The Pug Cave

“It’s been a tough morning for me. I used to be a children’s librarian. But this morning I had to call publishers and tell them not to send me any more books. I just can’t read them anymore, not like I used to. And that was hard. It felt like I was cutting off a lifeline. It’s disappointing, the sense of not being in control of my own life anymore. Everything depends on my medical schedule, and the chemotherapy, and what my limits are. The doctor has told me to expect a couple more years, but my caretaker says she’s seen a lot of sick people. And she thinks I could be one of the ones who can beat it. For most of my life happiness was automatic. I might have had the only career where you get told ‘I love you’ three or four times a week. Maybe it happens with teachers too, but so many little kids said those words to me over the years. And I miss that. I was damned lucky to have that experience. Happiness isn’t automatic anymore, these days I have to work a little bit more for it. In addition to all the pain and the fear and having to pee all the time, I choose to do a lot of things that will make me aware of the beauty and loveliness of life. It’s not magic. I don’t stop thinking about the scary stuff, I just find moments to push them aside with the ridiculous. There’s so much in life that’s ridiculous. Every Saturday morning I watch Popeye on Turner Classic Movies. It’s so ridiculous. Olive Oil is so obnoxious. And you know, she has all these men after her. It’s just really funny. And Popeye is so full of himself and somehow manages to come out of everything, eat his spinach, and win. Then there’s my laughing yoga classes, which I can’t do in person anymore. But I do them online. There’s this thing we do where people will get in lines of three or four, and we’ll pretend to have a boat race. Everyone rows as hard as they can. Someone chooses a winner, and if you lose you get to create a big scene and make an ass of yourself. It’s ridiculous. And then there’s you. You’re ridiculous. You’re stopping random people, presumably to entertain yourself. You’re sitting in the middle of the street. I mean, think about it. It’s pretty dumb.”

“I’m basically a big butch lesbian. I hosted lesbian parties for ten years. And let me tell you, they adore me. A lot of my closest friends are big butch lesbians. Certainly my best bodybuilding partners: amazing, aggressive, powerful women. Very dominant over the males in the gym. Not dominant over me, of course. Unless they’re busting my balls, because strong women are ball busters. They’re just like the dudes. They are the dudes. They just happen to be dudes that are dudettes. They understand both sides of the fence; which is why we get along so well. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still friends with a lot of ‘dude’ dudes. But a lot of guys are just too rough around the edges when it comes to women. I don’t want any part of it. I find it grotesque. One term I’ve been hearing these last couple years is ‘body count.’ I’ve heard men say: ‘What’s her body count?’ They’re referring to the amount of people a woman has been with. What a pathetic, disgusting, wormy question. How dare you? This is an independent soul. This is a human that needs to be treated with honor and respect. This isn’t some piece of property you can put in a box. Imagine thinking someone is not worthy of you because they were a little experimental when they were younger, or even when they were older. That’s their choice. Leave them alone.  A woman can be with whoever she wants, whenever she wants, however she wants. If you ask me, it all comes down to insecurity. A lot of men think: ‘If she’s had a lot of lovers, there will definitely have been somebody better than me.’ They feel threatened, and they try to make that the woman’s problem. What a sad way of viewing things. No matter how many lovers a person has had, they’ll have never been with another you. Every person comes to the table with what they bring to the table. All of us are exactly what we are, different. And that what makes us all so special.”

“I still have the original flyer that I made: 100 suits for 100 gang members. At the time I was working as a bank teller. My manager allowed me to put a collection box in the lobby. People donated so many suits that I had to move them to the staff closet. I got written up for that, so I moved them all to my bedroom. Nothing in there but a bed and one hundred suits. We handed all of them out that very first day. I brought a suit rack to where all the kids hang out on the corner. I gave each kid a hair-cut: line-up, fade, I can do it all. Then afterward I’d fit him for a suit. Take a young man without any hope, and put him in a suit jacket, and a tie. He’s going to change his opinion of himself. He’s going to feel like he’s CEO of the world. I brought along one of those cheap ten-dollar mirrors. I’d show him his reflection. Then I’d send him straight to the job development person. I had no idea what I was doing. I had no clue what it would grow to be. Over the last ten years we’ve given out 50,000 suits. Whenever a man needs a fresh start, we’re there with a suit. We’ve partnered with prisons, and parole, and gun buyback programs. I’ve learned a lot since that first day. The suit can’t be the end all. It’s just the carrot being dangled. We do a lot of leadership training. And job development. We have a peace room in our office. It is what it is. A space of zen. There’s a waterfall in there. When a young man loses a friend to violence, he needs to know it’s OK to cry. It’s OK to talk. I try to set an example. I’ll talk about my own trauma. There was an entire month in 2016 when I was homeless. Every night I slept in my car, in the parking lot of JFK. I was too embarrassed to tell anyone. But I kept doing what I do. We’d just started our partnership with parole, so I was doing a lot of suiting. Each morning I’d wash up in the bathroom of the travel center. I’d put on black pants, and a $5 black t-shirt. And I drove to work. I kept a single suit jacket behind my desk. First thing in the morning I’d slip it on, and I’d get a boost. No matter what was going on. No matter how low I felt. When I slipped on that jacket, for a moment I’d feel like CEO of the world.”

https://www.inprnt.com/gallery/gemmacorrell/festive-anxiety/

O ly 365 days until next Halloween...🎃

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“It all began when my Grandpa Moe made a wrong turn. He was 93 years old, but he was still driving to and from his butcher shop. And one night he missed his turn in the dark. That’s when I offered to start driving him home. But I think he misunderstood me. Because the next morning he called at 7:30 AM, and asked: ‘When are you picking me up?’ That was the beginning of me coming here every day. The shop has been in our family for a very long time. But it was barely running by the time I arrived. Moe could still cut and prepare the meat, but I’m not sure people even realized the place was open. He saved every piece of paper, so even the refrigerators had files in them. But thankfully he had guardian angels in the neighborhood. People were always stopping in to make sure he had water, or coffee. And there was always a neighbor to sit with him while he closed the store. It wasn’t really making money, but I think this shop is what kept him going. My first priority was to clean everything. He didn’t like that very much. He thought I was ‘messing everything up.’ He’d already started to lose his memory, which frustrated him. He’d always prided himself on telling stories and remembering names. But he was still so young at heart. We’d put on records from the 40’s and 50’s, and he’d remember the songs. And he was so gentle with me while I learned the business. Whenever I felt overwhelmed, he’d say: ‘piano, piano,’ which means slow in Italian. He taught me how to saw a lamb in half. And how to pick out meat at the market. He could get impatient sometimes. But if he ever lost his temper, he’d always apologize before the end of our car ride home. We worked together for 2.5 years. But during the first week of quarantine, my whole family got COVID. And Grandpa Moe passed away two weeks later. It was right before Easter. And when I came back to the store, there were so many flowers at our door. It was a little scary because the streets were empty. And I kept the door locked because I was all alone. But loyal customers kept stopping by, to see if I needed anything. And at night, when it was time to leave, there was always a neighbor to sit with me while I closed the store.” #comebacknyc

Lunar Eclipse 2019 | Zoltan Tasi

Capaldi’s last words as the doctor are everything, e v e r y t h i n g (via musicalpoppadom)