I don’t normally proclaim what I’m thankful for during the holidays. Part of me feels guilty celebrating a day with events mired in slaughter and deception. How the American Indians were murdered the day after Thanksgiving, or how Turkish Moors were strung up or put on those spittle things and roasted – yes, that’s where the “turkey” came from. This time of year, I always feel a cognitive dissonance, due to the massive whitewashing.
Still, I try to reconcile by keeping my ancestors in mind during this time.
I can’t help but think how incredibly grateful I am right now. How things are falling into place and how it’s all starting to look up. All I can say us how incredibly exciting the next few weeks will be.

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Baby Clocks

*wrote this is 2011*

I  moved to Bushwick territory in the fall of last year. Within a week or two of moving, I kept hearing baby cries/noises, but no baby. There were no babies in my house!

So the more I heard these baby cries, the louder and more persistent this fairytale child was, the more convinced I was that my biological clock was ticking in mad overdrive. I did think 23 was a bit young for Mother Nature to remind me that I have a good 12-27 years until I’d no longer be able to conceive a child. And I hadn’t accomplished my major milestones yet: getting my degree, becoming a world-renowned writer/filmmaker/photographer/activist, getting both my brownstone in Brooklyn Heights (because that’s what writers do!) and my ranch/palace in northern California (because that’s what rich people do), snagging an artist boyfriend or maybe a dude who can cook (because that’s what’s “expected” of me).

And then I thought about that time when I was 16 when I was convinced I was going to have a baby even though I was a virgin (Divine Intervention, perhaps?). There was this heavenly glow in my living room with this adorable three-year-old looking at me in his cerulean (that’s a shade of blue-green, for those not hip to colours) overalls and saying, “Mama?” in that way that only toddlers in my dreams can (complete with head tilt and quizzical look).  And part of me still wanted to have a baby like that, dress him in Victorian regalia, show him off to everyone, etc (I also realized I suffered from mild delusions and hallucinations, but who doesn’t?)

I was like, shit! I’m ready to be a mommy! Never mind the fact that I’ve despised kids most of my life or that I let my ex’s then one-year-old niece fall off the bed and I just blinked and stared at her as she cried. Or that the thought of pushing a baby out of me terrifies me and makes me queasy to no end. Dammit, I was going to be the world’s most amazing mommy, even if I didn’t have the resources  necessary to accomplish that.

And then, about a month later, I realized that there was, in fact, a baby in the house. Downstairs, with one of my roommates.

Welp, so much for a biological clock! I quickly reverted to my ol’ baby-hatin’ self.

I’d still like to pull an Angelina Jolie, though.

My Mistress

I have a book filled with tons of writing prompts. The idea is to help get the creativity going. One of the prompts I’ve often pondered was this: write down all of the story ideas that never manifested or were never completed.

The author was willing to bet that one of the main reasons people never finish a story is because they talk about it. For some reason, talking about it makes it lose steam. So when it comes time to sit and write, we’re no longer eager or not as eager, anyway.

Though I’ve never had an affair, I can only imagine that keeping your writing secret is similar. I must confess that ever since watching some movie with Julia Roberts being a student having a tryst with a professor….I’m about that life. I think I’ve fantasized about having an affair ever since I had that substitute teacher in 4th grade. He was 22 or 24, and he was so cute. Alas, I’ve already graduated from college, and it wouldn’t seem as enticing going back to get a second degree. Plus, after my last “relationship,” I’m soo over having an affair with a teacher.

Anyways, part of the “beauty” of having an affair is keeping it a secret. It must feel exciting getting all dolled up, but maybe not so much so as not to arouse suspicion. So as much as i love babbling about my stories, maybe it’s best to keep mum.

Yet Another Excerpt

As the title states, another excerpt. Currently working on editing it, and I realized how much of a masterpiece this was. The scene I am portraying is how a rural, 13 year old girl would feel after arriving into Grand Central for the first time, looking in that lobby.

 

And, can you spot the prostitutes? 

 

It was the single most exhilarating day of her life. She stepped off the train and entered the corridor, and was amazed. To her, everything seemed grand: the marbled staircases, the large golden clock that stood in the middle of the waiting area, the conductors in their navy blue uniforms with large silver buttons, crowding the tiny cafes for a quick lunch. There were women in brightly colored makeup with hitched up skirts, exposing their ankles and calves as they motioned for men – maybe fathers and brothers – to come over. Slightly disheveled people taking brief naps in the corridors’ corners. Small crowds gathering around musicians and throwing money into dusty hats or rusty cans. She was taken aback when she left the station; she had never seen buildings as tall and menacing as these. Everyone had seemed to be in a hurry; no one had even looked at the small-town girl with the big bright eyes and even bigger suitcase. Perhaps to them, she had been just another one of the thousands or so who did the exact same thing each year. She had been but a single drop of water in the vast expanse of blue ocean.