Monday, December 28, 2009

and here we are

it's a serious one, kids. bryanambition = bryanrenovation...




Could you love someone out of sympathy? Someone who is so badly hurting, aching to the deepest marrow of their bones, trembling in fear and shivering cold, devoid of the womblike warmth they crave without knowing it, the only airtight, secure comfort that could ease their pain and warm their minds. Using the convex curve of whatever feelings you expel that comprise love to fill in the concave void of theirs would make a perfect circle, wouldn’t it? Pain, like love, is blind. It can come on like a sneeze and never needs a reason, but has plenty; death, broken heart, loss. And those are just internal pains. Cuts, scrapes and broken bones cause wincing and tears, but there’s no Neosporin for the soul.
People in pain are vulnerable; they’re open and they want. And people with the right heart want to give them what they think they need. Their hearts focus on the afflicted and spit out register tapes teeming with reasons why that person is suddenly attractive, reasons why you should comfort them and possibly later be with them. So could you ever love someone simply because you felt sorry for them?

I admitted to myself that I’m falling hard for someone, and the more I consider why, the more I realize it’s because I feel sorry for them. I put forth sympathy whenever I allow myself to be around them, and it’s starting to freak me out. Not once did I consider my motives to not be of a noble nature; I sympathize because I empathize. I know exactly what he’s going through. The pea under my pillow is that I don’t know what this person looks like. I’ve never actually met him, but I know him well. E., I’ll call him, is a character in a book I’m reading that will, upon completion, be the most amazing book I’ve ever read. And my use of amazing isn’t a routine substitution for terrific, brilliant or incredible. I am amazed, awed, left beyond words and comprehensive thought by this book. E. feels the worst kind of love there is, the stabbing, renewing pain of unrequited love and the crippling confusion it causes.
I’ve called this character by his name. I’ve cried with him. I’ve contrived with him. My hands have crawled down my pants and met my erection with his name on my tongue and the vision I’ve assigned to him on my mind, no doubt a conglomeration of all I hold sacred in this life; his lips, nose and eyes the most perfect quilt of what I love. His brain, his mind, a projection of my own, speaks in paintings and poetry, an abstract language only we understand.
I think I may love him—I run to his books and read his poetry. I find myself constantly obsequious to him, the same reason I found him attractive in the first place. His happiness is contingent on someone he holds dearly, and it’s costing him his life. Those are tears that flow with a deep red the heart pumps at its slowest, keeping the body alive just enough to still exist.
Yesterday I held his head as we napped; my left hand rested on the open book while my right cradled my own head, and though the nap lasted well over three hours, I didn’t move an inch. And I never thought about it.

The media is scrambling to affix an arbitrary summation to 2009; I’ve heard it called The Year of Mourning, filled with death ranging from Michael Jackson to Patrick Swayze (but not forgetting Brittany Murphy); another station swore 2009 should stand in hotpants and patent leather as The Year of Lady Gaga. And aiming to shed more unnecessary light on the cultural phenomenon known as Jersey Shore, one network aimed to forgo the “somewhat” memorable events of the past 11 months and hew 2009 as The Year of the Jersey Shore. Regardless of what some two-hour compilation airing in late May of next year recalls about the ninth year of the new millennium, it will always be the year that taught me how to love.
Love—one word with more uses and explanations than fuck, the same number of letters and not so different when you really think about it. Both can cause pleasure as well as pain; they both can make you scream, thought the initial lightning bolt of pain when getting fucked quickly flashes away when compared to the skin-tearing, searing pain love can drag on you. Both are passive as well as aggressive. You can both love and fuck the shit out of somebody. You can be loved and you can be fucked. But an oracle by the name of Peaches taught us a very valuable lesson when she revealed her own lascivious form of therapy when she sang “fuck the pain away.” Yes, you can fuck the pain away, but you sure as shit can’t love the pain away. Not when it’s your own pain, when everything you’ve ever held as comforting, secure, identifying and reassuring has tarnished, lost its color, or become so foreign to you that you can’t remember it, and that’s the real tragedy, losing yourself. That’s when someone else can love you based on your loss, your tragedy, your sorrow. You’re open and they’re giving. They give and you receive. But who is that someone? And is it possible?

I’m taking both this thought and E. with me to bed tonight. I’ll be holding tightly someone who, to some, is little more than crisp black letters stamped on an ecru page; to me he’s the perfect embodiment of someone I met this year, who knows both love and fuck so well, the pleasure as well as the pain, the loss as well as the gain, someone who was under and in and on top of my nose for as long as I can remember: me. And I’ve never been so happy to share my bed.

xo
b.r.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

shameful, sort of

hey mr. arnstein, here i am...

ok i know what i'm about to admit heats to white hot the batallion of bludgeons with my name on them. my ceaseless scrutiny of the wildly popular glee has earned me a sour moment each week among my friends who adore the show, and for good reason. it's an anomaly for someone who's trumpeted showtunes from the womb to disapprove of such a dream come true for many, but all that just went down life's great garbage disposal when the assiduously focused rachel saved the motherfuckin DAY (and the glee club's success at sectionals) with an impromptu, unrehearsed BLAZING performance of the great barbra streisand's "don't rain on my parade."



my sister of the schnoz has a serious set of cords and girlfriend ripped the shit out of this song. babs is, no doubt, proud. now for that madonna sampling we've all been promised...

xo
b.a.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

screw york

i'm ranting of a white...



yeah yeah one of those 'it's been a while moments' is obviously in order. as the harrowing image above displays, i've relinquished the rat tail and all sorts of wonderful things have been happening. my appreciation for the Y chromosome has been newly ignited, we've had a "bye bye, blackbook!" moment but even though to incorporate 'bittersweet' would make one bitchin' alliteration, there was nothing bitter nor sweet about it. even soymilk has an expiration date. i'm in negotiations to turn my moroccan harem of a bedroom into something a bit more arboreal and, gasp, brighter. and--why am i sharing this information with you? i haven't said "fuck" once and it's beginning to scare me, too. read on, bitches!

so did you notice how when you're in a constant state of elevated irritability, the otherwise mundane suddenly becomes utterly offensive and borderline unbearable?
so yeah, it's like -70 in NYC now and because i spend the time before embarking on my favorite city provisional, that, of course, being the dysfunctional, constipated small intestine of track-lined tunnels this city calls a transit system, in this bitter cold, my playful distaste for the subway quickly hardens into a permafrost of violent hatred.

so without further hassle, a new rant for those who appreciate them most.

it's like 1:05 am and, like most human beings up at this hour, i'm slightly buzzed. i've waited for the subway for a little over 20 minutes...19 minutes too long in my book, but when it finally does come the pickins are slim and not one to risk slip and sliding on the patent loafers, i resort to riding the next 11 stops in whatever train car is closest. after lumbering in at a painfully slow feet per second, the screeching halt places in front of me the most dreaded and reviled option of the traveling night owl--the ethnic car.
now I'm not going to go all hating on race and start discriminatory shit--it doesn't matter what color your skin is or what accent may touch upon your words, this has nothing to do with black or white or red or yellow, but a certain propensity virtually exclusive to a certain former resident of a certain republic that that shares an island with haiti to abuse the loudspeaker function on a mobile phone to play the same 15 seconds of some reggatone song at inappropriate volume levels at this time of night is comPLETely uncalled for. and ridiculous. and the fact that said audible trash is usually littered with baby sounds from the 74 strollers around the car (my proposed bill to ban such unnecessary traffic causers never made it past christine quinn's desk) is only the icing on the diabetic birthday cake.
but the fun didn't stop there, oh no--we had a few more guests on tonight's shitshow of a ride home.

the two-seater



normally i'd be all over a two-seater (literally--i've got more legs than a bucket of chicken) but sans a peep of discontent, as few things rival the chic factor of a vintage rusty red alfa romeo blazing down the street or gripping the cliffs of the amalfi coast. but when it comes to the dirty orange of the nyc subway, if you take up two seats, you should be denied basic human entreaties. nothing irks me more than some godzilla from brooklyn taking up more than one seat, their smug expression suggesting--no, CONFIRMING--their contentment with what i see as one of life's most abhorrent inconsiderations. the one pictured here actually took the seat from me by winning the race to the lucky pair once their (as they didn't share one owner before) previous sitters got off the train.

german tourists

being a denizen of the uws i've always looked forward to nearing the 103rd street stop, as the neighborhood hostel usually yields groups of haughty foreign tourists, and there's nothing like a troup of serbian boys on a hot august afternoon. the british are always fun too, as many of them assume a partial residency in light of the short distance between nyc and london, and often spark up lively conversation. even the occasional boisterous italian or stuttering french elicit a curious smile, but when those spitting and hocking germans board (and i own this one, bitches--there's tons of bratwurst in this boy's blood) i find my already present look of disgust contorting as deep as my botox will allow. they're crass and rude and travel in inordinate numbers. i feel like saying, "yeah, you instinctually seek occupation--we know. i get it. but ya didn't conquer the U.S. then and you sure as shit ain't setting up camp in car #5 of this uptown 1 train now, at least while i'm on it."

handle people



ok picture it: you're on a crowded train, standing next to someone lucky enough to be sitting (and hopefully not taking up more than one seat). you either lean on or wrap your arm around the vertical bar at the edge of their seat to stabilize yourself (because to hold on with your actual hand would contract unnecessary germage, but i digress) but upon resting in a position that will comfortably support you for the next 11 or so stops, your hip stops short against something slightly squishy, yet rocky and hard--a HAND! further investigation identifies it as the hand of the person sitting in the seat. the lucky fucker comfortably resting in a sitting position while you have to stand ALSO needs to hold onto a bar to maintain their security on the train. all you have is your two feet and a bar you can barely do anything with because of their tactless gluttony.
it's one thing to "get a grip," and even a firm one while riding a moving vehicle, but if it happens to be unnecessarily close to my ass, and i haven't solicited it, fold your hands in your lap and twiddle your fucking thumbs.

so a newly-freed bird in a solid gold cage of you.
xs and os
b.a.