THE HAPPY MISANTHROPE by Wendy James 09/17/10
It's a hellava thing to wake up in New York City, in an instant, around 7am, open my eyes in the direction of the window where the curtains are drawn and the glass pulled as high as it will go to let in the fresh air through the night and see a perfect azure blue sky on top and sunlight pouring down onto the buildings opposite.
The green leafy trees of my street gently blowing in the summer breeze and just the sound of the garbage men making their first route down the street picking up the large piles of trash bags collected neatly outside each apartment block by the superintendents of each apartment block, separated into recycling colors for glass, paper products and other.
Stretch out so my legs hang over the edge of the bed and look over the side of the bed for the TV remote, turn on the television and see what the political pundits are debating this morning.
Pull on a pair of shorts and t-shirt, a pair of flats, splash some water over my face, grab my keys and my wallet and head down to the street. Walk to the corner, take a left to my deli. The people in there serving are just handing off the night shift into the day shift. They know me, I've been doing this routine for 9 years now.
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I walk straight through the centre isle to where the DIY coffee options are laid out and pour myself a regular cup of $1 coffee, head back to the check-out counter and put my loose change on the surface. I keep my loose change for my morning coffees.
The lady usually says "See you later" I never answer because I think it is a presumption that anyone be able to predict what I'll be doing later… I mean, how does she know I will definitely be back in later? I reserve my right not to be back in later. I definitely reserve my right not to become personally accessible to anyone to the point of predictability. I might say "Thank You" to cut off any conversation right there. I am not a a conversation seeker.
Sometimes there is a queue in the deli and I watch the people in front of me and unwillingly hear them over the sound of the classical music playing on the intercom sound-system. They take their time and they have a whole conversation about "A tree got knocked down by the thunder storm two nights ago but they cleared it out the way within an hour", or "How often she goes back to Korea?" "Once a year".
I think "Jesus Fucking Christ who needs this kind of conversation in the morning? or anytime for that matter." It's the same with people in the bank. They actually engage the bank tellers as if they are their friends. I mean "Come on people, I'm trying to get in and out of the process here as quickly as possible. Fuck."
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Still that was new to me, I'd never seen that done in England, so I guess I must have sat on lots of dog-shit stained couches in my time. I walk by the guy with the dog, do not look at him, but extend my gaze into the distance up the length of my street until I can see Broadway running by. It's a miracle. It's a miracle of weird and wonderful self determination that I am a resident in New York City. I love this place. And now I live here.
I mean, I live in downtown Manhattan and it feels like home. If I had to re-trace all the different stages of life I've had to live through to end up here, well the list would be so long. And if you were starting out at the beginning of the list, you'd think to yourself… "This is impossible. I'm never going to manage to do all these different stages".
But things only happen in the now, so one day achieves as much as another in some way or other and gradually you find yourself in the place that once existed only as a hazy ideal image in your dreaming mind, and now here you are. Actually in It. The power of wanting something is very durable.
I cross the street diagonally and back toward my apartment building. The building security code is disabled so I walk into the anteroom where you place your door key, put in my key and the door clicks open… through the marble hallway, kind of nouveau Art Nouveau, and into the elevator.
Sometimes I'll see one of the City boys exiting on their way to Madison Avenue or Wall Street, or there is a resident who sell t-shirts with her own made up peace slogans on them in Union Square, she might be carrying out her stall, which is deconstructed so she can carry it in her suitcase up the road to Union Square and set out her stall.
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She told me the spots are 'first come, first served'. Apparently she's seen me walking across Union Square from the subway to Wholefoods. I've seen her once… I snuck up on her and said something kind of funny, I can't remember what. I was probably on my way to get a tuna salad croissant from Wholefoods, they are a regular favorite of mine.
I quite like the queue at Wholefoods actually and sometimes as the Post Office too… it's like no mans land. You have to wait, so you wait. You can't do anything else, I mean I check my FB, see if anyone's messaged me, I check my emails too, but I don't reply from Wholefoods or the Post Office, I wait until I'm back on the street.
There's another guy in the building who does amateur painting so I might see him carrying his easel out with his paint bag and brushes, I don't know where he goes to paint, I've never asked. I don't really ask anyone about themselves in my building. I prefer to keep it to a polite nod.
I asked my neighbour in the next apartment to me how she was one day, expecting her to say "Good" and she told me she had breast cancer. "Oh Fuck" I thought… "Well Shit, you must eat properly and treat your body with all the strength and love it needs to combat the task ahead…" I bought her some flowers from time to time and left them in her doorway. I didn't want to get too heavily involved.
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She told me it's really important to have health insurance and that thankfully when she was let go from the Marc Jacobs perfume counter at Bloomingdales her health insurance plan still covered her for some months. She asked me if I had insurance. I said no, she cried out a horrified gasp of air and noise and said "But you must" .
"Well", I thought, "That's exactly why I don't get into conversations with people. They mean well but before you know it you are having to justify your whole existence and personal ethos". I said "I'll be alright". I never take insurance on anything, well, actually I think I took some apple-care insurance on my iPhone. That's it.
I remember I was insured for millions by an old record label because I liked to go horse-riding and ski-ing. So I can see why they would want to insure me. I think I used to insure all my musical equipment too. My old tour manager said "In case we need to have a fire".
Anyway, I rarely see my neighbour but when I do she is wheeling out her new state-of-the-art mountain bike and going on fifty mile cycle rides for breast cancer survivors. I thought "Fuck, that's really cool". The lady with the stall selling home made peace slogan t-shirts is on my floor also.
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She has a little poodle-y type of toy dog… pure white with pink ribbons and a bell around it's neck and it's toe-nails polished pink to match, tiny. And it goes after me. She had the same type before, it was called Marilyn and would follow her everywhere, especially down in the basement laundry room.
But it died and now there is this new one who viciously attacks my ankles and can run really fast and bark like a maniac. It sunk it's teeth into my ankle bone once, I shook it off. And thought later "Does that mean I need to go to the Emergency Room for a Rabies shot? Fuck… I don't have insurance".
Anyway, she locks the dog inside now when I'm in the hallway. The super told me he'd kicked it when she wasn't looking.
On Saturdays and Sundays in the summertime amateur painters set up their stalls on the street where my deli is and sell their paintings. They are the worst paintings I've ever seen in my life. Paint by numbers style water colors of a Combine collecting hay in a bygone era, portraits of such disparate subjects as Anne Frank or King Richard III, and thick oil paintings of things like letter boxes with 3D mail coming out them with funny messages on the mail, like Hallmark card type of messages.
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I've never seen the guy from the building who paints sell his stuff there. I think there must be some organization for amateur painters from across the state to come into Manhattan and sell their paintings at the weekend. It is irritating, especially that look in their eyes if you happen to meet their longing sellers gaze which suggests they take themselves very seriously after a 6 week night course at a community college in landscape painting or what not.
I make it clear that I am not a tourist ready and wanting to buy some painting to take back to my house in the suburbs and stick in the garage because there's nowhere to hang it, but always remember, "Oh that was that weekend in Manhattan when we bought that painting". I am always irritated by people trying to sell me things.
In fashion stores the sales assistants' direction is to always pick one item of clothing that you're wearing, or your hair, or your make-up or your tan, or anything, and tell you how great you look, or where did you get it? They don't do that in England either. So the first few times it happened to me in NYC I answered enthusiastically "Oh, it's really old from Portobello Road in London" or, "It was 5 Dollars from Uniqlo", or "I just get my roots done every few months", or "Oh, I just use baby lotion, have done for years…" But then I realized it was just to get me to feel good about myself so I would buy something.
I don't buy anything from anyone now with a bad vibe. I especially hate it, and it rarely happens to me, but I especially hate it when a sales assistant informs me of what 'this season's trend' is, or 'this season's color' is, or "Kate Moss wears that exact same one". I shut down and clamp up and leave the store.
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I don't like shopping any more. When I was still living in London I used to buy a lot of things. Furniture, Cutlery, Glasses, Chandeliers, Mirrors, Quilts, Pedestals, Shoes, Coats, Dresses, Twin-sets, Hats, old Stockings, old Bustiers, old Gloves, tons of single color silk jersey Puccis from the 70's. Vintage Fur Coats… Records, CD's, Magazines, Books, Photographs, Plants for outside on my balcony. Vintage Watering-cans.
When I left England I left it all behind. I packed one suitcase and sold off everything else. The good stuff went to collectors, the medium stuff went up onto Goldborne Road and the rest of everything else I just gave out to friends on Portobello Market to make money on their stalls. I came to New York with two skirts, two sweaters, some underwear, an overcoat, 'Bringing It All Back Home' by Bob Dylan on CD and for my book 'The New Journalism' by Tom Wolfe.
Now I just buy what I can afford when I'm in Paris and generally pick up stuff in vintage shops wherever I'm traveling. All I own is some old French garden furniture in my apartment, an old French school desk, a guitar, (Fender Mustang) an amp (Fender Deluxe), a laptop, some speakers, a TV, a DVD player, and a bed. A couple of old French lamps, fresh-cut flowers and some candles.
I had a falling out with a guy once who lives on my street, it started like this: I was in Paris and sitting in the terrace of the Cafe de Flore with a girlfriend when I saw, walking across St.Germain this guy…
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"Oh it's my neighbor from a few apartment blocks down on my street in New York"
"Who is he?" my friend replied
"I don't know, I've never spoken a word to him".
He approached the Flore and his eyes locked onto me, I stood up and said
"Hello, I'm your neighbor"
"That's right" he said"
"Wendy" I said
"_____" he said
"Oh well, nice to meet you" I said
"Would you like to join us?" I said
"I'd love to" he said…. "My hotel is just around the corner let me go and drop my bags and come back"
I saw he was carrying a big brown shopping bag from MUJI.
"Cool" I said, "We'll be here"
And so that is how I met my neighbor from New York. It turned out he was the owner of a large piece of a big French beauty brand in America and was over here looking at their new seasons products for making wrinkles appear not to be there on womens faces, mens too… they had developed a Spa range for men too.
"It's all natural" he told me, "I'll get you some testers, you can see if you like them"
"Sure" I said.
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He was very uptight, and very down on the French. He really was disappointed with how long it took the waiting staff in the Flore to come and serve him his American-style cappuccino.
"That's the whole point, surely, of sitting in a terrace" I said, "You watch the world go by and there's no rush".
He then went on about American Imperialism and how he used to love France 20 years ago but it had really gone down hill in his opinion. Not like America. He was very annoyed that Barack Obama had bowed to the Japanese Prime Minister
"Americans don't bow" he said.
My girlfriend and I were speaking French with the waiters, my girlfriend because she is half-French and me because it is a pleasure to do so. He told us he'd been doing business in Paris for 20 years and had never felt it necessary to learn French, he could have done once, he supposed, but he never bothered and it didn't seem to matter. My friend and I were tucking into Croque Monsieur, beer and chocolate ice-cream with chantilly cream on top,
"Oh I never have desserts" he said,
"Oh go on" we said "Just one mouthful, here's a spoon".
He insisted on making the waiter bring him a new spoon and it took a long time.
"There" we said, "Isn't that delicious? you should really have some beer with that…"
He ravenously started gulping down huge mouthfuls of our ice-cream. "Wow", I thought, "So he does like desserts after all".
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At the end as my boredom threshold was hitting it's peak, I said "Well… I must be going".
He insisted on paying, we put up a medium fight for our right to pay our half of the bill but he refused, so we happily accepted his chauvinism.
"If you like" I said, "I'm DJing later at Le Tigre - it's a really beautiful little red plush nightclub near the Palais Royal, you are more than welcome to come."
I thought to myself "I really must stop inviting people to things if it means I'm responsible for them having a good time…"
"Are you sure you don't mind?" he said
"Well a bunch of friends are meeting here first then taxi-ing over to another bar in the Palais Royal and then onto Le Tigre around 1am"
"Thank You, I'll start out for the first part of the evening anyway".
"Well", I thought "It'll be OK, it's a strange mix of people coming out tonight anyway, he'll find someone to talk to".
"OK" we said, "See you later".
He turned up in his perfectly pressed jeans, starched shirt and subtle cologne and came with us. I forgot about him and was thinking more of my DJ set and having a good time and generally entertaining everyone with me and at 12.30 he excused himself but told me he'd really like to see me again.
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"Sure" I said, "I usually hang in the Flore, come and look for me there".
I didn't see him in Paris again, but I had given him my email (note to self - stop giving people your email) and some days after I arrived back in New York he emailed me
"Hey are you back? I've got some samples for you. Would you like to have dinner. We can go to Indochine"
"Cool" I said. "Fuck" I thought, "Well I'll have a dinner with him, I could use a good meal. It's obvious he likes me, I'll try to let him down in such a way as to not make bad vibes on my street." "Fuck" I thought, "You should never make friends with your neighbours."
We went to Indochine and he fussed over getting the best table in the restaurant and insisted on ordering for me. "Whatever" I thought. He asked me some questions about what it was like to be a musician but I couldn't and didn't really answer and there was no need anyway, so intent was he on telling me about himself.
"Perfect" I thought, "Just keep on talking and I'll encourage you right until it's time to go home", I also thought to say a few things that would make me undesirable… turn him off. He told me he had a house in Aspen and used to see Hunter S. Thompson around before he died. This was interesting to me, but he told me Hunter made no sense and was really wasted… "Oh" I said. He told me he had a house in East Hampton and I should come and visit… "Sure" I said.
He told me he used to have a real coke problem but no-one ever noticed. He told me he used to date a famous person I'd heard of. "Cool" I said. He said "We must do this again" "Sure" I said. Two weeks later I received an email from him inviting me to see a play about Mark Rothko and the paintings he was commissioned to deliver for the Four Seasons restaurant, his 'Red' collection.
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"OK" I said, "I can do that". He told me all the way in the taxi how much Rothkos changed hands for nowadays whenever one came up for sale in the art market. I watched the play and it was actually quite wonderful and I related. The struggle an artist goes through to create and hold onto one's dignity when you become the commodity in question. How to stay true. And how to handle the lonely moments of soul searching that are necessary and inevitable in an artistic mind and soul.
I enjoyed the play very much. My neighbour was most annoyed by the Queens accent of the usher who showed us to our seats. "I hate that accent" he said. I did not reply. I looked around the theatre and saw one of my favourite actors Guy Pearce a few rows back… I texted a friend in Australia… "You'll never guess who's sitting three rows behind me! Guy Pearce".
The play ended and he suggested we take an after theatre snack in the theatre district, he knew a great Italian place. We went and I excused myself and went to the bathroom. When I came back the Italian waiter was saying "… and this is your beautiful lady friend…"
"Fuck" I thought. My neighbour told me how he was a modest collector of art and he asked me what I called myself on my passport. "Musician" I said. Sometimes they fill it in as Recording Artist. "Well", he said, "Of course, you're not an Artist. You cannot elevate music into the same category as painting or sculpture. Sure, what you do has value, but it's not Art is it?" I waited a few seconds to digest this statement and decide if I should seriously answer this statement, which would give credence to his ridiculously pompous statement, or if I should just laugh.
He told me he took this distinction very seriously as a collector of Art that nothing is Art apart from what you can hang on a wall or in a museum. He told me he didn't care what anyone else might say on the subject, this was for him one of his sticking points of principle.
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I said music was unequivocally the most visceral and irreplaceable of all art forms. That if a musician composes a series of notes in a certain way it can viscerally cause a mass of emotions in whoever is listening and for whoever is playing. From courage, to pain, to joy, to strength, to vulnerability, to enlightenment. It causes your whole body to react without there necessarily being a cognitive process.
How many paintings could do that? As much as I am in awe of Rothko, or even more so Jackson Pollock, or Monet's 'Water Lilies', or Caravaggio, none of them had moved me the same way Nirvana or the Sex Pistols could and would always do. There is nothing, nothing I tell you, more mighty that a good fucking piece of music. And if you're lucky enough to have lyrics as poetical and lucid as Bob Dylan as accompaniment to that music, then your life, for 3 minutes is complete.
"Well", he said, "You're wrong".
"And you're a Fucking Idiot" I thought. "And I do not feel any longer the need to be diplomatic for the sake of bumping into you on my street where I live".
The evening ended with him expressing that he hoped he hadn't offended me. He emailed me the next day telling me a Mark Rothko had just broken all records of a Rothko at auction. I transferred his email to the spam box. He asked me out once more, I replied "I think it's better we don't".
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I haven't seen him on my street at all since then apart from one time he was walking toward me from the opposite direction and pretended not to see me. I slowed my pace so he would reach his front door before I would have to pass him. "Asshole" I thought.
So this morning I get back to my apartment with my $1 cup of regular coffee and the pundits are going on about the Sarah Palin affect of picking 'tea-party' winners in the mid-term elections and how does this affect the G.O.P. Republicans, "Is it a civil war raging for the identity of the right wing? religious zealots versus moderates?" And "How will this affect Barack Obamas run for a second term Presidency and will the Democrats lose control of the House and Senate in November at the mid-terms?"
America is so much more religious than you would imagine when you don't live here. "OK" I think, "I'll shower and then go and pay in that $500 rebate AT&T just sent me for my iPhone plan and then come back and write this.
Retirado da página de Wendy James...
http://www.myspace.com/theracineworld
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