Christmas Caterpillars and Old Rice

We ride the giant caterpillar home for Christmas, commuting again like we did at the beginning of this blog. It feels familiar, all the ants in transit, yet simultaneously feels so distant and foreign, a language we nearly forgot the words of. The past two weeks have been a windstorm of finals and sales associating, of fingers to keyboards and "Do you need a button-up to go with that cardigan?"  

As we adjust to anything, I have adjusted to retail and the art of starting conversations while meticulously folding clothing. No longer nervous, I genuinely feel like I am helping people to locate the items they are seeking, rather than pushing material goods on people who aren't wanting to spend money. 

Though I'd love to be focusing solely on school, we do what we must, I in my new job, my boyfriend working mornings and nights, and some afternoons, at the cafe next door to us. We pass through the days, pay rent and utilities, and pinch until paychecks. Our meals consist of the remainders of our rice and salad dressing, as we haven't had the time or cash to go food shopping in a little while. It's always interesting, the concoctions made from the last of the food. 

And now we sit on the train, me writing, him reading, as we head home to see our families for Christmas. It's appropriately snowing and freezing, as though the atmosphere has picked up on the Christmas mood that we've been forgetting up in Bushwick. A busy day at work feels like a busy day at work, little more, as I frequently forget that it is the holiday season and Christmas is in fact rapidly approaching. But here it is, in just a few hours. It's quite bizarre.

A Thought: Holidays are funny. They're like days of permission to not work and expectation to see your family. Of course there are other implied meanings, but when you look at them very basically, they are a sort of funny phenomenon. 

A Find:  Streets of Laredo. An amazing band made up of three awesome New Zealanders, two of which work at the cafe next door. They just released the video for their song "Girlfriend," and both the song and the video are awesome!! Totally check it out! http://vimeo.com/46340913

Folding the Words in my Head to Weave Garments

Hours correspond with dollar signs and letter grades. I work, I study. I work, I study. Yesterday at work, a neighborhood cat wondered in through the open door. All folding ceased as we stopped to pet and coo "Fatso." It was a welcome interruption to the general flow of a day in retail. My second week on the job and I feel confident in my folding skills, semi-confident in my sales abilities, and happy with my position. 

After work, on the way to class, I was serenaded to "Call Me Maybe" by an Indian man selling prepaid cell phones, one of the more hilarious things I've seen this month. During class, I received an email from a poetry publication that said they would publish a poetry review that I wrote. SOOO EXCITED!!! My first publication and I'm on my way to eventually getting my own writing published. This will be the first publication for the resume, the beginnings of a literary journey.

It makes me think a lot, about writing, about opportunities, about my own abilities. I wonder about future publications, future means of income, future plans and I over think. I think myself into a whirlwind of possibilities, what ifs, and questions. Will I publish my own poetry? Is that profitable? Would it be better to focus my attentions to other formats, more profitable formats? Should I start my first novel? Should I continue pursuing the crafts I've begun? Crocheting scarfs and leg warmers, crafting jewelry? Who knows? All I can do is continue moving forward, in some direction, at some sort of pace, and I trust something will fall into place.

A Thought: Work and play are mere distinctions established by our minds. If we can bend the boundaries between the two, then each will begin to lend to the other. Our work will be playful, our play will be productive.

A Find: Meeting a new friend, I have been reintroduced to Shamanism. It's an amazing, healing, beautiful art and practice that, I've found, really helps to recenter and calm an individual. Medicinal healings, animal spirits, meditations, breathing exercises, and general reintegration with the earth are all common factors that I've come to find are extremely grounding.

We Gather for Warmth

Last night my boyfriend and I had our first Thanksgiving together in our new apartment. We congregated around our make-shift table like a transplanted family with a clan of New Zealanders that we've met through the local cafe. The wine flowed freely, as did the conversation, and we were happy.  Peeking through our window, you'd see a group of slightly drunk twenty-somethings talking and laughing in our studio apartment. 

It was a good prompt for us to get the apartment cleaned and set up as well. We hung paintings and photographs like freckles on the walls, splattered the apartment with our expressions and were happy. Our four walls begins to feel like a home while we collect our memories and experiences and store them beneath the floorboards so that the apartment's a little bit warmer. We save our laughter in lightbulbs so the apartment's a little bit brighter and our gas and electric bills remain untouched. 

A huge part of moving out of state becomes new family creation. We meet new people, curate our finds and house a gallery of intimacy. This new family comprises our top picks and we choose. That's the most amazing part, this choosing of family. 

Tonight we gather again for a birthday celebration, my birthday being tomorrow. It'll be a larger gathering, here in Bushwick in this new home, than I've had in several years and I'm amazed at the pace with which we've been establishing connections. I'm excited. I'm always excited for my birthday, being an only child of a single parent it was always a big thing. But for now I sit, a fixture in the local cafe, a light on the wall, writing and crocheting scarves.

A Thought:  Holidays are interesting phenomenon. They're days assigned by a calendar to be special, to stand out from the rest. On these days, besides possible congregating with friends or family, there's really very little that makes them different. I say this not to downplay holidays, but to make a point of how easy it is to decide that a particular day is special, and then act accordingly. Why not do this with more days? Establish personal holidays? Or even make every day a holiday?

A Find: Sitting in a different cafe the other day (yes, I'm pretty much always in cafes), Miike Snow's song Cult Logic came on. It's an awesome song that I hadn't heard before, even though the album came out a few years ago. Definitely youtube it!

From the Wings of a Butterfly

Sometimes ice creeps into the veins and movement becomes sluggish, thoughts become sluggish, and to-do lists fall by the wayside. The events of the past few weeks transpire and culminate in a loss of words. My first attempts at public laundry, an exciting success, becomes silenced by the following storm, Hurricane Sandy, which struck my home county quite hard. Words dry up in my throat and I am at a loss for what to write, blessed by minimal-to-no damage in my part of Brooklyn, horrified by the amount of destruction my childhood beach towns endured, the week without electricity my mother endured, the loss of a house my uncle endured. 

Now, following the storm, certain aspects of life resume normalcy. I once again feel I can write about my experiences, my safe, primarily unaffected experiences here in Brooklyn. We never lost power, experienced no damage or destruction, resumed normal life the following day (with the exception of the downed L train, which proves to be our main artery into the city, to school and work).

We wake, do our laundry in the building next door with the help of our faithful cart Lermy, food shop, cook tempeh and rice, go to school, go to work. We do these things at times as though on a conveyer belt. The novelty, the beauty in these tiny moments, moments so full of life and uniqueness, gets lost in the repetition.

Last night, while my boyfriend was cooking dinner, the oil in the pan caught fire. It was terrifying. The pan fire lasted about a minute before it went out, setting off the fire alarm that I had to fan while he opened the windows. Neither of us were hurt, but once the danger was gone, all the possible outcomes flooded our heads. He could have been horribly scorched, could have set fire to the whole building. Most terrifying is that the fire started during a normal, almost rote action. We don't understand what happened or what went wrong. The rest of the night was spent in near silence. We ate quietly, dressed for bed, and slept. 

A Thought: These tiny traumas, tiny disasters begin so unnoticed, a wind that turns into a hurricane, a dash of oil that ignites, yet can build and build into such horrifying outcomes. In our daily lives, these are things that can possibly be avoided, the hurricane of a verbal fine, the fire of a confused action. Take notice of the little initiators. Doing so could prevent large, disastrous outcomes. 

Vegetable Soup Eyes that Watch the World

Waking this morning, unable to sleep anymore after my boyfriend's "see you later" kiss as he went off to work, I was accompanied by a familiar restlessness. The roof seemed the only place to go and so I went, straddling the wall. There's something about elevation that seems at one time natural, an expected preference, but then at another time transcendent. Most of us live between five and seven feet off the ground. We are stuck by gravity to remain on the ground, to inhabit a vantage point that keeps us, in the great scheme of things, quite small. Sitting on a roof four floors off the ground, I become greater than my building, greater than the small buildings around me. I see over them and into Manhattan ahead of me, Brooklyn behind. The city, which is so easy to feel lost and swallowed up in, becomes an objective pinpoint "over there." It is small, manageable, containable. I like to look down on things, see them from above and watch.

Only a few people were on the street so early, though, in my part of Brooklyn, there are often only a few people on the street. An elderly woman entered her apartment building across the street, a few kids walked down the street, I'm sure happy for Saturday, a van of workers pulled up and begin unloading supplies as the climbed onto the roof of the single story building next door. 

A few workers noticed me, curious about the girl precariously poised on a fourth floor roof who watched them. A few waved and smiled. After sitting for a little while, I noticed another people watcher. An elderly man crouched at his window across the street with a cup of coffee, doing exactly the same thing I was doing. However, he didn't notice me, didn't realize that he had became part of the group of people to be watched on this early morning. I watched him watch the workers I had previously been watching. I wanted to wave to him, welcome him into this voyeuristic complicity. However, he didn't notice me. I left as the workers began changing on the roof, offering them privacy though the elderly man continued to watch. 

A Thought: There's a balance one must find as an actor of stripping down one's own tendencies and idiosyncrasies and developing new characteristics of the character. But where exactly is this balance? One creates and inhabits the character through the self, but where is the line between the self and the character and where do these two merge? That I do not yet have an answer for.    

A Find: Interstate Gallery on Knickerbocker. Last night there was an opening reception for a new exhibit that was based off of David Lynch's Twin Peaks. Opening receptions are wonderful. There are so many people to meet, artists to speak with, the gallery owner himself to become friendly with, as well as the art, of course. Any chance you have of going to opening receptions, go!

No Sleep Til Employment

I am my experiences. I experience New York. I am New York. 

I continue reaching deeper and deeper into the corners of my apartment, Brooklyn, and New York. Yesterday entailed two classes and a tour of application processes. Four resumes dropped off, two interviews, and my first haphazard attempt at a cappuccino on a manual espresso machine. That proved to be the most interesting interview, however.

My potential employer, the owner of a Swedish coffee shop, asked me what I considered my personal strength to be. I responded "customer service and connection," explaining that I was brought up by a psychotherapist and so developed pretty decent skills at reading people and making connections. Primarily, I sense energy and can pick up on a person's disposition and present situation fairly accurately, telling my potential employer that I understand people. He seemed intrigued, sparked up a little after an initially somewhat brusk interview. 

"Do you now?" he asked. I nodded. "Read me, then."

And I did. I told him exactly what I had picked up from him from the beginning of the interview: how his brusk manner suggested not only that he had a keen idea of what he was looking for and wouldn't accept those who proved to be sub-par, but also that he seemed to be a bit preoccupied and has probably had a particularly busy, if not even difficult, day. His manner also made me think that he was a business man in mind set, used to functioning in check lists and with systems, i.e. of a more analytical than empathetic manner (while I expressed that he didn't seem unempathetic per se, just predisposed to the former). So I sat there, on an interview, psychoanalyzing my potential employer honestly for about ten minutes. At the end he just nodded, saying I had done a fairly accurate job. We then turned to the technicalities of the job and my resume, after which I had to make him a cappuccino.

As I left, I thanked him for the interview, saying that if the barista job didn't work out, I was available for more analyzation, and that at the very least, the interview had been fun. He laughed and told me I'd hear from him soon as to his decision. 

Weirdest interview ever. 

However, I have already received a call back from the manager of a clothing store who was "very taken with my personality" and is thinking of pushing my application directly up to the district manager. So there seems to be considerable potential there :)

This morning, I wake to a large dofey black man singing "We Are the Champions" outside my window, and then come across two break dancers in masks in the subway terminal. Good morning, Wednesday.

A Thought: Going through the city, I encounter types of people. People who remind me of people from home, people from my last school, last city. It seems they exist as part of a group they don't know, these types. I meet someone new and think "Oh, he is like friend X, the same type of person." Though of course everyone is different and unique, I can't deny these similarities.

A Find: The station on the corner of 8th and 14th streets, where the L meets the ACE, has the funniest little metal statues. They represent somewhat socialist ideals, the workers overpowering the business men, but in these comical little depictions. However, their meanings are clear. Check them out if you have a chance.

Moved In!!!!

Loft spaces, now empty boxes, and local coffee shops. Yesterday, we moved, packed the van, drove, unpacked the van, unpacked the boxes. We assembled shelves and clothing racks, made the bed, and piled up our books. No longer Jersey residents, we now inhabit Brooklyn, the once distant dream of perpetual postponement now actualized. This blog about moving to the city now actually takes place in the city. 

It turns out our landlord actually allowed us to move in two weeks early, and so our loft is technically still unfinished. Currently, there's no fridge, no stovetop or top counters, and our shower grout is drying. But we don't care. We venture out to local falafel and ramen shops, coffee shops, and food shops for whatever we need, happy to just be here, happy to not have to make our way to Penn station to return to Jersey at the end of the day. We woke this morning in city sidewalks, sunshine through new blinds, and a world of New Yorkers around us. 

We now await our roommate, who moves in his things this afternoon. The loft space will eventually be converted into a two bedroom through the help of dividers and partitions, but for the meantime, we all bunk down in what it is we have to work with. But we're here. In Brooklyn. Starting our life in the city.

A Thought:  I know it's getting cold and dopamine vitamin D levels drop when the season changes, but it's amazing the difference a smile and a hello can make to someone. Just seeing a receptive, open face can make a person happier, make them feel more a part of their surroundings and thusly make them feel more grounded.

A Find: Shops at the Loom. An awesome first floor little collection of stores on Flushing Ave that houses a boutique, a co-op, a yoga studio, a tattoo parlor, and an awesome coffee shop that also holds events. Such a cool little place to live by!!!

Ants in Transit

Initial flirtings lead into outright sunlight, the first sunny day yet this week and already I feel more focused, more motivated. This commute, by now accepted as typical, presents itself as  much less daunting now. It is a means to an end, a very desirable end that constantly approaches. 

Yesterday, my boyfriend spoke with me at length about various forms of education, namely self-education. The conversation was inspired by a book he had gotten for his iPad concerning non-traditional means of self-educating and goal achieving. He was excited and, as though through infection, excited me as well. Our desires, at one time little more than foggy mirrors, condensed into words and explanations. "I want to learn this, and this, and that," we said, our stomachs rumbling like waking bears, ravenous, almost brutal. We spoke of our demands for the world selfishly, imagining the utmost and requiring its actualization. We take in books like bread, slurp others' knowledge like life-water, our skin aching for more, for contact, for abrasions through which even more can seep in. 

And today, there is sun, affirmative warmth on my skin, rays of vitamin D trickling through my pores and I am calmed. No more bumbling umbrellas battling each other on city streets, annoying the unfortunates who complain about the safety of their eyes. No more leaky charcoal overhead but rather a sky that reminds me of the bright blue gummy sharks I ingest by the bag. My eyes, less sleepy, less inclined to blink at the joyous construction workers this morning, blink at my hometown baristas, the friendly train conductors who occasionally recognize me.

Resolution. Such a simple yet desirable word. Five phone calls, some back and forth, minor details, a few text messages, and then closure. We finally move. For sure. On Friday. That's two days until my first apartment. Two days until a new residence, new state, new address, new roommates. No more commute, no more hassle. Things finally shift from a viscous goo into a more solid form, one with definite sides and angles, constructed of signatures and down payments. We no longer inhabit a world of extraneous what-ifs: what if the apartment falls through, what if we can't secure another one, what if my financial aid falls through, what if I can no longer afford this perfect school I've found, what if I can't find a part time job, what if my boyfriend is stuck at the job he hates, what if the world explodes?

But no. This structure, this building is built upon a lease and a check, only to be further constructed upwards towards a skyscraper's height of glory. These two months are simply a mosquito on the skin, a fraction of night through a blind as it closes and then we move onwards towards evenings of wine on the roof, midnight walks through the city, morning breakfasts on the high line, bike rides through Brooklyn, an eventual loft bed we design and build ourselves, and everything else we've romanticized about since the middle of August. It tastes like adulthood and independence, like cracking eggshells and new skin, feels like joints cracking from too much sleep and a warm sweater. Finally I'll be writing this blog about moving to New York from New York itself, becoming an inhabitant rather than a commuter. My blisters have all healed, my feet now tougher, my legs more muscular. 

A Thought: A puzzle, rather. So many people inhabit NYC, and with them, so many independent, local coffee shops. Yet people crave the familiar, creating nests in their comfort zone with their feet in the cement. I see so many Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks cups throughout the day and am astounded by  New Yorkers' lack of spontaneity and adventure. These chains will be fine without your business. Go find a local cafe and try the different kinds of coffee and espresso out there. 

A Find: Eat More Kale. A small time Vermont based group that sells t-shirts, stickers, and canteens even supporting their motto, to "eat more kale." Not only are these items fun, but the company actually makes a rather good suggestion. Kale is perhaps one of the healthiest and most beneficial dark leafy greens out there. It's amazing raw, steamed, blanched and sauteed, plain, with garlic, with Bragg's Liquid Aminos, with Annie's Green Goddess dressing, on sandwiches, etc... you get my drift.

Old Man Sweaters and Broken Clocks

As I sort through my clothing, tossing the desirables into a large garbage bag to soon drag up to Brooklyn, I keep my sweaters aside, reminding myself that it is indeed fall. The smokey sky, puffs of air that escape my lungs in the morning, and giant spider outside my screen door all remind me of this fact as we approach jacket season together. 

Later, sitting outside my hometown coffee shop, I watch a puddle of dog urine slowly creep along the street, evaporating slowly. I wonder where those piss molecules go to, and start thinking about cloud filters, Brita filters, and an idea for a Prozac filter my mother had jokingly come up with years ago. Like the pee, time trickles onwards, though the grey sky shows no sign of the sun's progression. Truthfully, days like today seem to hover as we wrap our jackets more tightly around ourselves, turning on our heat and moving indoors. My latte grows colder, my only sense of time.

I don't feel, but rather know that our move to a new city is imminent, through packing, through phone calls, through the fading shadows of summer. A classic rock station sings songs about days I don't remember, days I never lived through and I feel as though I myself am floating. The world is built not of concrete, but of whisps of cloud and smoke and small accomplishments: two guitars sold, half a home packed, small assignments completed, successful book recommendations to my boyfriend. 

While I do homework, he reads a book on American Noir that I lent him, a book I had purchased years back from the Smithsonian. It's fascinating how strongly noir is rooted in the disillusionment of the post WW2 era, stemming from artists who had grown discontent with their government, but rather than preaching outright dissent, they internalized their feelings into tragic anti-heroes and brutal femme fatales. For a brief period, I had contemplated doing my senior thesis on the relationship between post-war disillusionment, noir novels and film, and the psychological stages of mourning. Well, I guess it's still a consideration.

A Thought: Nothing is isolated into it's own field. Look at noir, a dark artistic movement that stems from history and mirrors psychology. Think of how mathematical music is, how scientific color theory is. These interconnections are where the most growth and transcendence can occur for a creative person, by playing on the interconnections and stretching them to their utmost reaches.

A Find: Not necessarily new, but the film Double Indemnity, adapted from the novel by James M. Cain by director Billy Wilder, is an amazing film and one of the earliest big-time American noir films. Starring Fred McMurray, Barbara Stanwick, and Edward G. Robinson, it's a forerunner off of which many later noir films have been adapted and modeled. 

Mirrors in the Street

Perception is really an amazing phenomenon. Specifically, self-perception, perception of one's own physical appearance. What does it reveal when one perceives of his or her own body? Often, forms of body dismorphia come into play. The mind exhibits an inability to accurately conceptualize of it's own physical form and thus perceives imperfections and inaccuracies. A size four woman sees herself as a size 10. 

But what do you see when you don't have a mirror? What is remembered? Exaggerated? Removed? Distorted? And how does self-esteem come into play? As I go through my days in New York, I am struck by the homeless people who speckle the sidewalks, curious about their lives and, more so, their perceptions of themselves. Thus began a project.

Before class on Wednesday, I stopped at a shop, picked up a sketch pad and a illustration pen, and set off searching. I began to encounter people on the streets who were asking for money and stopped to talk to them. Giving them a dollar, or in one case a uniball pen, I asked if they could help me with a project. I asked them if they would mind drawing a self-portrait of themselves from memory. So far, all have obliged. As they drew, they told me their stories. Openly. Without reservation. They seemed hungry to talk, to have someone listen sympathetically and without judgement. I listened. They sketched. 

The drawings are fascinating revelations of their self-perceptions. It doesn't matter the amount of skill present or lacking, but the drawings themselves are encoded with each person's story. I spoke with one man who, though employed as a newspaper seller and living in the Bronx, was severely impoverished. His was the only drawing with a smile, the only one to take up most of the page. The others, from homeless men, are small, discrete, and unobtrusive. The figures don't smile, as though apologizing for the little room they take up on the page. 

I cannot wait to get back up to the city to continue this project, to collect more stories and hear about more lives. 

A Thought: Try to draw a self portrait from memory. It doesn't matter your skill level. Just try to see if you can remember your appearance well enough to recreate it. It's a very interesting exercise.

A Find: A. I. Friedman's. Located on 17th, I think between fifth and sixth...maybe. It's an amazing store offering all kinds of notebooks, sketchpads, drawing pens and pencils, portfolios, frames, drawing tables, filing cabinets, etc... Definitely my favorite writing implement store.

Foundations of Spiderwebs

I want to become one of the skyscrapers, to become a building that engulfs its bricks and steel, its wood and glass, eating up each one until they become absorbed within my mass. I want to break out of the ground, to feel soil and concrete around my base and to push upwards, parallel with the other skyscrapers. I want to grow taller, to feel the hands of men upon me, giving them blisters and callouses as they build. I want to bite the clouds, to feel them on my tongue while I look down at the world, so far away. I want my name to last forever.

Rand posed the idea that movement equals life. To stop, to stagnate, is to die. By that theory, I must be exuberant with life as I continue this tri-weekly commute that does become, in a way, addicting. Though I love my days off, relaxing at Volan, a local coffee shop owned by a friend, and chatting with the multitude of regulars seeking caffeine and connection, I begin to feel a restless agitation in my limbs that is only sated by this journey north. The train seems less like a caterpillar of cattle cars and more like a transporter of anticipation. The passengers buzz with kinetic energy waiting to be released in their destinations while participating in a sort of transient community. We all buy the tickets, walk the platforms, ride the trains.

Once in the city, I am alive with overstimulation. The tall buildings hold reminders of man's achievement while the pedestrians suggest endless possibilities. You can be and become anybody in this city. There is also a specific promise that waits for me in this city that my home town can no longer fulfill, a forward progression. Though I do my homework in Asbury, continuing productivity, my school is in the village and within its walls teach the great minds who will help to educate, shape, and inspire me into a closer definition of the person I am to become. That is not to say that I am not yet defined, nor that I will be fully defined once I graduate, but merely that I will be at such a greater place after so much intellectual feeding. Already, only one month into classes, I am so absorbed into my courses, all of which are amazing, that I want to write and create more than I have in a while. 

A Thought:  I've been thinking a lot about the creative process lately, specifically in terms of where creation originates from. There's an obvious answer - you imagine something and then create it. But what about other means? For example, I'm in love with the idea of sculpting, particularly with metal and found objects. However, I have no idea of what to create or how. Can art come from accident? If I play with materials, construct something through trial and error rather than forethought, can it still become art? Or is it merely something aesthetic, as the end product lacks an initial concept? This I have no answer to, but it is something I've been puzzling over.

A Find:  I put a deposit on a bike Saturday for the city. Over at Second Life Bikes in Asbury, my boyfriend's little brother, who volunteers there, helped me pick out an awesome, old japanese, gold and grungy beauty of a bike that he's going to work on and fix up for me. So exciting! I will not, however, be riding her in the city. Only in Brooklyn. Inner city riding terrifies me too much, as everyone on wheels is crazy in the city (cars and bikes alike). I'll have to think up a name for my new beauty.

I Am My Own New York

6:45am and we're on the train to NYC when my boyfriend gets a text from my mother, "She left her phone and textbook at the house." Damnit. 

Thus began a cellphone-free day through New York, bothering strangers for the time and being completely disconnected from the world outside of my immediate surroundings. My boyfriend and I conferred on a place and time to meet (5:50pm at my school), but after I left him at his job, our communication ended, dependent upon both of our abilities to be at the right place at the right time at the end of the day so that we could commute home together.

As I bought my nth latte, I was glad that it was at least my phone and not my wallet that I had forgotten. The day would have been much different, then. Unable to do my imminent homework (for today's class, of course) and unable to distract myself with absurd-nothing texts to my mother, boyfriend, and various friends (as you do when passing time), I found myself with eight hours to pass before I needed to be in class. What to do??

I started the day by pulling out my camera and continuing to work on two different photography series I had started, one on urban architecture and one newer one on abstract textures. Visiting the High Line for my second time, I got a bunch of shots that I think I'll be able to turn into something. I ended up later at Union Square, working on a reflection to a performance I'm creating for a class, then working line-by-line (now that I have the damn thing finally memorized) on a monologue I have to perform for another class. All this and it's only noon! What a productive life one can lead when they're not constantly trying to distract themselves. And I even took a break here and there, browsing Crate & Barrel and a few clothing stores (not that I have the money to spend) and walking down to Soho. It really puts into perspective how much time I spend doing nothing when it ends up taking so little time to achieve something. 

A Thought: Have a cellphone-free day. No really. "Forget" it at home and enjoy going off the radar. All the texts and phone calls will be waiting for you when you get back to it, I promise. Not only does it stop you from obsessively checking the damn thing and focusing more on people who are absent from you, but it also directs your attention more towards your immediate surroundings. In a weird way, it's like taking off a pair of sunglasses and just breathing for a minute. Yes, I know we all have iPhones now and need the weather/email/internet/maps/what-have-you apps, but there once was a day when you existed without these things. What better way to remember those days than by going outside and finding out the weather for yourself?

A Find: As I continue to meander the city, I keep stumbling across awesome coffee shops. Two such shops, each having several locations, include Think (one on 14th and 8th, one by NYU) and Gregory's (one by 31st and 6th...I think, another up in midtown somewhere). Gregory's has one of the best chai's I've ever had, full of flavor and really good if you get it dirty (with a shot of espresso). Think I tried out for the first time today, stopping in two of their locations. In each instance, I was waited on by exceptionally friendly people and really dug the openness of their cafes. The one by NYU even offers beer and wine! How cool!

Hanging Curtains in Limbo

Slowly becoming accostomted to this state of limbo, as I suppose you become accostomed to most things. No, that's not resignment in my voice. It's interesting how things that initially strike you as being unpleasant become less so with time, and eventually even become... well... not enjoyable, per se, but at the very least no longer cumbersome. We continue the commute, continue waiting for a verdict on the new apartment (hopefully Tuesday or Wednesday will provide answers), and continue residing in Jersey in the hometown we love. 

It's funny, also, how you sometimes don't develop a strong pride for an area until you are about to leave it. I never felt "Jersey pride" until I moved out of Jersey to Baltimore two years ago. Now, back in Jers and imminently leaving, I'm beginning to feel such strong Asbury pride that it makes it almost difficult at times to think of moving away from the area. I love the streets, the shops, the bars, the local shop owners, the small-town familiarity of it all. Having been quite shy in high school, it's the first time that I go around an area and feel recognized, like I'm a part of the Asbury culture. Luckily, the area in Brooklyn we're hoping to move to has a similar vibe to it and we have the feeling that we'll become fixtures of that area just as we've become fixtures of Asbury. 

A Thought: Fear is such an interesting phenomenon, producing worry, doubt, anxiety, and a plethora of other uncomfortable sensations. My mother told me of an acronym associated with it: False Evidence Appearing Real. That is, you fear things that don't actually exist, but only produce unpleasant potentials. This can be seen quite well in personal little phobias, tiny fears that aren't rooted in logic, but rather rooted in some false perception. 

For example, I'm terrified of public restroom locks not working. Every time I use a public restroom, I check and recheck the lock, the handle, making sure that someone can't accidentally walk in on my while I have my pants down. Illogical, but still producing an absurd and near-obsessing reaction in yours truly. 

However, in most other scenarios, illogical fears are something that can be rationally worked through as you remind yourself of what actually exists and reason away the unpleasant, false, potential scenarios that illicit fear or discomfort within yourself. Easier said than done, I know (I'm still checking those locks), but something to work towards :)

A Find: For women with "atypical" body shapes, say a small waste, large hips, and decent thighs (such as yours truly), Lucky Brand's Charlie Fit is an amazing option. The jeans fit really comfortably, and they offer selections in several colors. I currently have a denim boot leg pair as well as a red skinny fit pair that, amazingly, don't make my thighs and ass look disproportionately large. 

Walking From Penn Station

"Beautiful." "You look beautiful today." "You're really beautiful, you know." "Please stay on the sidewalk, beautiful."

Thus starts my morning. Young girl in a thigh length white dress, knee-high riding boots, and sunglasses. At first, this may seem like a ego-centric validation of "I get hit on, yes I'm attractive." But that is not at all what I mean by this. Rather, it seems a study of the seen and the unseen. I have listed what they see directly, the dress, the boots, the glasses. Potential unseen visions they have may include imaginations of a naked body, a void between two legs to fill, at best an interesting individual to get to know better, a confident being to submit to, a woman to overpower. I can only imagine. To them, the man in Starbucks, the construction workers, the homeless men, the blue-collar worker leaning out of his van, this body presents a plethora of untapped possibilities (no pun intended), this person holds an enigmatic personality they can only assume.

The things they don't see: the sweat seeming into the underarms and back of my dress as I carry my burden of a backpack, the wedgie that creeps ever further up my ass, the limp I'm trying to hide from boots just a smidge too narrow. Even further, they don't see the boyfriend who's working a job he hates to help ensure we get the apartment we've put a deposit on, the mother who warns me against predatory men ("don't engage," "avoid eye contact."), the small child I was who cringed away from physical contact.

Their words, a compliment, an invasion, a form of contact, an assault. I respond. "Thank you." "Oh, thanks, haha." What exactly does it mean to be complimented, to be desired on first sight? The eye presents an image that one finds appealing to one's own tastes. One then reaches outside of themselves, makes known their approval (did I ask for someone else's approval?), and makes verbal contact with the desired object, the object desired for nothing other than sight. Maybe you can judge a book by it's cover, as a person's appearance does in truth reveal a lot about their personality, their tastes, their interests. Maybe it's not just these thighs, these breasts, this ass that attracts their eyes, but what the objects that cover them suggest about the person who owns them. But then again, maybe it is just this body, this face, this shell that I bare to carry all that's within, that piques their interest. Hoping for the former, more often than not, is just idealism.    

A Thought: Savor the little moments, the intricacies that make everyday unique. For example, this morning as my boyfriend and I walked down the street, an energetic, bright eyed, middle-aged african american man stops in front of us, joyously saying "God bless America. And food stamps!" before continuing on his way. Welcome to Thursday.

A Find: An old but nonetheless wonderful find, Moroccan Oil's hair oil. I'm completely in love with this product, an oil you rub on your hands and then feed through your hair that leaves it feeling silky, not overly oily, and smelling wonderful. Excess oil on your hands can then be rubbed on your skin to give it a smoother feel, as well.

http://moroccanoil.com/en_US/products/Moroccanoil®-Treatment

My Name is Impatience, I Live in Limbo

Waiting is the hardest thing to do. Still no word from the landlord as I begin to worry about credit scores, W-2's, guarantors, and all sorts of other things that sound way too adult to have to deal with right now. My boyfriend keeps a calm temperament and helps abet the anxiety that tries to creep through the cracked window as we sleep at night, our house made of boxes as I am still packed from the promise of our first apartment (the shady realtor deal that we were supposed to move into September 1st). So now I live between the floorboards of my mother's house, the desk chairs of my school, and the ever screeching train tracks. I know, I know, more commute complaining. I'll stop now. 

On a brighter note, classes are going really well. This semester's theme seems to be integrating the mind and the body, in the sense that in several of my classes, focus is aimed towards "hereness" and presence, on really being in your body and experiencing thought and sensation (something I struggle with greatly). In one class we watched an three and a half hour long old French film called 23 Commerce Street, in which a woman performed a multitude of everyday tasks with very little dialogue. On one hand, one might say that the film was exceptionally boring, bordering invasive. On the other hand, it really attuned the audience with the subtleties of movement and action while revealing the slightest of changes through body language. We're now tasked with coming up with a performance of our own, of "unconscious behaviors." So, in theory, we're consciously performing a routine of unconscious behaviors, while conscious also of being watched. BAM, hello mind-fuck. Trying playing around with that in your head. 

A Thought:  Set a really fun goal for yourself to make at least one new friend a day. Talk to the barista you get your morning latte from, compliment the guy on the street with the awesome red pants, or ask how someone's day is going and really be interested in their honest answer. Doing so not only calms and cheers up the people around you, but it also helps you to feel more connected to the collective. When you're more attuned with others, it's easier to feel more attuned with yourself, as well. It's a way of saying "hey world, I'm here right now," and sometime's other people's acknowledgment of your existence helps you to feel more grounded.

A Find: I got an absolutely amazing sweater from Free People a few weeks ago and am only now, in this newly brisk weather, able to enjoy it freely.  It's called the poetic verse sweater blazer, it's amazingly comfortable, warm yet light, and just altogether wonderful.

http://www.freepeople.com/poetic-verse-sweater-blazer

Application In!!!

What, what? So after countless emails and phone calls to brokers and Craigslisters, we happen to pass by a building that has a sign with a phone number on it saying "Lofts for Rent." Then a friend of my boyfriend's contacts us saying that he's ready to move out of his parent's house and heard of our dilemma, shall we all look together? With a hurried "yes!" and a phone call, we find ourselves standing in a beautiful, new loft in East Williamsburg/North Bushwick where old industrial buildings are rapidly being taken over by hipsters and artists, converted into loft spaces and studios, and inhabited.

Now the exciting part: our applications and deposit have been given to the landlord! We await the verdict, but feel pretty good about our situation. When all goes well, we will be the inhabitants of a new and beautiful loft come October 1st!!! Can it get any better, you ask? The landlord has also given us permission to construct whatever walls/divisions we wish in the space, so once we move in we'll be turning the open space into a two bedroom with a living and work space (guests more than welcome). The waiting, the walking, the blisters and exhaustion have all been worth it for the amazing find we now nearly grasp in our hands. This is the Brooklyn we wanted to live in, the city we wanted to inhabit.

A Thought: Why do we as a culture so enjoy reading stories, watching movies, viewing plays? One idea: we're all secretly voyeurs. No, but actually. Who out there hasn't passed a lit house at night and looked in the windows, straining to see what the inhabitants are watching on tv? However, with art we are given permission to look, to watch, to stare at other people and other lives. We hungry for that sense of "the other," that sensation of contact we get by watching another. Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me you don't people watch when you think no ones watching back. 

A Find: "Kiki de Montparnasse" by Catel Miller. This is an amazing graphic novel that tells the true story of Alice Prin, better known as "Kiki," a model and artist from 1920s france. Kiki presents an amazing example of a sexually liberated woman during the first real sexual revolution in a city where the bohemian artsy lifestyle was exploding. It's an amazing story and a well drawn graphic novel that will also expose you to several of the other artists from that time. 

We'll Get There, Eventually

Feet covered in blisters and I'm tired of commuting. Lesson learned: Don't trust shady brokers in New York City. Specifically, don't trust "Best Apartments, NYC." I am now familiar with the "bait and switch" tactic, where they post wonderfully appealing ads on Craigslist so that you come into their office, then discourage you from the apartment (which most likely won't even exist), and try to stick you in a shady, shittier hole after squeezing as much money from you as possible. Never agree to an apartment you haven't seen, though it will "look exactly like the other one we showed you." So they say.   

So now, second week into classes and I'm apartment searching my ass off, finding more and more that posters on Craigslist aren't open minded to couples and most of my shoes aren't conducive to walking long distances. Ah well. Onwards to glory!

A Thought: The best way to learn an area is to go there, walk around, and talk to people in coffee shops. My boyfriend and I have been exploring Brooklyn (Park Slope, Bushwick, and Williamsburg) and have met an amazing bunch of friendly baristas who are more than happy to talk about their experiences in the area. Bring a map and they'll help you get your bearings, as well as point out hip streets and areas to avoid. 

A Find:  Mate (mah-tay) lemonade. Essentially, a yerba mate Arnold Palmer. Mate provides an immense amount of caffeine without the same negative effects as coffee and espresso. We tried this at a cafe called Kave in north Bushwick at the Shops at the Loom. Definitely check out the shops, the cafe, and the mate!