The public gaze

When one is walking around the busy streets of Manhattan with a disfiguring injury to one's face, as I was today, one must prepared for the intrusive stares of one's fellow New Yorkers. I've noticed this phenomenon before. When I got into a bicycle accident in 1996 and had two black eyes, even the freaking freaks on the street were looking at me like I was the freak. Staring, even. I think that when people see a freak, they feel as though they are one rung up from the freak in life, and can thus take certain liberties in dealing with them. People gaze openly at the injured, the homeless, the people walking down the street helplessly crying. Like as though we are paintings, or small children. Give us a modicum of privacy!

When I was still in college, my friend Kristin had a binder filled with freaks. I think she curated the binder to include freaks from popular media, but she had also surreptitiously taken pictures of students around the campus whom she deemed subhuman. One that I remember was "Fetus Girl," who was a woman with soft, puffy skin, who did somewhat resemble a fetus who was born prematurely but lived in spite of that. Hers was an unfortunate lot, but I thought what I thought about her and moved on. No need for me to immortalize her like Kristin did! I wonder what happened to Fetus Girl? (She's probably dead by now.)

Whenever I see an unfortunate soul walking towards me on the street, I immediately look away. This includes people in wheelchairs, junkies partially levitating during some nod-out, and celebrities. (Although I did see Ewan McGregor on the street outside work today, and I looked at him - twice - with extreme curtness, just to confirm to myself that it was indeed him). I remember the writer Jean Rhys' book Good Morning Midnight, when the narrator, down on her luck, notices out of the corner of her eye that another woman on her train is staring at her. The narrator tries to stare her down, but the woman won't look away. The narrator wonders: What kind of person would continue to stare at you when you have caught them in the act? Her answer: The same kind who would have gone to a burning at the stake and locked eyes with the immolated as they were burned alive.

People at work kept coming up to me and asking me, "What happened?" I was tempted to reply, "I'm dating someone new. I guess this means he loves me?" But I knew that people would complain about me to my boss if I did that, so I told them the horribly simple truth: I was tripped. Towards the middle of the day, I had become so self-conscious about my near-mortal wound that I began to wish that I could go away to that place that I long for sometimes. The little white room in a hospital where I lie in bed and think about nothing, while nurses come and go, soothing my forehead with a cool cloth. But then I went to the gym and did abs, and then I didn't feel that bad.

Shopping in Philly

Sensing a temporary lull in the crushing workload at the office, I booked myself a trip to Philadelphia. My favorite American city, Philadelphia is home to cheese steaks, much racial tension, and a Latino queen who smiled at me 13 years ago in a Philly nightclub, making me love the city and forever visit it, looking for him in vain, somewhat insanely. It is also home to BalletX, the dance troupe formed by Matthew Neenan, a choreographer I like, so I timed my trip to coincide with something they were doing.

Although I am not creatively stagnant currently (I have been reviewing books at a somewhat steady pace, and I've been doing a weekly songwriting workshop with my heroes Lori Carson and Beth Sorrentino - from my all-time favorite band, suddenly, Tammy! - and Lori's friend Matt Keating) my novel has gone neglected over these past few months. So I was hoping that a trip to Philly would rejuvenate me. Sometimes trips do that for me. Sometimes deaths in the family do, as well.

I realized as soon as I arrived in Philadelphia that my cat tee shirts would not be enough to shield me from the elements (it was really cold there), and I spent a few hours wandering about, looking for a long-sleeved shirt option. For some reason, I became very moved while shopping, which usually doesn't happen. As I passed a Macy's, in fact, I had to blink back tears. What made me so emotional? The solitude of traveling solo? The strange economic disparity that you aren't shielded from at all in Philadelphia, unlike how it is in NY? The upcoming holidays, and a sense of empathy for the down and out in America? God knows, I have been up and I have been down in my life. Right now, I'm okay, and I want to give this year. Give, give, give. I am going to buy, like, a thousand canned goods for the Harper can drive, I swear. And because I am the team captain for my floor, we will win because of it, and I will get the glory that I always seek, that I must have. I selected this shirt, a simple shell, really, from the Gap, along with another shirt from Urban Outfitters. God, remember when it was cool to shop at the Gap? I put one of the shirts on without washing it first, which is novel for me, and it kept me warm.

As I wandered around the stores and streets of Philadelphia, I was transported back in time to when I lived in San Francisco 15 years ago. I often spent whole days and nights wandering the streets (that's what my novel is about), in complete solitude, except when Nefretiti or Dagsy or Hilz or Joshie or Splendido were free for some fun. The near-total, awful, loneliness I felt during the year I lived there still makes me feel sorry for that young man who I was back then. But I became such a fan then, too. I discovered Barbara Manning, Paula Frazer, Jean Rhys, and many other huge influences on my craft while living in SF. I also discovered the simple joy of drinking bottles of whiskey when there's nothing else to do, which, too, became a huge influence.

In Philadelphia this week, I indeed was rejuvenated, and I wrote for a few hours in my novel. Now, instead of having 239 pages, I have 240 pages. Woo-hoo, I know. But really, it did give me the jumpstart I needed. I came back, rushed to Michelle's bday dinner, rushed to meet Suzanne for "Melancholia," and I've been rushing ever since, really. Philadelphia, I love you and your streets, your cheese steaks and your gayborhood, your "Fresh Air" and your peace. I will visit you again when I can, soonest.