The Agony and the Ecstasy

I was riding the N train home on Sunday night, after Sharon and I had our private bellydancing lesson [ps--my arms are killing me today]. I had told her over Sangria after the class that I was 85% happy.

This was an overestimation. After bellydancing, I'm 85% happy. I cannot believe it's at a fixed percentage because I woke up today at about a 35%.

It was nice to have a drama-free weekend. Minus my small relapse on Saturday, where I burst into tears for reasons not worth the explanation. My heart is open, and that leaves it more vulnerable to such things. By the time Spring had been buzzed in, she reached our apartment and I had wiped the tears away and pretended I needed to put makeup on to get my shit together.

I hate when people see me cry.

And the rest of the time was lovely. Jeremy gave me my first official guitar lesson, and he was just about as Dad-like as you can imagine. While this is going on, Sharon is cooking what smells and turns out to be, a quite lovely meal. Those are going to be some lucky future-children, is all I'm saying. Very lucky indeed.

I got my homework. I have to practice my transition between C chord and A minor. It's getting a bit better. My fingertips are sore and I can feel the future callouses just waiting to be formed.

It feels good. The kind of pain that is the reminder of the greater goal. The kind of pain that is human and temporal and mortal and hopeful.

Spring and I relax on Saturday night. There was consumption to be had, but we sat in my living room with Devon and Blythe and had a grand ole time. I even busted out my interpretive dance that I do to Beth Hart's "Mama". Good song, folks. Check it out if you get the chance. Her soul spills out with her notes and it's the kind of music that makes you long for the ability to belt at the top of your lungs without sounding like a soundbite from a slaughterhouse.

Spring rests on the lounge chair. She sits like a Queen. She sits with the air of experience but not of condescension. I roll around on the air mattress like a puppy that hasn't figured out its legs yet. Devon is perched on the couch like he's about to jump at any moment. And Blythe has melted into the squishy pillow I bought the other day that has turned out to be the best investment I have ever made. Our little messed-up sewing circle.

Spring and I can only agree that the cover of A Million Little Pieces is good. Beyond that, it's a no go. To be fair, her memoir's gonna be much better anyway. And she won't even have to lie.

All these things float in my head on that N train back home. I'm reading Prep, which Dru gave me, but when the N train crosses the Manhattan Bridge, it really is a sight to see. No matter what, I take the time to reflect. Manhattan waves goodbye to me, I catch the twinkles of what I know to be my office building. It's winking at me like it's saying, "See you tomorrow." I resist the urge to give it the finger.

Skydiving has no appeal to me. I care not for the sensation of falling. But flying is something else. I long for the feeling of flight. The N train flies over the Manhattan Bridge and I wish that my thoughts could be liberated from my brain and my raw emotions could be softened or sent into Space. My broken heart could find its home in the greenhouse gases of Venus, because living in a broken heart is just as inhospitable to life as the toxic atmosphere of our twin planet.

It's broken by a number of different people, including myself. It is disappointment and frustration and dissatisfaction with a number of different situations. I'm working on it and I know these things take time, but I have never been one who was known for her patience. When will it come together? Who am I becoming?

The N train keeps chugging away.

I look over and a man brings a water bottle to his face. He then proceeds to pour the water into his eye. I can't tell if he's drunk and missed or if he's trying to flush something out of his eye, or if he's just crazy and thinks his eye is thirsty. Knowing New York, I wouldn't be surprised by any of these options.

I chuckle to myself. This is New York. The Agony and the Ecstasy. The Sublime and the Ridiculous. The Profound and the Mundane. All in a subway car, all looking for a destination or an answer or some goddamn local service.

I sigh and pick my book back up. Maybe I just need some sleep.