June 18, 2000

Despite my best intentions, I think I had a good weekend. I am sitting here on Sunday night, exhausted from lack of sleep and tromping around in the weird-ass wet/muggy/hot/cold weather all day, and I am a little bit content. Just a wee little bit. It is an entirely welcome, if not remotely familiar, feeling.

I met people this weekend. People who didn't suck. A boy who was nice and kind and funny and bitter and sad. A boy who made me smile more often than not. A very sweet, very skinny boy.

I saw people I'd already met, people who have moved away, people whom I miss. I got to spend time with my far away friend, both quality and quantity, and have her and the sweet, skinny boy unexpectedly crash on my couch. This morning we watched Austin Powers. This afternoon we were blinded by projectile mannequin nipples at H&M. God, do I miss the hang. The ease of doing nothing. The laughter that explodes out of seeing the same thing at the same time and just looking at each other. This is what friends were made for.

We were up until 4:00 a.m. on Saturday, talking on the balcony, looking at the full moon and the cotton candy clouds. We were talking about everything, we were talking about nothing. We were talking about exes, about hometowns, about dead siblings and art. It was nice. It was easy. It was something I hadn't known I'd missed until I'd had a taste of it again. It was 4:00 a.m., but I wasn't anywhere near tired.

And so we laughed, we joked, we walked, we ate. And then we said good-bye. The weekend had started out so badly -- hours of waiting at the Grey Dog and messages left hours ago and miscommunication and lack of communication and frustrated tears. And then the anger, the crankiness, the feeling of being supremely left out subsided and I-Zone sticky film pictures were taken and all was forgiven.

Saying good-bye. I was sad that I had to. I was mad that I had to. I spend so much time alone, so much time hating the nameless faces I fight my way through on a daily basis, that when a day clicks -- when people click -- you don't want those clicks to end. But, trains had to be caught, as they so often do, and boring, pathetic lives (read: mine) had to be gotten on with.

And then there was the march. The protest. The rally. I scrawled "Do Not Touch" and "Keep Off" with a black Sharpie on the front and back of a white t-shirt, and then proceeded to the park. At first, I was embarrassed to be wearing the shirt as I walked down my nice, swank, gentrified block, and I wore my purple flannel to cover up the message. But, the closer I got to the park, the more confident I became, and the less I cared about what other people thought -- what other people might say -- and so I took the flannel off. Most people didn’t give me a second look. Some men looked, and looked away. Some women looked, and met my gaze with theirs. A gaze that was the equivalent of nodding, of saying "yes." Of saying "I'm sorry I won't be there, but thank you for going."

I met friends at the park, and we continued on to the rally. Lots of grrls that evoked the memory of early Ani Difranco. Lots of signs that said things like "your penis is not a passport to my body" and "police do not equal bystanders," with the 'n' in bystanders accidentally left out, and then arrowed in after the error was noticed. Lots of "hey hey, ho ho, this sexist shit has got to go." We marched from 57th St. & 6th Ave. to around 90th St. and 8th Ave. in the rain, and then congregated in some parking lot-esque place to hear political rants that nobody could actually hear. I felt a little out of place -- I am not a consummate activist -- but I'm glad I went. It was better than doing nothing.

And now I am home, and I am tired. I didn't sit on my ass this weekend, and I am infinitely happy about this. If only I could find some people to not sit on my ass with who, y'know, actually live in New York.

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