Another rant: Why do guys say that they'll call, even if it's clear that they have no intention of doing so? It just makes one feel doubly shitty. Bleh. Fuck you.

Then again, maybe it's karma. Yes, I did once end a relationship (well, I don't know if I'd call it that...perhaps a 3-4 month "association" is more accurate) by saying that I'd call...actually, promising that I'd call, giving my word, the whole shebang...but I never called. Then again, that was when I was in the throes of crisis, and knew that I could not handle his emotional immaturity. A self-protection thing. What these guys are doing is condescending, and makes me doubt the integrity of their word. If you don't want to talk to me again, don't pretend that you do. I'm perceptive enough to see it anyway. I don't need these silly little rituals. Oh wait, you perform them to make yourself feel better. Well, it's more unpleasant for the person being rejected, so stop it. Granted, I never thought you were hot shit anyway...with my "unreasonably high standards" and all.

In passing: A pale, pasty white guy with a high pitched voice was saying, "So there was this black girl, with very very dark dark skin"...yeah, I think we get the point. The extra "very" and "dark" are not necessary, dude.

First, a rant. There are areas in the city where the sidewalk is largely spanned by metal grates, with tiny solid paths between them. For some reason, probably psychological, people tend to move away from the grates and walk on the tiny solid paths instead. HOWEVER, when I am wearing fucking heels, I can't walk on the grates, since my heels will fall into the little openings and get stuck. And yet...people wearing sneakers and other non-heeled, broad-soled shoes, who obviously would not have these issues, walk on the tiny solid paths anyway, thus blocking my way. GET OUT OF MY WAY IF YOU ARE NOT WEARING HEELS. WALK ON THE GRATES...YOU WON'T FALL THROUGH THEM INTO THE SEWERS. Thank you.

It's amazing how easily annoyed I've become after living here. I've been muttering the phrase "stupid bint" under my breath constantly, whenever someone gets in my way as I'm trying to reach my destination in a timely fashion. I don't know how I'll deal with my imminent return to the South.

So, as always, I've been vacillating between medicine and not-medicine. I had pretty much decided on medicine until I went to an MFA reading at Columbia, to hear my father's college friend who recently finished her poetry degree there. And...it was just like the open-mike events I held, except that there was an abundance of people who actually wanted to be there. And the readers were such a diverse group who opened themselves up completely, whether to share bits of their poignant-but-somewhat-cliche memoirs, pedestrian fiction, charmingly simple poetry, or fantastic mind-games and artful literary constructions. There was one guy, a more classically handsome Jeff Tweedy-type with overgrown wayward tendrils of just-got-out-of-bed hair, well-worn jeans, lazy crackling-fire voice, and sleepy eyes...he read the most amazing anti-fairy tale about a parent who loathed his afflicted, limbless children and concocted all sorts of schemes to get rid of them. Although it was quite dark and nasty, it was also inventive and funny and beautiful and unexpected. I got warm prickles down my spine, and just felt ridiculously happy while hearing it. Of course, at this point, I immediately wanted to do an MFA in writing instead of returning to medicine. Not only because I love creative writing and want to improve my skills, and actually complete something of which I can be proud, but also to meet and hang out with people like him. Like a dork, I did end up writing him an excruciatingly self-conscious e-mail, telling him that I liked his story. He wrote back, but in typical me-fashion, I have yet to work up the nerve to read it.

But then today I finished Jonathan Kozol's Amazing Grace, and once again I feel like escaping into the world of art or academia would be very intellectually stimulating, and would certainly tap into my passions, but would also be utterly selfish. There's so much work to be done in order to improve the everyday conditions of people's lives, and medicine is a much more practical way to do this. I wish I were more interested in family practice, because of course that's the most logical way to reach the poor and underserved, but I got very little enjoyment out of my family medicine rotation...largely because it was too general, and most of the work was too unchallenging. Perhaps I should consider infectious diseases more strongly. While I disagree with my college PI take on oncology, which he called "the disease of the rich," it does not seem to be as immediately helpful for the health crisis of the poor...it would only involve a select few, rather than impact the bulk of the poor population. However, oncology also offers an opportunity to ostensibly heal people, or at least help them come to terms with death, and die with as many choices possible, in the most humane way possible. Weirdly enough, part of the job is like being a midwife to death. And for some reason, that kinda appeals to me. Maybe because it helps me come to terms with my own turbulent, complicated feelings about death.

Next book on my list is Baghdad Burning: Girl Blog in Iraq.

More interesting things I've seen and experienced around the city:

1) A guy jogging by himself in Central Park, wearing a tank top that said "Group Leader" in orange on the back. Maybe he used to be a group leader, but no longer is? Or maybe he is currently a group leader after all, but a really bad one? Or maybe he has a sense of humor about what he wears, and wanted to make the irony known?

2) A lost beaded bracelet on 5th avenue, forlorn without the wrist it used to encircle.

3) A group of Eastern European immigrants on the elevator, all dressed in head-to-toe black. The man had a massive white beard and a black hat, and the women wore dresses and black fabric over their hair. They were bickering loudly, and were so stereotypical that I wondered if they were actors.

4) The guy who outlandishly claimed I was a "supermodel" (yeah, okay, on what planet?). When I went to John Cameron Mitchell's birthday party, I put together an outfit which I hoped evoked a punk ballerina (sparkly lavender poofy ballerina-esque skirt, mandarin-collar sheer black shirt with metal hook ties, black fishnets, black ankle strap shoes, smokey eyes/pale lips), but ended up more Avril Lavigne. Bleh. Anyway, a homeless guy on the subway said that I looked "like a supermodel." I laughed and pointed out that I was about a foot too short. He then said that he wanted to escort me to wherever I was going. And then I got creeped out, smiled, and said I'd be fine.

5) The Christopher Brosius I Hate Perfume store in Brooklyn. Christopher Brosius founded the great fragrance line Demeter (known for its bizarre, curiously accurate, often humorous fragrances, such as Funeral Home, Sugar Cookie, Dirt, Mojito, and This is Not A Pipe), and also made Alan Cumming's eponymous fragrance. He transformed an old garage in Brooklyn into a perfumerie (called, curiously enough, "I hate perfume"), with loads of different single note scents grouped by category: water, wood, sweet, skin, foody, floral, fruity, etc. Some of the weirder scents included roast beef, skunk, Easter 1967, barber shop, thai curry, rubber cement, ink, and English novel. I spoke at length with the cute bearded Swedish sales assistant who wore flip-flops and well-worn jeans. When I asked him if I could try the daffodil fragrance, he admitted that he didn't know what daffodils were. He asked if they were Easter flowers, and quickly confused them with lilies. I attempted an explanation using the phrase "yellow frilly trumpets." I asked him what he was wearing, and he saucily said that it was Demeter ("Day-may-ter" in his accent) Riding Crop. I ended up purchasing a 15 mL vial of Mediterranean, which immediately brought me back to the rocky (non-sandy) beaches of Nice (oh, how I miss the south of France!), but I think I'll have to go back for Macadamian Coffee, Petal on Water, and Ginger Lily. And possibly Siberian fir and English novel.

Some interesting things I saw today:

1) A white truck with the words "Dead Baby Services" written in black above the windshield. There was a baby doll in a pink dress strapped to the front grid part. She had black x's over her eyes, and a reddened bandage around her head.

2) A man outside of St.Patrick's cathedral, who wore feathers on his head and made rather authentic chirping bird sounds, freaking out the tourists and passersby.

3) A row of naked child mannequins in the window of Daffy's, presenting their plastic asses and spread-eagled legs.

4) Numerous firm, spandex-clad posteriors of cyclists as I jogged in Central Park

5) Purplish-black tulips, with a brilliant sheen reminiscent of a dark horse's well-brushed coat

6) The Basquiat exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. The Charlie Parker room was astounding. More about that soon.

I've always been a shitty poetess. That said, this is a poem I wrote today, while bored out of my mind at work.

Coffee

I grasp a styrofoam cup filled with coffee
Heat seeps into the skin of my fingertips
When I touched the skin on your chest
The heat of your blood seeped into my fingertips
The ghostly steam swirls upwards
Into the frozen air of February
Your ghostly breath swirled outwards as you sighed
Into the frozen air of December
I press my lips against the lips of the cup
Its saliva is bitter and black on my tongue
I pressed my lips against the lips of your mouth
Your saliva was bitter and white on my tongue
The cup grows cold in my hands
I shiver
Your affection grew cold
You slipped away from my hands
I shiver

Cell phone conversation I overheard on 8th Avenue: "You gotta get the cum shot...when he cums all over her face, you gotta tilt the angle just so..." The speaker was a burly guy with creative facial hair, sporting a green sweat suit and a navy baseball cap.

*sigh* I'm going to miss NY so much!

Diane Arbus

I was not a fan of Diane Arbus, from what little I knew of her work. I first became acquainted with her photographs in college, when I took Professor Weinberg’s fabulous 20^th century American Art history class. He pointed out her preoccupation with freaks and weirdos, with slides of her photographs depicting twins, giants, circus performers, and transvestites. While I shared Arbus’ fascination with eccentrics and subcultures, I found her photographs bleak and devoid of empathy. She seemed to use her camera to examine people as curious objects, like an etymologist who catalogues different kinds of beetles and butterflies. She did not seem interested in exploring the humanity of those whom she photographed. While my favorite photographer, Nan Goldin, also took pictures of drag queens and eccentrics, she considered them to be her friends and family. Significantly, she often took pictures of herself amongst them. While Arbus took pictures of strange objects who happened to be people, Nan Goldin took pictures of life happening before her eyes. One key manifestation of this difference is in their respective use of color. Arbus’ photographs are black and white, static, preoccupied with the contrasts in light and texture. Her subjects almost seem coached to display a blank affect—to stare at the camera with empty eyes, or to look off into space with a disinterested expression. Their personalities do not distract from their appearance, whether mundane or bizarre. While Goldin also has formal concerns, her work bursts with garish color, and often the subjects are in movement, losing clarity of line and texture. Her subjects are conscious of the camera, but appear to present themselves as they wish—with a coy, seductive gaze, or a dismissive sideways glance. As you’ve probably guessed, I much prefer Goldin’s work.

I decided to go to the Met to check out the current Diane Arbus exhibit, even though I wasn’t a fan. I knew that she had committed suicide. I was curious to learn more about her life.

Surprise, surprise, I actually liked much of her early work. It reminded me of the current Marc Jacobs advertisements, which were probably somehow influenced by her photographs. The stark, elegiac compositions also reminded me a lot of the imagery of the television show Six Feet Under. There was an ethereal black-and-white photograph of a castle in Disneyworld, which nearly took my breath away. How embarrassing, to have such a reacting to a photograph of a Disney theme park creation! But that photograph was stunning. There were also some great ones of 1950’s kids, decked out all James Dean-style, with overly greased hair, defiant eyes, pouty lips recently bereft of cigarettes. One photograph of a kid in a pool hall, of course, reminded me of an ex who was an avid pool player. I think he would have gotten a kick out of that one. I had been so caught up in her subject matter, and her attitude towards it, that I failed to notice the formal artistry of her photographs. All in all, I was actually enjoying myself, while expanding my visual vocabulary.

I really appreciated the inclusion of personal artifacts. There were pages from notebooks, reproduced scribbles and lists, her cameras, postcards, letters, and even a model bookshelf. There were pangs of recognition when I read her thoughts about Plato, and descriptions of her dreams...for a second I thought, yes, I'm like her. An artist. But without a medium, and without discernibly outstanding talent.

The most difficult part of the exhibition was the last group of photographs, those taken from 1970-1971 before her suicide. Most of them depicted middle-aged and elderly adults in an insane asylum. They played on the grass, or walked in groups, clutching each other and laughing maniacally. They wore robes, and some of them wore sinister masks. Most of them had their faces stretched into wide, blank, mindless smiles. Both masked and unmasked, they were amongst the only smiling subjects seen in the entire collection. These images were like the dream projections of a profoundly tortured soul, and were almost unbearable for me to view.

Leaving the museum, and re-entering a world of color, I was struck by how beautiful the world was. A cheesy sentiment, I know, but true. Trees heavy with abundant pink and white blossoms. Graceful arches of green leafed branches overhead. None of this beauty was in Arbus' photographs...I wonder if she could see it, appreciate it? Or if her cloud of depression prevented her from seeing anything but outward reflections of her own misery?

I also wonder about whether Arbus wanted to be treated, or should have been treated...would she have lost her art if she also lost her depression? Would she have been willing to take that risk? Is sacrificing one's own mental health worth producing something extraordinary which will survive, which will seep into the souls of others, after your death? I worried about this when I was a freshman in college...I associated my depression with improved creative ability. And I'm not sure I was wrong...I read some of the stuff I wrote back then, and despite the lack of focus, it's wild and beautiful and crazy, almost brilliant. I can't even imagine creating anything like that right now. Although I ultimately chose my mental health over my creativity and artistry, sometimes I do wonder what I lost in the process.