sobering

Soft music plays on my stereo. I wrote another letter I will never send. I am placid like a pond. My existence was laid bare because I have been forced to slow down and be conscious, something I don’t take naturally to. I am by nature rabid and frenzied, melodramatic and recklessly intuitive and fickle. I am resisting a great many things I’m addicted to, and in doing so I must be deliberate and disciplined like a good Protestant. I struggle of course but it feels good, to be in control, to not succumb, to muster a previously unforeseen strength. And it fills me with a refreshing pride. I find solace in my own steadfastness. I was reminded yesterday at work that I was in New York; it felt like I hadn’t been here for a long time. I don’t know how to account for this. But the East Village, which I am so in love with, Veselka, where I have such fun and which invites such quintessential New York characters, and a certain chaos combined to plunge me into this feeling of great admiration and belonging. Perhaps I’ve been too caught up in myself, oh so much ado about nothing. I walked to les, sold clothes, and watched a magnificent sunset from the J train. I sat in awe and accepted this as some kind of reward.

I spend money on train fare and few groceries and go to work and become close to my coworkers. I indulge in very little and act very rationally and all this has felt very satisfying. As I became summer, relishing debauchery and decadence, I become autumn and embrace my own Puritanism, like I'm paying off some kind of debt. I become careful and find control. I think of this favorably as very Carolyn Bassette, because she was so gracefully composed. I consider buying a very crisp, white button-down and camel skirt. Very seldomly I am bored by it because it is such a great challenge. 

My greatest recent indulgence: Monday night w and z met me at little poland for dinner after work. We were each exhausted and wanted only to sink into chairs and order a wonderfully dense meal. And so we did. Our sweet and blonde Polish waitress brought a cheap bottle of cabernet sauvignon, three glasses, a bowl of borscht, 8 pierogis, blintzes, and stuffed cabbage to our table by the window. The sky was impossibly black by 6pm. We ate and drank and I sniffed the rose they’d picked me on the way there in honor of my middle name. We talked about funeral conduct and gossip columnists. We laughed loudly because the wine went to our heads and concentrated in our cheeks. 

I think as a result of my existence being laid so bare, I am satisfied in very simple ways. Weekday dinners, the line cook remembering I like a cup of soup midshift, making an accomplished older couple laugh, a woman offering me her cart at the laundromat, being wished good morning. I find that in my mind being clear I am more open to others, and therefore very much at the mercy of others’ kindness. I could cry at any moment. I am deliberate and not so plagued by longing. I am plain, considered, and frank with myself. It is refreshing, this candor. I can't help but think, though, what this will give way to.