Deadline

I have an article deadline tomorrow and I had hoped to be done with it by 4AM, but I look at how much I have left to write and it's becoming clear that 6AM is probably a less ambitious goal. If I hadn't spent an hour surfing the web and dicking around, I would probably be in better shape but still, as I dig into each segment, I keep finding more to research, less words left to use. I'm determined to finish before I sleep though. I've found lately that if I don't, I end up lying awake until the sun comes up obsessing. Am I choosing the right products to feature? Is the research I gathered accurate? What am I going to write about that item? Will I get the images from PR in time?

Yesterday I stayed up until 4:30AM finishing another article. I sent it to my editor with a cute little note about how my last article was sent a few hours later than I had promised, so I was sending this one was a few hours early. I still spent the rest of the night obsessing. Did I miss any typos? Did I Google all the names? Is he going to think I picked stupid things to write about? Did I repeat certain words too many times? I didn't fall asleep until after listening to my father's alarm go off, him brushing his teeth and shaving and leaving for work. When I woke up, there was an email from my editor saying that I had forgotten to attach the file. All attempts at cuteness never go unpunished. Then I didn't even re-read it before I sent it off again. I only obsess when it's inconvenient for me.

Lately, I get really uncomfortable when divulge something remotely personal (even if it isn't all that personal) and I don't get the response I'm expecting. I think that freelancing has put me in a position of constant judgment and I spend the whole day beating myself up that when everyday life "judges" me, it stings a little more. This happens mostly when I try to be creative. I don't have much issue with writing these op-ed type pieces up here or regurgitating information for articles, but it's very rare that I let someone see any of the scenes I jot in my notepads or the stories I start and never finish on my laptop. Sometimes I'll give someone a peek though and then I immediately wish I could take it back.

I think I have some form of obsessive-compulsive disorder.

-L

Spring

Spring training officially begins for the Mets today, and how appropriate that the new Sports Illustrated arrives in the mail today too featuring a beaming Johan Santana sporting his new Mets uniform. Even though it's still fucking freezing in New York I'm already feeling the warm buzz of spring.

T-minus 39 days until Opening Day.

-L

Her Kind

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

I have found the warm caves in the woods,
filled them with skillets, carvings, shelves,
closets, silks, innumerable goods;
fixed the suppers for the worms and the elves:
whining, rearranging the disaligned.
A woman like that is misunderstood.
I have been her kind.

I have ridden in your cart, driver,
waved my nude arms at villages going by,
learning the last bright routes, survivor
where your flames still bite my thigh
and my ribs crack where your wheels wind.
A woman like that is not ashamed to die.
I have been her kind.

-Anne Sexton

In a college poetry class, one of our assignments was to memorize a poem and "perform" it in front of the class. I chose this one. When my professor asked me why I picked it, I said, "Because she's empowered by her insanity." In the end though, I guess it didn't work out too well for her because she killed herself, or maybe, as the second to last line indicates, that's why she killed herself.

I'm not all that into poetry anymore, but this has been my favorite poem ever since I first read and reread and reread it. I think it embodies everything about how I view myself. Just completely crazy and uncomfortable and not giving a shit and caring too much and hating it and loving it and wanting to be everywhere and curled up in a ball in the middle of nowhere all at once.

If I could live inside my head, I'd create a very nice world for myself.

-L

Gummy Bear

I look through my notepad and find the lone sentence: "I ate a giant gummy bear."

I haven't jotted down any context and I can't remember what it means or why I felt compelled to write it. What's more, it's written in the pad I carry around on job interviews, so there is no drug- or alcohol-fueled excuse for it. No night of barhopping in the East Village that resulted in a curious discussion about gummy bears, worms, cola bottles or other gelatinous, slightly translucent chewy sweets. Which mindless and ultimately failed attempt at full-time employment inspired me to write something so surreal?

I have never consumed a gummy bear of inordinate size, but now I'm convinced that doing so will unlock the door to a secret fifth dimension where you walk around holding hands with giant candy bears.

-L

Good weekend for New Yawk

"So what's your prediction?" the Eldest Bro asked me yesterday afternoon as I boiled water for dumplings.

"27-24, Giants," I said flatly.

"Really?"

"Oh, wait. No, it won't go that high. 17-14, Giants."

And what do you know? I don't attest to being some sort of hardcore Giants fan. Football is a sport I've only recently begun to understand/enjoy, and I grew up preferring the Jets. But gotdamn. It was cool seeing them beat the Cowboys. It was surprising seeing them beat the Packers (especially with that crazy field goal). But last night was just fucking shocking. That was a pretty surreal/slow/interesting/weird/awesome/confusing/OHMYGOD HE CAUGHT IT! game (that I should have put money on), and it was worth it just to see the up-their-own-ass Patriots lose, give Boston fans (most of whom have become unbearably smug) one less thing to brag about and just be really fucking surprised. And if the death blow was delivered by New York, all the better.

But all the Super Bowl craziness cast a shadow on news that made me just as happy to be a New York sports fan. Six years of Johan Santana makes me feel a little better that they traded Lastings Milledge for Q-Tips and coconut jellybeans, and I think the Mets need to atone for last season and give Shea a proper send off in the World Series.

Oh, and the Rangers won something this weekend too.

-L