The next two chapters will be more explanatory–will have the back story. This story has taken on a life of its own. I have a whole synopsis. Am I following it? Basically. It’s the edgiest thing I have written. I don’t have much time and can’t become obsessed over it. It has made writing fun again.
The first three chapters:
One
Two
Three
The hard part is putting in the words after the fact.

Nell and Justin went to the living room. He motioned for her to sit on the couch. It wasn’t one that she remembered from yesterday or from her interlude with Denny. She supposed it was an interlude. Maybe it had been a hallucination. How could she trust Justin? How could she not? He gave her some more water. She had been drinking the water constantly in the closet. She couldn’t imagine ever feeling satiated.

The water wasn’t bringing back her memory but was making her feel sharper. Nell felt as if she had been in an altered state for years. She didn’t feel that she could run a marathon but she didn’t feel as weak anymore. She felt as if she was noticing things for the first time. From the windows she could see leaves falling. It must be autumn and very windy. Wind chimes were playing. She remembered how much she loved that sound but didn’t remember any specific memories to go with it.

Nadia came in. For the first time Nell really looked at her. Nadia had pasty blotchy skin, dirty blond lifeless greasy hair and horrible posture. Nell sensed that things like posture were important to her as was skin and hair maintenance. She knew that if they were in a bar together there would be no competition. She couldn’t believe that she was thinking about such stupid things when she should be taking advantage of this probably temporary upsurge in her thinking to….Nell had no idea what. It was as if her brain said “sayanora,” and switched off at strategic points.

Getting her out of here was up to Justin and she had no frigging idea whether she could trust him or not. She thought she could but would you buy a used car from a mind like hers? Nell smiled as she wondered if she was always this weird. Nadia finished lighting a Marlboro. Only the very observant would notice the quick look of fury that fumed from her dishwater blue eyes, and Nell was:
You? Why are you staring at me?
Nell resisted the urge to say Nadia was more interesting than the cat calender covers that adorned the walls. She couldn’t act sharp or at all with it.
Ha? Sorry.
I asked why you were staring at me?
Nell shook her head. She didn’t know if that was a usual question or what she would say. She looked at Justin for support but he was engrossed in a computer game.
Come with me. Nadia grabbed Nell by the hand. She was surprisingly strong. They walked back to the bedroom, Nell stumbled more than she should have. Nadia sat her in a chair that had wrist and leg restraints.
You were good in the living room and with Justin. Four whole hours. So Ella we’re going to make sure you’re good the rest of the day so Mr. Del doesn’t have to punish you. His punishments are worse than mine. Or so he thinks. Good, Justin left. Hear that Ella? The door closing? Usually you jump when doors close. Justin must have done extra good things to you.
Nadia held a large hypodermic hand in her hand:
Just for being good I’m going to give you an extra dosage. What does it matter? You can’t think anyway. This will keep you sweet and Nadia likes you when you’re sweet. You’re Nadia’s doll, and Nadia loves to play with her doll.
Nell wanted to scream. Nadia expertly inserted the needle before Nell could say anything.

Nell tried hard to remember everything that had happened. All she could remember was Justin’s name. Nadia was on top of her. She knew this was wrong. She knew she shouldn’t be feeling anything but she wasn’t sure why. But Nadia felt wrong. Ella couldn’t even get Nadia off her. Then Ella felt good.

Ella was in bed. Nadia was feeding her vanilla ice cream. Ella was giggling because Nadia was also tickling the sole of her feet A man walked into the room. He frowned at Nadia.
I told you not to touch her except when necessary. And no feeding her ice cream.
Yes, Mr. Justin. She was being good for once. Controllable.
She’ll be more controllable if you just give her the foods I told you to.
Ella’s body felt good when she saw the man. She wanted him to care of her. But Nadia took care of her. She lived with Nadia and Del. Once she had another life. Once she had lived a grown up life. She didn’t know how she knew all that. Her mind felt tired from trying to think. Nadia said she shouldn’t try to think. Real adults thought. Ella had a doll. Nadia said she had a doll to play with, and Nadia had her. Ella didn’t really understand but she liked to kiss her doll

She heard Nadia talking to the man. They were using grown up words. she played with a book. It had pictures of animals made of materials that felt good. When she touched the materials they made funny noises. There weren’t any words in the book. She hated books with words. They made her angry. She knew the letters and that when they were put together they were supposed to mean something. She wanted to know what they meant. But books that felt good and made noises were fun. Ella didn’t think of words or anything when she had books that made noises
The man came up to her. He held something metal that looked scary and put it into her arm. She tried to make him play with her body. He put his hand on her shoulder and whispered into her ear. Her whole body jolted.

Nell. You’re Nell and I’m Justin. I’m going to get you out of here tonight.
She understood the words but didn’t understand why somebody would want to take her away. Her doll was next to the book. Her doll was scared. She had to comfort her doll. She held the doll close to her body. They were going to be safe

Vaguely she heard the man on the phone:
You got Nadia out of here? We have to get Nell out tonight. She doesn’t seem to be coming out of it. Too many injections of acid and synthetic MTHL and she’ll be a basket case. It might be too late.

Stumble it!

The beloved by me and many other people Olivia Cooper wrote a great post on Domestic Violence, October’s other big cause. I can’t speak personally about breast cancer (kinehora) but can about this.

When Zachary began to verbally abuse me, then broke my window and overturned furniture, then stalked me for a year little was known about domestic violence. Not little. It didn’t happen. Not to white girls who lived in good zip codes.

I was fortunate. I could tell my parents who were an amazing source of support and strength. I still had to hide out in Miami–he couldn’t afford to go there, and Sheapshead Bay–had a friend who lived there and it was the last place people would think of looking for me in.

A year or two later Dominic Dunne’s daughter Dominique was killed by her lover. Dunne made it his cause and it was his comeback. Horrible price to pay for a comeback.

There isn’t much I have to say on this subject that I haven’t said already. Zachary blamed me for everything that went wrong in his life. For awhile I agreed. Some inner strength took over and I kicked him out. But one day when I was studying, my guard was down and I let him in. That’s when he broke my things. I knew less than nothing about domestic violence but it seemed logical that if he could break my things I would be broken next.

I no longer have patience for women who give men one more chance. I have seen what can happen. I worked in elder abuse. Yes it can happen to 80 year olds by 80 year olds.

I have gotten comments when I have written about Zachary saying that all he needed was the love of a good woman and I wasn’t doing my good woman job. Wasn’t my job to do. He was sick and did kill himself several years later.

I used to feel guilty that I didn’t get him help. I was in therapy. My therapist was more scared than me or my parents. Zachary wouldn’t have gone for therapy or any help. Actually that was one of his complaints about me. I might be talking about the great Zachary.

My therapist was probably right to be that scared. He was just learning about domestic violence and the signs were bad.

The police were useless. They wouldn’t give me a restraining order. They will give you an order of protection today. Counseling is mandatory for abusers but the recidivism rate is very high.

Run at the first signs, and you will know them. Verbal abuse can be tricky, but if it escalates into an everyday thing, it’s abuse. Mutual abuse is a whole other subject and not healthy for either party or their children.

I have been engaged since then and in several other serious relationships. But the trust was gone. I always held back big parts of myself. I upset men because of that and they were right. My fear was so great I became a love him and leave him person. That’s my problem, and in this later stage of life I’m beginning to feel differently. It shouldn’t have taken so long.

I’m supposed to have a great memory but remember most of my later boyfriends as “the actor” “the piano player” etc. I held myself back so so much.

Cooper has a great list of resources. Read them!

Stumble it!

Here’s a love of my life, Frank Rich on Rudy and the end of our country’s being influenced by the radical right. Here’s The Evangelical Crackup People ask how I, a card carrying ACLU member can move to South Carolina. Bloggers taught me that to be an Evangelical doesn’t usually mean being a member of the radical right. My Evangelical friends have as much in common with them as I, a cultural Jew, have with the Ultra Orthodox Jewish fanatics. Blogging did open this country to me. It is because of bloggers that I can make this move. I am much more American than I was three years ago. I am also open to many more wonderful possibilities.

As it was the first real Fall day I spent it outside with friends. I had forgotten how wonderful Autumn crisp weather feels. We went to the weekly Sunday street fair at IS 41 off Columbus Avenue. Usually I dislike it but today it was fun and I know that when I come back to New York as a tourist it will be on the list of things to do. Oh I love talking to the people who have booths there. We speak the same language—New York but I will learn to speak other American languages.

When I put the apartment up for sale in a few weeks I will probably go to Myrtle Beach so as not to mess it up. it’s easy for me to keep a townhouse looking company ready and oh so difficult to keep two and a half rooms in perfect order

Hopefully I will find a person or persons who will go into contract quickly, but you never know. Then they have to prepare the Board package, the Board has to review it and interview them. That process will take at least six weeks which will give me time to see all the doctors I need to see before a move to South Carolina which in some ways does feel like a foreign country to a Fourth Generation New Yorker. Though many people have told me medical services are better and have the personal touch I so miss, it feels strange. I am so ready for this move and so fearful.

I fear my apartment being judged by realtor’s and prospectives buyers. This fear is worse for me than most people because I live in fear of being judged. But I fear it less since learning about Non Verbal Learning Disorders

I am woefully behind in everything that I have to do but feel an energy surge coming on.

I dared not go out from Thursday through Saturday for the rain at time was a fierce pouring one and all I could think about was my stress bronchitis turning into pneumonia. Any other time I would have risked it but this coming Saturday is my niece’s Bat Mitzvah and I come as both myself and my late parents older daughter. That thought is causing me joy, sadness, and more than a bit of nervousness as many of the guests are from my sister and my extended family.

I was asked to go on a cruise this spring that begins in South America and ends in Europe. I felt too unsettled to say yes. People tell me not to buy for six months at least but I have become used to home ownership even if it’s in the form of shares in a corporation. I have checked the owner box for so long, I will probably forget or feel like a vagrant or weird somehow. Though it will be nice to have the false feeling of being rich when I look at the balance in my brokerage account. False cos I ain’t, not in this world at least and that’s one reason I’m making this move.

People here do act as if money is made by the ATM and I fall into that warped mentality at times.

I have been writing fiction, experimental to the edge fiction. I have four more chapters to my 3WW. If I didn’t have so much else to do I could work on it all day and night. It’s made me love writing once again.

When I move I hope to work on it constantly. I hope I have room in the condo or hopefully townhouse for a studio to paint and play with photographs

I will very much miss this apartment. In the morning sun streams in so strongly I feel as though I’m getting a tan. My bedroom is perfect. It feels like a jewel box but really how much time do you spend in one? I watch TV in it. When I move I will watch big screen TV in another room and the bedroom will be used for the two functions a bedroom is supposed to be used for

I am beginning to feel psyched again both about moving and life. I made it in New York. I can make it anywhere I used to feel that I felt so at home and made friends so easily here because it was the only place I knew well. That’s partially true but I’m friendly. When I would make friends other places I would put it down to the phases of the moon and many other variables.

The street face I wore too well for too long is gone replaced by a smile that can’t get me in trouble as I am a New Yorker, street smart and wary.

Everything I have to do will fall into place quicker than I think. I don’t know why I believe what so many people have been telling me but I do. After the Bat Mitzvah I can focus full time on the move. What seemed so overwhelming just a week ago seems almost fun now—but I was having my yearly stress bronchial attack so….I wish my body could be satisfied with stress headaches.

Stumble it!

30 Rock rocked tonight. Carrie Fisher played a 50something former TV writer role model, and now the reason women like me sell perfectly luxe Manhattan apartments, save money, regularly get our hair, nails and toes done.
Alec Baldwin was the funniest he’s ever been. Too funny. This a bit embarrassing but I have the tiniest of crushes on him. As I said, a tiny crush.

It was called The Preppy Murder Case and class played a large part. Jennifer Levin’s parents were portrayed as a spoiled rich divorced “couple.” Chambers mother the working class nurse was the saint who sacrificed so her son could go to prep school. That was absurd. Everybody was a product of the times, including Chamber’s mother.

Levon Helm is one of my new life idols. To teach himself to sing again after throat cancer is pretty amazing. To sing as well as he does–tighter than ever—is both a miracle and a product of much practice. Continue Reading »

Stumble it!

This is the third in a series.
the first
The second
The fourth will be more explanatory. I think.
I have a cold that I was convinced was a strep throat this morning. It’s my niece’s Bat Mitzvah next week, and as designated co-host I can’t find a dress that is properly demure and sexy. The stress…

Good morning! You look like you had a very exciting night’s sleep, Ella. Not a very restful one though. I hope the dreams were worth it. But it’s not like you have anything to do all day. Breakfast is in the kitchen. I don’t serve you. It’s enough that I have to cook for you. You know where the bathroom is.

I’m Nell…

Lord do we have to go through this everyday, all day?
The woman walked away from the window. In her right hand she was holding something.

Nell tried to get out of bed but fell back into it. She was tired, so tired of trying to prove that she wasn’t Ella. Denny had been here last night. She was sure of that. She could feel, smell him all over her. She wanted to trust her memories. She felt as though she lived in a world where the unexpected was the expected.

That’s right Ella, you can’t get out of bed until I give you your shot. So don’t resist. I’m Nadia as I tell you 20 times a day and I’m tired of telling you. I’m tired of you and your dumb ass insistence on being somebody you’re not. You think I want to care for somebody as bitchy as you?
Nadia was smiling, a narrow closed mouth grin as she walked to the bed. Nell tried to move so the woman couldn’t inject her but she was too weak. After Nadia injected Nell, she talked in a hypnotic monotone with a slight Russian accent.

You were raped three years ago and your husband Denny was killed. ‘Course that’s not the real story, but I’m paid good money to make you believe it and if I get the bonus I was promised I just might. I’m supposed to get the bonus soon but I’m not sure that they will come through. I had a visitor last night who told me somethings I just might believe. One thing I do believe Ella is that you’re a spoiled princess, but I’m not sure you’re as evil as they say.

Nell tried to ask what the real story was, who had spoken to Nadia and why she wasn’t as evil as people said. What people? But she started crying. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t get out of bed. She needed to be able to think to devise a plan. She tried staying conscious. She began counting backwards from 100 by 7. 93. 86. 79. 72. 65. Why did she have the number 65 stuck in her mind, what was she doing?

Nadia had said something to her, something important. She couldn’t remember what it was. She found herself in a large kitchen she never remembered seeing before staring at a plate of scrambled eggs. She couldn’t remember anything but she was pretty sure that she never ate eggs without salsa. A man was in the kitchen with Nadia. He wasn’t Denny or Del but he looked familiar. As he talked to Nadia she found her body wanting him. Was that all she was? A sex machine? She tried listening to the conversation but her mind was stuck thinking “65, 65, over and over again.” Nadia spoke loudly to her.
I’m going out. Justin will be here. You were friends.
His voice was soothing. Honest soothing not the fake voice Nadia put on.

Hello Ella. I haven’t been here in awhile. It’s alright if you don’t remember me. Nadia will be gone for a few hours.
They heard a door close. The man named Justin walked out of the room. He came back quickly, spoke loudly:
Nadia went to do errands. You should really eat those eggs.
Then he walked up to her, and whispered into her ear.
You are Nell. I can’t ask you to trust me but I hope you do. I can’t explain anything until we get you out of here and that might not be until the weekend. Drink this.

Nell didn’t know why she trusted him but she drank the water quickly. Her mind and body relaxed. Really relaxed, not from a drug trance. She didn’t know why she could trust Justin. Something about him seemed familiar and good. Nell knew Justin was here to help her. She knew her name was Nell and that there was one person in the world who would help her.

.

Stumble it!

This was the first time I could say that I owe my birth mother nothing. Nada. Zilch. I’m glad that she had me and that’s as far as it goes. I feel very liberated and incredibly good.
I should explain that I stayed at the home with my birth mother and her mother for three weeks. This is so unique that I have never heard of any other adoptee in that situation.
My father and I were enthralled by that. But really she knew she was going to give me up. I lived with a foster family until I was exactly four months old. Had to be tested. I was a “perfect” baby. I had pneumonia at thirteen months. The doctor brought an oxygen tank into my house as my parents thought I had been through enough separation–parents couldn’t stay with babies in hospitals then. That might have been when I “got” non learning verbal disorder. Then again it might have been a problem with my brain, during gestation, that wouldn’t show until later. Somebody left a trying to be clever comment saying that adversity should teach. Gee, I never thought about that.

I’m enjoying writing my 3WW each Wednesday. It’s the first completely pleasurable writing experience that I have had in a long time.

I hope to take it in directions that you can’t imagine yet. I never knew I could write fiction until I began 3WW, and never dreamed that I would be able to write something like this. It uses my very vivid imagination, and I hope, my encyplodic knowledge of James Spader films.

I write it in advance and put in the word. They do add something.

I’m also writing about selling a coop and finally coming to terms with my birth mother’s rejection of me. I’m not talking about when she gave me up for adoption, I always felt good about that. It was hard for people in the adoption movement to understand that back in the 80’s. They didn’t understand why I didn’t embrace and further reach out to a woman who didn’t like me.

It wasn’t my responsibility to make her like me. I came fully formed. It was her responsibility to meet me half way in every sense if she wanted a relationship with me and she failed to do that. She wanted me to become somebody I wasn’t and will never be. It was she who had unrealistic expectations. I’m sorry about that, but nobody can expect an adult to become your dream daughter. Or for a child to be the person you want her to be, for that matter.

My parents accepted me when I did everything possible not to be easily liked–the adolescent rebel stage. They found that to be normative. They loved me for who I was, not for who they thought I should be. I understand that it’s different for a birth mother, but I owed her nothing. I was polite, sweet and all that because I am. I tried and that’s all I could do.

I could never say that before I read Identical Strangers

Elyse and Paula were more like me than any adoptees I came across in my search. Their book had to stir up many feelings I wasn’t prepared for and did. I’m glad as I needed to finally work through that.

Stumble it!

In the elevator yesterday a man, about my age, told me his daughter always has the Weather Channel on. Being somewhat of a weather freak I could relate and told him I always have a tab on my computer on weather.com, and refresh it whenever I remember. He didn’t know what a computer tab was or what I meant by refreshing. I felt so___I’m not exactly sure what but something. I’m glad I didn’t confess that I often have two or three tabs set to different cities.

I wrote this post while undergoing a crisis about leaving. I love New York. I love my life. It’s the 65% increase in costs since 9/11 I don’t love. For much less money I could have a much easier life and come back to visit every several months. I know I’m making the only right choice for me, but it’s so hard.

People who say color overpowers Manhattan abodes must not live in the city, or love to live in a world of grays and grime. Having a colorful apartment somewhat makes up for only having 600 square feet and for living a vertical life.
Color makes me happy. When I first moved here, a decade ago, I went color crazy. Color wasn’t as in then, and people would talk about my apartment as if it were something special. Now it’s tired as I am.
I’m tired of forever trying to make a better me. Doesn’t there come a time in life when you’re totally satisfied? With the color on your walls? With the person that you are? Or aren’t?I’m trying to move forward by moving but I’m a New Yorker. As much as I want to leave and know that I have made the right decision a part of me feels that I’m giving.
EB White said if you come to New York prepare to be lucky. I never had to come to New York. I was always here and I was lucky most of the time.
30 years ago this past week I began a six week temp job. Thirteen years later I left the industry. 39 years ago this past week I first really noticed Noah.
October was always my lucky month.
Now it’s a month shrouded in personal tragedy. I try to work past that and remember all the good stuff that happened in October.
Lucia and I met at that temp job. Myrna was her supervisor and somebody–she needs to pick a name–became mine after the great layoff in March. Somehow the four of us became the Blenderbusters. We’re meeting tomorrow for the first time in I don’t know how many years. This is something that should and does make me happy.
I used to write stories about our adventures and all the time we would spend thinking about what we wanted to do. I never tried to publish the stories but people would read “Pia’s girls stories.” Ethnically and racially we were the perfect NY blend–Lucia is of Puerto Rican descent, Myrna is Black, Somebody is half Greek/half German–the basic ethnic composition of Astoria where she grew up. I’m Russian Jewish and half Irish Catholic by birth.
I have few true regrets but a big one is not trying to get the stories published. My workshop teachers were always trying to get me to, and it was as a friendlier publishing world. I was young and photogenic….The stories were a mix of funny and pathos.
Who but Lucia would look at the audience at the Ziegfeld–we were late and had to seat in the front row–for a new Woody Allen movie and say:
We could make signs saying that we can’t afford personal ads and hold them up here. Look at all the straight men.
I played on that one and made it into a great personal essa, but I had no desire to be published. Writing was something I did for fun. To be published would have taken the fun out of it. It wasn’t really fear of rejection. Rejection from a magazine is so impersonal–while I didn’t try, somebody once submitted for me. I wasn’t insulted, saddened or anything by the rejection. I did think the little handwritten note asking me to submit again was cool. More recently I have gotten great rejections from Salon and The Times It’s weird that cynical as I am I find them “almost acceptances.”
I find blogging scarier. There’s interaction involved. What if nobody reads my post? What if my sitemeter comes up empty? What if everything is a Google search or thanks to the unknown person who paid BE for me seemingly forever–all BE hits?
I always feel sorry for the people who come to my blog through Google. Unless they were looking for Courting, this isn’t what they wanted.
What is this blog anyway?
I began to enter a contest to be paid 80K to blog for a year, and was stymied by the first question

Why should you get paid to blog for a year?
Here is your chance to make your case. Tell us why you think you should be paid to blog professionally for an entire year. Heartwarming stories are good.

It was the heartwarming stories that got me stuck. Shouldn’t somebody with a truly heartbreaking or heartwarming story win it?
I’m a New Yorker. By definition we’re caustic–see any Seinfeld I can take the saddest events of my life and make them sound earnest but matter of fact. I don’t do heartwarming.
I’m neurotic and have neurobiological problems but would die before asking for sympathy. I was raised, and continued as an adult to think of other people first. I do understand that is at odds with what people think a New Yorker is, and does confuse people about me.
I’m more into writing edgy fiction than heartwarming stories. Of course I want to be paid to blog if there are no strings attached.
I cant get into pay per post and all that. They all seem like pyramid schemes to me. My father probably taught me about Ponzi when I was ten.
Blogging’s changed so much in the three years I have been doing it. I wrote about my stats as I wanted it on record. For the record I had no frigging idea what I was doing. I just wrote and people came. Now people begin blogs just for links. People give away books and other things. People would send me forms to fill out that would turn out to be “guest posts.” Only instead of guest posting on a subject of my choice they would tell me what to write, how many lines there should be and how many links. That’s not blogging, that’s something I want nothing to do with. When I would refuse they would de-link me.
Can a disenchanted blogger actually enter this contest?
Where other people see opportunities I see too many colors.
Could I write a heartwarming application essay? Could I pimp myself?
Will they raise the money to pay the blogger?
Shouldn’t the winner be a person who truly rose through adversity?
How do you define adversity? How do you define rising through adversity?
Does anybody who asks all these questions deserve to win anything?

Stumble it!

This is a continuation of last weeks 3WW. I already wrote the next two. Me can be very sick.

He looked concerned.
I’m not Denny. I’m Del, Denny’s brother. Denny was killed three years ago. I moved in after you got out of rehab.
You’re lying. Why are you lying Denny?
We’re twins. You know that.

She stopped herself from falling. She was sure that like herself Denny was an only child. She didn’t know why she was so sure. Now that she thought about it she remembered nothing other than she had once been married to a man named Denny, that had to be short for Dennis, who looked just like this man. They lived? Good question. Somewhere in New York. Downtown seemed right. Or maybe they had moved. Her memories were fuzzy. So fuzzy they felt like a silent film speeded up faster than the eyes could watch.

The apartment had felt like home when she was opening the door. She was sure of that. Now it looked strange. She was almost sure that she would never own a brown couch or burgundy chairs. She couldn’t imagine herself living in an apartment with light brown walls. The apartment didn’t look like a woman lived in it. She knew the couch had just been turquoise and the chairs seafoam green to contrast with the seafoam blue living room walls. She knew that. Just didn’t know her own name.

Denny or Del or whoever he was tried to help her but she ran from him. She wanted to hide. But she didn’t even know where the bedroom was. The apartment seemed to have endless rooms. He gave her a glass of water. She knocked it over. For all she knew he was trying to poison her.

The door to the apartment had been left unlocked. A woman came in. The woman was overly cheery.
Sorry. I had to go to the store.

Denny/Del said:
You know that you’re never supposed to leave her alone
I was just gone for fifteen minutes. Picking up the new prescription. Never know when you’re going to be here Del. Makes it hard for me.
The pharmacy could have delivered it. Francesca is coming to relieve you in twenty minutes.
No, Francesca won’t be here. Says it’s too hard. Until Miss Ella comes to terms with the incident, you’re not going to have too many people wanting to work here.
Damn she was the second this month.

Miss Ella? Her name wasn’t Ella. It couldn’t be something so old fashioned yet trendy. She didn’t know how she knew that. She didn’t seem to know anything. She realized that the woman was speaking to her as though she was a small child.

I’m Nadia. You’re Ella and I take care of you
I’m not Ella. Ella’s a strange name.
Ella’s your middle name. You never used your first name, Janis. You wanted to be different.
No you’re wrong. I would remember. Who are you people?
Lord, you really need your medication. Del?

Del grabbed her from behind. She couldn’t get away. Nadia stuck a needle in her arm.

Her name was Ella. Her husband had been killed three years ago. She refused to acknowledge that and so was in pain. Only she didn’t feel like an Ella or a Janis.

She stared at the bedroom rug. It looked like a field of blue and yellow flowers. If she thought hard enough she could be playing in the flowers.
She ran through the field. The flowers were so pretty. They smelled so good. She was going to pick some and give them to a woman who was smiling at her.

She fell asleep. When she woke she was on the turquoise couch in the living room. The doorbell rang
She opened the door and smiled.
Hi, Denny.
Hello yourself. He kissed her hard. When they stopped kissing and she caught her breath she said:
Answer something truly stupid. What’s my name?
Corneila. You’re called Nell. We were attacked three years ago. Sometimes your memory plays tricks on you.
Make love to me Denny. Here in the foyer floor. So you can feel real.
It was as real as it could get.

She didn’t remember getting to bed but found herself waking up to the morning sun. Buy why was that woman who called herself Nadia opening the windows?

Stumble it!

New York City with the exception of Manhattan has the most amount of subprime mortgages. I hope that nobody is affected by this too much. I truly hope that I’m not affected.
This is the first in a series about selling a Manhattan apartment. It’s not fun. I’m kind of paralyzed. This is about all the things I have to do before putting it up for sale. Everybody else seems to do this effortlessly

I’m weighing the pros and cons about blogging about the sale process.
It’s hard for me to believe that people will care about emptying the
storage cage. Which has the world’s largest quarter collection–just
in case dollar bills someday became extinct–in a bowling bag. A vintage very nice one. Next to the bag from Viet Nam.

Boxes of perfectly cleaned clothes–from 10 to 25 years old–all sizes in
plexiglass containers. Boxes of moldy books I have to throw out–the basement
had a flood. Bags filled with papers I didn’t need but didn’t want to
throw out. I will bring them up and shred them.

Boxes of things I never put in my apartment. Obviously I don’t need those things. Especially the ten boxes of plaster brackets but I have had some stuff since I was a teenager. Did shred all the report cards etc. Have to be merciless in discarding things.

Then I have to get them to get rid of the mold that has cropped up around the shower, paint all the surfaces
that were skim coated after various floods–so many I gave up
repainting and have a distinct tied died theme that only I notice. The floods were a good thing as the steam risers were replaced and trap doors, not noticeable, put in places where pipes tend to burst. This is a pre-war building. Floods are a given. I have had the worst, probably that the apartment can have. Our super is amazing with floods. He can talk about floods forever. The only time I have seen him excited was when he was pointing out pipes–on my bedroom floor. They’re all in a schematic now.
Have to get the small fire damaged area in the kitchen sanded and
painted–and have them do something about the area around the
sink–can’t think of what it’s called–the outer layer is peeling. Oh
yes, I found out the pipe in the kitchen sink is plastic and illegal

When I was working the window screens–specially ordered–each window
in the building is a different size–were measured and put in. I came
home to one screen each in the living room and the bedroom and screens
in the bathroom windows which I didn’t want. The original shades have
been falling apart

Oh the bathtub which I have use about four times a year–separate
shower needs to be reglazed though it’s been cleaned like fine silk.
The marble in the bathroom needs sealing as does the granite in the
kitchen/foyer. The new bedroom floor is already warping and there’s an area they couldn’t fit the wood exactly. I had them leave the concrete and was going to pour concrete over it but that couldn’t happen for some reason I forget. It’s the entry foyer to the bedroom. There used to be a soaking tub but it was taken out and I have the world’s smallest bedroom half bath. But it’s all white with subway tile and absolutely lovely. The bedroom is like a jewel case. It looked tiny when I first saw it, but I decorated it so that people think it’s large. I have a good eye. I’m a glass, steel, some wood person

It sounds truly gross but it’s adorable. Everybody loves it. Has
much curb appeal even in this condition. It’s actually in good condition. I see through magnified eyes.

I’m the only person who sees every deficiency but if I were going to
be paying that much for an apartment I would make sure that everything
is perfect even if I’m planning to renovate totally on general
principle. I want max money

Putting an apartment up for a sale is a very judgmental experience for
anybody. For me it reminds me of all my perceived weaknesses. Though
my family loves it, I can hear the voice of my father telling me how
imperfect I am. He never saw the apartment but I know he would have much to say. Maybe it would be good. Everybody else has only good to see, but I’m so used to looking at the horrible.

Maybe I should write about it but it feels the most personal of all
personal things.

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Steven Colbert wrote Maureen Dowd’s column and he claims Frank Rich’s too.
This is the anniversary of my mom’s death and I turn back into a person tomorrow. A person who has to focus on selling an apartment and other realities of life. Will be at blogs during the week.
Can America begin to right a grievous wrong and elect a great president? Draft Gore,

Blogfriday
I have romanticized very few celebrities in my life. That’s not to say I haven’t been caught up in celebritymania, or taken men in my life and made them into celebrities in my own mind. But true celebrities: Alan Bates, Eric Clapton and James Spader. Continue Reading »

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