Not to be bored

My brother gets bored with people. He said filmmaking appeals to him in part because you can develop very intense and interesting relationships with other, presumably interesting, people on the set but once it is over, it is over. And then you move on to another set.

I understand this. My obsession with travel and moving around stems in part from my fear of routine and boredom. There is something to be said for brief, intense pseudo-friendships or relationships. I had many of those last year. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the only ones that I kept up are those that were with the more "familiar" people.

The other advantage is that if you move to alien places, particularly if that place is New York is that you get to meet real-life versions of certain "characters". I am not sure if my impression that some of the people I meet are out of some TV show (Sex & the City, mostly) has to do with setting, accents, the city and my watching too much of it, or if these shows do a good job at capturing reality. It does not really matter though. I am game.

Gabby, an entertaining, attractive, but highly neurotic, astrology-, cat- and self-obsessed Australian, was the first one. I met her through Natalie and in her high-strung state of mind she instantly decided that I was to be her best friend and confidante. She is intelligent and entertaining and we clicked. I like listening to others and their misery especially if they are a little crazy and unusual. I also like being perceived as "the one who truly understands and identifies", which may, at times, be a little disingenuous. In these situations I usually observe, but pretend to be involved. That might project a level of empathy and understanding that I inevitably cannot keep up because I never imagine I could truly be like the person in question, in fact, that thought frightens me. Then comes some - to me - seemingly irrelevant and ludicrous incident and my "cover" is blown. In this particular instance it was over a man. She is now not speaking to me.

The Invisibles

The office in which I am spending my days for a couple of weeks now is on Seventh Avenue, between 29th and 28th streets. Most of the time it is freezing cold in here and I have to wrap myself in borrowed jumpers, but for the past two days the tropical heat has overburdened the system, so now it is just pleasantly cool.

In my uncartain and unsecure state - or at least that is how I rationalize it - I have taken up smoking again. (Although maybe it has to do with my contrarian nature: in Paris, where everyone smoked, I did not and here, where they look at you like you already have a serious illness, I do or maybe, as my brother would say, I am just full of shit...who knows.)

In any event, I went down for a smoke, but I still don't carry a lighter so I had to ask a stranger for a light. He was a messenger, a fourty-ish black guy carrying a large bag full of mail for the attention of the air-conditioned people. He was clearly exhausted from running around the City in this sweltering heat. I started chatting with him, over our cigarettes, and I was amazed at how quick-witted he was: I gave him very limited information (just moved here, was working for free, have a brother living here) and he figured out right away that I must be living with my brother and was trying to turn my "internship" into a real position. This was in sharp contrast to most people working here, who seem to be astounded by the fact that those of us who volunteer would like to get paid eventually; and look at me with barely concealed pity when I tell them that I am living in Astoria at my brother's place right now.

He also told me how his least favourite location for delivery is Wall Street, because arrogant white men in a hurry keep bumping into him like he was invisible. After our encounter, I started seeing them, the messengers. They are everywhere: schlepping their huge bags on foot, or braving gusts of steaming hot air while balancing the cargo on their bikes. Now I consciously watch out for them.

Incidentally, my friend Zelma, a Latina woman from Staten Island, about whom I am writing a profile for my creative writing class also had used the word "invisible" to describe her social status at the posh Massachussets liberal arts college she attended.

I don't really know what that feels like. So I want to dedicate my blog to all those who are or have been one of the invisibles. Even if this is invisible to them.