Thursday, March 19, 2009

I have an eye infection

I am bed-ridden, home from work with a massive eye-infection caused by either: stress, sleep deprivation, passing out w/eyeliner caked on after a hard-core night of Friday night birthday karaoke; or maybe even popping a sty with a sewing needle & squeezing it--without having a bowl of boiled water around, or peroxide.

Now my eyes are hot and swelled shut and leaking goop and I can't do anything with myself but lay in bed clutching a book trying to doze off into a world of dreaming, until I get a text of sympathy for my warped and mutated-looking condition.

Earlier, I could barely stumble across the street to buy juice, and living near Bedford in Williamsburg, even though it's difficult to admit, I had to kick off my gray death sweats for more appropriate black pants, I threw shawl around my shoulders and applied some lipstick; mother would have been so proud.

There were a few younger Italians in that place, buying 40's of malt liquor; they already smelled of booze and it was barely 6pm; they were attractive boys who looked like they played soccer in one of the nearby Brooklyn parks on warm Saturday afternoons; a posse of dark skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed Adonises; and even with my swollen eyes, thankfully, I got the proper attention I'm used to receiving with their silent stalking once-overs.

One day I will not receive that treatment anymore when I am older, unless I find a way to molt my flesh like some crusty sock and drown myself in expensive creams that actually do what they're advertised to do, or by then, perhaps, some company will have a pill, or a duplicate will be available that shares the same conscience as me, like in that Battlestar Galactica show.

Hopefully by then though, I will be settled with a loyal love of my life, my story collecting behind me and on pages for the world to read, settled, no longer wild; still and relaxed.

I sent a few texts to my oil painter today, as I was stranded quietly in my bedroom, eyes too sore to read, attention span running rampant all over the place, everywhere for the sake of mischief.

I'd call him my "ex," but I hate the way that sounds when people bring up "their ex," as if they only have one, knowing these gorgeous people I talk to have many actual "exes."

It makes them sound hung up in the past of some love affair that's hopelessly incomparable to anything the present or future could offer--my "ex." Give me a break.

So my oil painter is a lovely, lovely man whose lovemaking and patience spoiled me into spending a good deal of personal time with him, watching movies, sipping wine, eating cheeses and sleeping; though, I'd have to say one of my favorite things about him was the way he was an elitist, so aloof in every sense of the word, in public, so elegant.

Girls, ladies, and men alike became smitten with his presence at any event; they would ask him to talk about his art and try to find a way to become close to him, to obtain and ounce of his attention...and he was relentlessly bored with them, calling them sycophants to me later when we were alone, if they acted too much like excited puppy dogs filled with unwarranted glee.

It's not that he was a bad person; he was raised by a Mormon mother in a good family in Utah; he had old-fashioned values--just as a second generation painter who'd studied at Cambridge, he didn't have time for bullshit with people; he was too busy for that.

The only people he considered his equals were also beautiful, talented, brilliant people constantly immersed in projects.

I fully and finally developed my people palette with him, after many transitions and transmogrifies in my own constantly evolving world of never-ending heartache, brought upon by repeated tests of mortality, and morality.

These efforts were to obtain useful ways to bend the world and the people occupying it, according to my seasoned wants and needs; for my tired memoirs begging excitement, drama--lessons which others would subsequently regard as useful in contexts of stories.

It made sense that the artists let me in, wrote songs and stories about me, painted me, let me play in their films and listened to my opinions respectfully. It was nearly impossible for me to start and finish a project of my own from an my inability to take myself seriously as a feral, self-taught miscreant of sorts, and always having a finger in other people's projects from being curious.

I became a muse who loved to drink and make love, and did a lot of this; and my heart knows how it feels to be satisfied and enraged and worshipped, and when it is neglected I feel very empty.

So I sent texts to my oil painter, after barely communicating with him every so often--because he knows all of this about me, and knows what I know about him, which is everything, and in the texts I said, "I miss wine and movies with you, and your lovely body, hope you are well, New York is fine" and his response was, "thanks, I like you too..." amongst other sentiments, and my life seems sad and perfect like that a lot, and ridiculous.

Today, I spoke on the phone with another man, whose Manhattan place I spent a few warm nights in, before our relationship took confusing twists with third and fourth parties, in experimenting with something called an open-relationship, and now we are back to trying to be friends again in an effort to salvage something that seemed worth starting in the first place.

I admire his effort; he's one of the brightest and sexiest people I've met in a while, though he has a history of dating ditzes and air-head doormats for some easy reason that I don't have the time or patience to think about and try to understand.

This made me weary among other issues, but his shit taste in women did not make sense for someone who seemed to have all his cards in a stack, and I judged him harshly as being "shallow" for not caring what's "upstairs" as well as caring about what's below.

Hence, my sabotage radar shut me down, shutting him down, in a big smoke bomb of mystery, from which we sift little pieces to stare at blankly to this day, in wondering what went wrong.

From my new found attempts of progress from my own merits, which had little to do with what he had to offer in status and stability I realized what I needed was as much inspiration and outlets for personal artistic growth, as I could absolutely muster; and I saw him as a potential source of confinement or what I call a Property Manager Type.

On the phone today, "PMT" told me I should get out and date, like some imperative order, after I chastised my love life as being a huge source of my dissatisfaction with the world lately--as if it's really that easy for me, as it would be for him to sponsor some toy to play with for a while, with field trips of this activity or that.

I basically told him I'd rather sit alone in my bedroom and rot than to waste my time on a date with someone much less than extraordinary by standards of wealth in personalities I live by.

For me, the new partners I elect to be my lovers are people my former lovers would approve of and nod their heads yes to, as if it made complete sense in so many ways, why I would chose to spend time with that person; and immediately, with no question, that person would be assumed to be brilliant and very good at something, if not many somethings, and a fantastic lover to boot to appease my voracious sex drive, which goes to maximum levels, when I am attempting to be monogamous.

I am trying not to play with my eyelids right now. They are itching and I don't want to agitate them more than they are already agitated. I wonder if David Lynch would date me? I think we would get along, but maybe I should try to publish few novels first, or get really huge implants, or something else drastic like that.


Anonymous said...

Sounds as if you want someone who is too wrapped up in themselves to not put you at the top of their list. Also, there's a tinge of wanting to gain the praise of others there. Not too shabby if that's the only hangups you have.

Sabra Embury said...

You're very sweet. Thank you.

steve d said...

see what great stuff you can do when you devote a little time to need s few more eye infections.

zercath said...


sildenafil citrate said...

I sent some texts to my oil painting today as it was stuck in my room quietly, his eyes very painful to read.

correction eye surgery said...

That was a great story I learned that we really need to taking care of our eyes. Thank you so much for this.


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