I've been searching for inspiration lately, and no I didn't find it in the face of a beautiful woman.
I've been floating in between that head space most artistic people reach at some point in their lives. In inevitable top o' the mountain. We hear the sonorous voice that could be any number of black actors ask us that question: "What are you doing?"
(if aforementioned sonorous voice said "What is real?" then it would be Laurence Fishburne. He was also Mr. deep voice in Fantastic Four two. Betcha didn't know that!)
My only achievement this week was completely frightening a cute girl in a bookstore named Abby. There she was, walking around with a cute yellow bag, looking for books. There I was, looking for a new book to read with a great excuse to say hello. I'll scratch the details, but the conversation ended with me asking for her opinion on something. Not her number.
She reminded me that this city is a place for artists. She's the third girl i've met who works in an art gallery, but the first who actually looks like a piece of art. She reminded me of a little porcelain doll. The kind that have organs, and studied Art History in North Carolina. Yes, I frightened her, with my high-energy Jamaican wit and obvious comfort with myself. That ladies and single reader of this blog, is the most frightening thing to a woman, the idea that a man is comfortable with himself. Especially if he isn't forty-something and flush with mutual funds and crazy levels of disposable income.
Frightening miss A didn't bother me that much. I was actually glad I frightened her in some ways. I was glad that I came off a little too happy, too endearing, because the truth is I haven't felt like that in days. I was experience what my friends and i like to call "frownzing".
Frownsing: (adj. frown-zing) the act of, or activities related to frowning. Contemplating life, being generally jaded, or driven to watch porn. Facilitates lower states of energy, higher solitary presence at movie theatres and the Taco Bell line. Watching Sex and the City.
So not only was I happy to have met a cutie like Abby, I was happy to scare her away. It justified in my mind that my reality was doing the right thing. I was projecting an air of confidence I didn't have, even if the cute girl who works at the art gallery MIGHT have given me her number if i had just turned down the man-juice a notch.
Randomly, but not coincidentally, after I left the book store carefully protecting my copy of Lost World, I leaned against a wall and started talking to my friend on the phone. We were talking about the usual madness. Women, success, money, not having either of the three, you know the deal. At some point, Abby walked past--wearing a black shawl or something--but it was her. I saw her look at me, then look forward.
I made no attempt to say hello, or "de-man-ize" myself by saying. "Hey Abby!". I could just as easily do that by shouting "Hey Abbot!" for no reason, and i'd draw more stares. Abby walked off into the distance, reasonably tall and attractive, gone to probably manically paint in some studio apartment somewhere. Then I turned around and resumed my conversation.
The abbey thing reminds me of something. One of the key features of New York is women, women women. In fact this phenomenon can become a little bit annoying. Not the fact that the city is filled with beauties, but the fact that they walk so bloody fast. By the time you stop a girl to say hello, she's half a block away. Its that bad.
In the last few days, I've been sharing my apartment with super-author Michael Crichton. He's been in my bed, on my floor and once or twice in my bathroom. I've been reading a few of his books. I just read Next and Jurassic Park, and I grabbed Lost World yesterday. I'm not sure if I'm the laziest book reader ever--I don't like searching through books hoping i don't find a lemon--or if I'm just in a dinosaur/genetics mode right now. Either way, I need to feed my mind so I can start up my writing process. I need to kick start myself like an aging guitarist needs coke before a show. I need that high.
I think six to eight good books should get me writing again. Earlier this year, I read about fifteen or twenty books in the month of January, and not only did I write some of my most interesting blogs, but I was writing constantly. Ideas came from the depth of my insides, and spilled onto my keyboard into MS word and on dozens of tiny scraps of paper. I need that again. Time to contribute to the creative commons. I can "frownz" later
On a side note, this "scary" side of myself is pretty humorous. I went to a bar on Monday night and some girl started talking to me. A few minutes later the shortest Asian guy i've ever seen pats me on the back and tries to tell me to lay off the chick. (I didn't even know her name). I didn't find the event funny until two days later, when I remember some random dude asking me about his Russian friend who was visiting town. "You can see where i'm going with this right?" he says to me. It was hilarious. Not only was he cock-blocking me from a girl who's name I didn't know. But he was also being semi-threating about this girl, who spoke to ME and whom I didn't even remember.
.Maybe I really am scary
.Maybe I walk into places and people wonder who the f*ck is this maverick come to steal and impregnate our women! On Karaoke night nonetheless.
I wish.
Cheers to better days and less cock-blocking from dudes.
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