Here’s some brag-worthy news for a Friday.
First, check out Lucid Culture’s review of our recent live show.
Next, I’m happy to report that folk supergroup the Strangelings are covering my badass arrangement of the traditional number Johnny Come Down to Hilo. They’re gonna play it when they headline Falcon Ridge tomorrow night and have recorded it on their new CD (on which I have sung a few ooh-y and aah-y harmonies).
Break a leg, kids!
7.27.2007
7.20.2007
Musings of a Pretentious Twat
The title of this entry is inspired by the previous entry. But I’ll let it stand.
Lyrics often look pretty dumb when written out. I think it will sound better with the music attached. Music can cover up a lot of silliness.
Does anyone remember when they had a Cole Porter lyric on a Poetry in Motion poster?
It’s very clear
Our love is here to stay.
Not for a year
But ever and a day.
Mmmmmmmmm, yummy.
Lyrics often look pretty dumb when written out. I think it will sound better with the music attached. Music can cover up a lot of silliness.
Does anyone remember when they had a Cole Porter lyric on a Poetry in Motion poster?
It’s very clear
Our love is here to stay.
Not for a year
But ever and a day.
Mmmmmmmmm, yummy.
7.19.2007
Lyric
Heat, like a strong hand on my back. Suddenly the night is kissing me and I’m kissing back. I’m walking through water, I’m wading through the dark. For an hour I watch night boats pass by Corlear’s Hook Park.
Heat pressing on my skin brings calm and slight alarm. My breathing quickens when a stranger brushes my arm. Moving so slow four flights underground. A silver F train rattles in & takes me all the way downtown.
Heat makes a lonely hunter. A hot bead of sweat saunters down every down, and then in between. I know that you know I know what you mean. But I want to hear it right from your lips, with your mouth to my ear and your hands on my hips.
Heat on the sidewalk, hot grass on the lawn. Steam rises from the blacktop when the cloudburst comes. Am I going crazy, or is it all for the love of heat.
Heat pressing on my skin brings calm and slight alarm. My breathing quickens when a stranger brushes my arm. Moving so slow four flights underground. A silver F train rattles in & takes me all the way downtown.
Heat makes a lonely hunter. A hot bead of sweat saunters down every down, and then in between. I know that you know I know what you mean. But I want to hear it right from your lips, with your mouth to my ear and your hands on my hips.
Heat on the sidewalk, hot grass on the lawn. Steam rises from the blacktop when the cloudburst comes. Am I going crazy, or is it all for the love of heat.
6.14.2007
I think I have a fractured nose. This is so exciting.
I felt it when it happened: In sparring, we were instructed to go for uppercuts to the chin. Mike is so much taller than I am, his uppercut starts at right about my snoot level.
I felt one uppercut graze my headgear right under my right eye socket. I pulled back, came back in and tried to throw a hook to the body. It wasn't that strategic, but at some point over the past few months I realized that if I stay low with Mike, my punches are more likely to connect. Going for any punch to Mike's head is risky; my glove most often ends up swooshing through the air, and then for a second I'm left open.
I felt another uppercut graze under my left eye socket. And then, blam! One up and pushed my nose back. It was a quick squnch, no more painful than a slap, but unsettling.
This was the beginning of the end of the sparring session for me. I had come out strong earlier in the class, with some good defensive slips and counterpunches. But I was getting tired. And I had yet to face Kora.
Kora is the uppercut-to-the-chin queen. I found that out for the first time last week. It came out of nowhere: An eye-goggling uppercut followed by a quick hook, and suddenly I'm dumb and wandering. My instinctive comeback is not to retaliate with the punches we are supposed to do (i.e. strategic counterpunch, uppercut her in turn), but instead to throw the fastest, hardest hook combinations I can muster and effectively push her across the open space and up against the (imaginary) ropes. And then we step back and reset.
I was distracted and unstrategic and Kora kept getting my chin as if there were a bull's-eye painted on it. Why am I not getting what to do back? We will work on this question next week.
In the meantime, my nose is slightly swollen with a faint tinge of blue on the side. It feels fine. No blood or anything. Tomorrow I'll see if it blossoms into a full-fledged bruise.
Next week I'll have to do better, or else face a similar outcome.
It's all so wrong -- and yet so right.
I felt it when it happened: In sparring, we were instructed to go for uppercuts to the chin. Mike is so much taller than I am, his uppercut starts at right about my snoot level.
I felt one uppercut graze my headgear right under my right eye socket. I pulled back, came back in and tried to throw a hook to the body. It wasn't that strategic, but at some point over the past few months I realized that if I stay low with Mike, my punches are more likely to connect. Going for any punch to Mike's head is risky; my glove most often ends up swooshing through the air, and then for a second I'm left open.
I felt another uppercut graze under my left eye socket. And then, blam! One up and pushed my nose back. It was a quick squnch, no more painful than a slap, but unsettling.
This was the beginning of the end of the sparring session for me. I had come out strong earlier in the class, with some good defensive slips and counterpunches. But I was getting tired. And I had yet to face Kora.
Kora is the uppercut-to-the-chin queen. I found that out for the first time last week. It came out of nowhere: An eye-goggling uppercut followed by a quick hook, and suddenly I'm dumb and wandering. My instinctive comeback is not to retaliate with the punches we are supposed to do (i.e. strategic counterpunch, uppercut her in turn), but instead to throw the fastest, hardest hook combinations I can muster and effectively push her across the open space and up against the (imaginary) ropes. And then we step back and reset.
I was distracted and unstrategic and Kora kept getting my chin as if there were a bull's-eye painted on it. Why am I not getting what to do back? We will work on this question next week.
In the meantime, my nose is slightly swollen with a faint tinge of blue on the side. It feels fine. No blood or anything. Tomorrow I'll see if it blossoms into a full-fledged bruise.
Next week I'll have to do better, or else face a similar outcome.
It's all so wrong -- and yet so right.
6.10.2007
In Case You Thought I Was Kidding
. . . when I describe the antics of a certain animal:
DISCLAIMER: Strictly for cat-loving people. All others will feel bored and superior.
DISCLAIMER: Strictly for cat-loving people. All others will feel bored and superior.
5.27.2007
Rescued
I am so completely happy to know that my favorite show is coming back in 2 weeks. This clip came on as I was watching Airplane TV, but the stewardess was yammering through it and she pre-empted the sound . . . something about oxygen masks . . . whatever. Anyway -- yay:
Here's a superbly over-the-top outtake that illustrates so much of what I love about this show.
Part 1:
Part II:
Here's a superbly over-the-top outtake that illustrates so much of what I love about this show.
Part 1:
Part II:
5.09.2007
St. Elmo's: A Reconsideration
It was on tv the other night, and I couldn't resist. I remember falling in love with the characters when I was 13 or 14 and I totally, totally couldn't wait to be them.
I dug out my teen diaries to see if I wrote about it but I haven't found anything yet. I do remember how much I loved those girls. Ally Sheedy was so pretty in her pearls and lace and big sweaters and big skirts and big boots. Mare Winningham was the character I identified with most strongly at the time -- in the sense that she was kinda frumpy and plain -- and I aspired to be beloved and trusted by all, as she seemed to be. Demi Moore's character seemed kinda scary, but now she seems the most funny and real of the bunch. (That is, if "real" means doing coke in a hotel room with a bunch of Saudi Arabian playboys. But still, she was the quickest of the lot.)
I found other things in the diaries, though, which led me to new realizations:
1. I did a LOT of babysitting. I adored those kids.
2. I was depressed and dissociated much of the time, and my mom and sister were very moody, with some kind of special static between them.
3. I was prone to fits of righteous anger.
4. I watched too much television. (Should have picked up guitar - duh.)
5. My parents invested unbelievable amounts of time in their children -- running the household, going to work, running me back and forth to work, driving us around to visit colleges, doing epic amounts of food shopping, and so much more that I can't fully fathom at this moment.
My point of view in the diaries is basically dulled and distant, or when talking about my pack of girlfriends, slightly buzzed with giddiness. It's odd. The teen years are famous for oceanic depths of feeling; but for the most part, I was skimming.
Which brings me back to St. Elmo. As we know from Billy's big speech -- the intellectual high point in the film, judging by the other quotables -- the fire in question is no fire atall. It's just a phenomenon in nature. Furthermore, contrary even to Billy, sailors did not guide their journeys by St. Elmo's Fire. It just was what it was.
In a way, St. Elmo's was my St. Elmo's. (Billy version.) I couldn't wait to be young, hip, and fabulous, just like them. They didn't quite guide my journey, but they planted the seeds of an illusion.
What do you do when your illusions die?
Illusion is tricky: Necessary for the energy to continue in art, in the sense that you feel a surge of wholeness and importance when in fact only an assemblage of raw materials exist. Paint on canvas. Notes hanging in the air.
Illusion makes love possible. You don't just see your lover, you see yourself and your lover in some kind of paradigm of beautifulness.
Illusion easily becomes lethal to the soul. When enough illusions have been shattered, one can become Blance Dubois, frantically cobbling together new illusions out of shards.
Perhaps the question really is, how do you live without illusions? Is that what people mean when they say that someone Just Gave Up?
2.14.2007
Tag 'n tell
You may be wondering who I tagged:
Everybody Loves Saturday Night,
Nipperknits,
Flowergirl,
and In the Quiet of My Heart.
I'm not sure that they all care to play such foolish games, but they always have something interesting to say regardless.
Ssssh! Let's listen now!
Everybody Loves Saturday Night,
Nipperknits,
Flowergirl,
and In the Quiet of My Heart.
I'm not sure that they all care to play such foolish games, but they always have something interesting to say regardless.
Ssssh! Let's listen now!
2.11.2007
Reassessment
Joni Mitchell's late-70s period was never my favorite. The songs were too long, talky, and meandering for me, with hardly a discernible melody or hook. Hejira made my head hurt.
Now I understand -- it's the sound of art imitating life.
Joni's early records have a ferocious, Brandoesque quality to them that will never go out of style. What a searing sureness of emotion and appropriately stark, pared-down arrangements.
As Joni hits her 30s the timbre shifts, and she offers longer catalogs of images and impressions, doubts and recollections --
The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
-- and appropriately wraps these lines in jazzier, more complex arrangements. Sure, she shifts toward stranger melodies; but at a certain age, life does take on a strange melody, doesn't it?
Dora says, have children!
Mama and Betsy say, find yourself a charity.
Help the needy and the crippled or put some time into ecology.
Well, there's a wide wide world of noble causes
And lovely landscapes to discover
But all I really want right now
Is to find another lover
I'm sure over the years people have explained all of this to me about Joni, but only today it arrived fully.
People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Now I understand -- it's the sound of art imitating life.
Joni's early records have a ferocious, Brandoesque quality to them that will never go out of style. What a searing sureness of emotion and appropriately stark, pared-down arrangements.
As Joni hits her 30s the timbre shifts, and she offers longer catalogs of images and impressions, doubts and recollections --
The drone of flying engines
Is a song so wild and blue
It scrambles time and seasons if it gets through to you
Then your life becomes a travelogue
Of picture-post-card-charms
Amelia, it was just a false alarm
-- and appropriately wraps these lines in jazzier, more complex arrangements. Sure, she shifts toward stranger melodies; but at a certain age, life does take on a strange melody, doesn't it?
Dora says, have children!
Mama and Betsy say, find yourself a charity.
Help the needy and the crippled or put some time into ecology.
Well, there's a wide wide world of noble causes
And lovely landscapes to discover
But all I really want right now
Is to find another lover
I'm sure over the years people have explained all of this to me about Joni, but only today it arrived fully.
People will tell you where they've gone
They'll tell you where to go
But till you get there yourself you never really know
Eeep! I've been tagged!
The scoop is, I post 6 odd things about myself, and then "tag" 6 others to do the same, sending them the link to this page.
Six odd things about me:
1. I floss after I brush, not before. (Then I rinse again.)
2. I almost always write songs with the radio on. Otherwise it feels too spooky.
3. I almost always leave a little food on the plate, as if to convince myself that I didn't really eat the whole thing.
4. When I was little I made up my own daytime talk show. It had a theme song. Perhaps this is the first song I ever wrote. In addition to reporting the news and weather, I enacted recurring dramatic segments such as Batgirl Story. I often interviewed my parents; they embodied a rotating cast of characters, such as a friendly neighborhood dragon, King Kong, Barbara Walters, and a daffy mermaid who sold used cars. I recorded all of this onto cassette tapes and still have them.
5. Last week I dreamed I was visted by a sweet, amazing dog. In my dream I knew that the dog was my grandmother. Now, a week later, I believe it really was my grandmother.
The scoop is, I post 6 odd things about myself, and then "tag" 6 others to do the same, sending them the link to this page.
Six odd things about me:
1. I floss after I brush, not before. (Then I rinse again.)
2. I almost always write songs with the radio on. Otherwise it feels too spooky.
3. I almost always leave a little food on the plate, as if to convince myself that I didn't really eat the whole thing.
4. When I was little I made up my own daytime talk show. It had a theme song. Perhaps this is the first song I ever wrote. In addition to reporting the news and weather, I enacted recurring dramatic segments such as Batgirl Story. I often interviewed my parents; they embodied a rotating cast of characters, such as a friendly neighborhood dragon, King Kong, Barbara Walters, and a daffy mermaid who sold used cars. I recorded all of this onto cassette tapes and still have them.
5. Last week I dreamed I was visted by a sweet, amazing dog. In my dream I knew that the dog was my grandmother. Now, a week later, I believe it really was my grandmother.
1.23.2007
Just a Note
There are about 2 months in early 2005 I hardly remember at all; they're a kaleidoscope of colors and feelings.
I think a lot now about how kind people were to me. Unbelievably kind. Calling and checking up. Inviting me out for eggs. Having a drink. Listening to me rant. God knows what I must have said.
During that black hole period I received the best piece of advice ever, thanks to my friend Alex: "Just be careful -- you're very out of it -- look both ways before you cross the street."
Sometimes I find random stuff in the apartment. Who gave me that Judee Sill record? Dan was that you? It's a blur. I'm really enjoying it.
I can only hope to show the same loving kindness to others when they need it.
Thank you -- You know who you are!
I think a lot now about how kind people were to me. Unbelievably kind. Calling and checking up. Inviting me out for eggs. Having a drink. Listening to me rant. God knows what I must have said.
During that black hole period I received the best piece of advice ever, thanks to my friend Alex: "Just be careful -- you're very out of it -- look both ways before you cross the street."
Sometimes I find random stuff in the apartment. Who gave me that Judee Sill record? Dan was that you? It's a blur. I'm really enjoying it.
I can only hope to show the same loving kindness to others when they need it.
Thank you -- You know who you are!
1.12.2007
Big Entrances
I love movies that start with a clever animated sequence.
"Down With Love" is my favoritest movie right now, for that and many other reasons.
"What's New Pussycat?" is another fave.
Recommendations?
"Down With Love" is my favoritest movie right now, for that and many other reasons.
"What's New Pussycat?" is another fave.
Recommendations?
1.03.2007
Concerning the Continuing Adventures of the Pampered Pugilist; Or, How I Learned to Take the Punches and Like It
The major development in my entanglement with boxing is that somewhere along the way I lost my fear.
I think it's probably because Maria got injured and doesn't come to sparring class anymore, so the threat of leaving with a black eye or a bruised jaw is greatly decreased. So I have started getting bold with my opponents.
At first, it was easy to keep Kora at bay; like a chipmunk, she alternately darted and halted, hungry and unfocused. I could kind of jab her around. However, Kora broke up with her boyfriend and simultaneously found her hook. When I felt that hit, I snapped to attention. Soon we will see what Kora is fully capable of inflicting onto others. She is naturally sassy and fearless, so this probably won't be pretty for me.
Mike is about six-foot-twelve, of unabashedly sweet temperament and indeterminate Scandinavian descent. When I first saw him on the bag, his arms seemed to take two full seconds to unfurl a punch, and when they made contact, the bag swung high and wild. One time, the bag spasmed, dislodged, and hit the floor.
I quickly learned that, despite Mike's enormous wingspan, you can never quite see him coming; he is a free-jazz boxer, with a rhythm all his own. So I learned to be light. He will lunge at you with a hook that could make the blind see -- using only half his power, because he is a gentleman -- and you have to sit, slip, weave, or pull your sorry ass back, and try to at least graze his chin with a right before he can fully retract his arm. And think light, light, light. After several rounds tonight, our faces were both purple-red and we were staggering. And yet I remembered: pirouette, pirouette, and mustering all my energy, I danced. That got me the hell out of that round.
Tina was there tonight. She is adorable, but every time I see her on Wednesday I have a flash thought: "Crap." She closest in line to being the second coming of Maria: tiny -- five-two tops -- and fast. And I now know for certain that fighting tiny people is far worse than fighting tall people, for when they hit, they don't hit the proverbial bull's eye on the forehead of your headgear. They hit upward toward your jaw, lip, nose. I took a few hard pops from Tina, but no bleeding or swelling resulted, so I'm grateful and high as a kite on endorphins.
And I made an appointment for a Christmas facial, courtesy of a most delightful and generous friend.
Life is sweet!
I think it's probably because Maria got injured and doesn't come to sparring class anymore, so the threat of leaving with a black eye or a bruised jaw is greatly decreased. So I have started getting bold with my opponents.
At first, it was easy to keep Kora at bay; like a chipmunk, she alternately darted and halted, hungry and unfocused. I could kind of jab her around. However, Kora broke up with her boyfriend and simultaneously found her hook. When I felt that hit, I snapped to attention. Soon we will see what Kora is fully capable of inflicting onto others. She is naturally sassy and fearless, so this probably won't be pretty for me.
Mike is about six-foot-twelve, of unabashedly sweet temperament and indeterminate Scandinavian descent. When I first saw him on the bag, his arms seemed to take two full seconds to unfurl a punch, and when they made contact, the bag swung high and wild. One time, the bag spasmed, dislodged, and hit the floor.
I quickly learned that, despite Mike's enormous wingspan, you can never quite see him coming; he is a free-jazz boxer, with a rhythm all his own. So I learned to be light. He will lunge at you with a hook that could make the blind see -- using only half his power, because he is a gentleman -- and you have to sit, slip, weave, or pull your sorry ass back, and try to at least graze his chin with a right before he can fully retract his arm. And think light, light, light. After several rounds tonight, our faces were both purple-red and we were staggering. And yet I remembered: pirouette, pirouette, and mustering all my energy, I danced. That got me the hell out of that round.
Tina was there tonight. She is adorable, but every time I see her on Wednesday I have a flash thought: "Crap." She closest in line to being the second coming of Maria: tiny -- five-two tops -- and fast. And I now know for certain that fighting tiny people is far worse than fighting tall people, for when they hit, they don't hit the proverbial bull's eye on the forehead of your headgear. They hit upward toward your jaw, lip, nose. I took a few hard pops from Tina, but no bleeding or swelling resulted, so I'm grateful and high as a kite on endorphins.
And I made an appointment for a Christmas facial, courtesy of a most delightful and generous friend.
Life is sweet!
1.01.2007
Holy Crap, It's 2007
Happy New Year. I've been sick and as of 4pm I've watched about twelve episodes of "Law and Order" back to back. I took the whole week off from work.
Random highlights of days off:
1. Painting the bathroom bright white while listening to Neko Case and Sam Phillips and singing along while pirouetting on the ladder on one foot, reaching with spongebrush to dab paint in ceiling corners.
2. Icing said foot afterward.
3. Curling up with Chinese food (steamed) and watching "Ugly Betty" marathon (but only after complaining on phone to buddies about how it was being pre-empted by Ford's funeral. "Casket, go home! We want Betty!").
4. The smell of smoke in the studio. It was just the motor on the tape machine blowing out, but still.
5. Bruce's 11th-hour determination to try loading the (intact) tape onto other machines and transferring the mix so that I could still make good on my promise to bring a song home on CD for the holidays. The other machines didn't work, but Bruce's persistence was touching.
6. Getting my first "Blowout." I had read about a place in Chinatown that gives you fantastic hair pizzazz for $15. It was fantastic and pizzazztical, and right on time for a crazy-badass haute foode lunch at Perry St.
7. My 4-year-old niece doing her impression of the Cookie Monster: "ME WANT COOOKIE! COOOKIE!!"
I'm not one for resolutions, but I do vow to strengthen my resolve, doing more of the good things and less of the bad things. You?
Hope to see you soon.
Random highlights of days off:
1. Painting the bathroom bright white while listening to Neko Case and Sam Phillips and singing along while pirouetting on the ladder on one foot, reaching with spongebrush to dab paint in ceiling corners.
2. Icing said foot afterward.
3. Curling up with Chinese food (steamed) and watching "Ugly Betty" marathon (but only after complaining on phone to buddies about how it was being pre-empted by Ford's funeral. "Casket, go home! We want Betty!").
4. The smell of smoke in the studio. It was just the motor on the tape machine blowing out, but still.
5. Bruce's 11th-hour determination to try loading the (intact) tape onto other machines and transferring the mix so that I could still make good on my promise to bring a song home on CD for the holidays. The other machines didn't work, but Bruce's persistence was touching.
6. Getting my first "Blowout." I had read about a place in Chinatown that gives you fantastic hair pizzazz for $15. It was fantastic and pizzazztical, and right on time for a crazy-badass haute foode lunch at Perry St.
7. My 4-year-old niece doing her impression of the Cookie Monster: "ME WANT COOOKIE! COOOKIE!!"
I'm not one for resolutions, but I do vow to strengthen my resolve, doing more of the good things and less of the bad things. You?
Hope to see you soon.
12.10.2006
Mega Thoughts
A thought occurred to me today while browsing through DVDs at the Virgin Megastore (and the branding of anything as "Virgin Mega" is a whole discussion unto itself).
Let me preface it by saying, of course it's no secret that we live in an age of decadence and vulgarity. I have been arguing back and forth with myself for years as to whether or not this is inherently bad. In terms of art, those who, early on, are ridiculed or dismissed for being offensive or obscene, but ultimately are recognized as visionaries (Walt Whitman comes to mind, as does Picasso with Les Demoiselles d'Avignon), help create what those in academe would call a new way of seeing. In strictly personal terms, anything that at first seems too vulgar or embarrassing to do or say almost always quickly becomes to me the only thing worth doing. It is more raw and almost always more true.
But I'm not really talking about either kind of decadence here. Nor am I talking about pornography, although I guess it would qualify. Nestled deep within the womb of the Mega Virgin, i.e. browsing the lower level at Union Square, I was struck by how you could just pick anything . . . and then have it. I want to buy "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Done. Then I will go to the bakery and buy 35 croissants and eat them slowly one by one while watching the movie 35 times. Can do. I can go back and buy any other movie and then own it.
Can a movie really be owned? If you watch it hundred times and memorize it, do you own it then?
Being able to get whatever, whenever is a big big problem. I always knew it was but now I can feel why: Because when you can own whatever whenever, you remove the elemental emotion of longing, which is essential to art.
That said, every time I wach "Tiffany's" I feel deep longing . . . for a croissant, preferably chocolate. But I don't eat it.
Score one for art and my winter wool pants.
Let me preface it by saying, of course it's no secret that we live in an age of decadence and vulgarity. I have been arguing back and forth with myself for years as to whether or not this is inherently bad. In terms of art, those who, early on, are ridiculed or dismissed for being offensive or obscene, but ultimately are recognized as visionaries (Walt Whitman comes to mind, as does Picasso with Les Demoiselles d'Avignon), help create what those in academe would call a new way of seeing. In strictly personal terms, anything that at first seems too vulgar or embarrassing to do or say almost always quickly becomes to me the only thing worth doing. It is more raw and almost always more true.
But I'm not really talking about either kind of decadence here. Nor am I talking about pornography, although I guess it would qualify. Nestled deep within the womb of the Mega Virgin, i.e. browsing the lower level at Union Square, I was struck by how you could just pick anything . . . and then have it. I want to buy "Breakfast at Tiffany's." Done. Then I will go to the bakery and buy 35 croissants and eat them slowly one by one while watching the movie 35 times. Can do. I can go back and buy any other movie and then own it.
Can a movie really be owned? If you watch it hundred times and memorize it, do you own it then?
Being able to get whatever, whenever is a big big problem. I always knew it was but now I can feel why: Because when you can own whatever whenever, you remove the elemental emotion of longing, which is essential to art.
That said, every time I wach "Tiffany's" I feel deep longing . . . for a croissant, preferably chocolate. But I don't eat it.
Score one for art and my winter wool pants.
9.11.2006
8.28.2006
When I left work a small crowd was gathering on the corner. 2 guys were having some kind of scuffle.
I got closer. One guy was on the ground wearing yellow roller blades. The other guy was standing above him. The guy on the ground took a long, slow lunge at the standing guy, tried to get up, and slipped and slid. The standing guy shoved him and made him slide more.
A car was parked just a few feet away with its driver's door opened.
The standing guy didn't get taken down. The rollerblade guy couldn't stand up. He loped around on his knees throwing an occasional punch to the gut.
A woman waiting for the bus finally busted in. "STOP IT!"
The standing guy yelled at her to shut the fuck up, and pushed the other guy again.
I was rooting for the rollerblade guy to swipe the other guy's knees and bring him on the level.
A police car was parked on the opposite corner with its lights flashing, but no officer could be found.
I imagine them still there at midnight, deadlocked among the gravel and rain puddles.
I got closer. One guy was on the ground wearing yellow roller blades. The other guy was standing above him. The guy on the ground took a long, slow lunge at the standing guy, tried to get up, and slipped and slid. The standing guy shoved him and made him slide more.
A car was parked just a few feet away with its driver's door opened.
The standing guy didn't get taken down. The rollerblade guy couldn't stand up. He loped around on his knees throwing an occasional punch to the gut.
A woman waiting for the bus finally busted in. "STOP IT!"
The standing guy yelled at her to shut the fuck up, and pushed the other guy again.
I was rooting for the rollerblade guy to swipe the other guy's knees and bring him on the level.
A police car was parked on the opposite corner with its lights flashing, but no officer could be found.
I imagine them still there at midnight, deadlocked among the gravel and rain puddles.
Raining and reading
On a rainy, cool Sunday afternoon, when the house is clean and I'm buzzed from a long lavender bath, I curl up with some Bukowski. After reading for a few minutes I start to feel hopeful and light. Then I feel ashamed.
Hope comes because Bukowski reminds me that everything is strange and beautiful and even the most heartbroken soul can find grace.
Shame comes because it has been way too long since I have wandered in this field.
Next stop: Karamazov.
Hope comes because Bukowski reminds me that everything is strange and beautiful and even the most heartbroken soul can find grace.
Shame comes because it has been way too long since I have wandered in this field.
Next stop: Karamazov.
8.20.2006
Wagging the Dog
It has come to my attention that the previous post may have been unclear, or heaven forbid, unseemly.
I guess I just meant woof.
Apologies to Scott and everyone if this seems disappointing.
*********************
Other topics of the summer:
1. Faith.
Why have it. What is it. Where can I get some.
2. Firemen.
If it weren't for the macabre sense of comfort provided by this show, I'd have completely given up on item #1.
3. 'Fiddich.
I do not drink this often, but take comfort knowing it's out there if I need it.
4. Frank.
Finally, yes . . . I believe every fucking word he sings.
I guess I just meant woof.
Apologies to Scott and everyone if this seems disappointing.
*********************
Other topics of the summer:
1. Faith.
Why have it. What is it. Where can I get some.
2. Firemen.
If it weren't for the macabre sense of comfort provided by this show, I'd have completely given up on item #1.
3. 'Fiddich.
I do not drink this often, but take comfort knowing it's out there if I need it.
4. Frank.
Finally, yes . . . I believe every fucking word he sings.
7.10.2006
7.03.2006
Not Dead Yet; Just Resting
Hi. Are you having a good summer, I hope?
I'm feeling renewed after a few days of rest. Also, I bought a new computer. It occurred to me that my old computer couldn't actually open any applications except Safari, and even that was getting pretty slow and sticky. It started making a horrible grinding sound to boot. So here we go: I'm all souped up and typing like lightning on a wireless keyboard.
This new computer comes with a built-in video camera and you can use it to take snapshots. I inaugurated it by, what else:
Dottie, the shy one.
Oh Saro, perhaps we shall run away to Paris and become chorus girls!
I'm feeling renewed after a few days of rest. Also, I bought a new computer. It occurred to me that my old computer couldn't actually open any applications except Safari, and even that was getting pretty slow and sticky. It started making a horrible grinding sound to boot. So here we go: I'm all souped up and typing like lightning on a wireless keyboard.
This new computer comes with a built-in video camera and you can use it to take snapshots. I inaugurated it by, what else:
Dottie, the shy one.
Oh Saro, perhaps we shall run away to Paris and become chorus girls!
4.04.2006
Intuition
I trust the voice inside my head. In general, I trust other people.
However, at one point in life I was very disconnected, depressed, and panicky. I started to lose my trust in others. I sometimes thought people were trying to poison my food. I knew this was nuts but I couldn't stop being nervous. I'd eat a few bites, freak, spit the last bite out into a napkin, and try to hide the napkin. This got to be very embarrassing.
I went to my doctor for an EKG to see if my always-racing heart had a physical cause or was just anxiety. The office was closing early because a snowstorm had begun. Dr. Sharkey sat me down in his office after the test.
"How are you doing?"
I started falling, falling, falling down a hole in my soul. Sob, sob, sob.
"What's wrong?'
"I don't know . . . " Doctor, there's a hole in my soul . . . .
"It says here you're having panic attacks? Like, you're sitting there, and suddenly feel like you're going to lose it?"
"Uh huh."
"I get those. It happened to me at the Board of Directors meeting at NYU Hospital."
"Uh huh." The snow was splatting against the 15th-floor window.
"I'm going to prescribe an antianxiety pill for you. If there's something you have to do, and you need to calm down, just take half a pill and you'll be fine." He pulled out a prescription pad, wrote something on it, tore off a sheet and handed it to me.
"Okay." I took the paper.
"I'll tell you what." He wrote something else down. "This is my buddy. He's a great shrink. He'll fix what's bothering you. Just fix it. He doesn't want to hear about your problems, doesn't want to hear about your family. He'll patch you right up."
I took the second paper. I was still snorting and choking on sobs. However, I still knew this was bullshit. I walked out of his office, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into snowy midtown.
However, at one point in life I was very disconnected, depressed, and panicky. I started to lose my trust in others. I sometimes thought people were trying to poison my food. I knew this was nuts but I couldn't stop being nervous. I'd eat a few bites, freak, spit the last bite out into a napkin, and try to hide the napkin. This got to be very embarrassing.
I went to my doctor for an EKG to see if my always-racing heart had a physical cause or was just anxiety. The office was closing early because a snowstorm had begun. Dr. Sharkey sat me down in his office after the test.
"How are you doing?"
I started falling, falling, falling down a hole in my soul. Sob, sob, sob.
"What's wrong?'
"I don't know . . . " Doctor, there's a hole in my soul . . . .
"It says here you're having panic attacks? Like, you're sitting there, and suddenly feel like you're going to lose it?"
"Uh huh."
"I get those. It happened to me at the Board of Directors meeting at NYU Hospital."
"Uh huh." The snow was splatting against the 15th-floor window.
"I'm going to prescribe an antianxiety pill for you. If there's something you have to do, and you need to calm down, just take half a pill and you'll be fine." He pulled out a prescription pad, wrote something on it, tore off a sheet and handed it to me.
"Okay." I took the paper.
"I'll tell you what." He wrote something else down. "This is my buddy. He's a great shrink. He'll fix what's bothering you. Just fix it. He doesn't want to hear about your problems, doesn't want to hear about your family. He'll patch you right up."
I took the second paper. I was still snorting and choking on sobs. However, I still knew this was bullshit. I walked out of his office, rode the elevator down, and stepped out into snowy midtown.
3.21.2006
Spring: Day One
From my window -- the Verizon building nestled among other tall buildings with row upon row of perfect glowing windows. The buildings are crisply silhouetted against a solid black-blue sky. The wind is screeching. Occasionally a blink of light from a plane far away.
2.06.2006
I'll Take Dare
I have to come clean. In light of the recent attention shed on a certain book that has been ripped into a million tiny shreds, I have come to reconsider the writings I have written over a lifetime. Not only have I passed off certain versifications as true, but sometimes in earnest nocturnal conversation -- or even on public broadcasts -- I have confided that these ragtag couplets truly are emissions from my soul.
But no more. The truth is that I have tampered with certain events and situations to render them more conveniently squished into song. I have taken the truth, bent it like a wire hanger, and used it to whack my tiny tribe of fans square on the ass.
Thus it is with great shame that I must confess a horrible confession.
It didn't really happen on 31st Avenue.
It was Broadway, one block over.
'31st Avenue' just sounded better.
Please.
Forgive.
Me.
But no more. The truth is that I have tampered with certain events and situations to render them more conveniently squished into song. I have taken the truth, bent it like a wire hanger, and used it to whack my tiny tribe of fans square on the ass.
Thus it is with great shame that I must confess a horrible confession.
It didn't really happen on 31st Avenue.
It was Broadway, one block over.
'31st Avenue' just sounded better.
Please.
Forgive.
Me.
12.27.2005
Well Hello, Dottie
A new graceful presence in the household: Dottie arrived 3 weeks ago on the first snow. She is a big fan of food, toys, couch, and blanky.
Saro was pretty mad at first but has come to accept her fate.
Chiaroscuro in the household!
Saro was pretty mad at first but has come to accept her fate.
Chiaroscuro in the household!
12.09.2005
Chestnuts Roasting on My Ass
I am not a fan of food-inspired spa treatments.
No chocolate fudge pedicures, please.
No honey on my face.
And please, DO NOT wrap me in pumpkin pulp.
Ew.
No chocolate fudge pedicures, please.
No honey on my face.
And please, DO NOT wrap me in pumpkin pulp.
Ew.
12.01.2005
Feng Shui Me
I had some ideas for rearranging the furniture, maybe adding a small new piece or 2. But I was petrified of buying something that was wrong and being stuck with it, or picking out a wall color or wallpaper that was going to make my home look plum silly. Or moving the piano . . . and then having to move the piano back.
Obsessed with the magazine that everyone at work is obsessed with, I saw an interesting article on one-shot design consultants. For a very small fee they will advise you on the best way to arrange your home, using what you have and making suggestions for manageable additions and subtractions.
I found a nice woman with a background in interior design and, as a bonus, extensive experience in feng shui. Jennifer came by today to have a gander at my apartment.
"Nice and spacious," she said. "But we have to do something about the energy when you come in. It's one long corridor, and then your energy falls out the window."
Couldn'ta said it better myself.
She meditated on my space for a long time and asked me a lot of questions as we sipped peppermint tea. When did I move in? Why this neighborhood? Why all white? After awhile she got up from the couch and rotated one corner twenty-five degrees. She paused. I worried for a moment that was going to be it.
I stepped back a few paces and surveyed the pivot. I don't usually like furniture on an angle, but this was working. Energy crisis averted!
She took out this crazy-ass compass on a big square board with colors all around it. She said it's very hard to find this compass in English. Saro started slinking around us, interested. Jennifer said she didn't mind Saro eating all her other stuff so long as Saro didn't touch the compass. As soon as we relaxed in conversation, Saro lurched toward the compass. No, Saro!
I said I was thinking of color for the foyer. Jennifer also had a giant wad of Benjamin Moore paint chips on a binder ring. How did I feel about red? Very interesting.
I really liked this meeting. She's going to e-mail me all of her notes and suggestions tomorrow. Her recommendations for new pieces were well within my budget -- Pearl River, Home Depot. And I feel confident I'm making the right move *before* dumping out all my bookcases.
When this is all done -- party at my place.
Obsessed with the magazine that everyone at work is obsessed with, I saw an interesting article on one-shot design consultants. For a very small fee they will advise you on the best way to arrange your home, using what you have and making suggestions for manageable additions and subtractions.
I found a nice woman with a background in interior design and, as a bonus, extensive experience in feng shui. Jennifer came by today to have a gander at my apartment.
"Nice and spacious," she said. "But we have to do something about the energy when you come in. It's one long corridor, and then your energy falls out the window."
Couldn'ta said it better myself.
She meditated on my space for a long time and asked me a lot of questions as we sipped peppermint tea. When did I move in? Why this neighborhood? Why all white? After awhile she got up from the couch and rotated one corner twenty-five degrees. She paused. I worried for a moment that was going to be it.
I stepped back a few paces and surveyed the pivot. I don't usually like furniture on an angle, but this was working. Energy crisis averted!
She took out this crazy-ass compass on a big square board with colors all around it. She said it's very hard to find this compass in English. Saro started slinking around us, interested. Jennifer said she didn't mind Saro eating all her other stuff so long as Saro didn't touch the compass. As soon as we relaxed in conversation, Saro lurched toward the compass. No, Saro!
I said I was thinking of color for the foyer. Jennifer also had a giant wad of Benjamin Moore paint chips on a binder ring. How did I feel about red? Very interesting.
I really liked this meeting. She's going to e-mail me all of her notes and suggestions tomorrow. Her recommendations for new pieces were well within my budget -- Pearl River, Home Depot. And I feel confident I'm making the right move *before* dumping out all my bookcases.
When this is all done -- party at my place.
11.25.2005
Birthday Letter
Dear Ben,
I can't call you on your birthday so I have to write. Wherever you are now, I'm sure you're surfing the Web if at all possible.
I think about you all the time. I try to picture your face. Often we would be driving somewhere and I would turn and study the side of your face. You would wear that heavy grey polar fleece pullover and orange TiVo cap. You had a cute long nose and those rectangular glasses. I liked when your hair was longer and curling a little. You were getting a few silver hairs at your temples. I tried to picture what you would look like as you got more grey.
I try to remember our conversations. You would bring me up to speed on your friends and family -- their comings and goings -- and show me your old home movies. I already felt as if I knew everyone. Or at least, I knew their bar mitzvahs. You made that movie of your cat while you were home on break from college because you were pretty certain that was the last time you were going to see him. That was one long movie. You followed him around the yard when he wasn't doing very much, just loafing and poking around. And that turned out to be the last time you saw him.
Many people have noted with regret that we have so few photos and movies of you. You took reams of photos and hours of video, but you always were behind the camera. I don't even have a picture of the two of us. Everything that happened between us, with a few exceptions, was just us -- and now I'm carrying it alone. I have to talk/write/rant about you just to help bear it, even though I know you would be terribly embarrassed. But you knew what you were getting into with me. You read the whole blog before we even met.
You could dish pretty well yourself, though. When we first met you boasted about your colorful stories, and I remember a lot of them now. Generally your full-blown stories about people would fall into two categories -- People who Made Good Decisions and People who Made Bad Decisions. People who made good decisions, such as being the first to move to a particular up-and-coming town, often had been recipients of your advice. People who made bad decisions often had ignored advice from you -- buying a substandard appliance, for example -- and were punished with some kind of trouble, such as a defective unit, as a result.
Either way, you gave a lot of advice. When I was mad at you I theorized you saw everyone as projects that needed your improvements, and that you mostly related to people by criticizing them. In calmer moments I realized that you didn't criticize to be mean. You were just ridiculously informed about an insane number of things and were trying to help people out, freely dispensing your opinion whether it was welcome or not. And whatever it was, usually you were right.
I don't think I ever saw you mean. You could be smug; frosty; imperious; gracious; tender; passionate. But not mean.
I still haven't renovated my kitchen, but I'm holding on to the sketch you made. You sent it to me the first week we were dating. In my book, that's a no-money-back-you're-getting-laid guarantee.
You tried to give me music advice once. What a disaster. I had been having difficult gigs and you were videotaping them all. The night you tried to play a show back to me and make running commentary -- like "why don't you smile more at the audience?" -- I almost knocked your block off. It was the only time I told you to go fuck yourself and really meant it. But you seemed to like it when I got sassy.
You continued to try to be helpful. We even tried an album cover shoot in Central Park, scouting around to find the spot where Nina Simone sat for the cover of her first record. We climbed giant, icy "keep off" rocks and froze our asses sitting on them to get a good shot of me with the pond and bridge behind. Days later, you produced another pearl: "I think your record cover should be . . . the outline of your naked body." Good grief, Ben.
Last year on your birthday we met up at Columbus Circle. Your instructions from me were to wear a suit that fit. I spotted you from across the plaza -- you looked so tall and handsome in your suit and trenchcoat. You were taller than everybody. It was not too cold; holiday lights were up; the Salvation Army lady was there with her bell and kettle. When we kissed hello I felt so nervous.
Between our fancy dinner and jazz at Lincoln Center, we strolled through Borders in the Time Warner Center -- you pointed out Weird N.J. magazine. Why do I keep remembering that now? We spent the rest of the weekend watching Lord of the Rings and debauching. Afterward, you didn't call me for days. God I was furious -- but that did result in our setting up a schedule. And that worked.
I remember your signature touches. You would bring tea and cookies to me on the couch and plop your legs in my lap. Self-righteously, like a huge cat. As we rode the bus in the morning, you would plant your hand on my knee and squeeze. You would TiVo stuff for us to watch together. Weeknights were nice and slow with you. It shocks me now to realize how much of a steady presence you were.
Sometimes I get hysterical wondering where the hell you've disappeared to. I force myself to remember the night on the pier, as you were losing strength, and then later as your soul left your body. I tell myself this was the end of the story. Of course, that's impossible. Your story is carried on by everyone who cared about you. Ed wrote a beautiful remembrance of you.
It's really cold tonight so I'm pulling out your down comforter. Saro threw up on the green blanky and I need something warm.
I miss you, Ben. You are never far from my thoughts. Now go fuck yourself.
Love, Erica
I can't call you on your birthday so I have to write. Wherever you are now, I'm sure you're surfing the Web if at all possible.
I think about you all the time. I try to picture your face. Often we would be driving somewhere and I would turn and study the side of your face. You would wear that heavy grey polar fleece pullover and orange TiVo cap. You had a cute long nose and those rectangular glasses. I liked when your hair was longer and curling a little. You were getting a few silver hairs at your temples. I tried to picture what you would look like as you got more grey.
I try to remember our conversations. You would bring me up to speed on your friends and family -- their comings and goings -- and show me your old home movies. I already felt as if I knew everyone. Or at least, I knew their bar mitzvahs. You made that movie of your cat while you were home on break from college because you were pretty certain that was the last time you were going to see him. That was one long movie. You followed him around the yard when he wasn't doing very much, just loafing and poking around. And that turned out to be the last time you saw him.
Many people have noted with regret that we have so few photos and movies of you. You took reams of photos and hours of video, but you always were behind the camera. I don't even have a picture of the two of us. Everything that happened between us, with a few exceptions, was just us -- and now I'm carrying it alone. I have to talk/write/rant about you just to help bear it, even though I know you would be terribly embarrassed. But you knew what you were getting into with me. You read the whole blog before we even met.
You could dish pretty well yourself, though. When we first met you boasted about your colorful stories, and I remember a lot of them now. Generally your full-blown stories about people would fall into two categories -- People who Made Good Decisions and People who Made Bad Decisions. People who made good decisions, such as being the first to move to a particular up-and-coming town, often had been recipients of your advice. People who made bad decisions often had ignored advice from you -- buying a substandard appliance, for example -- and were punished with some kind of trouble, such as a defective unit, as a result.
Either way, you gave a lot of advice. When I was mad at you I theorized you saw everyone as projects that needed your improvements, and that you mostly related to people by criticizing them. In calmer moments I realized that you didn't criticize to be mean. You were just ridiculously informed about an insane number of things and were trying to help people out, freely dispensing your opinion whether it was welcome or not. And whatever it was, usually you were right.
I don't think I ever saw you mean. You could be smug; frosty; imperious; gracious; tender; passionate. But not mean.
I still haven't renovated my kitchen, but I'm holding on to the sketch you made. You sent it to me the first week we were dating. In my book, that's a no-money-back-you're-getting-laid guarantee.
You tried to give me music advice once. What a disaster. I had been having difficult gigs and you were videotaping them all. The night you tried to play a show back to me and make running commentary -- like "why don't you smile more at the audience?" -- I almost knocked your block off. It was the only time I told you to go fuck yourself and really meant it. But you seemed to like it when I got sassy.
You continued to try to be helpful. We even tried an album cover shoot in Central Park, scouting around to find the spot where Nina Simone sat for the cover of her first record. We climbed giant, icy "keep off" rocks and froze our asses sitting on them to get a good shot of me with the pond and bridge behind. Days later, you produced another pearl: "I think your record cover should be . . . the outline of your naked body." Good grief, Ben.
Last year on your birthday we met up at Columbus Circle. Your instructions from me were to wear a suit that fit. I spotted you from across the plaza -- you looked so tall and handsome in your suit and trenchcoat. You were taller than everybody. It was not too cold; holiday lights were up; the Salvation Army lady was there with her bell and kettle. When we kissed hello I felt so nervous.
Between our fancy dinner and jazz at Lincoln Center, we strolled through Borders in the Time Warner Center -- you pointed out Weird N.J. magazine. Why do I keep remembering that now? We spent the rest of the weekend watching Lord of the Rings and debauching. Afterward, you didn't call me for days. God I was furious -- but that did result in our setting up a schedule. And that worked.
I remember your signature touches. You would bring tea and cookies to me on the couch and plop your legs in my lap. Self-righteously, like a huge cat. As we rode the bus in the morning, you would plant your hand on my knee and squeeze. You would TiVo stuff for us to watch together. Weeknights were nice and slow with you. It shocks me now to realize how much of a steady presence you were.
Sometimes I get hysterical wondering where the hell you've disappeared to. I force myself to remember the night on the pier, as you were losing strength, and then later as your soul left your body. I tell myself this was the end of the story. Of course, that's impossible. Your story is carried on by everyone who cared about you. Ed wrote a beautiful remembrance of you.
It's really cold tonight so I'm pulling out your down comforter. Saro threw up on the green blanky and I need something warm.
I miss you, Ben. You are never far from my thoughts. Now go fuck yourself.
Love, Erica
11.06.2005
All my boxes finally were packed and sealed for the office move. We had been packing for two days. My coworkers were quietly sifting through their own papers, drifting around socializing, or drifting out of the office. Russian moving men were hauling stuff away on handtrucks.
I beat it outta there. It was 11:41 am.
I went as far away from Soho as the train could reasonably carry me in thirty minutes. Midtown! MOMA!
MOMA! Where I'd never been before.
MOMA! Steel and glass and hardwood floors.
MOMA! Where the Pollock's as high as an elephant's eye.
I spent a lot of time on those Pollocks, esp. full Fathom Five, in which you can see the form of a cigarette and a paint tube cap sloshed in with the rest of the caked-on color. I like that. The artist and his crap.
Museums are so dizzying -- not to mention the art therein, in this case -- I had to take pee breaks often, just to unwind. The arch of my right foot is aching something fierce too these days, and the wood floors are killer.
There seem to be a lot of German tourists afoot for some reason.
If this were a romantic comedy, a dashing man would have approached me as I gazed at the Walker Evans subway candids. He would have commented on how vivid the unwitting subjects look. I would have explained how, upon seeing the larger Evans retrospective at the Met a few years ago, I saw a candid of a man I swore was my grandfather. It made sense: New York in the thirties and forties-- a very familar-looking Anglo-aristocratic guy in a fedora and topcoat -- square jaw -- light eyes -- baby on his lap. I couldn't positively I.D. either the man or the baby, though. The man's head is turned.
The portrait burned in my brain. I found it in the Evans book that accompanied the show. I called up my dad and asked him to scout for the book and find the photo. He and my mom did so over a latté at their local Barnes and Noble on Long Island.
"I'm sorry to report, I don't think it's him," my dad said. "That wasn't grandpa's nose."
And that would have been the end of the story I would have told to the dashing man who did not exist and did not approach me.
As if MOMA weren't exhausting enough -- with or without these imaginary dramas -- I headed next to Bendel's for some serious froufrou.
Bendel's! With a whole wing devoted to candles.
Bendel's! Pashmina my heart.
Bendel's! With lace thongs wrapped up tight like little bullets and stored in a jar.
I wanted some makeup but wasn't sure what. Finally I supplicated myself to the girl at the Benefit counter. She was so young and skinny her bra stood up of its own will.
"We'll do the smoky eye on you," she said gravely.
I left with smoky eyes and shiny candy apple lips. Bought 2 products. One is a yellow stick that knocks out an excess of rosiness in your complexion -- effective for when you paint your lips red and want to tone down your face in contrast. Fooling around with it today, I discovered it makes a very good under-eye concealer as well.
The second product is more controversial. It's luminescence. The dewey look. Huey, dewey, gooey. I still can't tell whether I glow, or I look clammy and schvitzy as if from food poisoning.
As soon as I hit the street I blotted out my lips. It was warm out, which felt comforting.
It wasn't even five o' clock yet. I'd ordinarily be at work for another hour or two!
Crossing in front of the Plaza, I looked up at Central Park East. The boughs of the trees were touched with yellow. Yellow cabs were passing by. The sun was low and gold in the sky.
I beat it outta there. It was 11:41 am.
I went as far away from Soho as the train could reasonably carry me in thirty minutes. Midtown! MOMA!
MOMA! Where I'd never been before.
MOMA! Steel and glass and hardwood floors.
MOMA! Where the Pollock's as high as an elephant's eye.
I spent a lot of time on those Pollocks, esp. full Fathom Five, in which you can see the form of a cigarette and a paint tube cap sloshed in with the rest of the caked-on color. I like that. The artist and his crap.
Museums are so dizzying -- not to mention the art therein, in this case -- I had to take pee breaks often, just to unwind. The arch of my right foot is aching something fierce too these days, and the wood floors are killer.
There seem to be a lot of German tourists afoot for some reason.
If this were a romantic comedy, a dashing man would have approached me as I gazed at the Walker Evans subway candids. He would have commented on how vivid the unwitting subjects look. I would have explained how, upon seeing the larger Evans retrospective at the Met a few years ago, I saw a candid of a man I swore was my grandfather. It made sense: New York in the thirties and forties-- a very familar-looking Anglo-aristocratic guy in a fedora and topcoat -- square jaw -- light eyes -- baby on his lap. I couldn't positively I.D. either the man or the baby, though. The man's head is turned.
The portrait burned in my brain. I found it in the Evans book that accompanied the show. I called up my dad and asked him to scout for the book and find the photo. He and my mom did so over a latté at their local Barnes and Noble on Long Island.
"I'm sorry to report, I don't think it's him," my dad said. "That wasn't grandpa's nose."
And that would have been the end of the story I would have told to the dashing man who did not exist and did not approach me.
As if MOMA weren't exhausting enough -- with or without these imaginary dramas -- I headed next to Bendel's for some serious froufrou.
Bendel's! With a whole wing devoted to candles.
Bendel's! Pashmina my heart.
Bendel's! With lace thongs wrapped up tight like little bullets and stored in a jar.
I wanted some makeup but wasn't sure what. Finally I supplicated myself to the girl at the Benefit counter. She was so young and skinny her bra stood up of its own will.
"We'll do the smoky eye on you," she said gravely.
I left with smoky eyes and shiny candy apple lips. Bought 2 products. One is a yellow stick that knocks out an excess of rosiness in your complexion -- effective for when you paint your lips red and want to tone down your face in contrast. Fooling around with it today, I discovered it makes a very good under-eye concealer as well.
The second product is more controversial. It's luminescence. The dewey look. Huey, dewey, gooey. I still can't tell whether I glow, or I look clammy and schvitzy as if from food poisoning.
As soon as I hit the street I blotted out my lips. It was warm out, which felt comforting.
It wasn't even five o' clock yet. I'd ordinarily be at work for another hour or two!
Crossing in front of the Plaza, I looked up at Central Park East. The boughs of the trees were touched with yellow. Yellow cabs were passing by. The sun was low and gold in the sky.
10.27.2005
The New Black
It has been said that this season, black is the new black. I can dig it. Sometimes it's just so right.
I put on light grey pants this morning and they just didn't flow for me. They made me feel vaguely like a wuss. I switched them out for pedal-to-the-metal noir. Black wool pinstripe trousers, black tee, black wrap sweater. Black leather jacket.
However, even in such a petulant mood, one could benefit from a little spark. My boss, who has an amazing intuition for garment design and color theory, calles it the "kicker color." Or rather, she's Australian so it's "kick-ah cuhl-ah."
I apply it thus: when you're feeling noir, viva le blood-red handbag.
These are the little amusements that keep me going. I fear I am becoming an automaton: sleeping, working, knitting in front of the television. One must fight the good fight -- William Packard taught me that. Right now I'm using that advice as leverage to help whup out a few more songs. But it's slow going.
What is the emotional equivalent of a kicker color?
I have noticed one phenomenon. I was sifting through a drawer of huge plastic crochet hooks recently and started blushing. Studying piles of cable-knit swatches today, my eyes followed the pretzel, braid, and diamond patterns in their ever-increasing intricacy -- twisting and pulling and splitting apart and linking up again -- until I grew positively dizzy.
Ah, Eros. You scamp.
I put on light grey pants this morning and they just didn't flow for me. They made me feel vaguely like a wuss. I switched them out for pedal-to-the-metal noir. Black wool pinstripe trousers, black tee, black wrap sweater. Black leather jacket.
However, even in such a petulant mood, one could benefit from a little spark. My boss, who has an amazing intuition for garment design and color theory, calles it the "kicker color." Or rather, she's Australian so it's "kick-ah cuhl-ah."
I apply it thus: when you're feeling noir, viva le blood-red handbag.
These are the little amusements that keep me going. I fear I am becoming an automaton: sleeping, working, knitting in front of the television. One must fight the good fight -- William Packard taught me that. Right now I'm using that advice as leverage to help whup out a few more songs. But it's slow going.
What is the emotional equivalent of a kicker color?
I have noticed one phenomenon. I was sifting through a drawer of huge plastic crochet hooks recently and started blushing. Studying piles of cable-knit swatches today, my eyes followed the pretzel, braid, and diamond patterns in their ever-increasing intricacy -- twisting and pulling and splitting apart and linking up again -- until I grew positively dizzy.
Ah, Eros. You scamp.
9.11.2005
Jill was suspicious when I said I was fine with returning to Fire Island.
"Just go ahead and book it," I chirped.
"Ummmmmmm." Jill sat back and stared way to the left, bugging her eyes and grimacing. I giggled.
"Look! I can't stop going there. It's my favorite place on Earth. If I started avoided places with memories of Ben, then I couldn't go to Union Square, where we met. The entire Upper West Side would be out of bounds. I'd never be able to leave my house."
"Okaay" -- she leaned in -- but we're not going to have Miss Morticia. NO MISS MORTICIA on this trip."
I took this to mean: Limit snuffling jags to 1 minute or under; no calling names into the air (i.e. That Dead Bastard!) and shaking fist; no openly reminiscing about sexual encounters.
Jill had had infinite patience thus far. She was being honest in telling me it's time to cut back. But that didn't mean leaving Fire Island behind forever.
I am trying to look at life like an athlete. Sometimes a bone must be rebroken and reset in order to heal properly, and so it is with the heart.
Our first night we went to Maguire's, a bar on the bay, for a drink. It was twilight and they were playing Jimmy Buffett-style music. The place was almost empty except for 2 older women across from us. Jill ordered a beer and I ordered red wine. A waiter sailed past us to the next table and set down a beautifully irridescent green martini offset by 2 bright red cherries. Jill started to discreetly photograph it.
She wanted to get closer. She approached the women and asked if she could take a close-up.
"Certainly," one said, "but could you take our picture, too?"
They turned to the camera and smiled -- one with coquettish precision, one with a hint of shyness.
"What is that drink?" Jill asked.
"A red-and-green martini. Can you believe this waiter had never heard of a red-and-green martini!"
They started asking questions. Who were we? What were we doing here? If only I knew the answer to that.
Jill and the ladies chatted away in the twilight. I moseyed over to the table and stood there, swirling my wine in the glass.
The ladies -- Joann and Evonda -- invited us to join them. "Can you believe," Joann said of Evonda, "this woman is almost 80? And she rode her bike up and down the island today." Evonda flashed a chipmunk smile. She lived in Berkeley.
"What do you do in Berkeley?" Jill asked.
"As litttle as possible!"
Joann had spent almost thirty summers on Fire Island. "I was an activist here," she said.
"What was your cause?" I asked.
"Oh, you name it, I was against it," she said.
The stars came out. Evonda referred to her husbands as number 1, number 2, number 3. Joann had lost both her husband and her son. She had not been able to return to Fire Island since her son died ten years ago. She sold her house. This was her first weekend back to visit.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." I was sloshy on wine.
"Thank you, dear."
Jill was coming back from the bathroom as I was telling them about Ben. Oops. Morticia strikes.
"Oh! Darling. I'm sorry," Joann said.
"'Sssokay, you know? And I wasn't sure about coming back here."
"But you came back."
Joann spontaneously shared with us her man-finding strategies from when she was thirty. She went places where men went that, at the time, women didn't go: golfing, skiing, to the races. She ended up marrying someone she worked with. Jill and I still are not sure what to make of this advice.
Finally we scooted off -- Joann and Evonda to get a a lobster dinner, Jill and I to crawl under our blankies and watch TV. The women called for us the next day at our b&b, but we missed them. I ran into them on the main drag -- Evonda on her bike, Joann riding in a golf cart due to her mending broken hip.
"Your hair looks nice up," Joann said. "You should always wear it like that."
I miss them already.
"Just go ahead and book it," I chirped.
"Ummmmmmm." Jill sat back and stared way to the left, bugging her eyes and grimacing. I giggled.
"Look! I can't stop going there. It's my favorite place on Earth. If I started avoided places with memories of Ben, then I couldn't go to Union Square, where we met. The entire Upper West Side would be out of bounds. I'd never be able to leave my house."
"Okaay" -- she leaned in -- but we're not going to have Miss Morticia. NO MISS MORTICIA on this trip."
I took this to mean: Limit snuffling jags to 1 minute or under; no calling names into the air (i.e. That Dead Bastard!) and shaking fist; no openly reminiscing about sexual encounters.
Jill had had infinite patience thus far. She was being honest in telling me it's time to cut back. But that didn't mean leaving Fire Island behind forever.
I am trying to look at life like an athlete. Sometimes a bone must be rebroken and reset in order to heal properly, and so it is with the heart.
Our first night we went to Maguire's, a bar on the bay, for a drink. It was twilight and they were playing Jimmy Buffett-style music. The place was almost empty except for 2 older women across from us. Jill ordered a beer and I ordered red wine. A waiter sailed past us to the next table and set down a beautifully irridescent green martini offset by 2 bright red cherries. Jill started to discreetly photograph it.
She wanted to get closer. She approached the women and asked if she could take a close-up.
"Certainly," one said, "but could you take our picture, too?"
They turned to the camera and smiled -- one with coquettish precision, one with a hint of shyness.
"What is that drink?" Jill asked.
"A red-and-green martini. Can you believe this waiter had never heard of a red-and-green martini!"
They started asking questions. Who were we? What were we doing here? If only I knew the answer to that.
Jill and the ladies chatted away in the twilight. I moseyed over to the table and stood there, swirling my wine in the glass.
The ladies -- Joann and Evonda -- invited us to join them. "Can you believe," Joann said of Evonda, "this woman is almost 80? And she rode her bike up and down the island today." Evonda flashed a chipmunk smile. She lived in Berkeley.
"What do you do in Berkeley?" Jill asked.
"As litttle as possible!"
Joann had spent almost thirty summers on Fire Island. "I was an activist here," she said.
"What was your cause?" I asked.
"Oh, you name it, I was against it," she said.
The stars came out. Evonda referred to her husbands as number 1, number 2, number 3. Joann had lost both her husband and her son. She had not been able to return to Fire Island since her son died ten years ago. She sold her house. This was her first weekend back to visit.
"Oh God, I'm so sorry." I was sloshy on wine.
"Thank you, dear."
Jill was coming back from the bathroom as I was telling them about Ben. Oops. Morticia strikes.
"Oh! Darling. I'm sorry," Joann said.
"'Sssokay, you know? And I wasn't sure about coming back here."
"But you came back."
Joann spontaneously shared with us her man-finding strategies from when she was thirty. She went places where men went that, at the time, women didn't go: golfing, skiing, to the races. She ended up marrying someone she worked with. Jill and I still are not sure what to make of this advice.
Finally we scooted off -- Joann and Evonda to get a a lobster dinner, Jill and I to crawl under our blankies and watch TV. The women called for us the next day at our b&b, but we missed them. I ran into them on the main drag -- Evonda on her bike, Joann riding in a golf cart due to her mending broken hip.
"Your hair looks nice up," Joann said. "You should always wear it like that."
I miss them already.
9.01.2005
Eulogy II
THREE SCENES WITH ROXY
by Erica Smith
One
I opened the door and found Roxy and Saro right on the other side, sticking their snoots in the widening door crack. I had to step carefully over them and try not to drop the mail or let the door slam.
Saro turned around, ran ahead of me, turned to face me, and screamed.
"Eeeow! EEEEEOW!"
Rox hustled to the food bowl, talking care to give a wide berth to Saro.
The food bowl was always seriously overflowing but Rox would pause, waiting for a refresher. I shook a few kibble on top of the pile. Rox crunched a little. She looked up at me, purring and crunching.
Two
I was sitting on the couch reading. Rox approached me. She often studied a situation for a long time in order to figure out how to insert herself into it. Sometimes she waited too long and I'd be ready to get up and do something else before she could make her move. This time she acted fast. She alighted quickly onto the arm of the sofa, and then jumped to the back.
She stretched out along the back of the sofa, right behind my head, and started purring.
Time passed. Out of nowhere I felt a foot pressing against my shoulder blade.
"Roxy!" I giggled.
The foot pressed harder.
Three
There are 2 kinds of cats: the cats who wake you up and the cats who wait.
Often I wake up with a paw squeezing the tip of my nose. That would be Saro.
Sometimes I woke up to complete stillness. Usually it would be after a long, heavy sleep. Whoever had already tried to wake me up had long abandoned the project. In this complete tranquility, Rox jumped onto the bed, quiet and cool as a breeze.
Rox walked a few steps toward me, purring. I lifted my head and she smudged my forehead with a kiss. Then, as mysteriously as she arrived, she left.
I got up and followed her to the food bowl. Just a few kibble to top her off.
8.30.2005
8.25.2005
Fire! Fire! part 2
I stumbled into my living room, bewildered. The apartment smelled of fish.
I ran to the oven and turned it off.
I picked up the phone and called 911 to issue a retraction.
"I'll cancel the police," the operator said -- the police were coming too?? -- "but the firemen have to come anyway, just to check."
Oh dear. Oh dear.
I started preparing for visitors, cleaning up 2 piles of cat vomit. I poured a glass of Fresca. I checked on the fish.
"Helloo . . . " the door opened.
Six large men filed into my living room. They were in full fireman regalia: big black suits, conelike hats, crowbars, giant silver fire extinguishers. They all were over six feet tall. Head Fireman had ice blue eyes.
"So, you got in okay."
"Yeah! Yeah. My neighbor's key worked. Scary, right? Ha, ha!"
Yikes -- I am so braless.
"Here, kitty." Head Fireman strode toward the kitchen and Saro ran like hell.
He opened the oven door. "Looks good."
"Yeah, it's an old oven, but it's nice."
"No, the fish."
"Oh! Yeah."
"So you're all okay here."
"Yup, we're all . . . here."
"Enjoy your dinner!" Exeunt firemen.
Head Fireman opened the door again and pointed toward a little plastic bag of trash outside the door. "You're going to take care of this?"
I ran to the oven and turned it off.
I picked up the phone and called 911 to issue a retraction.
"I'll cancel the police," the operator said -- the police were coming too?? -- "but the firemen have to come anyway, just to check."
Oh dear. Oh dear.
I started preparing for visitors, cleaning up 2 piles of cat vomit. I poured a glass of Fresca. I checked on the fish.
"Helloo . . . " the door opened.
Six large men filed into my living room. They were in full fireman regalia: big black suits, conelike hats, crowbars, giant silver fire extinguishers. They all were over six feet tall. Head Fireman had ice blue eyes.
"So, you got in okay."
"Yeah! Yeah. My neighbor's key worked. Scary, right? Ha, ha!"
Yikes -- I am so braless.
"Here, kitty." Head Fireman strode toward the kitchen and Saro ran like hell.
He opened the oven door. "Looks good."
"Yeah, it's an old oven, but it's nice."
"No, the fish."
"Oh! Yeah."
"So you're all okay here."
"Yup, we're all . . . here."
"Enjoy your dinner!" Exeunt firemen.
Head Fireman opened the door again and pointed toward a little plastic bag of trash outside the door. "You're going to take care of this?"
8.18.2005
Fire! Fire!
I'm going to have to make this quick.
Last night I was so tired. Beyond exhausted. Too much debauching in the early part of the week. Went straight home.
I picked up a few groceries on the way. I had an idea to try to cook fish. I am trying to make friends with fish. Apparently, eating them is good for you. Circumventing the gory Chinatown markets, I went to Fine Fare and picked up a suitably clean-looking Saran-wrapped salmon filet and some low-fat Creamsicles.
I looked through all my cookbooks and ran across the Barefoot Contessa's version of salmon and lentils. Cool.
The lentils were no problem, but I was so tired I kept dropping them all around the kitchen. I poured water into a glass and splashed all over the table. Tired. Tired.
The salmon was a bit of a problem when the Contessa instructed me to cut the skin off of the bottom of the fish. This was very upsetting. I got so freaked out I stopped cutting the skin about three-quarters through, and threw the rest of the fish away. I wasn't going to eat that much anyway.
Nonetheless, the salmon that remained seared perfectly. The oven was nice and hot. I transferred the fish from the stove to the oven to cook it for five to seven minutes.
I decided to throw out the garbage that contained raw fish. You don't want to have that stuff hanging around the house. I grabbed the bag, put on my flip-flops and went out to the foyer, when . . . slam!
As soon as the door slammed my blood ran cold. I remembered the door was on auto-lock. I tried the knob. Locked.
"Fuck. fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck!"
Fuck! What am I going to do.
Fuck! Think.
I was locked out of my apartment holding a bag of raw fish.
And the salmon is in the oven on broil.
I looked all around at the closed doors. I picked a door of the neighbor I had seen eariler, coming up in the elevator, and knocked. No response.
"Shit!" I jumped up and down.
I knocked on the next door. Nice Israeli people live there.
Jackpot: Burly father and son, nice mom, all watching TV.
"I'm locked out," I said. "And the fish is burning. May I use your phone?"
Shit, shit. This is so stupid.
Mom handed me the phone.
Ok, who do I call? Locksmith? Dan, who has spare keys? It would take awhile for anyone to arrive. I started having visions of fish in flames, and innocent cats choking on smoke.
"You may want to call the Fire Department," Son said.
Oh lord.
I called 911 and got to the fire department.
"What's the problem."
"I'm locked out, and the oven is on."
"Is there a fire?"
"Not yet, but the fish is . . . . "
Oh gosh . . . duh . . .
". . . broiling, and will burn any minute."
"We'll send someone over." She took my address. We hung up.
I apologized profusely to the Mom and thanked her.
Down the hallway Dad and Son were hunched over my doorknob, wiggling their Blockbuster card in the crack of the door. Nothing was happening.
"Try your key," Dad said to Son.
Son put his key in the lock and turned.
The door opened.
Last night I was so tired. Beyond exhausted. Too much debauching in the early part of the week. Went straight home.
I picked up a few groceries on the way. I had an idea to try to cook fish. I am trying to make friends with fish. Apparently, eating them is good for you. Circumventing the gory Chinatown markets, I went to Fine Fare and picked up a suitably clean-looking Saran-wrapped salmon filet and some low-fat Creamsicles.
I looked through all my cookbooks and ran across the Barefoot Contessa's version of salmon and lentils. Cool.
The lentils were no problem, but I was so tired I kept dropping them all around the kitchen. I poured water into a glass and splashed all over the table. Tired. Tired.
The salmon was a bit of a problem when the Contessa instructed me to cut the skin off of the bottom of the fish. This was very upsetting. I got so freaked out I stopped cutting the skin about three-quarters through, and threw the rest of the fish away. I wasn't going to eat that much anyway.
Nonetheless, the salmon that remained seared perfectly. The oven was nice and hot. I transferred the fish from the stove to the oven to cook it for five to seven minutes.
I decided to throw out the garbage that contained raw fish. You don't want to have that stuff hanging around the house. I grabbed the bag, put on my flip-flops and went out to the foyer, when . . . slam!
As soon as the door slammed my blood ran cold. I remembered the door was on auto-lock. I tried the knob. Locked.
"Fuck. fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuck!"
Fuck! What am I going to do.
Fuck! Think.
I was locked out of my apartment holding a bag of raw fish.
And the salmon is in the oven on broil.
I looked all around at the closed doors. I picked a door of the neighbor I had seen eariler, coming up in the elevator, and knocked. No response.
"Shit!" I jumped up and down.
I knocked on the next door. Nice Israeli people live there.
Jackpot: Burly father and son, nice mom, all watching TV.
"I'm locked out," I said. "And the fish is burning. May I use your phone?"
Shit, shit. This is so stupid.
Mom handed me the phone.
Ok, who do I call? Locksmith? Dan, who has spare keys? It would take awhile for anyone to arrive. I started having visions of fish in flames, and innocent cats choking on smoke.
"You may want to call the Fire Department," Son said.
Oh lord.
I called 911 and got to the fire department.
"What's the problem."
"I'm locked out, and the oven is on."
"Is there a fire?"
"Not yet, but the fish is . . . . "
Oh gosh . . . duh . . .
". . . broiling, and will burn any minute."
"We'll send someone over." She took my address. We hung up.
I apologized profusely to the Mom and thanked her.
Down the hallway Dad and Son were hunched over my doorknob, wiggling their Blockbuster card in the crack of the door. Nothing was happening.
"Try your key," Dad said to Son.
Son put his key in the lock and turned.
The door opened.
8.12.2005
Bundting
Today I had a slice of lemon pound cake, which reminds me of Mrs. Schoenig.
Mrs. Schoenig was a friend of my grandparents who lived in Massapequa. When my grandparents were living with my dad and me, I often would come home after school and find Grandma, Grandpa, and Mrs. Schoenig sitting at the kitchen table in our yellow kitchen.
Mrs. Schoenig had a thick accent. She had short, curly blonde hair and a wide Cheshire smile.
"Ellllleeka," she would say. "How vare you, sveetheart."
My standard answer, then and now: "fine."
That was the extent of our conversation. I would immediately start looking for her lemon pound cake.
She made the cake in bundt formation -- a high arched O with scalloped sides. The outside of the cake was a perfect honey brown adorned with a sprinkle of powdered sugar. The cake was slightly crispy when you cut into it, but as the knife went deeper it would sink in lushly. My grandmother would hand me a nice thick wedge on a paper plate. The inside of the cake was pale yellow and lightly spongey.
Coming closer, I could smell a hint of lemon. I would get a little powdered sugar on my nose. I would take a big, big bite.
Mrs. Schoenig was a friend of my grandparents who lived in Massapequa. When my grandparents were living with my dad and me, I often would come home after school and find Grandma, Grandpa, and Mrs. Schoenig sitting at the kitchen table in our yellow kitchen.
Mrs. Schoenig had a thick accent. She had short, curly blonde hair and a wide Cheshire smile.
"Ellllleeka," she would say. "How vare you, sveetheart."
My standard answer, then and now: "fine."
That was the extent of our conversation. I would immediately start looking for her lemon pound cake.
She made the cake in bundt formation -- a high arched O with scalloped sides. The outside of the cake was a perfect honey brown adorned with a sprinkle of powdered sugar. The cake was slightly crispy when you cut into it, but as the knife went deeper it would sink in lushly. My grandmother would hand me a nice thick wedge on a paper plate. The inside of the cake was pale yellow and lightly spongey.
Coming closer, I could smell a hint of lemon. I would get a little powdered sugar on my nose. I would take a big, big bite.
8.05.2005
Fishhead zeitgeist! part 2
As it turns out, I wasn't the only one plagued by fish heads: Pam was stared down by one during a dinner this very same week.
The next day I walked to work cautiously. The fish heads were gone. All was well till I hit Little Italy, where a guy walked right past me in a white coat, carrying a huge dead pig on his back.
The next day I walked to work cautiously. The fish heads were gone. All was well till I hit Little Italy, where a guy walked right past me in a white coat, carrying a huge dead pig on his back.
8.03.2005
Fishhead zeitgeist! part 1 (warning: contains unsavory photos)
As I was walking to work, I saw something that grossed me out so much, I decided to take a picture and share it with you.
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
. . . ABOUT DECAPITATED FISH!!!
EW!
I really dislike the markets anyway -- the smell, the sidewalk wet with fishwater and crushed ice -- but usually the carcasses are contained. These dead squid at least have the decency to align themselves.
This started too seem too ghoulish so I decided to take snaps through the rest of my walk. Ah, a bounty of summer fruit and vegetables.
Soon, I came across the most annoying corner of New York City: Fish market, newsstand, electronics table, tiny grandmothers pushing large carts, and people flowing in and out of the subway entrance. However, this corner is also a wonderful source for Chinese porn, as well as your morning lo mein.
I waited at a corner flanked by a baby and a dog. I made routine note of a very dangerous spot of sidewalk and resisted numerous enticements to drink bubble tea. And finally, crossing the line into Little Italy, I noticed a stray loaf of Italian bread poking out of the trash and reaching toward the sun.
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
SKIP IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH
. . . ABOUT DECAPITATED FISH!!!
EW!
I really dislike the markets anyway -- the smell, the sidewalk wet with fishwater and crushed ice -- but usually the carcasses are contained. These dead squid at least have the decency to align themselves.
This started too seem too ghoulish so I decided to take snaps through the rest of my walk. Ah, a bounty of summer fruit and vegetables.
Soon, I came across the most annoying corner of New York City: Fish market, newsstand, electronics table, tiny grandmothers pushing large carts, and people flowing in and out of the subway entrance. However, this corner is also a wonderful source for Chinese porn, as well as your morning lo mein.
I waited at a corner flanked by a baby and a dog. I made routine note of a very dangerous spot of sidewalk and resisted numerous enticements to drink bubble tea. And finally, crossing the line into Little Italy, I noticed a stray loaf of Italian bread poking out of the trash and reaching toward the sun.
7.24.2005
Crazy-Ass Shit
I'm freelancing at home but can't concentrate.
Lately more than a few of my friends have started pleading with me to quit my job. Apparently, it's torturing me. I suppose I have trouble discerning it from all the other things that are torturing me.
As you might have discerned from these increasingly sporadic posts, it's been busy at the office. I'm the editorial coordinator for 24 or so books a year. There are 2 other staff members in the book department –– both designers. So basically, I have a fuckload of work. Everying from contracts, to schedules and budgets, to witing flap copy and proofreading –– even if it's freelanced –- it goes through me.
2 months into the job, I suffered Ye Olde Tragedie. That didn't help, neither. But really, despite being distraught, I just took cry breaks and kept working. I decided not to stay late or come in on weekends -- that's it.
But I need to discern some problems from others. One is the nuts and bolts of too much work and too little time. Now that I *have* started staying late and coming in on the weekends, it's apparent that the river is rising and we need more sandbaggers. Not having resources to do your job is very bad, but you can work on it. I'm freelancing out a lot of stuff. I'm lobbying for an assistant. I'm ensnaring my more flexible-scheduled friends to come in and help with office stuff.
The second problem is always the kicker: the tone of your interactions with others. This is where it gets spooky, and simple situations suddenly turn into nightmares.
For example, the president of the company walked by my cubicle the other day and his foot hit a box. It was left there as a delivery. (I have a lot of boxes stacked outside my cubicle wall because there is no room for them inside the cubicle. I had an intern consolidate them. But when an editorial coordinator doesn't have a bookcase, and has to keep page proofs in a box under her desk, things tend to pile up quickly.)
I got up and pushed the box inside my cube.
"How is it going, Erica." The president has a way of making even simple questions sound mocking. Is he mocking me? He's chewing gum.
"It's okay. There's . . . a lot going on this season, but we're on top of it so far." I am profoundly uncomfortable.
"Yeah? Like what."
"A lot of stuff coming in, and going out." Oh duh. "Manuscripts are coming in, and I'm sending them out to be copyedited." That is about one one-thousandth of what I'm doing, but so be it.
"So, you're busy."
"Yes . . . I'm very busy." I raise my eyebrows and glare. Oops -- knock off 2 points for sarcasm.
"Well, then, don't let me keep you." he emphasizes the word keep. He walks off.
Yikes.
I instantly guess he saw me reading the Times online one too many times. But that strikes me as strange and superficial. Or did he hear me on the phone with my parents? As a rule, parents get unlimited phone access (all others cut to five minutes -- ten if it's a crisis.)
This exchange, after weeks of clocking extra hours and giving myself stomach cramps, made me want to flush my head down the toilet.
What remains strange to me is that, if there is a problem, it is not made explicit. If I'm doing something not kosher, a simple "please don't do that" would rectify it in a flash. So it must be something more.
I'm choosing to see it as a study in power. A person maintains feelings of power by keeping others off their footing, constantly guessing and being taken by surprise. I was the victim of the day.
But is this the reward I get for frying myself to get these miserable books out the door?
I am wading through some serious crazy-ass shit.
Lately more than a few of my friends have started pleading with me to quit my job. Apparently, it's torturing me. I suppose I have trouble discerning it from all the other things that are torturing me.
As you might have discerned from these increasingly sporadic posts, it's been busy at the office. I'm the editorial coordinator for 24 or so books a year. There are 2 other staff members in the book department –– both designers. So basically, I have a fuckload of work. Everying from contracts, to schedules and budgets, to witing flap copy and proofreading –– even if it's freelanced –- it goes through me.
2 months into the job, I suffered Ye Olde Tragedie. That didn't help, neither. But really, despite being distraught, I just took cry breaks and kept working. I decided not to stay late or come in on weekends -- that's it.
But I need to discern some problems from others. One is the nuts and bolts of too much work and too little time. Now that I *have* started staying late and coming in on the weekends, it's apparent that the river is rising and we need more sandbaggers. Not having resources to do your job is very bad, but you can work on it. I'm freelancing out a lot of stuff. I'm lobbying for an assistant. I'm ensnaring my more flexible-scheduled friends to come in and help with office stuff.
The second problem is always the kicker: the tone of your interactions with others. This is where it gets spooky, and simple situations suddenly turn into nightmares.
For example, the president of the company walked by my cubicle the other day and his foot hit a box. It was left there as a delivery. (I have a lot of boxes stacked outside my cubicle wall because there is no room for them inside the cubicle. I had an intern consolidate them. But when an editorial coordinator doesn't have a bookcase, and has to keep page proofs in a box under her desk, things tend to pile up quickly.)
I got up and pushed the box inside my cube.
"How is it going, Erica." The president has a way of making even simple questions sound mocking. Is he mocking me? He's chewing gum.
"It's okay. There's . . . a lot going on this season, but we're on top of it so far." I am profoundly uncomfortable.
"Yeah? Like what."
"A lot of stuff coming in, and going out." Oh duh. "Manuscripts are coming in, and I'm sending them out to be copyedited." That is about one one-thousandth of what I'm doing, but so be it.
"So, you're busy."
"Yes . . . I'm very busy." I raise my eyebrows and glare. Oops -- knock off 2 points for sarcasm.
"Well, then, don't let me keep you." he emphasizes the word keep. He walks off.
Yikes.
I instantly guess he saw me reading the Times online one too many times. But that strikes me as strange and superficial. Or did he hear me on the phone with my parents? As a rule, parents get unlimited phone access (all others cut to five minutes -- ten if it's a crisis.)
This exchange, after weeks of clocking extra hours and giving myself stomach cramps, made me want to flush my head down the toilet.
What remains strange to me is that, if there is a problem, it is not made explicit. If I'm doing something not kosher, a simple "please don't do that" would rectify it in a flash. So it must be something more.
I'm choosing to see it as a study in power. A person maintains feelings of power by keeping others off their footing, constantly guessing and being taken by surprise. I was the victim of the day.
But is this the reward I get for frying myself to get these miserable books out the door?
I am wading through some serious crazy-ass shit.
7.21.2005
33.33
A while ago I had an idea of having a party for my thirty-three-and-a-third birthday. Anyone old enough to get the reference would be automatically invited.
The agenda to the party was not only to celebrate my ever-slowing RPM, but secretly to seal a deal with myself. By making it to 33.33 I will have outlived my mom. For a long time I had been convinced that, in her footsteps, I would be stricken with a failing body at an early age. Her death remains as much a mystery to me now as it was when I was 7.
Last winter I mentioned the party idea to Ben as we were watching "The Wire." "Go ahead, have a party," he said, "but don't tell people that last part."
33.33 hits on Saturday. In a painful coincidence, it's also the six-month anniversary of Ben's death.
I can't think of anything more to say. Except to that asshole who nearly ran me over on his bike this morning, careening down lower Broadway at top speed and sailing through a red light:
WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.
The agenda to the party was not only to celebrate my ever-slowing RPM, but secretly to seal a deal with myself. By making it to 33.33 I will have outlived my mom. For a long time I had been convinced that, in her footsteps, I would be stricken with a failing body at an early age. Her death remains as much a mystery to me now as it was when I was 7.
Last winter I mentioned the party idea to Ben as we were watching "The Wire." "Go ahead, have a party," he said, "but don't tell people that last part."
33.33 hits on Saturday. In a painful coincidence, it's also the six-month anniversary of Ben's death.
I can't think of anything more to say. Except to that asshole who nearly ran me over on his bike this morning, careening down lower Broadway at top speed and sailing through a red light:
WATCH WHERE YOU'RE FUCKING GOING.
6.30.2005
I've Got Time
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.
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.
6.15.2005
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.
12.13.2004
12.09.2004
12.08.2004
The Source of the Problem Reveals Itself
It felt so great, eating steamed vegetables and tofu over brown rice for dinner. I was a little hungry afterward, though, and started looking around for one more thing to eat. I saw a bag of bialys I had been meaning to freeze. I put most of them in the freezer, and then ate one schmeared with scallion cream cheese. Mmm. As I was putting the cream cheese away I saw a tub of crispy green pickles I had bought from the pickle guys. I'm trying to snack on pickles instead of chocolate. I ate three pickles. Then I ate chocolate.
12.07.2004
Moral Dilemma
The order arrived with a turkey burger but no fries. I called and they're sending the fries separately. Do I tip again?
12.01.2004
11.29.2004
After Thanksgiving dinner, a bunch of kids and grownups retreated downstairs to the rumpus room. By the time I got downstairs my brother and nephews were locked in a single wrestle knot rolling across the floor, with my sister-in-law and niece looking on. Occasionally a child would break free from the wrestle knot, grab a Lego-fashioned sword or other blunt piece of plastic, and beat on the other wrestlers. The sound was of giggling grunting, with an occasional, muffled "I'm gonna get you."
This went on for a while until the knot became intractible. I could see the back of my nephew's head and his ears were bright red. My brother threatened he was gonna upchuck, or fart. More gasping and giggling.
Suddenly, a flash of pink across the room: my niece busted out of her mom's lap, toddled like mad toward the sweaty ball, and flung herself on top, rosy dress fanning out in all directions.
This went on for a while until the knot became intractible. I could see the back of my nephew's head and his ears were bright red. My brother threatened he was gonna upchuck, or fart. More gasping and giggling.
Suddenly, a flash of pink across the room: my niece busted out of her mom's lap, toddled like mad toward the sweaty ball, and flung herself on top, rosy dress fanning out in all directions.
11.22.2004
He Must have Noticed That Lilt in My Step
The other day, as I went out to get lunch, 2 people (in 2 different locations) passed by real close to me and said, "mmm, sweetie."
Then, later that afternoon, a person passed by real close to me and said, "cunt."
Then, later that afternoon, a person passed by real close to me and said, "cunt."
11.18.2004
Sorry it's been so long. I've been in lockdown mode. It takes a lot of energy to try to repress saying "Fuck!" on the job. No screaming "Goddammit!" when I can't find a file. No outward belching. I'm trying to be nice and dress nice.
There's DKNY around the corner. I told the salesman we'll make the best of friends.
We're playing at Pete's Candy Store tonight, and Annie has an art show on 19th Street before that. Perhaps you'd like to come out.
There's DKNY around the corner. I told the salesman we'll make the best of friends.
We're playing at Pete's Candy Store tonight, and Annie has an art show on 19th Street before that. Perhaps you'd like to come out.
11.05.2004
New Beginnings (ch'un)
Times of birth and growth start unseen, below the surface. Everything is dark and still unformed, yet teeming with motion. Difficulties and chaos loom. Despite this struggle, energy and resources are collected, and form begins to take shape. The young plant takes root, rises above the ground, and is brought to light.
--Hexagram #3, I Ching or Book of Changes
It's my last day in the office. I'm taking down all the pictures and postcards that I've collected over the past eight years. My nephew was born my second day of work; there's a pic of me holding him as an infant; now he can outrun me, tell better jokes, and beat me at Monopoly. Pictures overlap pictures. Another grinning nephew stands among pumpkins; a baby niece is plunked in an oversized pot surrounded by flowers; cats on the floor; cats pondering a lamp; a cat in a courtyard in Paris. An angel with a lute. Billie, Chaucer, Woody, Bessie, Ray, Janis, Bob, Uncle Walt. A 50's Tupperware party. Freud's office. Jill's winter trees. A card for Honeymoon. Andromeda chained to a rock, the serpent snaking around her with its jaws wide open. The Three Fates from the east pediment of the Parthenon. A pack of Teaberry gum. My favorite painting of the Annunciation in which, in the midst of being delivered the news of a miracle, Mary looks positively overwhelmed: who said the path to revelation and glory was easy. Kiki de Montparnasse cries round glass tears. Finally, a Kenneth Patchen painting:
NOW, WHEN I GET BACK HERE, I EXPECT TO FIND ALL OF YOU MARCHING THROUGH THE STREETS WITH GREAT BUNCHES OF WILDFLOWERS IN YOUR ARMS
--Hexagram #3, I Ching or Book of Changes
It's my last day in the office. I'm taking down all the pictures and postcards that I've collected over the past eight years. My nephew was born my second day of work; there's a pic of me holding him as an infant; now he can outrun me, tell better jokes, and beat me at Monopoly. Pictures overlap pictures. Another grinning nephew stands among pumpkins; a baby niece is plunked in an oversized pot surrounded by flowers; cats on the floor; cats pondering a lamp; a cat in a courtyard in Paris. An angel with a lute. Billie, Chaucer, Woody, Bessie, Ray, Janis, Bob, Uncle Walt. A 50's Tupperware party. Freud's office. Jill's winter trees. A card for Honeymoon. Andromeda chained to a rock, the serpent snaking around her with its jaws wide open. The Three Fates from the east pediment of the Parthenon. A pack of Teaberry gum. My favorite painting of the Annunciation in which, in the midst of being delivered the news of a miracle, Mary looks positively overwhelmed: who said the path to revelation and glory was easy. Kiki de Montparnasse cries round glass tears. Finally, a Kenneth Patchen painting:
NOW, WHEN I GET BACK HERE, I EXPECT TO FIND ALL OF YOU MARCHING THROUGH THE STREETS WITH GREAT BUNCHES OF WILDFLOWERS IN YOUR ARMS
11.02.2004
Good afternoon. Have you voted yet? I voted. Everybody's voting. For that reason, no matter what else happens, I'll always remember this day fondly.
10.29.2004
Ok fine. Call me a bandwagon jumper if you want. I call it focusing.
Here, Friday, for one time only, are all the cat pictures I can find on my hard drive.
Hi, Roxy!
Hello, little Saro!
Sweetie plays the piano!
Who's a cat?
Here's a better one of Vladimir and Oscar.
Africa, you're so beautiful!
Send me your cats by the end of the day and I'll add them in.
Here, Friday, for one time only, are all the cat pictures I can find on my hard drive.
Hi, Roxy!
Hello, little Saro!
Sweetie plays the piano!
Who's a cat?
Here's a better one of Vladimir and Oscar.
Africa, you're so beautiful!
Send me your cats by the end of the day and I'll add them in.
10.27.2004
Take Five!
This is the perfect morning for a little Dave Brubeck, don't ya think.
The day started out with Coltrane's "My Favorite Things" on the bus. So sweet.
Soon I'll have a few days off to sleep in, run, sip coffee in Central Park, and watch the leaves fall.
Anything can happen.
The day started out with Coltrane's "My Favorite Things" on the bus. So sweet.
Soon I'll have a few days off to sleep in, run, sip coffee in Central Park, and watch the leaves fall.
Anything can happen.
10.26.2004
10.25.2004
It's Raining Coats!
I took advantage of the coat sale at Macy*s and replaced my long black wool coat (deceased) with another black number that has plenty of length as well as sass.
Last winter I got caught in a fashion emergency when I had a floor-length skirt and a coat that went only to the knee. Never again!
2 coats in one weekend? Pure decadence. That I paid under $250 combined is borderline illegal. Someone, arrest me!
Last winter I got caught in a fashion emergency when I had a floor-length skirt and a coat that went only to the knee. Never again!
2 coats in one weekend? Pure decadence. That I paid under $250 combined is borderline illegal. Someone, arrest me!
10.22.2004
10.19.2004
Easy Does It
If you'll permit me, I'm going to bitch a little, and then brag a little.
I hate doing these big workouts. I don't like having 18 pounds of dumbbell in each hand and having to lift, lift, lift and let it down slooow, and then lift lift lift once again. It is boring and makes me sweat through clothes. I seem to be in the shower all the time. I'm doing laundry all the time. I'm sore all the time. I'm frustrated all the time. I don't like being pushed, or criticized for taking too long of a rest. I don't like feeling as if I'm gonna upchuck when I do push-ups. I don't like being so tired all I can do is lie on the couch. I hate the fucking treadmill.
I like that my grey pencil skirt fits again. I like that I can do as many push-ups as a boy can. I like being on the couch with cats, Vogue, and blanky.
It's interesting that one pushes oneself to the point of being immobilized, and only then learns to sit still.
I hate doing these big workouts. I don't like having 18 pounds of dumbbell in each hand and having to lift, lift, lift and let it down slooow, and then lift lift lift once again. It is boring and makes me sweat through clothes. I seem to be in the shower all the time. I'm doing laundry all the time. I'm sore all the time. I'm frustrated all the time. I don't like being pushed, or criticized for taking too long of a rest. I don't like feeling as if I'm gonna upchuck when I do push-ups. I don't like being so tired all I can do is lie on the couch. I hate the fucking treadmill.
I like that my grey pencil skirt fits again. I like that I can do as many push-ups as a boy can. I like being on the couch with cats, Vogue, and blanky.
It's interesting that one pushes oneself to the point of being immobilized, and only then learns to sit still.
10.15.2004
Confessions of the Cheap and Easy
It felt fun and slightly wicked to moonlight with Plastic Beef last night. Quel decadence: three guitars, Beatles covers, long jams. If I could, I would rehearse every night with a different band: at least, if all bands were as nice as the ones I already know.
It's So Easy
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
People tell me love's for fools,
So here I go breaking all of the rules
It seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy)
Umm-hmm so doggone easy (doggone easy, doggone easy)
Umm-hmm, it seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy, seems so easy)
Where you're concerned, my heart has learned
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
INSTRUMENTAL BREAK
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
Look into your heart and see
What your love book set apart for me
It seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy)
Umm-hmm so doggone easy (doggone easy, doggone easy)
Umm-hmm, it seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy, seems so easy)
Where you're concerned, that my heart has learned
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
It's so easy to fall in love
People tell me love's for fools,
So here I go breaking all of the rules
It seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy)
Umm-hmm so doggone easy (doggone easy, doggone easy)
Umm-hmm, it seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy, seems so easy)
Where you're concerned, my heart has learned
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
INSTRUMENTAL BREAK
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
Look into your heart and see
What your love book set apart for me
It seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy)
Umm-hmm so doggone easy (doggone easy, doggone easy)
Umm-hmm, it seems so easy, (seems so easy, seems so easy, seems so easy)
Where you're concerned, that my heart has learned
It's so easy to fall in love,
It's so easy to fall in love
10.14.2004
It's Not Easy
Today my lunch was entirely green: Japanese boiled spinach units, and edamame.
I was eyeing the green tea ice cream, but refrained.
Can I keep this up for the rest of the day?
What might make a good green dinner?
I was eyeing the green tea ice cream, but refrained.
Can I keep this up for the rest of the day?
What might make a good green dinner?
10.13.2004
A Coat of Drab Color
For me, the most pleasant element of any crush is the element of surprise. A guy who uses your printer every other day stops in to pick up a few pages he printed on the subject of leopards, and suddenly you start blushing like mad. You meet ten people at a party, and there's one girl you can't stop staring at for her uneasy smile and single glittering chandelier earring.
There is an extra loveliness when the beloved had once been actively disliked, written off, or underestimated. When you see a person with new eyes, the world comes into focus around her. The room is lit differently; the curtains crease along the floor with a new grace. What once was a person's annoying snort is now a sure indicator of a lust for life.
I have a habit of falling in love a few times a week. If the beloved is a person, that's great, but very unusual. Most likely it's an animal, a color, a piece of clothing. Is it strange to be in love with a pattern of black flowers on white cloth? Is it unusual to swoon at the scent of fresh, crisp apples? Is it mad to snuffle a little as you savor the beauty of the cat purring on her back, her paws flexing and fanning in the air?
Surely I am mad. And the latest crush might be my crowning achievement. It's something I had rejected, reviled, and aligned with much of the evil in the world. I have a crush on trenchcoats.
I want a good winter trench. Bona fide girly spywear. Repelling rain and wind-wear. It needs to be fitted but not snug, with the belt cinched tight. It needs to be starch-stiff.
I had a trench once. It was huge, with a bulky wool lining. When I wore it, it was only for emergencies: I looked like a tank. Ultimately it was stolen from a coat room. I was secretly happy to freeze my ass on the sidewalk that night and catch a cab home without it.
And now the blandest, most drab emblem of the Western world is turning my head and turning my heart inside out.
I blame her.
And her.
There is an extra loveliness when the beloved had once been actively disliked, written off, or underestimated. When you see a person with new eyes, the world comes into focus around her. The room is lit differently; the curtains crease along the floor with a new grace. What once was a person's annoying snort is now a sure indicator of a lust for life.
I have a habit of falling in love a few times a week. If the beloved is a person, that's great, but very unusual. Most likely it's an animal, a color, a piece of clothing. Is it strange to be in love with a pattern of black flowers on white cloth? Is it unusual to swoon at the scent of fresh, crisp apples? Is it mad to snuffle a little as you savor the beauty of the cat purring on her back, her paws flexing and fanning in the air?
Surely I am mad. And the latest crush might be my crowning achievement. It's something I had rejected, reviled, and aligned with much of the evil in the world. I have a crush on trenchcoats.
I want a good winter trench. Bona fide girly spywear. Repelling rain and wind-wear. It needs to be fitted but not snug, with the belt cinched tight. It needs to be starch-stiff.
I had a trench once. It was huge, with a bulky wool lining. When I wore it, it was only for emergencies: I looked like a tank. Ultimately it was stolen from a coat room. I was secretly happy to freeze my ass on the sidewalk that night and catch a cab home without it.
And now the blandest, most drab emblem of the Western world is turning my head and turning my heart inside out.
I blame her.
And her.
I live under a rock, but it still doesn't make sense to me why why why people are so nostalgic for the 80s.
I remember it as a sad time of really bad fashion (shoulder pads, neon accessories, high waisted pants) bad haircuts (even Emmylou had a bi-level) and marginal pop music (I can't get that damn Patti La Belle/Michael McDonald song outta my head since Saturday's SNL).
Much of the music seems more interesting in retrospect, but still.
Do people see the 80s as a more innocent time and really love it, or do they just find it campy?
Am I just having an allergic reaction to reminders of my gawky adolescence?
Please weigh in.
I remember it as a sad time of really bad fashion (shoulder pads, neon accessories, high waisted pants) bad haircuts (even Emmylou had a bi-level) and marginal pop music (I can't get that damn Patti La Belle/Michael McDonald song outta my head since Saturday's SNL).
Much of the music seems more interesting in retrospect, but still.
Do people see the 80s as a more innocent time and really love it, or do they just find it campy?
Am I just having an allergic reaction to reminders of my gawky adolescence?
Please weigh in.
10.08.2004
Autumnal
This is always my favorite weekend of the year -- cool, with amber light.
The kindly creature from another dimension and I are heading north to wander around and perhaps pick apples.
Have a wonderful weekend!
The kindly creature from another dimension and I are heading north to wander around and perhaps pick apples.
Have a wonderful weekend!
10.06.2004
I was oddly touched that, this morning, I was presented with a cyalume light stick to keep in my purse in case of power outages or subway breakdowns . . . kind of like being given a special sword before you forge onward to slay a dragon.
10.05.2004
10.04.2004
Learning how to box has precipitated crises that, appropriately enough, I never saw coming.
First I learned the art of wrapping my hands, how to hold the correct stance, and later, each punch in its perfect, rarefied form. I then learned to throw these punches in combination; and following that, pivoting, ducking, and pulling back. When I'm warming up, I'll call my own simple combinations and throw them, scooting back and forth across the room. Then Leila will call the punch and I'll hit her pads, the combinations gradually becoming more fast, intricate, and aggressive.
Saturday was a little different. I was told to do the more sophisticated combinations entirely on my own, in more rapid progression and without them being called.
This is a natural outgrowth of what I had been doing. Yet it's one thing to punch the air, scoot, punch and punch again, and quite another to come up with your own spontaneous ballet of punches and ducks and focus on an invisible opponent who has suddenly become more fearsome.
I started to feel self-conscious. I started forgetting moves: What was the name of that twisty one . . . . ? In the meantime, I was throwing simple punches badly. Like a cat who misses a leap and wipes out on the floor, I tried to slink into the next set and pretend it never happened. But couldn't conjure up what to do. Crouch? Pivot? I was being watched. I was punching at no one, dodging no one. This felt incredibly foolish.
"Go, go," Leila said.
Uh . . . 1, 2. Uh . . . slip, slip. Uh . . . 1. 2.
Hook.
Um, pivot.
"Don't think about it."
I never thought I would actively wish to be attacked, but I wished she would lunge at me and just tell me how to hit.
1, 2 . . . hook . . . ok, pivot.
"Faster."
1, 2, hook, pivot, 1, 2 . . . uh . . .
I can do this. I started welling up.
Pivot. Snif. 1, 2.
"Keep going. I know how you feel, just push through it."
Ain't that the way of life.
Leila finally took pity on me, raised her pads, and called a few. I rallied and went after her hard: THWAK THWAK THWAK. I was soaked in sweat and my nose was running.
What can I tell you. Sometimes it helps when you can see the enemy, and aren't just swinging punches in the air.
First I learned the art of wrapping my hands, how to hold the correct stance, and later, each punch in its perfect, rarefied form. I then learned to throw these punches in combination; and following that, pivoting, ducking, and pulling back. When I'm warming up, I'll call my own simple combinations and throw them, scooting back and forth across the room. Then Leila will call the punch and I'll hit her pads, the combinations gradually becoming more fast, intricate, and aggressive.
Saturday was a little different. I was told to do the more sophisticated combinations entirely on my own, in more rapid progression and without them being called.
This is a natural outgrowth of what I had been doing. Yet it's one thing to punch the air, scoot, punch and punch again, and quite another to come up with your own spontaneous ballet of punches and ducks and focus on an invisible opponent who has suddenly become more fearsome.
I started to feel self-conscious. I started forgetting moves: What was the name of that twisty one . . . . ? In the meantime, I was throwing simple punches badly. Like a cat who misses a leap and wipes out on the floor, I tried to slink into the next set and pretend it never happened. But couldn't conjure up what to do. Crouch? Pivot? I was being watched. I was punching at no one, dodging no one. This felt incredibly foolish.
"Go, go," Leila said.
Uh . . . 1, 2. Uh . . . slip, slip. Uh . . . 1. 2.
Hook.
Um, pivot.
"Don't think about it."
I never thought I would actively wish to be attacked, but I wished she would lunge at me and just tell me how to hit.
1, 2 . . . hook . . . ok, pivot.
"Faster."
1, 2, hook, pivot, 1, 2 . . . uh . . .
I can do this. I started welling up.
Pivot. Snif. 1, 2.
"Keep going. I know how you feel, just push through it."
Ain't that the way of life.
Leila finally took pity on me, raised her pads, and called a few. I rallied and went after her hard: THWAK THWAK THWAK. I was soaked in sweat and my nose was running.
What can I tell you. Sometimes it helps when you can see the enemy, and aren't just swinging punches in the air.
10.01.2004
A Word on the Reptilian Brain
. . . 'She was full of reptiles.' --Joseph Conrad (Lord Jim)
Evolution. 1. Collectively, those early parts of the human brain which developed during the reptilian adaptation to life on land. 2. Of particular interest are modules of the forebrain which evolved to enable reptilian body movements, mating rituals, and signature displays.
Usage I: Many common gestures, postures, and nonverbal routines (expressive, e.g., of dominance, submission, and territoriality) elaborated ca. 280 m.y.a. in modules of the reptilian brain. The latter itself evolved from modules and paleocircuits of the amphibian brain.
Usage II: In the house of the reptile, it makes a difference whether one crouches or stands tall. Flexing the limbs to look small and submissive, or extending them to push-up and seem dominant, is a reptilian ploy used by human beings today. Size displays as encoded, e.g., in boots, business suits, and hands-on-hips postures, have deep, neural roots in the reptilian forebrain, specifically, in rounded masses of grey matter called basal ganglia.
Literature: "Of these the vigilance I dread, and to elude, thus wrapt in mist of midnight vapor, glide obscure, and pry in every bush and brake, where hap may find the serpent sleeping, in whose mazy folds to hide me, and the dark intent I bring." --John Milton (Paradise Lost, Book IX; 1667)
Reptilian ritual. In Nonverbal World, the meaning of persistence (e.g., repeated attempts to dominate) and repetition (e.g., of aggressive head-nods or shakes of a fist) are found in underlying, reptilian-inspired rituals controlled by the habit-prone basal ganglia (a motor control area identified as the protoreptilian brain or R-complex by Paul D. MacLean [1990]).
Reptilian routine. According to MacLean (1990), our nonverbal ruts start in the R-complex, which accounts for many unquestioned, ritualistic, and recurring patterns in our daily master routine. Like a fence lizard's day--which starts with a cautious commute from its rock shelter, and ends with a bask in the sun--our workday unfolds in a series of repetitive, nonverbal acts. Countless office rituals (from morning's coffee huddle, e.g., to the sacred lunch break) are performed in a set manner throughout the working days of our lives.
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