Donika Miller's Blog

Yesterday I was preparing notes for a new author and caught myself typing, "Are you sure it makes sense for the batteries to go up her ass?" Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to my job. I have a lot of moments where I pause to reflect on the strange ideas and places working for Rudius has led me to, not the least of which is living in New York. Anytime I notice myself doing something like analyzing the relationship between batteries and asses and begin to think there's something a little bit weird about me and my life choices, there's somewhere I can go and identify myself as one of the more normal people. Goddamn, I love the subway.

Last night I sat at my station waiting, and a very large, very googly-eyed, very retarded black man came stumbling up to me.

"Hello!"

"Hi there."

"Mind if I join you?" He nodded toward the empty seat next to me.

"Sure, go ahead."

This is an aspect of my personality that concerns the people who care about me. I'll talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere-- tourists, old ladies, immigrants, students, coffee shop patrons, homeless guys, retarded people... actually, especially homeless guys and retarded people. Moreover, people seem to really like talking to me. If there's someone around with a story to tell, a grievance to air, or a piece of news to share, they somehow usually find me. "It's because you look like a victim," my mom has sternly cautioned, but I like to think of it more as having a friendly face. I know it's not particularly safe for me to engage strangers, but on the other hand I've been truly honored by some of the incredibly personal, brave, and unusual things people have shared with me over the years. I wasn't expecting much of a good story from this guy, but I have a standing policy of being nice to retarded people because... well, why not?

I'll tell you why not.

"My name is Tom!" Tom had some long-ass hair around his nostrils and deposits of filmy whiteness at the corners of his mouth. His oversized Jets jacket was covered in stains and I started to worry that he might smell.

"Hi, Tom, I'm Allison." I never use my real name with people I'm not likely to see again.

"I like your shoes. They look like ballerina shoes."

"Thanks. You're right, they do!"

"I like your socks, too. What's on them?"

I looked down and remembered my silly socks, "Oh, ha, those are dogs. See? A dalmatian and a greyhound and--"

"Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Sure," I wiggled a little, "These aren't really ballet slippers. The material is harder so you can't tell I'm wiggling." I bent down and pressed on the tips of my shoes to show him. "Can you wiggle your toes?"

"Sure!" He wiggled and through his soft sneakers I could see his big toe bopping around.

I giggled.

He giggled.

It was nice.

"Wiggle them again!" he commanded, bending over to get a closer look at my feet. I wiggled, and then he said, "Wiggle just that one!" pointing to my right foot. From there we engaged in a little game of Simon Says with me wiggling my right or left toes, foot on the ground, off the ground, one then the other, then both, and so on. Just as the train pulled up, he asked, "Can you cross your legs and just wiggle that foot?" Suddenly it dawned on me, Wait a second, what exactly are we doing here?

"Sorry, I have to go." Naturally, he followed me onto the train and sat right next to me, his eyes locked on my feet.

"Wiggle them again!"

"No, you wiggle yours." He did but then immediately demanded I get back to work. "What's so interesting about this to you?" I asked him, noting uncomfortably that he wasn't touching himself, but was using the bottom of his shirt to wrap his hands into tight balls. It suggested that he'd gotten in trouble in the past for touching himself and was exercising some restraint. "I don't know," he replied, "I just like it. Can you take your shoes off and do it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's not polite to take your shoes off in public... and it's too cold."

"It's warm in here. You can do it!"

"I don't want to. I'm not taking my shoes off."

"OK, then just wiggle your toes again?"

"No, I don't want to wiggle anymore."

For the first time since we boarded the train, he looked me in the face, "PLEASE," he begged with tears in his eyes, "You can't stop!" Now I was in a tough position. I sure as hell didn't want to gratify whatever his fetish is, but I also didn't relish being the girl who made the giant retarded guy on the subway cry. Not to mention, what if he flew into a retard rage? No way I could defend myself against that.

"Alright, listen, I'll wiggle my toes, but that's it. Both feet on the ground, no fancy stuff."

"OK!" he excitedly bent back down to focus on my feet.

"What is your stop?" I wondered how long I'd have to do this.

"42nd Street," he informed my feet. We were at 125th. Damnit.

Resigned, I took out my book and read while I wiggled. It was actually oddly peaceful. Once I started wiggling, he was quiet except for when I'd get lost in my book and forget what I was doing. "Wiggle!" he'd remind me. A half-sleeping Asian man across the aisle was watching by now, not even trying to conceal his confusion and disgust. You know you're involved in something severely perverse when an Asian dude is repulsed by your activities. He probably thinks I'm getting paid for this... Actually, I bet you CAN get paid for this, and here I am giving it away for free to a retarded guy. God I'm a sucker. A rush of people got on at 59th Street, and I started to become really embarrassed about the situation, "Listen, my feet are tired. I'm done wiggling."

"No! Come on!"

"Really, I'm done."

"Take off your shoes. The air will feel good."

"No, I told you I'm not taking them off."

"Then let me rub them!"

"Oh hell no."

"Come on," his stop was coming up and he was growing gravely anxious, "Just let me touch one. Just for a minute."

"You're not touching my feet."

"Do you paint your toenails?"

"Yes, but... listen, I'm done now, and you're not touching my feet."

"Take off your socks! Please? Just one! I want to see your nail polish."

"No... isn't this your stop?" The train was slowing down.

"Yes." He stared out the train window with a determined, furrowed brow, then turned back to my foot. "Come on, take one sock off. I just want to see before I go."

"No." I looked up at the Asian guy who clearly had zero sympathy for me and my dirty dealings.

"Please? Just one sock."

The train doors opened. "You better get going. You're going to miss your stop, Tom!"

And like that, he bolted off the train, hands wrapped in his shirt, running unsteadily, almost certainly rushing home to masturbate to the thought of my feet. While all of this makes me think I pretty much facilitated my own sexual assault, hey, at least someone finds my doggy socks sexy.

Later on, I picked up the piece I'd been editing, and had to verify some information in it by doing a Google search for "baby erection diaper" and "infant male erection." Ahhhh, back to normalcy.

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Posted by Donika at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (4)

Since I've started this thing, I've received many kind, supportive responses, and some very helpful suggestions and critiques. I've also received a couple of nasty comments that I did not see coming. At all. To be honest, though, they're my favorite responses. I mean, I've talked about how I came to work for Rudius and what type of journal I use. Kind of innocuous, no? The fact that this somehow pisses people off cracks me up. I don't know what about me arouses ire in people, but-- Actually, I am exactly sure what it is. Let's explore by example:

Danika - very sweet, but very long. Why not get yourself an editor? You might have skipped a couple of the classes that covered English grammar and you certainly missed the whole brevity is the sole of wit thing.

-Lily

Putting aside that this person misspells both my name and the word "soul" while picking on my grammar, OK... fair enough. I agree that the entry was way too long, but of itself the comment is not remarkable. What is interesting, though, is what came out when PhilaLawyer responded to her.

Philalawyer - I'm not sure what your point is. Is it that the inaugural post of the Managing Editor of the newly professional Rudius Media had a pretty major grammatical error and the level of detail that only friends and family could love is insignificant because well she's a girl and insecure and so the fact that she's writing at all is enough to require applause? Or is it that none of you Rudius writers can be expected to take a close look at her work, cause though you've got her back, you don't really take her writing seriously? Although it is sweet of you to defend her, wouldn't it be more generous to edit her?

Whoa... there are a lot of assumptions in there. Around these parts, insecurity is not gladly accommodated, so I'm not sure where she got the impression that I'm being humored. And who's asking anyone to take my writing seriously? It's here; read it or don't. I'm sure as hell not calling myself the next Faulkner. Please note, I still have no idea what grammatical error is driving her to pass judgement on me as a person, and frankly, I don't care.

People often claim that grammar mastery is useful so that you know when and where it's powerful to break the rules. I disagree, slightly. I think it's more that once you know something really well, you can grow beyond it. I don't downplay the importance of grammar, but if you're mired in those rules, you're essentially imprisoning yourself. Both from reaching your creative best and appreciating the creative best around you. (Oooo, see how that last sentence was nothing but a prepositional phrase? No governing subject OR predicate? Grammatically badass, and pissing off people like Lily along the way. Double win.) I can play the grammar game with the best of them, but overemphasis on it is generally the hallmark of the creatively stunted. I know, I've been there.

The impetus for this post was a comment I received yesterday, in response to my dissatisfaction with these entries, "Why wait? Why not delete these entries right now? -Beth" My boyfriend will confirm that I almost rejoiced over this, as it clarified a lot to me.

You bitches are jealous, plain and simple.

Lily, Beth, and Anyone Else Who Reads About a Moleskine and Gets Pissed Off, I have news for you: your problem is not with me. As I said, I've been there, so I know roughly what is going through your heads right now. You're reading this and thinking, "What the hell? This girl is borderline vapid, and she doesn't even know GRAMMAR. How did SHE become the editor in this operation?" What you're really wondering, though, is, "What the hell? I'm every bit as smart as she is, and much better at grammar. How come I'M not doing what she does?" I can't answer that question for you, but I can suggest some reading on the subject. There is a fantastic book called The War of Art, the first third of which is devoted to the concept of Resistance. It claims that anytime someone sets out to do something creative, the world fights them on it. It can be in the form of family obligations, self doubt, or naysayers, among other things. Naysayers root for failure because it makes them feel better about themselves; success in others shames their rationale for not trying. Right now I've neither succeeded nor failed, but I'm shocked how quickly resistance showed up on my doorstep. I haven't even done anything yet.

Howard Stern has been a huge influence in my life, and one of his classic sworn enemies was Kathie Lee Gifford. He had a stance on her that I find insightful. Though he despised her, he also described himself as her biggest fan, as he would watch, listen to, and read anything about her. It might have been out of hatred, but that sort of preoccupation with a person is also what characterizes a fan. On no level do I believe people who dislike me are fans-- at the very least I don't have enough of a presence for that-- but I do know this, for sure: they'll read this site with much more fervor than people who like me. And I appreciate that. Not their readership necessarily, but their inspiration. I've been too busy to post on here lately, yet Beth's comment got me typing almost immediately. PLEASE keep leaving me nasty remarks. I won't respond to them anymore, but I will approve and savor each one. They give me confidence that I'm on the right track, and remind me not to become that angry, frustrated person again. They might also help the naysayers work out some of their self loathing, so with an unburdened soul they can find their own happiness.

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Posted by Donika at 12:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (6)

My Junior year of high school I was required to keep a journal for English class. We were supposed to write in it for two hours a week, and the teacher reserved the right to read everything inside. It took me a while to adjust to both undirected writing-- plucking ideas and images out of thin air-- and letting someone completely inside my head. It was almost as if my teacher was learning the innerworkings of my psyche in real time as I did. For certainly I had no idea what was on my mind until I was forced to record it.

From there writing in my journal became somewhat of an addiction-- not only something I did with idle time, but something I had an extreme urge to do in moments of particular stress. When worried about a friend, or during a nasty parental fight, or while sitting outside the dean's office, I would crave my journal, the way I now crave a glass of wine, to calm down. When I'd go back and read things that seemed so crucial to me at some point, I'd chuckle at how some time and space rendered them at once insignificant and priceless. I remember observing in my journal, "I'm really glad I've been writing this. If for nothing else than to document my life, to pay tribute to the fact that it happened." (Yes, I spoke like that in high school.) When I tried my first short story in there, my teacher, who by then was firmly established as My Favorite Teacher Ever, wrote after it, "Donika, I hope that you stick with writing, because you have the touch." You have the touch... those words promised nothing, but bestowed a lot. After then I felt an encompassing responsibility toward words in everything I did.

That first journal was tragically destroyed during college, when I forgot I stored some sentimental things in the basement of a house scheduled for demolition. While my habit has waxed and waned, somewhere along the line I stumbled upon the perfect notebook for journaling: the Moleskine. I love a servicable product, and this is one whose utility far outweighs its price. The pages are a smooth, durable paper, and the binding provides a flat, hard writing surface no matter where you are. It comes equipped with a bookmarker, an elastic strap to hold it closed, and a secret back pocket for storing clippings and other scraps. On Sunday I thumbed through mine looking for something to write about this week, and when I came up empty, I started rifling through the back pocket. I found a slip of paper I keep in there on purpose, because I always look in that pocket when I'm desperate.

My god, if that doesn't make you want to engage in the ongoing human conversation, I don't know what would. Eagerly, I resumed flipping through my notes, looking for something I could announce to the world. I guess there's some difference between desire and direction? The best I can offer is a silly paragraph I kept returning to and smiling:

It's Eric's birthday and a crisp November evening, so we're standing outside Pub X, sipping pints and grilling the bouncer about his workout routine. A stout, elderly Chinese woman shuffles her brown loafers down the sidewalk in front of us, her head bowed and swaddled in a scarf, her hands clutching her collar closed against the chill. Suddenly Eric's attention snaps to her and he shouts, "Hey, aren't you the lady who sells the porn?!" I glared at Eric to check his behavior, as the woman lifted her head, smiled wide, and cooed, "Yeeeesss." She then opened her DVD-lined coat, and negotiated a birthday special with Eric.

I don't know what I'll do with that scene, but I rather like it. Had I not written it down, it would have been filed into the vague half-memories I'm not sure happened to me or someone else. Instead, I relived, in precise detail, a very human sample of the funny, unexpected things that happen to us every day. It's not funny as written-- yet. It needs more windup, and a crisp, whiplash ending, but the important thing is that I captured the moment truthfully. It'll payoff later.

Here's another moment I'm glad I'll force myself to remember.

The D train* announcer today was out of control. When I got on at 34th he declared, "Our next stop ladies and gentlemen is 42nd street, the historic and now san-i-tized, Dis-ney-fied 42nd Street, where it is safe to bring your chil-dren. Pllllllleeeeeeaaaassse stand clear of the closing doors!" He wasn't announcing the stops, but peforming them. After his exuberant announcement of "Sizzeventh Ave" a black guy sitting across from me leaned into his girlfriend and commented, "Yo, white people hate that shit." I held the Autobiography of Malcolm X I was reading up a little higher to shame him. During the long, non-stop stretch between 59th Street and 125th Street, he did the usual announcements about watching your belongings and reporting suspicious behavior, but did them with his own little flair. Then he broke into an announcement I hadn't heard before, "Ladies and Gentlemen, again I would like to thank you for choosing MTA to move you around town today. We are not the brave police and firemen of this great city, but we are the eemmmM-Tee-Ayyy and we DO, AAAALLLLLLways have, and ALLLLLLways will, run New York." I wanted to stand up and applaud; the guy across from me leaned into his girlfriend again, "He's a good person." By 125th Street, "Home of the world, world, woooOOOoooOOOOooooorrrrrld famous Apollo Theater!" I agreed. It was nice to hear someone put so much heart into what I would imagine is a pretty routine job. Assuming he wasn't drunk, of course.

Based on the above, I considered doing this entry on the importance of finding inspiration everywhere, and approaching everything you do with enthusiasm. That would be insincere, though, as I'm lacking in both right now. Anyone reading would detect me trying to convince myself the most. So I was down to two anecdotes, no ideas, and a promise to myself to update this site once a week. The result, apparently, is pointless entries such as this.

A little trick in editing is to try chopping off the entire first paragraph of any story, chapter, or essay. Many times it makes the piece much crisper, as people tend to do a lot of foot shuffling in the beginning. It's usually superfluous, but just as often is a quick, candid view into the author's attitude toward his writing (Dave Eggers shuffled his feet so much it ascended to the level of a dance). I have a feeling that in a year or so, I'll wish I could lop off my first several entries here. I'll be honest: I have no idea what I want to do, nor what I am doing, with this blog, and for that reason owe an apology to anyone who reads it. I recognize that I'm shuffling my feet and therefore likely wasting your time. At this point you're like my English teacher, inside my skull, watching in real time as I figure out what I have to say. Hopefully, it'll payoff later.

* If you know me, I fully encourage using "D Train" as my nickname.

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Posted by Donika at 01:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)