Mmmm... I love this place!
I bought a yellow tea kettle today, like the one from that movie... fuck what is it? Anyway... like that... it's beeeautious. What else... my mom called me um three times today because she's like... I can't be there to help you move... but I can support you via telephone! Thanks madre.
I like the floors. I rubbed them down with Murphy's... I had to buy some crap-tastic towels at the store down the street because I realized I didn't have any crummy ones since Jimmy left and took them all. That's fine. I was glad to be rid of all that shit.
I also... (oh p.s. I'm robbing internet from my neighbors... Laura and Paige... I don't know them, that's just the name of their internet connection) got an e-mail from the facilities director at NYU... wants to bring me in to redraw their maps. Sweet deal... this could be the break I'm waiting for.
I'm really just writing this because I'm a sweaty mess and my arms don't want to lift anymore!!! Fine... you got it out of me! haha :) There's a couple next door... guy's cute... not as cute as the chick, but he's got a quality about him. I hope they're not loud fuckers, I need my beeeeauty rest.
Okay... so now I'm realizing I don't have a friggin hammer and nails. That's a problem because... first off, I need to hang my shelvey thing in the bathroom and I also have to put this clock up... oh, you guys haven't seen it... I got this obnoxious large clock from Bed, Bath & Beyond... but I guess it's going to sit on the futon until I go down to IKEA and get my tools in order.
K. Well... phone's ringing so I'm gonna skedaddle. More later.
Byeee!
ERIN REESE
Founder, Due North Cartography
225 W. 112TH ST. NY, NY
(481)516-2342
ereese@duenorth.org
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Saturday, November 20, 2010
The Wedding (ETHAN)
It was done.
They were married.
Even hearing it in my head was fucked to the Nth degree.
I sat there... Thomas next to me at the table babbling something about how cute it is to see little girls dancing with old men... and I could see back to January... that night that we spent... that started it all. The beginning of that whole ruinous road.
And now I was watching, like I was tied to my seat... like I was being force fed my broccoli, because something about seeing this all had to be good for me... the bride across the room with her charming douche of a groom, cute as a pair of baby blue buttons.
Thomas interrupted my sulking.
T: What.
E: What, what.
T: What are you doing?
E:
T: Stop fucking looking at her.
E: I'm not.
T: You are.
E: I'm not looking at her like that.
T: You only ever look at her like...
E: It's her wedding.
T: Ha! I know that. I'm protecting you. I'm being your social condom.
E: I don't need...
T: Stop. Looking. Over. There.
E: What should I look at?
T: Um... Ooh. Katie's here.
Katie. It had been almost a year. Since, I should say, since it all fizzled away. It didn't exactly end. I mean... there was a time when we were together, and then definitely a time when we weren't, but to say that there was a day that the final stand occurred would be... difficult. I remembered nights of me in the bed and her in the living room sleeping on her couch (even from the beginning, we each brought our own futon couches to the apartment, perhaps we saw it coming?) I remembered nights unable to sleep, laying awake, watching dumb old tv shows on the internet, or thinking of writing again, I mean... I was actually going through something... I should be writing about it, I thought... but nothing came.
Fuck.
She saw me. In her thin little tapered off violet dress, she started walking towards us from the entrance to the hall. Not wanting to seem out of sorts, she crossed the dance floor that separated us, dancing to whatever song it was... I don't remember... and keeping her weird eye contact that didn't involve her actually looking at you, but you just felt like she was? Does that make sense? If you knew her, you'd understand.
She didn't even say anything. She walked up to Thomas and gave him a big smooch and I think they talked about me for a minute, because I wasn't looking at either of them just then... I was daydreaming something about being a 10 year old girl. Fuck if I know why.
I got up, felt for the piece in my pocket and the small bag beside it. I walked away, across the dance floor (less dancing, more just cutting through) and accidentally, unforgiving, bumped a cater girl in the shoulder on my way out the door.
That's what I remember before I went out to smoke.
-E.- (Ethan)
They were married.
Even hearing it in my head was fucked to the Nth degree.
I sat there... Thomas next to me at the table babbling something about how cute it is to see little girls dancing with old men... and I could see back to January... that night that we spent... that started it all. The beginning of that whole ruinous road.
And now I was watching, like I was tied to my seat... like I was being force fed my broccoli, because something about seeing this all had to be good for me... the bride across the room with her charming douche of a groom, cute as a pair of baby blue buttons.
Thomas interrupted my sulking.
T: What.
E: What, what.
T: What are you doing?
E:
T: Stop fucking looking at her.
E: I'm not.
T: You are.
E: I'm not looking at her like that.
T: You only ever look at her like...
E: It's her wedding.
T: Ha! I know that. I'm protecting you. I'm being your social condom.
E: I don't need...
T: Stop. Looking. Over. There.
E: What should I look at?
T: Um... Ooh. Katie's here.
Katie. It had been almost a year. Since, I should say, since it all fizzled away. It didn't exactly end. I mean... there was a time when we were together, and then definitely a time when we weren't, but to say that there was a day that the final stand occurred would be... difficult. I remembered nights of me in the bed and her in the living room sleeping on her couch (even from the beginning, we each brought our own futon couches to the apartment, perhaps we saw it coming?) I remembered nights unable to sleep, laying awake, watching dumb old tv shows on the internet, or thinking of writing again, I mean... I was actually going through something... I should be writing about it, I thought... but nothing came.
Fuck.
She saw me. In her thin little tapered off violet dress, she started walking towards us from the entrance to the hall. Not wanting to seem out of sorts, she crossed the dance floor that separated us, dancing to whatever song it was... I don't remember... and keeping her weird eye contact that didn't involve her actually looking at you, but you just felt like she was? Does that make sense? If you knew her, you'd understand.
She didn't even say anything. She walked up to Thomas and gave him a big smooch and I think they talked about me for a minute, because I wasn't looking at either of them just then... I was daydreaming something about being a 10 year old girl. Fuck if I know why.
I got up, felt for the piece in my pocket and the small bag beside it. I walked away, across the dance floor (less dancing, more just cutting through) and accidentally, unforgiving, bumped a cater girl in the shoulder on my way out the door.
That's what I remember before I went out to smoke.
-E.- (Ethan)
Meet Ethan. (EUGENE)
It should be said that Ethan isn't me.
I mean... he looks a lot like me... the way, perhaps, I look in good light. He looks at himself in the mirror in the morning, and sometimes he sucks in his gut and pretends he has a... 6-pack? Yeah... no.
Sometimes he doesn't brush his teeth before bed... like a slob, and he wakes up with the taste of roadkill in the back of his throat.
He thinks he knows women... he knows perhaps, a version of himself... the one he can maintain... the dressed up, picturesque portraiture version... and that's okay. He's okay with it, okay?
Ethan is a writer.
He likes to say he's a writer... but he hasn't finished writing anything in years. Nothing he's too damn proud of. He's written a letter here and there... written a line or two, maybe even a couple scenes... lots of beginnings, but no ends.
He doesn't really know how things end, because, for the most part, they end without his permission. They end while he's not in the room.
People used to talk about Ethan... in hushed tones... I mean, sure... he was talented, but he had an unhealthy ego and didn't know how to cut it back with social scissors...
It should also be known that Ethan was a compulsive liar for a good part of his life... that's purely a phrase, most people wouldn't call it the 'good part' of anything.
Ethan has parents like you or me... and they're divorced... like yours, and hey, mine.
He's a little scared to be a drug addict, but he's so attracted, moth-like to the flame of dangerous people and situations.
Ethan has a best friend... just the one... or, it should be noted, just the one that he hasn't slept with. Because his best friend is a gay man. And Ethan is a straight man. He's pretty sure.
And he has a mole on his face. On the left side. So that when we look at each other, some would say it's like a freaky funhouse mirror.
At the beginning of our year together, Ethan's girlfriend had just dissolved their relationship, and I, living next door, was the ideal scratching post for his aches. He and I have a strange relationship... mirror people that we are.
When I told him that I was a writer too, and that I was struggling to find my voice, he suggested I take his voice, as he was overly vocal and tired of speaking, tired of writing... sort of just tired in general... wanted to get out of the whole scene.
So I did. I've spent several of the last months with Ethan and I think I've started to get a sense for his voice. So, before this all becomes a play... with characters and dialogue and form... I thought I would bring this world into being, somehow.
I hope I do Ethan, and his experience, some sort of justice, and that, in the process, find a way to calm the meddling forces in my own writing life.
And so... we begin. With a wedding.
-e.- (Eugene)
I mean... he looks a lot like me... the way, perhaps, I look in good light. He looks at himself in the mirror in the morning, and sometimes he sucks in his gut and pretends he has a... 6-pack? Yeah... no.
Sometimes he doesn't brush his teeth before bed... like a slob, and he wakes up with the taste of roadkill in the back of his throat.
He thinks he knows women... he knows perhaps, a version of himself... the one he can maintain... the dressed up, picturesque portraiture version... and that's okay. He's okay with it, okay?
Ethan is a writer.
He likes to say he's a writer... but he hasn't finished writing anything in years. Nothing he's too damn proud of. He's written a letter here and there... written a line or two, maybe even a couple scenes... lots of beginnings, but no ends.
He doesn't really know how things end, because, for the most part, they end without his permission. They end while he's not in the room.
People used to talk about Ethan... in hushed tones... I mean, sure... he was talented, but he had an unhealthy ego and didn't know how to cut it back with social scissors...
It should also be known that Ethan was a compulsive liar for a good part of his life... that's purely a phrase, most people wouldn't call it the 'good part' of anything.
Ethan has parents like you or me... and they're divorced... like yours, and hey, mine.
He's a little scared to be a drug addict, but he's so attracted, moth-like to the flame of dangerous people and situations.
Ethan has a best friend... just the one... or, it should be noted, just the one that he hasn't slept with. Because his best friend is a gay man. And Ethan is a straight man. He's pretty sure.
And he has a mole on his face. On the left side. So that when we look at each other, some would say it's like a freaky funhouse mirror.
At the beginning of our year together, Ethan's girlfriend had just dissolved their relationship, and I, living next door, was the ideal scratching post for his aches. He and I have a strange relationship... mirror people that we are.
When I told him that I was a writer too, and that I was struggling to find my voice, he suggested I take his voice, as he was overly vocal and tired of speaking, tired of writing... sort of just tired in general... wanted to get out of the whole scene.
So I did. I've spent several of the last months with Ethan and I think I've started to get a sense for his voice. So, before this all becomes a play... with characters and dialogue and form... I thought I would bring this world into being, somehow.
I hope I do Ethan, and his experience, some sort of justice, and that, in the process, find a way to calm the meddling forces in my own writing life.
And so... we begin. With a wedding.
-e.- (Eugene)
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