I have been severely, unforgivably lax in the upkeep of this blog. It speaks more to the nature of my extreme busyness towards the end of this fleeting season than to my lack of character. As such, I demand forgiveness. Or at least, a temporary hall pass.
Summer is fleeing. I step outside and I smell the fall already in the air. I see the taps at my local favorite watering holes populated with pumpkin ales and I am reminded that it was just Memorial Day like, yesterday. I have not put away any pants/skirts/shoes that are white because a) I am in denial and b) I don't really care about wearing white after labor day. It is an arbitrary and stupid "rule."
Since I skipped out on my first day of the month post, I suppose I should include the list of movies. I hope you have a snack handy because the sheer length of this list is going to require a long moment to read through. Ready?
Dans Paris (2006)
On the Road (2013)
Admission (2013)
20 Feet From Stardom (2013)
I'm So Excited (2013)
Phew. I'm exhausted from that. In fairness, I took it upon myself to watch the first four seasons of Northern Exposure again so that ate up quite a bit of time, time that wasn't spent constantly going and doing and seeing and eating and drinking. This August was definitely one of the highlights of the year so far. I'd feel bad about my lack of cinema watching and book reading if it hadn't been.
I'd also feel bad about lacking in writing except for the fact that I leave for Spain tomorrow on a 15 day, long awaited, desperately needed vacation. This is a trip that I am positive, without really knowing for certain, that will be worthy of writing about (as if that has ever been a factor in what I blog about) and my sister and one of five other traveling companions is bringing along her computer so expect updates from the Mediterranean seaside. Or something.
For the next 24 or so hours, I'll pretty much be a nervous ball of energy. I already ate french fries in a fit of pre-travel anxiety. What should I eat next?
Thursday, September 5, 2013
Tuesday, August 13, 2013
You are not the boss of me.
I am not going into it but a train conductor fucked me over and out of $300 the other day. Believe me, I want so badly to wax on about how abysmally I have been treated by the Metropolitan Transit Authority of New York right here in this blog that my fingers are shaking. I work with a woman who is strange for many reasons but one of the strangest things about her is that when she types on her computer, she bangs on the keyboard like a toddler holding a sippy cup and wanting attention. I feel like doing that right now. And I would, if only I hadn't been stewing in my anger like a peeled and pulpy tomato in a crock pot for the last three days, the acidity of my own anger bubbling all around my head leaving me chewy and burnt out and completely useless. But if no one bears witness to this injustice (I know, I know this sounds like hyperbole but couldn't it be possible that there are levels of injustice?) did it happen?
In truth, lots of people bore witness during the incident on the train last Saturday. More people still when I ranted about it on Facebook. And even more could conceivably crouch painfully under the weight of so much witness if I decided to pen my beautifully worded "fuck you" to whomever in the complaints office will listen. So I'm pretty much covered in the "witness" department. Still, another rehashing and all the subsequent encouragement I am certain to receive from people who know me and all the well intentions I live inside might ease the rage a little. Then again, something I've noticed in the last few days since said train conductor made me question what is truly at the heart of my behavior and whether or not there is an angry little mouse of a girl at the helm of my psyche just waiting for a good excuse to enact violence against another person, is that it is disturbingly easy to let one emotion overcome you. Believe it or not, this is not something I have really noticed before.
I do consider myself an emotional person. I am affectionate and desirous of affection. I cry when I am sad. I scream when I am angry or excited. I laugh until I cry and scream. I think, though, that I have always felt completely in control of my reactions to things because I have never felt anything remotely close to extreme. I have known several people in my life who feel things extremely. Sure, most of them have emotional disorders and I can recognize that when I see it. But a reaction that happened to me when that corpulent, pimply, small bepenised train conductor destroyed the memory of an otherwise brilliant weekend, has thrown my navel gazing for a loop. The reason is this: I wanted to hit him.
Ok, I have felt angry before. But my anger is one of the simmering kind. I am comfortable using my words for a lot of things (not everything, clearly) so as a result I can usually tamper what I feel down long enough to go somewhere to write it down in a secret place. So what has happened before has followed the same formula: get angry, simmer in silence for awhile, write out my anger, come to terms with it, let it go. I cannot actually say that anything has made me angry to the point of wanting to strike another person. Ever. Not even when I overheard that bitch from high school tell her friends after a gym class freshman year that she wanted to see me "die a slow and painful death." I think, because of my maturity level, I just ended up crying about that one. But this guy. This guy. I started to understand how people say they "see red". I literally did see red. My brain was coated in a thick red, raging paint that threatened to block out my vision, coat and constrict my throat and pool at the bottom of my stomach where I imagined it would dry and become splotchy and permanent. That's where I felt the strongest desire, there at the pit of my stomach, to draw my fist back and punch him in the temple. I wanted nothing so badly then to send his conductor's hat flying across the train car where it would defy the laws of physics and fly out the open train car door and up and over the platform full of sweating passengers and land at the opening of a dirty sewer grate among crushed cigarette butts and the mud caked metal crosses. Having never hit another person before, my imagination stopped conjuring what he would do and instead focused so intensely on me and the immense satisfaction of having hit such a poor excuse for a person that was in the realm of possible outcomes; had I been alone or even slightly intoxicated, I feel certain that I would have chased that rainbow until the end.
But then, just as I reached the point of no return, I heard my grandfather say "No importa. Dejar lo." There is just something about grandparents, some unreachable pitch in the sound of their voices. My brain clicked off the rage switch and I started to feel the steam rise as I cooled. I began to meditate. I decided that I would feel contemptuous pity for this walking blob instead of throbbing rage. The majority shareholders of my personality began to show up for the meeting and unanimously passed a resolution: I can rage to my friends and family about this. I can send a message to the ether of Facebook and garner support from friends and acquaintances. I can meditate and hold an imaginary lotus in my hand for an hour until all thoughts of revenge disappear. But, and this must be a steadfast ruling: anger will not be the boss of me.
I wanted to whittle down the details of this non-event of my recent life in this blog. Then I decided that enough was enough. I'm writing a check. I'm breathing in and out and I'm letting it go. To everyone I have personally told and complained to about this, I and my board of directors thank you for listening. Let me buy you lunch next time you are in my neighborhood.
Just try to avoid taking the train.
In truth, lots of people bore witness during the incident on the train last Saturday. More people still when I ranted about it on Facebook. And even more could conceivably crouch painfully under the weight of so much witness if I decided to pen my beautifully worded "fuck you" to whomever in the complaints office will listen. So I'm pretty much covered in the "witness" department. Still, another rehashing and all the subsequent encouragement I am certain to receive from people who know me and all the well intentions I live inside might ease the rage a little. Then again, something I've noticed in the last few days since said train conductor made me question what is truly at the heart of my behavior and whether or not there is an angry little mouse of a girl at the helm of my psyche just waiting for a good excuse to enact violence against another person, is that it is disturbingly easy to let one emotion overcome you. Believe it or not, this is not something I have really noticed before.
I do consider myself an emotional person. I am affectionate and desirous of affection. I cry when I am sad. I scream when I am angry or excited. I laugh until I cry and scream. I think, though, that I have always felt completely in control of my reactions to things because I have never felt anything remotely close to extreme. I have known several people in my life who feel things extremely. Sure, most of them have emotional disorders and I can recognize that when I see it. But a reaction that happened to me when that corpulent, pimply, small bepenised train conductor destroyed the memory of an otherwise brilliant weekend, has thrown my navel gazing for a loop. The reason is this: I wanted to hit him.
Ok, I have felt angry before. But my anger is one of the simmering kind. I am comfortable using my words for a lot of things (not everything, clearly) so as a result I can usually tamper what I feel down long enough to go somewhere to write it down in a secret place. So what has happened before has followed the same formula: get angry, simmer in silence for awhile, write out my anger, come to terms with it, let it go. I cannot actually say that anything has made me angry to the point of wanting to strike another person. Ever. Not even when I overheard that bitch from high school tell her friends after a gym class freshman year that she wanted to see me "die a slow and painful death." I think, because of my maturity level, I just ended up crying about that one. But this guy. This guy. I started to understand how people say they "see red". I literally did see red. My brain was coated in a thick red, raging paint that threatened to block out my vision, coat and constrict my throat and pool at the bottom of my stomach where I imagined it would dry and become splotchy and permanent. That's where I felt the strongest desire, there at the pit of my stomach, to draw my fist back and punch him in the temple. I wanted nothing so badly then to send his conductor's hat flying across the train car where it would defy the laws of physics and fly out the open train car door and up and over the platform full of sweating passengers and land at the opening of a dirty sewer grate among crushed cigarette butts and the mud caked metal crosses. Having never hit another person before, my imagination stopped conjuring what he would do and instead focused so intensely on me and the immense satisfaction of having hit such a poor excuse for a person that was in the realm of possible outcomes; had I been alone or even slightly intoxicated, I feel certain that I would have chased that rainbow until the end.
But then, just as I reached the point of no return, I heard my grandfather say "No importa. Dejar lo." There is just something about grandparents, some unreachable pitch in the sound of their voices. My brain clicked off the rage switch and I started to feel the steam rise as I cooled. I began to meditate. I decided that I would feel contemptuous pity for this walking blob instead of throbbing rage. The majority shareholders of my personality began to show up for the meeting and unanimously passed a resolution: I can rage to my friends and family about this. I can send a message to the ether of Facebook and garner support from friends and acquaintances. I can meditate and hold an imaginary lotus in my hand for an hour until all thoughts of revenge disappear. But, and this must be a steadfast ruling: anger will not be the boss of me.
I wanted to whittle down the details of this non-event of my recent life in this blog. Then I decided that enough was enough. I'm writing a check. I'm breathing in and out and I'm letting it go. To everyone I have personally told and complained to about this, I and my board of directors thank you for listening. Let me buy you lunch next time you are in my neighborhood.
Just try to avoid taking the train.
Tuesday, August 6, 2013
Mountain of Forgotten Books
In preparation for my fast approaching (four short weeks away!) to Spain, I have been making plans to lighten my load, literally... this will be the first time I'm traveling for an extended period of time with only a carry on luggage. I will be traveling to multiple cities and staying in apartments that actually have washing machines. Couple those facts with the fact that I live in perpetual fear of losing my luggage (my underwear, mostly) it makes zero sense to bring luggage big enough to be checked and cumbersome enough to be dragged around. In keeping with the Rick Steves' guide to packing light, I'm giving this a go. And, in keeping with giving this a go, I have purchased a bluetooth keyboard with which I plan on blogging while traveling. I typed this entire paragraph using it. How does it look? How do you think my first foray into technological gadgetry went? I don't feel any different. Do I look different?
Now I am back on a regular desktop computer. It feels better but, like the wandering eyes of a long married woman, I know something else is out there; something convenient and a little different, maybe a little unpredictable and dangerous and that knowledge comforts me. I am a digital Eve, post biting the shiny, juicy apple (Apple?). Enough of all that.
My birthday came and went and I don't feel old but I'm not young anymore. I hate the constraints of getting older, especially when I feel identical to my 19 year old self, if a little more confident. I celebrated with a truly wonderful group of people eating truly wonderful food and drink. I saw this adorable band. I stayed up late into the night. I wore tulle. I think I might still be 19. With more creaking bones. (Sincerely, every time I shrug my shoulders, my neck cracks. Every time I get up from my chair, my knee pops...I'm a walking haunted house, without the interesting back story.)
And I spent the whole day yesterday(the actual day of my birthday) feeling ok and just totally normal. I thought about all the things I want to accomplish this year and before I reach the next milestone age in a scant three years. I felt so good, having been surrounded by people I love, doing things I love all weekend and was riding high on all of that for most of the day. There was even the discovery that a new natural food store opened up the street from my apartment and a reverie of bulgur wheat and farm fresh $5.00 cartons of eggs whirled through my head. I even ate an ice cream cone.
That was yesterday. Just now, I'm starting to find the dirt in my fries. It could just be the relentless drudgery of working but my mind set has done most of a 180. At the moment, two things are jutting through the marshmallow of my brain. Thing 1: The realization that I spend most of my shift at my part time job throwing books away. I understand why this has to happen but I cannot ignore that it is the antithesis of why I became a librarian. No matter that time and technology (see my bluetooth keyboard paragraph above) flood the world like the biggest tsunami that ever was or that the inevitability of the utter disappearance of physical books looms above my head on a daily basis as I grasp to the side of a mountain of forgotten books with a plastic fork as my grappling hook. It still feels unnatural to hold a book in my hands and make the choice to throw it out. It isn't even the trash I'm throwing out. It is the Rodin coffee table books, the African mask photography books, the Bahaus in America history books. This information exists within seconds with your smart phone, not that any of you are using it for that (nor am I) but this hurts and it happens every shift.
Thing 2: Earlier today I read about a "town" in China that was built in 2007 to resemble Paris, complete with a scaled down Eiffel Tower and a replica of the surrounding gardens. Apparently it was built to house up to 10,000 people and has, in recent times become a veritable ghost town. Putting aside the hollowed out sadness factor of ghost towns in general, my brain focuses on how this particular town couldn't even be a success at being a fake version of something else. I don't know what it is about this story but its very existence resonates with me. I feel an unassailable sympathy for trying to be something greater and then failing. I feel not unlike this boxer wearing man looks in this photo.
That I had such a blissful weekend, I suppose the crappiness I feel today only further enforces the notion that you must take a spoonful of medicine with your sugar. But the good news is that if I want it to, tomorrow can be all beer and cheeses. Wahoo.
Now I am back on a regular desktop computer. It feels better but, like the wandering eyes of a long married woman, I know something else is out there; something convenient and a little different, maybe a little unpredictable and dangerous and that knowledge comforts me. I am a digital Eve, post biting the shiny, juicy apple (Apple?). Enough of all that.
My birthday came and went and I don't feel old but I'm not young anymore. I hate the constraints of getting older, especially when I feel identical to my 19 year old self, if a little more confident. I celebrated with a truly wonderful group of people eating truly wonderful food and drink. I saw this adorable band. I stayed up late into the night. I wore tulle. I think I might still be 19. With more creaking bones. (Sincerely, every time I shrug my shoulders, my neck cracks. Every time I get up from my chair, my knee pops...I'm a walking haunted house, without the interesting back story.)
And I spent the whole day yesterday(the actual day of my birthday) feeling ok and just totally normal. I thought about all the things I want to accomplish this year and before I reach the next milestone age in a scant three years. I felt so good, having been surrounded by people I love, doing things I love all weekend and was riding high on all of that for most of the day. There was even the discovery that a new natural food store opened up the street from my apartment and a reverie of bulgur wheat and farm fresh $5.00 cartons of eggs whirled through my head. I even ate an ice cream cone.
That was yesterday. Just now, I'm starting to find the dirt in my fries. It could just be the relentless drudgery of working but my mind set has done most of a 180. At the moment, two things are jutting through the marshmallow of my brain. Thing 1: The realization that I spend most of my shift at my part time job throwing books away. I understand why this has to happen but I cannot ignore that it is the antithesis of why I became a librarian. No matter that time and technology (see my bluetooth keyboard paragraph above) flood the world like the biggest tsunami that ever was or that the inevitability of the utter disappearance of physical books looms above my head on a daily basis as I grasp to the side of a mountain of forgotten books with a plastic fork as my grappling hook. It still feels unnatural to hold a book in my hands and make the choice to throw it out. It isn't even the trash I'm throwing out. It is the Rodin coffee table books, the African mask photography books, the Bahaus in America history books. This information exists within seconds with your smart phone, not that any of you are using it for that (nor am I) but this hurts and it happens every shift.
Thing 2: Earlier today I read about a "town" in China that was built in 2007 to resemble Paris, complete with a scaled down Eiffel Tower and a replica of the surrounding gardens. Apparently it was built to house up to 10,000 people and has, in recent times become a veritable ghost town. Putting aside the hollowed out sadness factor of ghost towns in general, my brain focuses on how this particular town couldn't even be a success at being a fake version of something else. I don't know what it is about this story but its very existence resonates with me. I feel an unassailable sympathy for trying to be something greater and then failing. I feel not unlike this boxer wearing man looks in this photo.
 | ||||||
| Apres nous, le deluge. |
That I had such a blissful weekend, I suppose the crappiness I feel today only further enforces the notion that you must take a spoonful of medicine with your sugar. But the good news is that if I want it to, tomorrow can be all beer and cheeses. Wahoo.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
July Goodbye
July came and went in a throbbing, hot, humid, wet mess. Strangely enough, that opening phrase also accurately describes my most recent, hovering over, non-romantic romance. But I can't begin by digressing so I'll carry on.
At the beginning of May, I halfassedly concocted a "to do" list for this summer. Following my usual fashion, I'm halfassedly getting through it. July saw me at the beach, jumping Atlantic ocean waves, frolicking, kind of like this:
I successfully completed my first visit to Fire Island and now can say I am a full fledged Long Island dweller, even though after being back here for 5 years, I still feel a bit like Robinson Crusoe, all shipwrecked, looking that footprint in the sand. Other than that, I have completed nothing on that original list. Not even the dang hot dog. But I had like two veggie dogs so, I think I'll just call that one a draw. In fairness, I have neither time nor desire anymore to see Shakespeare in the Park. I did go to the Space Needle though. And I've had a lot of summer cocktails; mint julep is just not one of them. I suppose I was making up for not having one of thsoe yet with the sheer quantity of all the other concoctions I have been drinking. It was a rather pickled July, if I'm being honest.
I went to Seattle and blogged at length about it. I also got so many visitors this month to my little apartment. It portends me returning the visits by traveling this autumn. Lucky me since I can't think of one place where travel in autumn is unpleasant. I did a whole mess of yoga (even if you can't tell) and am so very close to doing this. I can feel it:
Also, I have a lovely, lovely yoga teacher who said the best thing to me the other day. She said, "You have a wonderful energy around you. It is just so nice to be around you." I have so long wanted to be nice to be around and hearing that is exactly what I needed at that exact time.
Here's the movie list, paltry though it may be, for July:
Love Songs (Les Chansons d'Amour) (2007)
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (1967)
Beloved (2011)
Upside Down (2013)
Frances Ha (2013)
Stoker (2013)
Price Check (2013)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
Novocaine (2001)
Apres Lui (2009)
Before Midnight (2013)
Making Plans for Lena (2010)
Dans Paris (2006)
Dirty Wars (2013)
Barefoot in the Park (1967)
I keep watching Christophe Honore films for the Louis Garrel action. I keep liking a lot of them. Yet at the same time, I can see how someone would loathe them. In particular, "Love Songs" which I found to be charming, if also incredibly depressing, I could create a list of all of my friends who would feel a no holds barred hatred for it. I was also a big fan of Dans Paris but I pretty much actively hated Apres Lui. So he's just one of those filmmakers that splits my brain down the middle. Out of this month's list, I think my favorite was a tie between Before Midnight and Frances Ha. Two newbies but so worth seeing.
This hasn't been the best of monthly wrap ups but there you have it. My birthday is in about five days and I've planned a Weekend (notice the capital W). I'm certain I'll something to report by the time August comes to a close. If I don't, can we still see each other sometimes?
At the beginning of May, I halfassedly concocted a "to do" list for this summer. Following my usual fashion, I'm halfassedly getting through it. July saw me at the beach, jumping Atlantic ocean waves, frolicking, kind of like this:
I successfully completed my first visit to Fire Island and now can say I am a full fledged Long Island dweller, even though after being back here for 5 years, I still feel a bit like Robinson Crusoe, all shipwrecked, looking that footprint in the sand. Other than that, I have completed nothing on that original list. Not even the dang hot dog. But I had like two veggie dogs so, I think I'll just call that one a draw. In fairness, I have neither time nor desire anymore to see Shakespeare in the Park. I did go to the Space Needle though. And I've had a lot of summer cocktails; mint julep is just not one of them. I suppose I was making up for not having one of thsoe yet with the sheer quantity of all the other concoctions I have been drinking. It was a rather pickled July, if I'm being honest.
I went to Seattle and blogged at length about it. I also got so many visitors this month to my little apartment. It portends me returning the visits by traveling this autumn. Lucky me since I can't think of one place where travel in autumn is unpleasant. I did a whole mess of yoga (even if you can't tell) and am so very close to doing this. I can feel it:
Also, I have a lovely, lovely yoga teacher who said the best thing to me the other day. She said, "You have a wonderful energy around you. It is just so nice to be around you." I have so long wanted to be nice to be around and hearing that is exactly what I needed at that exact time.
Here's the movie list, paltry though it may be, for July:
Love Songs (Les Chansons d'Amour) (2007)
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (1967)
Beloved (2011)
Upside Down (2013)
Frances Ha (2013)
Stoker (2013)
Price Check (2013)
Five Easy Pieces (1970)
Novocaine (2001)
Apres Lui (2009)
Before Midnight (2013)
Making Plans for Lena (2010)
Dans Paris (2006)
Dirty Wars (2013)
Barefoot in the Park (1967)
I keep watching Christophe Honore films for the Louis Garrel action. I keep liking a lot of them. Yet at the same time, I can see how someone would loathe them. In particular, "Love Songs" which I found to be charming, if also incredibly depressing, I could create a list of all of my friends who would feel a no holds barred hatred for it. I was also a big fan of Dans Paris but I pretty much actively hated Apres Lui. So he's just one of those filmmakers that splits my brain down the middle. Out of this month's list, I think my favorite was a tie between Before Midnight and Frances Ha. Two newbies but so worth seeing.
This hasn't been the best of monthly wrap ups but there you have it. My birthday is in about five days and I've planned a Weekend (notice the capital W). I'm certain I'll something to report by the time August comes to a close. If I don't, can we still see each other sometimes?
Monday, July 22, 2013
Guided Aimlessness
Whenever a professional conference looms in my future as a certainty, generally three or four months ahead of time, depending on where the conference is it always feels either a bit like waiting for the Oscar nominees to be announced or waiting for the name of who is next to be cut from a dance competition. Certainly there is an element of utter predictability at these things: copious amounts of free pens, for example, or uncomfortable sales pitches by vendors you likely have neither money nor power to patronize, or a seemingly endless array of open bars in various hotel conference rooms, necessitating awkward mornings after. But still, new city, new people and a break from the air conditioned nightmare...yes, please. After being given the okay and a few days spent calculating the endless permutations of air travel and hotel booking, I was off to Seattle for five days.
Generally I am alone on flights for these work trips. I am usually very comfortable doing things alone but nowhere do I feel more comfortable being solo than in an airport. There is so much people watching to do, so many glossy magazines to buy, so many packets of mixed nuts to get "for the plane ride" that you'll actually consume before boarding. This time, however, my coworker Mike was on the same flight. There was only one other instance where I have seen Mike outside the confines of work, when we randomly ran into one another at the movies. I got the same sensation that time as I did seeing him at the airport which was really just my brain's way of adjusting to seeing someone outside of the element where I have them firmly placed. That strangeness quickly went away since Mike's a cool guy and in the pantheon of coworkers I could have ended up travelling alongside, I'm glad it was him. It was also nice to have company while I performed my preflight ritual of buzzing my brain to assuage the existential panic I usually feel while taking off and landing.
There was little to nothing notable about my flight other than I could not sleep and my row mates were getting a buzz going. I'm always surprised when people buy both food and alcohol on the flight, considering all of it is overpriced and crappy. But I suppose for a 6.5 hour flight, people think it is worth it.
And after we landed at around 9pm Seattle time (12am NY time) and were ravenously hungry, I found myself thinking back with longing to that overpriced cheese plate I could have had for the low low price of $11. I'm glad we decided to take a taxi to downtown because our driver was pretty hilarious. In one long breath he told us about how liberal Seattle is, how weed is about to be legalized, how one specific neighborhood was where "everything" was (when asked to clarify he said "gays, lesbians, dykes...everything"), and how the bum sitting on a particular street corner was working for the NSA. That last point was the diving board for a rant about how the government is watching everything you do. I liked him. He was also the first person in the city to point out the Space Needle. I always remember the person who plays the human compass for me in a new city. So thanks, hippie taxi driver.
A few observations about Seattle and what I did there:
Views and weather like this is the only reason I can come up with to describe the
The air was so pure and calm that it made me wish I hadn't spent the evening pickling my liver. Still, I'm so grateful I got to see that view change so dramatically from day to night. It was worth it.
I left the next morning and got on a flight with another coworker and we spent the better part of a seven hour trip home, getting to know each other. It is bizarre to find out how much you have in common with people you work with when you talk to them outside of windowless rooms. Before I knew it, I was back home, back to life, back to wishing I was still away. O the humanity.
Seattle is a beautiful city with beautiful people (no matter what that tourist shop lady says). I wish I had gotten to try more seafood and less beer. Who the hell am I kidding? I loved it all. I met a lot of people who were road tripping the Pacific Northwest and it feels like a trip that beckons. I really just think we should all get a van together and go.
Generally I am alone on flights for these work trips. I am usually very comfortable doing things alone but nowhere do I feel more comfortable being solo than in an airport. There is so much people watching to do, so many glossy magazines to buy, so many packets of mixed nuts to get "for the plane ride" that you'll actually consume before boarding. This time, however, my coworker Mike was on the same flight. There was only one other instance where I have seen Mike outside the confines of work, when we randomly ran into one another at the movies. I got the same sensation that time as I did seeing him at the airport which was really just my brain's way of adjusting to seeing someone outside of the element where I have them firmly placed. That strangeness quickly went away since Mike's a cool guy and in the pantheon of coworkers I could have ended up travelling alongside, I'm glad it was him. It was also nice to have company while I performed my preflight ritual of buzzing my brain to assuage the existential panic I usually feel while taking off and landing.
There was little to nothing notable about my flight other than I could not sleep and my row mates were getting a buzz going. I'm always surprised when people buy both food and alcohol on the flight, considering all of it is overpriced and crappy. But I suppose for a 6.5 hour flight, people think it is worth it.
And after we landed at around 9pm Seattle time (12am NY time) and were ravenously hungry, I found myself thinking back with longing to that overpriced cheese plate I could have had for the low low price of $11. I'm glad we decided to take a taxi to downtown because our driver was pretty hilarious. In one long breath he told us about how liberal Seattle is, how weed is about to be legalized, how one specific neighborhood was where "everything" was (when asked to clarify he said "gays, lesbians, dykes...everything"), and how the bum sitting on a particular street corner was working for the NSA. That last point was the diving board for a rant about how the government is watching everything you do. I liked him. He was also the first person in the city to point out the Space Needle. I always remember the person who plays the human compass for me in a new city. So thanks, hippie taxi driver.
A few observations about Seattle and what I did there:
- I don't know why or where I got the idea that Seattle would be like a mini-Brooklyn but I was mostly wrong. In fact, a lot of the locals I met and saw reminded me more of where I went to college which was in the neo-hippie 90s in a tiny upstate New York town. And that whole atmosphere would be appropriated by today's hipsters so maybe Seattle was more like this year's version of a redoing of 90s neo-hippies? Ok, I just gave myself a headache.
- The weather was a brilliant mixture of clarity and airiness with zero humidity and what I can only truly describe as extreme pleasantness. It did not rain even once, didn't even threaten rain or do anything other than beckon one to stay outside the entire time, day and night. Here's a photo I took one very early morning atop the Space Needle. :
Views and weather like this is the only reason I can come up with to describe the
- unrelenting friendliness of the locals. My first day there I walked from my hotel to the Space Needle (everything is so beautifully walkable there) and no less than three people said hello and smiled. At first, I did that "looking behind me to see who they were really talking to" thing which made the friendly guy laugh. Then I just got used to being pelted on all sides with soft blows of friendliness from strangers. Places like Seattle remind me that New York is coated in a hard candy shell. Sometimes I like to see the soft sugar underneath. Even the homeless, of which there were many, were friendly and polite. It seemed to me a city populated with the kind of people who would be in a clean, tasteful bar on a Monday afternoon. If you know me at all, you know that I love that.
- I took a walking, coffee tour of the city. This was probably the best tour I've ever taken in any city. I don't say this strictly because I was infused with liquid crack after 2 hours, but rather, because the tour guide was so knowledgeable not just about the unofficial official drink of the city but about the history of the neighborhoods we walked through and the unabashed love he had for his hometown was pretty evident from the beginning. I met a nice Swede on vacation and we had a great conversation about where he was from and where he was heading, which reminded me of why I love to travel so much. The sheer opportunity of meeting people from the other side of the world is something I don't ever want to stop doing. On that tour we were also taken to this place which had these amazing truffles, my favorite being a coriander and honey flavored. It was given to us with cold brewed coffee and I was again reminded of the chemistry of flavors. I'm glad I found that website because I need to order some as soon as I'm done with this blog post.
- I took another tour called the Seattle underground tour. That was particularly interesting because it seemed like the founders of Seattle were pretty dumb. And I mean that completely respectfully but honestly, they didn't even take the tides into consideration while building their town. And there was a convoluted series of ladders and broken walkways and everything flooded in sewage for decades. It seemed like Seattle was the worst place on earth to live; the 19th century's Florida, if you will. What was also interesting is that this tour was essentially a walk through a series of musty, unfinished basements with scattered artifacts everywhere. I did panic for about two minutes at one point, imagining the whole thing collapsing but that was only because the tour guide had spent several minutes telling us how the whole town flooded and burned and collapsed during its brief history.
- I ate some really good Vietnamese food and one pretty good crumpet. Other than that, I didn't really find the time or gumption to eat any fancy meals. The conference had plenty of free food on offer but, as Mike and I later discussed, we got used to feeling hungry. It was a little bizarre since I usually bee line to the food. This trip, it was straight for the alcohol. Even at dinner, I was drinking which I rarely do. Ahem.
- As I stated before, these conferences usually have an element of boozy fun involved. I think I probably drank every night. Saturday night, following a tip from a local, Mike and I went to the Capitol Hill neighborhood to soak up some local flavor (and local beer) and what little I remember of that night was fun. I remember The Pine Box, which we learned from a local barfly was a converted mortuary. I wish the website had photos of the bar because I'd like to remember what it looked like. I do remember they played Pearl Jam and Nirvana and thinking "I guess I actually am in Seattle now." I know we went to at least two other places; I have a scrawled note on a post it with the name of a song that I have a vague memory of the bartender writing for me. Then there was some crazy dancing. And I talked to a guy from Vancouver who knew NYC pretty well. If I ever go back to Seattle, I'm heading straight for Capitol Hill. I had such a great time, that I wanted to physically crawl inside a hole the next day. Proof positive!
- I did some conference crap and marginally met some people from all over the country. I remember sitting next to a woman who was breathing so heavily and had some serious lag time in between those heavy breaths that I was completely distracted by the sound for the entire session, pretty much out of fear that she would stop breathing altogether. It reminded me of my ex boyfriend who had sleep apnea that terrified me. I don't think breathing should be cliffhanger. This being a professional conference, I was powerless to do anything but keep looking over at her to make sure she was going to breathe again.
- I attended a social gathering that catered to Gen X and Gen Y conference goers; it was in fact called GenX/GenY Social and had a specialty menu of cocktails (I had two GenX's, represent) and met a slew of people, one very interesting guy who had me at "What are your top five Woody Allen movies?" There was a good band playing the event and when it was over (the jury is still out on what constitutes GenX and/or Gen Y), I walked home, into that pristine night air and felt immersed in the city. I want at least one night per trip where I can wander, aimless the streets of a new city. Well, I had an aim this time so, ok, a guided aimlessness. That's perfect, actually. I wish to wander this life with a guided aimlessness. There you go.
- Inspired by my evening wandering, I spent the next morning wandering the neighborhood and visiting the Seattle Public Library, a remarkable building with 10 stories of library space and incredible modern design. I had arrived before it opened and, just like at every single public library I have either been to or worked for, there was a line of people waiting to get in. And, again just like every single public library I've ever been to or worked for, there was a soft yet distinct coating that covered everything inside, forever marking the atmosphere in what I can only describe as "public library feel". It isn't something I can really describe, rather something that I can simply recognize when I feel it or see it. Or smell it. Still, it was hard to imagine that a library would even feel like a library when it has an entire floor that looks like this:
- After walking through the building and trying unsuccessfully to not get lost at least once, I made it to the uppermost floor that was open to the public where they had an atrium. However, it was overcrowded and I was unable to get a picture. Nevermind that though because for me, the highlight of the building is that red floor. It felt like I was in a David Lynch film.
- From the library I took a quick walk to Pike Place Market. I saw flying fish. I ate a crumpet, had what was probably my 20th cup of coffee in 4 days. I used some pretty immaculate public bathrooms. I bought some souvenirs. An old Chinese woman asked me where I was from and when I said New York she said "I knew it. That's why you are so pretty. Women from New York, Chicago and Los Angeles are always pretty. Women from places like Nebraska and Texas are always...tired." Those were her words! I think she was trying to get me to buy more.
- It was my last day for conference stuff so I did my duty and went to some programs. Since I had started my day early, I still had at least two hours until my next meeting so I decided to do as the Seattlelites were doing and I went to have a martini in my hotel bar. Unbeknownst to me when I booked the hotel, this place had the best martinis in Seattle, according the guidebooks and a few locals I spoke to. I looked at my watch and saw 3pm and after deciding it was acceptable martini time, I ordered one and can't honestly say I will ever regret it. It was damn near perfect, just like that afternoon with me sitting in an old world bar, day drinking and ruminating over the last few days. There was a young guy sitting at the end of the bar talking about how it should be sad hour, not happy hour. He was too young to be so melancholy, then again, he was an anachronism; so young, sitting in an old fashioned bar, drinking an old fashioned drink. I could tell after a bit that he started to feel better because he got flirty. Still, everything about him was so very Seattle, or what little I could glean from four sober days and one very drunken night in the city.
- That evening was the last big party thrown by one of the three major publishers in my field. They always have a huge party at the end of these conferences. There was a live 80s band and it was thrown in a big room inside this museum. It was all very festive, but it felt a little rushed. I think maybe I was just tired from the nonstop exhilaration of gallons of coffee and booze. Inside the museum, I walked around the Nirvana exhibit, despite sensing it would make me melancholy (it did) but worth it anyway (it was). The museum is at the foot of the Space Needle and when the party was over, Mike and I decided to ascend. I wanted to see the view at night. It seemed like the city was draped in black silk.
The air was so pure and calm that it made me wish I hadn't spent the evening pickling my liver. Still, I'm so grateful I got to see that view change so dramatically from day to night. It was worth it.
I left the next morning and got on a flight with another coworker and we spent the better part of a seven hour trip home, getting to know each other. It is bizarre to find out how much you have in common with people you work with when you talk to them outside of windowless rooms. Before I knew it, I was back home, back to life, back to wishing I was still away. O the humanity.
Seattle is a beautiful city with beautiful people (no matter what that tourist shop lady says). I wish I had gotten to try more seafood and less beer. Who the hell am I kidding? I loved it all. I met a lot of people who were road tripping the Pacific Northwest and it feels like a trip that beckons. I really just think we should all get a van together and go.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
A tall drink of Gallic water
I wonder what kinds of things I could accomplish if I spent the same amount of time researching my latest cinematic obsession (the French actor Louis Garrel) as I did putting effort into creating something I could share with people in a proud sort of way. You know, as opposed to creating a heart shaped collage of that tall drink of Gallic water; that would be something I could only share with myself, in a room alone, with the blinds drawn. I cannot help my brain and its diversionary tactics. I have spent years honing them, after all.
In truth I have spent only a minimal amount of time looking for articles on Garrel. If I had to break down my time usage in percentages, I'd put "Garrel Queries" at 10%. The other percentages could probably be divided up into driving, working, Facebooking, writing, drinking and plugging in hypothetical vacation destinations into sites like Expedia.com and tallying up the costs of an imaginary vacation and then logging into my bank account to remember that I have no money for that noise. In that order.
We are on the cusp of July 4th, the holiday that means quite a bit to us Americans. And by "means quite a bit" I mean we get the day off, if we are lucky, and we eat a lot of crap we wouldn't normally eat by the light of loud, dog and cat terrifying fireworks displays. My jaded flippancy is not intentional; I love fireworks. They are the closest thing I can get to the sparkling, colorful place I used to imagine the world to be when I was little. This is not an exaggeration. Though I never imagined the fairies to be real and I was always the child slightly skeptical of Santa from an early age, I have always been enthralled with the exotic "other". In other words, I am restless and never satisfied with what's in front of me and everything that isn't my life or myself is exotic and interesting to me. Whoa! How the hell did I get from July 4th to there? I think I might need a beer. Anyway, I love fireworks and can't wait to see them tomorrow. I also can't wait to eat a bunch of crap I wouldn't normally eat by the rocket's red glare.
This Friday I am making my first foray onto Fire Island. It seems unbelievable to me that in all the years I have lived on or around Long Island, I have never visited. Time to take the plunge. I'd also like to swim in the Atlantic Ocean for a bit. I find that I am in need of that small, yet terrifying, bit of humility afforded me by the ocean. I am fully committed to be a beach bum for a day. I bought a beach umbrella and everything. I still haven't found sunscreen in SPF 1000 yet, but the search is ongoing.
I recently watched Upside Down, a huge film that meant well but didn't really do it for me. Yet it did make me sad because I could completely see what they wanted to do. And it was well-crafted, visually, in an entirely new way. It was almost like someone took an especially striking Instagram filter and put it over the whole film. I mean, sure, the moral of the story was a bit heavy handed and if I were in any way physics minded, I might have been in a lather over the truth of it all but I'm not and I wasn't. Also, that Jim Sturgess is adorable. I want to squeeze him in an entirely sexual way. I didn't even mind his American accent, even though it sounded like it was from Brooklyn despite the fact that his character was from a different planet in the future. By the by, why do all films that take place in the post apocalyptic future give the characters American accents? Is it because all historical films give the characters British accents, regardless of the setting or time period? I'd love to see a film where all the characters have French accents even though the story does not take place in France and no one in the film makes reference to it. I think that would amuse me.
That reminds me, I need to go see if Louis Garrel gave any recent interviews in English. I'll be busy for little while. Happy 4th!
In truth I have spent only a minimal amount of time looking for articles on Garrel. If I had to break down my time usage in percentages, I'd put "Garrel Queries" at 10%. The other percentages could probably be divided up into driving, working, Facebooking, writing, drinking and plugging in hypothetical vacation destinations into sites like Expedia.com and tallying up the costs of an imaginary vacation and then logging into my bank account to remember that I have no money for that noise. In that order.
We are on the cusp of July 4th, the holiday that means quite a bit to us Americans. And by "means quite a bit" I mean we get the day off, if we are lucky, and we eat a lot of crap we wouldn't normally eat by the light of loud, dog and cat terrifying fireworks displays. My jaded flippancy is not intentional; I love fireworks. They are the closest thing I can get to the sparkling, colorful place I used to imagine the world to be when I was little. This is not an exaggeration. Though I never imagined the fairies to be real and I was always the child slightly skeptical of Santa from an early age, I have always been enthralled with the exotic "other". In other words, I am restless and never satisfied with what's in front of me and everything that isn't my life or myself is exotic and interesting to me. Whoa! How the hell did I get from July 4th to there? I think I might need a beer. Anyway, I love fireworks and can't wait to see them tomorrow. I also can't wait to eat a bunch of crap I wouldn't normally eat by the rocket's red glare.
This Friday I am making my first foray onto Fire Island. It seems unbelievable to me that in all the years I have lived on or around Long Island, I have never visited. Time to take the plunge. I'd also like to swim in the Atlantic Ocean for a bit. I find that I am in need of that small, yet terrifying, bit of humility afforded me by the ocean. I am fully committed to be a beach bum for a day. I bought a beach umbrella and everything. I still haven't found sunscreen in SPF 1000 yet, but the search is ongoing.
I recently watched Upside Down, a huge film that meant well but didn't really do it for me. Yet it did make me sad because I could completely see what they wanted to do. And it was well-crafted, visually, in an entirely new way. It was almost like someone took an especially striking Instagram filter and put it over the whole film. I mean, sure, the moral of the story was a bit heavy handed and if I were in any way physics minded, I might have been in a lather over the truth of it all but I'm not and I wasn't. Also, that Jim Sturgess is adorable. I want to squeeze him in an entirely sexual way. I didn't even mind his American accent, even though it sounded like it was from Brooklyn despite the fact that his character was from a different planet in the future. By the by, why do all films that take place in the post apocalyptic future give the characters American accents? Is it because all historical films give the characters British accents, regardless of the setting or time period? I'd love to see a film where all the characters have French accents even though the story does not take place in France and no one in the film makes reference to it. I think that would amuse me.
That reminds me, I need to go see if Louis Garrel gave any recent interviews in English. I'll be busy for little while. Happy 4th!
Monday, July 1, 2013
Acting like a tree and shit
When your month starts out with a car accident and the need for a new car, it is a welcome surprise to have not much else happen. Whenever I think about writing these end of month posts, I consult my trusty Moleskine to remind myself of what I did, who I met and what I want to remember when I look back at this blog. Usually what I find are my incoherent jottings of hours I had to work, one word notes about plans I had and friends and family member's names that are meant to remind me that I am supposed to do something involving that person and occasionally I'll circle the date at the end of the night because something happened that day that I really want to remember. Every other page has my "budget" written on it with tons of scratching out/corrections/messy notes by random numbers. I usually have to dig through the notebook and sit for a good twenty minutes, deciphering the hieroglyphics it took a month to create. At the end of my life it would tickle me to think about someone compiling a collage, an anthology of Allison's Ephemera. And then just as quickly I remember that no one cares about other people's crap, even after they are gone. Plus, since I plan on living until I'm 98, that's a shit load of Moleskine to go through.
Here is the (paltry) list of films I watched this month:
Jezebel (1938)
Warm Bodies (2013)
L.A. Story (1991)
In the House (2013)
Before Sunrise (1995)
Before Sunset (2004)
The Company You Keep (2013)
Something About Sex (1998)
Written on the Wind (1956)
The Man With Two Brains (1983)
The Beautiful Person (2008)
Cloud Atlas (2013)
A Burning Hot Summer (2011)
The Tender Trap (1954)
Pathetically short compared to earlier this year but I'm a busy ass bitch. Bizarre and totally unintentional coincidence that two on this short list came from the mid century, an era in film that I am not really schooled in (as if I am in other eras.). And the two representatives here, one intensely sexist (of its time and all that, I'm aware) and one intensely melodramatic (Douglas Sirk, naturally) are not enticing me to investigate the year further. I could be convinced otherwise I suppose but I'm already strapped for time when it comes to movie watching. I have toyed in the past with the idea of watching movies by year but then I realized that while some of those years would be one incredible film after another (1939) others would be downright painful (1987?). Also, it would be even more time consuming than my current method of choosing films to watch: completely random.
I managed to get to the pool twice so far this month. I did yoga outdoors for the first time ever. It was great to be outside but the bugs glommed on to me with intent and there was a moment when I saw a caterpillar crawl onto the mat in front of me. As much as I liked lying down and feeling the soft grass beneath me (and I was able to balance on my head somewhat), the bugs were everywhere. I also felt guilty because in reality, that is their world and I was really just a pretender, acting like a tree and shit. RIP to the bugs that died that morning.
Lastly, I did quite a bit of reading this month, reminding myself of how badly I need someone to change the nature of time and space, thereby allowing me to do everything I want and need to do in the remaining 60 years I have left on earth. I don't know what it is about reading in particular, but I usually feel such a sense of urgency to finish what's in front me and to move on to the next thing. If I didn't have to deal with the peskiness of having to work and the nuisance of consuming other forms of art and culture it wouldn't be unthinkable to spend my life reading one book after another, getting up only to pee and eat something microwaveable.
Speaking of which, it is just about lunch time.
Here is the (paltry) list of films I watched this month:
Jezebel (1938)
Warm Bodies (2013)
L.A. Story (1991)
In the House (2013)
Before Sunrise (1995)
Before Sunset (2004)
The Company You Keep (2013)
Something About Sex (1998)
Written on the Wind (1956)
The Man With Two Brains (1983)
The Beautiful Person (2008)
Cloud Atlas (2013)
A Burning Hot Summer (2011)
The Tender Trap (1954)
Pathetically short compared to earlier this year but I'm a busy ass bitch. Bizarre and totally unintentional coincidence that two on this short list came from the mid century, an era in film that I am not really schooled in (as if I am in other eras.). And the two representatives here, one intensely sexist (of its time and all that, I'm aware) and one intensely melodramatic (Douglas Sirk, naturally) are not enticing me to investigate the year further. I could be convinced otherwise I suppose but I'm already strapped for time when it comes to movie watching. I have toyed in the past with the idea of watching movies by year but then I realized that while some of those years would be one incredible film after another (1939) others would be downright painful (1987?). Also, it would be even more time consuming than my current method of choosing films to watch: completely random.
I managed to get to the pool twice so far this month. I did yoga outdoors for the first time ever. It was great to be outside but the bugs glommed on to me with intent and there was a moment when I saw a caterpillar crawl onto the mat in front of me. As much as I liked lying down and feeling the soft grass beneath me (and I was able to balance on my head somewhat), the bugs were everywhere. I also felt guilty because in reality, that is their world and I was really just a pretender, acting like a tree and shit. RIP to the bugs that died that morning.
Lastly, I did quite a bit of reading this month, reminding myself of how badly I need someone to change the nature of time and space, thereby allowing me to do everything I want and need to do in the remaining 60 years I have left on earth. I don't know what it is about reading in particular, but I usually feel such a sense of urgency to finish what's in front me and to move on to the next thing. If I didn't have to deal with the peskiness of having to work and the nuisance of consuming other forms of art and culture it wouldn't be unthinkable to spend my life reading one book after another, getting up only to pee and eat something microwaveable.
Speaking of which, it is just about lunch time.
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