THE BLUE HAND OF BUDDHA

What Became of Me

My mother always used to tell me this: 

“You’ll get the right job at the right time.  A door will open that couldn’t have opened for anyone else.  It will be exactly right for you.” 

The Blue Hand of Buddha plucked me up at my moment of gravest despair, and gave me an entirely new life — all in the space of 3 weeks.

I was really entrenched in my last apartment, where I fully intended to die. I had sort of failed into the apartment after the nervous breakdown I had at the death of the publishing industry.  I escaped New York with nothing but a duffel bag, and had the rest of my belongings packed and sent for me.  But that little California apartment became my little slice of heaven - my workshop, my little home near my nieces and nephews.  I felt myself restored to sanity, and that the place was integral to my well-being.  I got very relaxed and very comfortable (a bit indolent, even, though that was mostly from underemployment). It was a terrible shock to be rudely and venally ejected from it.  The thought of losing it was so jarringly terrible I truly believed that I was going to kill myself rather than leave it.

The last thing that I thought would happen, on the verge of Motel living or pet-sitting, is that I would be offered the magical job my mother had always promised me.  I didn’t think for a moment it was going to involve me standing behind a marble counter managing a bookstore/wine bar — in Crown Heights Brooklyn, of all places.   I always figured my dream gig would have more to do with my actual writing career, but as we know, AI ruined everything, and now those don’t really exist anymore. (Then again, I haven’t been trying, lately.) 

I found writing very emotionally difficult, in long form. While working the wine bar the other night I had an interesting conversation with a young lady who was working as a freelance book surgeon, working with publishers, massaging the psyches of fractured authors. 

“I’d say I had a nervous breakdown every 200 pages,”  I said, and then realized I was lying to look more sane. 

“Actually, it’s more like every 50 pages,” we both said at the same time.  I didn’t realize it wasn’t just me having these problems. 

Writing on berzerk deadlines will make you mentally ill, there’s just no two ways about it.  Sometimes trying to shift your mind into verbal is like trying to put a writhing two-year old baby into a snow suit.  It just doesn’t want to go there. 

So anyway, instead of killing myself, I ninja-flipped back into Brooklyn at comet-like speed with the help of a few people who revealed their angelic nature: firstly, my boss, who is paying me a living wage I haven’t made since 2004 (he originally commissioned me to do paintings for the bar.) Secondly, I give deepest thanks to my beautiful brother-in-law, St. Rafael, whose spiritual goodness and Nicaraguan sense of family closeness is a constant blessing.  He worked so hard and so efficiently I was quite moved. (His children have been the heart and center of my life for the last eight years.)  Third but solid gold is my superb boyfriend, punkrock Joe from Fresno, who has been moving in angelic ways since far before we ever met, who instead of dumping me when I was thrown out of my apartment actually leaned in, and pretty much saved my life.  I was quite suicidal at the thought of leaving my little sanctuary and having to move into some 8x10 cell in East Oakland, or a city situation with a bunch of crazy roommates. Joe’s a nurse, and a healer, and he got me through it, and moved numberless boxes full of books besides, because that’s just how Killer Joe rolls.  Fourth and also made of precious metals is my crazy Cuban 5150 brother Danny, who provided deeply generous infusions of free legal advice when I needed it most. My Burner Royalty girlfriends Tania and Christine took me to dinner, and Christine gave me the most incredible orange garnet and black diamond nose stud. It looks killer. It was such a good moment. 

My sister cried at our last dinner.  That was tough. 

Moving is a terrible chore, but with all the belongings I stripped away, I tried to feel myself being liberated stone by stone from a toxic family situation I really should have bailed on a long, long, long time ago. 

 I live in a state of magical thinking, and I believe that magical things, (like this wine bar job) happen to me, and that generally I am taken care of.   Physical work is something I haven’t done in a long time.  “I’m a Stradivarius,” I used to say, when the idea of menial labor came up. “I will not be used as a hammer.”  

But times have changed. 

“You have to do things you don’t want to do,” said my cousin Emily…(because that’s true for her.  But I’m an artist maaaan.)   

I confess, sometimes when I am washing wine glasses or putting tea candles into votives, I wonder if this is really the best use of my time.  Then I remember that I am actually getting paid, which is so fucking novel it will come as a complete shock to both me and my bank account. 

Anyway, the apartment I have now is way more dope than the old one. Everything is new.  It has a killer bathtub.  It’s in a West Indian/Hasidic neighborhood, which is way cooler than San Rafael, which is exclusively inhabited by elderly white people.  There are about two cool people in Marin County, and I just left.  I met twenty-two cool people in Crown Heights the second night I worked.  

I am becoming a new person:  Cintra, the wine bar/bookstore maven, formerly known as “Aunt Chi-Chi” and before that “the most terrifying fashion critic in New York.” 

If you’re a writer, my only advice to you now is what the kids say these days:  say less. 

I’m looking at buying a new motorcycle to get back and forth from work.  If you know anyone selling a Moto Guzzi, holler at me. 

Artwork: “Lupita,” oil on linen, Cintra Wilson 2023

Cintraw@gmail.com