Despite everything

Proof

Only ten percent of the extractions of wisdom tooth lead to dry socket. (exposure of the bone, leading to excruciating pain)
Needless to say I belong in that ten percent. I myself, am living proof that Murphy's law is in order. Now I'll have to see my beloved Dr. Felfel again on Monday.

Giving Thanks

Yesterday we celebrated thankgiving at our house, mostly with people I didn't know. When we went around the table to say what we were thankful for they all felt obliged to tell us how thankful they were for the invitation.
I had soup and mashed potatoes due to the wisdom tooth removal. They were both delicious.
One of our guests who had just broken up with his girlfriend, thanked the turkey on the table for dying. Then he added that it would be best if everyone just died. He left shortly after. I took some more painkillers and went to bed even though everyone was still enjoying their wine.

Wisdom

Yesterday was one of the most traumatic days of my life. A man named Dr. Felfel, who looked like a lot of his fellow students and was therefore difficult to recognize when I saw him the second time, violently extracted my infected wisdom tooth at 6:20 PM on a unusually warm November day, the week before Thanksgiving. Dr. Felfel wasn't the sort of doctor to talk about things, or make you feel comfortable or show any sort of empathy to his patients. I felt rather like an annoyance to him, a mouth with teeth that shouldn't be able to speak. Just open wide and shut up. He went over the procedure quick. I'm going to cut your flesh open, then drill your tooth in two maybe three pieces, then take them out. Alright? Alright. When I asked him whether or not to take some gas a small grin of incomprehension came over his face. 'What, are you afraid of the needle?' The only obvious answer of course was, no not at all. 'Well then you should be fine.' And that was the end of it. I would have rather gone over this subject a little longer, what the positives and negatives were, the cost, how many people prefer gas, what sort of dreams I would have and most importantly how many people had regretted their decision not to use gas. Meanwhile Dr. Felfel opened his tool kit, which looked more like something from the middle ages, big grips and hammers and other silver sharp objects that would be more likely to be found in a gardeners tool shed. The anesthesia was actually fine. People had warned me for this injection, but to much of my relief it wasn't as painful at all. The traumatic events happened only after, when my entire skull and jaw were vibrating and I could see the reflection of my oozing mouth in Dr. Felfel's glasses. I closed my eyes, hoping to would be beter, but seeing the doctors face was a better distraction from the pulling and cracking sound then total blackness. While the blood gushed out Dr. Felfel decided to leave me in the chair for a moment to get something. What exactly never became clear, I suspect him from using the bathroom or taking a sip of water, either of which seem irrelevant when you have a patient oozing blood from a split open tooth. When he came back the stitching began. Everytime I opened my eyes I saw a long thread coming out of my mouth, tainted red, with blood dripping from it. I only figured out he was done when he took off his gloves and looked at something behind me (a new patient? An attractive colleague?). He handed me an ice pack and told me not to spit. There I stood with my ice pack and a numb cheek. I felt violated and shocked. I wanted to ask him whether his wisdom teeth had been taken out yet. And how he had felt about it. I wanted to ask him if this was always how it went, or if he had just had a bad week. Instead I just stood there, frozen. Even if I would've tried to speak nothing but blood and spit would've come out anyway. He must've known, because when I looked up he was gone.

Handicap

For a couple of days a muscle in my foot was paralyzed. I thought about what it meant to be handicapped. A cripple. What I would and would not be able to do. Jump around, run, look good in heels, and what this would potentially mean for my future. Getting married was out of the question. I thought about how people look differently at you. You're a pitiable creature, people feel guilty about their own healthy legs and let you pass on the subway stairs. Then of course, it got less. And less. Until only a faint residue of paralysis was left and barely anything abnormal was left about my walk. I almost forgot it was there. Thank you muscles, thank you feet. For being there everyday without complaining.

A new dress

Today I stayed home all day to finish some work.
I promised myself a prize if I finished everything. A new dress.
Even though I wanted this dress very much, I didn't finish. Maybe also because part of me knew the dress was expensive and it would be better not to buy it anyway, unless I wanted to live on ice cubes and toothpaste for the next weeks.
I'm not sure what this means. Perhaps it's self sabotage.

Bubbles of Energy

In the New York times I read an article about the findings of scientists who found big bubbles of energy in the galaxy taking up a quarter of the universe. I am not sure even what this means, and in the article it became clear that most specialists weren't sure either. Someone at NASA said "This shows again that the universe is full of surprises." Sometimes I forget that we are only such a small part of such a small part of such a small part of the universe. We don't even know what that small part is, let alone the enormity of it all. It's a little scary, but in a strange way comforting as well. Comforting to think about huge bubbles of energy hovering light years above us as we go about our daily lives filled with insignificant worries. In the picture they were purple and about a million times the size of the earth.
I wondered why this article wasn't on the front page.

Yesterday

I heard Nicole Krauss read from her new book 'Great House.'
When someone asked her whether all writers secretly wanted to be Musicians, she said, I think all writers not so secretly want to be anything else but writers.'
She also spoke about her inspiration for the entire book. She had heard about a carpenter who was also an excellent pianist. He thought it wasn't right that all pianos always stood on the floor, since it didn't give the tones an opportunity to sound the way they should. He hung the piano from ropes and floated as he played.
She said she didn't think she would have to explain why that was a beautiful image.

Words

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FQrGBZDGjl4&feature=player_embedded
Play, wind, blow candles, blow away, blow your nose, blow job, blow fish, blow lightbulb, break, arm break, car break, breaking up, split wood, ballet split, banana split, rip, run, runny nose, run a light, run away, fly away, fly, a fly, a fly in pants, that's not gonna fly, fall, water fall, falling asleep, fall season, falling tree, feather, light, sun, fire, light, lightning, space, space bar.

Telephone

Yesterday my boss had a telephone conversation with his sick mother. She's been having heart problems. Apparently she was complaining about one of her nurses because I heard him say:
You think he's a sourpuss? Well maybe you shouldn't tell him that. He cares about you, and he wants you to get better even if it doesn't seem that way. He told you his age? And you told him he seemed older than you even though he's much younger? Oh good. Don't tell him that, it might hurt his feelings. Goodnight sweetheart. Let's talk tomorrow.
It made me sad to think of leaving New York and missing this.

Atonement

Yesterday was Yom kippur and instead of atoning for all things I should atone for (which are plenty) I thought about what play I wanted to write. I sat around on my bed, in the living room, watched Mad Men, spoke to my mother and stared at my toenails. I made pasta for dinner, decided not to meet up with anyone and looked at words I had written. It was not until this morning, after a sleepless night filled with anxiety, that I figured out what it was really all about. It might have been some sort of atonement for the things I shouldn't have written this past year. Or maybe it was just a much needed day of thought and nothing else. Here are some of the things I should've atoned for but didn't have time for:
Being addicted to Mad Men (there are other things to do)
Gossip
Not calling my little sister enough and making fun of her boyfriend
Not reading books I promised to read
Canceling appointments last minute
Being late
Judging people by what they wear (as if it actually says something about them?)
Saying I hated someone, when it really wasn't necessary
This year will be different.

The days I didn't feel like myself

and the hours went by without having accomplished anything at all.

Things I wondered about while watching the US open

The glitter dresses Venus Williams wears. With little glitter shorts underneath.
People checking their phone while they're visible on the big screens, usually during a crucial tie break. Who are they texting? And what? The scores?
Federer's pointy collar. Very seventies.

The day I thought I didn't have good ideas

We went to the beach, and had sardines and roast for dinner.
We gossiped about someone I didn't know who came from Minnesota.

The last first day of school

I wore a green skirt with blue dots and white sneakers.
It was hot and bright out. Like a dessert.
A teacher referred to hot tub time machine, the movie, as having a good second act.
As I was biking home I thought about doing groceries, but I didn't.
Instead I went to Epistrophy and had a panini and an aranciata and chatted with people working.
At night we watched a movie and ordered tacos.

Reality Television

While watching an episode of project runway's latest season, I started wondering why the formula for these sort of shows is so successful. When I was in Amsterdam I spoke to one of my good friends about success and failure and its role in history and how recently success is measured in economical terms.
In these shows success and failure is all we are trained to pay attention to. Winning and losing is the most important part of the episode. Who wins the challenge and who goes home. We start rooting for certain people and start disliking other ones, which is after all what we, humans, have loved to do since the beginning of time. The ironic thing of these shows, American Idol, Project Runway, Top Chef, ect, is that the person who wins the entire competition usually disappears from television, our memory, the general public's eye, as quickly as they rose to fame. So while this show is built on success and failure, the result of this success, the general success itself is less important that what got them there in the first place. The process. What we watch is the rise to success, the road to fame, rather than where they end up, or where they want to end up. Our fascination is with the competition, the tension between the contestants and the challenge itself. Do we ever see the winners of Idols as actual 'Idols'? Or the winners of Project Runway as legit fashion designers comparable to Marc Jacobs and Betsey Johnson? The answer, I think, is no. Perhaps the irony of these shows is that it is exactly the public nature of the process that makes us value the end result less. The mystery of how Madonna and Marc Jacobs rose to fame is part of what makes them who they are. Although it is the road to fame we view as entertaining, like watching gladiators in the arena, it might also be the dirty part we would rather not know once our idols have become precisely that. Untouchable.

Buying etiquette

The last days in Amsterdam I contemplated a couple of rules I will, from now on, abide by when buying clothes. I will not by clothes for which I will need to buy other clothes. Once, for instance, I bought a dress which could only be worn with a brown belt. And not just any brown belt, a specific color and shape. Naturally this brown belt was never found. I will buy things I will like for a while. Things that don't fall apart. Things that fit. No turqoise. No things I will only wear on special occasions. Those usually never come. No things that could be used as Halloween costumes. No dresses that would look good on a child. No boots with laces as decoration and a functioning zipper on the side.

The Parade 2010

Being uncomfortable with a microphone.
Selling out.
Rain boots.
Beers. Many.
The secret disco at 5 AM in the movie theatre.
And a guy with a drill taking the chairs out to make more room.
Counting money in a little room and not being able to do math.
Still wearing flight attending uniforms.
Teaching Americans strange words like 'gekkenhuis,' 'mafkees,' 'strenge tante' and hearing them use them in strange contexts.
The night when we watched the zweefmolen after the last round, full of smoke.

Last night

The first night of the parade show 'The New Yorkers.'
Stewardess lipstick on my fingernail.
Doorzakken with Americans.
The guy next to us with a bright red face in a western shirt, smoking a cherry flavored water pipe.
Spin the bottle with invisible people.
A conversation about where Mogli of Jungle Book would be now. We pictured him in a sad office.
Raps about caterpillars.
A guy who had been reborn in a cloister somewhere in France. He said he loved meeting new people. It was why he liked traveling so much.
Walking the dog in the park as the sun was rising.

Last night

De nagel. A place on a dark corner with trophies all over. Apparently you could take them if you wanted, but the bartender from Limburg, people called him Sabri, turned out to be very attached to a certain trophy, third place position, which was precisely the trophy one of our friends had set his eyes on. There were also cartoons with sexual undertones, no rather, with overt sexual content spread across the walls. In the corner there was a shrine with candles. It seemed to be honoring nudists.
After that we went to Pollux, a bar near the water, with a Moby Dick movie poster next to various family photos and a taxidermy dear head. The couches were covered in flower motif textiles and there was a big jukebox with classics. We listed to Danny de Munk over and over again until even our American friend knew the words. The bar tender fed us pretzel sticks.
The boyfriend of a friend was playing some sort of game with his friends where he but his foot in their crotch, and they put their feet in his. We didn't quite understand the humor of it, or if it was intended as a joke at all. The girlfriend told us to ignore. We did. We went on singing along with Danny de Munk.
When this place closed, we went to a place called San Fransisco, which was dark and smelly and had a doorbell. There were tourists and men with beards. Then Sabri, or king of the night as someone called him, who had come with us and at this time had started smelling unbearably, brought us back to de Nagel. He went in and out of the bathroom, each time his eyes a little wider than before. It explained the smell. We had more beers and sat around a table with a candle. The cigarettes had all gone and a discussion ensued about what store would still be open at 5 am. In the meantime we ate wasabi peanuts. This discussion lasted about half an hour until the bartender so called 'sacrificed' himself by ordering drugs from a drugdealer and asking him to bring some cigarettes. People started to kiss him in order to show their gratitude which seemed like an excellent time to leave.
I drank multiple glasses when I got home but it didn't help much. I woke up with a vague taste of wasabi, beer and pretzels in the back of my mouth.

Things I miss about New York

Tacos. Porpusas at the flea market.
The flea market in general.
Cabs late at night.
Drinks in hotel lobbies.
l'Asso pizza.
The beach.
"coach coach chanel"
People crowding sidewalks.
Skateboards. Sort of.
Epistrophy and the coffee martini.

My dad's birthday

We went to a fancy restaurant where we weren't allowed to speak on our regular volume.
Obviously it is precisely these kind of places where we get into fights. One at a time, we started crying, got up from the table and came back, only to make the next person cry and so on. Sort of like a relay race of tears and anger. My little sister got angry because we joked about her boyfriend. I cried because I was called out for still not having found one. I suggest that next year the topic of 'boyfriend' is off our list. I think we should keep with neutral talk of sports and food.

Things I like about Amsterdam

The streets, quiet mostly.
The absence of sirens.
Sidewalks.
Casual neighborhood talk.
Sandwiches with peanut butter. The Dutch kind.
Gardens.
Comfortable bicycles. And bicycle lanes.
Talks over beers.
Old friends with old stories.
Water.
Husband and wife, dog and cat.
Bathrooms in restaurants. With regular doors and a sink separate.
Supermarkets. Less options.

Things that are finished

The first draft of my play. Sort of.
My summer in New York. Continued in Amsterdam.
Rehearsals for the Dutch show. Or so I thought.
The thorough cleaning of my room.
Most of my Dutch friend's studies. Slightly worrying.
Most of my money.
The time when I thought I didn't need a plan.

The end of the World Cup

We lost.
Paul, the infamous octopus, predicted it.
Tonight I will eat some fried calamari in his honor.

The night of Crossword

The two performances of crossword went well. It was hot, but nobody complained. They sat still and listened which is usually a good sign.
After the performance we drank prosecco and cheap white wine.
We put on music and tried to dance the tango.
The owner of the apartment played saxophone along with the music in a corner.
I drank a little, but was worried about the mess we were leaving behind at the apartment so I cleaned some of it.

Crying on a train

Yesterday I was talking to someone on the phone while I was in the train.
I don't think I was talking unusually loud, or having some obnoxious conversation about uncomfortable subjects, yet after a minute or so, not longer, every single person around me started screaming at me. Well no. One person started thumping on my chair from behind, a lady leaned forward to give me a devilish look and a man grabbed his head and started pulling out his hair. He was bright red. I hung up quickly and asked the man if it was always like this, hoping for an ally in this mess. He said yes, without looking up from his newspaper. He had been paying his bills for most of the trip which I had actually found a little distracting and exhibitionist. A woman across the aisle said I was rude. Some other man from behind me said he didn't want to hear whatever it was I had to say. It was like a fight without being able to argue back. I hadn't been the target of so much aggression since I broke up with my boyfriend and at least we had been in love first. I cried. It was embarrassing. The man sitting across from me, who had tried to lend a supportive hand by smiling consolingly, asked me if I was alright. I couldn't answer. He said: Be strong. It won't always be like this.
He was right. I woke up this morning and forgot why I had felt so awful.

The day after Holland played Urugay

We found out they would have to play against Spain.
It was one hundred degrees.
I had an iced chocolate milk.
We listened to Nationalistic Dutch songs but had to turn them off after five minutes because they were so terrible.
My sister prepared sardines for dinner.
My mother told me the entire plot of a movie including the very unexpected twist.
The heat made me walk extremely slow.
I saw a cute baby in the subway.
I was ever so slightly homesick.

The day after the 4th of July

It was too hot to breathe.
We saw a group of retired cops sitting in a little baby pool with their chairs drinking beer.
I finished Ian McEwan's Solar.
I was afraid to look at our electricity bill.
We waited for our sister who will be flying to Amsterdam tonight.

Places I used to go to

The Pink Elephant. A random Thai restaurant that a friend, who I also don't see anymore, brought me to once and became my go-to restaurant. I don't remember why. The food was average and the place looked like it could fall apart at anytime. It was painted yellow and had bead curtains at strange places. It actually still exist; I passed it not so long ago and it looked exactly the same. It made me sad and long for a time when I wasn't such a snob.
205. A club on Chrystie street with plywood panels and silver wall paper a la factory. We went to an empty halloween party there once dressed as sheep.
Raffifi. A dirty dance extravaganza that smelled like old and new sweat and teenage angst. I saw someone pee against the wall once. He thought a curtain was covering him. It wasn't.
Delancy bar. A bar near the williamsburg bridge. I think it was possible to sit on the roof. It's still there. No need to go back.
A vegetarian or vegan place in the east village that I don't remember the name of. We used to hang out at the bar because a friend knew the bartender. I tried the food once. Didn't need to try it again.
Beauty bar. It had old beauty salon stuff and apparently gave away free manicures at happy hour. I never actually saw that happening in real life. It might just be to lure in customers, I don't know.
Hangar bar. My old roommate knew someone who worked there. They sold vintage clothes.
Welcome to the Johnson's. Beer in plastic cups.
151 Rivington. It had low ceilings and a bar tender named Danny.
Annex. They had concerts and good Thursday nights. The last time I was there an extremely modern avant garde strange sounding pianist played songs everybody seemed to appreciate except me.
The box. Naked people and juggling midgets are only entertaining for a limited amount of time.
Black and White. The first time I tried to go they didn't let me in because I wasn't 21. They had motown nights on Tuesday. I once had a brief affair with the bartender. It didn't last.
Darkroom. We ended up there for my birthday once. (22? 21?) We danced to songs we didn't know and were the only ones there.
Beatrice Inn. I still go there in my dreams. Its closing might be the healthiest thing that ever happened to me.

Inbox

Hoi zusjes. Hier effe een smsje van Bartje. Ik ben erbij morgen voetbal kijken. We gaan er zeker een bruut feestje van maken dit weekend. Dag boefjes. mzzl.
This is Alex. No reh today. Tuesday seems to be good.
Oh Thanks.
We will be there in fifteen.
Sure.
What are you up to?
Geen nieuwe email, liefs.
At dive bar in the east village.
I'm at home and tired, let's hang out tomorrow if you can!
Say hi to Epistrophy.
My teacher loved the idea. Thanks Schlumpf.
Everything but the home department is ok!

Point Lookout

We had dinner in a fish restaurant next to an eighty year old couple.
The man was quiet. I don't think he had any teeth.
The woman told us she was worried about having left the upstairs windows open in the rain. She had red manicured nails and wore gold jewelery.
They ordered one plate of pasta and shared it. They still only ate half.
They took the two biscuits that came with it home in a plastic bag.
They didn't say one word to each other, but obviously shared a life. Literally. Talking had become an unnecessary task.

P.S.

It wasn't cold, but rained tonight. Maybe the American sky was crying because the USA lost from Ghana earlier that day.
(I wanted Ghana to win, they were just so excited with their extravagant make up, dancing, and flags. The last African country standing.)

NYC story (a small book)

Made by Tobias Wong, who died last week.

Things I would like

Shoes that don't fall apart.
Finishing what I started.
New clothes. Preferably by Celine Paris.
A ticket to Brazil.
Cooking skills.
More time.
A camera. Still.
Concentration.
A night spent dancing.
The Wire season 4.
Sleeping in.
Drinks with girlfriends from overseas. Preferably Mojitos.
Productive Insomnia.
A bunch of Peonies.
And the oil to stop flowing and world peace. Obviously.

The day I wore the wrong dress

I drank an ice coffee that made me yawn for the rest of the day.
It was too hot to cycle all the way up to 37th street.
I ate eggs at 4 PM.
I felt uncomfortable talking to someone I hadn't seen in a while. It went away after five minutes.
I took a nap and thought I had bedbugs.
I was nervous about writing.
I was nervous without knowing exactly why.
I drank water because I thought it was dehydration that made me feel down,
Our internet was extremely slow.
Everything moved slow. Even the sun.

The day I had a migraine

I watched the Wire season 3.
I bought nose spray.
I took three exedrine migraine.
I finished leftover potato leek soup.
I thought about father's day.
I thought about writing.
I watched Kaka from the Brazilian team get a red card and laugh about it.
I wished the day lasted approximately three hours longer.

The day France lost to Mexico

I was jumped on by a dog and wasn't scared.
The people at the post office made me feel like I belonged.
I ate pumpernickel bread and felt very healthy, even though it was a little dry.
I was home alone for a while.
I had to think about money. Other people's and my own.
I spoke to my mother.
And my father while I was doing groceries. He thought that was funny.

What I ate today

Yoghurt and Grape Nuts
Croissant
Ice Coffee
Hot Dog
Rotisserie Taco
Steak Taco
Half an avocado
Not enough water

The day I almost passed out on a bridge

An orthodox man told me to breathe through my nose and drink water. He was leaning against the railing and smelled like old socks.
I walked the rest.
I visited some friends to talk about doing a play in their house. The hostess sat on a full ashtray and couldn't stop laughing about it. We all laughed with her although it came to a point where it wasn't really that funny. They had a cat called cash money. I sat next to a saxophone.
When I got home I decided to wash my sheets.

Sent

Wel bijna klaar?
What about asking Julia if she would be ok with it? I think it's the best option so far. Yes, because it's free.
Just emailed those guys. Hoping to hear from them at some point today.
Yup.
Done with work! Where are you?
How did meetings go?
Sorry don't have this number in my phone. Who is this?
Ha!
No worries.
Where are you guys?
Ew...
Sad! Soon though.
Zijn jullie al in Santos?
Ben naar huis.
Hope rehearsal went well. Sorry I couldn't make it.
What time is your appointment at the salon tomorrow? Might ask Pink to cut my hair at the same time.
Amazing if you can help out Saturday.
So good seeing you as always. I've missed you.
Love you back L Poo.
Spoke to Jordan, he wants to do it, but might have something else that day. Sent his agent an email to find out.
I would go but I'm in the train already!

Things I stare at

Beautiful people. Sometimes I get in trouble.
My ceiling. Paint has cracked.
People's shoes. I always noticed when someone in my class had new shoes, because I kept track of all the shoes they owned.
Television. On or off.
Dancing people. Good or bad.
Clocks. Because I don't have a watch.
Books people read on the subway.
Puzzles of any kind.
Tattoos that are half covered.
My email. Because someone unexpected could decide to send you something.
Empty or half filled pages.
My fingernails.
Taxi driver's names and picture in the back of a cab.

Blushing

My body is extremely reactive. When I get nervous my heart starts beating extremely fast. When I'm embarrassed I blush, or rather turn bright red, usually for a minute or so. When it happens I try to cover my face with a hand or look the other way, probably making it even more obvious. Yesterday someone, a friend, asked why I looked so nice (I was wearing a dress) and if I did it because I finally decided to go on a date with him. The person in question a, has a girlfriend, b, was clearly joking, c, is never actually serious about anything he says, and d, said it to amuse the people standing around and successfully so. They all laughed, as I quickly was undergoing a severe chameleon-like transformation. It didn't make any sense at all. You're making a mistake, I wanted to tell my face, this is not a reason to blush. But then again, if it was up to me I would never blush at all.
Children are cute when they blush, adults (if that's what I am) less so. I wonder if it passes with age.

Things I thought about

Being in love. How does it happen. And why. And how is it possible that some people are always in love, and some people (me) rarely? Is there some sort of button in my brain I should be switching on? Cause if so, this button must be rotting away somewhere without me knowing.
Parents who tell their children they are dead to them for being gay. Is that a scare tactic or do they actually hate their children that much?
Air-conditioning. Because I have it now and can't figure out why there is still a piece of polystyrene inside of it. Also the word polystyrene. I prefer the Dutch word, piepschuim (peepfoam).
Why I got upset about a boy asking me to buy him a drink yesterday. He didn't really ask actually, he hinted at it in a semi obvious way. I thought this wouldn't have bothered me so much, since I do believe in gender equality and all that. Sort of. I guess my feministic tendencies don't expand that far. There is something to be said for gentlemanly behaviour. The boy in question owned a miniature husky, called Biggie, whose face he had tattooed on his chest. I should have known.

Imagining things

Last night I went to see Sarah Ruhl's Passion play at a church in Clinton hill. I biked back over the bridge. No other people were there. Just me, the bridge, the moon, a couple of cars and the soothing lights of the skyline. I thought about the play and the division of church and state and how the roles we play effect who we really are. I wondered what it would be like to play Mary Magdalene year after year (or Virgin Mary, which might be worse). I wondered if anyone still believes in god the way people used to. And how this image is always changing. Maybe one little girl somewhere imagines god to be a big teddy bear with a candy stomach, while her mother pictures him as the man from the Dolce and Gabana perfume ads. It seems like the contradictive quality of repressive religion is the fact that religion allows or forces complete freedom to imagine, yet any form of vivid imagination is pronounced as the greatest sin of all.
We live in a world of declining imagination. Thankfully there are people like Sarah Ruhl who know how to keep it alive.

The day I melted

Federer lost the quarter final to Soderling. It is also the day I decided to support the Swede in his future endeavers (meaning the semi final and or final). I've always had an incurable love for Swedish culture (meaning Astrid Lingren) since I was a child, so it wouldn't be too much of a stretch. I had extended fantasies of growing up in the Swedish country side, jumping over fences, playing with the other blond haired rosy cheeked farmer children and baking hundreds of cookies during Christmas. And then the language of course. Nobody could ever say anything stupid or boring in Swedish. The language would simply not allow it.
Besides being Swedish, Soderling also has his dimples going for him. What woman could possibly resist a man with dimples?

Things I don't like

Djokovic's face when he makes a point. (Palm in the air, like some sort of emperor)
His family in coordinated outfits. (Really?)
Not being good at tennis. (Never made an effort, but still)
Not being athletic in general. (By choice, but still)
A sunburned stomach. Ouch. (Own fault, which makes it worse)
Checking my email and having received nothing but spam. (Because of my shopping online. Note to self. Don't shop online. At least stores don't remind you of your reckless spending)
Going back to the city tomorrow. (Walking around in a bikini is simply not appropriate in a city environment)
Oil spills. (Still)
Gaza boat attack. (New)
Mosquitoes. (Since the beginning of time. They can become extinct and nobody would care. Sorry to say it, mosquitoes, but you have only yourselves to blame. )
Writing. (The thing I'm supposed to write. Always.)

What I made today

Fresh tomato sauce:
Slice two whole heirloom tomatoes in half and put them in a pan. Put the pan on the fire.
Let the tomatoes cook in their own fluids for about twenty minutes.
When they get softer, add olive oil, basil, garlic, pepper and salt.
Wait another thirty minutes or until the mixture becomes a fluid mass of deliciousness.

Yes, I am aware that this might be easier to do than boiling or frying an egg. And yes, I happen to be very good at boiling and frying eggs.
But it was Sunday night, the end of May, and it was time for something new.

The day Dennis Hopper died

I sat in the train with hopped up teenagers heading for the beach talking about the Talking heads and dyeing a dog's hair purple or neon green depending on availability. I looked forward to seeing the ocean and breathing in the salty air as deep as I could. It didn't disappoint.

Tennis nails

When Serena Williams was injured for a while and couldn't play tennis, she taught herself how to do nails. In an interview today she said she likes rhinestones the most, but decided to go for metallic colors for her third round tennis game at the French Open. Now that she finished her game early (she won, easily) she said she looked forward to going back to her room to change her polish, even though it wasn't necessary just yet (the nails looked perfect). Then she smiled a shy smile. She was a completely different person all of a sudden.
I wondered which of her personalities, the fierce aggressive tennis player or the nail polish girl, was acted out and which one was real. Maybe it's possible to be both at once. I'd definitely like to think there is an aggressive tennis player hiding underneath all my blushing, nail polish and flowery summer dresses. She's just shy and doesn't like to come out much.

Things I did today

Dragged a big box, with a chair inside, from UPS to my house on my bike. The bike almost fell over several times.
I got two pity glances from passerby's. I appreciated them. My guess is that they were from Alabama. I could be wrong.
Laundry, two loads. Mostly clothes I won't need in the summer. Like socks.
Groceries, breakfast things mostly. My sister drank some of the orange juice before her interview at a gallery. She was nervous, it calmed her down.
I met with a director friend. I had a beautiful cappuccino. It had the shape of a leaf on it.
Bought sandals. Cause I don't want to wear socks anymore.
Spoke to my mother for twenty minutes about future plans, Federer at the French open and the Eurovision song festival. Apparently Holland didn't do very well.
Then I took another shower.

A movie

Favorite lines from 'Mother and Child' by Rodrigo Garcia:
Pregnant woman interviewing adoptive parents: Are you always this honest?
Adoptive mother: The truth is easier to remember.
The movie showed the painful realities of adoption as a big pile of sadness with a few rare glimmers of hope. Then I shared a chocolate mousse with my sister. It was excellent.

El Moustache

Yesterday I went to the Spanish birthday party. After some wine, sangria and paella one of the guests, who looked remarkably like Charlie Chaplin, decided to draw on everyone's faces with a burned cork. I received a very defined uni-brow. Charlie Chaplin said it looked beautiful and I should consider it for my day to day life. Everyone else received mustaches. My sister's thin mustache was perfectly curved with the shape of her lip, her girlfriend looked like a musketeer, there was someone who looked like Shakespeare, and another friend looking like an aging pedophile. After a while we forgot what we looked like and continued our conversation about Spanish painters, TV shows about people smuggling drugs and my secret wish to go to gardening school.

My exterior as of today

Today I'm wearing cut off jean shorts and a black and white striped T-shirt. Yesterday blue shorts with white polka dots. The day before a black pencil skirt and white sneakers. I cut my bangs yesterday, they're very short, the rest of my hair comes down to 3 inches over my shoulder. Braided.
Wearing a gold fortunate cookie necklace.
It's been humid and hot. Two showers a day don't seem to solve that problem.
Also, the orange red nail polish has started to chip off my toe nails.
I have one pimple on my forehead.
I also have sweaty palms and sticky legs.
My finger nails are incredibly clean and regular length. That's positive news.

On soccer

Today we watched the champions league final between Inter Milan against Munich on a big screen at a west side pier. On the other side of the field New York hotels and magazines were represented by small soccer teams and played in a tournament against each other for tickets to the world cup.
Munich lost. A German friend said it was the worst day of his life and he would never like soccer again. Ten minutes later he went on to cheer for a random team playing on the field next to us. We had to stop him from attacking a referee.
Although not a big sports fan, I'm never opposed to free hot dogs, booing (Schwalbe!) and, even if it's brief, solidarity with complete strangers.
Then I watched a movie with Al Pacino on Jack Kevorkian, one of the first American doctors to advocate euthanasia.
My favorite lines:
Religion fanatic: Don't you have a religion? A god?
Jack: Oh yes. I do have a god. His name is Johann Sebastian Bach. And at least my god is not invented.
To some people a Bach symphony might have a similar effect as a well played soccer match. Diego Militio definitely has the fitting legs of a demi god as far as I can tell.

Bridge

Last night I cycled to Williamsburg, over the Williamsburg bridge, had cheap tacos (at La superior) with an old friend who had just dyed his hair bright pink, then cycled back to the west side to have drinks at the Jane hotel.
(Dinner conversation: Pink: So are you doing it with anyone? Me: No. And I don't like anyone either if that's what you're going to ask next. Pink: Maybe you're a lesbian. Pink's friend who joined: No, she's waiting for someone special. That's definitely a hetero female thing to do.)
At Jane Hotel I had a discussion with someone on whether it is more difficult to bike from Brooklyn to Manhattan or the other way around. Apparently bridges are never built completely equal on both sides, so it is more steep, and therefore more difficult, to cycle to Brooklyn. Or to Manhattan. I forgot what he said, but I remember disagreeing.
In my experience you quickly forget how much effort it takes to bike to the middle, once you can stop peddling and let yourself go. I once heard that the body exudes certain hormones after childbirth to make you forget the pain you suffered. All you feel is utter exhilaration.
Maybe humans are programmed to block out any suffering once there is no need for it anymore. When the suffering doesn't compare to the joy it has led to.
Yes, I just compared cycling up a bridge with giving birth. And no, I have never given birth.
I woke up with a hangover and forgot what was so fun about last night. I guess this theory works both ways.

Back and Forth

For some reason I have always wanted to sit on the subway for the entire route without getting off, only to return to the stop where I got on. I would only have to do it once. Just to see what people come in where, how and why. Yesterday I was on the subway with a group of teenage kids from the Philippines. One of the boys had a girl on his lap, I assume it was his girlfriend. He held her tight, as if he was afraid she would change her mind about him, get up and drop herself on one of the other boys laps. She didn't seem to mind.

The contents of my handbag as of today

Red wallet(comme des garcons), not a lot of dollars
Brown notebook, random comments, notes and doodles
Lease renewal for 336 Canal street, signed today
3 flyers for theatrical performances, none of which I will attend
Ticket stub to the Creditors at BAM, held onto it because I liked it
My passport, should make a copy
Spare keys for my old bike lock
Trident White gum, not sure it's working
An empty metrocard
Receipts for things I forgot I bought (shorts, groceries)
Receipt for lunch at cafe select
4 pens, 3 functioning ones
Coins, pennies mostly
A novel, Lolita, never gets old.

Une femme est une femme

Things I liked about this:
Red stockings.
'Is this a comedy or tragedy?'
'So are we not talking? -No we are not talking.'
'Women who don't cry shouldn't be allowed to exist.'
Anna Karina.
White apartments.
Paris. (Always)
Strip clubs where women wear sailor suits and feather headbands.
Communicating through book titles.

Dream

If I don't set an alarm clock I always wake up at 9:33 am. Then I tend to turn around and sleep for another hour or so.
That's usually the hour with the craziest dreams.
Today I dreamed that my brain got sucked out and I was walking around with an empty skull.
It was strangely refreshing. Everything felt light and breezy.
I woke up with a headache and a stuffed nose. Perhaps my dreams are telling me to vacuum.

Bike

I got a new bike. It's blue and shiny and has glitters on the handle bars. It's given name is Breeze. To all the bicycle thieves: Please ignore.

A start

I'm starting to forget.
Yesterday I couldn't sleep because I remembered I was twenty five. Then I woke up and forgot again.
I hope in five, or ten, or twenty years, I will read this and remember what I was thinking on certain unmemorable days. On the days that didn't matter. What I liked on those days. Or didn't like.
Today I like:
Sleeping in.
Blue and white stripes.
Thinking about books I must read this summer. (Solar by Ian McEwan, new Phillip Roth)
The idea of taking pictures. (I looked out of the window and saw a group of people passing each other in the street, all carrying or wearing something blue. Then they all vanished in the crowd. I was too late, due to lack of working camera.)
Today I don't like:
Learning about twenty something year old's success on the internet.
Jealousy in general.
Finding out the man of my dreams has a girlfriend. And no, we have never actually met.
The fact that there is so much to do in New York in the city, and I'm sitting at home not doing any of them.
Being twenty five. And yes I am aware that next year I wish I was exactly that.