Little Bill

I think winter’s gets a bad rap sometimes. Yesterday I was strolling in the East Village (still my favorite neighborhood) and it was remarkable how at peace I was. The air was brisk, blowing across my face. Even in New York there’s a silence that hangs in the air and there were less people out and about.

Most of the time I find myself succumbing to heavy moods during this season. Maybe it’s S.A.D., or maybe it’s something else. Perhaps it’s just my frame of mind.

Maybe I’ll choose, instead, to believe that Winter’s role is to wipe the slate clean and purify. Perhaps I’ll be cleansed and emerge refreshed. New. It’s better than thinking of the season as the little death we all experience when something ends. Instead it’s the sleep of the world. Maybe I’ll dream this season…

…and maybe I’ll awaken!

I’m having much trepidation over going home for the upcoming Christmas holiday. Perhaps we’re all too stubborn — I know I can be — and even belligerent at times, but we all love each other. It just seems that we put it to the test when everyone congregates the one time of the year we get together.

The drama got so bad that I wanted to pack up and leave, except my car was in the shop and I’d have nowhere (or nobody?) to turn to other than a hotel. Or back to New York.

If the drama comes my way next time, I’m just going to walk away. I really have better things to do than air my grievances about family members which — in the grand scheme of things matter not one iota — only to further perpetuate the nonsensical dramatics everyone takes to when the night begins and the drinks come out.

I have better things to do like live my life. To make something of myself, to follow my dreams. To stay out of everyone’s way and get stuff done. I just wish I wouldn’t have to do all that and still not look forward to going home for the holidays. It’s horribly depressing.

Considering how somber this journal’s taken since turning thirty, I wonder who reads it. Come and say hi and comment! Or offer me distractions when I go home next month.

I’m not very good at being out of control, and that’s how I’ve felt the last few months; the last few weeks especially. There’s been a lot on my mind and I think I’ve finally let it all out; layed it on the table and what happens next, happens next.

I have high hopes.

I find myself in a general malaise tonight, sitting the house I grew up in, trying to write this. Old sounds from my childhood jump back to life. The natural creaks of the house; the distant rumble of the cable factory a few miles away; the train rolling through town on its way… somewhere else.

Somewhere else. That’s the place I was looking for when I left this town for New York. I was looking for a new beginning, and I found it. However each time I return here and smell the air, see my hometown friends, and visit loved ones I might have at one time take for granted I’m reminded of a lesson.

It’s not where, but who you’re with that really matters.

This message came to me twice in as many days. Once from a song that I’d not heard in a long time, and the other from a short film viewed on YouTube.

That said, Thanksgiving is coming up and I have to admit. I’m thankful for you. All of you. Especially you, perhaps. Turning 30 has really had a profound effect on me, and those who see me regularly can attest to that. Things are changing, I am making strides towards personal growth and finding success. I couldn’t do it without those who love me; who stick with me and fight for me. And even some who don’t.

Thank you. :)

Yesterday: 9:45am.

It was a brief moment, and the day continued…

I was walking up Broadway towards the Flatiron Building on my way to work. New shoes on my feet. Brown leather. Flat soles. No tread. I’m walking across the subway grates — for those who aren’t that familiar with NYC, there are vents from the subway up to the street. From the sidewalk they are metal grates.

A few blocks along my way I make eye contact with a woman about fifteen feet in front of me. Ten feet from me my shoes slip on the grate. Not even close to falling, but I recover gracefully. Our eyes lock. My eyebrows raise, she smiles. Mutual acknowledgment.

We keep walking.

It proves, in the span of ten seconds that — although we all wear masks along our subway rides, that we wear our sunglasses to avoid eye contact; to anonymize ourselves — a brief moment can bring forth the notion that we’re only human. That we can, in a brief instant, share a moment and the continue on our paths reminds me that underneath our facades, this city full of millions are really just people. With emotions and insecurities.

I connected with a stranger for all of two seconds, and it was wonderful.

I got my hour back that was stolen from me in the springtime. It was nice. And after the crazy week I’ve had it’s proven itself quite welcome. I feel like I’ve been on-the-go in one form or another for the last two weeks and the weekend’s reprieve was more than welcome.

It was a weekend kicking back and relaxing with my kitties and savoring my home. I cleaned, I cooked, I read, I drew. I drew! It was great.

I feel recharged, ready and willing to go and I’m gonna need it. The upcoming weeks don’t seem any different. It’s good to be busy. It’s good to be making progress.

It’s good to keep moving.

Three things:

1) I have been without glasses for three weeks. I am so excited to get them back tomorrow!!!

b) My local Chinese restaurant must’ve changed their eggrolls recipe. They have CRACK in them now, they’re so good.

iii) I have awesome friends.

Δ) I lied, I have four things. NIN surprisingly helped cheer me up. Opposite of intended effect but AWESOME. It’s the awesome beats.

No one can make you feel inferior without your permission.
— Eleanor Roosevelt

- - -

Since before my thirtieth birthday, the road has been bumpy. Add on to that a very unsettled stomach and you have an unhappy Little Bill. But with some soul-searching, some serious self-examination, I’ve found that making changes in my life isn’t that difficult.

A recent self-taught lesson is that nothing good comes from a grudge; and that a bruised ego is to be left to those less able to deal with how things are. So I’ve reconciled with some people in my past, found some closure with others, and this self-change is right on schedule.

I wrestled with writing about this for a while. I even posted — and subsequently deleted — a long-winded email about, to, and defending myself from someone incredibly special to me who seems to have written me off as a friend. I’d composed entire blog entries about poor-weather friends. Tirades and rants were discarded. Apologies and pleads deleted. I did my share of reaching out. No one reached back. And really, that’s fine. It’s not the way I’d have seen things go, but I try and live under the philosophy that one shouldn’t worry about the things over which they have no control.

So I won’t.

I’ll miss some of the habits — such as reaching into my pocket to make a walk-from-home call — but that’s okay. Life changes and we adapt. Self-worth is independent from our environments. We are in control of ourselves. Thunderclouds do not equal gloom.

So, I pick myself up and hold my own head high with dignity. I know myself; I know my own value. No one can take that from me. Not even the people I love. The judgments can come. I don’t need someone to hold my hand to tell me that I’m okay. Because I know I am.

And it’s that thought, two blocks from the subway, that came to my mind as I pocketed my phone. And suddenly, like before, the cadence in my footsteps matched the beat in my music.

my cold glass of scotch
whispers to me — lullaby
to forget the day

…of how much I enjoy haiku. How did I forget? Too much going on I guess. The cool breezes of autumn must be appreciated.

- - -

friendships benefit
not the ones who speak most; but
those who listen best

Holy CRAP! I’m THIRTY!

(typed from a twin-sized bed in my parents’ "guest room ")

more to come when I’m not coming off a seven hour that was supposed to be four hour drive…

Ok, clock Zz’s…

I will lose you. It is written
into this poem the way
the fisherman’s wife knits
his death into the sweater.
—Gregory Orr