"The Young and the Jobless" — Afterward

Why is there never enough time in any given day?

I wonder what life after death is like.

Life right now, in this reality is so jam-packed with stuff, from work to parks, music, movies, feelings, people, how can it always be like this? It can’t. It will be unified one day. So, what’s it like later? Will we remember all this? Will we meet again? Will I ever relive those 69 days I spent at 23 years of age recording thoughts in a blog? Or is this it? Our time is running out, dear reader. We’ve been together for 51 days now, and we’ve got about 18 left. Can you believe it? Like a real-life couple, we’re moving toward our expiration date.

Will we remember the painful parts then, the everyday stressful parts?

I saw Truffaut’s Small Change tonight, a movie about children. Scene after scene of childhood moments made it a beautiful and poignant and enlightening experience all at the same time. And a stressful recollection of the first part of existence. The movie takes place in France, so it reminded me so much of my own childhood — the desks, the teachers, the hills, small shops, smaller apartments, the punishments.

And by the end of the teacher’s fiery monologue toward the end of the movie, tears streamed down my cheeks. “Kids that don’t get love turn their love to other people and things.”

That young 12-year-old delinquent who was beaten at home day in and day out will struggle with the concept for another few decades for sure. And then? And then what happens?

How come children never think of the future?

Dear bloggy,
I’m so dizzy, I can’t type. Which is why it is recommended by my internal doctor that I stop writing, log off the computer, and head home for sleep.

hope all is well with you too,
me

So, there I was, on another 7-a.m.-er on a Sunday morning, drooling against the rail at the subway.

I was siting on the steps, when a Mexican guy awoke me. “Excuse me, is this train headed to Queens?”

Well, no shit, old man, I thought, looking up at the sign that said it all itself. Instead, I politely nodded, quickly closing my eyes again.

“Excuse me,” he interrupted again 30 seconds later. I opened my eyes and looked at him, who was now positioning himself comfortably next to me on the steps. “How are you tonight?” he turned and smiled.

Oh god, I thought. Here we go. Fine, bla bla bla — the inevitable talk was happening, and I hoped the train would come faster. It didn’t. Half an hour later, we were still talking. But the train finally showed up. Of course, that was no consolation: He made sure to sit next to me and watch me the whole time, as if I was his own precious gem. “May I have your number?” he asked. Umm no why would you even ask that; you’r 20 years my senior, old man, go the f*&% away, ok bye!!! I thought. “No, sorry, I’d rather not,” I said aloud.

I closed my eyes again, hoping he’d disappear. He didn’t. “You’re beautiful,” he said — for the fifth time — next to me on the train. “Thanks,” I kept saying and closing my eyes again. Imagine if I were drunk.

I was drunk tonight earlier a little. Not a lot, but I felt happy enough to laugh about my email exchange with good old boy. He said he had been stupid all along and was sorry. Of course he was, and I was glad to realize that for once he was right: He most definitely had been stupid. I told him that I agreed and despite all that I always meant for us to be friends, because I thought he was fun to hang out with. He agreed — about me being the same, not him. And thus, our friendship was patched up and we were ready to hang out again. Weird.

So what were me and old man doing next to each other on the train then, him inching closer and closer when I’d already resolved and sealed the distance in my life? Who knows. “Let me just give you on kiss on the cheek, you’re so beautiful,” he suddenly said. Umm, no! He was gross, and I coudln’t believe he asked that.

And then suddenly … ((drumroll)) … the Indian guy sitting across from me came to my rescue:

“What are you doing, man? Stop — you’re bothering this girl. Do you know what this is called? Sexual harassment. Leave her alone.”

He was seriously upset. Mexi next to me became subdued, then quickly said bye when the train stopped, and he got up and left. The Indian guy got up to then too, and as he walked out, I thanked him. “Be safe,” he said gently. How sweet.

Can there be more guys like that out there? Just simply caring and gentle, whether you’re their sister or a stranger who resembles their sister? As independent as we are, there is nothing more flattering than a male stranger coming to your rescue after a creep has put all his cards on the table and is waiting for you to take charge.

I’ve dried up like a well. I have nothing to write.

That’s because I don’t read enough. Also because I often don’t have time to think.

Therefore, I decided to change my life around. Re-organize and restructure — make the priorities, well, priorities and reduce the time wasters. Clear out the unnecessary junk from my schedule. So I started doing that tonight, in my little notepad by the bed.

That’s all I have to say for tonight. Goodnight.

OH MY GOD, I thought yesterday on the phone. What am I going to say?

Randy waited at the other end of the line.

“Ummm … I don’t remember getting their contact info, no,” I said finally in supposed deep thought. He burst out in frustrated laughter. “Nooooo!” he exclaimed. “They were amazing musicians! We all thought you had it, so we figured we’d get it later.”

Ugh, guilt. I did have it. In fact, I still do. I have their email — I got it when I promised them my voice clips that I don’t have. At the moment of my promise, I felt amazing, like I was breaking some kind of rule that always held me back from following my dream of taking my singing outside of my own shower, and I felt that in this way I was helping me out. But the next day when reality hit, I felt embarrassed and wondered what I was thinking.

But on the phone with Randy, the lie weighed heavier on me than embarrassment, and I came clean. “Actually, now that you mention it, I think I have their email somewhere in my phone,” I said, rolling my eyes.

***

Today, I entertained the idea of really letting strangers know the inner me — that precious thing, the voice that surfaces only when I’m alone. Except when I’m wrapped in anxiety at the thought, it doesn’t surface at all.

So, I stopped entertaining the idea real fast and went grocery shopping instead. But when I returned, the idea surfaced again. “OK, fine, my lil rock star,  let’s see what you sound like,” I told myself and pulled out my secret voice recorder from my desk drawer. (Lucky for me, my roomie is in Australia.)

I chose a Beatles song. I played it on YouTube and looked up the lyrics and tried to follow along. As I sang, I tried to picture the words but pictured people watching me instead, and my voice quickly took a bow and hid behind the vocal cords. What else is new, I thought, I’ve seen this happen in dance classes too. I played back the tape only to discover that I sounded just as I felt: muted.

After a few tries, I gave up. Fughettaboutit. I closed down YouTube, kicked back and just sang the lyrics one last time before closing that window too. I was about to put away the recorder, when I figured I should at least play back what I had just sang without music. And at verse one, my jaw dropped. It was amazing. It carried feeling, it had consistency. It had personality. You could tell it apart, and you could tell that the person singing felt the song and had her own style.

So, I’ve realized one thing: When I try to do it on my own without thinking of others’ expectations and reactions, or without trying to be exactly like whoever did it first, that’s when I succeed. And that applies to all things.

A good lesson for the day, and feeling all inspired, I briefly considered getting the sound I recorded from the voice recorder to the computer and really sending it to those guys.

But then I realized I’d have to figure out how to do that exactly … and one challenge for the day is enough.

I’m too tired to write tonight.

I went to bed at 11 a.m. and woke up at 2 p.m., at which point I proceeded to do the dishes, clean the kitchen, knead dough and bake a spinach pie, then organize the living room.

It’s a tough Sunday when you’re on three hours of sleep. Night night.