I have been to some really incredibleperformances in the last couple of weeks and still have exciting things to look forward to in the upcoming few. I want to write and reflect and chew on the experiences, but some of it I am still digesting. In the meantime, here are a couple of songs that lift my heart and seem to always be rotating on the turntable while we're at home in the evenings:
This has been my favorite song since Christmas time, I absolutely cannot get enough of it.
The sweetest "miss you" song on paper.
A reliving of one of the greatest performances I've seen to date.
What are you listening to right now?
xoxo
*The Pro-Ject PRM 1.3 Genie Turntable (pictured above) has been amazing to have at the house. I would highly recommend it if you are looking to invest in an upgrade to your audio equipment. I feel it's important to note (if I'm going to go ahead and make this plug) however, that it isn't directly compatible with your receiver and must be connected through a preamp so it may not be your best option if you are looking for a standalone player.
As a language and literature nerd I have never fancied myself as one with a knack for numbers. In school growing up, I was always in advanced English, History, Science and Psychology classes while lagging one full year behind in Math. I was the student perpetually asking, "But why?! When am I ever going to use this?" lacking any foresight for practical application of the daunting equation. This is one part laziness (my part) but also I believe one part error of the school system. Math is never (or wasn't in my school district) taught conceptually. Conceptual, slippery language is what gets my brain riled up. Critical, theoretical analysis is what I latch onto and dissect slowly and meticulously, while taking joy in the puzzle's solution--solving the equation. You see? It's all Mathematics.
So maybe I'll make the excuse that Math wasn't presented on my terms and I therefore slumped my way though the courses in order to pass. BUT if my ignorant brain would have opened wider, if the Math metaphor could have been pressed a little harder, if I had looked beyond to see it's not about a particular formula, I would have had so much insight, so much sooner. Looking back on my years past, I think my one regret is the passivity which which I lived my life until I was 20 years old. I could have really had a head start if I had applied myself (ugh, cliche!). But I was smart, and I was on or above grade-level, and I was doing the work, and was always told that what I had done was good. I wasn't nagged at to try harder (with the exception of dance) and I didn't, I was comfortable. I wasn't really pushing myself, for myself, until halfway through college when I realized I wanted to be better, to be more, badly. I started to give a damn. I blame no one, I'm just saying I wish I had done it differently. I find solace in reading that Melville once wrote that he had not begun to live until he was twenty-five; that when Whitman was twenty-nine years old he had not yet written a single text that we now remember. But what if, what if, what if...
Life is Math. Problems without solutions perpetuate problems. You have a problem, you find your solutions (sometimes x=0 and x=1), you fix it. Done. In the most basic application to my daily life: it's walking my dog. My dog has social behavioral issues. Fears of strangers and children, especially on-leash. This can make going on a walk (not to the off-leash dog park) stressful for both him and myself. But these fears perpetuate themselves when we do not consistently practice walking in the busy city streets we live on. Submission/apathy/how does this apply toME mentally is a severe regression in this case. Or dance class. The longer I stay out of class the more daunting and physically harder attending class becomes. Problems without solutions perpetuate problems. This concept is tendriling out into my thoughts, wrapping itself around the posts and climbing (beautiful, leafy vines) the lattice of my cortex. We can get-off making ourselves feel good in January by talking about the changes and resolutions we really intend to keep this time, but I'm interested in figuring out the practical application of solutions in my life. It's going to take some time, a lot of it. I know this. But I'm interested in my solution, even if/when I'm averaging 60 hours/week at work, even if time and money need strategizing to make it happen, even if, even if, even if...
So here we are, it's officially 2012! Our holiday season was busy in a good way. I am working a lot at the cafe and just taking it all in right now. My boss expressed to me his sentiments on the differences of his years in Paris and those in New York, "In Paris, I am all time thinking what I am doing next? But in New York it's never!" And as it turns out, that was a profound statement to me. In New York, there is always something, some errand, some this, some x, and if you happen to choose to stay home, watch Netflix and order delivery than it was an action done deliberately.
We are busy.
It's good. My body feels tired in a good way, my stresses are present but healthy, and we're staying busy taking advantage (when/where we can) of living in New York. Living in Brooklyn is living in a bubble. By this I'm just saying that Brooklyn is probably the only city in the world I can think of right now where you can make your entire living off of building moss terrariums inside of vintage lightbulbs, just sayin. Granted, I both live and work in the same neighborhood and am definitely saturated in the personality of Park Slope. This, in conjunction with the fact that I don't receive television channels, don't have a smartphone, have never downloaded an "app," don't subscribe to any magazines/newspapers, and don't have the radio exposure that came with driving I feel very cut off from what's going on out there. So I haven't been present online much either, but I've been observing and digesting and learning what I can, I feel present. My mind can wander so easily, it's nice to be part of something that's growing, that's new to me, and that I can feel present in. A few months ago I was writing of my hopes that someone would just take a chance on me, and I feel like now I have the opportunity to learn something new. Maybe it isn't glamorous, or maybe it is glamorous? But that's not the point. I know that in college I thought running a cafe in Brooklyn sounded amazing. And as it turns out I do like it, and that's been great to find.
Happenings:
In December we went to the Apollo Theater in Harlem to see Anthony Hamilton.
It was one of my favorites I've seen in New York. The show had more energy than I have seen for a concert in a long time. It was so refreshing, and it dawned on me that from my balcony seat I really didn't see any cell phones out. It was shocking, and awesome! People, enjoying themselves, in their physical location and condition without the gross display of exhibitionism that usually accompanies a social event.* His slow, low rhythm and blues was amped up with some funk beats for the live performance. Despite the very tight seating there was a lot of dancing to the infections rhythms flowing into the space.
For Christmas Eve, we got before dinner drinks at the Clover Club in Cobble Hill. The Clover Club is the home of one of the best Bloody Mary's and my new favorite cocktail thanks to our excursion that Saturday. We sat in the back next to the fireplace in high backed chairs drinking Nose Dive's (gin royales) and laughing about what we're doing now and where we have been the last few years together. We trained into the city and ate dinner at Tamarind, again. I still think it's the best Indian Food I've had yet. I hear they have a new(ish) downtown location but we always end up at the one near the Flatiron. Afterward we hopped on the subway and hitched ourselves uptown to the stand by line for Dizzy's jazz club where Jazz at the Lincoln Center plays. Luckily we got in for the 930 show and finished up our night with coffees and really nice Jazz quintet. We came home and opened the small gifts we had gotten for one another and for Cash and snuggled up for bed.
Christmas day was spent mostly at home. I cooked breakfast and dinner. A girl I work with and her boyfriend came over for dinner in the evening. We had guacamole and pico de gallo, hummus, sun dried tomato risotto, mashed potatoes, honey cumin roasted carrots, pomegranate apple green salad, and roasted pork loin. My goodness, it had been a while since I had cooked so much. I even attempted to make orange rolls but gave up after the second rising. It took days to clean my very tiny kitchen afterward. Luckily all the things that did get cooked, roasted, or baked turned out and washed down rather nicely with a good Burgundy. Christmas night I purchased tickets for us to go see the Alvin Ailey company perform which was a real treat. Unlike the Anthony Hamilton show, I don't know if I have ever been to a performance where so many cell phones went off. It was strange, rude and distracting, unfortunately. Afterward we walked to Rockefeller Center to see the tree, to Bryant Park to see the ice skaters.
Our New Year is flying by. We rang in midnight very tiredly at an Austrian pub about a block from home. Working so much, things begin to blur together. We made sure to fill my only day off (Darling was on winter break from school) with as many good things as we could fit into one day. With a clean house we took off for a shmancy lunch at Asiate located on the 35th floor of the Mandarin Hotel in Columbus Circle. Afterward, we caught a cab to the East Side to see the incredible Maurizio Cattelan hanging exhibit at the Guggenheim. If you haven't heard of it you really should look into it (copy + paste + google). It was such an innovative and cool way to experience his work. What a trip.
We were kicked out for closing around five and we walked down to Magnolia Bakery to buy treats to sneak into the move theater. Pumpkin Spice Whoopie Pie, what? We went to the historic Paris theater to see the new silent film, The Artist. It was one of the most enjoyable movies I've sat down to watch in a really long time.
We saw John Turturro and Diane Wiest in Chekhov's The Cherry Orchard. I haven't ever read Chekhov, Russian literature just hasn't made itself the next appealing thing to me yet but the performance was powerful. We saw the play at Classic Stage Company in the East Village on an intimate, small stage. The audience is only 4 rows deep with a 3/4 view so the choreography of the actors was made interesting from all vantage points. It was funny and tragic and, paradoxically, in constant motion although the majority of the show takes place in a single room within the house. As I get older I just find myself enjoying live theater more and more. I suppose it could be argued that New York has the highest quality for shows and actors, it's unbelievable, and I feel lucky to experience it.
We've had fun planning out short-term milestones for the new year. Little rewards tucked into the weeks ahead. Theater tickets and concert tickets and visits from friends. Birthdays and breaks from school and bottles of wine for sharing. I have actually began to write many posts but completing the thought seems to happen only after something else has called me away from the computer and onto another task. I'd like to keep sharing and writing, but more organically. I'm sure that will work itself out... organically, duh. On another note, I don't have a working digital camera anymore but have been thinking about using my SLR more often (i.e. sometimes). I'd like a few photographs from this time in my life. Not a daily documentation but I think it's nice to see the evolution of yourself, especially during periods of rapid growth. Remembering where you are coming from iso what makes where you are going meaningful. The freezing moment of a photograph is a way to help the self process exactly what it has been doing, as it forces the viewer to have the space and distance necessary to digest experience and change. I think this same philosophy pertains to the tattoos people have. Cemented moments, reminders of growth and change. Cameras, go.
I say this, but I know I'm the person to wait three years to get film developed. I just mailed out my family's Christmas packages Thursday. I'm just not emotionally equipped for some of these adult tasks. But it's a thought bustling through my brain. I'll keep chewing on it and see if anything materializes.
The best to you and yours for now. Hope the holidays were smooth. I'm going to make breakfast for dinner. Good talking to you.
*"omg!! guess where I am RIIIGGGHHTT NOWWW!! omg, no wait! I am just gonna take a picture and post it RIGHT NOW so you can see what bitchen time I'm having RIGHT NOW." And really, you aren't having the bitchen time because you aren't doing anything but fiddling with your phone and making sure you look good enough for an instantly public photo. I don't know. I don't mean to stray too far, and I admit to anyone out there reading, I acknowledge my own participation in it. I have a Facebook page, I'm writing this very statement on my public blog but I think we all know what I'm talking about.
In this same vein, please take a look at this thought provoking NYTimes article I saw a friend posted recently. The Joy of Quiet:
"We have more and more ways to communicate, as Thoreau noted, but less and less to say. Partly because we’re so busy communicating... The central paradox of the machines that have made our lives so much brighter, quicker, longer and healthier is that they cannot teach us how to make the best use of them."
"I think we fall in love with places for the same reason we fall in love with people. And our reasons are irrational and passionate and hard to explain. And sometimes when we fall in love with a place it becomes part of us forever." Lori Anderson
Although I have not spent Christmas with my family for the past three years (this year makes four), I have always spent Thanksgiving at home. This year was the first that I haven't been in Utah for Mom's cooking, celebrating my favorite holiday. Because it would be utterly wrong to say that my favorite Thanksgiving wasn't home cooked, I won't; but we ate one of the best meals I've ever had at Gotham Bar and Grill in Manhattan Thursday night. It was a 4 course extravaganza: butternut squash soup, roasted cauliflower risotto, turkey and sour cherry stuffing with mashed potatoes and root vegetables, alongside one of the best red wines (an Oregon Pino, of course) I have ever touched to my lips. We polished it off with dessert, a sampler that included apple crisp, chocolate, and pumpkin cheesecake with an espresso to finish it off. Aye Chihuahua, it was ridiculous.
Much has changed since my last writing. I'm now managing a small French cafe here in Brooklyn and still learning the ropes of how to make orders and run things there. I can't tell you if I've lost my mind or not, but I recently turned down job at a graphic design firm with a 40k salary and full health coverage to stay and run the spot. Of course, a job offer through the temp agency only came after I had accepted employment in a place and with a boss that I really like, but I'm glad things are working out the way they are. Although the people working in the office were nice, I feared I would be too isolated and lonely--literally working without coworkers or windows, a white wall separating me from the rest of the office. Just typing the previous sentence depresses me. Where can you draw the line of money and happiness? Even if it's not true happiness, at what dollar amount can you be bought out for, do you put things (possibilities) on pause for, because "it's a good job" because it's available, because you feel pressure to conform to some lifestyle you are not ready/willing/desiring to lead? If not knowing or connecting with people in New York has been one of the big challenges for me in adjusting, working in an isolated situation like that didn't feel like the right choice. I am still paying my bills, it's not that I'm being irresponsible for the pursuit of a naive, twenty-something idealism where money doesn't matter and all you need is love. I live in New York now, money takes on a whole new meaning for what it costs to live in this town. But I know I really won't be happy sitting behind a desk all day and that even if it takes more work, more hours, more creativity I can figure out something else and still be successful. So the cafe it is, for now. I do really like my boss and it's rapidly turning into much more opportunity than I imagined would come out of the cafe job I decided to apply for after I returned home from my trip to Utah. It's a nice feeling, my life is simple and good. I love that although I'm living in a huge city, my world is contained and close and neighborhood oriented. It's comforting. Walking to work is amazing and I'm 90 seconds away from the little puppy boy should anything need to be taken care of with him. (Sometimes that dog makes me feel like such a mother.)
Fun New York-y things have been happening also, Jazz at the iconic Village Vanguard in the East Village last Saturday night and Chris Cornell played at Carnegie Hall last Monday. Cornell's voice is amazing, he played a solo acoustic set of songs from all of the projects he has been a part of (Soundgarden, Audioslave, Temple of the Dog, solo work). For people of my generation that are interested or concerned with contemporary music, I feel like there is a list of artists you should see if you have the chance--those who have changed and influenced the way people play and write music. For my parent's generation rock artists like Page and Plant, Dylan, Pete Townsend, Brian Wilson, Jimi Hendrix (to name a few) are on the list. For my generation, I think a parallel list includes Chris Cornell, Eddie Vedder, Dave Grohl, Jack White, Thom Yorke and Johnny Greenwood, etc. I don't think it's necessary to be a fanboy to appreciate the work and talent of these artists. It was a great night, really cool to see Cornell live, and so incredible to see something at Carnegie. The space and sound quality are amazing, beautiful. I can't wait for the winter season of philharmonic, symphony, theatre, and dance to begin. All the best work is put on in winter, when people want to be inside. I truly can't think of a cold evening better spent than in the theater.
And now the part about gratitude. I am so well taken care of. I have so much. And although some days feel hard, I understand that I am truly spoiled in my comfort and opportunity--my problems are first world concerns and that is the most anyone can ask for. I'm so lucky that Darling will put up with my tomfoolery, he's the best support I have ever known. He really takes care of me. I'm grateful for our families and sisters. For the love of a sweet dog named Cash, and the patience he has taught me. For my experiences living in such different parts of the country. For my home girls in Memphis that I can't imagine not having in my life, the most generous friends. For the friends in Utah that have really stuck it out with me, long-distance, some of you 15 years now! For the words and wisdom and stories of authors. For art in all of its facets. For learning. For the awesome, beautiful-beyond-comprehension planet we live on and the cultures of animals and people we share it with.
And it is on this note I bid you adieu for now. I will hopefully have more time to write and reflect now that things are finding a rhythm. Maybe even some photos.
Like any other relationship it is complex and malleable and defining. Artists, writers, creators have historically been conflicted and challenged by their relationship with home. I find it hard to articulate while, paradoxically, it has utterly and profoundly shaped and defined who I am, inescapably so. For years I tried to run from it, throw it from my shoulders and my speech and carefully remove it from my foundation, piece by piece, like a tedious game of Jenga. But as in the game it only proves to make the structure unstable. It may be the distance in time and space, it may be getting older, but beyond appreciating it I'm learning to accept and even to miss it. For the first time my mind wondered, "could I ever really live here again?"
Wide-eyed, quiet, I couldn't pull my gaze from the windows. Mountains, sublime in the Romantic Epic Poetry sense, rising guard from all directions. I saw the sunset, I saw the stars. Home. I have found myself recently saying, "I really wish I wasn't from Utah becuase I think one day I'd like to live there," encapsulating my own conflict in its simplest form. Is it everyone everywhere, or is it concentrated in the West? Our relationship with the land? "Sublime" is not intended hyperbole, this is the meat of Stegner, of Williams, of Abbey, of Steinbeck. I feel a tangible security and wonder in that landscape. Although it's comfortable, for the first time in my life my mind has difficulty grasping the visionary expanse. Lack of such vast views once overwhelmed me with claustrophobia. I wanted to plant my hands in those wide, old oaks and crash my head above the canopy suface, gasping to breathe the view. Now I feel dizzied by the open space... I almost didn't go. I packed a bag when I should have been calling a car, I wore the same clothes all week. The sight of the land drew my broken-down body to appreciate an ease of life I'm familiar with, made it delicious, although I also know it is not what I want right now. Distance is a funny thing, the way it stirs and toys with your emotions.
I'm not so naive to quickly forget that the difficulties there are just different from those here in New York. My daydreaming hasn't gotten the best of me just yet. Trying to process the reality of packing a truck and moving life back to Utah? My hometown?? That sounds hard. It's a choice, then, as to which set of troubles you'd rather take on in the moment. Looking side by side, the juxtaposition of where I come from and where I am now is mind bending. It's no comparison (flamingos or dish soap?), and each makes sense in my longing. Although I've been very challenged, I haven't given up hope that I can make it here in the city. Last week just happened to be exceptionally hard. I'm still learning about the balance and order of things here. The good days are the best, and in parallel energy the bad days can really blow. I'm going to stay positive. I still believe that I can find my niche.
Most frequently I am asked, "How long do you think you'll stay in New York?" and truthfully I can't answer that. I just got here. But I still feel in my bones I'm a Western girl.
Yesterday on the train I noticed that not only the warmth from the air, but the color from wardrobes vanished this week. The seasons are turning, I've never seen so many neutrals. I suppose it's better than the blackness that coats the city (head to toe) come winter, I'm not ready to go there just yet. I am enjoying the graceful fall shift, it's getting really cozy and pretty out here in that iconic Autumn in New York kind of way.
We had Columbus Day off and we decided to take advantage of the unexpected high temps and head for the beach. I had hopes that Coney Island would be hokier, instead it just felt like a run down Venice Beach or Santa Monica Pier. It had this weird, janky California vibe to it. Absolutely bizarre to imagine we were so close to home, we felt so far out. It's pretty amazing that you can jump on the train in your neighborhood and jump off at the beach though, eh?
Nathan's hot dogs, naps in the sand, tide wading.
Next time we'll be prepared with a blanket, some books, and a proper picnic.
Yes, yes, I'm still here. Although nothing in my life feels settled and everything has undergone major changes in the last four months, my first thought is to say that things are just the same around here. That's weird, but true. (This is why the kids need to stop watching so much television.) I feel that today I should pay some dues to this blog. After I began typing up the post, I realized that I missed my third year blog birthday/anniversary by seven days. Have I really been writing in this space for three years? That's the second weird but true statement in seven measly sentences...
Although myself, my writing, and content sharing have undergone many transitions (more than I've probably ever let on) since its inception, this blog has served to connect and reconnect me with people. It's strange and amazing, and at times those shared moments were what I was looking for. This past weekend I was visited by a thoughtful, kind, friend (she writes a beautiful blog) who, in a past life, came to my 12th birthday party (where, she reminded me, we scrapbooked for our activity 1. This is on the list of things that reveal where I grew up and 2. This also let's you in on just how cool I was in middle school. I appreciate that anyone humored me enough to show up). As someone who hasn't kept in touch with more than a handful of people from the past, who hasn't lived in the same area for long enough to run into folks, I have to ask myself how does that even happen? Oddly enough, my answer is: through blogging. I hadn't seen her in over seven years, our lives are different as can be, and hanging out for four days felt totally normal. This I credit to the realness in the connections of shared writing. Real enough to show up at your door at 7AM on a rainy Thursday.
Writing is one of the most intimate ways to communicate. It's why reading the book is always better than watching the movie. When done honestly and intentionally, it's like standing stripped and naked before your audience. On the receiving end it feels like a quiet, trusted secret, a baring of souls. I think people are exponentially more self-conscious of this as they comfortably build up the safety buffers in their highly-edited, retouched, contrived, online profile lives. I am pressed to think of a time I've seen a person more panic stricken than when someone was about to read what they had written without permission. In my school days, the majority of my peers would never allow anyone to edit their papers. They weren't as concerned with becoming better writers as they were with maintaining their dignity in privacy. Countless notes scrawled with the sacred, "For your eyes only" have passed through my fingertips, the smudged contents carefully read only after they had been wedged safely in the shelter of a dark desk. This process of externalizing what is inherently internal draws human hearts together.
So it was because of idea sharing and emailing that I spent all weekend like a 15 year old girl, staying up until 2AM chatting and laughing about the serious and the nonsensical. I spent days wandering villages and parks and neighborhood shops, seeing the buildings and writings and art of the geniuses we admire. We spent hours in cafes and restaurants indulgently snacking on the buttery, the fatty, the bready. (One night I only ate cheese for dinner...)
I know I don't make a very good guide to the city as I'm still getting lost all the time. Couple that with all the weekend construction and you'll see that a few of the plans were foiled, but for me, the change in pace and socialization was so enjoyable. The blog once again providing just what I was looking for. And on that note I thank you, Sissy Jupe. You've been awfully sweet to me.
{View from the roof of the Met. What a beautiful, Indian Summer day}
Sunday we went to the Met. I really love the Met for its hushed elegance. As I have more opportunities to indulge in high-art experiences my awareness increases and I realize that I love paintings. My words may mean very little as I have no formal training or education in art or art history but here I'm just speaking of perceptions. I believe it's something in the creation process, the physical force of the hand moving the brush across the canvas, pushing the little mounds of color into form translates to a tangible motion still evidenced (sometimes hundreds of) years later. This is why paintings feel alive while photographs serve to encapsulate a past moment.
I find it bewildering then, that hoards of tourists run around the museum frantically to snap photos of anything by anyone with a name they (kind of?) recognize. Two snaps for each work. Click. Click. One for the work itself and one for its description plaque. Firstly, all van Gogh's are not created equally. Isn't the point of the museum to experience the museum? Look Up! For the tiny display view on the back of your camera is no way to connect! Is it the insatiable desire of humans to consume, obtain, to have that causes this manic, incessant snapping? I would think if you needed to have a specific work you love the best solution would be a high quality print. So it appears that it's not that you can't live without this image but that you're looking for a mediator between your physical person and the location/experience. As if you can take all of it home with you and experience it there, where you're comfortable in your computer chair, when you "have more time?" Why not just spend a few hours on google? Why go all the way to the Upper East Side of New York, then? Why must you see all of it? You can't convince me that seeing more things rapidly is a better experience than being startled by a few stand-out works. Because, ah, you miss so much (the entire point) of Picasso when you view it on a screen made up of flat pixels, no matter the resolution. The unabashed boldness is lost, compressed. You miss the neuroticism and obsession of the impressionists. And all of the theatrical drama of light and darkness which separates the good from the truly awesome.
I'll try to spare you some of my opinions on the audio tours but feel inclined to state here that I find those ridiculous also. There are plenty of resources to further study something that strikes you, but why must you have a recorded voice in your ear, mediating for the mind and the eye, telling you what is good and why you should like it? It's so simple: do you like it, or don't you? Please have the courage to make the choice. I think that audio can be interesting for artifacts, or say, historical places but I advocate saving your money, takeing what you like, and going on your way while leaving the rest.
And all this has got me thinking, about what it is we (I) want to take away from our experiences. Recently I've felt a void of a certain fervor for something, anything. I hate to use the word passion because I feel its one of those words that got over-played and has now lost its meaning, but I want desperately to feel that hot flush of drive toward something specific. And feel it intrinsically, unmediated, off-leash (if you will) where the reward for the action is the action itself. (Gah, and now you begin to see why I love Whitman.) I know I've always had more passive-aggressive tendencies, but am I really so passive? Do I have unrealistic expectations? Can I be critical of others' passivity, then? How much is the object of drive a choice and how much of it happens to find you through experiences and twists of fate? Am I growing out of my idealistic twenties when I once thought there was beauty in simplicity and everyone else's problem was that they had complicated it all too much (surely I knew it all)? I hope (and seek) this awkward time to be just the ground work for a real creative out lash.
I love good writing, I love dancing, choreography and live performance, I find cooking to be cathartic but it's been awhile since I've felt really empowered. I want my boots knocked off.
Hi friends. The lack of posting isn't necessarily for lack of things to say, sometimes I'm not sure where to start. This week was a rough one, it's coming down to the missing feeling of place in this city. It prompts me to recall vividly the growing pains I experienced upon moving to Memphis... This blog has been a weird evolving process, certainly for at least the first year of its inception I wasn't writing anything too personal--whatever that means. (Of course the content is still edited down but it's now become a journaling/documentation of sorts.) A lot of my emotional experience of that time remains undocumented. It was rough, more lonely than this go around, but I do feel parallels to the growing pains and adjustments that come with calling a new locale, "home." I attribute my negativity this week to really disliking the work and office I'm temping in multiplied by the exponent of "x" also known by its scientific classification as represented by the acronym pms... so there's that. In Memphis, I was so lucky to find Project:Motion. It was a space where I could belong and contribute and be challenged and do something utterly selfish, to benefit myself and do it for the good of my soul. My place, for me. I understand to find this takes time, but this week my patience feels tried and tired. Darling on the other hand feels like he finally fits in where he lives, not only does he take less time to adjust to his surroundings, but New York, specifically, seems to be an excellent fit.
I'm also still searching for the driving force of what I'd like to do in that grander, commit-to-something-and-give-it-everything-you've-got kind of way. I need to do some soul searching, and soon. It's difficult to be so unsatisfied professionally and still have no solid dream to replace it. I dream of something finding me, that if I just say "yes" to the things that come my way surely the doors will continue to open and it will lead to something fulfilling, I also have the sneaking suspicion that things don't necessarily happen that way. Actually, my experience since graduating college tells me that those things only happen once you've begun to proactively seek things out, so where does one start? When I dig deep down and talk through it with Darling it keeps looking as though I'm really searching for an occupation that for all intents and purposes doesn't actually exist. How then, can I make something meaningful for myself, or expose myself to something to get invested in? The truth is that I love to work and love to feel invested in what I'm doing. I hate jobs that don't provide enough to do, or work that is understimulating, underwhelming--we've all had that job, where the brain begins to feel affects of atrophy set in. I believe I have never heard it said so articulately or poignantly as Harold Bloom as when he coined this feeling, "the search for difficult pleasure." Satisfying, empowering, fulfilling...
I cannot say (nor am I trying to) that I haven't been having a good time since moving because we've been so fortunate to find a good home and explore and enjoy so much in the short time we've been here. But a lot of light has been shed into "real life" in NYC since getting into working mode. Feeling no ownership, no sense of belonging or community. It's only been a taste of the good and hard things to come, it makes me worry for all the heed of warning I received before moving about the first year in New York as such an ass kicker. I raise this glass of Burgundy next to me to you, fair lady, as I understand it you don't take kindly to the faint of heart, I'm up for a challenge, but I do ask, "please be kind."
Last Wednesday evening, Darling and I saw Steve Earle play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg. Like Whoa. Darling says it was his favorite of the shows we've seen since moving here. I can't really say I'm up for ranking experiences right now as, truthfully, I'm just enjoying them as they come. The music was fantastic, and the band had a tangible chemistry--exuding how much they really enjoy what they do and who they're doing it with (and that, ultimately, is what we want from our lives, correct? How to achieve this is specifically what weighs on my mind more than anything else right now). The longest single band set I've seen in a very long time, they played for nearly 3 hours! The talent and level of musicianship was top notch, the band was made up of 3 smaller projects, also doing their own things, and there was play in the set to highlight and feature each of them "in old bluegrass fashion" as Mr. Earle pointed out. They broke only for intermission, at which point Darling and I moved closer to the stage while everyone else went for beers. This eventually lead to me standing directly at the feet of the lead guitarist. I'm not really a "front row person," I can't tell you the last time I was so close to live musicians, but being so close to the instruments was amazing. I was absolutely mesmerized watching the hands skillfully and knowingly handle the instruments. I had this overwhelming feeling of wanting to play with them, an envy of their talents, an envy of their opportunity to perform, an envy of their doing what they love to do. In reflection these last few days, it's a feeling that has stuck with me...
I can't wait to pick up Mr. Earle's novel, just recently released. Catching him on The Wire, Treme, on stage and now in paperback? What a cool dude. Although this isn't my first song choice, it's the highest quality video I have the patience to find right now, enjoy.
I imagine that we've all had a friend or at least made a connection with someone that has it, whatever it is. A magnetism. Someone that sees the world with amazing insight, someone who is equally (genuinely) as giving and humble as they are talented and creative. They are an artist in everything they do. They see goodness in everyone. They make you feel interesting and listened to. That person that you want to sit with for hours on end, and pick their brain, feel true connection, laugh till your cheeks ache (in the sour spot) and allow conversations to wander into the hidden and difficult places to express. With them you see new definitions of beauty and humor and pain and love. It usually seems that you are not the only one who gets this about them, that everywhere you go others are equally as drawn, and no one ever has anything but love to express for that person.
I have this friend. I've stated to him before that I feel so lucky that the time and place was right for us to meet. That we hit it off so well. He was the one who would encourage me by dropping in to take the dance classes I was teaching at UVU and UofU. The one who would call me to perform with him. Who makes me laugh and laugh and laugh. The one who came over every night after I put Fosse (my cat) down--simultaneously one of the most difficult and profoundly lonely periods I've been through, to pick me up, take me out, stay in for long talks and glasses of wine, and help me get ready to move across the country. He always makes time for me when I travel home to Utah and between those visits I look forward to long telephone conversations of catching up while we live far apart.
Imagine then, Darling browsing online to see how the Utes (our alma mater) did in their football game and see instead, that this person, so dear to me, had been the victim of a violent hate crime. He was attacked at work for being gay.
My heart sunk. I felt sick and confused. My mind felt heavy and fuzzy. Although there was no questioning the name or description I sent a text message anyway, "Please tell me it isn't you I'm reading about. Are you okay?"
"I'm okay, I'm shaken, but I'm okay."
I still can't wrap my mind around it, thoughts of worry and sadness and confusion have overwhelmed me. How could such disgusting acts of violence and bigotry manifest themselves so adversely to someone I care for? Who suffers from such deep lack of compassion for others? There is no excuse, nothing solicits that kind of behavior. Who could ever hurt Cam? I mean seriously, EVER? I wish I could wrap him in my arms and ball up all the love in the universe and blast it through his veins, direct delivery into the body for healing. I know his physical wounds will heal much faster than the emotional ones. I know he is receiving an outpouring of love (I can't even leave a voicemail because the mailbox is full) but I also know how difficult it can be to see past the negative impact. I hope he is okay. I am having a hard time understanding it all.
If you see this post Cam, I love you. We're thinking about you and loving on you day and night.
Saturday past, Darling and I ferried our butts over to Governor's Island to enjoy the day long hip hop festival Rock The Bells. The morning had proved a tough one for me, I wasn't exactly in spirits to be doing much but I had been looking forward to the event since before moving. I packed a bag of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bottled water, of course I forgot a camera, and we made our way to the Battery to do some waiting in line. Although I was excited to visit Governor's Island, the charting of 20,000 people to location via ferries isn't exactly what I would call the most user friendly (?? patron-friendly, but that sounds redonkulous) idea. I've never seen Jersey Shore but I imagine I got the homegrown taste of its subject matter while in that line. Klassy folks, friends, cut in line directly behind me... lets just say it took, awhile. So we missed a few sets that we had hoped to catch glimpses of, although nothing major. We spent waay too much money and time waiting for fresh squeezed lemonade (ugh, but who can turn it down on the last Saturday of summer, outside, at a festival??) but coupled with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a little shady spot things turned up a bit, just before miss Erykah Badu took the stage.
Badu's performance was as fierce as her outfit. I've seen Miss Badu once before (in Salt Lake City) and her performance energy is incredible. I believe that no one is having a better time than Erykah, and the influence feeds and transports her audience. If you are unfamiliar with the festival, its basic premise is classic artists, classic albums. She put it on with 1997's Baduizm. Whoa nah. (Boom clack, boomclack)
We stuck it out for the stage breakdown and setup and sidestepped our way as close to the front and center as the GA could be for the next set, put on by Ms. Lauryn Hill.
Friends, I don't know if I can really convey to you in this post how long I've loved The Miseducation of Lauryn Hill, or how much I wanted to be Lauryn Hill when I was younger (but it did include convincing my mom to buy me some knock off Timberlands. You remember the 90s, yes? They had the Alex Mack vibe which is why I think she actually got them for me but I was definitely going for more of a Rita in Sister Act 2 kind of ensemble. Too much? I digress.). The album was reworked, the songs done in a new style but Ms. Hill sounded fantastic. She was a bit preoccupied with the band (too loud? too quiet?) and her earpiece was obviously not working properly so there was some stalling and lag time, I wouldn't call it "seamless." Things loosened up at the end of the set when she treated everyone to some "Fugeela," at which point everyone sort of lost their shit, only for Pras to join her on stage for "Ready or Not" and finally, "Kiling Me Softly." It seriously blew my mind to see these two beautiful, talented, influential females do their thing. To say the least, my mood had dramatically shifted from earlier that morning.
At the close of the set it we had to push ourselves out of the crowd for alllllll the duudes (where were they the rest of the day?) were swarming the stage for Nas. Sausage. Fest. Do I need to tell you I'm not a big Nas fan? Okay, so there's that. And although Darling can jam to some Illimatic we were on the same page. Those guys roll 16 people deep, it becomes everyone's cousin and best friend from elementary school on stage and I feel like it'd be really fun to be a part of, but much less enjoyable as a live performance. We cut from the set early to try and make the ferry before the masses funneled onto the little boats back to the city. Lady liberty with the Manhattan night skyline for a backdrop? One of those electric moments when you cannot tell if you are really inhabiting your body, seeing with your eyes, knowing you stand where your feet hold you. Do I live here?
- This week I started my second temp gig. This time it's grunt work for the financial sector. Although the work is all but glamorous, the location for this job has so far made it worth while. Going to work has been the romanticized New York City experience that I believe is the image conjured in most people's minds when that name is spoken. My commute to work begins with taking the F train to Rockefeller Center and walking past Radio City and Top of the Rock, past much high-end shopping, through Rockefeller Plaza and its daily summer farmer's market to Madison Ave. The office sits between Madison and Park, between St. Patrick's Cathedral and the Waldorf Astoria. My ears pop in the elevator ride up 28 floors and once I get there I've got a prime view of the Empire State Building out the office window. Temping will be cool (for a while) if only for allowing me to learn about areas of the city I might not otherwise have any reason to be in.
- Friday night I got the chance to see someone I've been waiting on for years.
Darling got us tickets to see Cat Power take the stage at Webster Hall near Union Square. The space was intimate and lights were kept dark, only a few bulbs illuminated the band on stage while Chan took to the corner, oftentimes facing the band and shying away from the audience completely. I had heard reports of her canceling or cutting shows early due to stage fright but I've never seen such shyness from a lead singer. Virtually no crowd interaction, no "Hi"'s or "thanks for coming out tonight"'s, just singing, but damn she does it so well. The band played a full set, nearly 2 hours, leaving out the most recognizable songs and choosing instead to fill in with covers of Nico and Fleetwood Mac. I've been a big fan of her's for years, I knew she would be great to see live, but I didn't anticipate that her smoky, sultry voice could be so immense and full and dimensional and soulful. I've never been to a conventional concert (standing, in a bar) that was so beautiful--shivers swelling up and down my body. If she played more often I would see her again and again.
- Constant talk of Hurricane Irene. That's what's been happening in the most recent news.
I do not intend to dismiss those that have been severely affected by the storm, and my heart goes out to those families, but I feel like it's necessary to state that New Yorkers are so dramatic about everything (that could and probably will be it's own post). The news and press coverage has been soo dramatic but I don't think anything is more true than the list comparison above ^^ people here are worried about going to the liquor store and having enough hummus and dvd rentals. The Park Slope Patch email this morning stated something about Brooklyn continuing to get "pummeled by Hurricane Irene." But folks, Brooklyn (certainly the slope) was not pummeled by a hurricane. It was a heavy rain storm and I slept through most of it. The scariest thing to happen is that the changes in air pressure caused the bottle of champagne to open itself last night. The sound scared the pants off me, I was worried something electrical blew out, but the result was more than pleasant (who wants a bottle of flat champagne!? Drink up!). Not to mention I think over-exaggerations of the press take away from those people who were severely hit, because news in New York is going to trump anything else. The subways and trains are down and will most likely remain so until sometime late tomorrow afternoon. No one is upset because we're all hoping we get another day to stay inside, anyway (snow day! snow day!). I think people, generally, are really enjoying the excuse to snuggle up and take a break for a few days.
I feel like it has been the year of Biblical whether that just missed me. Blizzards, the Memphis flood, tornadoes that skipped TN and destroyed AL, the VA earthquake and now a hurricane?? Sheesh. Safe and sound and not a scratch, thank goodness.
Losing track of dates and times... some of the happs since last posting:
- Tamarind. The BEST Indian food you will ever eat. And one of the better, more memorable meals of personal history. In the Flatiron district.
- Training with Cash outside. That's right folks, we graduated from indoors to outdoors and we have been fortunate to see success in this area, lord knows we've been paying for it! Although leash work is still in progress, we are able to walk down 7th avenue in Brooklyn during 5PM rush hour traffic without issues. It may not sound like much to you, or maybe you just lack the context for it, but previously, walking with Cash down 7th avenue was our end of year goal (if that lends you any perspective). It's rewarding to have made it to this point before Darling hits the classroom for the school year. We have at this time ceased working with our trainer and are taking matters into our own hands. We have both good days and mediocre days and Cash will continue to challenge us but the choice of daytime activity and morning off-leash hours has been enjoyable for everyone. We are no longer confined to vampire-dog hours when the other misfits come out to play--unless we so choose. The behavior modification is changing everything and I think all 3 of us are happier for it.
- We got our library cards, diggin it.
- Downtown Brooklyn for lunch at the Main Street River Park. New bar stool-chair hybrids from BoConcept. Bookstore browsing. I am falling in love with this side of the East River for many reasons, the stunning views of Gotham is one of them.
- Get caught in a HUGE rainstorm. And rain in general, multiple times per week. I forget we live on an island...
- A weird dance class at BDC. While normally this would be a highlight, I felt it highlighted the ever-shifting, ever-evolving relationship I have with dance. Something I'm still reflecting on.
- See the big 2011 Tony winner on Broadway (post forthcoming).
- Rent an upholstery cleaner and tackle the couch. As you can see, Cash wasn't too keen on the whole thing although he is the sole reason for the rental in the first place. Laughing so hard at this image.
I can't make a comparison to Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections, otherwise I would tell you this is the best book I've read this year. Both serve as two of my favorite books I've read in a long time. Just Kids recounts the relationship of Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe in their early days in New York, before fame or photography or music. Young, aspiring artists occasionally sleeping on benches, eating grilled cheese (if eating at all), living in the Hotel Chelsea, and recounting the people, sights, smells and feeling of that time. Smith writes directly, and purposefully, and movingly, never getting caught up or lost in descriptive furies. In fact, the narrative never seems to stop moving forward, verb driven, making the memoir extremely difficult to put down. Her word choices are exquisite, the marriage of good writing and good storytelling. A love letter to New York, my timing for reading this was impeccable. I felt a real connection with her and her references were not lost on me, I've read what she's read, love similar art and music, and I felt a possibility in my life by merely reading about hers. It's a book that changes your perception; I want to write like her, absorb the world like her--what a gift.
I have been doing lots and lots of reading where I'm not working or driving anymore. I haven't been recording the books here as I otherwise normally would, and truthfully, if I didn't get a start on it I wouldn't get around to it (much like my journal-ish posts) so the next few posts will most likely be of the bookish persuasion.
I find that dog literature is a difficult section of the library or bookstore to navigate. Much like parenting, the gamut has been covered for every style of selecting, raising, training, rehabilitating, and understanding our canine friends. Oftentimes, in my experience, I find that much of the literature is dumbed down to "Learning 101"and while I can appreciate the information presented in a syntax that is accessible, I don't enjoy reading on the levels of an 8th grader when I'm looking for real insight or solid information. Couple this with the previously mentioned spectrum of literature available and one faces the difficult task of finding an author with similar views and values AND who writes on a level and in a style that is digestible and enjoyable. It's not an easy task and has required some research. Our luck started with finding The Other End of the Leash which has lead us to much more material in the vein we were searching for. With our recent emotional, monetary, and time investment with dog training, it's no wonder that Darling and I are both on the lookout for literature to enhance our knowledge and backup our efforts, the interest in the subject matter should have made itself apparent on this blog long ago.
Written in a style not unlike the pop psychology work of Malcolm Gladwell that I read last year (Blink, The Outliers) McConnell presents personal stories as an Applied Animal Behaviorist, sheep hearder, and dog trainer to illustrate and single out behavior traits, and then backs them up with well researched scientific data. This she presents in a work which acts as an information bridge between the two worlds of scientific journalists/phd types and the general dog loving public. The premise of the book is to further understand the ways in which canines and primates are both similar and different. Understanding ourselves (at the other other end of the leash) as a species and the patterns by which we and other primates physically and emotionally respond to stimuli and comparing that data to the ways in which canines receive and process data, and communicate in their own right. It was both an easy and fascinating book that I read in 2 days. A membership to the Brooklyn library and the reference section in the back of this book has Darling and I in a reading frenzy. For dog lovers, owners, and enthusiasts--it comes with a recommendation.
So, I've been wondering how to write about how uncomfortable I am with New York's obsession with being skinny. For weeks I have thought it feels like all the girls here look like the girls Garance Dore photographs for her blog. (To be fair, it's not just the females, the males are just as bad--I'm merely focusing on my own sex for the purposes of this post.) In our second week I distinctly remember sitting down to Greek food with Darling and asking him if he had seen any fat people in New York?
Before moving, I imagined that I would feel plain. But I have never felt so plain or pudgy as an ongoing personal characteristic and not just a pms thing. It's absolutely superficial, but it's also deeply personal. It's me, my body, the casing for all that I am and that which I present to the world and myself! For the past few years I've been feeling like I had really gotten past my insecurities and body issues (aside from my shopping problems) and felt like I was in a good place with myself but I suppose these things are relative.
It's New York City! Anyone can be whoever the hell they want to be and own it, and they do! And along comes little mountain town, South'rn, country ME and I've felt like Sarah Plain And Tall for the last month. The more I explore the city, however, the more I actually suspect that the East Coast has been invaded by freakishly thin, beautiful, Swedish-model-aliens. Okay, so that's a bit extreme, its not just the Swedish looking ones, it's inclusive across all cultures and ethnicities. They have the uncanny ability to look carelessly beautiful, subtle to no makeup, wearing the most amazing clothes and shoes that are immaculate and rarely trying-too-hard. Swedish-alien-models are also almost always "vegan" or "vegetarian" which I believe has very little investment in animal welfare and is actually just another reason to not eat. Not to mention that it seems much of the population compulsively works out. It feels like a lot to keep up with, and completely unnatural for me to try and do so.
So whatever, I guess that's just how it is, my opinion of what surrounds me doesn't change the reality of what's there but I have experienced these feelings of inadequacy and hyperconsciousness of my physical appearance as a huge, strange part of the culture shock of living here. I felt a sliver of relief today when the aforementioned Garance wrote this post making similar observations, like I wasn't the only one out of my element. Of course, she's coming at it from a completely different perspective; working in fashion, moving from Paris... but I think she accurately describes some of what I see and feel. Although, for the record, I'm giving myself a one-up on her as I think that coming from the South is a much bigger cultural jump than the transatlantic City of Light, no?
We'll see. Don't get me wrong, just read a post down and you'll see that I've been having a great time here, but I'd be lying if I told you there was no adjustment. I also suspect that a lot of my feeling out of place here has a lot to do with me not really having a community. Although I know people here, it doesn't really feel like we're friends in that truer sense of the word. I haven't yet found a job, or found anything to call my own. I feel like a tourist and suspect I will for some time. Currently, my world expands little outside of Darling, Cash and our dog trainer. Don't get me wrong, god, I can't imagine if I were doing this without them! I'm grateful that something is comfortable and homey, but I feel like a little establishment and grounding in the city will make it seem a little less vast.
