Choas and Clutter

I think I like to clutter my life with a thousand different things so I can have the satisfaction of uncluttering them and getting things done in a way that's still done, but may not be the way I'd have done 'em if I only had one thing (or two, let's be honest) to do. Because I can always say, "I had SO much to do that day." Do you do this too? Is this one of those things that everyone does but doesn't talk about?

I think I know why I do this, but I don't want to say it out loud. Everyone does that, too, right?

Sunrise, Sunset

What are we going to do when summer's really over? How do we do this every year?

I'm ready for the light coats and leaves of fall; I await that eagerly. But I'm not ready for layers and gloves and cold faces. Snow. Not being outside as much. I get a little stir crazy in the winter, just hungry for sky. In the summer, I feel guilty when I'm not outside on a nice day. I actually like heat and humidity, so my idea of a nice day in the summer is slightly different than the average joanne. I'm just not ready for a New York winter again.

It makes me finally realize the lure of being a snow bird. Having lived in Florida, but not South Florida, I've only had limited exposure to those who follow the sun. As you might have noticed, I'm resistant to change, so the thought of having two homes and two sets of stuff and two ideas of home seems 1. wasteful and 2. a big pain in the ass. Ok, so maybe a house on the beach would be nice, but I wouldn't want to pack up and live there for a while. What about missing all your friends and the guy at the deli and dealing with your magazine subscriptions? Not for me.

But not dealing with the impending snow? That might be nice.

What's that you say? Leave New York City? Not a chance.

Re: Photo: Broadway, downtown Manhattan. June, 2007.

Subtlety is Hard to Spell

I've been drinking a lot of seltzer lately. Just plain seltzer, maybe a little lemon. I used to hate it, when I didn't know the difference between it and tonic water, which is gross, but water with bubbles didn't appeal to me back then. I was a dedicated Coke drinker. Where I come from it is completely acceptable to have Coke (or a coke, i.e. a soda of any variety) in the morning instead of coffee. I fully support this practice. Really, what's the difference? Sugar+caffeine=awake.

Maybe I just need a lift from the bubbles in my seltzer.

Tonight I'm going to the International Center of Photography to see the Stephen Shore Exhibit before it hits the road (ha ha). There's something so quiet and calming about his photography that at once sooths and surprises me. There's the one on the ICP website with the full billboard of a mountain scene right where you'd expect the real mountains to be. It blows my mind how powerful subtlety can be. I want to be like that in everything I do, every minute of the day, but I don't have the patience or reserve.

The photo also reminds me of some lyrics to a John Mayer song which I refuse to be ashamed I like. Actually, I refuse to be ashamed that I like John Mayer a lot. A lot a lot.

But subtly, of course.

Re: Photo: Union Square Greenmarket, June, 2007.

What are you looking at?

Whenever I come back from the South, where I consider my self "from," I have to remember to get back into New York Mode. There's the walking faster, remembering there are subways instead of cars, stairs and crossing streets, and being so close to a million people without looking at them. I have to remember to let my Southern accent fade, which feels so good to use when I'm down there, like sweet, round grapes in my mouth. I like my Southern accent. If my friends didn't piss and moan every time it crept back in I'd taulk like that awl the tiiime.

Lately, the nerve endings have been a little closer to the skin and I've found this easier to welcome back. Watch where you're going. Walk faster. Have your Metrocard out. Don't stand so close to me. Yesterday on my evening walk, I almost got run down by a cyclist riding on the sidewalk on State Street. Was I wearing my iPod? Yes, though I still heard him coming. I didn't look up until he'd already hopped off to stop, inches from my shins. I looked him in the eye and he returned my annoyed scoff with a "Yeah, I'm sorry. Whatever." I wanted to say"Don't ride on the sidewalk, jackass." and he wanted to say "You and your damn iPods." We were ready to spar. And I would have said something, too, if he'd hit me. I would have screamed and dropped my bag on the sidewalk and berated him for irresponsible bike riding, in front of a police station no less. Said he's the reason NYDOT doesn't take bikes seriously in the City and why so many people get run over by garbage trucks on Houston Street. Maybe an officer would have come out of the station, jangling his cuffs. The cyclist would have held up his palms and told me off, too, but I wouldn't have heard him from my screaming and gesticulating.

Yeah, that's what New York feels like right now. Maybe it's because we're all tired of the heat and ready for Fall. Maybe it's just me. Maybe cyclists are really dicks. Maybe I need to move back down South.

Re: Photo: Near the Armory on 15th St. Park Slope, Brooklyn. September, 2007.

Feels Like the First Time

In my industry, August is a little on the slow side. Everyone's boss is in the Hamptons and everyone else (hopefully) gets caught up. Whether or not that happens, September feels like going back to school. No more early quittin' time on Friday. No more long lunches. Back to real work.

I loved going back to school. New notebooks and shoes and seeing everyone you forgot about over the summer. Where I grew up, back to school meant a good bit more of summer weather, even though I wore those new sweaters and jeans the first week anyway. That's what you do to new clothes, temperature be damned.

But I have to say, as I've gotten older, and school became work, the lure of new notebooks (which I still buy) has lost its luster. Of course it has. Work does not equal school. Sometimes it's a whole lot better. Sometimes I'd rather be in English Lit.

My sister sent me a box of odds and ends once, and included therein was the above action figure--a duplicate in her son's collection. I used to run screaming from the room when the Incredible Hulk came on TV, much to my sister and brother's amusement. I don't even remember why, but he scared the crap out of me. But he's on my desk now, a little plastic reminder of the stuff I'm not afraid of anymore. Cheesy, I know. But sometimes things like that work. I might need it right now.

Re: Photo. Sometime in 2007 in Brooklyn.

Snuffle, vacation, whine

Every year in college, without fail, for four years, I got a horrific upper respiratory infection the week before Spring finals. This was also two weeks before Crew Nationals--I was on the rowing team--so that meant we were studying and rowing twice a day and stressing the fuck out over everything. My body's response was to shut down, produce a lot of fluids in my lungs, and make it so I couldn't swallow for at least five days. Fun! The third time it happened I went to the infirmary early to catch it before it got too bad and some rookie insaneo n00b doctor squeezed my throat so hard that I cried out and made him leave the room and get me a real doctor. He said I didn't need drugs, that I just had a cold. The real doctor took one look at my chart, didn't even touch me, and started writing the script for whatever antibiotic I wasn't allergic to then. She saw what I'd had for the last two years and took my word for it. Not that I was looking for superfluous drugs--who gets high off of penicillin??--but she knew that I knew what the heck was going on in my own body.
The point? I'm getting sick. My throat hurts. I'm achy. AND I REFUSE TO BE SICK THIS WEEK because I'm going on a mini vacation at the end of the week that involves one of my best friends, trashy magazines, southern barbecue, and swimming pools. I will be at that swimming pool, as god as my witness.
So I'm medicating heavily with Ginger Ale. I fully believe in its medicinal properties. Whether or not Canada Dry actually contains any real ginger in it, I care not. But when I'm sick, I want Ginger Ale. And Saltines. And ice cream. And the Price is Right, but will settle for Buffy season two, which my co-worker lent me. Except I can't lounge on the couch because I have work to do.
Moral of this story: Don't get sick as an adult. You have to go out and get your own Ginger Ale AND still go back to work.
Sigh.

Re: Photo: State St., Brooklyn, June 2007.

Grace Paley: "All my habits are bad."

Boy howdy. I'm extremely listless today. NOTHING is getting done. And when you have 50 billion jobs (my choice, sorta, so yes, I know) and things you actually want to do (other than those jobs), being listless doesn't help in the getting of things done. All I end up doing is checking and rechecking the blogs I read to see if something inspiring will spur me into action. Pictures of celebrities and steampunk watches are not going to inspire me to read manuscripts, so it's an exercise in futility. Big surprise.

With this whole internet thing, lately, I've figured out why so many people comment on blogs and read livejournals and were part of all those message boards and such like the Bronze for Buffy fans. I don't read comments on blogs because so much of it is "OMG THat's the Cutestestest puppy i ever seen") (Yes, I read those sites.) And there's not really any comment in their comments, to paraphrase Joan Cusack. I'll read every word you comment here, of course, but still. What I figured out, ten years later than everyone else with a computer on the planet, was this whole reaching out into blank space for a connection thing. OH, now I see. People talk to me and then I can talk to them? Over the interwebs? And we don't know each other yet? And we might like ALL of the same stuff? OMGBBQWTF!

Yeah, I know. Sometimes things just take a while to rise to the surface of my brain. It's in there, but I haven't really heard myself yet. Like recently, I discovered running. As far as I'm concerned it's just me and Phidippides out there trying not to get run over by the aging peloton in Prospect Park. It, like, works. It makes you feel good and lose weight. This is freaking AWESOME. Why didn't anyone tell me sooner?

Where was I? Oh yeah, the listlessness. See how it goes? I try to start something and then I'm pulled down a hundred different paths. I know I'm not the only one who does this, of course. I'm not saying I'm anything special because of it. I just figured it out, you know, today. So I had to tell you. And show you this door to nowhere. Because that's where I'm headed this afternoon.

Re: Photo. Dumbo, Brooklyn. Spring, 2007