through the strange Milky Way-like debris of truth. At least, that's how I picture it. Very much like a full, full night sky.

A friend advised me recently to think about what it is that I really want in the boy department, so that I know, going in, what I am looking for and not looking for. It was good advice, but I am finding it hard to follow.

Perhaps in a similar vein, I am finding it hard to decide what to do this week. I have given myself the week off, and perhaps because it's been so long since I did such a thing, I am at a bit of a loss when I get up in the morning (or afternoon).

As I was saying to one of the boys yesterday, I like to get up and ride first thing in the morning; I just prefer that morning comes a little later in the day.

But here's the thing: for a woman who thinks so much about everything in life, I don't seem to have a very good handle on what I am looking for when I get involved (even slightly involved, as in a date or two) with men.

I have no idea.

I get sad sometimes, from being rather lonely most days, and watching anything that smacks of romance (a romantic comedy, or even Wall-e, for heaven's sake) tends to pull the tears right out of my eyeballs.

But on the other hand, I just can't picture being in some heavy relationship that made me feel all tied down. I am not certain I have that in me anymore, or at least not yet. And yet - I also want lots and lots of the kind of sex that one simply cannot have unless it's with someone one knows well and trusts and likes. Or maybe loves.

It's a conundrum, make no mistake. A puzzle and a riddle, and I have no obvious solution to it, and not much hope of finding my way out of it - at least, not with anyone I'd meet through the usual channels.

And now there's a Sherlock Holmes episode on TV, in which a young woman is forced to cut her hair in order to gain a lucrative job, and she cries and cries about it.

Whereas, I had a dream the other day in which I woke up to discover that my hair had grown past my waist, and the first thing I did was rush to my mom and have her cut it all off.

When I really woke up, and ran my hand over my shorn head, I was relieved. Though I remember thinking, in the dream, that I ought to have had my mother leave enough hair to make into those two little knots that I used to like to wear.

A rambling and illogical post, to sure, but there's something about hair dreams that always pulls at my unconscious, as if there's a symbolic meaning.

I suppose the short hair means freedom to me, which I treasure above all else and of which I have carved more and more for myself over the years.

I wonder, though, if there's a way to be just as free, but less lonely.

Note on pics: These were taken with the pocketcam, by the waterfront in Williamsburg. Click to enlarge.

I'll tell you something about me (so unusual, on my incredibly self-centered blog, no?):
I used to be very, very shy.

Hiding in the corner, climbing onto the roof at parties kind of shy. Of course, I avoided going to a party last night because I knew it would be that sort, so it's not like I've completely lost that aspect of myself.

But I've gotten friendlier over the years, more able to approach strangers and ask questions and do things like invite people I don't know well to come play with me. Or just offer to share my large table with a fellow diner who needed to be near the powerstrip on the floor, too, and who was trying to balance his drink and his laptop on his lap at the same time while sitting in one of those overstuffed chairs that seem comfortable but are really quite unsuited to working with a laptop.

I'll tell you another thing about me: I have been accused of favoring longish sentences.

Anyway. I got to talking with this young boy at the café, since we were sitting elbow to elbow, the edges of our laptops touching. And he showed me what he was working on (animation), and I described what I was working on (words, and not even interesting ones at that), and it was pleasant and companionable. And I thought, why, exactly, was it that I was so shy all those years?

Well, it was a combination, I think.

Factor A: moved around so much as a kid that I suffered from perpetual new-kid-in-school-itis.
Factor B: too brainy to blend in well with the popular crowd (this was back in the days before Geek Chic, mind you).
Factor C: early experiences did not, in fact, suggest that the world is a lovely and welcoming and hopeful kind of place. Even though I still, in my heart of hearts, have a dogged grasp on the possibility that it might someday turn out to be like that.
Factor D: The combination of the first three (plus some other X factor or two) meant that I lacked self-confidence and therefore went into social situations with a substantial amount of fear, or at least trepidation.

What's changed?

Damned if I know, except that that's a bit of a lie. I've actually been working really hard at a number of things which seem to have self-confidence as a side effect.

On the other hand, I think that's backfired on me a bit. I won't go into the details, but let's just say there may be a reason why I was blindsided by the liked-boy's sudden disappearance. Doesn't mean I want to have to go back to being afraid of people or being self-effacing or anything, but, well, there's that worry in the back of my mind...nibbling away at the corners. Damn.

Hello me lovelies. Here are your bridge pictures! I must apologize for their workmanlike quality; I had only the pocketcam in my bike bag, because it's what fits easily and lightly into the bike bag. (I need a bigger bike bag.)

I took the on-the-bridge pics yesterday, and the of-the-bridge-from-far-away pics today. I had this grandiose plan of getting right on the bike in the morning to travel to an appointment I had uptown. I got all dressed and geared up, and had my bike shoes on and everything, and decided to pump that extra 10 lbs. of air into the tires so they'd be all perky and smooth-rolling, and then as I pulled the pump nose off the rear tire valve, shhhhhhwshhhhhhhhhhh!!!! God damn it.

I tried pumping it up again, hoping against hope that I'd somehow unscrewed the presta valve without noticing or something. Nope. Another valve bites the dust.

Which means I have to change the tire before I can leave. Which means I have to take the goddamned subway. Again. Which I have (mostly) sworn off. And increasingly hate doing. The more time I spend getting myself from place to place under my own steam (and that of my beloved, wonderful bicycle), the lower my tolerance for the cramped, claustrophobic, smelly indignity of mass transit. Not that I'm not grateful to have that to fall back on, but really, there are far better ways to spend my $4.

Lately I am spending it all on tubes, of course.

And coffees for the adorable, simply adorable bike mechanics. I'd much rather buy them coffee, and me Clif Bars and hummus and other assorted fuels than support the MTA, and if that makes me a bad New Yorker, well, so be it. Y'all can suck my you-know-what.

Okay, wait a minute, I'm getting rude, and it's really just an avoidance tactic because I don't want to have to tell you that that boy I liked, you know, the one I really liked? Has disappeared. Ceased communication. No phone, no email, no text, nada. No explanation, no polite, "hey, you're a nice person and all but I'm kinda not interested anymore." Nothing. No manners, apparently.

So there's that. All I can say is I have been feeling thankful for the following:

a) friends
b) bowling
c) brunch
d) bike boys (the better to flirt with and talk bike parts, which always sounds like one is talking about sex. mmmmmm, bottom brackets.....)

And most of all, I am thankful for my bicycle himself, without which I would not be here today spilling beans and posting photos and all that jazz.

Really, he's sanity on two skinny tires, and I love him more than I can adequately express. We went and hung out at the waterfront together tonight just before sundown, the two of us lying on the grass, my head on his saddle, his cranks sprawled on the ground.

I looked up at the sky and out at the skyline and over at that little girl's giraffe hat, and thought luscious thoughts about what it might be like to have two beautiful young boys in my arms at once, and sighed a sad little sigh and thought how stupid that one boy must be, and then thought some more about redheads. It was nice.

PS. The bridge in question is the Willie B (aka. Williamsburg Bridge), which connects the hipsters of the LES with their even-hipper cousins in Williamsburg. Despite that, it is a swell bridge for cycling, with a nice two-lane bike path and a great view.