There was a lot of fluffy goodness growing this March, and my chirpy spring spirit turned more to a growl once the results of spring’s “anticipation” came in.
I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival, alone. This surprises no one, as I do many things alone now: museums, movies, cultural events, neighborhood exploring. But dammit, even the scary harajuku kids dressed up as manga characters had someone to hang out with at the festival.
I took lots of beautiful pictures, and documented all kinds of people having fun in the gardens, and then went home to process my pictures. Also, to add insult to injury, I ran into one of the six people that I know in Brooklyn, a city of over 2 million inhabitants. Of course I see my old crush after six months dressed in my red hoodie and jeans, not having showered since the day before, and having been rained on at the festival. Superb. Very spring-like and inspiring.
I’m ready for work to be normal again, for people to act like they’re still my friends, pick up the damn phone, or answer a freaking email.
Screw this “spring” thing.
If, on a winter's night a traveler outside the town of Malbork, leaning from a steep slope without fear of wind or vertigo, looks down into the gathering shadow...on the carpet of leaves illuminated by the moon around an empty grave, what story there awaits its end? -italo calvino
Saturday, May 03, 2008
Monday, April 07, 2008
Updated Travel Stuff
For those loyal readers of last year's odyssey (good lord, it really has been a year!), there is a new one:
"Heart of America" in January '07 is online for your reading pleasure. More to come soon, I hope!
-Siempre,
Thea
"Heart of America" in January '07 is online for your reading pleasure. More to come soon, I hope!
-Siempre,
Thea
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
That Springtime Feeling
I love that feeling of...
...wait for it...
...anticipation!
There's something magical about that moment in time when something is *about* to happen: when possibilities abound, when beauty and excitement lie dormant, just barely out of sight. It’s the time of year when life is almost ready to begin, when the cold sleepy earth is rolling around in its warm comforter, thinking about throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. I’ve got to admit that the sensation is infectious, and lately I have found myself buzzing with a vague sense of anticipation, but I can’t quite figure out what I’m waiting for.
It's been several years since I’ve had a complete set of seasons. Since I graduated from college in the spring of 2004, I haven’t had a proper temperate growing cycle. The Wet/Dry seasons of South Florida in no way resembled the “standard” four seasons of the mid-Atlantic; spring manifests itself as a gradual warming followed by flocks of migratory college students in their pale winter hues signaling the 40 day extravaganza on South Beach known as Spring Break. Then last year I just barely missed spring in South America: the weather heated up right after we touched down at EZE.
Winter in New York was pretty mild this year, for which I am eternally grateful, but it was still winter. The endless grays of sky, street, and dirt make for a soporific palette, and the shortened days do not exactly inspire one to leave the shelter of a cozy apartment. Social schedules slow and friends go into hibernation as the winter blahs set in.
After the first nice weekend in the city, I leapt on the chance to get Fiametta out of winter storage. As I froze my ass off driving the wind-blown Manhattan Bridge, I held tight to the handlebars and my mental image of how it’s going to be in a few short weeks when the sun is shining and I won’t need three layers of insulation. It’s so close—I totally didn’t care that I couldn’t feel my hands when I got to work.
Then, inspired by hints of spring popping up around the city: summer concert schedules, leaving work when it’s light outside, early crocuses in miniature brownstone gardens, I became a member of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was just a little too cold to wander through the gardens, but I toughed it out with my camera, giddy over the tiny signs of springtime that are starting to appear in corners of the park. The daffodils are up, sending green spears through the blanket of dry autumn leaves that covers the grounds. One or two early cherries are blushing pink, tentatively putting out buds and preparing for the festival in May. There are some brave clusters of violet crocuses pushing through the cold ground.
The gardens aren’t showy yet, and the irises and tulips are still locked tight in their winter homes. But it’s easy to appreciate cabbage-sized irises and vibrant tulips. It takes a little more time and effort to notice the beauty of a garden that is still in transition; to see in the present the beginnings of beauty and know that in the future something great will come of it. That sense of possibility is almost better than the actual culmination. This place will be stuffed with people when the dramatic bulbs reach their full flower, but I get to have this embryonic garden all to myself. It’s my own secret not-yet-fully-formed place, and my imagination fills the gaps, populates the bare mulch with phantom roses and peonies.
The chill eventually penetrated my extremities, and eventually I had to take refuge in the heated greenhouse among the tropical plants that grew outdoors at my old home in Miami. After a brief respite I was back outside searching for the next sign of spring.
I finally found it in the formal marble courtyard at the north end of the park: walk of magnolias, in full blossom. These fragile blossoms decorated the otherwise bare trees alternately with fuchsia and snowy bursts. Magnolias are special, because you have to catch them early. The satin flowers bruise easily, especially on the deciduous versions with smaller more abundant blooms. If you wait too long, there’s nothing but a browned, smelly mess of petals on the ground, not very picturesque. But if you catch them early, magnolia blossoms are sweeter, more delicate than a rose.
I’ve met some interesting people lately, and kind of enjoy the excitement of first date. There hasn’t been anything life-altering, but I think it’s good to be “out there,” even in my own timid fashion. If nothing else, it makes for funny stories in the office.
I don’t like winter, but like so many things in life, intense feeling and emotion is the product of an interesting juxtaposition. If you only ever have summer, there’s nothing to compare it to, and you take those perfect sunny days for granted. If there were no winter, would we care about spring? Probably not much. You can’t have a spring without going through the dreary cold. It’s mother nature’s reward for sticking it out through the shitty times, and I’m ready to cash in.
...wait for it...
...anticipation!
There's something magical about that moment in time when something is *about* to happen: when possibilities abound, when beauty and excitement lie dormant, just barely out of sight. It’s the time of year when life is almost ready to begin, when the cold sleepy earth is rolling around in its warm comforter, thinking about throwing off the covers and jumping out of bed. I’ve got to admit that the sensation is infectious, and lately I have found myself buzzing with a vague sense of anticipation, but I can’t quite figure out what I’m waiting for.
It's been several years since I’ve had a complete set of seasons. Since I graduated from college in the spring of 2004, I haven’t had a proper temperate growing cycle. The Wet/Dry seasons of South Florida in no way resembled the “standard” four seasons of the mid-Atlantic; spring manifests itself as a gradual warming followed by flocks of migratory college students in their pale winter hues signaling the 40 day extravaganza on South Beach known as Spring Break. Then last year I just barely missed spring in South America: the weather heated up right after we touched down at EZE.
Winter in New York was pretty mild this year, for which I am eternally grateful, but it was still winter. The endless grays of sky, street, and dirt make for a soporific palette, and the shortened days do not exactly inspire one to leave the shelter of a cozy apartment. Social schedules slow and friends go into hibernation as the winter blahs set in.
After the first nice weekend in the city, I leapt on the chance to get Fiametta out of winter storage. As I froze my ass off driving the wind-blown Manhattan Bridge, I held tight to the handlebars and my mental image of how it’s going to be in a few short weeks when the sun is shining and I won’t need three layers of insulation. It’s so close—I totally didn’t care that I couldn’t feel my hands when I got to work.
Then, inspired by hints of spring popping up around the city: summer concert schedules, leaving work when it’s light outside, early crocuses in miniature brownstone gardens, I became a member of the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. It was just a little too cold to wander through the gardens, but I toughed it out with my camera, giddy over the tiny signs of springtime that are starting to appear in corners of the park. The daffodils are up, sending green spears through the blanket of dry autumn leaves that covers the grounds. One or two early cherries are blushing pink, tentatively putting out buds and preparing for the festival in May. There are some brave clusters of violet crocuses pushing through the cold ground.
The gardens aren’t showy yet, and the irises and tulips are still locked tight in their winter homes. But it’s easy to appreciate cabbage-sized irises and vibrant tulips. It takes a little more time and effort to notice the beauty of a garden that is still in transition; to see in the present the beginnings of beauty and know that in the future something great will come of it. That sense of possibility is almost better than the actual culmination. This place will be stuffed with people when the dramatic bulbs reach their full flower, but I get to have this embryonic garden all to myself. It’s my own secret not-yet-fully-formed place, and my imagination fills the gaps, populates the bare mulch with phantom roses and peonies.
The chill eventually penetrated my extremities, and eventually I had to take refuge in the heated greenhouse among the tropical plants that grew outdoors at my old home in Miami. After a brief respite I was back outside searching for the next sign of spring.
I finally found it in the formal marble courtyard at the north end of the park: walk of magnolias, in full blossom. These fragile blossoms decorated the otherwise bare trees alternately with fuchsia and snowy bursts. Magnolias are special, because you have to catch them early. The satin flowers bruise easily, especially on the deciduous versions with smaller more abundant blooms. If you wait too long, there’s nothing but a browned, smelly mess of petals on the ground, not very picturesque. But if you catch them early, magnolia blossoms are sweeter, more delicate than a rose.
I’ve met some interesting people lately, and kind of enjoy the excitement of first date. There hasn’t been anything life-altering, but I think it’s good to be “out there,” even in my own timid fashion. If nothing else, it makes for funny stories in the office.
I don’t like winter, but like so many things in life, intense feeling and emotion is the product of an interesting juxtaposition. If you only ever have summer, there’s nothing to compare it to, and you take those perfect sunny days for granted. If there were no winter, would we care about spring? Probably not much. You can’t have a spring without going through the dreary cold. It’s mother nature’s reward for sticking it out through the shitty times, and I’m ready to cash in.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Online dating is strange
In a flash of extroversion, and immediately preceded by several disappointing potential romances, I joined Match.com...along with thousands of other single New Yorkers.
I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.
One date down, and the search continues.
What am I searching for? That remains unclear.
I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.
The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:
"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."
Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.
Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...
...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...
There's none of that here!
It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.
oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.
I've decided that I deserve someone interesting, engaging, cute, and available--all qualities that I am assured NOT to find in some bar in Manhattan. It's been about a week now but seems like much longer than that: the ups, the downs, the nervousness, the drama! Well, not so much drama I suppose.
One date down, and the search continues.
What am I searching for? That remains unclear.
I continue to send witty emails to intriguing guys, but I haven't quite figured out the protocol for this new world of cyber-flirting. I am not a fan of the "wink," as I see it as basically a cop-out: if you think someone is cute and interesting send them a damn message. That said, I did wink at someone yesterday, and they winked back. What this interaction means, no one knows.
The most bizarre part of this whole deal is the anonymity that it provides, in contrast to the clear expectations of outcome. I had a totally lame date this weekend with a perfectly nice guy. There was absolutely nothing wrong with him, and yet it was just kind of like meeting some acquaintance from college to catch up on superficial stuff. As it was my first date in about 4 years, I didn't really know what to expect, or how to interpret certain interactions. In the end, prodded by well-meaning friends, I sent him a message about meeting up for drinks. Shockingly, he wrote back exactly what I didn't have the courage to say:
"Nice to meet you, but I really didn't feel any spark, so let's just leave it at that."
Okay, so he might not have said those exact words, but you get the point.
Completely honest, and in a city of nearly nine something million people, we'll never run into each other, and it'll never be awkward! How liberating. This whole "directness" thing is strange to me, and will take some getting used to. We were on a date, this was clear. There were expectations of attraction and "chemistry" (whatever the fuck that means), and there really wasn't any. So it didn't work, and we both move on to other options. Then I realized, I don't even know this guy's last name--and what's more, I don't need to! Everything is so factual, cut and dry, with none of the bullshit that goes along with "dating" in college...
...we're hooking up but we're not dating...we're dating, but we're not exclusive...we're hanging out and we're dating, but we're not hooking up...we're studying and I wish we were dating but we're not...
There's none of that here!
It's a crazy world out there, the New York singles scene, but this seems for the moment to be the best way to navigate through uncharted waters without capsizing in an overwhelming sea of uninteresting assholes. I haven't quite gotten my sea-legs yet, but I'll get there eventually.
oh, and P.S. 2008 is shaping up to be the bizarre Japanese connections year. Remind me to tell you about that sometime.
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Oh, February.
Traditionally February is a harsh month for me. Though G. denies it, I have never had a good Valentine's day regardless of my relationship status, and I was expecting more of the same this year. The ominous weather earlier in the week seemed to indicate as much, and I prepped a somber all-black outfit suited to my funereal mood.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
I threw open the door to my apartment building Thursday morning with a confrontational shove, and dared February 14th to get the better of me. I must have scared something off, because I had a completely uneventful day at work relatively devoid of irritating references to romance and love. The only concession to the holiday spirit was a perusal of the NYT editorial page, full of archaic lists of what it takes to be in love. That made me smile.
Armed in ebon garb with eyes ringed in kohl, I dared anyone clad in rosy hues to even hint at valentines festivities...and it worked! One of the girls at work even mentioned that my makeup looked nice. Ha.
So Valentine's Day passed much like any other, with a low amarga quotient. When I got home I had a few beers, turned on some loud music and completely scoured the bathroom. My parents were coming to town that weekend, and I figured that I might as well do a chore that puts me in a bad mood on a day that puts me in a bad mood, killing two birds with one stone.
The very next day I decided that I was in the mood for a feel-good movie, and called up "Waitress" on my queue from Netflix. I surprisingly enjoyed the movie and its non-formulaic take on romantic relationships. It's fun to see a movie that's truly non run of the mill, that's written with a sense of humor and thoughtfulness. Kerri Russell really stole the show, and although I can't say that I agree with a lot of the value judgments about women in the movie, it was highly entertaining. It also contained one of the best lines I've heard in a while:
I hope someday somebody wants to hold you for 20 minutes straight and that's all they do. They don't pull away. They don't look at your face. They don't try to kiss you. All they do is wrap you up in their arms and hold on tight, without an ounce of selfishness in it.
I like that.
Like Ms. Russell's character, I enjoy event-specific recipe names, christening this evening's meal "Achoo, I'm Getting a Head-cold Lentil Soup." I'm really hoping that my valiant immune system is up to the challenge of doing battle with whatever cold viruses are floating around inside, making the soup moniker oxymoronic.
Apart from some mild sniffles and me missing by Vespa (and the cute boys at the bike shop), winter hasn't been nearly as harsh as I'd expected. Dark, yes. Chilly, yes. Monumentally depressing and soul-crushing? No.
February, you've been remarkably humane thus far, please keep it that way.
Monday, February 04, 2008
It has recently come to my attention...
...that I have sorely neglected my dearest of blogs. My unfinished South American writings languish on my hard drive, waiting for a polish, some cleaning up and a place for display.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
Now that the beautiful new "machine" as my family would call it is fully functional, I've performed a long-needed upgrade on Amarga and given her a new coat of paint, not unlike a certain Dodge Caravan from days of old.
I haven't wanted to be too personal lately, and that's okay. Let it suffice to say that I'm doing pretty well still, discovering hidden corners of New York City and of Brooklyn, and trying to make this borough more of my home.
Perhaps I'll send out a round of emails when I've got my travel essays ready, or maybe write something about my photography, if I can think of anything coherent to say. In the meantime, I think I will take a cue from my new roommate and just get back into the habit of writing again.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Starry Night
Greetings everyone! I know that it's been quite a while since I've posted anything, and for that I make no excuses other than to say that it's been a little busy lately.
For those of you looking for the conclusion to my South American Odyssey, fear not. I've got several things waiting in the wings and will back-post them so they appear after the current stuff.
As most of you know, I'm now in New York with a new job, and I move into my new apartment in Brooklyn today! I'm ready to have my own digs again and get settled into a routine.
I’ve been reading a lot of modern British fiction lately, mostly on the subway to and from work in Midtown, and am starting to think that I should design a course about it including my recent reading materials: Atonement and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, Virginia Woolf has been on my mind as well, adding another dimension to the turbulent consciousnesses at play in my fictional frame of mind. With this as a caveat, today was a good day.
I haven’t had a good day in a while. Let me qualify that to say that I also haven’t really had a bad day in a while. I’ve been floating, carried along by the tide of my life and its responsibilities, without much of a thought to how I was really doing. The shock of moving to New York is starting to wear off, and the multiple new elements of my current life are becoming familiar with varying speeds. Getting used to being around Rachael and Mandi took nearly no time at all, as was expected. Equilibrating to the subway, life in the big city, and the logistics of life without cars and box stores took a little while, but it was the good kind of adjustment. I finally deposited a paycheck in the bank, for the first time in nearly 12 months, alleviating near financial disaster and credit card debt.
Then today, I finally got comfortable at work. Not only do I feel more confident in meetings and have started to express my opinion, I've had some real conversations that made me feel more connected to the people at the office, and I bonded with the interns about traveling and Harry Potter. I’m in this bizarre age no mans’s land at work: the interns are all several years younger and still in college, but most of the staff is 30+. Makes it a little harder to find immediate common ground, so when something does come along it feels good.
And I can tell you it feels pretty fucking good to have an apartment.
It’s small, and my bedroom is even smaller (no really, it’s tiny), but it’s freshly remodeled with a phat phridge and high-btu gas range. That almost makes up for the galley-sized kitchen and the room that I’m not even sure will fit a full bed. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I found it thanks to weeks of grueling searching. I discovered it with my own brain and judgment amidst the swirling chaos-filled vortex of the New York City housing market, designed to suck the soul and money out of anyone who dares approach.
Last night, I felt the excitement building as I drove north through Brooklyn from my current “home” near Prospect Park. I passed Grand Army Plaza for the first time and had a (nearly) subconscious flashback of Harry and Sally standing in front of the huge archway after their marathon drive to the Big Apple. Brooklyn seemed to welcome me, and then it smacked me around a little for being wide-eyed and enthusiastic, like any good New Yorker would. Due to nighttime driving and me not being quite aggressive enough in a minivan at traffic circles, what should have been a 10-15 minute drive turned into 25 as I zig-zagged my way towards what I hoped was my apartment. Eventually I honed in on Clinton and Dekalb, snagging a parking space directly in front of my new front door. I sped up the five flights of rickety stairs (not yet remodeled, unlike our spanking new apartment) and found to my delight that not only the electricity and gas were on (I have no idea who has been paying the utility bills), but all the ceiling fans have cute little remote controls on the walls. Throwing open the windows to the cool night air, the first non-rainy non-sauna-like evening that we’ve had in a few weeks, I did a giddy little dance in the living room before taking a couple of loads of my stuff out of the van. The thought of my things in the back of the car sitting on the street in New York had been in the corner of my mind all week, and there was a part of me that kind of expected to come back every evening and see a window smashed and all my stuff gone. Now, that little corner of my mind is free again!
Once I had satisfied my need to fill the blank canvas of the new apartment, I decided that not only would hauling stuff up the stairs be more pleasant on this refreshing summer night, but that being on the roof would be too. I turned out the lights in the apartment, went into the stuffy hallway to make sure that all the locks worked, closed the door and climbed the 1/2 flight of stairs leading to the roof. Pushing tentatively on the door to see how it opened, I swung it wide open once I discovered it had no locking mechanism that might trap me out of the building. Then, I stepped out onto the spongy surface, not sure if I was allowed to be there, or if the old roof would support my weight. I walked over the ceiling of our apartment to compare the view from my bedroom window (not much different than what I see from one floor below), then walked around the stairwell’s skylight and faced south.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled at me through the clear dry air and I turned slowly to get the panoramic view: the diffuse aura of Manhattan rising mauve up from behind the nearest buildings’ silhouettes, the Chrysler building glowing at me from an alley, and the stars desperately competing with the mass of luminosity produced by this city to sustain its nearly 18 million inhabitants. Then, and only then, did I truly understand that I was now one of them. I live in New York. I whipped back around to take it all in, watched the polka-dots of the Brooklyn Bridge disappear into layers of offices, condos, brownstones, windows, and signs, and then my vision blurred a little as I realized that I was crying.
Dozens of emotions converged in me in that moment when I turned around in circles on the roof of 290 Clinton Street looking at the sky, my new home below, and the boroughs around me. The burden of searching for a home was gone, I was free to begin my daily life. Energized, excited, elated, and exhausted I let myself take a moment to think about all that I’ve accomplished in the past month since I left New York in May, in the wake of a surreal and interview-laden visit. A bit of pride poked its way into my consciousness, followed by relief, anticipation for the future, and a thread of pure joy. And then, as the cool air passed over my tired body, I truly felt the emptiness that I had been waiting for since I left New Hampshire.
Thus far, I have been remarkably successful in staving off that emptiness, keeping it away from my conscious mind with daily tasks, immediate practical concerns, reestablishing connections with old friends, partying in the city, and expressing myself creatively. But when I get tired, stop thinking or stop doing, I fall into old thought patterns worn into my synapses by several years of constant repetition. There on the roof, in the midst of this incredible moment, the feeling of what I have lost became almost as acute as what I have gained. I say almost because that little vacuum of loss is not enough to induce regret or any kind of remorse. I still think that the major decisions that I’ve made recently are the right ones for me, those which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness (thanks Jane). Yet within all that self-satisfaction had almost forgotten that it hurts to have someone that you thought you would be with forever tell you that they just don’t ever see that happening. When that feeling gets to you, it makes you catch your breath a little, like someone punched you in the chest. I know how lucky I am to have other, more pleasant emotions fighting to take the place of that emptiness, but nothingness is a little hard to get rid of.
In the meantime, I've been working on having something to take the place of that emptiness, and the attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. I've been trying to be responsible, to act like the adult that that I am, pay the bills and make sure the electricity stays on. But in the midst of all that, I need moments like last night on the roof. Life is made for moments like that, and if you haven't had one in a while, then maybe you should think about why.
Things are not perfect, and it will still take some time for me to fully adjust to my new social and geographical context. I'm liking New York, and I love my friends. So right now, I'm here and I'm finding my place in the bustling city. I am here, and yes, Mrs. Ramsay, it is enough. It is enough!
For those of you looking for the conclusion to my South American Odyssey, fear not. I've got several things waiting in the wings and will back-post them so they appear after the current stuff.
As most of you know, I'm now in New York with a new job, and I move into my new apartment in Brooklyn today! I'm ready to have my own digs again and get settled into a routine.
I’ve been reading a lot of modern British fiction lately, mostly on the subway to and from work in Midtown, and am starting to think that I should design a course about it including my recent reading materials: Atonement and Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Of course, Virginia Woolf has been on my mind as well, adding another dimension to the turbulent consciousnesses at play in my fictional frame of mind. With this as a caveat, today was a good day.
I haven’t had a good day in a while. Let me qualify that to say that I also haven’t really had a bad day in a while. I’ve been floating, carried along by the tide of my life and its responsibilities, without much of a thought to how I was really doing. The shock of moving to New York is starting to wear off, and the multiple new elements of my current life are becoming familiar with varying speeds. Getting used to being around Rachael and Mandi took nearly no time at all, as was expected. Equilibrating to the subway, life in the big city, and the logistics of life without cars and box stores took a little while, but it was the good kind of adjustment. I finally deposited a paycheck in the bank, for the first time in nearly 12 months, alleviating near financial disaster and credit card debt.
Then today, I finally got comfortable at work. Not only do I feel more confident in meetings and have started to express my opinion, I've had some real conversations that made me feel more connected to the people at the office, and I bonded with the interns about traveling and Harry Potter. I’m in this bizarre age no mans’s land at work: the interns are all several years younger and still in college, but most of the staff is 30+. Makes it a little harder to find immediate common ground, so when something does come along it feels good.
And I can tell you it feels pretty fucking good to have an apartment.
It’s small, and my bedroom is even smaller (no really, it’s tiny), but it’s freshly remodeled with a phat phridge and high-btu gas range. That almost makes up for the galley-sized kitchen and the room that I’m not even sure will fit a full bed. It’s small, but it’s mine, and I found it thanks to weeks of grueling searching. I discovered it with my own brain and judgment amidst the swirling chaos-filled vortex of the New York City housing market, designed to suck the soul and money out of anyone who dares approach.
Last night, I felt the excitement building as I drove north through Brooklyn from my current “home” near Prospect Park. I passed Grand Army Plaza for the first time and had a (nearly) subconscious flashback of Harry and Sally standing in front of the huge archway after their marathon drive to the Big Apple. Brooklyn seemed to welcome me, and then it smacked me around a little for being wide-eyed and enthusiastic, like any good New Yorker would. Due to nighttime driving and me not being quite aggressive enough in a minivan at traffic circles, what should have been a 10-15 minute drive turned into 25 as I zig-zagged my way towards what I hoped was my apartment. Eventually I honed in on Clinton and Dekalb, snagging a parking space directly in front of my new front door. I sped up the five flights of rickety stairs (not yet remodeled, unlike our spanking new apartment) and found to my delight that not only the electricity and gas were on (I have no idea who has been paying the utility bills), but all the ceiling fans have cute little remote controls on the walls. Throwing open the windows to the cool night air, the first non-rainy non-sauna-like evening that we’ve had in a few weeks, I did a giddy little dance in the living room before taking a couple of loads of my stuff out of the van. The thought of my things in the back of the car sitting on the street in New York had been in the corner of my mind all week, and there was a part of me that kind of expected to come back every evening and see a window smashed and all my stuff gone. Now, that little corner of my mind is free again!
Once I had satisfied my need to fill the blank canvas of the new apartment, I decided that not only would hauling stuff up the stairs be more pleasant on this refreshing summer night, but that being on the roof would be too. I turned out the lights in the apartment, went into the stuffy hallway to make sure that all the locks worked, closed the door and climbed the 1/2 flight of stairs leading to the roof. Pushing tentatively on the door to see how it opened, I swung it wide open once I discovered it had no locking mechanism that might trap me out of the building. Then, I stepped out onto the spongy surface, not sure if I was allowed to be there, or if the old roof would support my weight. I walked over the ceiling of our apartment to compare the view from my bedroom window (not much different than what I see from one floor below), then walked around the stairwell’s skylight and faced south.
The lights of downtown Brooklyn sparkled at me through the clear dry air and I turned slowly to get the panoramic view: the diffuse aura of Manhattan rising mauve up from behind the nearest buildings’ silhouettes, the Chrysler building glowing at me from an alley, and the stars desperately competing with the mass of luminosity produced by this city to sustain its nearly 18 million inhabitants. Then, and only then, did I truly understand that I was now one of them. I live in New York. I whipped back around to take it all in, watched the polka-dots of the Brooklyn Bridge disappear into layers of offices, condos, brownstones, windows, and signs, and then my vision blurred a little as I realized that I was crying.
Dozens of emotions converged in me in that moment when I turned around in circles on the roof of 290 Clinton Street looking at the sky, my new home below, and the boroughs around me. The burden of searching for a home was gone, I was free to begin my daily life. Energized, excited, elated, and exhausted I let myself take a moment to think about all that I’ve accomplished in the past month since I left New York in May, in the wake of a surreal and interview-laden visit. A bit of pride poked its way into my consciousness, followed by relief, anticipation for the future, and a thread of pure joy. And then, as the cool air passed over my tired body, I truly felt the emptiness that I had been waiting for since I left New Hampshire.
Thus far, I have been remarkably successful in staving off that emptiness, keeping it away from my conscious mind with daily tasks, immediate practical concerns, reestablishing connections with old friends, partying in the city, and expressing myself creatively. But when I get tired, stop thinking or stop doing, I fall into old thought patterns worn into my synapses by several years of constant repetition. There on the roof, in the midst of this incredible moment, the feeling of what I have lost became almost as acute as what I have gained. I say almost because that little vacuum of loss is not enough to induce regret or any kind of remorse. I still think that the major decisions that I’ve made recently are the right ones for me, those which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness (thanks Jane). Yet within all that self-satisfaction had almost forgotten that it hurts to have someone that you thought you would be with forever tell you that they just don’t ever see that happening. When that feeling gets to you, it makes you catch your breath a little, like someone punched you in the chest. I know how lucky I am to have other, more pleasant emotions fighting to take the place of that emptiness, but nothingness is a little hard to get rid of.
In the meantime, I've been working on having something to take the place of that emptiness, and the attempt has not been entirely unsuccessful. I've been trying to be responsible, to act like the adult that that I am, pay the bills and make sure the electricity stays on. But in the midst of all that, I need moments like last night on the roof. Life is made for moments like that, and if you haven't had one in a while, then maybe you should think about why.
Things are not perfect, and it will still take some time for me to fully adjust to my new social and geographical context. I'm liking New York, and I love my friends. So right now, I'm here and I'm finding my place in the bustling city. I am here, and yes, Mrs. Ramsay, it is enough. It is enough!
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