sand & sea

About a month ago, during a massive mood swing up out of my June-July depression, I decided I should get out of my head.  First, I probably should get out of my house. Why?  Because. 

Today, I had an interview for one  of the volunteer jobs I wanted.  I applied in August with resume, references, and a cover letter.  (This is NYC, nothing is easy.)  It's near the ocean, working with animals. The animals were awesome to behold. The job, not so much. It's mostly preparing food and cleaning up, in 8 hour shifts. It also requires self-purchased equipment. (I'm probably going to volunteer at my second choice elsewhere.) Still, watching the animals play, smelling the organic ocean stink (that I like), feeling the blazing sun on my skin, the breeze tickling the fine hairs on my limbs-- feeling alive-- were good things. I'm glad I went. I almost canceled because it was such a trek.

Afterward, I went to the beach. I was ready, my bathing suit on under my clothes, towel and sunscreen in tow.  I only stayed an hour because I only had so many quarters.  The weather was perfect today, mid 70s and sunny.  I walked barefoot on the dirty sand, taking care to avoid the broken glass. . .  I waded in the cool water, waves lapping my calves, toes sinking into the wet mucky sand, watched the barnacles open and close with the tide.  Then stretched out on a towel in the sunlight. . .  AND, drum roll..... I actually read texts for my graduate work!  

It's the perfect setting for dull reading. The smell of salt air, the lumpy waves of sand, the sound of crashing waves. . . it was lovely. (A strong antidote for panic attacks that tend to attend my research.)  I'm thinking of making the beach research-reading a weekly routine.

The drives there and back, though long, --and not without my lost detours that I can not avoid-- were glorious.  Bridges and rivers and ocean.  The tolls cost $27 because I took the most direct routes.  (You read $27 correctly, this is NYC.)   I drove down Manhattan along the Hudson, Jersey palisades on my right, the groovy grime and architecture of the city on my left.  I watched river traffic with barges and sailboats and a helicopter--it was lunchtime traffic, stop and go.  I went through Staten Island with views of the narrows (where ocean meets river),.  Drove along parkways following the Atlantic shoreline.  Seabirds, the small rock islands in the Port of NY, moving reflecting waters, boat horns lowing.  Breathtaking at times.  Windows down, smoggy salt air blowing through the car, listening to Bloc Party, tanning through car windows. --Does life get any better than this?

I need to remember.  This is living.  This is why.

Remember the joy of physicality.  The sensory pleasures making us alive.  

But we forget.  I forget.
We make ourselves sick with our tucked away comfortable places, separate from the world, separate from each other.  So much so we can separate from our own bodies, in a bad way.  Those  with solitary celibate lives are at even greater risk of losing touch with our flesh.  Sometimes we force separation to deal with the celibacy.  It's not good.  Spirituality is important, but physicality is also important, essential.  One without the other is sickness.  We are equal parts body and soul.

Sex is clearly an important part of that equation.  So those who live without, need to be especially careful not to get lost inside.  We have to work harder to feel the joy of our bodies.  To remember we are flesh and blood and revel in it, to celebrate our sensuality.  It's not easy.  I'm lost in my head 98% of the time, and  I'm sick with it.

Nothing in my life has really changed since I wrote the last post --other than being $27 poorer.  But what a difference!  I will try to hold on to this for as long as I can.  The curative powers of sand and sea, flesh and body.  Remember.

No Small Miracles, #1

My life has been peppered with miracles, some bigger than others.  Some, were small things that maybe shouldn't have happened because the odds were staggering, but, they happened anyway.  These little moments are easy to ignore, or brush off as coincidence or luck.  And, maybe they were.  Other events, cannot be denied in any such way.  I have had some undeniably miraculous things happen to me.  

Because I am at a low point in my life, lost and going nowhere, I find myself in need of a real miracle, or several, big or small.  So, I want to show some gratitude for the ones already received. Maybe I've used up my fair share already, fair enough.  Some of them were spectacular. 

#1. The Cello:

Growing up, at some point, I fell in love with the cello. It was such a seductive instrument. It made sad, deep resonating notes that seemed to cry the sounds of my soul.  I could feel the tones deep below my skin down to my bones.  Unfortunately, cellos are expensive.  

To fully appreciate the story, one should know my musical background.
I had piano lessons at age 9, learned to read music and had shown some aptitude. But my older brother quit when I got better than he. Then I wanted to quit too.  I didn't want to ask my family for an expensive instrument.  I still yearned to make music, so I joined the Jr. High Marching Band.   I played the saxophone, got pretty good and had fun. But, I didn't want to join the high school band.  Instead, I wanted to join a punk rock band. So I bought an electric bass guitar. I  taught myself to play.  Sadly, I was too shy to find band-mates.  So I played alone, not much fun on a bass.  Same thing happened in college.

So, instead, I picked up the piano again and took lessons in the music department. I got better but never mastered the damn thing. The piano is not my instrument. I can play pieces I've learned but I can't sight read. When the department bought a cello I signed up for lessons.  I took two semesters and really enjoyed it.  It was easy for me and I did well with little practice.  Then,  I got overwhelmed with classes because  my mood disorder made everything almost impossible, including the discipline required to practice.  I always regretted that and planned to buy myself a cello one day. I really wanted to learn.  I've kept that desire throughout my life. (I never finished grad school so I've never had the money.)

I neglected music after I moved to NY. I had no money, no instruments, no time.  I burned myself out with grad school, teaching, the arduousness of poverty, and my ever-blossoming madness.  Four years ago, in 2006, I hit rock bottom.  I was off my medications, at the mercy of my unstable mind which abused me with obsessions and anxiety.  I needed help. Music.  I always felt better emotionally when I had a musical outlet.  If I could get the pain out, physically, with sound and rhythm, then it wouldn't be inside me anymore.  I needed a cello.  I started searching online, ebay and Craigs List.   There were some cheap ones, but it was a fantasy.  I didn't have the money.  

Then I really bottomed out and become non-functional.  So I moved back in with my mother to rest and heal.  I got a new therapist.  I told her about my cello dream. She said I should make my father buy me one.  I didn't bother.  I came back to NYC in January 2007, medicated and functional.  Ready to try again.  But I still needed music.  I still wanted a cello.  However, living paycheck to paycheck on my adjuncting wages didn't allow me the luxury of buying an instrument. 

That summer, the landlord got fined again for using the basement for storage. It's a fire hazard.  Rather than just sending tenants nasty letters telling us to clean our crap,  the  owners actually went through their stuff.  They cleared a ton of old junk from one of the rooms, things that looked like they had been there 50 years.  They put some of it into piles.  One day, while waiting on my laundry, I took a look at the piles.  Then, I saw it.  That looked exactly like a cello case.  There couldn't possibly be a cello in there, could there?  No. But, who keeps an empty instrument case?  I walked across the dark room to get a better look.  It was old and dusty, the latches and hinges were rusty.  I opened it.

Yes.  There was a cello.  Just sitting there. How old was this thing?  The case looked like it was from the 40s.  I picked it up carefully to examine it.  It was beautiful, though it did need some work.  The bridge and endpin were missing. It was made of Tiger-flame maple, had a real ebony fingerboard, and was all in one piece.  I got so excited.  Obviously, no one wanted this. It had clearly been in this basement for decades.  I went right upstairs to ask if I could have it.

The old woman answered the door.  She didn't know who it belonged to.  Her husband came out next and said it was junk.  They were throwing it out.  (These are the same philistines who want to tear down the large beautiful old tree in front of the building because it sheds in the summer.)  They didn't know why I wanted it, but I could take it.  It was mine.  Woo Hoo! 

It took six months before I could afford the repairs. Turns out that it's a German cello, more than 100 years old.  There's no label and no way to tell exactly how old, so the luthier told me.  That means it's worth several thousand dollars because the tone gets better as the wood ages.  It has that delicious old wood resonance so coveted by cello players.  The sound is amazing, so warm, deep and rich.  The notes are layered, not mono-tonal, as though more than one instrument were playing.  I've never heard anything like it.  The men in the music store couldn't believe I'd found it and  got it for free.  They wanted to buy it, but I wasn't selling.

I've named him Gregory. Cellos do look feminine but this bad boy goes between my legs, so it's a 'he'.  I'm learning to play, on my own. I remember the basics from college.  It does make a joyful noise.  Playing is extremely therapeutic.  It's also extremely sensual and an excellent release for that annoying extra energy with which we celibate singles must contend. 

This cello was a gift.  It might as well have fallen out of heaven like manna and dropped into my lap.  No one can tell me this wasn't a miracle.  Nor was this a small miracle.  Valuable, beautiful, abandoned instruments do not just appear in musty old basement trash piles for people who happened to have been trying to buy that exact instrument for years. I've never heard of anything like that happening to anyone else. I will never forget this gift.

****

Epilogue:

Cellos are expensive instruments to maintain.  One of the seams split this winter because I didn't have a case that closed all the way.  The vacillating humidity and temperature from the old radiators in my apartment made the wood expand and shrink too rapidly.  I got a good case for Christmas, but it was too late. Then, because it sat so long without use, the bridge broke off again.  It can be repaired, but, I can't spare the money right now.  Time for another miracle.

An Evening on the LIRR

After 3 years living in the city, I appreciate any transportation above the ground. It's nice to see trees and houses through the windows, far better than the dark tunnels that threaten to take the Subway down to hell. Last year, coming up from the A train, I was sometimes surprised to find myself still in New York. So the commute home on the Long Island Railroad is mostly pleasant. Tonight it was interesting: a chance encounter on the train, blustery wind, a plea for attention. He wore a baseball cap and dirty sweats....Read below for my not quite a J.Peterman experience.

It's cold here now. It rained all day. They said we have a 'Noreaster' blowing in. Having grown up in Florida, any storm without an eye fails to impress me. But it made it most unpleasant to walk in the almost freezing rain. So I was glad when the train arrived and I could get out of the weather. I settled down and tried to arrange my fabulous eggplant colored coat to encourage dryness. I didn't feel like reading. I decided to watch the rain fall.

My zen daze got interrupted by some drunken shouts coming from the back of the car. Sounded like the angry yells of a homeless schizophrenic. I thought, 'This ain't no MTA $2 train! My ticket cost $10 so I don't know what kind of homeless person could afford this train.' A few minutes passed and then I heard the tell-tale shuffling and muttering. 'Huh. So there's a homeless man on the train. Smart place to be on a wet day like this.' I remembered when I got stranded in London in late September a few years ago. Having no money for a hostel, I bought a roundtrip bus ticket to Oxford just so I could have a warm place to sit. I couldn't begrudge someone else looking for warmth.

The shuffling grew louder and as he passed so did the urine-must-alcohol au de street smell. He wore baggy sweatpants falling off his waist and a dingy flannel overshirt. He must have been going to the bathroom. I returned to my window. Some minutes later I hear, "Miss did I pass by you?" The man stood on the stairs leading up to the platform level and asked me that strange question. "What?" He repeated himself and then I understood, he was lost. "Yes you did." He nodded and looked at me. I turned away again.

"Manhuhbubbaba?" "Manhubaba?" He was still talking to me? I squinted at him and tried to figure out what his question meant. Oh, am I going to Manhattan, yes. Then he asked me what I did there, what did I do. I told him I teach. He smiled and said "4th grade?" "No. College." "sh---!" He shook his head and then sat down on the stairs in front of me.

What is it about a young woman alone on public transportation that invites the vagabond and inebriate to talk to her? I knew that curse well growing up and riding the trains in Miami. It's been awhile since I've had such an encounter up here. Well, there but for the grace of God go I... really. He was middle aged. With blond hair and glazed blue eyes and a rough lumpy face. He wasn't skinny so he didn't really look homeless.

Then he began. "I've been in Hampton Bays. Two days. Trying to get into rehab. On the stinking drink. That damn vodka! My old lady, I have a good old lady, yes I do. She got fed up. She told me she was fed up. So I came out here. Two days. I stink now." Then he yelled to someone in the middle of the car "Hey is my stuff over there?" Response in good ol Brooklyn accent: "Do I know you? I'm supposed to watch your stuff now?" "Yes! Is my stuff over there, scumbag?" "I don't know."

Then he turned to me and grumbled about the scumbag. Then yelled again, "You're a scumbag! I'm over here talking to the young lady." "Don't bother her." "Hey! Don't be jel! I'm the one talking to the young lady. Chill." He went on some more about the two days and the drink and these scumbags with a gold spoon in their mouths. "We made a lot of money back in the day. At least I did. But we didn't know. We're so smart we got stuck on stupid didn't we? The world is a bad place." I nodded. "Those two days, Hamptons, that one guy he wanted a fight. I can fight. I used to box. But I hit him there, his tooth bit me." He raised his fist to show me a fresh scratch on one of his knuckles. About this time a man walked up the aisle towards the stairs. The drunk man leaned to the side and told the other to go around him. He said, "No. You get up so I can go." "Go around." "I'm not going around, get up." Surprisingly, he stood to let him pass. "I'm just talking to the young lady, we're chit chatting."

The other middle aged man stopped at the top of the stairs to look down at the drunkman and myself. He gave me a sympathetic look. I gave him an amused smile. He looked like a dad. A working man kind of dad that would beat someone down if necessary. He was letting me know that he wouldn't let drunk man hurt me. He stayed up there the rest of the ride keeping an eye on us. And listening. Drunk man started his monologue again. It felt like listening to someone in a sad play. He told me he was 49. He couldn't believe it because he didn't expect to live that long. He lived hard. He and his buddy. "I buried my buddy this summer. He was my best buddy. We were through thick and thin. Thick and thin! We did time together. We were upstate and at Attica. When we got back we met in the cemetary to party out. He told me he'd bury me. But I said No, I'm going to bury you. And that's the way it was too. He bought a bag of dope and that killed him." His face grew red and he looked away from me as he talked.

"Man it tore me up. Losing him. Tore me up. I can't even look at you now. See? Tore me up bad. I cried for 8 days, I did. We were thick and thin." Then his theme shifted as he turned back to look at me again. He examined my face with a look of surprise--and his glassy eyes were searching mine. At this point I felt a bit uncomfortable. I didn't want to encourage him with rapt attention, but I didn't want to insult him either by ignoring him. Drunk or not he was still a human. So I looked at him as he talked to me but I glanced away often. Making only brief eye contact. The conductor came by and told him not to block the path or bother the lady. He didn't take my ticket. Then he disappeared. I imagine he didn't go far and stayed within listening distance.

"Now what I need is to find a good woman. Man, if I had a woman. I would never drink again. I'd give it up sure thing. I make a good living, operate cranes and heavy machinery. I'd take care of her. If I had a woman. I'd even cook dinner for her. Cook chicken and pork chops. I'd do the cooking, I would! I'd be so good to her." Uh-oh, I could see where he was headed now. I almost told him I'm a vegetarian after he described his luscious meat dishes in more detail. But I bit my tongue. Maybe he didn't mean me. "Give me your number." What? Just like that eh? I said 'No' and shook my head without apology or reservation. He said, "Oh, you're too young, right? I'm too old." I said "yes." There was no reason to tell him that the urine on his clothes was reason enough, not his age.

Then he repeated some of the stuff about being 49. There are still some old hippies left. He's one of them. How did he get that old? He showed me his cut again. He pointed to my skirt and said,"beautiful. That green. That's beautiful." "Thank you." Then he gave me his pedigree. "I'm swedish. Nordic. Swedish. Not Irish. And not that Po-lack. I come from good people. That there, (pointing at my skirt again) that's my grandmother. You look strong, like a strong boned woman." "Yes. I am." "Yeah, I can tell." Then he stood and walked back to his seat. Was this the end?

No. He returned with his grocery bag. He showed it to me. Told me he picked apples from Long Island in there. Red and yellow. Don't they look good? I nodded and he sat down again. As he sat he cursed someone in the middle of the car and grumbled about yuppies. "They don't know tough love. I come from tough love. The world is tough. You look like tough love. Yeah. You're tough love. You would whip me into shape. You'd straighten me right up. That's what I need." I didn't tell him that he was mistaken, that I can't even straighten myself up. But I did frown at him apparently. Because then he said, "You know how I can tell? Your frown. I can see it there. (He pointed to his chin.) I can see your frown there. You're tough. Give me your number."

I said no. Our train neared the next stop. A young skinny man now stood above us with the dad-man, watching. The dad man told young guy "He told me to go around him." They snickered. As the train stopped, drunk man stood and asked if my name was Diana. I said No. The dadman yelled down to him, "Come on man. You're here." Drunk man held his hand out to me. He asked if my name was Karen. I looked at his hand. I couldn't do it. Paying the man some attention was one thing--touching him and who knows where his hand has been? Oh no. Quite another thing. I shook my headat him. The Dadman called down more forcefully. "She doesn't want to shake your hand! Leave the lady alone. Come on! Get out of here." Drunk man turned silently and went up the stairs.

I felt a little bad for the hand thing. But really, where has his hand been? I was grateful to the dadman. The conductor came by again after they left. He asked me if I was ok, how bad was it? Did he need to get the police? I shook my head. Then he smiled and moved on. Without clicking my ticket. This was the first time ever in two months of riding this train that no one asked for my ticket. Hmm. Should I say something? He passed me twice. Maybe he thought I deserved a free ride for keeping the rowdy drunk man placated.

Before the train goes underground towards Manhattan, the Empire State Building is visible. It peeks up behind all the box buildings in Queens. Tonight it looked beautiful. The lights were on and the last of the dusk sun, glowing through the rain clouds silhoutted the tower. I was almost home.