My inspiration is a bit constipated right now. No. Not constipated. For some reason my internal filter is going haywire and I’m confusing myself. Fuck. I think my guts need some guts. There are things that run through my mind; emotions that pop up that I think would be great to write about. I have 3 separate lists of blog ideas that I want to cull from, but now I’ve reached a stage with this where the superficial stuff is out of the way, and I know there are things to put down here that my father, step-mother, and sister would decidedly not want to read about. Things they don’t know about (well, my sister does, but parentals don’t), and things I’ve kept to myself intentionally. I also don’t know how you all are responding to this. As you can tell, I’m aware that I’m aware and it’s thrown a glitch in my hitch and that’s a total bitch.
I also have the specter of Mel hanging over this, something I’ve wanted to write about here for awhile, but something I’m terrified of putting out there. How do you write about someone you’ve been in love with for over 3 years, someone whose been in love with you, someone who lost it a bit, hurt you a lot, who you believed in through it all despite the fact that your family and friends don’t think it’s good for you? I will get this one out, but I know I could look stupid. I love the idea of being honest with all of you, but there’s a difference between putting something out there that people negatively respond to (which has happened here) and putting something out there that you know for yourself looks bad, but you know inside that wrong is right. I’ll screw up the courage eventually, perhaps soon.
New topic! This morning was a good one. Occasionally I star in my own little internal movie, and this AM was one. I woke up with the sun, snoozed a bit, went for run. On my way to work was where the credits for my little movie would have rolled, and I took the long way to the subway. Walking one block over to the right out my door and down to the Promenade (I live in Brooklyn Heights, or Bougie Heights, as I call it), overlooking Manhattan and the water. My iPod provided the soundtrack. The credits rolled with Jeff Buckley, “Hallelujah,” a beautiful pained rendition of Leonard Cohen’s that he’s turning all his own. It suits my sense of myself at times. I strolled along to a little Nelly Furtado, a little Teenage Fanclub, and hit the N train I take to work with the Streets. So far, so good. Of course, in the movie in my mind this is not one continuous shot. There are cuts and angles and things that catch your attention in the background. Maybe even fadeaways to someone else for a second, a woman perhaps, beautiful with a catch, someone you’ll know better later on in the film. Back to me. Of course, my little film doesn’t show me mundane. I don’t swipe my MetroCard at the turnstile, I don’t wait for the elevator down to the subway track, I just end up there, take for granted that in movie land such things as paying for your public transportation happen. You don’t need to see them. Junkie XL hit my iPod around then this morning. I hopped on the subway to Katherine Edwards and “Pets” by Porno for Pyros. On good mornings, when my movie is going well, I’ll hop off at Canal and walk up Center Street, crossing over to Lafayette with a left on Spring to grab a coffee from D&D deli (vanilla/hazelnut with half & half and 2 sugars) before walking up Crosby, left on Prince, and one block to Broadway and Prince where I work. That is what I did this morning to the Beatles, Coldplay, Damien Rice, Chicane and finally Brownie Mary, which broke me out of my internal film for a moment of nostalgia. Brownie Mary was a band Bob, Matt, and I listened to in college, and Bob and I played it regularly on our weekly radio show. I always think of our road trip when they come on, heading out west, not really caring how we get to the Pacific as long as we got there within the week. The memory didn’t trip up my movie, it was more of the same really. I hope I’m not alone in these little fantasies. Is my life interesting enough to make up a movie? I’ve always thought it was, which is what makes the diversion so pleasantly diverting.