Until four months ago, I had never lived in a big city in my life. The realities of such a life have been confronting me daily since I arrived. It's crowded. Everything is stone and concrete and brick. Its filthy. With few green spaces, all tucked out of the way in isolated corners, there is dog excrement everywhere, usually in the shape of a smashed skid from the shoe of the poor pedestrian who was so unfortunate as to step in it. There are homeless begging, and insistent street vendors who seem not to know I have a particularly large bubble of personal space because they seem always to be entering it. But worst of all presented itself just one week ago when all of a sudden the spring seemed to arrive all at once.
One night it was beautiful, and hot, and a whole new side of the city showed itself. The smell. The smokers were always here but it was one bus ride I took last Wednesday in particular when I realized the reality of living in a city is infinitely worse than I'd imagined. I rode this particular bus on a day that was hot though not unbearable. I could discern each distinct smell coming for each individual passenger.
As the heat increases each day, it gets worse. Sometimes it's better to stay home and starve than go out and confront my neighbors and fellow Pam Supermarket shoppers, their lack of hygiene a complete affront. But it's not just the people. It's the trash cans, the dog excrement, the plumbing in my apartment, the exhaust from a million cars. It's disgusting.
Please, oh please, take me to the Pacific!
Friday, May 14, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
The Itch
Three weeks ago I tripped and I fell hard, on my face, skinning my elbow and my knee, ripping my jeans. It was a brilliant fall, both for its severity and its timely happening in a highly populous area. Utterly humiliating. Fueled by several cocktails and more than enough shots, I fell victim to one of the city's thousands of uneven side walks.
The next day over a cappuccino, I recounted for a friend the spectacular spill I had taken. I showed her my knee. And I got to thinking. When was the last time I had actually fallen hard enough to skin a knee? I had no idea. Sure, since then I've had rug burns and bruises, but a thick brown scab on my knee? I had no idea. I passed numerous early years with a seemingly permanent scab, a constant presence that smarted at the bend of a knee, and itched something awful as it dispersed.
Everything about the scab was familiar: the way it starts coming off first at the corners, the dryness, the itch. The constant temptation to pick it until a tiny prick of blood appears, and later hardens into a new scab. Only this time I didn't pick it. Well, not until it bled. But this time, I couldn't help thinking that this scab was for such a different reason than ever before. Sure, I tripped plenty but this time I was drinking.
I didn't play sports, I never threw myself after some superfluous ball in some sort of insane self sacrifice to prevent a goal being scored or an out-of-bounds call. I didn't pay tag, or tether ball or anything for that matter in a particularly violent way. I've never been in a fight. Tomboy simply never applied to me. But still, I had my share of skinned knees. A trip, perhaps a shove. I can remember a freeze frame of of a little knee with a tough, gnarled scab, but none of the motives behind it. I was a girl's girl. No, I was a boy's girl. The type who has millions of dolls that are all her children. Barbie only wore a wedding dress: she was always getting married. Outfits match. Sleeping Beauty lived in the VCR. I always wanted to be a princess. Not for the title or the real estate but for the prince. For the wonderful idea that one day a man, not just a man a prince would come into my life and then there would be nothing but happiness. After all isn't that what ever after means?
Princesses don't have skinned knees, it seemed, I realize now. Or maybe they did, and thus the need for the petticoats. My scab has already peeled off and I can see the fresh red skin exposed as well as the realization that I don't want to be a princess. I hope there are many a scraped knee to come. Perfection is boring, whatever that means. The knee in freeze frame is bigger now. My scab no longer attached I realize that even when it isn't sloughed off by a harsh city street, my skin is shedding constantly. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.
The next day over a cappuccino, I recounted for a friend the spectacular spill I had taken. I showed her my knee. And I got to thinking. When was the last time I had actually fallen hard enough to skin a knee? I had no idea. Sure, since then I've had rug burns and bruises, but a thick brown scab on my knee? I had no idea. I passed numerous early years with a seemingly permanent scab, a constant presence that smarted at the bend of a knee, and itched something awful as it dispersed.
Everything about the scab was familiar: the way it starts coming off first at the corners, the dryness, the itch. The constant temptation to pick it until a tiny prick of blood appears, and later hardens into a new scab. Only this time I didn't pick it. Well, not until it bled. But this time, I couldn't help thinking that this scab was for such a different reason than ever before. Sure, I tripped plenty but this time I was drinking.
I didn't play sports, I never threw myself after some superfluous ball in some sort of insane self sacrifice to prevent a goal being scored or an out-of-bounds call. I didn't pay tag, or tether ball or anything for that matter in a particularly violent way. I've never been in a fight. Tomboy simply never applied to me. But still, I had my share of skinned knees. A trip, perhaps a shove. I can remember a freeze frame of of a little knee with a tough, gnarled scab, but none of the motives behind it. I was a girl's girl. No, I was a boy's girl. The type who has millions of dolls that are all her children. Barbie only wore a wedding dress: she was always getting married. Outfits match. Sleeping Beauty lived in the VCR. I always wanted to be a princess. Not for the title or the real estate but for the prince. For the wonderful idea that one day a man, not just a man a prince would come into my life and then there would be nothing but happiness. After all isn't that what ever after means?
Princesses don't have skinned knees, it seemed, I realize now. Or maybe they did, and thus the need for the petticoats. My scab has already peeled off and I can see the fresh red skin exposed as well as the realization that I don't want to be a princess. I hope there are many a scraped knee to come. Perfection is boring, whatever that means. The knee in freeze frame is bigger now. My scab no longer attached I realize that even when it isn't sloughed off by a harsh city street, my skin is shedding constantly. Sometimes slowly, and sometimes all at once.
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