It's such a beautiful day today - clear blue skies, cool air, nice breezes. At home, this would be the day just at the beginning of fall that I would go out with Chloe, lay on the Horseshoe, and admire the way the sunlight and the trees dapple the grass. There are parks here, and they are beautiful, but there's nothing quite like walking to the middle of your university and just feeling deeply a part of something. College is fun like that.
There were two hipster/punk girls in the 59th Street station the other day - we're talking pin-up girl tattoos, the crazy '50s-inspired dress, even stocking tattoos. The whole nine yards. And I really wanted to grab one of them and ask them in all seriousness, "you know where you are, right? Like, you're aware that this is Sunset Park?"
Speaking of Sunset Park, Stanley asked me last night where I lived. I told him I was under the impression it went by the name of Sunset Park, although the divisions within divisions of neighborhoods have me more and more confused, and that it was really just a part of Bay Ridge as far as I was concerned (and as it was advertised on Craigslist). He goes, "Sunset Park. I took a wrong turn once on my bike and couldn't stop and ended up there. It was like, I went from pretty Park Slope, then started seeing a lot more unsafe areas and unused parking lots, and then suddenly it just looked like everything had been bombed out." And I was like, yep, that's Park Slope.
Funny story - I was on the phone tonight, wrapping up a pretty serious conversation. I pull up to a red light and sit for a minute, thinking through the call and whatnot, glance over, and see a cop. I look back down the road, but after a second he beeps his siren at me. I glance back over, and he's got his hand up in the international "phone" symbol. I rolled down my window just as I'm realizing what he's getting at, shaking his head no at me. "What, it's not illegal to talk on the phone in South Carolina?" he says, laughing a little. I'm like, "Sir, they just made ˆtextingˆ illegal." He goes, "alright, don't call me sir, and use the speakerphone." I was like, mmkay!
I feel like a retrospective is in order. Or something like that. It's a little early yet - I still have a week and a half left in the city, or something like that - but I feel like it's about time for me to evaluate my general experience. Do I regret things? Do I wish I'd done more? Do I wish I'd exposed myself to more experiences? So on and so forth. Maybe that'll be the next blog, or whenever I next feel inspired to that kind of eloquence. Not tonight.
7.30.2010
7
There's a different New York out there, and it is a strange and appetizing place. It's more like the New York I guess I'd imagined - someplace where, on entering a bar, you see someone you had a memorable conversation with months before, and then begin the ritual of drink-buying and culture-discussing and jazz-musing. I should back up a few steps. There's a really amazing older gentleman that comes into Naidre's very often named Stanley - I may have mentioned him before, as the "culture critic" that took a liking to me above all the rest of the staff. Tonight, after watching me deal with what was basically one of the most harrowing days at this job so far, he asked me if I wanted to go get drinks with him. We wandered the Carroll Gardens bar scene a little, ending up at a Mediterranean bar where I had some delicious sangria and talked about things with him.
Stanley is an amazing guy. You say, "I was watching this Scorcese movie the other day . . ." and once you're finished, Stanley will say, "yeah, you know, Scorcese's an interesting character. We talked once about . . ." You say, "you ˆknowˆ Scorcese?" He'll say, "well, we've talked a few times, especially after he stole my opening line at a conference we were both at." So on and so forth. Stanley has been everywhere and seen everything - but he's not a name-dropper, and he wants to talk about things that interest you. In the bar, we ran into a guy that Stanley had discussed Thelonious Monk with - Stanley happens to be an expert on the subjects of both jazz and blues, as evidenced by the novel that he wrote about two jazz musicians struggling to keep their relationship alive underneath growing racial tension. Again, almost inexplicably, Stanley took an interest in me, giving me his essay about Quentin Tarantino and then earlier this week, his novel. Which is freaking brilliant, by the way.
I listened to these two New York men - neither of them natives, but there's really no such thing anyway - talk about music and movies and jazz and Thelonious Monk and Duke Ellington and Wagner and Tristan and Isolde, and realized that this is what I'd always imagined from New York. A place where you can wander into a bar and happen on an expert in some random field, and then just soak up the knowledge that is taken and exchanged so casually. I'm sipping on sangria in a tiny bar in the back alleys of Brooklyn, talking to one world-renowned jazz/blues/culture critic and one enigmatic classical music expert who offered himself as a "neophyte" in the jazz world but started off by comparing Beiderbeck's duality of piano and cornet to one of Monk's bank members who also played the violin. Brilliant, amazing people walk these streets every day, and I brush shoulders with them. There's a wealth of untapped possibilities, conversations; trafficking of knowledge and a library of stories to be had.
After the day I had, suffice to say I deserved that night. I closed at Carroll Gardens today, where the AC was being fixed. Which means they had to turn it off. I was hot. Burning up hot, for two or so hours while the worryingly flirtatious AC guys tried to fix it. Sinclair said, "yo, pay the AC guys." So they come to me with a 500 dollar invoice, and I pay it to them. Janice calls an hour or so later, I tell her what's up, and she says, "but you didn't pay them the full 500, right?" I'm like, " . . . what?" She says, "They were paid 110 yesterday. You paid them the full 500, godammit." And at this point, this rush goes through me: panic, for one thing, and absolute, crushing rage. By all that is sacred, if you have one person pay part, wouldn't you tell the other person not to pay the full bill? She didn't get angry at me - I would have legitimately looked her in the eye, said "screw you" and walked - but the whole situation just drove home exactly how ridiculous this job is. What's best of all? They didn't even fully fix it - apparently she'd told everyone ˆbutˆ me how to tell whether the AC was fixed or not, and left strict instructions not to pay them unless certain conditions were required. Thanks for that communication, guys. Thanks a ton.
Trip-hop has taken over my world. Massive Attack has become the soundtrack for New York, very suddenly. "Exchange" and "Black Milk" from the "Mezzanine" album. "Angelica," by Lamb. "Le Monde," by Thievery Corporation. "Fixed Income," by DJ Shadow. Something about those smooth beats, those sensual rhythms, that certain aura of mystery that goes back to something elemental in the the chord structure that I'll never understand - these things have become the sound of New York to me. Was something else the sound earlier? I can't remember. This summer seems to have stretched on for decades.
I spent an hour two nights ago listening to Jars of Clay's "Sad Clown" on repeat. The reason why? There's a piano solo about two and a half minutes in that has been cathartic for me many times, and I suddenly missed the feeling of keys under my fingers really desperately.
There is something mystical - spiritual - about music, isn't there? The way two notes can strike together and be . . . perfect. There's something in their very nature that causes them to stand together and be better than they ever could be alone. The context matters more than we let on, though - major and minor sound right and wrong at different times, depending entirely on the world they exist in. It's such a beautiful metaphor, even. And then moving on, two sequential notes - just two notes - can set a mood for an entire song. Tricky's "Aftermath" springs to mind, with that opening riff of just two notes that give you a blueprint for an entire song. That motif is both brilliant and elegant in its simplicity. It's just incredible how two tones are, in their very wavelengths, made for each other, or made to create something beautiful and unique together.
Also: ass tat.
Stanley is an amazing guy. You say, "I was watching this Scorcese movie the other day . . ." and once you're finished, Stanley will say, "yeah, you know, Scorcese's an interesting character. We talked once about . . ." You say, "you ˆknowˆ Scorcese?" He'll say, "well, we've talked a few times, especially after he stole my opening line at a conference we were both at." So on and so forth. Stanley has been everywhere and seen everything - but he's not a name-dropper, and he wants to talk about things that interest you. In the bar, we ran into a guy that Stanley had discussed Thelonious Monk with - Stanley happens to be an expert on the subjects of both jazz and blues, as evidenced by the novel that he wrote about two jazz musicians struggling to keep their relationship alive underneath growing racial tension. Again, almost inexplicably, Stanley took an interest in me, giving me his essay about Quentin Tarantino and then earlier this week, his novel. Which is freaking brilliant, by the way.
I listened to these two New York men - neither of them natives, but there's really no such thing anyway - talk about music and movies and jazz and Thelonious Monk and Duke Ellington and Wagner and Tristan and Isolde, and realized that this is what I'd always imagined from New York. A place where you can wander into a bar and happen on an expert in some random field, and then just soak up the knowledge that is taken and exchanged so casually. I'm sipping on sangria in a tiny bar in the back alleys of Brooklyn, talking to one world-renowned jazz/blues/culture critic and one enigmatic classical music expert who offered himself as a "neophyte" in the jazz world but started off by comparing Beiderbeck's duality of piano and cornet to one of Monk's bank members who also played the violin. Brilliant, amazing people walk these streets every day, and I brush shoulders with them. There's a wealth of untapped possibilities, conversations; trafficking of knowledge and a library of stories to be had.
After the day I had, suffice to say I deserved that night. I closed at Carroll Gardens today, where the AC was being fixed. Which means they had to turn it off. I was hot. Burning up hot, for two or so hours while the worryingly flirtatious AC guys tried to fix it. Sinclair said, "yo, pay the AC guys." So they come to me with a 500 dollar invoice, and I pay it to them. Janice calls an hour or so later, I tell her what's up, and she says, "but you didn't pay them the full 500, right?" I'm like, " . . . what?" She says, "They were paid 110 yesterday. You paid them the full 500, godammit." And at this point, this rush goes through me: panic, for one thing, and absolute, crushing rage. By all that is sacred, if you have one person pay part, wouldn't you tell the other person not to pay the full bill? She didn't get angry at me - I would have legitimately looked her in the eye, said "screw you" and walked - but the whole situation just drove home exactly how ridiculous this job is. What's best of all? They didn't even fully fix it - apparently she'd told everyone ˆbutˆ me how to tell whether the AC was fixed or not, and left strict instructions not to pay them unless certain conditions were required. Thanks for that communication, guys. Thanks a ton.
Trip-hop has taken over my world. Massive Attack has become the soundtrack for New York, very suddenly. "Exchange" and "Black Milk" from the "Mezzanine" album. "Angelica," by Lamb. "Le Monde," by Thievery Corporation. "Fixed Income," by DJ Shadow. Something about those smooth beats, those sensual rhythms, that certain aura of mystery that goes back to something elemental in the the chord structure that I'll never understand - these things have become the sound of New York to me. Was something else the sound earlier? I can't remember. This summer seems to have stretched on for decades.
I spent an hour two nights ago listening to Jars of Clay's "Sad Clown" on repeat. The reason why? There's a piano solo about two and a half minutes in that has been cathartic for me many times, and I suddenly missed the feeling of keys under my fingers really desperately.
There is something mystical - spiritual - about music, isn't there? The way two notes can strike together and be . . . perfect. There's something in their very nature that causes them to stand together and be better than they ever could be alone. The context matters more than we let on, though - major and minor sound right and wrong at different times, depending entirely on the world they exist in. It's such a beautiful metaphor, even. And then moving on, two sequential notes - just two notes - can set a mood for an entire song. Tricky's "Aftermath" springs to mind, with that opening riff of just two notes that give you a blueprint for an entire song. That motif is both brilliant and elegant in its simplicity. It's just incredible how two tones are, in their very wavelengths, made for each other, or made to create something beautiful and unique together.
Also: ass tat.
7.19.2010
Word of the Day: "Impression"
Today, I suppose because the days are starting to close in on me a little bit, I started thinking about all those sweet, half-lost memories that are now more snapshots of emotion than literal remembrances. More than anything, it's difficult to capture these moments because they mean nothing to anyone else - they're fleeting glances, aching thoughts of experiences that I know I'll never quite get back. Memories are funny things, really - even as I'm experiencing something, a moment of joy or despair, I know that I'll never be able to re-experience it. The moment is gone, it's fleeting, and although there will be happier and more despairing times to come, I find myself often very aware of this loss, if you will. Most often that feeling comes in relation to people, to relationships, as I consider the fact that a single moment is just that.
I don't mean that to sound nearly as fatalistic as it does, just to be clear. I think part of the beauty of life is looking back with melancholy but content eyes on these impressions. The moment that sparked all this contemplation was one from much earlier in the summer. I remember it being a drizzly, cool day - there was a time in the summer when it was still very cold, which looking back seems terribly odd - just a few days before the play opened. We walked up to the post office, shunning umbrellas, embracing the dampness soaking into our skin and hair. I can't describe exactly what it was that made it such a beautiful memory, but I remember everything just feeling right, feeling comfortable and new and wonderful all at the same time. And although I know that there will be many times like this, better times even, there's still some part of me that is sad for that time. One of a hundred different reasons why my New York experience has been deeply bittersweet.
Today my street reminded me of the impressions I have of San Francisco. Albeit the streets would need to be way rockier and skinnier to fit my memory, but the deep cloud banks against a dark grey sky with the rows of residences reminds me of a few of the images I have from San Francisco all those years ago. That probably sounds totally crazy to people who know both cities well, but something about the skyline today . . .
It occurred to me today that the smell of laundromats will forever remind me of New York. I was unacquainted with the idea of doing laundry outside of one's apartment until I got here, so the fresh concept of public laundry machines was directly linked with this new city. Even beside that, there is a distinct "laundromat" smell that permeates many of the parts of Brooklyn that I spend time in - Bay Ridge and Park Slope, to be exact. It's a chemical-y, soap-y smell, one that brings to my mind that glossy feeling on your hands after you've scrubbed something with bleach. I can't explain it well, but in some ways it encapsulates parts of New York's personality for me - this odd obsession with cleanliness in what is probably the dirtiest city in America (also notable within the food service industry, where all the health codes in the world can't make things any cleaner).
I Stumbled this website of unforgettable people the other day, which gave me interesting, uncomfortable ideas for how much I'd like to take pictures of some of the people I've seen this summer. The idea behind this website was that most people that we pass in a day we forget instantly - whether it's natural human instinct or whether they just seem uninteresting to us - so when the author came across people who caught her eye in a more lasting way, she took their portraits. It's a really fascinating idea, albeit a really intrusive one (and one which is clearly most interested hipsters, but that's a separate point). It in turn caught my eye, and made me really wish I'd have thought to (and had the guts to) do the same. I've seen some really fascinating people here - on the subway, on the streets, in stores, everywhere. An MTA worker riding on the subway today - an older Santa Claus-looking gentleman with suspenders and bright clear blue eyes - made me think of it especially. I wish I could sit these people down and steal a lasting impression from them.
I don't mean that to sound nearly as fatalistic as it does, just to be clear. I think part of the beauty of life is looking back with melancholy but content eyes on these impressions. The moment that sparked all this contemplation was one from much earlier in the summer. I remember it being a drizzly, cool day - there was a time in the summer when it was still very cold, which looking back seems terribly odd - just a few days before the play opened. We walked up to the post office, shunning umbrellas, embracing the dampness soaking into our skin and hair. I can't describe exactly what it was that made it such a beautiful memory, but I remember everything just feeling right, feeling comfortable and new and wonderful all at the same time. And although I know that there will be many times like this, better times even, there's still some part of me that is sad for that time. One of a hundred different reasons why my New York experience has been deeply bittersweet.
Today my street reminded me of the impressions I have of San Francisco. Albeit the streets would need to be way rockier and skinnier to fit my memory, but the deep cloud banks against a dark grey sky with the rows of residences reminds me of a few of the images I have from San Francisco all those years ago. That probably sounds totally crazy to people who know both cities well, but something about the skyline today . . .
It occurred to me today that the smell of laundromats will forever remind me of New York. I was unacquainted with the idea of doing laundry outside of one's apartment until I got here, so the fresh concept of public laundry machines was directly linked with this new city. Even beside that, there is a distinct "laundromat" smell that permeates many of the parts of Brooklyn that I spend time in - Bay Ridge and Park Slope, to be exact. It's a chemical-y, soap-y smell, one that brings to my mind that glossy feeling on your hands after you've scrubbed something with bleach. I can't explain it well, but in some ways it encapsulates parts of New York's personality for me - this odd obsession with cleanliness in what is probably the dirtiest city in America (also notable within the food service industry, where all the health codes in the world can't make things any cleaner).
I Stumbled this website of unforgettable people the other day, which gave me interesting, uncomfortable ideas for how much I'd like to take pictures of some of the people I've seen this summer. The idea behind this website was that most people that we pass in a day we forget instantly - whether it's natural human instinct or whether they just seem uninteresting to us - so when the author came across people who caught her eye in a more lasting way, she took their portraits. It's a really fascinating idea, albeit a really intrusive one (and one which is clearly most interested hipsters, but that's a separate point). It in turn caught my eye, and made me really wish I'd have thought to (and had the guts to) do the same. I've seen some really fascinating people here - on the subway, on the streets, in stores, everywhere. An MTA worker riding on the subway today - an older Santa Claus-looking gentleman with suspenders and bright clear blue eyes - made me think of it especially. I wish I could sit these people down and steal a lasting impression from them.
7.16.2010
19
It occurred to me yesterday that, during my summer here, I've gotten not the visitor's view of New York, but rather the residential tour. I've seen very few of the tourist trap kind of sights, done very few of the touristy things to do. I've been to the museums multiple times, and spent some time in the parks, but for the most part I've jumped straight to the action of living, working, and trying to make friends here.
So homeboy was definitely lingering today. He had a fairly simple order, so when he continued to find ways to stay at the counter, we were just a little bit confused. I helped him with the final aspect of his order, and when I smiled at him and told him to have a nice day, he stopped cold and looked me dead in the eye for a minute. "You are sooo beautiful," he said, and then smiled at me when I laughed and told him it warmed my heart. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, and then said, "the beautiful ones always do." Then smiled at me one final time and walked away. I distinctly remember the first thought that jumped to mind when he said that: "you're actually seeing my face under this stupid hat?" That was just one odd vignette from my already-strange day. It reminded me of a time back at Cool Beans, though, when a young Arab man told me in broken English that I was "too beautiful to work in this place." I also remember holding that over Amanda's head for weeks.
Counting down days: only 18 more days of employment, 19 before I get my final visitor. Pretty much without question, August 5th is going to be the best day ever. And with the Metric concert on top of that? So good. OH right - it's also someone's birthday. I'll think about sending a present, but we'll have to see. I'm looking forward to coming home, greeting my new apartment, setting things up, and getting back into the rhythm of my Columbia life.
Oh Premiere Pro, why do you make things so easy, but make me agonize over getting to the ease?
So homeboy was definitely lingering today. He had a fairly simple order, so when he continued to find ways to stay at the counter, we were just a little bit confused. I helped him with the final aspect of his order, and when I smiled at him and told him to have a nice day, he stopped cold and looked me dead in the eye for a minute. "You are sooo beautiful," he said, and then smiled at me when I laughed and told him it warmed my heart. "Do you have a boyfriend?" he asked, and then said, "the beautiful ones always do." Then smiled at me one final time and walked away. I distinctly remember the first thought that jumped to mind when he said that: "you're actually seeing my face under this stupid hat?" That was just one odd vignette from my already-strange day. It reminded me of a time back at Cool Beans, though, when a young Arab man told me in broken English that I was "too beautiful to work in this place." I also remember holding that over Amanda's head for weeks.
Counting down days: only 18 more days of employment, 19 before I get my final visitor. Pretty much without question, August 5th is going to be the best day ever. And with the Metric concert on top of that? So good. OH right - it's also someone's birthday. I'll think about sending a present, but we'll have to see. I'm looking forward to coming home, greeting my new apartment, setting things up, and getting back into the rhythm of my Columbia life.
Oh Premiere Pro, why do you make things so easy, but make me agonize over getting to the ease?
7.13.2010
Rainy Days
I hydroplaned like mad today, although this was not the worst time. But "worst" implies that there was a best time, which God knows is impossible. That's some scary stuff. The Belt Parkway Westbound was backed up for about five miles because two of the three lanes were flooded, so it took me about two hours to make a drive that should have taken a tenth of that time. It started pouring down rain almost immediately after I dropped Jimmy off at JFK, and must have flooded the Parkway within about ten minutes. Absolutely ridiculous. But I wasn't doing anything crazy or unsafe when I hydroplaned - I didn't even hit an especially large patch of water. It just happened, out of the blue, and I only managed to miss the median and the other cars by a hair. About thirty seconds after I straightened back out and regained control, I felt my heart rate double and momentarily lost feeling to my fingers and toes. I've always had that disconnected, delayed reaction when stressed out or really angry - it's something of a blessing, because I don't start feeling the physical effects of the panic until after I've dealt with it and moved on already.
Jimmy's visit was a lot of fun. He's a super-chill guy, so anytime I was at work, he was just wandering around NYU doing grad school smart-kid Jimmy things, texting me occasionally to ask for directions, and showing up right on cue when I was ready to leave. Maybe the highlight of the weekend was our decision on Sunday night to attempt to make sangria - fabulous idea. If we would say so ourselves. What's really great about this story is that, for lack of a kitchen and thus any kind of kitchen utensils or containers, we were forced to mix the fruit, wine and sugar together in the Mr. Coffee coffee pot. And then stuff said coffee pot into my mini-fridge. The sangria turned out really well - I was surprised how much of the wine the fruit actually soaked up, but we split what was left between the three of us (Joe came to test our skill) and greatly enjoyed it. That fruit was stellar. I sense a project (bettering my sangria-making skills) coming on when I get set up in my new apartment.
So the editing project. It's both really intriguing, really frustrating, and really humbling. The most basic things in the world stump me, and I ask stupid questions of intelligent people to solve these problems, which annoys me most of all. I'm very, very slowly learning, but in some ways, Premiere Pro is just . . . not organic. Some things just don't flow. It's probably better than most, but sometimes it just doesn't make any sense to me, and I'm left scrambling for help amongst tutorials that cost large sums of money to watch. Also, oh hi, over-heating computer that burns my legs while complaining about the workload I expect from it. So help me, I will prevail.
Work drama . . . oh work drama. There's been more in the last two months working at Naidre's than there was for two and a half years at Cool Beans. No, that's not true. But Cool Beans really only had one dueling couple, and no crazy boss whatsoever. That pretty much makes the rest matter less. The fact that Kitty hates firing people, and does it so rarely, is a huge strike in Cool Beans' favor. I'm not looking forward to going back there, exactly, but at least I won't be in constant fear of my job. Money started disappearing over the week that Janice was gone, which, unsurprisingly, meant that several people's heads were instantly on the chopping block. Mine was not really one of them, as I've largely been dependable and accurate, but she sent out a few nasty crazy e-mails that led to grumbling from a decent number of the staff. The woman has the capability to be an indescribable bitch. There's just no way around that. Even when she's halfway relented and realized that maybe it's not as bad as she thought it was, she's still incredibly hard to deal with.
Oh third tattoo, how you and your Fineline Tattoo Parlor tempt me . . .
Jimmy's visit was a lot of fun. He's a super-chill guy, so anytime I was at work, he was just wandering around NYU doing grad school smart-kid Jimmy things, texting me occasionally to ask for directions, and showing up right on cue when I was ready to leave. Maybe the highlight of the weekend was our decision on Sunday night to attempt to make sangria - fabulous idea. If we would say so ourselves. What's really great about this story is that, for lack of a kitchen and thus any kind of kitchen utensils or containers, we were forced to mix the fruit, wine and sugar together in the Mr. Coffee coffee pot. And then stuff said coffee pot into my mini-fridge. The sangria turned out really well - I was surprised how much of the wine the fruit actually soaked up, but we split what was left between the three of us (Joe came to test our skill) and greatly enjoyed it. That fruit was stellar. I sense a project (bettering my sangria-making skills) coming on when I get set up in my new apartment.
So the editing project. It's both really intriguing, really frustrating, and really humbling. The most basic things in the world stump me, and I ask stupid questions of intelligent people to solve these problems, which annoys me most of all. I'm very, very slowly learning, but in some ways, Premiere Pro is just . . . not organic. Some things just don't flow. It's probably better than most, but sometimes it just doesn't make any sense to me, and I'm left scrambling for help amongst tutorials that cost large sums of money to watch. Also, oh hi, over-heating computer that burns my legs while complaining about the workload I expect from it. So help me, I will prevail.
Work drama . . . oh work drama. There's been more in the last two months working at Naidre's than there was for two and a half years at Cool Beans. No, that's not true. But Cool Beans really only had one dueling couple, and no crazy boss whatsoever. That pretty much makes the rest matter less. The fact that Kitty hates firing people, and does it so rarely, is a huge strike in Cool Beans' favor. I'm not looking forward to going back there, exactly, but at least I won't be in constant fear of my job. Money started disappearing over the week that Janice was gone, which, unsurprisingly, meant that several people's heads were instantly on the chopping block. Mine was not really one of them, as I've largely been dependable and accurate, but she sent out a few nasty crazy e-mails that led to grumbling from a decent number of the staff. The woman has the capability to be an indescribable bitch. There's just no way around that. Even when she's halfway relented and realized that maybe it's not as bad as she thought it was, she's still incredibly hard to deal with.
Oh third tattoo, how you and your Fineline Tattoo Parlor tempt me . . .
7.09.2010
One Month and One Day . . . About
At this exact moment in time, everything feels right. It's a combination of many elements - most of which I won't detail - that leaves me waking this morning feeling like things will be okay. Probably even better than okay: that things can be, maybe are, and certainly will be beautiful. Part of this newfound contentment is that I've hammered out an issue of uncertainty in my future, and heaven knows how much I hate not knowing what my future will hold. I have an apartment in Columbia lined up. It is neither large nor particularly inviting, but it is a place to come home to, a place to call my own, a place that is not my parents' house (no offense, wonderful parents!). Already I can feel a weight lifting off my shoulders. It makes my return seem more concrete and immediate in all the right ways - although I've just now started learning how to have some fun in this city, and I'll probably establish myself just as I'm leaving, knowing that there's a space for me at home makes the month somehow look less daunting.
Maybe one of the foremost things that I'm learning this summer is that, in the end, the people in your life are what enrich it. To some extent, I thought in Columbia that I was established enough to accomplish that by myself, but I've quickly been taught that it's the people that matter, not the situations or even the locations. Even everyday interactions with the servers that I've bonded with - these are some of the things that keep me sane. Just knowing that I'll be recognized somewhere is an incredibly comforting sentiment. Were there to be a graph, charting my enjoyment of the city with the number of people that I've actually spent time with, there's a clear correlation - it was when I started hanging out with co-workers and servers that just a little bit of the depression started to break. Whether that says something negative about my personality or not - that's another discussion.
There are mornings when I wake up knowing beyond doubt that I'm cared about. It's great to know that, even this far away from home, I've got the love and support of people who would basically do anything for me. There's something to be said for going to sleep with the assurance of affection, and waking up with it reaffirmed - last night I fell asleep warmed even by words, from miles and miles away, that could demonstrate love in ways that amaze me. I'm incredibly grateful for these moments, feel my best when warmed by these sentiments. When you find people who can offer you that kind of love and affection, I feel like you can safely count yourself one of the luckiest people on earth.
Maybe one of the foremost things that I'm learning this summer is that, in the end, the people in your life are what enrich it. To some extent, I thought in Columbia that I was established enough to accomplish that by myself, but I've quickly been taught that it's the people that matter, not the situations or even the locations. Even everyday interactions with the servers that I've bonded with - these are some of the things that keep me sane. Just knowing that I'll be recognized somewhere is an incredibly comforting sentiment. Were there to be a graph, charting my enjoyment of the city with the number of people that I've actually spent time with, there's a clear correlation - it was when I started hanging out with co-workers and servers that just a little bit of the depression started to break. Whether that says something negative about my personality or not - that's another discussion.
There are mornings when I wake up knowing beyond doubt that I'm cared about. It's great to know that, even this far away from home, I've got the love and support of people who would basically do anything for me. There's something to be said for going to sleep with the assurance of affection, and waking up with it reaffirmed - last night I fell asleep warmed even by words, from miles and miles away, that could demonstrate love in ways that amaze me. I'm incredibly grateful for these moments, feel my best when warmed by these sentiments. When you find people who can offer you that kind of love and affection, I feel like you can safely count yourself one of the luckiest people on earth.
7.08.2010
At Long Last
I've been really slack again - sorry. I'm not sure why exactly the blog hasn't been striking my fancy quite as often, although I did have Rachel up for a few days, so that may have been it. I keep thinking of things I want to write about, but when I get home, most of the time I just lose the motivation to write them. Maybe I'm using my words elsewhere.
My birthday was a strange mixture of good and bad - I'll start with that. Birthdays hold large, special meaning for me, I guess because I'm still young and those birthdays still actually seem exciting. I remember being absolutely miserable on my 16th birthday because I wasn't at home, my dad wasn't around, and people were banging gongs while singing "Happy Birthday" to me. I've spent birthdays with friends before, and that's been fine, but there's some kind of distinction there.
Rachel and I had gone on a midnight bar run the night before, in order to ring my birthday in right - the bartender was sweet and told me that my first birthday drink was on her (it was a Peach Jolly, because I let her choose for me, and yes I realize how froofy that is), and has so far been the only person to card me. And then only because she said she'd be mad if she didn't get carded on her birthday. The next morning, we went to brunch, where the sweet and wonderful girls at Perch Cafe remembered that it was my birthday, so brought me out six tiny cookies in a circle with a candle in the middle. They went far above and beyond - I was touched. Then I had to go to work while Rachel got a car to the airport. It was great to have her up, even though she couldn't stay for the "festivities."
So I worked that night - we won't go into details about how many birthday shots of Jack I had to refuse, because Drew felt we should go light on the work and heavy on the festivities - but I got off early. So I found some dinner and just bummed around for a little while until I got the text from work-Sarah, the only person who could actually make it that night. I got a call that almost broke me - I was sitting alone outside the wine bar where I met Sarah, 9:30 on a birthday that had been anything but fireworks, so fully aware that everything I love is 700 miles away from me. When I heard his voice, I got lost in the homesickness and sadness and aloneness, even though it was still the most comforting thing on earth. It's a hard series of emotions to explain, but when I got off the phone and stood up to greet Sarah, I had to fight back tears and steady my voice. She could tell.
She was really what made my birthday okay. We talked and laughed for what must have been about two hours, and it was the sheer force of her company that woke me up out of the depression I was pretty deeply sunk into. I can't actually express how grateful I was for that. Here's the thing: I probably sound crazy when I talk about how depressed I am, because I'm living the dream of a summer in New York. I'm young, I've got a job (now), what more could I want? But the problem is that this was never my dream to start with. I think that's the huge difference - I never imagined moving to New York as the ultimate summer experience. Not without any tie to home, or any entrance to my field, that is. Living someone else's dream has not been kind to me.
I've been working a fair amount, but I had yesterday and the day before off. I didn't do anything particularly exciting on Tuesday, but yesterday I went to the MoMA. Which was absolutely amazing. I intend to go back several more times, so I'll devote entire posts to its magnificence at a later time. But one thing I thought was interesting right off the bat - the Met demands your attention, requires you to be in awe of all the historicity and the important things. The MoMA is very different. It's playful, it lets you breathe, it doesn't demand your attention or direct it to something "important." Then, to some extent, the nature of modern art requires that - some pieces are even meant to be unnoticed, just to exist in their space. Amazing place, though. Just incredible.
Alex's sister and I finally managed to get together, also at long last. Romina is a super cool girl, and I'm sad it took me so long to getting around to meeting her. She got a fairly good sense of my life, and finally said, "it's because of him talking to you every night. That's why you've made it. Anyone in your position without that comfort would have gone home by now." She's absolutely right, too. So she'll soon be taking me under her wing, taking me out to do things, and hanging out with me. That's a certain kind of kindness that I'm most grateful for.
My birthday was a strange mixture of good and bad - I'll start with that. Birthdays hold large, special meaning for me, I guess because I'm still young and those birthdays still actually seem exciting. I remember being absolutely miserable on my 16th birthday because I wasn't at home, my dad wasn't around, and people were banging gongs while singing "Happy Birthday" to me. I've spent birthdays with friends before, and that's been fine, but there's some kind of distinction there.
Rachel and I had gone on a midnight bar run the night before, in order to ring my birthday in right - the bartender was sweet and told me that my first birthday drink was on her (it was a Peach Jolly, because I let her choose for me, and yes I realize how froofy that is), and has so far been the only person to card me. And then only because she said she'd be mad if she didn't get carded on her birthday. The next morning, we went to brunch, where the sweet and wonderful girls at Perch Cafe remembered that it was my birthday, so brought me out six tiny cookies in a circle with a candle in the middle. They went far above and beyond - I was touched. Then I had to go to work while Rachel got a car to the airport. It was great to have her up, even though she couldn't stay for the "festivities."
So I worked that night - we won't go into details about how many birthday shots of Jack I had to refuse, because Drew felt we should go light on the work and heavy on the festivities - but I got off early. So I found some dinner and just bummed around for a little while until I got the text from work-Sarah, the only person who could actually make it that night. I got a call that almost broke me - I was sitting alone outside the wine bar where I met Sarah, 9:30 on a birthday that had been anything but fireworks, so fully aware that everything I love is 700 miles away from me. When I heard his voice, I got lost in the homesickness and sadness and aloneness, even though it was still the most comforting thing on earth. It's a hard series of emotions to explain, but when I got off the phone and stood up to greet Sarah, I had to fight back tears and steady my voice. She could tell.
She was really what made my birthday okay. We talked and laughed for what must have been about two hours, and it was the sheer force of her company that woke me up out of the depression I was pretty deeply sunk into. I can't actually express how grateful I was for that. Here's the thing: I probably sound crazy when I talk about how depressed I am, because I'm living the dream of a summer in New York. I'm young, I've got a job (now), what more could I want? But the problem is that this was never my dream to start with. I think that's the huge difference - I never imagined moving to New York as the ultimate summer experience. Not without any tie to home, or any entrance to my field, that is. Living someone else's dream has not been kind to me.
I've been working a fair amount, but I had yesterday and the day before off. I didn't do anything particularly exciting on Tuesday, but yesterday I went to the MoMA. Which was absolutely amazing. I intend to go back several more times, so I'll devote entire posts to its magnificence at a later time. But one thing I thought was interesting right off the bat - the Met demands your attention, requires you to be in awe of all the historicity and the important things. The MoMA is very different. It's playful, it lets you breathe, it doesn't demand your attention or direct it to something "important." Then, to some extent, the nature of modern art requires that - some pieces are even meant to be unnoticed, just to exist in their space. Amazing place, though. Just incredible.
Alex's sister and I finally managed to get together, also at long last. Romina is a super cool girl, and I'm sad it took me so long to getting around to meeting her. She got a fairly good sense of my life, and finally said, "it's because of him talking to you every night. That's why you've made it. Anyone in your position without that comfort would have gone home by now." She's absolutely right, too. So she'll soon be taking me under her wing, taking me out to do things, and hanging out with me. That's a certain kind of kindness that I'm most grateful for.
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