The Memorial Rainbow

So I figured I'd write.

A long time ago, when I was going through some rough times, I wrote in here a lot. I wrote about the things that were going on in my life, and I used this journal as a place to promote my work. People read along, for a good couple of years. I came out with an album, and then I came out with a book that grew into a series.

I'd post on here every once in a while after that, and my entries got more cryptic as they went on. And who knows how often I'll write now? But this time, I'm writing less for you and more for myself. Tumblr is too PC, Twitter not enough characters, Facebook too perfect. And yeah, maybe I'm writing from work at the moment, while I'm putting in information and being a database.

But nobody's really reading this yet, are they?

Here's the thing: I've been in New York City over four years now. Do you know how many albums I've produced in that time? Do you know how many songs I've written, how many times I've gone out there to promote myself? I actually made a habit out of it a long time ago, before places closed and I had to work instead.

There was a boy. It always starts out that way, there was a boy. We promised we wouldn't get too far in deep, that we'd be honest with one another. He supported my art. I was able to find temporary work, go to open mics. When I was let go from that job, he ensured I wouldn't have to worry, took a new job himself to make sure he could support both of us, moved in because living in New York is crazy. We were both crazy, we both had our faults, but at the end of the day, we were honest with each other. We didn't go to bed mad.

That was the most creative period of my life in NYC. I got a new job, one that enabled me to grow up from the crazy that I had been accustomed to. I found an open mic I could go to and even got my own show. I went to Comic-Con and we performed, and I created an album, and everything was perfect -- until it wasn't. I don't want to say my anxiety got in the way, but having all of your belongings in trash bags in your kitchen is more than a little rough. We grated on one another. Somewhere in the shuffle, my flash drive with my Comic-Con stuff was thrown out. I blamed him way more than I should have. I started blaming him for everything. He let me.

I went through a depression for the first part of 2015. Nothing happened. I woke up, went to work, came home. I wrote a little bit, but I was out of it. I was in survival mode all over again. The old-school methods I had used a long time ago woke up again: God hates that you were being creative, so He sent bedbugs to stop you. You might think I'm crazy, but that was the way my brain was operating.

I wasted a year. I wasted an entire year. At least he was around, right? At least he was being productive, starting his YouTube channel. I stayed off the computer. I let him have it. I was just in the way, right? I didn't want to take the computer and waste time while he could be recording his shows. For what it's worth, I did try. I lost sleep composing music for a friend's cabaret and now she's not talking to me because I wanted to be paid for a future one. I choreographed a dance and performed it in front of others, and then a fight broke out and my boyfriend escorted me into the nearest Mickey D's before the cops could show up. It was supposed to be a competition, and nobody won.

Things like that wouldn't knock old Emily down. I'm not sure he ever properly knew old Emily. Old Emily existed before January 5, 2012.

And you're still here in black and gold
Your inner core the only change
So how much of the girl I fell for still remains?

You know what I should have done on January 5? I should have quit the city. I should have called my dad, said "this isn't working out, I'm coming home." And yeah, I signed a year lease, but those things are just numbers in this city, anyway. I would have gone home, maybe gotten yelled at a bit, but hey, I would have gotten what I wanted out of the city, right?

But in the end, I'm glad I stayed. I've learned a lot about myself, about the way I process things. I've learned that it doesn't matter where you are, as long as the people you love are around you. And I've learned what that actually means. I know now what New York City is, for better or for worse. I know it's not a be all, end all. I know people romanticize it, and even those who live in the city romanticize it. It's our bubble. We live here, and if anybody threatens it, we act like it's 9/11 all over again. (Ted Cruz just made some interesting comments on this.)

Because we make it, right? Because we all struggle in this city. It's a shared struggle that we romanticize so much. We talk about how hard it is to find a dollar coffee, how we're squished like sardines in the subway car, the number of homeless people and pigeons and piles of puke we walk right past on our way to work, where we must dress exactly how they want and act exactly how they want in those high rises lest we go back to working at Mickey D's. (And they probably make more money, at this point.) Everything is always our fault, but that's okay, because we're making it in the real world. We have our shoebox apartment and we wouldn't have it any other way. We can't afford to go out because we're too busy working two jobs, but we certainly have it better than anybody at home, right? We blow through our bonds and have no money left in our savings accounts, no future, but we're living like the starving artists on Broadway. You know, just like Jonathan Larson. God bless Jonathan Larson.

We pick up and we scrape by, and we're nice to those near us as long as that niceness doesn't actually hurt us any. We put on our headphones and ignore the beggars on the train, the people sitting with cardboard signs as we go to work in our elite sports clubs. We oversleep because we don't want to get up in the morning, but hey, it's what "real people" do. And I don't doubt that anywhere. But I used to talk about the Oxford bubble, and now I'm talking about the New York City bubble, and I'm wondering just what is real. Is real life what we make of it? If so, then everybody in New York City automatically gives too much control to everybody else. We have to, in order to make this city work. If you deviate too much, you're left behind. If you don't move at supersonic speed -- and that's saying something, considering this city must be moving faster than Top Thrill Dragster -- then you have no time or energy or money to write or music or create or anything. And it's even worse for those of us who deal with mental problems, who were bullied as kids, whose fathers' words echo in our heads even when our mothers tell us they no longer matter. New York City is okay -- but it's not for everybody. To pretend it is for everybody is to shame the world we live in, to shame every place that isn't New York, to ultimately shame New York and the individuals who might be creatively trapped here.

And I know what everybody in NYC might be reading. You don't like it, then leave?

Maybe I will.

I go to Jersey for a jaunt and I plan my life, knowing that when I'm back in NYC, I'll be moving too fast for me to properly think. I go to Albany for my yearly jaunt to the convention and I feel tired the entire time, unsure if I should return back to the city. I go to Cedar Point, because maybe racing for the sky and racing underneath the sky are two separate things. Maybe I can't fly in NYC. But maybe that doesn't mean I can't fly at all. Maybe it just means the buildings are too tall here for my liking. Maybe the skies are too crowded. Maybe it's more hopeful for me to leave.

There's only so much you can learn in one place
The more that you wait, the more time that you waste

In July, I went outside of the city to have the most successful gig of the year. We made it all the way through and my client was so happy, and I'll never forget the look on his face and I learned we might actually be making something here. While I was in Charlotte for the gig, my boyfriend was busy being in somebody else.

He told me in October. I should have chased him out, burned his things, but I was stunned enough that I let him stay another month. I still haven't gotten rid of some of his things.

But I dealt with the stress of that, and I've dealt with the stress of it, and I need to toss those things out. I've tossed out memories before, and I'll do it again. I say that I remember everything, and it's true -- but just because I remember something doesn't mean I don't want to remember. The past means nothing. The past doesn't help me out. The past doesn't pay the bills. It only holds me back.

I'm furious.

That may be the best thing to be right now.

For now, though, I work. And I plan, in the little bits that I can. I get outside the city to think. I take the ferry. I fix music. And hopefully, this summer, I'll go back to the place where I had my successful gig, and lightning will strike twice.

And the thunder will follow afterward.

Insanity.

How do you define it? Is it the loss of your senses? The inability to remember who you are, who your loved ones are? Or is it when you try to redefine the parameters to what they were previously defined to be, only to have the plan fail time and time again? To stand at the crossroads and declare, "This is how it should be."

And to be turned away.

"We're sorry that you're not qualified for your own job."

"I love you, but this just isn't going to work out."

Expectations are shattered, and I shiver in the heat of my room, stifling and suffocating and can it all just end now? But I'm not an idiot, and everybody knows by this point I'm not an idiot. But it hurts. It hurts so much, like I'm falling in the sky and I can't stop.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

But it never is. It always comes out of left field, a whisper of "what are you doing here?" and then it hurts like a broken promise and you're not there, you don't care. And it all shatters, and it collapses, and I pick up the pieces and I become normal again and everything is perfect and pretty and I add one more color to the collection.

And the voice echoes out from the train tracks, "it's over." And everybody is happy.

But somewhere in the back room, she sits with her long purple hair and regalia, praying for a corrected timeframe, praying for patience and alignment and knowing God doesn't do anything foolishly. Maybe she knows the truth. Maybe nobody does. Maybe I'm just making things up as I go along. But maybe this is real. Maybe I really am an expert at this.

Maybe God doesn't play tricks.

What are you fighting for? If you lose that, that's when you hit insanity. You stop being yourself. You start being somebody else. For me, I've discovered that it's my writing. To stray from that dream is to pursue insanity, to follow a blind path of the wolf. Yes, I still have my music, but my dream to be a writer should always be right there, in front of me, something I should chase.

If I take a six train, I'll be too late
Don't be afraid; take me with you!
Just snatch your questions out of midair.

It's not that simple, although it is. It's messed up, but it's all right. Everybody gets happy endings but me. I'm the one with the misaligned destiny, who wants to be a writer but should be a musician but is neither so shame on her. And in the end, I'm used as a friend and nothing means anything and I'm just playing but I'm not. I'm honest, but nobody cares, and I get nowhere, and I can't perform, and you lose your patience. I become a friend. Just a friend. And the door is closed, and I lose my worth, and I fade away. A doll. A tool. And the five train arrives at Flatbush Avenue, right on time.

I have a message for the world: everything gets better. If you're caught in a tough situation, just believe it will be fine. And that's great. Because I can give advice about these types of things, but I know that it'll never happen to me. Not even the dropped bass can save me now.

It's okay. It will all go away.

You will go away.

As it always happens.

Whoo! That was a fun week -- NOT.

I stumbled through it. I felt like crap. I locked myself in my bedroom, walked home from Starbucks in a daze, treated those I loved like crap. Knocked on windows, disturbed the peace, misunderstood. Hated pretty much everything.

WELL. Now that I have gotten all of that bitchiness out of my system, I could either sit around and apologize for it, or I could stop being sorry and make awesome shit happen. I think I'm going to go with the latter.

I've always used it as a weakness, a place I can run. I figured if I felt bad about myself, if I punished myself, someone else would save me. I've written about this time and time again. It's a problem I'm aware of, a habit that for once I'm actually doing pretty good at kicking. I only need myself. (As I start to realize what the entire problem has been with this week. I'm not mentioning it here, but if you've spent any time around me this week, YOU KNOW WHAT IT IS.)

Thankfully all of that insanity is ending today, and hopefully I can go back into the studio without being a soppy, crying mess. Hopefully.

What does it take to be strong in this day and age? What is the true meaning of strength? To be a little braver, to be selfish? You taught me these things, and I threw them all away. I won't apologize. I won't say I'm sorry. Because I know you forgive me. I'm just going to show up, put it all behind me, and deliver.

I can live my life now because of you.

No amount of music can thank you enough.

That said, I can't forget who I am. What my missing piece is. Why I like writing so much, and what my personal and professional goals are for that. I think as long as I can keep running toward October with my head high and my computer under my arm, I think magical things will happen. I already know they're starting to.

Let's make something happen, y'all.

This will be the first summer in 7 years where I will be SO HAPPY for it to be done.

Goodbye, Coney Island. I'm sorry I didn't make it to you twice during the summer. Maybe I will during Labor Day weekend, if anybody wants to go with me. Maybe it won't suck. Maybe I won't throw up at Sheepshead Bay and stake out sanctuary in Dunkin' Donuts. Maybe I won't get lots of bad memories and hate myself the entire time I'm there.

Actually, let's make that a hopefully. I really like you, Coney Island. Let's not screw this up.

See you soon, Empire State Building. I wish to not hate you for the same reasons. Actually, considering the outcome of it all, I can look up at you and smile.

A bittersweet goodbye for now, Cedar Point. It's okay. I still love you. I wish I could wrap you up and give you a great big hug. You've given me so much over the years, but more than anything, you've given me two things that have stood the test of time: an identity and a missing piece. I still have both of those, and I want to thank you for that.

(And to my missing piece: who would have thought it would be you? But I digress. I ask that question about you way too often.)

Ja ne, WaHi. You're like that old friend I'll never see again, good memories, lots of late nights, sleeping over, feeling like home. But you're not home. I look out my window and wonder if I'll ever take the M96 bus again, if I'll ever arrive at that door, if I'll ever fully understand. The future is an uncertain place. Maybe someday it'll all be okay. But it's all okay now.

I will soon bid a farewell to Normandie. I really do like you. You're just too expensive for the lifestyle I want to live now.

Goodbye, the me who used to not care. Goodbye, sitting under my blanket. Goodbye, not wanting to eat food because I'm afraid I'll throw it back up. I'm trying to throw you away the best that I can. It doesn't always work, but I have a feeling it will get better.

So long to the summer that sucked.

Hello, Grand Central Terminal.

Today, I pick up Ringo and pack everything up. I shoulder my bag and get ready to go to Argo. I don't have any food in my house save for ramen noodles, but I'm kind of okay with that. When I get to Argo, maybe I'll finally sit down and figure out what I want to do with my life.

But to start with, I will go to 96th and Park and watch the trains run in and out of my city, to places I can't even begin to understand.

It's June. Hello, June! I haven't blogged yet for June or yet for this summer, so it's comforting to know I'm having a bit of fun here. I literally have sat in this chair ALL DAY. Nice to know that my butt likes it here.

( To the sky high, toberu hazu )

( Everyday I'm shufflin! )

So now I have moved from the chair. Have a good night, ya'll.

Hey.

Can I get my 2011 back? 2012 has kind of sucked so far. I got the floor pulled out from under me on the five train -- late, late, FUCKING LATE. And my new work schedule, while I like it, has me dog-tired.

I'd like to talk about two things tonight.

The first is food.

Oh, em, gee. I just went to Fairway to get some perishables and I'm so glad I did. I feel so much better now that I've arrived home with tomatoes and celery. I'm pretty sure I'm obsessed with both; so tonight for dinner I had chicken salad with celery, along with about a half a tin of grape tomatoes (addicting!!!) and a bit of hummus and ranch. I'm slowly getting used to hummus. It's weird, but good. I just have to tell myself it's peas. Right? Maybe?

The other thing I'm noticing is that I'm not who I once was.

There's a disappointing difference between Ohio-Emily and New York-Emily. When I see me in Ohio, I see me in Brookover, hanging out in my apartment, eating food and watching TV and sitting down. When I see me in New York, I see me running to the ferry. Every time. That's just one of the things that has changed. Before all of this happened, I thought I was incapable of change. I was going around in the same circle, over and over again, the same rut and everything.

When everything started happening that summer, when my life changed...I can't explain it. Even now, a half of a year later. Although there is someone I need to thank for it -- and that person really is Dylan. See, if Dylan hadn't been such a dick and moved to Madison this summer to pursue his dreams, I wouldn't have gotten so pissed off at him. And I mean, I was really pissed off at him, because I had spent all that time waiting for him to graduate from Miami and NOW HE WAS LEAVING ME FOR AN ENTIRE SUMMER. What had happened to us going together?

But I figured, hey, he could go and get his foot in the door, and then either he can come home and stop dreaming those crazy dreams or he could become rich and famous and move me out there. And so I let it slide. Until I realized that by letting Dylan move, I had lost my riding buddy. And there was no way in hell I was going to let the summer pass me by without going to the Point at least once.

That was mid-June, when I saddled up my car and went to Cedar Point all by myself, because I could. The extreme success of that trip (known as the Royal Tour) led to the road trip to Madison for New Years. (For those of you who have lived under a rock, my New Year is July 16th at 10:00 PM. Every year. Don't ask why. There's a Chinese New Year, there's a Jewish New Year, and I get my own, too.) During this trip, I learned a lot about myself -- that I could drive with an eyelash in my eye, that I was capable of driving a car cross-state, and most importantly, that I could go to New York City all by myself. That was, honestly, the scariest thing I'd ever done.

(It was also during this trip that the 'ride warrior' idea that Cedar Fair has so fantastically planted in everybody's mind took root, and the entire drive home was spent immersed in a post-apocalyptic Point with a New York chick named after a coaster. YES, THUNDERBOLT, I AM LOOKING AT YOU.)

But more about that scary thing. I feel like my entire life, I've been able to hide behind what's easy, because I do it so well. I'm talking about my music. Whenever it came up, for a choice or what not, I was like, "Oh, I'll just do music with my life." It was never hard, because music was like breathing. So I went through life without a lot of trouble. The first trouble I really came up against was when I didn't want to become famous, so I moved home after graduating from Miami and started working at the Job. And even then, all I did was beat myself up.

Going into that city by myself...that was the scariest thing I had ever done. It reminded me of the first time I got on the Vortex. Anything else was like not living. I had to do it.

Back to my story, and then I'll talk more about how life = hard. If it weren't for Dylan, I wouldn't have driven to Madison and discovered all those things about myself. I really am capable of more than I thought. That's what I told myself then.

And then, in the space of one night...something really, seriously catastrophic happened. I don't like talking about it. Some people have an idea. TTR readers know what it is. It's a secret. And it has nothing to do with Dylan. But what happened that Thursday night was so life-changing that I had no choice but to move to New York as a result. What I had lost was so important that I couldn't wait to find it again.

That part of my life has been completed, and as a result, I'm now here. The Ohio Emily mentality is long gone. And Dylan is still here. He still pisses me off, and he pisses me off a lot, actually. But I love him. The cycle of hatred and misunderstanding has been broken, and I am confident in saying that Dylan isn't going anywhere.

He's that into me.

From what I've learned this summer, I want life to be hard. I want to take ownership and understand how life works, to do my own taxes and pay my own rent and not have anybody else do it for me. To 'drive myself.' Whatever that takes, I'll get there. I'll become a published author, and I want to work on my career in music, too. Not a fame-based career, something more along the lines of teaching or writing professionally. Something to keep me going until I find my way.

Until then, I have the Job. I understand that writing takes time. So I better get good at this Job -- not because it's something to do, but because I really do like it. And I love being there. It's enough that I think I'll move to the Island -- I still hate it, and I'd want to live close to the ferry, but not in a house, Aoiko. And perhaps from here, I can really, truly rebuild my life the way I want it.

I have Dylan to thank for that. I really do. I love you, so much. I normally don't gush about it a whole lot, and especially not on this blog. You changed me, sweetheart, for the better. Thank you.

And to you. You know who you are. You showed me that my life could be rebuilt, with the truth. I would follow you, and I will follow you, no matter where you go.

Because of you, I am never alone.

Thank you.