Adam said, “When do you think you’ll get around to telling me what happened to you?”
“Nothing happened to me,” said Lee. “I got lonesome. That’s all. Isn’t that enough?”
“How about your bookstore?”
“I don’t want a bookstore. I think I knew it before I got on the train, but I took all this time to make sure.”
“Then there’s your last dream gone.”
“Good riddance.” Lee seemed on the verge of hysteria. “Missy Tlask, Chinee boy sink gung get dlunk.”
Adam was alarmed. “What’s the matter with you anyway?”
Lee lifted the bottle to his lis and took a deep hot drink and panted the fumes out of his burning throat. “Adam,” he said, “I am incredibly, incredibly, overwhelmingly glad to be home. I’ve never been so goddamn lonesome in my life.”

Following your heart home is a brave thing to do. It involves admitting to yourself that you’re egotistical, for one thing; perhaps you’ve been reluctant to ditch your life less ordinary, no matter how ill suited to it you are, because you are under the impression that people – family and friends -  have expectations of you to be a certain way. As if they don’t have anything better to focus on, as if your life means more than the simple fact that you live and breathe and love. In part four of East of Eden, Adam Trask’s scrupulously educated servant Lee demonstrated this kind of bravery. It is an unexpected kind of triumph that might be mistaken for cowardice by those who’ve never been in a similar situation.

Most people I know do not follow their curiosity to the ends of the earth as I tend to, as Lee did when he left the Trask family to set up a bookshop in San Fran. As a result, people use the curious in a voyeuristic way: they live vicariously through them to some extent. For the most part, it is harmless and welcome: I like to tell stories and people like to hear them. I keep a blog, for christsakes! And I am just a much of a voyeur as anybody. But this storytelling often creates some false image of the curious as larger than they are. The world is big and beautiful, even when its ugly (sometimes especially when its ugly) and oftentimes the teller gets more credit for that than is due.

What I wish people would understand is that my explorations of the world and of life are actually fueled by deficiency; I need to experience things in order to understand them. I can hear from a thousand different sources that NYC is an outrageously expensive place to live, but until I know my wages and create my monthly budget that barely leaves me covering my ass, I don’t fully understand. I can read the Saga of Orkney, but until I set foot on those blustering isles, I cannot fully grasp the story. My honeymoon was in Spain because I was reading and rereading For Whom the Bell Tolls when we were choosing the location. I just want to *get* things.

The upswing to this type of learning is that once I do understand something, I understand it in the marrow of my bones. It is a visceral, engaged feeling and I am able to articulate it and express it better than many. It lives in me, it preoccupies me, and spills over into all aspects of my life. I am compelled to teach it, to help others understand it. I never forget what I am able to learn and I build off of it and the knowledge lives inside me and connects to other bits of knowledge; this is the way I understand myself and the world. I don’t know any other way. When I read novels, I like to eat the foods that the characters eat. I like to visit the settings, even if they are approximations. My journal entries talk about characters as if they are people I know, as if they are me. When I tasted my first sip of Grappa while reading A Farewell to Arms, I understood Henry’s machismo on a whole new, horrible level. That shit is nasty! And he swilled it all the time!!! You have to be one tough bastard to have such a bitter signature drink.

The downside to this style of learning is that I am frequently doing things, not because I want them, but because I am curious about them. I want to know them. Oftentimes, I am never sure if I want something or not until I am knee deep in it. So far, my marriage, my cat, my morning run, my library card, my radio dial set to NPR, my Netflicks subscription, and closeness with my family and friends are the only things I am 100% certain that I want in this life. This is not to say that I regret anything. It is just an explanation of motivation.

One semester in college, I woke from a dead sleep wondering if my attraction to visual storytelling meant that I should major in art instead of screenwriting. It took me actually dropping all my classes, meeting with the dean of the art department, enrolling in all art classes, feeling a crushing dismay that I wouldn’t be writing all semester, dropping all of my art classes, and re-registering in the screenwriting program for me to know which course of action to take. A semester before graduation, I realized with the help of a few grueling internships, that I love the art of writing for TV and film and hate the industry; I had no desire to pursue a job in either field. I did, however, discover my love of writing and tutoring along the way. I just have to try things on for size. Sometimes I just say things out-loud to see what feeling washes over me, to see if I think a thing or not. I realize that this process makes me seem really flakey and I wish I could say that I’ve grown out of it. I have not nor do I know how to.

Actually, I’m not even entirely certain that most people aren’t just like me, but somehow something stops them from investigating things to the extent that I do. Perhaps these people are self doubting or have been taught to fear the world; I had a mother who taught me to love myself and the world. Fear was never a part of my upbringing.

Anyway, Shaun and I saw an amazing movie last weekend: Persepolis. Based on Marjane Satrapi’s  autobiographical graphic novel, Persepolis is a coming of age story set amongst the fragmented fear of the Islamist Revolution in Iran. I’ve been chewing over this movie all week, still digesting it bit by beautiful bit.

In the film, Marjane’s grandmother is a sage, offering advice that ranges from how to keep your tits firm in old age to how to keep your individuality and personal freedom intact in the face of a rigid dictatorship. In one scene, Marjane breaks into tears at her grandmother’s house as she confesses that she wants a divorce from her husband. Her grandma merely laughs and says, “Oh. Is that all? I thought someone had died.” The grandmother goes on to assure Marjane that she is not crying because she is heartbroken, but crying because she was wrong. “It is hard to admit you are wrong, isn’t it?”, she chuckles.

It is just as hard for me to admit I was wrong to think I would find happiness in NYC. But perhaps the problem is that I was never sure that I would find happiness here – in fact, in large part, I knew it was all an experiment. But I had faith that things wouldn’t be terrible: I go into things with my heart wide open, ready to give my all and expect that the world will reciprocate. But people like to think that you are sure of what you are doing all the time, so I did my best to assure them. It is less satisfying for people to hear that you are curious about life in NYC and feel a potential for goodness there. Perhaps I am less sad that I was wrong than I am to disappoint people, to show them that side of me that makes me seem like such a flake. Also, I want to believe what I tell them: I wanted my hypothesis that life will be good in NYC to be true. And at first, I thought it would be; I see the good of things before the bad, always.

Things aren’t terrible here by any means. Nothing has happened. But I feel an isolation here that is incomparable to anything else I’ve ever experienced. Shaun admitted to feeling it too. I suspect the cause to be the toxic culture of money. While all culture of the western world feels the reverberation, the blow of greed hit NYC directly, squarely, and with unadulterated force. Capitalism screams at you here: it fills your eyes and ears and tries to worm its way into every fold of your brain. Relationships – family and friends – that define many places in the world seem to have been bruised and so irrevocably damaged by the pursuit of money in NYC that it feels like they’ve been surgically removed and replaced with a cold, steely greed. This greed is behind everything that makes NYC good and bad, it is behind the grit and the glory, it is what makes this place amazing. In a way, we are here for that greed. NYC is the heart of the publishing world and Shaun’s desire to be a part of that world inspired us to move here; we are here to make the connections necessary to move forward. I am interested in the greed and I’m glad that our lease here is for a year so that I can spend some time understanding it fully. But never has an investigation been so lonesome, so tiring. I can’t stay here for long. I get sad here. Having a good day here feels like you’ve conquered some huge force. It is exhausting. It is not sustainable. It’s just like Lee said, “I’ve never been so goddamn lonesome in my life.”

I miss Chicago and Glasgow’s abundance of independent cafes, bakeries, and shops. NYC is home of the brand name. Even when things start off indie, they become chains or look like chains or adopt such a generic look and feel to put connivence over experience. I miss being able to adore a structure’s architecture without having to find it beneath scaffolding, neon lights, billboards, and advertisements. I miss even having enough space to see the world around me properly – everything is packed so tightly here that it can feel like you’re looking out at the world through a pinhole. I miss Lake Michigan and those horrible winds that whipped off of it. I miss places where everyone doesn’t seem to be sharing the same bad day. I miss having less choices to sort through, less impossible hoops to jump through every single day. People often talk about the fast pace of NYC. I still don’t really know what that means. Because my blood thickens here, it slows. I am forever in line, waiting, waiting.
 
This is not to say there is not beauty here. There is. There are plays and museums and galleries and orchestras and divine evidence of human invention. But I am not rich. And like everything here, beauty is just another commodity to be bought and sold. I want nothing more than to go to a museum, but I cannot afford to. I want nothing more than to hide in the great halls, to bury myself in art and artifact. But at $20 a head, it seems too impossible. I will ask for a membership to a museum for my birthday. The New Museum or the Whitney, I think. I need a hiding place, a safe space.

But I am here now. I will likely be here for a few years. There are finances to catch up on, contacts to make, advancements to be had. On my wages, with the unimaginable expenses of this place, it will take me nearly a full year to pay off my credit cards on my salary. Then another year to save up enough to move. That is two years. Those are my goals. And I like my job, so earning those wages will not be miserable. While I do that, Shaun will continue to make his connections, to freelance, to establish himself at his great day job (he works for the association that binds all the university presses in the country together, so the potential for it to help get us out of here and to a smaller, university town is great). He’s been doing such an amazing job – simply being here has provided so many publishing opportunities for him. We were right about that. We are here for the greed, like everyone else. Lets hope it does not crush us before we can escape.
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How do you understand the world?

We’re three days into 2008 and life’s been busy. Lots of holiday travel. New job. Getting used to my new life in NYC. Adjusting to a new routine has never been a strong suit of mine. With as many major upheavals my life has seen, you’d think I’d be more adaptable. But I struggle each and every time to get into a groove, where I am happiest. I don’t generally like surprises.

Once my mom tried to surprise me with a trip to the circus when I was a girl. She told me we were going out for ice cream to get me out of the house. When we arrived at the circus, I was furious. I was all set for ice cream. I could have cared less if I got ice cream AND tigers doing tricks. I’ve always liked the sense that I am in complete control of my own destiny, even though I know that its only an illusion best cultivated with solid routine.

Its just hard to wait for things to feel normal, to wait for things to become routine. Because only time can make that happen. And while January marks the fourth month of my life life as a New Yorker (yuck – I think I hate that term and will never use it again. It feels weird), I feel like I only just started in earnest here. January marks my first month in NYC sans frantic job hunt, holiday travel, and manic fits of alternately loving and loathing NYC (which I must remind myself that I feel upon moving to every place I’ve ever moved to for at least 6 months). I think I’m really going to like my new job at the writing center, but I started at
their busiest time and I feel like a pesky cat underfoot, all in the
way with my clumsy learning curve.

Anyhow, my main resolution for 2008 is to try to be patient with the city, with Shaun, and with myself as I settle into this new life. I am really hard on myself. Trying new things, reinventing your life in particular, is bound to dredge up insecurities and other nasty little doubts. So I’ve got to hold fast to my happiness and trust that I’ll get used to this place, this strange new life. I always have. And I’ve always liked it too.

We spent the weekend closing out 2007 in Baltimore with some of our most favorite friends in the world. Pictionary, Trivial Pursuit, a version of the telephone game played with drawing, posing as townspeople for Jessie’s master’s stop motion animation film – uncomplicated, pure fun was had by all. It felt good to laugh so much. And Baltimore is darling.

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I ate a pizza with crab, pesto, and love here. Now craving it nightly.

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Beth and I are pretending to ride bikes. I am making the funniest face I think I’ve made in some time.

Here, Shaun makes the face that never fails to crack me up.

There were lots of cute little shops scattered around the city. I wanted mainly everything in this one. It was a very girly time, complete with perfume sniffing. I rarely have those type of moments and I nearly forgot how fun they could be.

This is an ecstatic mannequin.

I leave you all with this tranquil picture, taken on a pit stop in Pennsylvania last Wednesday, on our way home from spending holiday time with family in Michigan. Its sort of achingly melancholy in a way. Not to be lame, but I kind of feel like this picture. Okay, yes. It is lame to feel like a picture of a waffle house. But there’s something detached, indulgent, yet pretty in the colors, shapes, and depth of feild in this photo – something that I can identify with at the moment.

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What was your favorite thing about ringing in the new year? How do you handle transitions?

Also, this Steinbeck book, East of Eden, is changing my life.

The end of 2007 tastes like princess tea cakes: all sweetness, prettiness, and love.

Last weekend, I baked said tea cakes and some date sweeties to give to our neighbors for a holiday treat. This was the first time I knocked on our neighbors doors – I was feeling too crazed with my own struggle for self preservation to be a good neighbor when we first moved in to the city. Holiday cookies seemed a good opportunity to do what I should have done from day one. “Hello. I’m Truly. Just moved in. It’s nice to meet you. Knock if you need anything. Feliz Navidad.”

I also made some fancy peanut butter cookies with dates and white chocolate love drizzled atop for a new friend’s birthday treat. We spent Saturday night with her eating her boyfriend’s yummy homemade tabuli and playing Scrabble. I love it when I luck out and meet people who like hearing and telling crazy stories as much as I do. There’s nothing better than spending an evening swapping weird true-life tales, complete with hilarious dysfunction, strange discoveries, and triumph over the mundane.

On Monday, I started work at the creative writing school. So far, it is a rockin’ job. The organization of the enterprise seems to be really well designed, streamlining everyone’s day-to-day tasks and eliminating undue stress from the workday. Basically, I will be responsible for the general maintenance of the office, assisting students with registration, and managing special events. The office has 9 people total, no burbaucratic crap, and a relaxed, human approach to everything. Plus, I have everything I ever could ever want from an employer: affordable healthcare, ample time off, a 401K, a livable wage, all the free writing classes I can handle, and non-crazy coworkers. Best of all, I am working for an organization that I believe in and can market in good conscious.

Thursday, Shaun and I were off to MI. We traveled back via a ride-share arranged on Craigslist. 5 passengers, three dogs, and someone’s bad book-on-tape later, we arrived at my mom’s house to have a Christmas gathering with my brothers and my mom’s husband’s parents. It was great to see my brothers. Anthony just turned 19 and was recently put on commission at work (he pimps out car audio systems for a living); its been a long time since I’ve seen him so utterly comfortable in his own skin. He was smily and laughing and just good. I love his girlfriend – this is the third time I’ve hung out with her in earnest and I pray that she’s here to stay. She’s hilarious and bizarre and smart and satirical and completely glamorous; it makes me smile that my brother has such good taste.

Yesterday while Shaun spent a leisurely afternoon writing in the local pub, my mom and I went on a long walk through a nearby park. The day was gorgeous. I love how peaceful snow looks when it simply slumbers in heavy drifts across the land. I like the color of a wintertime sky and the warm cool glow of a 3 pm dusk. I like thinking about the fuzzy snouts of reindeer and the happy whoosh of tobbogans. Wintertime smells good – clean, with undercurrents of fireplace and gingersnaps.

Fungus Among Us

Do the wave

Snow Uninterrupted (By piss, feet, or tire.)

In the evening, my best friend Bryan came over for some afternoon cocktails and silly banter. I gifted him Amy Sedaris’ book, Hospitality Under the Influence, and we made plans to make a hideous Baked Alaska. It feels so good to be surrounded by friends and family. Its been nice to hole up in my mom’s house, safe and warm and offered sweet tangerines and dark coffee.

Today, midway through this noontime hour, my beloved 15-year old brother is sleeping still, as teenage boys will do. When he wakes, I hope to make a pinata with him. Or see a movie. Or drive out to Cranbrook to walk the museum halls.

We head home via ride-share Wednesday morning. I’m happy that is days from now. I’m happy to be completely and totally unaware of time for a minute.
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What does December taste like to you?

A group of corporate advertising executives are meeting in the dark chambers of Charmin HQ. Their task: to come up with the marketing strategy that will close out 2007 with the highest sales record of toilet paper in history. The men, dressed in their most convincing suits, are flanked by posters of the current Charmin bear campaign. In the front two corners of the room, a mousy assistant has stacked neat pyramids of Charmin rolls for inspiration.

After a hearty round of handshakes, the meeting kicks off with unbridled enthusiasm from Kevin, the team’s youngest member. Fresh from Yale and with more bright-eyed charisma than an Osmond*, Kevin  launches into an infectious pitch, one that excites and engages the more seasoned executives, reminding them why they got into this advertising game in the first place. Kevin cares not about overstepping his bounds or about seniority. Because he feels this idea in his bones.

“Gentleman, before we begin this meeting as we usually do, with a sales report from Hank, I just wanted to get something off my chest, something that is of great concern to both me and you. Let me ask you gentleman this: since when did wiping your ass become such a chore?”

A collective, “huh?” rises from the table. Kevin continues, undaunted, “Lets make toilet paper fun again! Lets make shitting fun again! Picture this: an amusement park where the only ride is a toilet. A real, live toilet for all in Times Square to share and evacuate on!”

The men are hooked. A rumble of excitement bubbles up in the room. Johnson, a concave-chested man with a salt and pepper comb-over gets caught up in the excitement: “Yes! There will be sassy cha-cha-cha music!”

“Because wiping is SEXY!” Kevin encourages.

“No kidding! I wipe even when I don’t have to! Just for the sensation! Was that too much information?”

“Don’t worry about it, Hank,” Kevin says, “Be liberated! Be Charmin. BE the brand.”

Soon, the whole board room is talking at once, a clamor of unbridled enthusiasm.

“Lets have people dressed as toilets dancing in the street!”

“Lets have freshly wiped cheerleaders!”

“And out-of-work-dancers!”

“This is going to be incredible. You know, when I think of taking a massive dump in a public bathroom, I think: Photo Opp.”

“Yes! Lets have a whole station where you can take your picture, with a post-piss look of relief on your face!”

“Okay, okay. This is good, guys. This is good. Now lets talk merch,” Kevin says.

“When I think of baby soft tissue caressing my bare ass – which I can’t stop thinking of for the life of me – I think of t-shirts. Charmin t-shirts.”

“My daughter would love one.”

“My wife is already asking for one!”

Hank rips open his button down to reveal an undershirt with “I Love Charmin” scrawled across it in black marker. “I HAVE ONE!”

Hank pants, his Charmin t-shirted chest heaving. The other members of the board room mop their brows, where sweat gathers. The scent of man rises in the room.

“Sorry. I just get so over-stimulated thinking about ass wipes!”

“Over-stimulated. That’s exactly the feeling we want to convey at the Charmin Restrooms,” Kevin says. “Now lets get to work, boys!”

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Yesterday afternoon, on our way to Virgin Megastore to covet DVDs, my friend Derek and I came across something that I can scarcely describe: The Charmin Restrooms. I can only say that it was horrifying and that, giddy from brunch-time mimosas and in an effort to awaken patrons from corporate brainwashing, we may or may not have scrambled onto the stage where the toilet paper cheerleaders danced and shouted, “I’M REALLY INTO SCAT!”

Click Here for a You-Tube video of the Charmin Rooms.

Capitalism has gotten gruesome, even by Times Square standards. Oh, America. Have you any idea how revolting you’ve become?

*An Osomnd.

5.59 EDIT:

YAY YAY YAAAAAAAAAY!

I was just offered the writers workshop job! Hot diggity! Work that utilizes my skills! A creative enviroment that I don’t feel like I’m drowning in! All the free writing classes I can handle! Best pay in U.S. Dollars that I’ve ever earned! WHOA!

During the job interview, I learned that the turnover rate at this small organization is really small. Why? They treat their employees like humans. No one ever wants to leave. It is all close knit and stuff. This is why they were really careful about the hiring process. Many are writers and artists; it is loose and creative and everything I could ever dream of for somewhere I’d feel good and comfy about working at.

I am the Office and Events Manager. I will be doing day-to-day admin stuffs as well as coordinating special events, readings, and publicity.

YAY YAY YAAAAAAY!

They want me to come in for a few days here and there before the new year, just so that when I start in earnest on January 2, I will be ready to hit the ground running with their new semester.

Also, has anyone ever used Craigslist for Rideshares? I’ve been trying to hook up with a ride back to MI for a few days now, but the thing I had thought was arranged this weekend fell through and I was bummed until I was contacted by an even cooler ride this afternoon. We’ll be riding round trip in a spacious 2004 Ford Excursion with another couple who lives only blocks away from us and also has family in the Detroit-metro area. For $200 and half the tolls, we’ll get some bargain holiday travel and a few more days to boot!

YAY!

Shaun’s off at a comic writers event tonight, doing his networking thang, so I’ve no one to be spastic with about my happy news! It makes me rabid and want to go out for drink somewhere that has a jukebox and a dance floor.

YAAAAAYYYY!

Finally, I’m settled here. No more crazy. Really this time. I have what I want. I never realized how restless and dramatic and persistant I am when I don’t get what I want. Perhaps this is why I like my life. I don’t settle.

I’ve made blog mention before about how much I like temping at the Sony Wonder Museum; I really dig spending a few hours of my Saturdays helping kids around the television studio, assisting them in the audio lab, and making sure they don’t kill each other in the video game suites. Plus, its been a real eye opener for me. Of all the troubles that I’ve had in the last handful of weekends I’ve spent temping at Sony Wonder, its not the kids that cause them. Its the parents.

Most of the trouble brews at wildly popular activities that require patrons to queue to participate – such as the music room where you get to learn all about instruments and play along with a cool ‘Lil Bow Wow video. You’d be surprised at how many parents think its okay to stand in line for their spawn while said spawn runs amok playing other video games and drooling sugar all over the controllers. Once at the front of the line, the parent calls out, “Jimmy! Come play!”

At this point, I quietly tell the parent that saving places in line is forbidden at Sony Wonder, as it is unfair to all the patient boys and girls who waited their turn; I gesture to their angelic, single-file little faces for empasis. I inform the parent if they want to play, they can. But if their little
Jimmy wants to play, he has to wait in line like everybody else. And I make sure to tell the parent this quietly, because I understand how mortifying it is to get yelled at by a museum invigilator and because I get that undermining the parent’s authority in front of their kid could make the parent have a very bad day.

Nevertheless, about 50% of these parents stomp their feet. They get red in the face (I hate to
pull racial/social stats here, but most of the angry space savers are
of the white, mock turtleneck and loafer wearing, suburban variety who
seem to redden with ease). They get sassy. They huff and flail. They
embarrass the kid that they were saving a space for. “It’s okay, mom,”
little Jimmy often says, “I didn’t want to play that one anyway.”

Its just shocking to me how people fail to see the ways in which they model behavior. I just want to shake these parents and say, “do you want your Jimmy to grow up into a road raging, bully with unfounded feelings of entitlement? Is that really how you prepare your child to make this world a better place?” Instead, I smile and say, “Sorry – rules are rules,” before letting the happy, patient kids through the door.
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How about you? Got any helpful tips for those brave people trying to raise the next generation?

Need an escape this weekend? Crave a feeling of connectedness to a life that is not yours and people who you don’t even know and are made up anyway? Want nothing more than to slip into a matinee and let cozy darkness and story wash over you? My hot cinema tip? Juno.

Yes, I know there are a bizarre number of Unplanned Pregnancy Movies lately (Knocked Up, Waitress) and I am just as annoyed at the warm, fuzzy look at unplanned, young, single parenthood as any sane person. These movies tend to be more about how quirky, offbeat, and fun unplanned pregnancy is. With bonus scenes full of soul searching and hormonal emotion! And you thought young, unplanned, single motherhood was all about financial hardship, an unsupportive society, and social ostrasization.

Gag me.

On the bright side, at least our culture is finally acknowledging that, lots of times, hetero sex = babies. And roughly half of all American babies are unplanned. So Unplanned Pregnancy Movies are at very least telling stories about something that happens a lot in our county, stories that have never been given much time before. Why the sudden onslaught of such movies is beyond me. But if it has something to do with our obsession over celebrity baby bumps, I can only say it again: GAG ME!

Anyhow, even though Juno is falls into the Unplanned Pregnancy Movie category, it is not a movie about its genre. It is a movie about a fresh, likable, and (most unique to this genre) believable young woman named Juno MacGuff, played fantastically by Ellen Page. Juno is the kind of brave, fierce, whip-smart female protagonist that easily commands your attention. She is cool. She is smart. She is together, despite her belly ‘o’ accidental baby.

When disclosing her pregnancy to her father, played by J.K. Simmons, he remarks, “I thought you were the kind of girl who knew when to say when.” With acting that promises great things from Ellen Page, Juno replies, “I don’t really know what kind of girl I am.”

And that is the best part about this movie. Juno isn’t any kind of girl. And neither are any of the characters in this completely worth while film. Plus, the soundtrack is kick ass. That’s really something that you’re not likely to find in any other movie about unwanted fetuses.
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How about you? See anything good lately?

::Random Tangent::
The second interview at the writers workshop went really, really, really good. Today, I got an overwhelmingly positive call from them. I hear for shizzle on Monday, after my background check (which says nothing except what a law abiding, bill paying, very hard working, creative person I am) is complete. Fingers crossed!

Also, I crashed out at 1.17 am last night. So much for nightswimming.

Something really funny happened to me this afternoon. While walking down 8th, between 36th and 37th, a man bustled up to me and exuberantly asked for my autograph.
I laughed. “What for?”
“You’re in that show – that Broadway show.”
I gave him a quick glance, looking for signs of crazy. There were none. He was just a guy, genuinely confused. “Really. I’m not. Thanks, though!”
“What? You’re not? You look just like that one girl! Are you sure you’re not her?”
“Nope. Just on my way to a job interview.”
“You’re not in theater?”
I laughed again. “Nope. Are you?”
He shook his head. “Man, I couldda sworn…”
“Have a good day!” I called over my shoulder, smiling as I continued down the street.
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Have you ever experienced something that felt like a good omen? What was it?

::Random Tangent::
I just finished Haruki Murakami’s newest English translation, After Dark. Loved it. The book takes place over the course of a single night, from 11.55 pm – 6.55 am. I’ve only ever stayed up all night perhaps 3 times in my life: once dancing my heart out at a gay bar where my friend worked, once on New Years Eve playing surrealist parlor games with friends in LA, and once playing a never-ending game of Trivial Pursuit at a friends birthday party in Glasgow. While all three instances were completely unsuited to my regular schedule (I’ve always been more naturally suited to an early-ish bedtime, dreams, and waking before the sun to go running), I loved how time in those hours means something different than time in the day. Hours drip and drop; nothing is swift. After Dark reminded me of that, made me want to swim in it a bit. I have this idea in my head that if I stay awake tonight during the hours that the book takes place in, it will be lucky. If I fall asleep, it will be unlucky. Isn’t that weird?

Ever had a sort of day that you feel completely happy and at home in? Well, today was like that for me and I’m a little more than bummed that it is coming to a close. Not only am I dreading the start of the work week, in all its hokey office “Bagel Monday” glory, but today was just so…good. I could live inside just this one day for a while. It is the sort of day that if, upon my death, my soul can roam through time freely, I will rerun in an instant.

When I woke this morning, my bleary eyes blinked in the morning light streaming through the window. The light was the color of a dejected gym sock, the color of a snowy sky. I pulled up the blinds and smiled to see the first snowfall of the year.

With the crisp start of wintertime (weirdly punctual in its first weekend of December arrival) fueling me, I moved my tired bones to the shower and brewed some warm coffee. My body was achy from building this yesterday:

In the last few weeks, Shaun built this:

This:

A cute futon cover (black w/ colorful, swirly spots) is on its way in the mail to us. Yay!

This:

And this:

There are actually two desks in our home now; one for me (above) and one for Shaun (messy!). It’s like a Room of One’s Own, except we couldn’t splurge on a whole room – a desk seems suffice enough.

Not to mention a cute kitchen island that I forgot to take a picture of. So it was time for me to contribute a little manual labor. It was great to wake up this Sunday morning to an apartment that was no longer a sea of boxed books. We are unpacked at last. We are home.

After getting ready this morning, we were off to enjoy the reopening of the New Museum at its new location on Bowery St. The museum was incredible! And not just because they were celebrating their opening with free admission this weekend. Their current exhibition, Unmonumental, explored collage and mixed media in contemporary art. Collage has historically blossomed in times of cultural, political, and societal unrest; it is all abloom in today’s contemporary art.

I love how a good exhibition really engages me, reminds me of things in my own life, in the world at large. I like how a good exhibition encourages connections that might not otherwise have been made. I also like to listen to chit chat amongst patrons. I like to hold hands with my partner. I like to love new things that I’ve never seen before.

My favorite pieces were from Elliot Hundley. He created two large, intricate, sculptural collages entitled The Wreck (2005) and Proscenium (2006) that entranced me. The sculptures were so solid and defined, yet the construction of them, with bamboo and thin wood sticks, was made visible. Photographs and cocktail umbrellas and colorful papers collaborated to pull the eye in, arresting the viewer. The tangled mess of it all, the crazy bounty pleased me a great deal.

The New Museum also has an incredible space called “Museum as Hub,” a public space for special projects, research and public discourse. Exhibited in that space, was my other favorite work, The Last Tourist in Cairo (2006) by Jan Rothuizen. For the project, the artist spent some time in Cairo and documented her impressions of the city in poster-sized maps. The maps detail the location of interviews with people she met there, which are printed on the side, along with news-clippings of events that happened while she was there, and short scenes describing things she witnessed. The last Tourist in Cairo is actually a set of seven poster maps, but only three were on display. I liked The Emptiness of a Busy City and The Anonymous Impossibility of Social Coherence best.

Winding our way up to the top floor of the museum, we were happily surprised to find that the museum free weekend sponsor Target had also set up a free candy buffet for patrons to take some sweets away with them. We filled up bags with gummies and fancy M&M’s in crazy colors like mauve and lavender.

Feeling hungry for more than a sugar rush, we headed over to Cafe Habana for some cheap, delicious lunch. We talked about books, writing, and the weird things we did as little kids while sipping strong Cuban coffee and sharing heaping plates of molletes and chilaquiles.

With full bellies, we moseyed into  McNally Robinson, an independent bookseller, and found ourselves picking up some fun Christmas gifts. After that, we browsed the Young Designers Market, which happens every Saturday and Sunday and has some truly cool wares. We bought a few more Christmas items there and I coveted a cool $200 dress that looked more like a weird sculpture than clothes.

With full minds, full bellies, full bags, and a home to come home to, I smiled the whole subway ride home. I am a lucky, lucky girl. But I don’t want Monday to arrive.

About to sign off of Xanga-land for the evening, I was suddenly struck by a memory of my brother Anthony, 15 years ago. While being tucked into bed as an angel haired little boy, snuggled into his Thomas the Train footie pajamas, he used to declare with ripe enthusiasm, “tomorrow’s another day!” before trying to soothe himself into sleep (which, oddly enough, he did by bashing his head into his pillow repeatedly and humming to himself, earning him the family nickname, Hammer).

So instead of being sad that today is drawing to a close (well, its already past midnight, so any illusion of stopping time has already been shattered), I shall think about reliving it in my (hopefully far away) future as a ghost and adopt the philosophy that my brother used to espouse when he was four: tomorrow is another day. Might as well make the best of it.
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On a scale of 1 to 10, how was your Sunday?

::Random Tangent::
I’ve got a new post up at Naptime in the City that Never Sleeps, if anyone is interested in seeing pictures of the pretty buildings around my office neighborhood.

        

I’m pregnant with an idea that I’m super excited about. And yes: pregnant is the right word. Like a woman big bellied with child, I am preoccupied with this idea. I am obsessed. It makes me glow and makes me happy and pushes me through everyday banality, beaming.

The idea addresses the issue of the dead cat job, laughs in its face. The idea is a public art project. The idea is potentially profitable and definitely fun.

I don’t think I want to write about it too much here, and I sense it will be a few months before I unveil anything. But I suck at secrets (a blabber-mouthed blogger? Shocking.) and felt the need to send a little whisper of my seedling into the world.

I have a very specific sense of what the project should look and feel like; I know the medium well. However, the final identity of the project will be an evolutionary, community-based decision and I its facilitator. I will encourage it to be irreverent, silly, and inspiring.

Psst. Pass it on.

Tonight Shaun and I are going to the Guggenheim with friends to finally check out the Richard Prince exhibition during free Friday hours. I once had a class in college where we were encouraged to make “inspiration dates” with ourselves to go to museums, performances, and generally feed our creative mind (I went to art school – can you tell? Ha!). While “dates” like this are commonplace in my life, just by default of what I actually enjoy, my hottest ideas come from things I’ve experienced firsthand. Everyday stuff, family stuff, friend stuff, work stuff.

That said, I am very exicted that The New Museum of Contemporary Art is reopening in its new building this weekend. Saturday – Sunday it is open 30 FREE hours straight (meaning you can reserve free tickets to wonder the gallaries at 3 am Sunday morning). Partner and I are going mid-morning Sunday, followed by a long walk in Central Park if the weather isn’t cruddy. Can’t wait.

Saturday should be spent doing ’round the house stuff. We finally got bookcases delivered (not to mention a futon that we have to put together), and will thusly be getting rid of the sea of boxes in the livingroom at last. And once everything is in its place, I can hang our art and family/friend photos up on the walls again. It’s been sad to see all my precious things wrapped in newsprint, living on the floor. And of course, blogging. And working on my new little idea.
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What are your weekend plans? What inspires you?

Yesterday, I saw a dead cat – orange and rain soaked – sprawled limply on the sidewalk on my way to work. It was my first day at a job I took out of necessity, leaving passion and enthusiasm behind to catch up on bills accrued from a year abroad, and my encounter with the cat will forever remain symbolic in my mind. It is a dead cat kind of job.

My new employers are ethical and fair by American standards. I have my scant vacation time. I have enough health insurance to keep my heart beating. I have a steady income and 40 hours a week. And I’m not complaining. I’m grateful. I just can’t keep the lyrics from a James song out of my head:

If I hadn’t seen such riches, I could live with being poor.

The riches I’ve grown accustomed to are not monetary; they are experiential. I’ve grown accustomed to working in capacities that interest me, engage me, feed my enormous curiosity and appetite for life. I’ve worked in writing centers, taught workshops, marketed museums and crazy festivals in other countries. And now I’m filling subscription orders at a small, dying magazine publisher in a small, gray, lightness office.

These are the things that I no longer get paid to do:

I do not brainstorm. I do not write copy or web content. I do not plan and host fun, massive special events. I do not present. I do not play nice with VIPs and have the lovely perk of meeting renown contemporary artist/designers and discussing their work with them. I do not research and develop new ways to get the community excited about cultural offerings. I do not get freebies and sponsorships for organizations who I hold near and dear to my heart, organizations that I feel are intrinsic to my community. I do not author chapters. I do not collaborate.

I do not. 

My talents are wasted on this job. Being there is not horrible, it is just like watching dull surveillance footage of someone else’s’ life. It’s as if I’m watching myself function in an alternate universe. The mundane tasks of this job are shocking to me. I’m spoiled by my past work experiences, I know it. This job is decent. And lets face it: I applied to a good hundred jobs here. I interviewed for a fair handful. This is what I was offered. Bottom of the barrel.

Perhaps autumn is a bad time to be job hunting. Perhaps this time in American history is a bad time to be job hunting (personally, I believe we are on the brink of a depression comparable in scale and fallout to the one following the 1929 stock market crash). Perhaps I just ran  out of patience, out of money, and out of luck and took the first thing that came my way. I suspect that is it.

Anyhow, the job pays more than being an office temp did, but I’m basically looking at it as a prolonged temping assignment. I will do my best – I do all my work with dignity and professionalism, however my rants may sound – but honestly, the job requires about 1% of my brain power. This leaves lots of energy for other things, for which I am grateful. I just need to stop being so shocked that my job under utilizes me – this is probably true for many, many people. I need to find a way to put my talents to work – because they get stir crazy just bubbling under the surface all day.

I am going to start volunteering to write marketing copy for a not for profit that I found that organizes theatre for homeless kids. I believe in the transformative power of performance and expression (lord knows my after-school theatre outlet motivated me to graduate high school) and I am happy to help this group out.

I am signing up for another improv class this January. I am starting a new short story and revising something I was working on in 2006 that I needed distance from before reworking. I am seriously investigating my options for the career switch into teaching high school English that I’ve been wanting for some time now. I want to start participating in Miranda July’s public art project, Learning to Love You More. I will train for a marathon. I will read library book after library book after library book. I will make photo essays and blogs. Speaking of which, check out Naptime in the City that Never Sleeps for a new installment of photos from my favorite neighborhood park.

I want to not only survive my dead cat job, but have extra creative energy outside of work because of it; all the creativity and energy that I am usually paid for will be untapped, bursting to get out at the end of my shift. I need to think this way. Otherwise I don’t know how I can continue to wake up in the morning and go. And I need to go. The rent. It gets due. The credit cards. They must be paid off. The student loans. Well, they never really go away. But they get due, too. And so I must work. And until something better rears its lovely head, this place is a decent, respectable job that I am lucky to have.
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Have you ever had a dead cat job? How did you deal?