In Chicago. Been here since Friday. Having a BLAST. Love the job. Love the city. I’m home.

Will write more Friday. It’s been busy and my Internet connection is sketchy. I’m writing now from one of the many, many beautiful gay bars in my new/old hood. Great music, free wifi, old black & white movies on the TVs (instead of sports) and a come-as-you-are, welcoming vibe.

I miss my Shaun. But I love this place. Oh I love it.

More soon.

I sent the following email today. What do I feel? Relief. Warmth. A feeling deep in my belly that every little thing is gonna be alright.

Dear Friends & Family:

Uh-oh! What’s this in your in-box? A mass-email from Truly! By now, you know the drill: this can only mean one thing. That’s right: I’m moving. Again.

As many of you know, NYC has been a bummer for Shaun and I. Since we first discovered that the Big Apple was a bad match for us (about two months after we moved here), we’ve been hard at work positioning
ourselves for a move back home to Chicago. That hard work is now paying off. And in the way that these emails usually start, I’ll say: the past few days have been wild.

As happy as I am to kick start our new life in a city that feels like home, I’m very sad to be apart from Shaun for up to 4 months. Thats so long! A whole season! I’m trying to keep in mind that the distance is
necessary; we’re both working to ensure that we have a sustainable, happy home moving forward.

Endless love to you all,

T

I’m off to Michigan this afternoon, away for a long weekend with family. Last night, arranging airport pick up plans, my mom said something to the effect of: “soon you’ll be home and you won’t have to lift a finger. Just let everyone take care of you.” I thought she was joking and laughed. I’d sincerely forgotten that there was a place in this world where there are people willing to say such a nice thing and mean it. Thinking back on it now, I realize how crass and mean I must have sounded.

I look forward to softening, to setting my own pace for a while. I’m looking forward to kicking back in The Union with beer and Bryan. I’m looking forward to stopping by LA Cafe and getting a snickerdoodle cookie from The Village Bakery. I’m looking forward to cheering on my cousin Sheri as she walks across the stage and holds her hands out for a well-deserved doctorate in pharmacy. I’m looking forward to sitting at the kitchen table with my mother-in-law, letting down my guard and telling her more than I meant to; when she’s calm, my mother-in-law is a beautiful listener, like her son. I’m looking forward to kyaking with my mom on Sunday, and hopefully going to the newly re-vamped Clarkston Cafe with her for fancy pizzas; my mom makes me feel like me, no-matter how lost I am. I’m looking forward to running into my favorite high school teacher on the sidewalk, as I usually do when I’m out running and he’s taking his dog Sam out for a morning walk. I’m looking forward to possibly getting my hair cut–a ‘do that would easily cost me $70 in NYC will cost $40 (tops) in Michigan. I’m looking forward to a blizzard at Dairy Dream with my brothers. My brothers! My tall and loveable brothers! I’m looking forward to reading to my nephews and smelling their little-kid hair as they sit all squiggly in my lap. And I’m really, really looking forward to being with Shaun. Lately, after we walk to the subway together in the morning (he takes the #1, I take the A), I don’t see him until 11pm, when I’m bleary-eyed and crawling into bed after a long day of work. But this weekend, we’ll be together. With others, but together, holding hands and laughing at the things only we can see.

Giles is going to be okay. The vet was *shocked* that the cat survived the fall, let alone survived without a single  broken bone. The impact did incite a hurt kitty mouth, liver trauma, and massive swelling (he is a big bruise beneath his fluff), but we’ve got him on some meds that are designed to take care of that and provide pain relief. The meds have also heavily sedated Giles, forcing him to take it easy. Now he just stares at the wall with round, necco-wafer sized eyes. Its really funny.

Also funny: our vet pronounces our cat’s name with a Dominican-style “G,” turning Giles into Hee-lays. It is very exciting. Giles’ full name is Giles Alejandro Scimitar. Clearly Hee-lays sounds fantastic with the middle and last names. I’ve taken to pronouncing it this way and Hee-lays seems to like it.

That said, the last time I tried to change his name (a few months ago, to Mr. Sexy Legs), Giles liked it at first, but soon tired of my antics and just ignored me. I’m sure Hee-lays will run its course as well.

I love naming things. I call my friends invented names. Many people I love have multiple names. Here are a few examples:

Derek: Moth/Princess MonoBitch
Lindsey: Squee/Homeslice/Homeskillet/Skillet/Slice
Julian: Juje/Juju/JujuBean/JujuBear
Keith: Queff/Queffers
Bryan: Byron/Brain/Tinos
Anthony: Hammer/HamBone
Sheri: Good Tard/Killer Bread/Bob Evans 
Mom: Mamacita
Bryony: B
Val: V
Shaun: Shaun-san

I don’t have too many nicknames. Derek calls me Moth (we are both Moth, which gets confusing, but not really) and Bryan calls me Tinos (also – both of us are Tinos, interchangeably). In high school, my friend Andrew called me T-dog sometimes, a nickname that I often sign off with on friend emails. My dad’s family sometimes calls me TrueBoo. My stepdad calls me Mogoli, or when I’m in trouble: Ms. T. Susie calls me T(rules), which I find thrilling.

One of my best friends, Squee, has a name picked out for a cat she has yet to adopt. She hasn’t even got it picked out! She just knows that its name is Hamish and that its waiting in the world for her and that they soon shall meet. I think that takes skill. I’ve got to know someone for a while before I pick out a pet name for them. I look forward to meeting her cat and know that it will be every inch a Hamish.
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How do you name things? What’s your nickname?

Our cat hurtled himself off the window ledge yesterday. He took a nose-dive into the empty air and crash landed in the ally, three flights below. Giles, the furry comet.

Typically, the ally is home to a ’round-the-clock soiree, where Dominican gentlemen congregate to smoke pot, drink El Presidente, and listen the same mariachi song over and over. Had it been warmer, the ally revelers would’ve had some spice added to their party routine, something new to tell to the wives back at home:

A howling cat falling headlong from the heavens. A white boy leaning from a window ledge above, eyes wide with despair, his voice a shot in the dark: “Giles!”

Had it been warmer, our cat’s limp body would’ve been encircled by the ally revelers once it hit the pavement. The mariachi song would draw to a close; no one would dare hit repeat. Quiet, sensitive Manuel would be the first to crouch down and run calloused hand over furry flank. Never to be outdone, Victor would mournfully remove his Mets cap, turn his face to the sky and cry: “¡Pobrecito!”

Seconds later, Shaun would pound the ally gate with both fists. Jose would break from the group to let him in. Smelling the familiar scent of his owner, life would stir back into the cat’s body. His eyelids would flutter, a pathetic meow would issue from his mouth. The cat would move himself to all fours, slow but steady, resurrected.

The ally revelers would cheer and offer Shaun a beer, a hit, a  mariachi song. “No,” he’d say, “thank you. I’d better get this little guy home.”

But it was unseasonably cold yesterday. A dirty clamminess clung to the air like a strand of greasy hair. There were no ally revelers. There was no soiree. There was only a cat sprawled on pavement, a locked ally door, and a frantic Shaun banging on it, unable to get in.

Shaun called the super, who did not answer. He called the building owner, who promised he might swing by to help, but not until Monday. In pigeon-Spanish, Shaun asked neighbors if they knew anyone in the building with a key. After all, someone must have one, seeing as how our ally is party-central. But as white people, as non-Dominican people, as non-Orthodox Jews, as people for whom English is their first language, whose parents were born in this country: we are not to be trusted.

We don’t know what happens here, how things work. We don’t know why there are at least two plains-clothes arrests every night on our block. We don’t know why every corner has a candle-lit memorial site to a slain teenager, where friends leave poetry and bags of the victims favorite snacks. We don’t know the characters in the murals. We only know that mail trucks and city services won’t come above 148th street, where most maps of Manhattan inexplicably end. We live on 186th.

We are outsiders here. We are constantly aware of our skin, our language, our dress, our walk, our music, our shows, our water bottles, our hair, our inability to access the ally where our cat’s injured body is sprawled: this is how the Dominicans and the Orthodox Jews in this neighborhood must feel if they go anywhere outside of it. We can only ever be observers in this place. We are lingering guests, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

After running around the building like mad, someone must have taken pity on Shaun and unlocked the ally door for him. There, he found our cat, face bloodied and swollen. But alive. The vet office took him in early this morning for cat x-rays and mending.

I was away, working yet another double-job, 14-hour Friday when this all happened. I came home to find an unravelled husband, a cat sipping shallow breaths, and a feeling that I was missing my life, letting down everyone I loved, and selling small chunks of myself just to keep living in a city I’ve grown to hate.

Many people say that pets and their owners mirror each-other. While neither Shaun nor I are as cute as Giles, we do share personality traits with him. Giles is one of the friendliest cats I’ve ever met. He rushes, indiscriminately, to anyone who enters our home–family, friends, repairmen–for cuddles, conversation, and play. Giles is also a gusty, brave cat. He loves racing out the door, tearing into the unknown, blindly trusting that it will be nothing more than a fun lark. And last night, rushing headlong onto the street, Giles hadn’t the faintest idea that NYC would knock the wind out of him and leave him wondering why he ever thought it wise to do such a foolish, painful thing.

The NYPD officers who murdered Sean Bell were found to be not guilty of all charges today.

For those who’ve not been following this story, plain clothes NYPD cops were undercover investigating a prostitution ring at a strip club in November of 2006. It just so happened that Sean Bell and his friends were out at the club for Sean’s bachelor party. Boys. Strippers. Booze. The cops, inexplicably, proceeded to shoot 50 bullets into Mr. Bell’s body. The cause? Black. Rowdy. He must be violent, right?

There are those who say that Mr. Bell’s death is not an issue of race. Two of the cops who riddled this man’s body with bullets were “of color” (God, I hate that phrase—what does it even mean, anyhow?!). But the fact is this: the police system is dominated by white men. The officers, while not blameless, are working within a racist system. There promotion, survival, and job security depends on them acting just like the good ole boys. While I can’t pretend that I know the motivations of men who needlessly fire 50 bullets into another man’s body, I cannot pretend that this verdict, this act of violence, is not racially motivated. This violence—this sick and symptomatic violence—would never happen to a pack of white boys out on the town.

I can’t stop thinking of Sean Bell’s fiancé. Hearing today’s verdict must have made her feel as if her groom died all over again.

Click here for the NY Times article.

Click here for the Village Voice article.

Little known fact: You can get up to 30 days in jail for calling an officer a pig. Meanwhile, they can shoot 50 bullets into your body to no consequence.

I had the day off today! From both jobs! I can scarcely believe it! Shaun is off covering the NYC comic convention, so I had the whole day to myself. I went to the optomitrist (I’m fresh out of contacts), walked in the park, read in the sun, bought fresh bread at the farmers’ market, and napped.  It was  extra warm outside today–in the 80′s easy.  To the great amusement of the Spanish-speaking men in my neighborhood, I wore shorts for the first time this year.

I also whipped up a new blog about a weekend escape to Connecticut. Check it out at Naptime in the City That Never Sleeps. Last, but certainly not least, I answered burning questions posed by my Xanga peeps. Answers are below. Follow-up questions welcome.

Q.) ThinLizzy17 asks: Where do you hope you’ll eventually land?  If you close your eyes and think about “home,” where will that turn out to be?

A.) When I close my eyes and think about home, here are a few things that leap to mind, in no particular order:

1.) The dead of winter 2003. 6pm. A weekday in our second Chicago apartment, a truly horrible one. There’s no insulation and an upstairs bathtub will fall through the sagging kitchen ceiling any day now. I’ve been home, bundled in about ten sweaters to keep warm and using the same tea bag to make countless cups of tea; I am writing. Everything is quiet. Dusk settles. Shaun comes home from work. “Hey,” he calls. I take my teacup to the sink and meet him in the hall. I kiss his face in greeting. His skin is cold. I am warmer than I thought. The cat meows, underfoot.

2.) Tail end of July. Hot. Swagger-some. I’m home for the summer from my first year at college. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was to be the last time in my life I would live at home, near my family, in that Michigan town. It was also to be the last time my family bore any resemblance to the structure I’d grown accustomed to. I was working two jobs to save up for the school year. A sandwich shop clerk in the day and a waitress at night. My legs and lower back were always sore.

I drove a hot little red sports car. I always kept a bikini and towel in the back-seat, just in case the opportunity of lake swimming arose. My diet primarily consisted of soft serve ice cream cones. I was working on a short film and reading a lot of Hemmingway.

One day, I had enough time between shifts to head up to our family’s yellow cottage on Big Lake. It was only about 20 minutes away from my family’s home. The key sat perched on a rafter above the front porch. I let myself in and changed into my swimsuit. I perched a boom box in the back window and blared a Travis cd. I headed down to the water with a yellow inner-tube and a library copy of Garden of Eden. Carefully perching the book atop the tube, I swam out to the end of the dock. With one foot anchoring me and the other left to the nibbles of minnows, I laid back on the tube and read the afternoon away. When the canopy of leaf shadows stretched long and met me in the water, I swam in and went to work. This was before cell phones, before unplugging became a hard thing to do.

3.) An itchy, too-tight, short-in-the-arms, gray woolen sweater that I stole from my mom.

4.) The way the altitude of my grandparent’s Colorado mountain home pushes the lids from half gallon cartons of ice cream; bursting columns of Tiramisu-Swirl. Also in their home: racks of snowshoes. Shelves of hiking boots. Whipped butter in a countertop pot. A hallway photo gallery of family history. A crouching, almond-eyed African fertility statue made of wood. Apricots.

5.) Biking to work on Chicago’s lake shore path. Morning. Lake. Glorious.

6.) Lake Michigan sand dunes, friends, and campfire.

I look forward to having a home that includes/provides feasible access to 90% of the elements I’ve listed above. I look forward to living in a place where my mom, brothers, and best friend are no further than a short-ish Amtrak ride away. I can’t wait to settle down in Chicago. Theres an attitude, economy, and cultural sector there that work for us. Best of all: it feels good to be there.

When I’m teaching someday, and a mother, I look forward to spending big chunks of summer in Michigan. Shaun will either do his writing from there or visit us on weekends. Because July should be spent with family, preferably by a lake.

Q.) Secret Life of Pandas asks: If you had one image of yourself that you would have people remember, what would it be?

A.)

Q.) mydogischelsea asks: Where is your favorite place to write?

A.) Mainly, my kitchen table or desk. No music. No bra. No makeup. Phone off. Crunchy carrots and ice water on hand.

I also love the library-feel of Alliance Bakery, although it has the misfortune of being in Chicago’s Wicker Park (a poor neighborhood, turned artsy-hip, then promptly overpriced and yuppified). But the WiFi is free and they bake fresh mini-loaves of whole-grain and give you a whole tub of hummus to dip it in. Great coffee, too. The staff leaves you alone to write, even if you only buy one cuppa and stay writing for ages, which is what most people there seem to be doing.

Journaling takes place outdoors, in parks, on subways, on boulders I stop to rest on during a hike. Multi-media stuff (I like to make collage/text thingies) is strictly at my desk, with a cup of tea nearby.

Q.) Boowasborn asks: Has your and Shaun’s experiences with NYC been different? If so, how has it been different?

A.) Our experiences are always different and expressed differently. Shaun is a brooder; I’m a giant exclamation mark. Words fly from my mouth, accessible and loud. Shaun chews on words for longer, savors them, is careful and conservative with them. He often takes longer before judging a situation–its an internalized process that unfolds in his head. I feel any given situation with my entire body and my gut knows in an instant what I think and feel about it. There is bad and good in both of our approaches. Its a yin-yang thing.

So does Shaun hate our life here in NYC too? Yes. But our reasoning is different much of the time.

For example, while he thinks everything is gray and uniformly hideous here, I think everything is a vomit of circus color and grotesquely disturbing in very unique ways. Ultimately though, we both can’t bear it here because of how wholly unsustainable it is emotionally and financially. Plus, while Shaun’s had great success working the connections he needs to for the business of writing, he really struggles to find the time, energy, and comfort to generate new fiction in NYC. This is a problem unique to the pace a person needs to keep to survive in this town.

We both take huge comfort in knowing that we’re doing what we came here to do and leaving. All the freelancing that he’s been doing, he walks away with. The agent, the editorial contacts–he keeps those. As for me: I get to walk away with a whole new cast of characters, a whole new setting. I get to walk away with all the things I’ve learned about myself during our time here. I get to know exactly what my limits look like. I get to know the intimate details of the NYC behind the town’s grandiose myths. We took what we could, a midnight raid, and soon we’ll be back in a place comfy enough (emotionally and finically) to create new work again.  Plus, we’ve made cool friends here. And we both need all the friends I can get in this world.
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Don’t forget to go to Naptime!

Last night, I coughed up a little blog for Naptime in the City That Never Sleeps: click here to read about the geography of my NYC hood.

In other news, life has been less jagged lately. I’ve been running a very hilly 4.5 mile route about 4 times a week. The running isn’t giving me the usual burst of joy that it usually does, but it has given me just enough energy to get through my very long, two job days. Not as much energy as I’m used to, but I am thankful just to make it through here.

I also got a yoga tape after something a colleague mentioned last week. She said that science is finally acknowledging that the digestive system has a nervous system onto itself, making it like a second brain. Ever had a “gut feeling?” That’s your intestines thinking. I don’t know about you, but my belly is definitely smarter than that pink, wrinkly loaf in my head. Anyhow, I’ve been doing the yoga tape because when I’m twisting my torso I like to imagine I’m wringing a serotonin-soaked sponge, releasing any bits of happiness hiding away in the gore of me.

The best thing I’ve been up to, though, is fresh coconuts. They are in season! I bake a whole, hairy nut for 20 minutes on 250 before hammering a screwdriver into its eye. Delicious juice drains from the socket before the other eye is knocked out, cracking the shell. It is satisfyingly violent. Last Sunday I made coconut pancakes with ginger syrup, topped with bananas. I now have a lifetime supply of potassium coursing through my veins.

I’ve also been getting myself ready for my exodus. Living situations have been coordinated. Moving help has been scheduled. Financial ducks know what they are supposed to do to get in their rows. Choice jobs have been carefully selected and applied to. An outpouring of support has come from my friends and family. I’ve never really asked for help before. There’s always been some shame involved it it for me, some feeling that I would impose if I needed anything. But as soon as I mentioned my predicament, I had friends calling regularly to make sure I was okay, friends offering to share Chicago apartments with me, family offering their trucks and manpower to help me move. I feel very loved and very lucky.

In the meantime, I just keep my eye on the prize, breathing through it. In May, we go back to Michigan for a visit. In June, Shaun’s parents are coming to NYC for a visit. In July, our friends Dan and Bryony will be out for a visit. And then, exodus.

I signed up to volunteer at a fun run for disabled youth this Saturday, before I’m off to work a book event. I’m not yet sure what I’ll be helping with, but I’m excited to put myself to good use and meet some new, nice people. Tonight I’m working a book event for a very famous television journalist with a new autobiography out.

ThinLizzy is doing a cool blog where she opens up her comments section to questions and will spend a blog answering them. I can’t wait to read her answers. And I think this idea sounds fun. I think I will steal it. So: write a question in my comments and I will answer them all in a big blog. Interview!

I’ve also been working on a photography project. A Scottish friend of mine curates an annual amateur photography show. Participants take a photo every day for the entire month of April. Usually, I go into creative endeavors with concrete themes and ideas I’m itching to express. But my creativity is tapped at the moment, so I’m just taking pictures of things that catch my eye every day and will lay them all out at the end to pick my 30 and see what theme emerges on its own. I’ve also learned that I HATE taking pictures in crowds, which is basically everywhere in New York. Most of my photos are of quiet, hidden places. I guess I seek them out here more than I realize. I’ll post the pics once the series is complete.

Xanga has been quiet lately. I hope everyone is well.
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So: what questions have you got for me?

I’ve blogged about Bryan before. Like most gay boys in my middle and high school, I “went out” with Bryan for a short period of time before determining that we were actually good friends.

Shared interests include and included: UFO’s, The B52′s, roller-blading, science class, rapping about molecular structures, George Orwell, drawing mean pictures of teachers, charity walks, and Evita.

Bryan also is the kind of person that has always had this ability to fit in with any group. He seems at home anywhere. That comfortability puts those he is around at complete ease. More than anything, I think this might explain why people with Autism respond well to Bryan. Its because Bryan responds well to them.

Bryan works with autistic youth. It is his career, sure. But its more than that. Its his life.

Anyhow, today, Bryan sent me an email with a link to a slide show that raises funds for a charity group called Autism Speaks.The band Five for Fighting, is generously donating $0.40 to Autism Speaks for *each time* the slide show is viewed. I hope that you  will check it out and pass it along to  your friends and family.

Link to the site:

 http://www.whatkindofworlddoyouwant.com/videos/view/id/408214

A portion of this is up at Naptime in the City that Never Sleeps, so if you frequent both, this version is longer and more complete.

There is nothing more lonesome than eating a packet of mini cheese Ritz for dinner. But by 11 pm–after a 9-5 in the office, followed by a shift at my second job selling books at author events–I’m starved. I buy the crackers from the platform vendor while waiting for my train home. I cram the greasy disks into my mouth with germy subway hands. I am exhausted. I am beyond caring. Chewing, I watch the rats scurry in the tracks below.

My ride is exactly 1-hour long and at an hour where more normal people than not are tucked away in bed. Sometimes I can’t resist the compulsion to buy something to eat before I am home. Oftentimes my journey takes such an unappetizing twist that eating after it is out of the question.

For example, a man shit before my very eyes a few weeks ago. We were on the subway. It was late. Across the aisle from me, the man was badgering a woman for money. When she refused to give him anything, his tirade began.

He paced up and down the car, muttering: “I’ll show you! I’ll show you!”

After a time, the man stopped directly in front of the woman, popped a squat, and pushed. By some grace of God, he did not bother to remove his pants.

It’s rare that I ever see what a human face looks like whilst a shit is in progress. I don’t know many infants and my bathroom mirror is above my sink, not across from my toilet.

When defecating, the human brow furrows, then eases. The mouth puckers, then smiles. The smile is not big nor toothy, but a relaxed expression. It is a self satisfied grin that simply says: I pooped.

When his crap was fully expelled, the man exhaled as if in a soda commercial, although I doubt the steaming load in his pants was carbonated or refreshing. I do not have to tell you how bad this smelled.

After, the man sat down between us on the subway floor, laughing. The woman and I changed cars at the next stop, leaving him to fester–the only pair of pants he owned filled to the brim with shit. 

Now about this second job. After a 9-5 in the office, I am a bookseller for a company that sells books at non-bookstore author events (mostly readings at cafes and bars, with the occasional conference and private party). Hauling suitcases crammed with paperbacks and hardcovers on city subways and crosstown buses, I am a mobile libris. 

While the commute is a pain in the ass and the long days are more than difficult, I like the actual book events. I  also enjoy taking home a cut of hard cash at the end of every night; $50 for 3 hours of easy work is not bad. After setting up, I mostly kick back and listen to authors read and talk about writing. I’m often selling at the KGB Bar, a New York literary institution where the bartenders are getting used to me and waving me off when I try to pay for my beer.

The other week, I worked an event for AM Holmes, one of my favorite writers. While she signed books, we chatted about cover art and the apocalypse. This week, I worked a lecture series in a Chinatown bar. There, longtime Onion contributor, Todd Hansen, gave one of the most truthful, amazing talks on humor that I’ve ever heard (and, to give you context: I just spent the last 10 weeks of my life in a humor writing workshop).

If the book-selling job paid a little better, I might be tempted to quit office life all together. But as it stands, I’m just happy to have a way to save up money. Because in a city like this, saving is next to impossible. Its not that I spend rampantly. Its that a gallon of milk costs $5 and rent in a sketchy neighborhood costs is $1,400 monthly (utilities not included). It was nearly cheaper to live in Scotland, where the pound is worth double the US dollar.

Extra money is also good because I’m busy paying off my credit cards to a zero balance. I’ve got a rigorous schedule to ensure I do this within 12 months. Anything I can do to help move this along faster is good. Paying interest irritates me. Even if it afforded me the luxury of having furniture before I could actually afford any.

Most importantly, I need to save up money because we’re getting out of here soon. A plan is in motion. Home-sweet-Chicago-home is on the horizon. More on this as things unfold (I don’t want premature information floating about – I am trying to get better at biting my tongue), but it is suffice to say: this summer will be very different for my husband and I. Different from now and different from ever before. Change like this is so hard. We need to do it now though, while we are young, while its still possible to get this life right.
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What’s your commute like?