A Year of Firsts

I do not even remotely have an answer for why Faith Hill's "Breathe" is in my head, on repeat like a contemporary country miniature pitchfork stabbing into my brain over and over again.

But it is.

In other news, work has been....nevermind. Lemme esplain. No, no too long. Lemme sup up: work has been just like having Faith Hill's "Breathe" stuck in your head with no explanation or relief. But no matter. Soon it will be Friday and then Halloween and I will be free to roam the streets of the city of my dreams, dressed like a damn fool, sneaking tiny pieces of candy bar and having a cocktail while dancing. I'm so glad I'm still so immature.

In a way I am glad I made the pretense of blogging every day this past month. Though I failed (mostly), I did get a lot of blogging done. This will be different from the month of November, a month wherein I will force myself to be absent from social media as well as my real life social life. I'm participating in NaNoWriMo for the first time and have every intention of giving it my all. This year so far has been a year of firsts for me and why not finish my first novel before we close up for 2015? Give me one good reason!

I have let the modern world and all of its infinite distractions into my brain so easily. I can't remember when it happened but it did; I'm just like everyone else now and I think it is causing me to get depressed. So this social media diet will be an interesting experiment for me. I anticipate it will give me focus and will cause my brain to seek entertainment elsewhere, a place far away from Buzzfeed and political philosophies gleaned from memes. We'll see won't we?

In the interim, it'd be nice to hear from you. Really, it would. So why not leave a comment? Here or on FB. C'moooooon.

Ok, I'm going to go speak to a medical doctor now about removing the part of my brain that can still hear Faith Hill. Bye!

Blame Updike for the Ennui

Today my star is blinking sporadically, like a dying light bulb on and off and over again. It was on at full capacity supernova last night when, after dreaming a strange and strangely disheartening dream (I dreamed of being bored, can you freaking believe that? What a waste of unconsciousness! I'm reading Updike and my instinct is to blame him for this.)  And I opened my eyes to face the darkness of my cluttered bedroom and couldn't shut them again. My brain burst with all those late night musings that present themselves like jagged pieces of a broken mirror. You know the kind? The kind in which you can still see parts of your reflection but all of it looks distorted?

Hence, my slow and methodical fading away today. I swished some iced coffee around in my mouth as I rode the subway to work, hoping to clear away the bitter taste of my version of the dark night of the soul. How stupid mine have become!

There is really no difference between my thoughts in the newborn light of early morning in bed and my thoughts in the false fluorescence of daytime, apart from what I'm wearing. Well that plus the notion that everything is a just a bit wrong. Maybe not everything but just everything I've ever done, said, written or worn. And by just a bit wrong I just mean than anything that comes from my very essence, from that place that sits right at the base of my soul and identity is useless and worthless. I awkwardly jab at the notion, that maybe I share a bit too much of myself on here and on social media.

I feel connected to you in this way but I'm not sure there really is a bridge there. I feel like Indiana Jones in the Last Crusade when he's in the Temple of the Sun, standing on the edge of a cliff and not seeing a bridge there but stepping down anyway, believing he could reach the other side even though he couldn't see how. He can see it after he's already on it, after he's thrown some dirt all over it. I sometimes don't know if anyone is on the other side. And my 80s childbrain will draw parallels to Indiana Jones, as it does.

I don't really know you. Or I only know some of you. Or I've created the thing that I want you to be in my mind and assume that's how you are but I don't really know. Do you?

See? Same thoughts of a day of a night of a neurotic person. No difference whatsoever.

I spent the weekend in a house by a lake. It belongs to some friends who were kind enough to let me and my sister head up there. Originally it was going to be a whole gang of us but life is a tumble dryer sometimes and so it was just me and my sis. It was a blustery, gray weekend but the trees were still in mostly autumn splendor and though it poured down rain, being there was a recharging. I've been unable to finish the story I'm working on and, though I still didn't finish it, I made some real progress. If you make progress in a story in a house by the woods, does it make a sound?

As you can see, BEDO chugs on but the tracks are missing some rails. I've ostensibly just "blogged" by telling you that I had insomnia, drank coffee and that I have writer's block. ARE YOU NOT AMUSED?!

Spoiler alert.

Blame the Children

Where yesterday I was merely dipping part of my toe into the giant, sweaty vat that is head cold-ness, today I'm swimming in it...and I forgot my floaties.

I always look to place blame when I feel like a small bird scratched my throat while I slept so today, I'm setting my sights on my new workplace and the never ending stream of children that inhabit this particular library on a daily basis. I love children. They are adorable and precocious and they are the future blah blah. They are also babbling petri dishes and considering about five of my coworkers are also poorly, I feel free to blame the children. I might start a campaign along the lines of Feed the Children but instead call it Blame the Children. The campaign will do nothing except maybe collect OTC cough and cold remedies, which I will then store under my bathroom sink. Much to my chagrin last night, I scoured my drug supply to find only night time remedies so I was undrugged for my morning commute which is just as pleasant as it sounds. I'd like to take a moment to thank humanity for inventing drugs that quell the symptoms of head colds and for making them available to the general public. Thanks, humanity!

I attended a genre workshop this morning because one of best things about my new job is the access to and discussion of fiction. This genre study was focused on the differences between mysteries, thrillers and suspense novels. We were given a book to read which I did not enjoy even a little bit and it turns out it was a police procedural with some psychological thriller elements. The only police procedural I have ever enjoyed has been Law and Order, and really that is due to the acting. If I had to read one more chapter of autopsy reports or police hierarchy, I was going to sneeze all over my book and use that as an excuse as to why I didn't finish it. But I did finish it, just to make maxi extreme ultra certain that I didn't like it. I was right. It was like eating butterless toast. Ah well, it was a bestseller in France so someone likes it. The next selection seems intriguing and at some point we will be reading a true crime book which is more my speed. Still, I feel lucky to be able to participate in such a group and it really is expanding my knowledge of the genre, something that a lot of library patrons really cotton to. Side note: I want to bring back that phrase..."cotton to". Begin using at your leisure.

Since I have uninhibited, full time access to literally millions of books, I've taken to hoarding them again. Each day brings a whole stack of books I "need" to read. I'm just not going to live long enough to do it all and that's a bit depressing. But maybe they'll have a library in the next life. With heaping bowls of avocados all over the place.

So let's recap:

• My head is fully submerged in a combination of throat scratches and a vat of snot
• I blame children
• I like the drugs 
• I don't like French police procedurals
• I hoard books
• I cotton to things
• I hold out hope for both literature and food in the next life.

Man, if this entry doesn't make you happy to have spent your time reading this blog, I just don't know enough words with which to apologize and I'm really so sorry about that.

Why did the serial killer cross the road?

I don't know why it should, but it tickles me to see people buying random things at the supermarket. I am one of those people usually and this morning I had to buy some lemonade for a staff party and I realized that I needed mouthwash. The man in front of me was buying a case of Bud (at 8am on a Monday) and some Ajax powder (for the a.m. beer pukes?) and the woman behind me was buying a chocolate cake and package of hot dogs. I think the type of people who grocery shop at 8am on a Monday morning (me) have random tastes.

Also on my way to work this morning, and every morning actually, I pass by this tire place. About a year ago, I had to buy a tire from them in an emergency and while I waited, the mechanic working on it was talking to me and I got a very distinct serial killer vibe from him. He is about 7 feet tall with dirty, greasy hair. If his eye color were a paint hue, it would be accurately named "Sociopathic Blue" and his conversation consisted of him misusing and mispronouncing words including, but not limited to: "suppositated", "UNTerling" and "i'm going to chop you up and leave you in the woods." I may have made one of those up. Anyway, this morning he was standing in the middle of a narrow two way street, precisely on the yellow lines waving his left hand for everyone to stop so he could cross. In his right hand, he was carrying two garbage bags which could only have been filled with body parts. I mean, that is the only explanation I can think of in any rational way. So this morning consisted of weirdos at the supermarket and a serial killer crossing the street.

I did quite a bit this weekend, starting on Thursday so here are the highlights in a format that I wish had existed for the common student when I was in 8th grade and handed in my typewriter typed report about Andrew Lloyd Webber all slanty and discombobulated: bullet points. (Btw, I got about four points taken for not having any margins on that paper and the sentences being, you know, physically slanted.)

• This American Life broadcast a live show version of their regular radio broadcast throughout a bunch of movie theaters on Thursday. Kismet decided to follow me: I was off from work, had no obligations and was made aware that it was playing at my local movie theater. In case I had any doubts about dear Kismet, I picked up my ticket I turned around and saw a friend and coworker in line who was also attending the same movie. Instant company! Shouldn't all company be instant? The show was incredible. David Rakoff danced with a paralyzed arm and he brought me to tears. David Sedaris came out in clown makeup and related a story about waiting for coffee behind two very annoying people which hit close to home. Tig Notaro dueted with Taylor Dane. You just don't see these things every day.

•  Vivan Maier stumbled into my life, or vice versa, thanks to the show. I read her work was displayed here in NY back in January and was young and inexperienced back then; I just didn't know. Chagrin, commence. I visit her once a day now.

• On Friday, I found myself unbelievably at Webster Hall, that bastion of my late adolescence and a place I once boycotted for not letting me in the night after my high school prom, an event I did not attend. (I had tickets to see Nine Inch Nails and THAT was going to be my prom but it turns out you had to be 18 to get in there in 1994 and this remains true to this day. So I never got to spend the evening with Trent Reznor and whole room full of angsty, ripped fishnetted goths. I believe that night what we did instead was stroll through Washingston Square Park to buy drugs and two of our group took them on the train home. I was not one of those two.) Massive digression. I was there with my concert buddy/sister to see M. Ward. Needless to say, I got in this time since I don't look a day over 40. The concert was amazing and he played everything I wanted to hear and despite it not being in my favorite venue, the sound was kind of exceptional. During the encore, Conor Oberst appeared, long haired and tortured and tapping right into that emo part of my brain. Coincidentally and perhaps bringing us full circle, that part of my brain is still fishnetted.

• In keeping with the tradition of every single concert I've ever attended in a general admission/standing room only location the tallest man in the room makes a beeline to me or one of my companions, thus making this the view, every single time (and keep in mind the predominant theme of concerts in NYC seems to be "Do Not Move. If you move, it will destroy your beardy, indie boy facade.":

5/11/12, Webster Hall, Photo by LME

• I felt like rearranging my life on Saturday morning, been feeling kind of a wreck what with my life feeling like it is going nowhere. Unable to rearrange my entire life on a Saturday morning, I spent all day rearranging my closet. Not life changing, but doable in a day. An entire day, apparently. On my way out to the dumpster, I saw two ducks napping in the parking lot of my apartment complex. It was a sign. The sign read, come outside for a bit. Let your brain take a nap. On days when I'm not dragged by rusted iron chains and beaten into submission in order to be there, I enjoy going to the library. Being a library patron is better than being a librarian in the way that watching your favorite film as the director intended it without further explanation is better than six hours of commentary. What a pleasant place the library can be. I was researching Alzheimer's disease so when depression started to cloud my eyes a bit I walked over to the local coffee house and drank a green chai iced tea that I'm still thinking about today. I also went to a local DVD store called Mother's Movies where I finally bought the Three Colors trilogy and ordered a copy of Beginners. I love that I live near a store inside of which it is possible to discuss Kieslowski and the merits of buying a four movie box set, a box set I'm still thinking about today.

• I got a visit from my brother and sister at night, in town again for Mother's Day. I played them the two chords I learned on the ukulele and we watched the Mighty Boosh. It is impossible for me to type and then reread those two sentences without smiling.

• Mother's Day consisted of many things. Fortunately, most of them were love or flavored with love. I could say so many things about my mother but specifically to chronicle this particular mother's day I'll just say: 4 mimosas. Oh and that I love that woman.

• John Irving reading from his new novel In One Person at the 92nd St. Y in Manhattan rounded out the weekend. No one will ever accuse Mr. Irving of being a dynamo public speaker but that is okay since he spends the majority of his time blowing my fucking mind with his writing. Sadly he wasn't signing books last night (and I had brought along my weathered and mysteriously stained copy of "A Widow for One Year" which I have always envisioned him inscribing it with a personal invitation to play squash with him.) but I'm comforted that he will be at ALA this year and I may meet him yet. I'm in the middle of "In One Person" and I'm riveted. 

• On the way back into Queens, I was once again facing death inside a cab. Since I look everywhere but straight ahead inside a NYC taxi, I kept envisioning a brick wall dead ahead of every movement forward. Nancy pointed out how the 7 train sounds just like a roller coaster and I think we were all collectively disturbed by this notion. I picked up my car and drove back to this neverending island. I only consider it neverending because it never, ever ends, almost exactly like this blog post.