Strange bedfellows, er, beds

I've slept in so many strange places in the past month and a half or so.

Crashing at various locations after parties, partying, etc. Waking up hung over. Disheveled, disillusioned. Wearing a stale outfit. Looking completely overdressed from the night before. Teetering down steep hills in Brookline/Allston in heels. Afraid of being locked in small strange bathrooms with even smaller windows and faulty latches.

Even my own house is still new.

A massive dose of new people and places. I don't want the weirdness to wear off just yet.

I've slept somewhat of a range. From trashed and gross to more opulent than I've ever seen all in a short span.

Woke up the other day and really had no idea where I was. I mean, it was somewhere in Newton. I knew how I got there, with whom et al. But if I had to find my own way home I would've been helpless. Turns out it was like 45 minutes away from home.

I woke up there after way too little sleep after drinking too much. I wanted to blog immediately, and there was a computer nearby, but I couldn't bring myself to get out of bed, even though I lay there unable to sleep, rest, or relax.

Been hanging out in Allston again. It's a comfort, but I'm glad I call Cambridge home now.

Experiencing all these different spaces is inspiring. I know it will come out in some significant way.

M and craving

Last night I went to practice piano at the studio where I've been taking lessons. I've been going there for almost one year, also studying harpsichord.

It was Friday night and I desperately needed to get in some practice.

Friday, while the city buzzed all around me. New students looking for the action in the drizzly city lights.

I haven't been going out much lately. I was hanging out with my new man a lot, but we've been separately busy. Plus, he moved to Providence, but tries to stay in Boston as much as possible because this is where his film/life is. So, I've had the last two weekends mostly to myself. I've been trying to get work done. A majority of what he and I talk about is work.

We like the "Arbeit Macht Frei" concept.

Work makes you free; work makes you good and worth something.

I showed up at Studio 44 roughly 45 minutes before closing. The night watchman/elevator man hates me because I often stay until the last minute. I have no piano at home but he wants to go home on his motorbike.

For the first time, though, my fingers craved playing that piano more. I became very depressed when I had to leave. The sounds coming out of that Mason & Hamlin piano had been soothing me. I was truly enjoying my practice when I had to be ripped away like a mandrake root.

I was wondering what was wrong with me and to where my blissful mood of yore (even a few hours previous) had disappeared, when I bumped into a friend of a friend I met once right around the same time I started getting involved with Warren. She was a friend of an old roommate from when I lived in Allston Rock City.

She approached me at Park Street station. I wouldn't have noticed her otherwise. It was crowded and I was preoocupied. The busker was playing a depressing song by Oasis that wasn't helping.

Turns out she was feeling like crap too. We discussed Klonipin and Paxil. Her depression has triggered IBS. She's 27. She's so beautiful and friendly. It was hard to believe what was coming out of her mouth about how she felt about her life.

We had a friendly exchange, or sohbet.

I went home to write out a cello part for rehearsal today. Hope I did it right.

I had actually hoped to make it to NYC this weekend, but...there is work to be done here.

Freakshow

So, I spent last Friday night in the emergency room of the Mass Eye & Ear infirmary. I was at home and freaked myself out by looking at medical info online - something I had been cautioned against by a previous doctor.

I've had a weird eye thing that hadn't gotten any better after going once to MGH and filling prescriptions and following directions.

I got there at like 10:30PM, wearing a black leather jacket (my boyfriend's). I went alone 'cause I never ask for help or support. After my initial check-in, the nurse (?) mentioned something about how I should've come with someone.

The waiting room was completely empty. Not a soul. Just me and the TV. I flipped it on and it was all about Katrina. Depressing imagery.

I became pretty upset. Luckily a friend called. Then I called a few folks for some support.

Funny how it didn't hit me until the nurse reminded me I was alone, and apparently that was strange status...

An older couple showed up after a little while. They wanted the TV off.

Anyway, I finally got seen at midnight. It was traumatic. I was already emotional and I'm extremely sensitive about my eyes being touched. They were poked, dilated, prodded. I had to look through a neon blue ring of light attached to somethin pressed up against my eyeball. The doctor struggled to get my eyes to stay open to do anything with. I could tell he was frustrated. He shook my hand when I left, as he did when I arrived. He very purposely put out his hand and looked at it, as if he was demonstrating that he wasn't afraid to touch my hand. But somehow, I sensed he couldn't wait to sterilize it.

I have never felt so Clockwork Orange before, and hope to *never* again.

I've been better since. The problem seems less of a problem.

Being in the ER was inspiring. And watching coverage of the hurricane. I got some writing done. And it was from the soul.

No lofty abstractions this time.

Yes. I've been re-acquainted with some dusty emotions as of late.

Clip-clop

While dressing for the day this morning, I thought I heard horse hooves outside my window. This triggere a passing thought about what it must've been like to live in a time where that sound was a common occurrence. It made me hearken, which is silly, because there were plenty of uncomfortable things going on then...

Anyway, I inevitably chose a pair of shoes that was big, clunky, and noisy. So I put them on and I became the horse.

Clip clop.

Wailing Wall

This one is called wailing wall.

Tonight I was going about my piano practice hajj, about to board the red line.

As I approached the station, a very dark-skinned, striking woman was walking alone speaking out loud.

She was saying something about how she hated dealing with human beings and their "egotistical bull-crap shit".

She too was boarding a train.

For a brief moment, we were side by side, but she was not at all distracted from her diatribe. By anyone or anything.

In the train station, on the platform, her speech became more desperate. More like wails. She began praying out loud to Jesus. She thanked him and humbled herself. She sang hymns.

This was a human desperate to comfort herself.

And with all the talk of Katrina and the Crescent City, I could not help but wonder whether maybe she had lost a loved one in the storm.

She continued praying and singing on the train. No one else on the train spoke. It became so quiet...I could not help but wonder whether or not the other passengers felt the gravity of this woman's moaning. It deeply affected and saddened me.

I received a postcard from a friend in Prague today. The last one he would send from there, as he has now left, most likely not to return. He and his partner are making their way through Eastern Europe. Serbia, Macedonia, Romania, Bulgaria. Locations not necessarily high on the priority list of your average traveler, especially an American one.

The postcard is from the Ossuary in Kutna Hora. It depicts a chandelier made completely of human bones. And skulls.