Moving Blues

This is getting ridiculous. I want nothing more than to be out of my apartment in two weeks. But Jill and I have had more than one letdown this week and it's getting old. The latest one came Friday when an apartment we had an unofficial line on kind of fell through. The owner, who Jill knows, wants more than what we can pay. He doesn't seem willing to budge, either. I imagine he has spoken to a couple of people to find out what he could get for a "prime" Park Slope location. And it appears he wants to stick to it. So the search continued today. Jill and I went to an open house at a place in North Park Slope. We were prepared to be two of at least twenty people there. But we were the only ones, and our tour lasted about twenty minutes. Not because the place was huge, but because I decided that she should get to know us. So we talked about a number of things -- California, grad school and musicianship are examples -- and it was comfortable. But then again, I've said this about some women I've been involved with and that has gotten me nowhere. She said we could measure stuff if we wanted. Suggested things we could do with the place. Said something like "it's looking good," with her voice hitting a higher pitch at "good." She also said something about kismet. I'm trying not to get my hopes up. Ah hope. It's at times a futile-- what is hope? An emotion? A thought? A sidetrack devised around certain situations to avoid dealing with potential truth? Whatever it is, I'm trying not to get it up. In writing news, I had a bad night last night. I sat down to transcribe some stuff and realized the story I was stuck in between pages three and twenty-three is crap. So I'm trying to figure out if I should cut it. I stopped transcribing, berated myself for poor storywriting skills and shut down my computer. I hate that. I didn't return to it today. But I still have one more weekend day to see to it. I also plan to continue packing. My books are in boxes, one bookcase is dismantled and I'm slowly putting things from my room in boxes. I may not have a frickin' apartment yet, but my shit sure is ready to go somewhere. I've got some Erin news, too. This homegirl will earn twelve equity points this summer, because she is going to be one of three interns selected for a summer stint at River Rep in Connecticut. Equity is to theatre folk as the Screen Actor's Guild is to film and television folk. It went down like this: after having been called back from her audition for a number of area theatre companies, the folks at River Rep said they'd contact her if they wanted to see her again. They did. And about two weeks ago, she was in the city for that audition. Then last weekend, she got a call from the artistic director who, in addition to telling her they thought she was great, offered her a small part in their August production of Oscar Wilde's Ideal Husband. Aside from taking master classes in a lot of areas of acting, she will be in this production, rehearsing and performing alongside equity actors. Connections! She told me last night that she was in a student film last week and decided she wants to go for film, as well. I'm holding out for my mention in her Oscar acceptance speech. This girl, the only healthy interaction with a woman I've had to date, has worked over hard to get to where she is now. Two months ago, the possibility to earn equity points was far from her mind. And now it's here. Three years ago, being enrolled in a top acting conservatory was a dream. And she nailed that. And she's happy in love. When we mutually broke up two and a half years, ending our almost three-year relationship, I had no idea that that would be my last taste of safety. She truly loved me, and I'm thankful for the experience. It at least showed me that I was able to have it. Of course I didn't know I'd hit a girl road of despair. All right, that's a bit dramatic. I look back on most of the situations and I laugh. It's a broken record from hell, and I can laugh, or at least be a little amused at times, because I played the record with my own hands. Over and over and over again. If only I could pick women like I pick friends. I have the greatest of those. And Erin remains one of the best. She, like most of my other friends, put a mirror up to my face, which is something I'm doing much much more of these days (it won't stop). And I'm developing a checklist to ask the next girl, should she ever materialize: 1) Are you a Scorpio? (If yes, I turn and walk away unless they are an October Scorpio -- haven't been with one of them yet.) 2) How long ago was your last relationship? 3) Do you wish you were still with him/her, so they could cheat on you, verbally abuse you, or just simply disrespect you? 4) Are you looking for someone to repeat that pattern with? In other words, would you like me to treat you that way? Of course I'm kidding. But there is some semblance of honesty in this. Because apparently we look for the people we end up with. I understand the subconscious a little bit, but there seems to be a magic part of it that baffles me. Two people's inner selves find each other. But how do you know if the person is just a repeat? Do you have to go through the numerous evenings of bullshit conversations wherein the girl spews stuff she doesn't really mean only to realize after a few months that it's pock-faced, former drug-addicted, cheating, verbally abusive, inattentive past relations who are actually more desirable people for them to be with? This amalgam of traits belongs to the numerous ex-relations of chicks, gay and bi alike, I've been involved with. But it's me. I know enough to know this now. My bitterness (my unabashed done-ness), chick repellant that it is, will keep me safe from meeting yet another one mired in ex woes or the comfort of emotional unavailability. And maybe if I can regurgitate the pill, I won't be finding them anymore. That is if the hate crimers don't get me first. Jesus Christ these people on the streets can barely contain themselves as I walk by. Can you please look at something else besides my entire body. Your glares do nothing for me but make me laugh at your pathetic inability to take your mind off of the bilboards and magazine spreads that dictate your judgments. Fuck. No, straight boy, I don't want your girlfriend. No, old lady who looks like Alf with short hair, I am not trying to offend your senses. I think I went on about this recently, but I really enjoyed the winter months of my ignorance. I forgot about this, actually. Well, I remembered it happens, I wrote my thesis about it, but it wasn't happening as much, so I was lulled into a sense of comfort. Then all of a sudden, the sun comes out, the jackets come off, revealing my unfortunate ample chest and the glares of uncertainty and hatred return. I was out on Friday with a colleague taking a break when Alf walked by the first time. When I caught her eye again as she was leaving the cafe at the bottom of my building, I almost told her my name. But I thought being confrontational would only worsen the situation. As I'm becoming more comfortable with speaking up, expressing emotions (thanks a lot, Elizabeth), I have a feeling I'm gonna start saying things to these people. FTM is becoming more attractive. No it's not. I'm just kidding. But a double mastectomy would sure lessen these encounters. A little testosterone. But I don't want any of that. Especially because the tits are ticket into the public bathroom. So I've got a bit of a challenge, which I've always known about. And it still gets to me. It always will. I try not to get down about it. Ultimately, it only matters what's going on inside of me. But the solitude I feel after an encounter has the power sometimes to depress me. Which is anger. And frustration. I always try to intellectualize myself back up, and sometimes it works. I don't think I can single-handedly redefine femininity. Or just abolish it. I am attracted to it. But there's got to be a way. Writing, I suppose. Fighting? No. I'd just end up with broken bones and a bruised face. That's not cool. And here I thought New York City was so fucking liberal. Bullshit. I'm gonna go cut that terrible story outta my book.