Gata

Si deodata vine un film, o prostie, care nici nu e legata de ce mi s-a intamplat, dar care ma face sa imi dau seama ca nu mai am niciun regret. Vinovatia s-a dus, nu regret nimic, si ma bucur ca am avut acea experienta, pentru ca acuma stiu cum e. Si desi a durut ca frasu, si m-am chinuit ca frasu, ma bucur ca e acolo, izvor neincetat de empatie. Be kind to yourself, I tell myself. You're a good person.

Some Train Magic (lived and written by Michael)

While clutching an obscure Illyrian fable, I slump where I sit. My drowsiness always infects me on this daily trek home. I sometimes slip into another land with gnarly creatures and warm blankets. The head dips for 3, 4 or 5 minutes and then snaps up violently into the same sunny world I left. I quickly regain my composure even though my heart races. I blink a few times to clear the cobwebs. This is the commute home on the train in Atlanta.
You expect grim, exhausted workers to pile on at various stops on the North-South line. They come in short gaggles at first. Then, as you get closer to the city center, they squeeze on. It's usually not a crush though, just a full procession.

On some days you get the over-enthusiastic, sexless, hockey-bound fan (affectionately know as a "Thrasher"). They always have too much energy for us- the plebeians. Everyone quietly abhors these silly white males. We also abhor the cheery, careless shoppers and the frequently talkative conventioneers who bip around the city or to the airport.

From time to time an angry young black male and his hyped up white "girlfriend" storm on without sitting very close to one another. The distance means nothing however. He owns her. Some might think they're quarrelling sweethearts. They might be pouting because one or the other may have forgotten an anniversary. I wish this were true. Look closer. You'll see the track marks. You'll see the heavy dark furrowed brows and the baggy eyes from a young life spent in desperation. Sparks of acid fly from his lips as he admonishes her. She stares and kills all of man's lechery. As a bystander you don't want to look too hard, but for the life of me I'm drawn to the scene like a magnet. The dynamic is so different from others on board. It's that rubbernecking phenomenon. I have to find out more and…see something.

We ramble on, hoping for an exciting or at least interesting-looking character to make a cameo on our otherwise mundane trip home. I got a treat at Peachtree Center the other day. A very large rolling trunk preceded them. They began talking about, uh, I don't know. Something about how awkward the luggage seemed. They wanted to be heard and seen. One guy immediately spotted the tall, blond woman across from him. He gave a look from time to time, sensing he had a shot at her. His overconfidence surprised me. I mean, he's like this balding middle-aged man. Who wants that?

His "just past middle age" companion surrounded the trunk. It must have been important. To acknowledge his male prowess, the bald guy kept winking and nodding to his buddy like they were famous celebs. We all watched these idiots from our seats. I frowned at the absurdity. They couldn't be anything. They just looked like well scrubbed losers.

I watched for slip ups.

The bald guy kept up his, now creepy, leering at the blond. She readjusted her luggage and kept her gaze away from him.

The companion, a little too loudly, said, "I think that third act went pretty well, don't you?"

Bald guy said, "Yeahhhh…but I need to tweak it you know. I'm not sure there was enough suspense."

Jesus! Could these guys talk a little louder? Do we really need to know they are entertainers of some sort? Entertainers!

Well, with their comment and the huge stand-up trunk, they got the attention they thought they deserved. More power to them. They had no idea.



An eager young guy standing next to them asked, "What do you do?"

In a flat tone the bald guy answered, "We're magicians. We're here for a conference. Just got finished."

They were just asking for trouble now.

Some gold-toothed young guy next to me stood up in a weird hunched posture to impart, "What do y'all think of Chris Angel? You think it's real?"

They just nodded, sensing they'd opened the wrong can o' worms.

The ubiquitous crack whore who'd gotten on at Garnett exclaimed, "Ooh, I like magic. What y'all do?"

Bald guy said politely- the way celebrities talk down to the peons on the street, "We do some card tricks and some acts of illusion."

She then moved in and asked, "Can you make me disappear?"

Standing companion man replied, "Uh, no- not here." He smiled uncomfortably.

Crack whore with no teeth handed them a bag of chili Cheetos.

"Take it. I want you to have it," she said.

"No thanks. That's nice, but we're really not hungry," said bald boy.

Crack whore vehemently placed it in front of his face. He declined again and looked a bit flustered. Like: How am I gonna get out of this? She loudly snatched them back, sat back down and turned her backside to them damn magicians. She opened the bag and started gumming her snack.

The guy next to me, whom I mentioned before, said, "I'll take those Cheetos." She didn't answer and just kept on munching.

In the meantime more interested passengers descended upon the magic boys. One guy asked if they played Vegas- they had.

"We like to play Atlantic City more though, cause our home is in New York. I like the Hip Hop scene more there," said the standing magic man.

What a weird comment from some guy at least 55 yrs old. I know he was attempting to follow through on the Hip Hop world by wearing baggy Sean John blue jeans and a fluorescent colored Yankees hat, tilted to the side, but come on. He's not fooling anyone. He ain't just "Jenny from the block." He's some middle-upper class Jew that's foolishly dressed like Usher on his day off. What a comical sight. With the "Hip Hop" segue, he thought he'd engage black people in a conversation about rap.

"Do you know Cool G Rap? He's from my town-Queens. You been there?" said the oldest rap fan in the world.

"I'm from Jamaica. You know that?" some older black man asked.

"Yeah- well, that's my old stomping ground. You must know Ali Vegas? No? Well, we go way back. I used to hang out wit him all the time. He's a good guy."

Old Jew hip hopper name dropped some more without an inkling of recognition on his audience's part. You could see him sinking through the floor. He then pulled out his "bullshit" ace in the hole story about Ja Rule. I don't remember it. I just know of its fabricated nature. These guys couldn't have any real connections. If they did, they'd have told them not to ride MARTA with a full-sized trunk.

At some point, Oakland City for those in the know, the crack whore left. Bald guy attempted to thank her again.

"Hey, thanks a lot. We really did appreciate your gesture."

She sassily veered away and walked off with her bag of Cheetos. She didn't disappear. She just staggered out into her world.

Home, Acasa

I have been home for exactly 18 days. I drank many beers, I had a throat infection, a foot pain, some fights with my mom. I saw bad plays, I met good friends, I walked and ran and lost some weight. I went to Andreea and Tudor's wedding, Casa De Piatra!

I got a haircut. I didn't touch one page of my General Exam readings. I didn't read a lot of blogs, I didn't take many pictures, I just lived from day to day. It's my one month of exuberance and disorganization.

I miss Michael.

I think I know how old people feel when memory fails them. I don't remember street names in my hometown. People mention street names, and they all sound familiar to me, but I just can't remember exactly where they are. I manage to get places, but I do it automatically. I just find my way around.

Some things I'll never understand

We were on the train yesterday coming home from work/school. A White woman got on, carrying several suitcases, obviously going to the airport. A couple of stops later, it just so happened that several Black people got on the train at the same time. The White woman immediately turned her diamond ring on her finger, so that the diamond was on the inside of her palm. It's been almost 24 hours of thinking about it, and I still don't get it. Did she think a Black person will just rush at her finger, pulling her ring off? Was she afraid of the Black mother carrying her child or the nice 50 year-old Black guy reading a book on how to fix a dishwasher? Some things I'll never understand.