Wow, what a weekend

Wow, what a weekend! I spent it getting tattoos and drinking margaritas.

True story. Life plan not worked on at all. But had a good 'ole time with the tattoos and margaritas though. Awesome stuff.

I think underneath what I can say in this journal are things that I cannot say. Or things I choose not to say. And to an extent I feel like maybe I've over shared but then, as I said sometime before, that's what artists do, we feel the need to express ourselves so we do it with whatever medium. However, underneath the written words are quiet frustrations, everything I say I am going to do, or that I've thought of doing, I have taken steps towards doing and was hit with one obstacle or the other, some that I have spoken of, whined about and some that I have not. And then, there are things that I am working on that I would much rather not speak about to anyone, not even my journal as I'd prefer to work on them privately, as I toy with the fine details.

So once again, I say, if you bump into this and feel like you can judge my life based on what I've written and not on the quiet frustrations I face, then maybe I asked for it but it is so not your place. Just read it and keep it moving. Not unless you have a place for me to stay in New York, plus a job in this stiff job market.

If you do then we can talk.

An Artists Haven

I want to move to New York so bad, it's almost overwhelming.

I know no place is ever as great as you imagine it to be - look at America. I just think it'd be wonderful. As an artist where else will you live and feel inspired and nurtured by the environment. It's overwhelming, I say. I suppose there are people in New York that are just dying to move to Atlanta and enjoy the cheap housing, the easy commute and the slow, hush-puppy lifestyle. I actually sat next to one of them at lunch. "I just wanted to get away from the hustle and bustle." I felt like slapping her. Hustle and bustle keeps you moving, invigorates you, lets you know that you're alive. How can you want to step back from that?

I wish I had a best friend who shared my same yearn for life in New York, so we could move there together and keep each other company as we find our feet. This is unfortunately one adventure I cannot embark on by myself. Even though I was able to muster 2 days in New York by myself, living there on my own seems so daunting. Plus, there is the evil shadow of unemployment and constant recession. How can you battle that on your own? How can anyone? But I must often remind myself of how old I am. I am not but a child. There are people my age who are not only responsible for themselves, but the lives of others, their children. Imagine if I were a mother of 2, with no husband who had to relocate to New York. What would happen then?

I have worked in the same place, lived in the same place and driven the same car for 2 years. All that sameness is wearing me out and I am about to burst. I don't know how people deal with sameness. The life of the same, not the ordinary, just the same is underwhelming. How do married people cope?

Every time I read the New York Times or the poets weekly and there's an announcement about another great event in Brooklyn and the rest I would always think, so what am I waiting for? What are you waiting for Anita?

I just need the God of all things prosperous, of tremendous opportunity, and most of all hope, to have pity on me and let me muster enough courage to move to New York, with all things being equal.

For my 900th review

I looked at properties all weekend.

From last week through the weekend, which was extended because I took Friday off from work. I spent my 3 day weekend, getting my hair done and looking at properties, searching online at property ads and touring them in person. This has been by far the most arduous property hunt in my 6 years of renting. Usually, I find one and I toy with it as I look at others to try to dissuade me from the one I want. I consistently go back to the one I want to reassure myself that I like it and it's the one in comparison to all the others I've seen in the interim. Nothing quite compares. And in the end, I sign up for it. There's always that breathtaking moment when I see that one. It's just superb. Like it speaks to me and says this is where you should be, how dare you go anywhere else. With each time I view it, it's still the same feeling.

This year not so much.

There is one. But since then, there have been many others. Some too expensive, some too remote, some I like the bathrooms but hate the kitchen, some I like the kitchen but hate everything else, bedrooms too small, living space too small, location, location, location doesn't quite work out, nothing quite plugs in place. Then, there's the preponderance of thoughts.

I am not sure I want to live here in Atlanta for another year. Another year of nothingness, because that's exactly what my life is like. Nothingness. I do not advance in my career or my personal life, or any of my life goals, I only advance in age. So, it's another year of nothingness. Swell nothingness. Sometimes I think I should make a bold move and take myself out of this nothingness into something else. But what exactly. I feel rooted to this by the overwhelming situation called the economy. I have options in my mind but those options will involve a lot. One being, leave my job. And I am not too sure now is the time to do that. Or maybe I should take a gamble anyway and do it because the timing is never right and you spend all your life waiting for that timing to work out. Maybe that's what all the empty apartment hunts are trying to tell me...this is not the place, try something else. I don't know what to make of anything anymore. I am pulling up empty ideas. Nothing is speaking to me, not even my thoughts.

The Year of Gay Liberation

You know what I hate? I hate it when you accidentally bump into a gay bar, walk in and they start staring at you like you lost your way. It's a bar, isn't it? And they have drinks, preferably the good, strong kind. So, why can't I drink here?"

Yesterday night, after enduring 5 hours on a chair to get my hair braided, I wanted food, drink, anything...a nice shot of something to numb the pain just before my food arrives. And I bump into this "restaurant", right beside the Thai restaurant I actually intended to go to. So I think, how about a shot of something to numb the pain as I wait for my food to arrive, or better yet, bar food, even more filling and satisfying. As I walk towards it, immediately the guy at the door stops me with a "Yes, can I help you?"

"This is a restaurant, right," I ask naively.

"It's actually a bar." He replies, omitting the gay part. And very well, I didn't know such a subcategory existed, like is there a "straight" bar, maybe that's what I've been going to since, straight bars, and alas, here's the gay one.

So I respond, not even detecting the tone in his voice as he inspects me with his gaydar, my freshly minted braids begged to differ. So, okay she's not gay, just hungry, stupid and in need of a drink.

In my mind I am thinking, it's late they are probably about to shut down shop, or at least the kitchen aspect of it. "Okay, so do you have food?" "Yes but the kitchen is closed."

I look at my watch, certainly it can't be that late. So he mellows out and says, "Oh, no, not actually closed. You have 30 minutes, but we don't have that much." So I walk in, still very hungry and irritated with this conversation. I couldn't quite understand why he was policing me at the door, you either ask me for the cover charge or my ID, but if I am a paying customer (or I seem like one), there really is no need to stop me at the door to play twenty questions.

So I walk in. Bar top one. Gay couple caressing. Bar top two, other gay couple whispering, giggling and smoking. And the rest of the servers were hanging some kind of disc glitter from the roof. Surely this is a gay bar. I contemplate, I am so thirsty it really doesn't matter, the drinks will still taste the same. But then, the smoke and that glitter, and they don't even have wings on the menu, what decent bar skips wings from their menu...the gay bar that's what. So I pass. No shot, no food. I keep it simple. Police guard at the door is ever so pleased as I walk out, like he says almost with a smirk, Okay, see you later. Like he knew I would walk out. It was only a matter of time. He was lucky I was hungrier than I was thirsty, if not, I would have stayed, with the smoke, the glitter and all.

In summary, why can't we straight people not crash gay bars, why is there even such a subcategory? What is wrong with this world, what's with all the subsets. I can understand rich and poor, but if we can help the subsets why create them? Just give me a drink please, and hold the glitter and the smoking for outside. I just need my shot, dammit.

The year of Gay Liberation...really?

You know what I hate? I hate it when you accidentally bump into a gay bar, walk in and they start staring at you like you lost your way. It's a bar, isn't it? And they have drinks, preferably the good, strong kind. So, why can't I drink here?"

Yesterday night, after enduring 5 hours on a chair to get my hair braided, I wanted food, drink, anything...a nice shot of something to numb the pain just before my food arrives. And I bump into this "restaurant", right beside the Thai restaurant I actually intended to go to. So I think, how about a shot of something to numb the pain as I wait for my food to arrive, or better yet, bar food, even more filling and satisfying. As I walk towards it, immediately the guy at the door stops me with a "Yes, can I help you?"

"This is a restaurant, right," I ask naively.

"It's actually a bar." He replies, omitting the gay part. And very well, I didn't know such a subcategory existed, like is there a "straight" bar, maybe that's what I've been going to since, straight bars, and alas, here's the gay one.

So I respond, not even detecting the tone in his voice as he inspects me with his gaydar, my freshly minted braids begged to differ. So, okay she's not gay, just hungry, stupid and in need of a drink.

In my mind I am thinking, it's late they are probably about to shut down shop, or at least the kitchen aspect of it. "Okay, so do you have food?" "Yes but the kitchen is closed."

I look at my watch, certainly it can't be that late. So he mellows out and says, "Oh, no, not actually closed. You have 30 minutes, but we don't have that much." So I walk in, still very hungry and irritated with this conversation. I couldn't quite understand why he was policing me at the door, you either ask me for the cover charge or my ID, but if I am a paying customer (or I seem like one), there really is no need to stop me at the door to play twenty questions.

So I walk in. Bar top one. Gay couple caressing. Bar top two, other gay couple whispering, giggling and smoking. And the rest of the servers were hanging some kind of disc glitter from the roof. Surely this is a gay bar. I contemplate, I am so thirsty it really doesn't matter, the drinks will still taste the same. But then, the smoke and that glitter, and they don't even have wings on the menu, what decent bar skips wings from their menu...the gay bar that's what. So I pass. No shot, no food. I keep it simple. Police guard at the door is ever so pleased as I walk out, like he says almost with a smirk, Okay, see you later. Like he knew I would walk out. It was only a matter of time. He was lucky I was hungrier than I was thirsty, if not, I would have stayed, with the smoke, the glitter and all.

In summary, why can't we straight people not crash gay bars, why is there even such a subcategory? What is wrong with this world, what's with all the subsets. I can understand rich and poor, but if we can help the subsets why create them? Just give me a drink please, and hold the glitter and the smoking for outside. I just need my shot, dammit.

we're half way there, we're living in a prayer

I went to the July 4th fireworks display at Lenox for the first time in my 9 years of living in Atlanta. And it was all fitting since this may be my last year here. On the 5th, I celebrate my 9th year in this country and on the 4th I took in the greatest celebration of all things American by taking in the fireworks. It only took 9 years to get me to do that but I did. And it was quite emotional for me too. I sobbed so sweetly, little tears trickling down my face. I almost wish I hadn't because it took me to that brink of tears, just over the edge, where you feel pain but you don't know why and tears just swell in your eyes and you can't stop them. That's how it felt.

I went from dancing hysterically at the live band that was offering us very good entertainment to crying hysterically at little stars exploding in the air. What does that say about me?

Have to be in the mood for July

It takes a while to gather up the mood to write.

I have to be in the right mood to write, especially assignment pieces. For my journal, it's almost getting to be that way.

All day, I constantly have poignant thoughts randomly flash through my mind but I have to be in the mood to put them down in some coherent fashion because once you sit to write, the coherence floats away - the computer screen steals it and you start to mumble all the details, this and that, but its all jumbled. It does not read quite as coherent as when you thought it. Except maybe if you were drunk when you had those thoughts. Needless to say, that I actually do have very deep thought provoking A-ha moments when I am drunk, it's like the alcohol places those emotions you had long suppressed into the forefront and gives you some armor to confront them with a sense of conviction.

I remember when I used to write for a living, this was some time after law school before America. Yes, I actually had a chance to make my big break but I thought I would have a better opportunity here. Yep, sometime in that phase when I was trying to run away and make a fresh start, I used to write for a living. We had one week to complete a radio screenplay with a theme which was chosen for you. Hence, an assignment piece. Assignment pieces are different from "free for all"s because, there is a theme and the theme is not at your discretion. That just ruins the flexibility and creativity involved in writing by setting some type of boundaries.

For me for those 7 days, nothing would come to my head until day 5. And even then, I would try so hard to tap into that part of me that feels. Don't get me wrong, I feel everyday. But there's a part of you that hurts and feels every pain, that listens and dwells and that aches and is in touch with you, that part is the part that produces the best dialogue, the most heart-wrenching stories, it's best part of your creativity. It's your A-Ha part. It's like being "on" at all times. And that part would take 5 days for me to tap into. So 2 days to deadline, I would have to drink, eat, sit in a dark room, everything to tap into it. Finally, it would come. And my script supervisor always got a good chuckle whenever she read one of mine.

Now, I don't know. I don't think I've found my A-ha moment. I would like to be a given a chance, a permanent opportunity to try to tap into it, day after day after day. I would like that to be my occupation.

That's my July 1st prayer.