You Know What's Crazy?

My grey kneesocks are in Dolsky’s basement.

Alcohol can completely change the vibe of a party. Completely.

That everything around us, out of our control (or in it) takes over our lives, predicts it, changes it, navigates it:

            The Internet

            Money

            Alcohol

            Technology

            Gender

Speaking of gender: that’s what else is crazy. Women will always correct, motivate, push their lovers to be as best as they can.  They will glance across the center console, shooting lasers from their eyes to their men…always signaling: get on with the story/stop talking/you drive horribly/I need Subway. 

And men will always be there, dog-eyed and willing: to bend, to break, to fix the lamp and to build the wall, to hold your hair back and to calm you the cuss down, to hear it without having to listen, to turn off the light when you’re already under the covers, to warm up your cold hands, to eat what you make for him, to love love love love love, to agree with your opinions or counter them neatly and intelligently, to stop when you tell him to, leave the party with you when you’re tired, disagree with someone in your defense, eat your crusts, call you beautiful, tell you you’re right when even you know you’re wrong, internalize the feelings you’re thowingtossingchucking at him INCESSANTLY, breathe.  It’s so much more than opening car doors and paying the check.  

Ailing Shins and Enlarged Spleens

Paul only came to New York with a few expectations: to eat a sandwich in Brooklyn, to not see a Broadway show, and to spot a rat in the bowels of the subway. Check, check, and check.

We walked over bridges, under overpasses, and through steaming piles of Red Hook dog feces to find the best sandwich in Kings County. Pressured by the squawking Italian deli owner, he ordered a large, which was the size of a small child and was supposedly topped with razorblades.

Instead of seeing a Broadway show, we put on a 3-night show of our own, starring ourselves, with various props such as stuffed birds, chandeliers, a love seat, and the Garden State Soundtrack. The plot thickened as we educatedly debated the only thing we disagree upon (O) and I realized that he is the only person I can stand to prove me wrong...and then I lit my hair on fire. The second act of most of our shows included very little dialogue and the four of us "dancing" (if you consider jerky arm movements dancing). During intermission, we bashed crafts, made sure our socks were in our pockets, sang in the shower, complained of ailing shins and enlarged spleens, and made up new ways to cheer when the Packers scored a touchdown. Laughter was really what rubber-banded it all together, and it erupted not only from the audience but from on stage: silently, rolling on the ground, re-arranging my hernia.

And finally, as we dragged our feet to the A train to JFK, a fat rat appeared in the tracks as we hugged goodbye.

Good Winter to You

Bon Iver slips into my Pandora playlist from time to time, and no matter what mundane chart I am re-arranging, no matter what street corner I am on, what cafe I am in, no matter who it reminds me of or why... I cry.

Scholastic Holiday Party

I hit send on my last email of the shortened Friday, closed up the contract database, saved and closed the grid I was poking at, straightened my piles of this way and that papers, put my shoe back on, and headed for the stairs.  It was Friday, and it was party time.  The muffled bump and hum of rap music had slid up to the 9th floor from the 6th like the smoke monster on Lost, and the smell of chocolate and cheese wafted down from the 11th.  For some odd reason my apprehension far exceeded my excitement as I walked up to check out the scene with Maren.  I'd  imagined that it was going to be a scene straight out of The Office, or possibly the British Office, seeing as the alcohol intake of children's book publishers is much higher a percentage than one would innocently imagine.  Maybe we need more substance in order to come up with whacked-out ideas that children would love, like "Is Your Mama a Llama," or "I'm Your Bus." I expected awkward mingling, too-sweet wine, some table cloths, and  a chat or two with some people I only see hunched over their keyboards.  I was mistaken, in the grandest of ways.  

The 11th floor had a dance floor, packed with younger revellers, head bobbing and fist pumping to "Empire State of Mind," overlooking the lower Manhattan skyline.  I spoke with an art director who's breath was rank but I had never known she was in love with Belgium, had amazing taste in music, and was clinically claustrophobic.  

The 6th floor, which is usually the floor where all meetings take place, had catered delicacies like shrimp, leg of lamb, and cheese, cheese, cheese.  Somehow, we had found heaven, squished within the walls of Scholastic.  Maren and I tracked down our only crush - in publishing women don't have many options - whom we had nicknamed and swooned over just because.  He played it cool, though, poking at his iPhone and pretending to ignore our pleas to go up to the dance floor.  

The 2nd floor had coffee and cakes and randomly a huge screen with a video of snow falling in a quiet forest, on repeat.  I wasn't sure what to make of this video - was it supposed to make us feel that warm Christmas-y feeling?  I felt more like I was in a scene from Into the Wild.  People kept standing in front of the projector, the shadows of the falling snow drifting down their faces, until someone awkwardly pushed them to the side.  

We figured the 11th floor was where the In-Crowd was, so we headed up, wine glasses in hand, through our asylum of employment, the eeriness of drinking amid the deserted cubicles setting in.  When we arrived back on 11, the majority of the crowd stuck with "The white man's overbite" as their move of choice, but as the night wore on, the dancing became somewhat graphic.  

That was when Maren and my brown and blue eyes locked, glazed over, and we peaced out, to skip down Broadway and join the masses of the wintry Manhattan evening.

Swallowing Blood

with a yawn and a sigh I slid into the chair
the clip from the bib got stuck in my hair
two nurses asked if I wanted to be numb
"for a cleaning?" I asked, well that sounds dumb
four rubber hands held open my lips
my shoulders straddled by unknown hips

metal chiseled bone
florescent lights shone
and I swallowed my own blood

I could have used some rum
as they stabbed at my gum
but instead I just swallowed some blood

rinse and spit
now lay back down
rinse and spit
now lay back down

tongue dry
I began to cry
as I swallowed my own blood

cheeks tensed up in fear
Feliz Navidad droned in my ear
while I swallowed my own blood

The Moth Ball

"We use deference to show moral superiority." Garrison Keillor said of Midwesterners this past Tuesday night. He wore red samba soccer shoes and a black tux to the Moth Ball, a black and white affair. He brushed past me a few times during the set up and I wanted to jump on his grandfatherly back for a piggy back ride so I could whisper in his ear how integral his maple syrup voice was to my childhood...but that would have been creepy. Garrison loves New York, and he loves to make comparisons between New Yorkers and Midwesterners, so I felt right at home standing in my schmancy raven black attire. The Moth is a non-profit storytelling organization that I've become smitten with in the past few months, and the motto is "You, a microphone, and a story." The story Slams are my favorite, where each storyteller has only 5 minutes to get their tale out to the greedy, judgmental audience. Garrison commented that this is how New Yorkers are: always in a hurry, with only five minutes to get out a story that would, in the Midwest, take at least an afternoon. At certain points in the night I would spy him at his table gazing off into the abyss, his round glasses perched and tilting to the left on his puff of gray hair. He was probably thinking of vast yellow prairies and strawberry lemonade...

Later, I worked the merchandise table and sold Moth t-shirts to the rich, champagne-breathy guests. I watched everyone dance and realized how incredibly similar all people are. Everyone gets this excited/surprised look on their faces when classic songs burst onto a dance floor, like "When Doves Cry" or "Beast of Burden." Everyone is slow to get out there at first, but then busts into the worm suddenly once they've warmed up. Every woman gets a happyjealous look in their eye when their significant other is dancing with a slightly younger, more agile gal, and all (or most) men have difficulty with rhythm. If I learned anything from Garrison and his Saturday night radio broadcasts, it's that we're all the same. We really are.

http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2009/11/18/jonathan-ames-garrison-keillor-and-anna-deveare-smith-headline-annual-moth-ball/

http://www3.timeoutny.com/newyork/tonyblog/2009/11/garrison-keillor-mines-his-recent-stroke-at-the-moth/

Google Voice

With Google Voice, I've recently acquired the ability to have voicemails transcribed into emails. This concept is amazing, and saves me time, as I'm generally on email moreso than on my phone. The little man inside my phone who does the transcribing, though, seems to be a bit drunk. If you have a moment, read these carefully. I promise, you will laugh. I would highlight my favorites, but I'm confident that you'll find your own.

1. You I just got the weirdest voice mail message. It's not your usual sarcastic voicemail message. Helmets, Christine planned home. Tag. You're it. Yeah, Hi, I hope everything is going well and I look forward to speaking to you. 7. Okay bye.

2. Hello Lisa, This is man, checking the status of your lovely wife. Help this transpose is you, you're liking and have a very lovely weekend. Act on you Monday. Bye bye.

3. Yeah alright hey to. Yeah, have, please, please, please. Hiya, yep it through hi to the pat Thursday to the so, Marcia. Ohh yeah it to you via have the birthday to yeah yeah. Hi I to the happy birthday to you to to 2. Please do so. It I can't wait to see how that gets transcribe. Hopefully it says Happy Birthday have like a million times your birthday. It's like 12 01 from your birthday. Hopefully i. When for the first message on your day. I think you know if you standing outside on the porch per month, dot, com looking out on the lake. Call me here in New Hampshire and hope that you have a wonderful day and I will celebrated and I miss you so maybe I'll talk to you when it's not. Yeah night okay. I love you. Talk to you soon in so whom she to you soon day.

4. [Note: This one is perfect, because Paul spoke like a robot.] Cool. Hello Lisa, This is Paul. I thought maybe I would catch you before you got to work but apparently not. I'm calling to say happy birthday and that you are an old lady. You're halfway through your twenties. That's really old. I will call you later. Goodbye.

5. Hello good move. I said the birthday. It's 1 o'clock. Give me a call back when you get this. I'm going to a movie at that you'd be there at 1:15 so hopefully I can talk to you before then. Give me a call back and you're able to 52 a call.

6. Hello Sarah. Alright, back, then up. Bye. And hey, I want you to go messages. Anyways, wanted to wish you A very happy birthday and I love you and miss you and I can't believe you're 20. I have it. Bro Hey Bill, Okay, I will talk to you later. Enjoy your day. Bye.

7. Yeah, Hi Lisa, It's wanted to say Happy Birthday. I hope you're having a good day and so hope you had a good Terry was Joanne clients are right, so if you already have it. If you're having a security yet, but have a wonderful day and hey birthday, big 25. Give me a call if you want wasn't sure. Talk to you soon, call me know if you can. Thanks. Love you bye.

8. Ready pretty fancy stop. I suppose that's what 25 year old, so it is get their voice google give me a proper calling with you're out celebrating. Happy Birthday to you later.

9. [Maggie speaks perfectly. Congrats!] Happy Birthday Lisa, It's, Maggie, I just wanted to check in and see how you're doing. Give me a call if you get a chance but if you're too busy I understand, and we'll catch up soon. Talk to you later. Love you bye.

10. Hey the rooty at. I was hoping to catch you to say Happy Birthday. I hope this gets Tim's dad hi, okay. Hey. Love you lots of birthday wishes, and I'll talk to you soon. Hi sweetie. Bye bye.

11. Hey Alice, Yes, but it's your birthday so I called to say hi, hi. Birthday. I hope you have saddest day. Yes, you've been feverishly personal at my house and I hope you get a chance to call me back and he said, I can't seeing you on a birthday song but if not, I hope use of your own the other side of us will you have any insight you are not an adult. Okay love you bye.

Ok, that's enough. Good day!

Christine

I hadn't even met her and I knew I was going to love her. Her name was Christine and that was all I needed. She came back to work after a yoga retreat in Mexico about a week after I started at Scholastic, her skin: bronze, her demeanor: zen, her mouth: the same as mom's. And so it began.

Christine has answered all of my questions since I've met her, whether she knows it or not. From the most inane work-related questions ("How do I tell the publisher where the files are on our ftp site?") to the deepest love-related questions ("How come my heart feels like it dropped on the ground in a bloody puddle, while in mid-air shattered into ten thousand pieces, and afterwards was eaten by a ravenous boy?") and then all the questions in between, the over-arching one being "How do I fall in love with New York?" How do I get involved with local-eating? Where is the best place for a cartwheel in Prospect Park? How do I hula-hoop? How do I roll a cigarette? Why is everything so heavy all of a sudden? Who should my gynecologist be? Who should my dentist be? Where do I find the best Thai food in Dumbo, in Cobble Hill, in Soho? What do I do about this new pain in my neck? Do the B and the D really go express after Broadway/Lafayette? Where did my sanity go when I fell into the well of corporate America? Is it okay to cry, at any time, anywhere? What is the best Radiohead album? Where should I stay if I go to Belgium?

What am I going to do without you?

Amidst answering all of these questions, Christine somehow came up with a few questions of her own for me. What is that "Marching Bands of Manhattan" song and who is it by and why haven't I heard of them before? What time do you want to eat lunch? Want to come over and eat food? Are you using condoms? Want to go to the beach? Where is the most peaceful, beautiful, incredible place to go in Thailand, and should I take a bus or a train? Will you help me celebrate? Will you help me move?

As I watched Christine prepare herself for a potentially endless journey to the Pacific, I could feel the pieces of me, the pieces of us, begin to tighten up. Christine taught me how to hug with my heart (leaning to the right, rather than to the left, like everyone does), to walk tall like someone is pulling my chest up with a string, to love fully and unconditionally, to cry, cry, cry. And cry I did, like a baby cries for her mother, as I walked away from Christine a few days ago.

The adventure that awaits you will take turns you can't even imagine. May you crash head-first into the beauty of it, swim deep into the blue of it, climb the rocky crags of it, make sweetsweet love to it, gulp down shot after tequila shot of it, and write me when you can.

Note to Self

Halloween, a natural night of contradictions, has always proven to be memorable.  Whether those memories are fuzzy or upside-down, queasy or mind-boggling, I generally look back on them with my hand over my eyes, my head shamefully shaking.  This year, I've decided I'm going to make Halloween resolutions for future Eves of Hallow.

1. If you are sans costume for a neighborhood costume parade, a good trick is to simply drip fake blood from your eyes, nose, and mouth.  Poof! You have become one scary mo-fo.

2. Matching family costumes are a must. Penguins, monkeys, animals in general...

3. When you see a famous actor on your street, try to think of something more clever than "are you an actor?  [yes] oh.... hi...."

4. If you are given the opportunity to take out two underage British boys to show them a good time in New York, do.

5. Read the newspaper.  A lot of costumes have to do with present day events, such as Falcon the balloon boy, which Lindsay taught me about yesterday.

6. No matter how much time you have to spend standing on a chair singing Journey, don't take your eyes off of your wallet.  Yeah.

7. Try to remember to remove all makeup before falling asleep, unless you want Santa's beard all over your pillows.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night.

To Pumpkins!

We always used to have music on, all day, all night, every car ride and every passing afternoon. That didn't change. But this time we had his mom's old Bob Dylan and Billie Holiday records and a record player.

We always ate cheaply, sitting on wooden floors or in plastic chairs on the side of a busy, dusty road. That didn't change. But this time we had creole seasoning, curry sauce, and a (semi)-fully equipped kitchen.

We would always read in a perfect side-by-side silence, jumping at an extraordinary line and spilling it verbally into one another's ear. That didn't change. But this time there was a football game on mute in the background, and the couch was squishier for the jumping.

We'd always make fun of each other's freckles, crazy hair, morning breath, belly buttons. That didn't change. But this time we were older, more tactful and less vicious.

We always played 500 and I would always win. That changed.

We always drank the best beer within reach, Stella, Singha, Antarctica, racing each other slowly until we were red in the cheeks and laughing. That didn't change. But this time there was Honey Weiss, and a fine Cabernet, and a pumpkin to carve.

We always knew we needed time apart. That didn't change. But this time the goodbye strangely felt like a long-winded hello, thrown off into the future, where we'd catch it and find each other again.

A Glimpse, via Email

After the fair, I hopped over to Belgium, and from there hopped over to Holland. The best way to describe them is to simply copy and paste a few emails I wrote while there, and upon my return.

Bridget!
Frankfurt reminds me of some sort of space/ futuristic city that hasn't even begun to exist yet. The city was so bombed up in WW2 that they literally had to rebuild it from the ground up. So everything is supermodern and very crisp and clean. The men are of strong stock and the women all look like school headmistresses. I have a big presentation tonight to all of our territories, and then wed-fri I'm in back to back meetings at the fair. I'm loving it. Books+foreigners+great food=happy me.

Miss Christine,
Renee picked me an apple from a tree in her beautiful backyard garden, and I took a big, juicy bite as she pointed me in the direction of the park here in Schilde. The leaves are a crisp yellow-orange and the white swans are showing off for one another on the winding pond. Peace. Blue sky. I can't begin to thank you for this paradise. Renee and I sat over tea and tarts yesterday, chatting about books and the changing seasons of life, I went for a run and napped in my overly-comfortable bed, and then Macko, Eleanora (21) and Mattias (22 I think), Renee and I tasted a variety of beers, munched on walnuts from the yard, and ate a dinner fit for royalty. The two youngens then took me out to a smoky bar in Antwerpen, where we drank Stella and I waxed poetic about New York, and you. Today we're off to a professional field hockey match, and tomorrow will tour the city. What an immensely beautiful family.

My dearest Robbi,
When the work was done, I wiped my hands of the ink from my scribbling pens, brushed off my cheeks of the crusty lipstick from all the triple-cheeked kisses, and boarded a train to Belgium. I stayed with some extended family of Christine's. Nothing could have compared to the love and loveliness that they possessed. Arguably a family of angels, showering me with light that danced through their gazebo'd windows during afternoon tea, with raspberry tarts, with a curled up kitten on the ottoman in my enormous bedroom, with the fresh scent of home, with juicy steak and glass after glass of beer to taste and turn away at my leisure. I took long runs through their canopied neighborhood, the yawning lawns bright with lazy flowers, the roofs thatched and the license plates shined with care. A smoky bar, a men's field hockey game, a load of laundry, and a scarved stroll through Antwerp later, I hopped onto a train to Den Haag in Holland. I've met James twice: once in Thailand for a dinner with his best friend David (whom you know... cough... from the Sun and Moon in Chachoengsao), and then in New York, when he and David came through on a convertible road trip in search of Avett Brother's concerts. James picked me up in a high-collared black jacket. We went to a shop and ate sandwiches with no top piece of bread, and he took out his mini-laptop and explained Google Wave to me. I don't remember what we laughed really hard at, but we laughed really hard, a lot. He walked me to where the prime minister of Holland lives, and took a video of me in a brick-laden square. I thought he was snapping photos and I screamed at him, covering my face with my long hair and flicking off the camera. We fought like brother and sister. We drank two beers each, on the top of a spiral staircase in a bar in the corner of a plaza, which played "Fix You" and also Frank Sinatra. It's not important what we talked about. He walked me back to the train station, where I bought a white orchid for my Belgian family. He stood outside the train's awaiting door, and gave me three long kisses on my leftrightleft cheek, his lips grazing the corners of mine. His whiskers left a lingering smell of yesterday's aftershave on my skin, and I sat on the train, my heart in my throat and my ears, and my lungs attempted to shut down, but I wouldn't let them.

Maren,
Hi!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I’m here, though my head is not… I’ll come by soon-I have a lil gifty for you.
Did you handle this Skeleton Creek issue already?
L

The Frankfurt Book Fair

The scope, span and size of the Frankfurt Book Fair can only be described with an air of hyperbole. But I’m good at that. From every corner, mountainside, 112th skyscraper floor, valley and forest of the planet, book lovers came. I’d had a taste of this in Bologna, but my mind was fuzzy and in a mushy haze at the time, and not at all aware of what this business really entails; plus it was only children’s books there. In Frankfurt, everyone is there – carrying and studying and buying books for people from ages 0 to 100. I was among my international kin: like-minded colleagues who read books, write books, sell books, smell books, export and import books, create and manufacture books, collect books, live and breathe the incredible, unstoppable power of books. Books stacked from the ground up in each booth, flung from one country to the next – making Duck on a Bike into утка на велосипеде, and A Tale of Two Cities (14th edition) into Una Cuenta de dos Ciudades. An exchange of words for words, page after page, Euro after dollar after Yen, handshake and bow after toothy smile, all culminating into the raising of a million glasses – cheersing to life, liberty, and the written word! My excitement could nary be contained.
Germany is a perfect port for a fair such as this – the messe hall about the size of Rhode Island, holding hoards of people coming in and out, the city of Frankfurt poised to hold and accommodate and feed three times it’s capacity. The level of organization, cleanliness, dedication, and hospitality makes me question whether or not I’ve flown into an alternate reality.
The majority of my back-to-back meetings entailed a brief introduction, a sharing of exasperation and success of the fair, an awkward exchange of business cards, and then me inquiring about business in Japan, what kids are reading in Finland, what format works for teenagers in Greece. With those tasks completed, I’d launch into my breathless admiration and detailed plotting, along with my appreciation for the interior art and covers of Scholastic’s list. I’d watch as the Chinese men looked, eyebrows raised, at an illustrated gem called Swim! Swim! Or I’d listen while a French woman explained why vampires turn her on.
One meeting particularly entertained me. A small Romanian woman who looked like Harry Potter sat down for a 2:30 appointment on Thursday. I gave her my red & white card and she gave me her black & purple one. (In hindsight, I should have taken this as foreboding.) I asked her how the fair was going, and to let me know a little about her publishing line, her audience, her list. In turn, she went for about 10 minutes in broken English, describing her company’s most exquisite erotica imprint, the best in all Romania. After a few intricately described, nude, leathery plotlines, I thought she’d tell me about the other imprints: children’s, in particular. But she didn’t. So after I started to feel slightly…funny…I put my hand up, and asked her if she was interested in acquiring any of Scholastic’s titles. (I pointed directly at Clifford and the life-size Magic School Bus behind me). She said no, she didn’t have a children’s line. I told her that I did appreciate the meeting, but unfortunately, we wouldn’t be able to do any business, but if she had any sample chapters on hand, I’d be happy to take them back to my hotel… She became crimson in the face, quickly wrapping her scarf tight around her shoulders, and ran off.

These Pretzels are Making Me Thirsty!

I was never convinced of Seinfeld's merit, always thought it was a bit cliche to have an obsessive love affair with it as I knew so many had. Then, with the help of the US Postal Service, all 9 Seasons miraculously fell into my life, and so my love affair with Kramer (and well, I guess the rest of them) began. That was October of last year. Now, it's October again, and I have come to the finale. As I send these laugh-boxes yet again across 17 states, I recall a few of my favorite moments:

-"Giddy up."
-Newman saying "Love is a crazy spice, a dizzying array of textures and moments."
-George eating while making love.
-Putty. All things Putty. Especially the fact that he doesn't read on airplanes.
-I can't lick envelopes anymore without thinking they'll kill me.
-Kramer moving into his shower, doing all everyday activities there.
-The Soup Nazi, who looks like Borat, and is hot.
-Man hands - "That's not a twist-off."
-And my ultimate favorite: Mr. Pitt, eating a Snickers bar with a knife and fork.

I get it now. I get it.

At the Bowery Ballroom

lights aglow and sweaty chests

dancing fans and bouncing breasts

comb-overs and skinny pants

spherical, lyrical, perfect love rants

**the dig

The Neighborhood of Makebelieve

Side note: The Tea Lounge, where I have

blogged since I moved to Brooklyn, is closing

tomorrow. My heart hurts. I am now drinking my last

mango ceylon,

spending my last evening on this

squashy couch,

listening for the last time to Sigur Ros

among other low house melodies, while the rain quietly

falls.

This weekend, we pretended that our stomachs could stomach four courses and our sanity could be queued by endless refills of red and white. We pretended that our wallets split at the seams with Benjamins, and poured them into the wallet of Anthony Bourdain with shouts of pleasure. We pretended that Nina was Mary Poppins with her bottomless purse, and that cheese was a wise choice for dessert. We snuck through a drippy, dark alley and pretended time had rewound to the prohibition era, and spoke easily. There, we pretended our coffee mugs were full of coffee, that there were not bottles within our paper bags. A man thought we were pretending when we told him we were best friends, had grown up together, could answer any minuscule question about each other without skipping a beat. We pretended we could write, do 50 push-ups barefoot, and speak to South Carolinans with a perfect southern drawl. "And hand in hand ... we danced by the light of the moon." We pretended that kayaking would be the best form of here-to-there, that Meg and Tom were by our side, that our conversation would have no beginning or end. We made ourselves believe that the rain wasn't falling and boarded a boat to Governor's Island. In the Admiral's abandoned mansion, we pretended to be ghosthunters and pretended we weren't scared - until our goosebumps rose to their maximum levels and we thought for a moment there was no way out. The mist on the water made the Statue and Ellis and Manhattan dreamlike and figmentary. We pretended there was water in a grass-filled moat and child-witches hanging ribbons and DVDs from the branches of trees. We could not stop questioning reality. Finally, with another river crossed and our feet firmly planted in Cobble Hill, we were greeted by Improv Everywhere, amid thousands of passers-by, holding leashes led by pretend dogs. We said goodbye, pretending that Christmas [the next time we'd see each other], wasn't too far away.

One Year in New York

As of yesterday, I have officially lived in New York for the duration of one year. If I were to give a speech, as if given an Oscar of Survival or something of the like, I'd thank the following people/things:

Robbi Strandemo and a lopsided U-Haul. Bagels and cream cheese, the F train, and coffee. Joe Dietz and Jeni Kittleson, and serendipity. Phoebe Stein and her entourage, and the Onion. Emmanuelle Chiche, Jamie Welford, Landon, Anouk, Julien, Elsa, and crepes. Michael Mejias, Jennifer Kelaher, Maja Nikolic, and the cozy couches in Writer's House. Maggie and Whitney Draughon, and higher knowledge. Trader Joe's. Lindsay Quilling, Greylen Erlacher, and Bleecker Street. Chardonnay, pinot grigio, and Brooklyn Lager. Mark Steffke, Blitzen Trapper, and my iPhone. Kerry, Pat, Paul, Joanne, Colleen, and Teddy Mattingly; Gianni Georgi, and January Mattingly. Carrielee Loeffler, and boots (full of beer and feet). Dave Eggars, David Sedaris, Lorrie Moore, John Pipkin, Michael Scott and James Sawyer. My mom, my grandma, my aunt Kathleen, and whiteangelwings. Winter, snow, seasons. My incredible extended family: aunts who listen, uncles who support, cousins who high-five and eventually (Web Schelble) move here. Linda and Jason Steffke, good chats and Family Guy. Elena Santogade, Rachel Horowitz, Janelle DeLuise, Clifford the Big Red Dog, and Harry Potter. Missoula, Snow Bowl, and dangerous weaponry. Ashley Reinnecke, Boston, and Monsieur Bobby Ball. Bridget Schigoda, taxi cabs, and Wrigley gum. Nancy Anderson and the US Postal Service. The Decemberists! Iron & Wine! The Avett Brothers! My kitchen floor! Karin Skare and Lauren Buckowsky and inner-jazz. Italy, Ia Atterholm, Sol deSwaan, Akiko Media, Rockyung Lee, and Thananchai Pandey. Dr. Elizabeth Stein, and modern medicine. Tara Tierney, and New Balance shoes. Bridges, rivers, islands, people. Maureen Daly and shared pasts. Christine Holt, rooftops, tears, and indescribable cravings for everything. Nick Reiter and the Hi-Line. $20 bills. The Cobble Hill Cinema, the Tea Lounge, Court Street. Peter Nordby, Maine, love, and pain, and then close-distant contentment. Hannah Gaedtke, Caitlin Crary, and Edward Cullen. The Brooklyn Promenade. Lydia Kutko, Jessica Kim, and the Big Apple Badgers. The Dakota, and Yoko Ono. Sebastian Corby, an in-love best friend, a speak-easy and Chinese Children. David Van Ofwegen, James Kuypers, and the Comic Strip Live. Dewey Beach, Delaware, and the one and only Brian Poole. Mike and Dayan Ingui, and red and orange walls. Maren Monitello, Rebecca Shapiro, and Midwestern accents. Netflix, The New York Times, Smitten Kitchen, and Google (of course). Loneliness, happiness, livelihood, positive energy and my lungs. Marc and Kelly and my eclectic step-family. Email. Avocados. The Brooklyn Food-Co-op, and eucalyptus.

And last, but certainly not least: the future, which New York has already so generously given me.

District City

I was surprised by the capitol building - I had been reading Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs so my brain was in Madison mode. Spun backwards in time, possibly because this time of year I always get nostalgic for school, I was taken back to the long stretch of East Washington Ave., gazing down at Wisconsin's capitol building. For all I knew, I could have been on a street called East Washington. That was one of the first things I noticed about D.C. : lettered streets. Eli later told me that the letters run north and south, the numbers go east and west, and the state-named streets go diagonal.

"A trifecta grid," I deducted.
Eli looked at me and smiled, always charmingly agreeable. "Indeed."
I'm not sure how this fit into the trifecta grid, but on the outskirts heading downtown while I was still on the Megabus, I saw two signs notating criss-crossing streets: NEW YORK AVE. MONTANA ST. I smiled.

Upon arrival at their adorable apartment, Caitlin, Eli and I went out for a midnight walk to see those monuments I had heard so much about. We zig-zagged our way to the White House, which glared beautifully of it's name--but was significantly smaller than I'd imagined. We discussed whether or not presidents switch bed frames and mattresses when they move in...then stolled on, to the Washington Monument, a stately phallus encircled by quiet-flapping American Flags where we took pictures of our silhouettes against the white brick. Gazing approvingly at Abe, we decided that our eyes were larger than our feet, and it was 2:30 am. So we snagged a cab, ate some Whole Foods cereal, and called it a night.

Awake at my stiflingly normal Scholastic morning hour, I slid off the enormous blow-up bed and headed to the living room. There, I lounged with Stella, the cat who, with her deep eyes and stretching paws, silently convinced me that he was the reincarnation of Marshmallow. Running my fingers through her fur, I was taken back to some of Marshmallow's greatest adventures and his momentous life. My mother had rescued him from a crotchety, abusive man whom I've always pictured in my mind as the male version of Cruella DeVille. We received him and his Bigglesworth-esque being with Mattingly love: the sort with unmentioned intensity -- love in the way people love sunsets, fall leaves, and stars -- an appreciation that renders one wordless. Marshmallow was of a different realm, that we were sure of. He ate catnip and tripped like an 18-year-old Madisonite on mushrooms for the first time, escaped out the door to find adventure, returning with more knowledge of my yard than any of us had, along with about 17 burrs. We frequently gave him haircuts that made him look like he'd just been electrocuted, but his ugliness only made us love him more. He had a hold on us, perched on my dad's armchair-watching him watch TV, sprawled out on the end of my daybed in the late-afternoon light, asleep under the tree on December 25, peaceful as the snow piling up outside.

Eli woke me from my reverie with Stella, instructing me to shower up, bagel up, and get out there! After a stroll through Georgetown, which reminded me of a combination of Cambridge, MA, and Newport, ME, Caitlin and I took our D&D coffees to the docks. We laughed at our spontaneity, strapped on our sea legs and boarded a kayak on the Potomac River - ignoring the ambulance which had just rushed off with a man on a stretcher who had just capsized in his kayak. Battling imaginary sharks, non-imaginary currents, and flimsy biceps, we made our way down to the backyard of the Lincoln Memorial, where we snapped photos and giddily talked about boys.

Back on shore, we relived our time in London and Madison (something we do quite frequently,) and licked our fingers clean of Potbelly and memories. We grew somber at the Vietnam War Memorial, the World War II fountain, and the oversized Abe, who seemed watchful to see if Jenny might run through the reflection pool, her long blond hair blowing in the wind.

Haggard and headed home, we decided to have a looksee at the landscape of the White House backyard, where we looked on as Sasha and Malia Obama skipped around on the grass with the innocence that only a Saturday afternoon in Eden might exude. They threw a tennis ball for Beau to fetch and my goosebumps got the best of me. To be them, wow. And I thought my dad was cool.

On the $8 bus ride home, my eyes lulled closed to Damien Rice, my nose tried to ignore the wellrank odor of other passengers' take-out, and my mouth gaped open as it always does on sleepy rides home. My brain remained vibrant, though, with dreams of Ninja Turtles, crazy foxes, and the Watergate Scandal.

Shoreline Saunter, West

DAY 1:

A car alarm went off at 9:27.  I opened my eyes halfway, then closed them again, remembering that it was Saturday.  My head was throbbing with the intensity of 4 bottles of white wine, although it had only been one.  I'd had plans to start this day early, fresh, with a clear head and determined feet.  I sat up, looked down at my bare feet, and saw the two matching blisters that had formed from wearing heels yesterday.  I never wear heels!  What was I thinking, wearing foot-ruining fake fanciness the day before I planned to walk the perimeter of Manhattan?  After thorough consideration of the irony of the notion of beginning a day which would inevitably end with blistered feet, with blistered feet, I laughed aloud and went to the bathroom to throw up.  After chugging water throughout an entire episode of Sex and the City, I stretched.  After eating oatmeal and a banana, I loaded my camera with new batteries, only to find it still malfunctioning.  Settling with the fact that all of my photos would have to be taken with my phone, I tossed it into my bag, strapped on my New Balances, and hopped on the 4 train to Bowling Green.  

Following suit of others who have taken this journey, I began at the southern tip. In Battery Park, the nose-picking tourists waited in long lines to travel over-charted waters to Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty, smiley Marines passing out American flags, and overstuffed seagulls flew around with the smell of roasting nuts.  I began to count languages, but after 23 I stopped keeping track.

In Wagner Park (of Battery Park City), I found sunbathers, hydrangeas and enormous willows, slow pace and slow peace: a pretend reality.  Nelson A. Rockefeller Park housed pool tables, swings, loud-fighting basketballers, shuffleboard, a much welcomed bubbler, and a kid who almost whapped me with a baseball bat.

 

At the World Trade Center site, I gave two foreigners directions to the crosswalk.  "The World Trade Center had this fascinating opacity: two steel-gray slabs stopping thought." -Phillip Lopate.  Their absence stops thought too.

Hudson River Park is so huge that it must be broken into Piers. [Pier 40] Chewing a PB & J, I listened to two men wax poetic about Venezuela, slapped "free kayaking" onto the to-do list, and witnessed a man meditating with an extremely hairy back. [Pier 45] A man swiftly roller-bladed past playing Once in a Lifetime by the Talking Heads from a boom box on his shoulder, and a long marble wall boasted: "I can sail without wind, row without oars, but I cannot part with a friend without tears."  [Chelsea Piers] A driving range with an actual clubhouse, a golfer looking directly at my chest for more than long enough, and a condom wrapper stuffed into a chain-link fence.  Note: this is where the humming started. Over the Top of Manhattan Helicopter Tours, at only $272 per person--the name speaks for my feelings about it. [Pier 81] New York City Ducks (I thought those only existed in The Dells!) playing old show tunes, I watched as the riders boredly licked their Popsicles and staring westward, probably toward home.  [Pier 86] At The Intrepid Sea, Air and Space Museum, I purchased a Cherry Garcia Ice Cream bar, which dripped down my leg because I was busy staring at my NFT. [Pier 96] Norah Jones on a bike (maybe!), more willows, a birthday party, an enormous bottle, possibly for messages... 

DAY 2:

I opened my eyes yet again, at 9:27, which I took to be a good sign.  I had given myself a day to recover, stretch out my shins and the arches of my feet, and drink copious amounts of orange tea and water.  I would close the gaps of the West Side of Manhattan, today.  Figuring I wouldn't want to be dipping my toes into the Harlem River and snapping photos of the Bronx across it at the end of the day, I decided to take the A train all the way up to the start, thus coming down the West Side along the Hudson and closing this notebook where I'd stopped the other day.  I ate two packets of oatmeal and a banana and listened to a Savage Love podcast, grabbed a coffee and hopped onto the train, feeling exponentially better than I had on my way to Battery Park.  Delighted that the A goes express between 59th and 125th, I dazed out in an upward motion until my stop at 207th street, the last stop and northernmost in Manhattan.  

Under the Broadway Bridge, large tour boats disturbed the peaceful, brown Harlem River, and a Target was the only interruption in the otherwise project-ridden landscape.  I stopped for a bathroom break at the Dunkin Donuts, where the light turned out on me mid-stream.  My mood erased it immediately.

In Inwood Hill Park, the best analogy I can make to the tippy top of Manhattan in this Eden-esque park is to [for those who are familiar] the Camin's property.  I wanted to bottle the air so I could huff it while crossing Houston Street every morning on the way to work.  I counted 6 different baseball games - the ting of baseball hitting bat was about as regular as the cry of a gull.  A haven that is watched over by the blue-gray grandfatherly Henry Hudson Bridge.

As the trees opened up into river and air, I realized that I was at the bottom of Inwood Hill Park.  A chain link fence opened up into a straight, narrow gravel path which was flanked by two not-so-friendly looking chaps, but I was determined to stay on the shoreline, so I ducked between them.  Along the path, within gravel, shore, dirt, and oak, a group of Jamaican men quietly puffed joints and played poker.  My favorite noise (gravel under tennis shoe) crunched beneath me for nearly a half-mile when a biker passed and shouted "It's a dead end with naked men, you know - I'd turn around if I were you!"  I thanked him and did a 180, imagining that these likely weren't the types of naked men I'd be alright with gazing at.

Then, in The Cloisters, in the very place where I had last seen them, walked Kelly and Mark, on their way to lunch.  It's been a while since Serendipity's webs have surprised me, and I was happy to seem them and offer them a sweaty hug.  They'll be married in 3 weeks, where Pat, dad and I plan to join them in getting down on a dance floor overlooking the Manhattan skyline.

At Riverside Park, the Little Red Lighthouse pointed skyward at the ugly underbelly of the George Washington Bridge, which reminded me of the inside of the whale in Pinocchio.  I noted 3 men swimming and smiled at the thought that, maybe Kramer wasn't that crazy after all!  Then I watched a group of Latin American men playing volleyball and calling each other ese.  All at once I was surrounded by the smell of jet ski exhaust mingling with sweet, burning charcoal, and I realized that although I wasn't with my family this Labor Day, I was with 700 Latin American families and that was okay.  Feeling like a minority brought me back to my travelling days, and those memories alone took up my thoughts for at least the next mile.  My reverie was interrupted only when a man selling pineapple in a bag asked me if I was Russian.

At the 91st Street Garden, where Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks finally meet at the end of "You've Got Mail," I saw the baby blue Columbia Cross Country team stretching.  At this point, my brain melted, I removed my jaw from the cement, and I don't remember what happened in the next 10 blocks.

I will always remember, though, the sensation I got when I saw the Pier I Cafe, where I had ended my first leg.  I'd made it.  Happiness flooded my every molecule.  And now, as I sit on the floor of the 72nd Street C station, (yes, the floor - that's how much my dogs are barking), I can breathe in, tuck my sweaty hair behind my ears, and listen for the train that will take me home. 

 

** For the entirety of photos taken on this trek, please visit http://picasaweb.google.com/lcmattingly/ShorelineSaunterWEST#

Next up in a few weeks: EAST.  

Bookmarks

I yank sheets off the mattress with zeal, pull the cases off the pillows and toss them into a pile of nights soon to be washed out of them - soaked and sudded and rinsed out into the gutters of Court Street. The fibers will soon be cleansed of the dreams I had about you and you and you (respectively), of the nights I screamed "no" out repetitively in my sleep, of the sweat and the cells and the hair. The pile of nights sits at my door and I check my wallet for quarters.

A dollar short. Of course. I check the desk drawers and the old purses and the coat pockets and the floor under the couch. Nothing. 3 bobby pins, a few gum wrappers, and one Thai Baht. I squeeze my eyes shut and summon the dollar demons from the cracks and creases of my apartment...

Yes! I used to use dollars as bookmarks when I was filthy rich and also too busy to finish enormous volumes. Apparently I haven't finished a few others, and each "bookmark" I used shoved me back to the spot I was sitting as I shut the book so long ago:

-100 Ways to Live to Be 100: page 487: Jamba Juice receipt, Berry Lime Sublime, $4.11, 1/14/2007.

-Don Quixote: page 30: ripped corner of French 101 worksheet.

-Reading Lolita in Tehran: page 78: index card with Ani Difranco quote scrawled across the top: "Life comes easy, with your sweet company, making it so complete." (sigh...Colin...)

-Autograph Man: page 120: yellow post-it note.

-David Copperfield: page 251: train ticket, Bangkok to Nong Krai, 10/23/2007, 1,200 Baht.

-The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao: page 260: checklist from internship at Writer's House.

-Madam Bovary: page 100: a photo of my father at Christmas, sans gray hair, laughing.

-In Cold Blood: page 123: University Book Store receipt for In Cold Blood: 2/15/2006.

-Me Talk Pretty One Day: end page: small colored-pencil portrait of me, courtesy of Mai, my cutest and most proficient student in Chachoengsao.

After all this, no dollar. Just a pile of beautiful junk, next to my pile of nights.

(unLtiOtlVedE)

As a very young girl my favorite place was this space where the four trunks of a willow tree converged into a small nook just my size. The tree stood with it's sad green branches swaying at the far corner of our yard, so I was as far away as I could be while still in the vicinity of my mother's call. Sometimes I would invite her to join me, to eat pretend tomato soup or quietly braid each other's hair, but mostly I liked to be alone. As I lay in my little world of peeling bark and crispy, narrow leaves, I remember looking upwards at the glinting sunlight through the canopy and dreaming about love. My squeaky clean illusions of it at the time sometimes slip through reality's cracks, but most of them were lost in that willow.

Love, back then, was freshly brushed teeth and a shiny, newly waxed convertible. Perfectly timed kisses on an unexpecting neck and bright orange tulips wrapped in green ribbon. Two spoons in a drawer. Lights turning off on either side of the squishy bed at the very same time, and silent, blissful sleep. Years and locations matching like puzzles, and a simultaneous, drowning passion for one another: an unmelting chocolate ice cream cone that lasts forever.

"When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession. The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims -- these are lucky eventualities but they aren't love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name."
-Jeffrey Eugenides, a master of pen and page, in My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead.

Today, I think about being back in the comforting arms of that willow tree, sipping tea from an invisible cup and being completely oblivious to what real love would turn out to be. A pristine white plate with a hairline crack down the middle. A stubbed toe. A bruised apple. A broken clock or a skipping CD. The lint in a belly button. Twisted decisions and piles of corks and cigarette butts. The feeling you get when you've lost something, or forgotten the name of an actress or the title of a movie: that vacancy, that frustration. As unpredictable as waves on the sea, crashing on your back or your chest when you least expect it, and then calm when you approach it with a surf board. Standing on the shoreline with the sand beneath your toes, you throw the surf board into the quiet water, and run up the dunes without glimpsing back.

But I do glimpse back. I always do. Cold ocean water is so inviting.

Diet Coke High

Sometimes I feel like my life is an episode of Saturday Night Live. Today, "Nick Burns, Your Company's Computer Guy" came to my workspace with a brand new software that would make my life 5,000 times easier gripped in one hand, and a 1.5 liter bottle of Diet Coke in the other. His name was actually David, but we'll call him Nick Burns because the resemblance was uncanny (just add about 100 pounds). So, Nick Burns huffs and puffs over to my space, awkwardly walks past it and checks the number, and then walks back and says, "so you're Lisa!" I say, "Yes, indeed I am!" Feeling obligated to quickly get out of my chair so the master could work his caffinated magic, I sidled out of the way so he could lumber into my chair. He then proceeded to close out all of my 18 open windows, some which needed to be saved, but I kept my cringes to a minimum and took a deep breath. Guess I'll have to stay late tonight! (Guess writing this blog will further the stay!)

As Nick Burns installed Bradbury Phillips onto my machine, I bit my nails and played with my hair, staring off into the wide, sterile abyss that is my floor. My reverie was soon interrupted when Nick Burns began speaking to the computer. He held the mouse with his hand cocked sideways, so his elbow stuck out like a chicken wing. Each button clicked on with said mouse, was announced: "Start." "Open." "Next." "Ok." "Install." I felt like I was in the car with a child who was in the nascent stages of reading, reciting each passing sign on the roadside. When the installation bar slowly began filling up with blue, Nick Burns leaned back in my chair, took a swig of Diet Coke, scratched his leg for a few seconds, and said "Is it 5:00 yet?" I chuckled, agreeing that yes, I too hope the day is almost over... ha....

...

ha. He then pulled his Blackberry out and began reading his emails aloud, separating them with noises like "ch ch ch," and "hmmmm." Then he began shouting at the poor thing, at which point I jumped, thinking it might have been directed at me. "No, that's when you deactivated your account!" "What are you talking about apply synchronization!?!" "That was WAY too much information for me."

The blue bar finally filled up, and Nick Burns huffed away from my desk. So here I sit, my chair quite a few degrees warmer than it had when he arrived. My mouse is sweaty and there are spit marks on my monitor.

I Love Brooklyn

Listen to my favorite song about Brooklyn:

aqui

Dewey Beach, Delaware

Crammed into the venue shaped like a barn which was tattooed with street signs and beer ads from faraway Milwaukee, we listened to a cover band play Maggie's music and Nina's music and I realized that simultaneously I can always use someone like you and all you know and how you speak, but I will always love to put my hand up. My music would be there just 2 nights after I left. Damn.


Earlier in the night, a patient chaperone assisted my slow, Midwestern hands in tearing a newly-dead crab into shelled, moist, incredibly delicious pieces. The tablecloth was made from recycled brown paper bags. The wine tasted like somewhere far away from everywhere.

They convinced me that the ocean cures. The sand exfoliated our tanning skin, the sea salt combed through our hair, the roaring Atlantic filled our souls and we laughed at the incoming waves, (after which they laughed at us, as we struggled to re-tie our bathing suits and slid them back into their rightful, pious positions).

They rubbed my back as I sat close to them, retelling my tales about t-shirts I hold while I fall asleep, shoes I throw, moments in the kitchen when I collapse on the floor. They ran their fingers through my hair while I slept on their thighs, re-dreaming dreams about cold coke-a-cola in a bag and quiet spaghetti dinners on clean wooden floors. They hugged me longer than they usually do, squeezing it out of me, distracting me with discussions on the many uses of a coconut.

I escaped one night after 12 plastic cups full of something heavenly-orange, to the bay. As I waded out through the shallow, lukewarm water under ten thousand stars, the clock created hours out of minutes and years out of hours. Every sentence felt like poetry and every step further in brought me further from my reality. Later, I returned to the beach house with a box of jellyfish, horseshoe crabs, sparkling plankton, and a wide smile.

The Other Way Around

The fact that I have had a visitor more weekends in New York than I can count on my hands and feet continues to baffle and comfort me.  It keeps my energies in flux, my apartment happily more used and worn than it initially appeared, my dishes in motion, and my take forever doubling at this delectable city.  I spent this weekend with two road-tripping Dutchmen who thought parts of me had changed in the past year, and yet, also described me as virile.  Excited at first, that I might teach these two foreigners a thing or two about America, I soon realized that things would actually be the other way around.

I suddenly found myself in a torrent of valuable tidbits I would have definitely been without on this stormy Sunday evening.  I learned not to "suffer fools gladly," (especially when they continuously laughed for longer than the appropriate amount of time after a joke).  

I learned that New York City = Dutch in the following (and I'd assume many more) ways:  

1.New York used to be New Amsterdam.

2.Brooklyn is named for Breukelen, a town in Holland.

3.Staten Island is named after the Dutch word, Staten Generaal, the Dutch Parliament.

4.Boerem Hill (a neighborhood not far from mine) means "farmer's hill" in Dutch.

If that wasn't enough, I proceeded to get the entire low-down on what exactly goes on in the Tour de France, why it is so important, and why Lance Armstrong, at times, gets a less than warm welcome.  For those of you who are like me and apparently live in a cellar without a sliver of light in the form of every-day news, the Tour de France is a three week long ordeal, with multiple races consisting of team cycling, individual cycling, mountain cycling, and so forth.  It's nothing to scoff at, believe me.

I was educated on why the New York subway system is not as flashy and clean as those one would see elsewhere.  It has something to do with American public spending philosophies, our utilitarianism in terms of public transportation, the fact that we want our tax dollars to fit into certain slots and boxes in society, without a penny over-spent.  Elsewhere, taxpayers dish out more, so they can insolently marvel, mouths agape, at the spotless, artsy walls of their subway stations.  

I was made aware that Americans are more spontaneous, better tippers, more courteous with strangers, forced to deal with more touters, than our foreign friends.  That we should be grateful for the free water on the table at a restaurant, for the friendly passersby who don't steal your camera when you ask them to snap a photo of you, and for the fact that happiness is an apparent priority.   

That placebo can sometimes mean gazebo, that fricknack can sometimes mean knick knack. 

*Please note that each hyperlinked vocabulary word entered my unimpressive stash of gems from the English language in my knackered mind, this very weekend, thanks to the Dutchmen.

Meanwhile, I was able to teach them a grand total of 4 words:

1.soliloquy

2.hankering

3.bodega

4.tater tot

  

Just Another Freak Show

she skates through the air like a bird on crack

gray streaks in her hair and her booty gets smacked

with what some might call bizarre hideousness

she glides through life in blissful obliviousness

skate-salsa skate-flamenco skate-jive and skate grind

watching them snapped me into another state of mind

a freakshow in Central Park just for me!

where tourists flock like seagulls and crazies dance for free!

Earplugs

It always seems that just as I turn off my reading light and sink down into the covers at night, my new upstairs neighbor finds it necessary to mobilize. She generally comes home late, and as soon as I hear her stomping past my door up to the 3rd floor, I know I'm in for some serious fun. Sometimes, as I lay there trying to push thoughts and quandaries out of my clogged head and keep my eyes closed tight, it sounds like she is walking around with a couple of those plastic milk crates strapped to her feet as shoes - shuffling this way and that across her wood floors. Then, around 1:00 am, she begins to (seemingly) throw bricks willy-nilly around her apartment. Following that game, there's usually a series of doors and cabinets being opened and shut in rhythm. One or two punk rock songs are played randomly throughout all of this, along with a few loud sighs. Then, around 2:30 or 3:00, she decides to take a shower, the pipes ringing through my walls - at which point I reluctantly place my earplugs above my lobes. It's a step up, I guess, maybe, from the last tenants above me, who would come home drunk on a regular basis, and make loud, passionate love directly above me.

Summer Slaw

I'm generally opposed to slaws of all kinds, but after happening upon a mini farmer's market at the Grand Army Plaza in Brooklyn, my buds did a flip.

Zucchini and Squash Slaw

2 small zucchini

2 small yellow squash

1 bunch of radishes

3 tablespoons olive oil

1 tablespoon cider vinegar

1 tablespoon dijon mustard

1 tablespoon minced fresh dill

1 tablespoon chopped parsley

dash of salt

dash of pepper

Cut zucchini, yellow squash, and radishes into match-stick size strips.  Mix everything else up in a bowl of sorts, and then toss those veggies in.  Grab yourself a good baguette, slice it into thin bites, and spoon some of that slaw on.  

If your buds don't flip like mine did, I will reimburse you for what you spent on the ingredients.

Maine: A Haiku

rain poured down on us

so we poured beer down our throats

and cooked with wet wood

Night:

When I breathe, eat, talk, forget, remember, and sleep.

I breathe the crisp, welcoming, familiar Brooklyn air, swirling with bits of student laughter and Starbucks wafts, wind from behind bicycles and sighs from the swaying ginko trees.

I eat immediately. Vegetables and carbs, full cartons of baby tomatoes, quesadillas stuffed with sharp cheddar and red pepper and chicken-less chicken. Briegorgonzolaparmeseancreamcheese. Carrot ginger soup and chili, avocados, gazpacho and take-out sushi. A glass of pinot and a few episodes of This American Life.

I talk to whomever is on my mind: Nina, Dad, Hannah, aunts, uncles, old friends, new lovers, new friends, old lovers, from all ends and stretches of my mind, via all forms of communication.

I forget, or try to forget, the emails and the invoices and the contracts and the lists and the meetings. The banter and the formalities and the one-two-three of the day.

I remember everything else. For 6 hours at the end of it all I remember - and finally, I am beginning to be here, and make things worth remembering: plays, cafes, Scrabble in the park, concerts, commiseration over pints, and dancing.

Queens

As I sat in the cab outside the FedEx warehouse in Queens the other night I was pleasantly reminded of the movie Castaway.  Except in the movie, Tom Hanks' character stands in a Russian FedEx warehouse.  The area of Queens I was in, a flat, vast spread of warehouse upon warehouse, factory after factory.  Lauren says the area we were in is what runs New York City.  Water, electricity, etc... She had to go to the FedEx to pick up some concert tickets for a concert she wasn't even going to go to, and I waited in the cab with Aziz, the Turkish cab driver.  We sat in silence for about five minutes while I pretended I was busy playing with my phone.  He took a cat nap, and woke up suddenly, turning around abruptly to ask me if I wanted to listen to music.  I told him I hadn't lived here long enough to know any radio stations, and he told me he could tell I like the Beatles.  I do.  He flipped the dial and "Paperback Writer" played loudly from the back seat speakers.  After that, a commercial came on and Aziz turned the volume down, and turned abruptly to me once again.  He asked where I came from, why I was here, and where I live in New York.  After answering each question in turn, I asked him the same.  His family lives in Istanbul and he moved here for an American woman he fell in love with while she was studying at the University near where his parents lived.  He doesn't want kids, thinks Queens is the closest thing to heaven, and told me how the cab business works.  He simply pays rent on the car, $628 per week, and the money he makes after that, is all his.  He claims that he makes quite a bit of money, and I would imagine that if he drives around in the right areas of Manhattan, tips probably can be rather lucrative.  Maybe if publishing falls through...

Y sigo pensando

A heartbreaking song from a movie of a book about love.

Airborne Nostalgia

{Penny Lane} After shoving my carry-on into the overhead bin, squeezing my Timbuk2 under the seat in front of me, letting the skinny, big-sweatshirted girl into the window seat next to me, making sure my seat belt was securely fastened, my seat back and tray table was in its upright and locked position, I popped in my earbuds and turned on Shuffle.  Of course, "Weary Memory" turned on and I was forced into airborne nostalgia.  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes to hide the tears.  When you fly west from New York to Wisconsin at night you chase the sun, so the sky stays periwinkle the whole time.  When you fly east from Wisconsin to New York you chase time, and an hour escapes your life, leaving no trace and leaving you an hour older without living it.  Why is it that airplanes make me so nostalgic?  It's always in this space between places I have been and will be soon that I think the clearest, that I feel closest to epiphany?  It must be the altitude, the thinness of the air, the hours that escape into passing infinity.

On this particular journey east, I thought about how there's an infinite number of things that one can learn if they just open their eyes and ears to their surroundings - especially when those surroundings are new, or out of the ordinary.  I learned that it costs almost a thousand dollars to stuff one deer head.  That the earth's water table has been dropping for the past few decades.  That a "45" means that the bullet inside the gun is 45 millimeters in diameter.  That if there is a motor on your boat, it must be registered, or the DNR will come at you like bats out of hell on a sleepy Sunday afternoon.  That everybody's happy in the fast-food restaurants of Antigo.  That deer ticks are the really bad Lyme-disease ticks and wood ticks aren't so bad but their abundance this time of year is bewildering.  That face cards have different personalities.  That my sister-in-law is an avid ATV extraordinaire.  That if knots in wooden ceilings are stared at long enough, they turn into animals.  That one way to unclog a pond is to throw a stick of dynamite in it.   That Robert Pattenson is actually of British descent.  That the unassuming, unyielding hospitality of a childhood friend is absolutely priceless.  That long walks in the drizzling, mid-western rain are worth it.  That I dish out platefuls of sarcasm, but can't take it.

Cupcaking in Williamsburg

There seems to be a general obsession for cupcakes in this town that I wasn't fully aware of until last night. It's like an underground clique, that only the true lovers of small cakes wrapped in paper are abreast to. I attended a Cupcake Contest at the Union Pool tavern, where white Christmas lights dangled above 60 different types of cupcakes, their creators, and quite a few mingling voters. Flavors ranged from chocolate-rum-coconut to PB&J to bacon-mashed potato. Voters paid a dollar for a ticket (some bought many tickets to support friends) and the proceeds went to a local soup kitchen in Williamsburg. Weaving through the hoards of white cardboard boxes full of deliciousness, I found my favorite: coconut carrot cake with, of course, cream cheese frosting. As voters taste tested and the sky grew darker, the din was raised a bit - not because of the amount of PBR in people's bellies, but rather the amount of sugar pumping through everyone's systems. Hysterics ensued. The winner (I was too sugar-high to remember what the flavor was) won one of those Kitchen-Aid electronic mixers in a big white box almost bigger than she. After the award ceremony, (which really was no more than a dude standing on a chair shouting the runners up and winner), the happily full voters came down from their sugar rush and, crashing, returned to their cozy apartments.

My New Girlfriend

In movies, when people move to New York, there always seems to be this magical montage of everything all at once - wheels splashing through puddles, cigarettes departing hardened lips, blurred colorful lights, tower after tower after statue after bridge after sweeping air shot of a certain park... I'm not saying these things aren't New York - they all are in their own, mass-individual way. New York is a great actress in thousands of movies: charismatic and sad, shiny and drab. You can't take your eyes off her. I had the feeling like I was meeting a famous movie star when I drove the U-Haul over the Verrazano Bridge on that foggy night in September- my heart beating fast and my words all a-jumble.

While she's still beautiful and surprising to me every day I live here, she's also showing me her other sides. Her drinking habits and her ugly bits. Her dirty past and the fact that she is physically and financially sinking, the weight of hundreds of buildings along with America's ever-present burdens on her shoulders. But just when I've had one too many pleas for food from dirty hands outstretched, one too many unbearable farts on the crowded subway, one too few friendly acknowledgements on the street, she up and surprises me with an incredible view from a different vantage point, a flirtatious smile on the bus, a $20 bill lying lonesome on the sidewalk in front of my apartment. Just when her dark corners seem to be as dark and frightening as they could possibly be, she lets the sunlight shine on angles off glass paneled skyscrapers at the right time of day and I'm blinded by her glamour, her serenity, her perfection...

When I see her on the big screen, I still get that giddy "look, there she is!" feeling welling up in my stomach.

Marching Bands of Manhattan

If I could open my arms

and span the length of the isle of Manhattan

I'd bring it to where you are

making a lake of the East River and Hudson

If I could open my mouth

wide enough for a marching band to march out

they would make your name sing

and bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings

I wish we could open our eyes

to see in all directions at the same time

oh what a beautiful view

if you were never aware of what was around you

and it is true what you said

that I live like a hermit in my own head

but when the sun shines again

I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in

Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole

just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound

but while you debate half empty and half full

it slowly rises... your love is gonna drown

Your love is gonna drown

your love is gonna...

They Stood

My sister and her very significant other came to New York this weekend.  As the temperature rose and heated the concrete slabs of the city and warmed the chilled bricks of Brooklyn, the volume of tourists and locals alike followed suit.  EVERYBODY was outside this weekend.  Our shoulders blazing and quickly reddening, the three of us gave the Big Apple a good how's-your-father.  

The two lovebirds stood in my kitchen, touching the designed metal ceilings and rummaging around for snacks.  They stood at the fence at the promenade, overlooking the East River for a Friday night sunset and jumping through the long rays of light as my camera clicked.  They stood shooting darts at the board at Angry Wades, laughing with Antonio, the stinky Italian who repeated the undeniable fact that "Family is everything!"  They stood 80 feet above the East River, on a stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge, dodging bicyclists and water sellers.  They stood at my desk at Scholastic, smiling at the colors and chatting with the large stuffed Clifford.  They stood on the skywalk above Ground Zero, and talked with a fire fighter who showed them pictures of that fated day.  They stood on the "packed" subway, watching the crazies that I have long ago gotten used to.  They stood in Columbus Circle, snapping upward shots of Trump Tower and saying "no thanks" to the blaze-eyed rickshaw drivers.  They stood in the middle of Central Park, among about one million others.  They stood in front of the Dakota, where we quietly mourned the loss of a legend and learned that Yoko Ono still resides there!  They stood on Pier 17, adjusting their ISO's just right for the perfect picture of bright bridge lights against black sea and sky.  They stood in the middle of Times Square, their eyes eating the lights and colors, their noses catching every odd smell.  They stood at the top of the Times Square Mariott, toasting to the Bright Lights and the Big City.  They stood with arms around each other on the cobblestone streets near the Brooklyn Flea, and soaked in their last rays of New York sun at the Empire State Park.  

Soon, I hope, sometime in the future, they will stand, together, in front of all of us, sliding rings onto fingers and tossing bouquets into my waiting hands...

Neftali Reyes

It has just come to my attention that the most widely-read poet of the 20th century, Neftali Reyes, had a most difficult childhood.  Fascinated by nature, emotion, and humanity, the young boy was weak in the eyes of his father.  His father wanted him to be a doctor or a lawyer.  He made his son swim through massive waves in the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Chile in order to strengthen his muscles.  He burned countless notebooks that his son spent hours filling in backyard bonfires.  He never approved of his son's passion.  Eventually, Neftali Reyes went to University and changed his name to Pablo Neruda so that his father would never be shamed by him, and would never know that he was actually writing, and would write, for the rest of his tremendous life.

...Let us look for secret things

somewhere in the world,

on the blue shores of silence,

or where the storm has passed,

rampaging like a train.

There the faint signs are left,

coins of time and water,

debris, celestial ash

and the irreplaceable rapture 

of sharing in the labour

of solitude and the sand...

~On the Blue Shores of Silence, Poems of the Sea~ Pablo Neruda

David

After a week of constant conversation, cordiality, and hand shaking, I decided that the best way to wrap up a week in Italy would be to go to Florence and stare at Michelangelo's Statue of David.  I woke up early, bought a train ticket, and pressed my face against the window at the passing Apennine Mountains wrapped in fog.  The ride only took 58 minutes, and, camera in hand, I was ready to take on a new city.  Following the narrow cobblestone streets, I dodged groups of high-schoolers, dog shit, and Vespas, before coming upon the very average-looking Gallery of the Academy.  Surprised that this ordinary building could hold such an extraordinary naked man, I took my place in the winding line outside.  

"I think mint gelato is my favorite," said a tinny female voice behind me.

"What do you think would happen if you only ate gelato for, like, 2 days straight?" replied her tucked-in polo shirt-wearing companion.  

Though it's been almost four years since I studied abroad myself, I can remember exactly this type of conversation.  It was the kind that you were forced to have whether you liked the person next to you or not, waiting in line for an hour to see a monument that is mandatory on the lists of all Western European travelers.  I tried, to no avail, to tune out the potential lovers and opened my book.  

"Who do you think the most attractive male actor over 50 is?"

"George Clooney by far.  How old do you think he is?"

"Maybe 57."

"That pigeon's going to poop on you."  

"I hate birds."

"I have a bird."

"Oh."

"It got stuck inside my dog's mouth once."

"HAHAHAHA"

"It was really traumatic for her."

-long, awkward pause-

"I think Guinness is my favorite beer."

"I think it tastes like coffee."

"It's crazy to think we only have 40 days left."

"I know, it's gone by really fast."

"Crazy."

"Crazy."

Crazy was where I was well on my way to going as I listened to this endless, awkward conversation.  Finally, the line started to move towards the entrance and I grew excited at the thought that I was finally going to see this statue of so-called perfection.  When I approached the ticket booth, the woman asked for 7 Euro.  I told her I didn't have cash, and she told me to go around the corner to the ATM.  This ATM, and any other cash machine, apparently didn't exist in the Galleria neighborhood.  As I searched, I  wondered why it was so important for me to see this statue, how it would benefit me, and whether it was worth standing in another line with obnoxiously awkward American tourists spitting bits of ice cream at my neck as they exchanged exaggerated stories and cliches.  So I took a picture of the Statue of David postcards at a little stand outside the entrance and felt quite satisfied.

Throughout my wanderings and ramblings the rest of the day, I realized that the streets and piazzas of Florence are replete with outdoor statues of muscular, uncircumcised men with bulging scrotums, so I really felt like I hadn't missed out on anything.