A Disneyland version of myself
I woke up this morning with dandruff and without my will to live. I tried to get the day rolling, but it really isn’t easy when the sun is setting as you set off to the diner for breakfast (I got matzoh ball soup and a tuna melt instead). I stepped out of the apartment and thought I could literally smell stale vodka on the city’s breath. My stomach made a soppy fish flop and my head screamed bloody murder. It felt like lasers coming out of my eyes. Maybe this is how the creator of X-Men got his character sketch of Cyclops. I keep picturing the scene from the movie when he clasps his head shrieking when his sunglasses are knocked off his face.
California weather is platonic. As goes for the landscape and the overall energy. In New York, the weather volatile and impassioned. You are thrust into the act of experiencing. It’s funny that many identify New York with a feminine persona, yet it’s really a place that sweeps you off your feet. It was only today I genuinely thought to myself, things are not like in the movies. The concept is apparent and I wouldn’t say I’m an escapist, but people are very stubborn and much less willing to be honest with themselves in reality. I remember reading that NY is the Disneyland version of what it used to be. As someone who hasn’t actually known “Old New York,” I do, nonetheless, confirm that notion. I’m hoping that’s not me. Am I a Disneyland version of myself? Honestly, I’d rather be naked, red, and raw in the middle of Park Ave than sustain a vanilla-scented, candy coated, blinding firework distraction from the real me.
I wrote my first love note the other day. It began as something I didn’t intend to deliver, but sent it regardless without any inhibition. Well, maybe it was the closest thing I’ll ever write to a love note: full of confusion and yet itching with light-heartedness. There isn’t anything I regret about it especially after receiving his response that was nothing but warm, encouraging, and completely empathetic. Best of all he concluded with, “I love you.” That, I guess, makes things better. From a relationship standpoint, my quasi-love note wasn’t really to be with him, but to express my love for him honestly and openly. Nothing shameful, phony, or restricted about it.
It has been difficult to connect with people here, probably because they are wary of whether you are committed to living in the city yet. Many people move here to find they can’t hack it. So you see the slight recoil in people’s eyes when you tell them you just moved barely over a month ago. It’s all right I tell myself. This phase will pass and the truth of the cliché persists: “There is no substitute for time.”
As I asked God for safety and protection, I wondered if I could really handle struggles for the necessities of living. Most likely not and I would die fighting for my life. So what does that mean for an over-privileged demographic? That we are foolish and trivial? That our expression of love and hope are less substantial? What qualities do I possess that make me strong? Maybe I’m a little bit smarter than average or maybe I’m more sensitive. Then an answer surged up inside of me, a joyfulness that is like nothing you could summon yourself. The kind of emotion that kicks up in you at the movie theatre and you’re so embarrassed, but you can’t get a hold of it so you sob with your chin in your chest or cackle with your hands over your eyes. The answer was: you have a purpose.
California weather is platonic. As goes for the landscape and the overall energy. In New York, the weather volatile and impassioned. You are thrust into the act of experiencing. It’s funny that many identify New York with a feminine persona, yet it’s really a place that sweeps you off your feet. It was only today I genuinely thought to myself, things are not like in the movies. The concept is apparent and I wouldn’t say I’m an escapist, but people are very stubborn and much less willing to be honest with themselves in reality. I remember reading that NY is the Disneyland version of what it used to be. As someone who hasn’t actually known “Old New York,” I do, nonetheless, confirm that notion. I’m hoping that’s not me. Am I a Disneyland version of myself? Honestly, I’d rather be naked, red, and raw in the middle of Park Ave than sustain a vanilla-scented, candy coated, blinding firework distraction from the real me.
I wrote my first love note the other day. It began as something I didn’t intend to deliver, but sent it regardless without any inhibition. Well, maybe it was the closest thing I’ll ever write to a love note: full of confusion and yet itching with light-heartedness. There isn’t anything I regret about it especially after receiving his response that was nothing but warm, encouraging, and completely empathetic. Best of all he concluded with, “I love you.” That, I guess, makes things better. From a relationship standpoint, my quasi-love note wasn’t really to be with him, but to express my love for him honestly and openly. Nothing shameful, phony, or restricted about it.
It has been difficult to connect with people here, probably because they are wary of whether you are committed to living in the city yet. Many people move here to find they can’t hack it. So you see the slight recoil in people’s eyes when you tell them you just moved barely over a month ago. It’s all right I tell myself. This phase will pass and the truth of the cliché persists: “There is no substitute for time.”
As I asked God for safety and protection, I wondered if I could really handle struggles for the necessities of living. Most likely not and I would die fighting for my life. So what does that mean for an over-privileged demographic? That we are foolish and trivial? That our expression of love and hope are less substantial? What qualities do I possess that make me strong? Maybe I’m a little bit smarter than average or maybe I’m more sensitive. Then an answer surged up inside of me, a joyfulness that is like nothing you could summon yourself. The kind of emotion that kicks up in you at the movie theatre and you’re so embarrassed, but you can’t get a hold of it so you sob with your chin in your chest or cackle with your hands over your eyes. The answer was: you have a purpose.