25 April 2014

Day Twenty-Five: April 25

Happy Anniversary to Me

I am tired from having looked at words and sentences all day to correct errors and fix misunderstandings ("recast sentences" as they say). This is something I do for pay. I am having a bit of a crisis with my book, though to say so feels hyperbolic in a When-have-you-ever-not-been-having-a-crisis sort of way. OK, OK. Leave me alone. I am thinking about going very far away. I am always thinking about going very far away. I have been surviving in New York City for 15 years on nuts and raisins, spinach and arugula, chicken bought pre-roasted from the store, yogurt, red wine, G&Ts, cigarettes and coffee. I am a walking cliche. I am in love with every person I see in New York City, still. I love the old Polish one-man-band who plays at the Union Square "L" platform, who also sometimes plays at the Bedford Ave "L" platform, whose music actually hurts my ears. I love the kid who's complaining about how much further he has to walk; I am in love with his mother who doesn't answer, who clearly spent quite a lot of time this morning making sure her son is dressed nice and that she is, too. I am in love with the woman who's just moved here, who's me 15 years ago, ready and willing and waiting for the city. She is flirting with a boy on the train, hanging one hand on the pole, leaning in to him just enough so that he can feel the heat of her body. The first thing I did when I moved to the city in April of 1999 was go to the OTB with my boyfriend at the time, because going to the OTB was something he did and there were still OTBs. I bet on a horse to win, and then I changed my mind for the horse to place, and I told the teller that I wanted to switch my bet, which I did, and I took my new ticket. Sure enough, the horse placed, and when I went to get my winnings, I noticed the teller didn't switch my bet right. I argued best I could, but what's on paper is what's on paper, so I didn't win. We also went to see David Blaine buried alive on 68th & Riverside Drive, the glass encasing him into a foggy depth, something like the cashier at the liquor store behind bullet-proof glass where we bought whisky that we drank by the liter by fireside in an old loft apartment on Broome Street, the cars in never-ending traffic below, inching to the Holland Tunnel. I wanted to be a writer. We made love in front of the fireplace. We laughed a lot and fought a lot and drank too much. I received two more rejections today. Folks sure do love to tell me how close I came. Apparently I am a very serious contender. I have forgotten most of my New Year's resolutions by now, but I think one of them was: Get my shit together. I think I wrote that down somewhere.

In celebration of National Poetry Month, I've taken on the Poem-a-Day Challenge. Thirty poems in thirty days. Yeeouch! Please visit my new website at sarahdohrmann.com for more info, news, events, and blah di blah blah. Thanks, and check back for more poems!

1 comment:

Ms. Dohrmann said...

The beauty of this piece is evidence enough that by getting it out, you are getting it together.
I love your resolve.