The heat and stickiness feel strange. I may be overtired. Please excuse my indulgence.
A few years ago I felt so completely driven: to crack my own head case, get over the timid aspects of my nature, learn to make crude music. Basically, to grow.
These projects have all been underway for long enough that I take them completely for granted.
In addition:
My friends are unbelievable.
I've reconciled with my family and our relationship is deepening.
My wardrobe is sufficient, with a few items verging on fabulous.
I've suffered several catastrophes of varying degrees of hideousness and remain essentially resilient and cheerful.
Have beautiful cats.
Can afford good hairdresser.
So basically I don't know what to do with myself.
At first I considered getting cable television, to find out more about the things that everyone fusses over, like HGTV. I do miss watching TV with Ben. He had TiVo. We watched "The Concert for George" one night -- for something like 3 hours -- and we ate big salads for dinner and had tea and frozen Entemann's cookies for dessert, all in front of the TV. I cried during the opening "I Want to Tell You" and tried to hide it by burying my face in a Kleenex. The poignancy of the refrain was really getting to me.
6.30.2005
6.15.2005
Sample Sale Redux!
Hi. Anyone still out there? I'm still here. Must have slipped into the matter-eating vortex . . .
I had a reconnaissance with the sample sale that caused much disgruntlement last year. It was much cooler out this time around, and that was a good omen. I found a dress that I had seen for $450 in Bendel's for 80% less. And it fit. And I got 2 other dresses and a jacket.
Plus, changing in a room with 23 other women gave me good kick in the pants re: the aesthetics of matching your panties to your bra.
I had a reconnaissance with the sample sale that caused much disgruntlement last year. It was much cooler out this time around, and that was a good omen. I found a dress that I had seen for $450 in Bendel's for 80% less. And it fit. And I got 2 other dresses and a jacket.
Plus, changing in a room with 23 other women gave me good kick in the pants re: the aesthetics of matching your panties to your bra.
5.04.2005
Lately I have been routinely slipping into an alternate dimension or matter-eating vortex. I send two contracts and, when only one comes back, the recipient of such contracts insists that only one was sent. So I send another. Then I hand the 2 completed contracts to someone else for review and only get one back.
It makes one wonder if the universe is, in fact, fucking with one's head.
It makes one wonder if the universe is, in fact, fucking with one's head.
4.20.2005
For all you cat fans out there, I offer you some cat home movies. Saro was knitted a new toy and I wanted to capture the presentation. Rox makes a guest appearance but, ever the cool one, hangs back.
4.17.2005
Yes, I like Piña Coladas
It's been a week now and I'm still a touch tan. J.J. and I made a point of having aformentioned coconut-infused drink each day. They were so weak even I didn't feel it. Sitting on the edge of the Caribbean, what good would it do to be drunk anyway?
I was sitting on the sand when the tide shifted slightly. Waves started coming in at a 35 degree angle. The rope and bobble started whacking against my leg. I started to get up when I noticed something in the water. You notice when things wash up in the Caribbean, because it's otherwise so clear and pure. I was a tiny fish, not even a centimeter long. When the tide pulled out it remained on the sand, whirring. It was bright green and irridescent. Its eye took up half its body. It whirred to an amazing height -- several times its own size.
Several more waves came in, but didn't go up far enough to reclaim the fish. I considered trying to pick it up and throw it back. Surely my touch would kill it. I blew on it and tried to shoo it toward the water. The fish stopped moving. Finally the water carried it away.
I went back to the pool and put on my hat and coverup. I ordered a piña colada. It was late afternoon. The pool was finally calm after 2 days of domination by soccer players with buzzed hair and black tattoos. I had seen them loading onto a bus that morning. One woman about my age remained in the pool with her boyfriend. A speaker blared The Eagles Greatest Hits.
"Woooooo!" she said. "WOOOOOOOOOO!"
I was sitting on the sand when the tide shifted slightly. Waves started coming in at a 35 degree angle. The rope and bobble started whacking against my leg. I started to get up when I noticed something in the water. You notice when things wash up in the Caribbean, because it's otherwise so clear and pure. I was a tiny fish, not even a centimeter long. When the tide pulled out it remained on the sand, whirring. It was bright green and irridescent. Its eye took up half its body. It whirred to an amazing height -- several times its own size.
Several more waves came in, but didn't go up far enough to reclaim the fish. I considered trying to pick it up and throw it back. Surely my touch would kill it. I blew on it and tried to shoo it toward the water. The fish stopped moving. Finally the water carried it away.
I went back to the pool and put on my hat and coverup. I ordered a piña colada. It was late afternoon. The pool was finally calm after 2 days of domination by soccer players with buzzed hair and black tattoos. I had seen them loading onto a bus that morning. One woman about my age remained in the pool with her boyfriend. A speaker blared The Eagles Greatest Hits.
"Woooooo!" she said. "WOOOOOOOOOO!"
4.05.2005
Buds and peepers
It was still light out when I got home.
Soon the buds will be budding and the peepers peeping.
Love is in the air, which makes it hard to pin down.
I throw myself at your mercy.
Soon the buds will be budding and the peepers peeping.
Love is in the air, which makes it hard to pin down.
I throw myself at your mercy.
2.28.2005
Discerning folk question the logic of a store containing items that one purchases solely for the purpose of containing other items. Yet I contend this is a good thing.
Witness my coat closet, from which a moth emerged, fluttering.
Witness my trooping off to aforementioned store, buying multitudes of plastic garment bags, and hermetically sealing said coats.
And, lo: emergence of Moth 2, and a pool of wool dust at the bottom of the neglected basket of hats and scarves.
Something about moths triggers rage in me. "Die, moth-er-f***er!" Whap, whap, WHAP.
Tonight: I obtain plastic boxes of various shapes and sizes.
Witness my coat closet, from which a moth emerged, fluttering.
Witness my trooping off to aforementioned store, buying multitudes of plastic garment bags, and hermetically sealing said coats.
And, lo: emergence of Moth 2, and a pool of wool dust at the bottom of the neglected basket of hats and scarves.
Something about moths triggers rage in me. "Die, moth-er-f***er!" Whap, whap, WHAP.
Tonight: I obtain plastic boxes of various shapes and sizes.
Stitch, bitch.
I upgraded my Netflix and commenced to rent your suggestions en masse. Last night it was The Women. Although it made me question whether I want to ever date again, I enjoyed it thoroughly.
I also taught myself how to knit ribbing during it. Yay.
That fashion sequence was just outrageous.
I also taught myself how to knit ribbing during it. Yay.
That fashion sequence was just outrageous.
2.17.2005
Need Recommendations
I rented Annie Hall and hated it. The acting was bad and I guess I take all the psychoanalytic gab for granted.
I rented Four Weddings and a Funeral and hated it. I don't see why we're supposed to think that 2 people casually torturing each other is cute.
I need to watch movies that are smart, silly, romantic, and classy. Old or new movies -- I don't care. (Preferably old: the actors dress better.)
Suggestions please.
ps. I saw Bridget Jones and I liked it a lot -- just so you don't think I'm a total sourpuss.
I rented Four Weddings and a Funeral and hated it. I don't see why we're supposed to think that 2 people casually torturing each other is cute.
I need to watch movies that are smart, silly, romantic, and classy. Old or new movies -- I don't care. (Preferably old: the actors dress better.)
Suggestions please.
ps. I saw Bridget Jones and I liked it a lot -- just so you don't think I'm a total sourpuss.
2.08.2005
Coffee with Ghosts
Only one table open at Reggio's; and I sat across from an empty chair where, on our second date, I sat across from him, talking about his plans to buy a house.
I'm sipping coffee at Magnolia Bakery when the Velvets come on with Sunday Morning: the song that flowed through the car time and time again as we drove to and from the ferry to Fire Island.
I can't bear it.
Thank you to the nice girl at Magnolia for the glass of water and free cookie.
I'm sipping coffee at Magnolia Bakery when the Velvets come on with Sunday Morning: the song that flowed through the car time and time again as we drove to and from the ferry to Fire Island.
I can't bear it.
Thank you to the nice girl at Magnolia for the glass of water and free cookie.
2.01.2005
1.25.2005
Eulogy
THREE SCENES WITH BEN STERN
By Erica Smith
One
On our third date Ben Stern took me out on the pier. It was a hot night but clear. The George Washington Bridge was sparkling to the north. Jersey was dark in places, lit up in others. The cliffs across the river looked very dark and very tall.
He pointed to different places across the river. That spot had been utterly contaminated, bought for a song, and redeveloped, and is now worth millions. Up there is where the Ramapo Mountain People live. Had I heard of them? I hadn’t, but now I understand: you don’t necessarily notice them, but once you recognize them, they’re everywhere.
He told me his office friends were intrigued by our romance. But they teased him, “yes, but does she know what’s wrong with you?” My eyebrows went up.
Quickly making a guess in my own head, I ventured that maybe Ben knew too much. Every building façade, cobblestone path, and traffic circle has a story, and he seemed to know them all. How could I possibly keep up?
I decided I liked how he could see things come alive that I took for granted: a piece of skyline, a car engine, a railroad tie.
Well, I thought. I could use a good challenge.
Two
When Ben Stern started coming over to my apartment, he would inevitably gravitate toward the television and start tinkering. It was a small TV and I didn’t have cable, just bunny ears. I never turned the thing on anyway.
One evening Ben showed up at my door with a large loop of cable under his arm.
He took the cable and crawled under my desk. He screwed the cable into the box for my cable modem. Then he unraveled the thing across my living room and screwed it into the television. Presto: we got basic channels. We watched Saturday Night Live, giggled, and had snacks.
This process was intriguing to me, but very messy, with a thick wire snaking across my living room floor, and nests of cable here and there. It settled into a pattern: As soon as Ben would go home I would unscrew everything and scoot the wire under my TV stand. And when he would return, we’d plug everything back in again, and we would both solemnly vow to drill holes in the wall and run that cable properly.
Friday night he must have had enough of this process, for he showed up with a deck of cards.
“Do you know Rummy 500?”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“It’s fun.” He cut the cards, shuffled, and cut again. He had already printed out instructions and read them to me.
As we played, he told me how his grandparents had been crazy for canasta.
“Are you sure you want to lay that card down?” he said after I laid a card down. He pointed to his cards. I saw a strategy I had missed.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“You can take it back.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Look, I blew it, let me blow it.”
“It’s really not too late.”
“Fine.” I took the card back.
It happened again 20 minutes later.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“WHAT NOW?”
He nodded toward a card.
“I made the bad move, let me make it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me blow it.”
“Come on.”
Finally, he let me make the bad move. Then he showed me what to do so it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.
Three
We were both so excited that the blizzard was coming. As people who were not especially religious, we had found our mutual day of celebration.
It was past midnight. We had watched “Sex and the City” (my choice) and “Victory By Design,” tonight on the subject of Porsche. ( . . . His choice.)
Saturday Night Live was winding down. I was getting ready to cozy up with a blanky.
Ben turned to me, smiling. “So? You ready to go out?”
“Um . . .”
“Come on!”
We bundled up with sweaters and hats and coats and hoods and socks and boots and gloves and made our way downstairs into the snowy cold street.
It was cold but the wind was not so bad. It was snowing, but not hard, not stinging. We crossed the street toward the river. The snow was well traveled but I liked stepping in the big footprints he made.
When we started going down the ramp to the pier, he would turn around every few paces and check on me or take my hand. If we had to go down a step, he would go first and then extend his hand back to me.
When we got down to the pier, the wind was blowing over the snow so it looked untouched. Chunks of ice floated in the Hudson. The sky looked dark pink and reflected dark pink in the water. I saw what looked like a group of supports in the water. Remnants of a pier? They were markers for the shallow water, he said.
I looked across to Jersey, where it was dark with an occasional sparkle. The bridge was lit. It was completely quiet except for the wind.
It occurred to me that this might be one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
By Erica Smith
One
On our third date Ben Stern took me out on the pier. It was a hot night but clear. The George Washington Bridge was sparkling to the north. Jersey was dark in places, lit up in others. The cliffs across the river looked very dark and very tall.
He pointed to different places across the river. That spot had been utterly contaminated, bought for a song, and redeveloped, and is now worth millions. Up there is where the Ramapo Mountain People live. Had I heard of them? I hadn’t, but now I understand: you don’t necessarily notice them, but once you recognize them, they’re everywhere.
He told me his office friends were intrigued by our romance. But they teased him, “yes, but does she know what’s wrong with you?” My eyebrows went up.
Quickly making a guess in my own head, I ventured that maybe Ben knew too much. Every building façade, cobblestone path, and traffic circle has a story, and he seemed to know them all. How could I possibly keep up?
I decided I liked how he could see things come alive that I took for granted: a piece of skyline, a car engine, a railroad tie.
Well, I thought. I could use a good challenge.
Two
When Ben Stern started coming over to my apartment, he would inevitably gravitate toward the television and start tinkering. It was a small TV and I didn’t have cable, just bunny ears. I never turned the thing on anyway.
One evening Ben showed up at my door with a large loop of cable under his arm.
He took the cable and crawled under my desk. He screwed the cable into the box for my cable modem. Then he unraveled the thing across my living room and screwed it into the television. Presto: we got basic channels. We watched Saturday Night Live, giggled, and had snacks.
This process was intriguing to me, but very messy, with a thick wire snaking across my living room floor, and nests of cable here and there. It settled into a pattern: As soon as Ben would go home I would unscrew everything and scoot the wire under my TV stand. And when he would return, we’d plug everything back in again, and we would both solemnly vow to drill holes in the wall and run that cable properly.
Friday night he must have had enough of this process, for he showed up with a deck of cards.
“Do you know Rummy 500?”
“I’ve forgotten it.”
“It’s fun.” He cut the cards, shuffled, and cut again. He had already printed out instructions and read them to me.
As we played, he told me how his grandparents had been crazy for canasta.
“Are you sure you want to lay that card down?” he said after I laid a card down. He pointed to his cards. I saw a strategy I had missed.
“Uh-oh,” I said.
“You can take it back.”
“No.”
“It’s not too late.”
“Look, I blew it, let me blow it.”
“It’s really not too late.”
“Fine.” I took the card back.
It happened again 20 minutes later.
“You sure you want to do that?”
“WHAT NOW?”
He nodded toward a card.
“I made the bad move, let me make it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Let me blow it.”
“Come on.”
Finally, he let me make the bad move. Then he showed me what to do so it wouldn’t ever have to happen again.
Three
We were both so excited that the blizzard was coming. As people who were not especially religious, we had found our mutual day of celebration.
It was past midnight. We had watched “Sex and the City” (my choice) and “Victory By Design,” tonight on the subject of Porsche. ( . . . His choice.)
Saturday Night Live was winding down. I was getting ready to cozy up with a blanky.
Ben turned to me, smiling. “So? You ready to go out?”
“Um . . .”
“Come on!”
We bundled up with sweaters and hats and coats and hoods and socks and boots and gloves and made our way downstairs into the snowy cold street.
It was cold but the wind was not so bad. It was snowing, but not hard, not stinging. We crossed the street toward the river. The snow was well traveled but I liked stepping in the big footprints he made.
When we started going down the ramp to the pier, he would turn around every few paces and check on me or take my hand. If we had to go down a step, he would go first and then extend his hand back to me.
When we got down to the pier, the wind was blowing over the snow so it looked untouched. Chunks of ice floated in the Hudson. The sky looked dark pink and reflected dark pink in the water. I saw what looked like a group of supports in the water. Remnants of a pier? They were markers for the shallow water, he said.
I looked across to Jersey, where it was dark with an occasional sparkle. The bridge was lit. It was completely quiet except for the wind.
It occurred to me that this might be one of the most beautiful moments of my life.
1.20.2005
Barefoot On My Ass
Someone left a bunch of unopened VHS tapes in the basement as freebies/trash. I abducted a few of them and started watching last night. I started with this one, hoping for a little lighthearted mental foxtrot. But I found it depressing and wanted to beat both characters with a stick. Insight, anyone?
1.18.2005
THE ALIEN OCTOPUS HAS LANDED!
Thanks to the lovely and talented Allison Ramen, we have documented my encounter with the alien octopus. Isn't it a Federal offense to degrade post office boxes?
Feedback
Feedback can be described as the delivery of criticism tempered with praise, most often couched in good manners. Another kind of feedback can be described as the amplified signal from speakers or monitors being picked up again by microphones and then being re-amplified, causing unpleasant squealing, screeching, or ringing. Although these 2 kinds of feedback are quite different in nature, their effects are most often the same.
It has come to my attention as of late that there are times when I'm not hitting the mark musically. Of course, one is always one's own worst critic. But there is safety in keeping that shame a secret, and hoping that no one else notices -- or at the very least, hoping that the compassion of others will help bridge the gap between one's aspirations and reality. But when the voice inside one's head is heard on the outside, too, it takes on a new, horrible visage.
It's shocking to me how certain tasks have the ability to translate the crux of your inner life so accurately and broadcast them out to the world. Boxing is such. Are you distracted? Hiding behind your defenses? Overly aggressive? Do you think too much? Pow, pow, pow. Same with knitting: if you're too wound up inside, you end up making a row full of knots. And so it is with music.
However, unlike boxing or knitting -- tasks that were effectively thrust upon me aganst my will, yet have taken on a certain charm over time -- music is my natural path. It's my joy and pain and the metaphor for everything. Despite such lofty declarations, though, it's also just another kind of work, and work requires work. You can't have a dog and expect that because you love it so much, it will know how to behave. It has to be trained.
So off I go to puppy school.
Woof.
It has come to my attention as of late that there are times when I'm not hitting the mark musically. Of course, one is always one's own worst critic. But there is safety in keeping that shame a secret, and hoping that no one else notices -- or at the very least, hoping that the compassion of others will help bridge the gap between one's aspirations and reality. But when the voice inside one's head is heard on the outside, too, it takes on a new, horrible visage.
It's shocking to me how certain tasks have the ability to translate the crux of your inner life so accurately and broadcast them out to the world. Boxing is such. Are you distracted? Hiding behind your defenses? Overly aggressive? Do you think too much? Pow, pow, pow. Same with knitting: if you're too wound up inside, you end up making a row full of knots. And so it is with music.
However, unlike boxing or knitting -- tasks that were effectively thrust upon me aganst my will, yet have taken on a certain charm over time -- music is my natural path. It's my joy and pain and the metaphor for everything. Despite such lofty declarations, though, it's also just another kind of work, and work requires work. You can't have a dog and expect that because you love it so much, it will know how to behave. It has to be trained.
So off I go to puppy school.
Woof.
1.05.2005
I'm crushed. I just heard from a reliable source that my ten-year crush is now married with a child! It's just as well: If I ever had the opportunity to hug him, I would likely crush him.
12.31.2004
Four in the morning, the end of December
I woke up very hungry. I breathed in and coughed. I pushed off the heavy covers and stood up. My hamstrings were burning, so I crouched over a little.
I stepped gingerly into the kitchen. The shadows of the arms of the clock pointed to 4 and 12. I opened a cabinet and felt around for a slim box. It was covered with cellophane, except for one short end. I pushed in the tabs and took a few water crackers. They were a little gummy but they tasted good.
The subway rolled by over the bridge. The cars looked pristine, empty, yellow lit. The lights were out on all the skyscrapers. I took a few more crackers and put the box away.
I noticed a dark shape at my feet. Rox was waiting by the food bowl. I topped off the bowl and she crunched on the kibble.
Rox followed me back to bed. She jumped on my pillow. I sneezed. She jumped off.
I stepped gingerly into the kitchen. The shadows of the arms of the clock pointed to 4 and 12. I opened a cabinet and felt around for a slim box. It was covered with cellophane, except for one short end. I pushed in the tabs and took a few water crackers. They were a little gummy but they tasted good.
The subway rolled by over the bridge. The cars looked pristine, empty, yellow lit. The lights were out on all the skyscrapers. I took a few more crackers and put the box away.
I noticed a dark shape at my feet. Rox was waiting by the food bowl. I topped off the bowl and she crunched on the kibble.
Rox followed me back to bed. She jumped on my pillow. I sneezed. She jumped off.
12.16.2004
People are leaving a lot of sweets out on the common table.
This morning, it was yellow cookies and whoopie pies.
The first time I saw a whoopie, I didn't know what it was. I was in a minimart / service station in western PA. A small turdlike thing was wrapped in saran wrap lying next to the cash register.
"What's that?" I asked the attendant, pointing.
"That's a whoopie dog," he said.
I had never heard of it. "What's that?"
"It's like a whoopie pie."
"What's a whoopie pie?"
He paused. "Why . . . it's just a whoopie pie."
For that reason, I now think of whoopie pies as an a priori food.
This morning, it was yellow cookies and whoopie pies.
The first time I saw a whoopie, I didn't know what it was. I was in a minimart / service station in western PA. A small turdlike thing was wrapped in saran wrap lying next to the cash register.
"What's that?" I asked the attendant, pointing.
"That's a whoopie dog," he said.
I had never heard of it. "What's that?"
"It's like a whoopie pie."
"What's a whoopie pie?"
He paused. "Why . . . it's just a whoopie pie."
For that reason, I now think of whoopie pies as an a priori food.
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