Wanderings

I felt restless tonight. Left work and took the F down to SoHo, then walked over to Space Untitled on Greene Street, where I wrote for a while. Space Untitled's untitled space is beautiful, high ceilings and skylights, subtle artwork on the walls, comfortable couches and a low-key atmosphere, and I can't for the life of me figure out how they manage to pay the rent on that kind of square footage in SoHo when every time I'm in there it's three-quarters empty. Of course, I'm usually there BECAUSE it's empty, so I'm not complaining. The tourists can go wait for tables at Starbucks.

Writing worked for a while, then stopped working, and I headed east, ending up on the Bowery in a bar that I loved and hadn't visited in a while, Astor Lounge. Another beautiful, and nearly empty, space. I sat and had a beer at the bar, thought my thoughts and enjoyed being in a respectable establishment on a Friday night that wasn't filled with people and smoke. Call it "antisocial" if you want; I don't give a rat's ass. I just know that people can get on my nerves.

Walking out the door of Astor Lounge and finding the DV Dojo and its store of screenwriting books and supplies was a pleasant surprise, even if it appeared that I'd waltzed into a premiere party for a no-budget digital film. I didn't take any of the buffet food out of courtesy, but I did get myself a Guinness and a seat at the bar of the attached Bowery Poetry Club to listen to a silver-haired black man named Amiri Baraka spout beat poetry with jazz accompaniment, which was entertaining enough until the door guy told me it would be twenty bucks if I actually wanted to watch the show. I finished the Guinness while flipping through a screenwriting magazine that was about twenty pages long and had the production value of a Bazooka Joe comic, then hit the road. And ended up back home, wondering why screenwriting magazines tend to sport some of the worst writing ever.

I don't know why I get restless. It just happens sometimes, and I won't know what to do or where to go, and I'll be thankful to find a peaceful place to sit for an hour until the restlessness sets in again. It doesn't happen as often as it used to, and I think it's triggered by boredom or frustration, the latter of which can set in quickly when writing isn't going as smoothly as I'd like. But I have found that being restless in New York is a hell of a lot better than being restless in Westlake, Ohio, or worse, Lewisburg, Pennsylvania. At least in Westlake I had a car, even if I did burn up a lot of gas. In Lewisburg, more often than not, I'd end up in a local bar shooting pool by myself.

It's a weird thing, a self-imposed loneliness. A weird thing to reject the company of people who would welcome you with open arms, because you want to be alone, and be lonely.

I understand myself a lot better now than I used to, but there's still a hell of a lot that I just don't get.