Rife with Strife

Let me try to write a blog entry Thomas style, with curt sentences and summations here and there :-)

Last week I sped through my second to last week of classes. It was such a blur. But this blur started nearly four months ago when senioritis was in full bloom. I'm using this word "senioritis" because it allows me to make sense of why I went to my classes but my mind wasn't there. Like I was in class but I wasn't in class. I had this lapse of time where I would blanket myself in sleep or doze off in class because I faintly pursuaded myself that it didn't matter; I was going to get all A's and my professors would shower me with love and pats on the back. This is definitely not turning out to be a fairy tale ending. This semester is slowing to a halt and I'm becoming upset. I'm upset because it won't end; it won't die, it won't quit. It's like a bad movie that keeps coming back like Hostel series or Final Destination series. But honestly (I use this word like breakfast; I throw it around. I hope I don't throw words like "love" around or "sorry" even though New Yorkers love saying sorry sporadically. But they do do it in defense or problem-aversion with strangers) I smile at this semester because I've made some pretty cool friends and I was able to do other things around my schedule.

What I hate about graduating is the sense of being lost. I am about to have no life if what life consisted of before I graduated was school, school, and school. Though hanging out with friends will persist to a certain degree given that most of my friends will be "working," or busy finding work or just not present, I cannot make my future so grim. It doesn't give me any sliver of hope if I keep sniffing my own shit. I depend on school for my own gain: to ground me with a set schedule so that I can wake up Monday through Friday with a purpose in life, with a goal, with a plan*. I bring the motivation and attention. It's not what your school can do for you but what you can do for your school...fuck that! I applaud my graduation because I get to wave goodbye to the academic system for good unless my parents trickle down my spine and steer me towards graduate school which is when I will impale myself on my guitar. The reason why I'm typing this is because I feel like I have wasted my four years in college which does not point me towards a guaranteed path and it doesn't supply me with the proper people who will hook me up with work. The truth is nothing is guaranteed and there are other people like me who are unemployed and sitting ducks. But to think that I'm not alone is not helpful either because it creates a pity party: it's my party and I'll cry if I want to, ok bad example. I had expected my degree to be worth something, which it is. However I have changed my concentration to writing because of skewed beliefs that I will become a successful writer. But my vision of becoming a famous is somehow illusory; I use the word famous because that is what I want to be; I think in terms of polarities---there is no grey area in between, I can't be a neighborhood celeb I need to be worldwide published famous otherwise no one will read my shit---call this greedy, avaricious, or sell-out, but I need to garner a mass audience to make the money. And currently a lot of money is what I aim for especially because my homeboy has explicitly typed to me that he "loves money" and that to him "you (referring to me) love bags." School gives me a day plan so when I leave in two/three days I won't have a schedule anymore, possibly forever. My Dad would preemptorily say to me "Hing hawk, mo see dook lah," which means stop school, no more education lah. My Dad has been schooling for over eight years as he told me, hopping from BMCC to Baruch. He loves education so it's plain obvious why he would bolt me to a classroom chair.

Ok I'm starting to forget that I'm writing in Thomas style and I'm reverting to my own style. SIGH.

I woke up to my parents leaving for shopping which they do every Sunday morning from 10AM to nearly 2PM. This is my away time from them which is faintly normal because I don't have gorillas when I'm with them. Especially the somnolent morning I woke up to and Pam's messaging me. The reason why I devote my morning to her is not because I would not have but because it is urgent and because I care about her well-being and her current state. I use the word devote not to make myself sound oh-so-caring and mighty friend to all but because I do devote this time. It's also not a I-owe-you-some-time-for-the-times-we-didn't-talk session because this session is special and it's recuperative. I faulted on Pam because I was slightly jealous of her drive (because I think in polarity), I was jealous (there is no in between jealousy, it's either all out or none) of her potential that I felt was a shallow pool inside of myself. She had an ocean and I had a tiny backyard pool for one kid. Also my busking sessions are mostly for myself because they are sessions for me to show off, to get money, to be noticed for me. It is usually a spot for me to gloat, so to bring in others only lessen this time to do me. The only two exceptions I make are: fellow musicians and crushes. That was why I brought Julianna, Hien, and Pam for being the former reason.

I am dismayed that I get gay dudes hitting on me and complimenting me and taking videos of me while I busk. I ask Where has the women gone? Why are they throwing dollars at me but not pursuing me? If the stark reason is that NYC subways are not a befitting place to meet someone, especially a potential partner, then that is a lame excuse. But then again I ask myself have I considered asking someone out on the train...nope. Ok, case closed. SIGH. I want someone to step up and get to know me (this is placing express responsibility on the other person to patronize me [selfish in a narcissistic sense]) but it does displace the idea that guys ask girls norm. However trying to beat one norm does not attest to its supposedly promotion of this counter-norm.

Last night there was this cute hipster girl who gave me a dollar and sat down on the bench with her legs folded up on the seat, tucked in close to her. But she seemed partially dismayed or weighed down. Her smile for me was rationed and I could tell she had finished something unwanted before entering the subway station. So I left her to disappear onto the train. It is moments like these similar to the one half a year ago in West 4th Street where this Chinese girl (possibly from NYU; this assumption is because the station is close to NYU which is known [to me] for Asian girls) stopped next to the pillar beside me and listened to all three of my songs and complimented me a few times. Either she came out of a really cool event that made her happy and in the mood for complimenting talented people maybe because she was at a concert or something, or she genuinely liked me, or she had a shit night and she liked the fact that I could lift her, or maybe anything else could have lifted her like a monkey dancing or a dog prancing. But why can't I be happy for the sheer fact that she complimented me, smiled at me, and listened to me? Did I ask for too much? (YES!) I guess I had wanted to ask me for my card or maybe if she handed me a dollar and told me, "don't put that dollar in with those, please put it in your pocket." Unbeknowst to why she said that I would go home and when I am counting the money I made I would come across with her isolated dollar, unfold it, and then read her cursory Sharpie marker, "Hi you're cute, call me..." But this is such a terrible fantasy because A, when will she have the time to write me a message if she's been listening to my three songs straight? And B, who carries a Sharpie??!! Apparently my fantasies are watered down by what I deem as reality versus fantasy.