Jen in the Big City

While I was on the subway today, I had a flash of artistic inspiration. I was staring at the empty seat in front of me. Suddenly, I saw... no, I felt someone staring at me from that spot. I felt ethereal, like someone was looking at me from another place, far far away.

I quickly sketched out a portrait of this mystery man. Thankfully, I was coming from art class and had my charcoal with me. He was mostly shrouded in shadow from the brim of his large hat, but the sharp tip of his nose and one eye glinted in the available light.

That eye is really what struck me. I don't think I've seen anyone in real life with such a piercing stare. Even now, back in my house, looking at that drawing takes my mind right back to that hour I spent on the subway (going the wrong direction, mind you), staring at an empty seat and imagining the man sitting there, staring at me.

Funny thing was I don't think he was on a subway at all. I don't even think he was sitting. It seemed to me that he was in a dark and dirty place, something fragrant, perhaps a bar. Yes, perhaps he was standing by a jukebox, contemplating which song to pick even though he knew which one he always picked. I thought I could smell blood in the air. Or if not blood, the chance for blood to be shed that night. It was exhilarating. My skin tingled, my stomach dropped between my legs and sat there, quietly warming as I drew.

He had somewhere important to be tonight. But instead, he came to visit me. He should have continued what he was doing, it was an important project. It was greedy to visit me so soon. I would have chastised him. Lovingly, oh so lovingly. I pierced him with my eyes like I had with so many others. Yet he did not bleed, no, not like they bled. They bled with roses, with tears, with their hearts and notes and promises, all over me, all over my bed. It was inappropriate. The man in front of me was a true man. He had a heart of stone, a heart of ice, something I neither broke nor warmed.

I came out of the trance, and like I said, I was an hour past my stop. Actually, I was at the last stop. I might have sat there drawing all night, if trains didn't have to end at some point. Getting back on the other side of the tracks had a heavy sadness to it. That was something I hadn't felt in some time. Not since my father died. Yes, it must have been that long.

My dream man came to me on the subway tonight, and all I have to show for it is this dumb piece of paper.

It's strange. I normally can only draw from pictures.

When a person dies, what happens to their spirit? What happens if you die before your spirit is complete? Do the parts fracture, scattering out to be reborn? If one fractured too much, lifetime after lifetime, could you ever put it back together again?

Sometimes I'm not sure whether I have all my pieces or not.

For one, there are the dreams. I've never seen the desert, but that's where I am. There's sand, and it's incredibly hot. Hotter than I've ever felt before. But I'm not sweating. My skin is scorched, and I'm lying right next to something very tall. I can see its shadow stretching out in front of me. It has two arms stretched out beside it. For this reason, I think it is a man.

I can't move. Someone whispers something I cannot hear, a murmur on the wind. I close my eyes and I fly into little pieces, drifting off in the breeze. Under the full moon.

I have this dream every month. My mother always said it was a menstrual thing, which might be true. I wake up from it bleeding, doubled over in pain. But it always seems so *real*. The days after the dreams are hard to get through. It's as if I'm adjusting to being in another world.

But this one... This is the real world. The other one is just the dream.

Right?

So, admittedly, I get most of my calories from candy and other sugar sources. My fridge is bare-bones, and it's only one of those mini-ones the college dorms have. I actually got mine on special *from* a college dorm, but that's another story.

The candy is ever present. I mean, come on, you can tell just by looking at me that I'm not the most healthy chick on the planet. My skin is pretty bad and flares up for no reason. And my hair is pretty frizz-tastic (although all the bleaching doesn't help it.) And I'm too skinny, because no matter how much candy a person eats, they don't gain much weight if that's *all* they eat.

I mean, I get some fruit sometimes. I love love love those marachino cherries. You know, the ones in the jar? I could eat an entire jar every day if I let myself. I tried it once, but it did make me pretty sick. Sicker than a girl living on sugar, even.

I used to think myself somewhat of a freak. But yesterday I caught this old movie on TV, Romy and Michelle's High School Reunion, and one of the girls in there mentions being on a jelly bean diet to lose weight. I bet that's a pretty good idea. I don't think much about losing weight, but maybe that's because I keep up my steady diet of gummy worms, sugared cherries, dum dums and Pepsi One.

The other day at work -- I work in this used clothes store. Not like a Salvation Army, I mean, it doesn't smell like pee or anything -- Anyhow, I was at work and this lady comes in, a big fat black lady, and she sees me over at the corner table eating my lunch. So what if it was a bag of gummi worms? And she walks right over to me... I think she forgot she was there to buy XXXL clothes or whatever she was after... she walks right up to me on my lunch break and starts to lecture me on not eating so much junk because it would spoil my meal! Not my parent. Not even close.

I told her in a pretty mean voice that this *was* my meal. I even dumped a few extra worms in my mouth for good measure, and smacked them as loudly as I could when I chewed. She walked away looking perplexed.

It's not that I don't like regular food... I just don't think it's anything special. I'll eat a burrito or whatever every once in awhile. I just *do* think that candy is special. It smells nice. I like to think that when people talk to me, all the can smell is bubble gum or cotton candy or sugar watermelon or sugar, sugar, sugar.

I don't get sick or anything, ever, so I don't see what the big deal is.

What a fucking bitch. Sister, there are more fish in the sea. And I intend to sleep with every last one of them.

Hello internet-land. Jen checking in with tales and travails from my ever-so-exciting life.

A crazy broad sat next to me on the subway today. She didn't seem completely whack. I mean, she didn't smell too bad, not the piss and shit and old beer and trash that some of the vagrants reek of. I wouldn't have known she was crazy until she started talking about her vacation, and showing me this stuffed monkey she got at the thrift market. It still had the tags on and everything. She told me it was the first day of her vacation, and she had found this bear that she had been searching for for a very long time. It was a monkey, but she kept calling it a bear, over and over. Bear this, the Bear that, dancing it around in front of me.

I tried to ignore her, to politely dismiss her conversation, but sometimes you get those crazies that aren't quite 100% crazy and really need someone to share their thoughts with. The 100% wackos end up surrounded with so many imaginary friends that they can't even see the reals anymore.

Anyhow, about halfway through our "conversation" about the Bear, a weird calm washed over her face and her words trailed off into nothing. She just stared at that toy as if she couldn't remember why it was in her hand, why a 40-something woman was in possession of such a thing, and why on earth was she on a subway ranting about it to a stranger?

"Bear?" she whispered. "But this is a monkey."

Her perplexed trance lasted only a few moments. She blinked and resumed chatting to me about it. Her vacation. Her purchase. Her Monkey. It struck me that she now raved about the Monkey in the same way she had the Bear. How cute his Monkey face was. How cute. How cute.

It made me want to scream -- not at her, not at anyone, just scream aloud at the top of my lungs: WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BEAR??!!

"Bear?" she said to me, concerned. I must have spoken aloud. "But this is a monkey." As if I were the dumbest person on the planet. The train came to a stop and the doors opened. It wasn't my stop yet, but I jumped up and ran out. I was still pretty far from my place, but I could always catch another train. I just wanted to get away from her.

She stood at the same time I did, and exited in the same manner. I was petrified that she would follow me for blocks and blocks, trains and trains, raving about the Monkey. But when I looked behind me, she had gone her own way.

I have the feeling she might have been trying to get away from the strange girl who couldn't tell a Monkey from a Bear.

Until next time, this is me signing off.