Ye Olde

I'm just guessing, but since it's been a monthe there have probably been a lot of things in my life that I haven't updated on. Most recently, I have decided to become a connoisseur of olde english and tack on an extra silent 'e' to whatever I feel like needs/warrants some pizzaz(e) in my life.

not really.

i think i've become more sarcastic and cynical lately and i don't know why? am i becoming one of those jaded new yorkers? maybe--because sitting room on the subway becomes prize treasure that i will indeed fight for. on the subway i did see kenneth the page from 30 rock and almost peed my pants. i tried to be oh so cool when i got on the train, but i saw him and unbeknownst to me, my heart did a huge break dance k-kick spin around into my throat. so i was cool. i kept it together. i ran through my mind the various things that i could say to him. i deemed all evasive and possibly inappropriate. so i sat 6 or so seats away and did my best rendering of nonchalance. and then. the moment where i realized kenneth the page was a real human being...

we made eye contact.

ugh. stupid stupid stupid. i should've been the one to hold the eye contact, to smile, no smirk (would that be creepy?) at least. but i, like an awkward, obviously star-struck human ripped my glance back to my book of O'Neill plays. great jessika. just great, you could've been a normal human being making eye contact with kenneth the page, he could've become intrigued by your boldness to commit to eye contact, even to an awkward level, he could've smiled and THEN told me that he wants me to help out on the next episode of 30 rock and that I and Tina Fey would be the best of friends or I could at least pick up her latte and babysit for her every other week and then I'd get a background part on 30 rock which would bump up to a recurring role as kenneth the page's sister, or even better, his secret love and then we fall in love and get married in page suits with tina fey as the maid of honor and lorne michaels officiating.

that's what i missed out on, dammit.
it's 6:30am, this is what my brain is like at 6:30am.

also, i am thoroughly disgusted with myself for eating icing out of the container with a fork last night. who does that? i then reminded myself of the 'spread' that many women get and that made me put the fork down and fight the dreaded spread (in all senses of the word).

ramble # 99: walked home in the rain yesterday. looked like the girl from 'the ring'. decided i would NEVER want to kiss in the rain--it's like the sky is spitting on your face when you're cold and shivering and your mascara's running and now you have clump lashes. dancing in the rain is different, i mean, if i had a yellow slicker and a lamp post and could tap as well as gene kelly, it wouldn't matter if it was a flash flood.

i've got to make coffee now. expect more updates (hopefully less cynical) soon.

le pomme dit du lapin: donne-moi beaucoup des bisoux! j'aime toi j'aime toi, mon petit chouchou!

learn a little french today:
chouchou: a term of endearment (pet, darling, what have you)
lapin: rabbit
pamplemousse: grapefruit
there you go.

i ripped up a canvas in my living room today. found it on the street, this pastel mess of art just thrown out with the empty tuna cans and year-old magazines. i'm thinking of writing or painting on it and putting it up in my room. my little 8 X 10 nook can hold more than i thought, ceiling space included of course.

i think i'm turning into bridget jones. not only have i been wearing a sweater with a ballerina on it for the past few days, but i bought a carton of bryers chocolate ice cream not two days ago and now i'm almost through with it. am i ashamed? ehh. do my pants still fit? i don't know...i wear leggings and dresses, kind of like a prego woman, wahoo. also, another bridget jones tendency that i'm falling into is (no, not granny panties, sorry hugh grant) but falling in love with people on the subway. i swear i think up the most ridiculous monologues in my head as i'm sitting on the F train riding into the city. I'm sitting there, eating my cinnamon raisin bagel, hoping that butter is not all over my hands and face, hoping that i do not in fact look 12 to everybody on the train and hoping that i didn't accidently sit down in some unidentified liquid on the bench in my rush to get a seat on the subway.

also. i just found this. i think i wrote this when i was dozing off a few nights ago. pathetic. i swear i'm becoming more like miss bridget jones every day, and sometimes it's fun to be just that loopy and whimsical. take a gander, and please, laugh.
_________________
ramble 1 (most likely 1am):
Brooklyn boy I think of you often. You and your beard and your barely sipped stella artois. You drink and read and muse the day away. You (oh you philosopher) with a BA in photography. You’re probably gay though. And why do you make me fall in love with you? With your disheveled hair and cabin hat and scraggly beard that is not in the least bit patchy and preteen. You are a man. And you are gay and wearing skinny jeans and air force ones, which by the way, look very stupid on your feet, with the skinny wash jeans tucked into them. I’m telling you. That won’t make me fall in love with you and it’s probably better that way.

ramble 2 (a variation of setting, most likely 1:08am):
Dear subway boy,
Scratching you corner of your mouth and tapping your toes as the car makes us lean this way and that. You have no earbuds, your hands are free, you stare about and scratch your beard and every now and then dart away from looking at your reflection in the window or at the eyes of that man or woman (two seats caddy cornered to the left of you). You grip the metal poles, oily hands smudged with grime from the subway rats of people. You’re reading a yellowed copy of an old book which I lean over your shoulder to try and glimpse what it might be, but you pull your legs in tighter and cough into your scarf and curl even tighter into this little shell that you’ve molded into. What are you? Who are you? Let me see your left hand? are you in love, married, do you have a dog? Is it a bitch dog. I hope it doesn’t wear sweaters, if so this may not work out because I am in love with you. Don’t wear those shoes with the pointy up toe, unless you're going to be a professional who kicks people in the rears. I’m just saying, you look like a bird. I much prefer you in your dad’s old flannel, with your khakis that haven’t been washed for a few weeks and your tattered sweatshirt underneath this pilled wool coat with the scarf that you attempted to knit on top. It’s unraveling, just tuck it in. no one will notice if you act like it’s supposed to be that way. you get that sausage egg cheese bagel and bring it on the train. Come on, Brooklyn boy, don’t you know better? Put it in your man satch and wait until you’re darting through the endless queue of people into the elevator at work that’s three sizes too small. You’re the guy who keeps checking his watch every 7 minutes on the train because it makes you feel like you have everything under control, but you don’t, and it’s ok.

oh, and hey mom and kym and will and all you dear blog readers who make it to the end of my ramblings. i love you for it, you know.

owls courtesy of a photoblog that i used to follow in high school (wvs.topleftpixel.com) it's pretty fabulous.

i am more and more starting to realize that it isn't the huge things in life that make you happy, nor is it really accomplishing the plans that you set up 5, 10, 20 years ahead of time. i really don't think it's about that. i'm reading a biography of gilda radner right now--she was on snl in the 70s and was fantastic. anyways, she married gene wilder, and i mean who wouldn't want to marry gene wilder--they were perfect and made each other laugh. here are some lovely quotes from a book she wrote while she was fighting ovarian cancer in the 80s. she finished her book and was only able to have a live with gene for less than 10 years and she died in 1989.

"it was a very lonely, hard time for me because new york was so big and wo weird and i was always wandering around looking for the sky like a country bumpkin" gilda radner
"anytime you want to get up in the night or you are scared, or afraid about something, just wake me up and we'll have a cheese party" [gene wilder to gilda when she was going through chemo and would wake up a lot in the night nauseous or feverish, or just scared of what the cancer was doing to her]

in other news, it is quite blustery outside my window right now and i hope that i'll be ankle deep in snow when i wake up and step outside tomorrow. also, i saw grizzly bear with the brooklyn philharmonic orchestra last night and it was magical. also, i am marrying chris bear, he wears a bowtie and two toned shoes and is lanky and tall and has the potential for a rugged beard. plus he head bangs when he gets into playing his drums.

yes yes it's messy

it's time
the time has come to write.
i've been putting off a lot of my writing lately because of no specific and valid reason but more because i've just been afraid of not finding the right words. but we all know that is a poor and puny excuse not to write. new blog picture, because a) i am bored and b) those are probably all the faces that i make on the subway during the day to people and to no one in particular, especially to the sleeping man across from me or to the smudgy reflection in the plastic windows.
i have seen the most beautiful and interesting people lately. today i went to the new york public library because i was determined to get a library card and become an official new york snubby nose library card holder. that, or i just thought about the royal tenenbaums and how margot would sleep in the library and stay there for weeks and i thought, well, if one were to have that sort of adventure, one would be in dire need of a library card. so anyways, tangent not withstanding, i went into the big library on 5th ave and sauntered up to this old wooden desk with pamphlets stacked up everywhere with an INFORMATION sign hanging right above it. and this woman, this patron of greatness who probably smelled of old books was nothing short of extraordinary. her hair was dyed carrot orange and was sculpted over with aquanet super-hold into this magnificent updo that looked like two waves hugging each other. i swear i looked at her and i thought, why isn't this woman being written about? she had on a teal skirt suit with a rhinestone brooch and she wore glasses. not just any glasses. i'm talking tinted gold rimmed, straight out of another decade or universe glasses. her lips were glossed over with some sort of coral shimmering smacky moisturizer and her nails were perfectly manicured to match the color of her lips, which is a color that should only belong in timeshares in destin, florida. this woman was going on and on to an australian man in front of me about how the children's section of this research library was fantastic and how they were having a guest speaker about all the uses of peanuts later on this afternoon. she was the woman who always had a kleenex, a wadded up shredding kleenex in her right hand, just in case. and she knew everything about the library and prided herself on it. someone, please write a screenplay about this woman, she's just begging to be seen by the world. i'd think her name must've been gladys and at home she had one of those hairless dogs waiting for her, who'd she sleep with and turn out the light after reading the last chapter in book 17 of 187 in a series of harlequin romance novels. we'll see, i'll go back and see what i can find out.

fewd

Campbell's chicken noodle soup is thoroughly dissatisfying tonight. i don't understand why anyone would think it's some sort of magical remedy for any kind of sickness. that said--recent food intake has been more out of necessity and less enjoyable when trying to save money and ration food. i'm writing all of this right now and yet in the back of my mind i know i should be doing my script analysis but i ridiculously talk myself out of it or avoid the topic altogether. i swear, when i'm grueling over a script for 4 hours it's like pulling teeth even though i have absolutely no idea on earth what that's like. so...bad comparison.

today i got onto the A train and somebody was eating mexican. it was horrible. the smell just filled up the whole car and smelled like a pack of businessmen who take their clients to el chico restaurante and forget to bring those free packs of beano that everyone has in their medicine cabinets JUST IN CASE. well if beano could be turned into an aerosol spray with a slightly lilac-y, clean laundry finish--this woman needed it. i was sitting on a bench about 8 feet from where this 50 year old woman was chowing down and i swear i had to put my scarf over my nose so my brain wouldn't be overwhelmed by the fact that my senses were going haywire and about to revolt from this flatulent smell. yes--it did smell worse than panera's broccoli cheese soup left in a hot dodge stratus for 2 days. today, God was laughing at me because when i could stand the smell no longer, the woman gets up with her styrofoam box of cheezy beans and sits next to me.
it still escapes me why she chose to do this.
i didn't see anyone dare try to steal her feast nor did i spot any shadesters aboard the car. i mean, was this lady lonely? was her food really that good? why was she drinking a bottle of hawaiian punch with it. that had to taste bad. and why, oh why did i have to have an awkward moment with this woman? yes. i did; because at the canal street stop a group of kids get on the car and start break-dancing. and it's great. i momentarily forget that i'm sitting next to a giant refried bean. that's how great their dancing was. then the woman turns to me, takes a swig of the hawaiian punch and asks me a question. twice. i know it was a question because her voice went 'quesTION'. and i awkwardly paused. then chose one of two answers 'yes' or 'no'. the safest answers. short. no follow up. highly new yorker answers. i muttered a quick 'yes,' thanked God that the train had finally reached my stop and bolted out the subway doors and breathed a deep breath of lovely, musty new york subway station air into my lungs.

there's this horrible habit about me that i can't seem to shake. euch. i cant even admit it because it leaves a dirty taste in my mouth that's sour and lingering. procrastination. lack of umph. sometimes i wonder where all the faith in myself that i used to have the huge, childish dreamer in me has gone. i feel like i've turned into a cynic and my worst critic. but this must not be true, it cannot be true, i desparately hope it's not true. and i can't firgure out why i am all these things. has there been anything to make me lose my faith in myself? i don't know. was it ever there to begin with? why don't i believe in myself? is it because i think that i can't hold my own, that i'll never be skinny enough or pretty enough or just enough of enough to be anything worthwhile? this is so meladramatic, i need to get over this pity party. i think what procrastination and all these things stem from is fear. fear of failing, or succeding, fear of being vulnerable, fear of becoming someone that i might even like, fear of loving and actually actually accepting being loved, being worthy of being loved? is it possible. i hope so. this is such a rambling, but right now that's what's on my heart.
now i need to stop procrastinating
man oh man.

le rêve

I had a dream the other night and some weird part of me thinks its about racism. I don’t want to write the whole dream down because it didn’t makes sense to me, but I remember being closed off in an office, it this little corner office with two women, one with blonde hair , one with brown and they were both white. They were in a heated discussion and all I remember seeing is the woman with brown hairs hyes growing brown like someone dropped a piece of melted chocolate into some oily substance and the brown grew and grew and washed over the other colors of the eye and vessels emerged and then it was sucked back into the pupil and all was normal. But everytime she was angry the pupil would burst forth with the brown inky iris and it would ripple out like a magicians fabric and spread past her eyes onto the creases of her sockets and then would be sucked back up in a matter of seconds and we all knew that she was hiding something. Another image I remember is talking to this girl who was not a woman yet, not by age standards, but just by looking at her and the smallness of her eyes. She was a receptionist of some sort and was sitting behind a desk like I had in fifth grade with the hold underneath to put pencil pouches in. she was the color of a velveteen rabbit that’s been slightly loved and she had only one tuft of hair on her head that was coarse and waved to her right in one single bend. I kept talking to her and asking how to get out of this place, what it was about and that everything was ok and that she could escape if she wanted to and every now and then this purple sparkely eyeshadow would start at her tearducts and bend outwards over her eye and they would grow large and then retract like something was pulsing inside and needed to be birthed, I kept getting closer to her and bending down and telling her it was ok, she needed to explain, give me some answer to why we were here and what was going on and her eyes would grow so lovely and plum like and spread out and then retract. And her hair, her hair began to grow out fro its frizzy tuft and spiral out like some sort of waving sea anemone and then it would shrink back down. Her purple eyeshadow kept spreading out and her hair kept morphing until she became something that resembled a bulb of some sort, something that was blooming or had bloomed or was holding something that was about to be born. It was very light green and was almost like the very core of lettuce when you get down to the last leaf closest to the fore and she sat still, with no eyes or human features, just small photosynthetic veins reaching out to the rippled ends and there was no mouth, no words to answer my question. Only a post it note stuck on to her head of a lettuce leaf/ flower that said something along the lines of go to this site called le blage and read the blog and there you will find the answers. It would’ve been right above her left ear. And it was bittersweet and I didn’t know what had happened, whether she had died or somehow was just being born and freed and escaped, but i took the note and left.

**(I looked up le blage online and the closest thing I found was le blague which means: the joke/the hoax/ the fib)



oh subconscious how i will never understand you