We were sitting at the bar of the hot new spot in alphabet city (so hot and new in fact, that the New York Times was sitting next to us snapping pictures of their signature cocktail for this story) drinking too many Poquito Picante’s talking about how life in New York isn’t worthwhile if you don’t take advantages of all the city has to offer and that it's true: Life. Happens. Here.
We became friendly with the bartender, Douglas, who went on to make us drinks we didn’t order that tasted unlike anything we’d ever had before. Drunk, and alone at the bar when my companion went to the bathroom, I watched as Douglas leaned in and asked me: is that guy your boyfriend?
"That guy has a boyfriend of his own," I said.
Why is it the ones who always ask never do anything about it, and the ones I’m with are already taken?
September 29, 2008
September 21, 2008
Safely walk to school without a sound.
Something about fall makes me want to buy binders and organize all of the messy parts of my life into folders marked things like "finances," and "goals" and "relationships." I’d like to 3-hole punch those documented pages detailing the specifics that might help me going forward to make sense of everything. I’d write notes in the margins in colored pencil, supply a grading system to keep on top of things: finances: C- (needs work), goals: B- (try harder), relationships: F (utterly hopeless).
I’d like to put all of the people I know into designated slots in the front of my backpack and carry them around with me so I’d always know where they were, letting me pull them out at the exact moment I need them. I’d like more gold-star days, I’d like more time for recess. I’d like to go back to the time when going to gym meant so much more than running for an hour on a machine that doesn’t take you anywhere at all, except further down the path of never-satisfied self-hatred.
I want those big pink erasures to rub away all of my past mistakes, leaving nothing behind but little darkened crumbles that I can simply brush away with a flick of my wrist. I’d like to not have to worry about time and finding dates and someone to love me for who I am. I’d like to not feel the pressure to think about settling down and getting married and having a house with a garage with tools in it (wasn’t it nice when just holding someone’s hand was enough? There was something exhilarating about the courage it took to just reach out and take hold of that one person’s hand you brushed your hair for, the one person you always looked for in the crowd, the one person you always hoped you’d get to sit next to in class).
Fall makes me want to go back to when everything was so much easier, and a failing grade didn’t necessarily mean that you were failing at your life. But it will pass soon enough, this urge for me to buy #2 pencils and make sense of everything that ultimately doesn't make any sense at all. With the coming of the winter weather I’ll just look for whatever extra credit I can find to get me through to next year, and hope that by then I'll have been able to bring up my grades.
I’d like to put all of the people I know into designated slots in the front of my backpack and carry them around with me so I’d always know where they were, letting me pull them out at the exact moment I need them. I’d like more gold-star days, I’d like more time for recess. I’d like to go back to the time when going to gym meant so much more than running for an hour on a machine that doesn’t take you anywhere at all, except further down the path of never-satisfied self-hatred.
I want those big pink erasures to rub away all of my past mistakes, leaving nothing behind but little darkened crumbles that I can simply brush away with a flick of my wrist. I’d like to not have to worry about time and finding dates and someone to love me for who I am. I’d like to not feel the pressure to think about settling down and getting married and having a house with a garage with tools in it (wasn’t it nice when just holding someone’s hand was enough? There was something exhilarating about the courage it took to just reach out and take hold of that one person’s hand you brushed your hair for, the one person you always looked for in the crowd, the one person you always hoped you’d get to sit next to in class).
Fall makes me want to go back to when everything was so much easier, and a failing grade didn’t necessarily mean that you were failing at your life. But it will pass soon enough, this urge for me to buy #2 pencils and make sense of everything that ultimately doesn't make any sense at all. With the coming of the winter weather I’ll just look for whatever extra credit I can find to get me through to next year, and hope that by then I'll have been able to bring up my grades.
September 16, 2008
You gotta know when to hold 'em, know when to fold 'em.
You don’t have to go to Vegas for four days like I did in order to know that it’s easy take too many risks and place bets on your happiness. You also don’t have to go to Vegas for four days to realize that it is, in fact, the most depressing place in America.
Without much to gamble (what with rent already late) I was a bystander, an observer to the endless hope and silent desperation in those large smoke-filled rooms of flashing lights, without windows or clocks, (causing you to question not only what time of day it is, but who you are).
I can understand of course, that we like the challenge, that we always think we have more chances to win back what we’ve lost - all we need is just a little...more...time. It’s amazing isn’t it, how fast the things that you work so hard for can disappear so suddenly (money, dreams, love...) before you even have the opportunity to realize you were losing them? Most of the time it seems we try so hard to follow the rules that keep us away from the things that we want because we forget that we don’t get as many chances as we’d like to make of our lives all that we want it to be.
Admittedly I’m not much of a gambler, always preferring to play it safe in the face of rejection, of loss, of regret. But back in the real world where clocks exist to remind me of how much time I’m losing, I figure it’s never too late to take a risk on the things that matter. Time isn’t unlimited (just like money) and the hands of the clock are always there to pick you up behind your back and throw you out into a place where the days continue to pass you by.
You don’t have to go to Vegas for four days like I did to know that sometimes nothing ever changes unless you take the opportunity to place a quarter in the slot machine of your life, and pull the lever —just remember to keep in mind that it's always important to try and quit when you’re ahead.
Without much to gamble (what with rent already late) I was a bystander, an observer to the endless hope and silent desperation in those large smoke-filled rooms of flashing lights, without windows or clocks, (causing you to question not only what time of day it is, but who you are).
I can understand of course, that we like the challenge, that we always think we have more chances to win back what we’ve lost - all we need is just a little...more...time. It’s amazing isn’t it, how fast the things that you work so hard for can disappear so suddenly (money, dreams, love...) before you even have the opportunity to realize you were losing them? Most of the time it seems we try so hard to follow the rules that keep us away from the things that we want because we forget that we don’t get as many chances as we’d like to make of our lives all that we want it to be.
Admittedly I’m not much of a gambler, always preferring to play it safe in the face of rejection, of loss, of regret. But back in the real world where clocks exist to remind me of how much time I’m losing, I figure it’s never too late to take a risk on the things that matter. Time isn’t unlimited (just like money) and the hands of the clock are always there to pick you up behind your back and throw you out into a place where the days continue to pass you by.
You don’t have to go to Vegas for four days like I did to know that sometimes nothing ever changes unless you take the opportunity to place a quarter in the slot machine of your life, and pull the lever —just remember to keep in mind that it's always important to try and quit when you’re ahead.
September 10, 2008
Maybe kids aren't so bad after all.
Standing on the downtown 1 train minding my own business and late to work (I have officially given up on caring about being on time) I was enjoying perusing at the latest fashion magazine of things I can never, in all intents and purposes afford short of selling everything I already own, (lace is in this season, leather is out. Plaid is in, flower print is out…) when I spotted next to me the little girl in a stroller. Her and her mothers entry into the subway car had been time consuming, as these New York City strollers are roughly the size of my apartment and have enough food and water storage space to keep both mother and child fully sustained in the off chance they get stranded underground for the next ten to twelve months.
She was about four with thick goggle glasses, far too many purple plastic barrettes in her pig-tailed hair, striped pink and green stockings with a plaid (so in!) skirt and yellow shoes. She was a fashion disaster and part of me thought seriously about handing my magazine over to her mother for some sort of assistance.
The girl sat quietly and counted down the stops, holding a half-eaten muffin in her lap that was the size of her head. She was picking at it, stuffing the crumbs into her mouth with her little fingers as she talked:
"What stop is this?" and
"Why aren't we getting off now?" and
"What stop is this?"
Her mother said things like:
"This isn't our stop dear," and
"This still isn't our stop dear," and
"Just two more stops dear."
I caught the handsome gentleman in front of us turning back to take a glimpse at where these pestering questions were coming from, and his reaction seemed to have found the little girl to be much more endearing than I did. He smiled at the girl and then at me in a sort of aw-isn't-she-cute sort of way, all while I had a quizzical look of, what has happened to this city? I thought we were all supposed to be mean and annoyed and frustrated at signs of those who don't belong and get in our way and disrupt the silence of our early morning commutes.
Just then the little girl, mouth full of blueberry muffin, sneezed. And, knowing what I know about kids, she didn't bother covering her mouth. Sitting where she was at knee-level to the rest of us, I watched as large saliva covered chunks found themselves on the back legs of the handsome gentleman's pinstriped pants.
He turned around again, and not being in viewing distance to his backside, smiled just in time for the mother to wheel the little girl off the train at "now this one is our stop, dear."
This time, I couldn't help but smile too.
She was about four with thick goggle glasses, far too many purple plastic barrettes in her pig-tailed hair, striped pink and green stockings with a plaid (so in!) skirt and yellow shoes. She was a fashion disaster and part of me thought seriously about handing my magazine over to her mother for some sort of assistance.
The girl sat quietly and counted down the stops, holding a half-eaten muffin in her lap that was the size of her head. She was picking at it, stuffing the crumbs into her mouth with her little fingers as she talked:
"What stop is this?" and
"Why aren't we getting off now?" and
"What stop is this?"
Her mother said things like:
"This isn't our stop dear," and
"This still isn't our stop dear," and
"Just two more stops dear."
I caught the handsome gentleman in front of us turning back to take a glimpse at where these pestering questions were coming from, and his reaction seemed to have found the little girl to be much more endearing than I did. He smiled at the girl and then at me in a sort of aw-isn't-she-cute sort of way, all while I had a quizzical look of, what has happened to this city? I thought we were all supposed to be mean and annoyed and frustrated at signs of those who don't belong and get in our way and disrupt the silence of our early morning commutes.
Just then the little girl, mouth full of blueberry muffin, sneezed. And, knowing what I know about kids, she didn't bother covering her mouth. Sitting where she was at knee-level to the rest of us, I watched as large saliva covered chunks found themselves on the back legs of the handsome gentleman's pinstriped pants.
He turned around again, and not being in viewing distance to his backside, smiled just in time for the mother to wheel the little girl off the train at "now this one is our stop, dear."
This time, I couldn't help but smile too.
September 9, 2008
Mr. Biology.
It feels like it's been a really long time since I've posted. I suppose it feels that way because it has. September is here and summer is on its way out and I don't even recall having the chance to say goodbye.
The thing I've come to find is that as a writer you always want to write, but what stops you at times from showing it to others is the fear that it is in fact, at the end of the day, total and complete crap. That very real possibility compounded by living and working in a place that does nothing less than give me a hard time at every street corner, I’ve been halted from torturing my readers with nonsense posts for nearly a month.
And really, after writing for almost three years about this city I've run out of steam – I work too much, I'm tired, drained, poor, and the little things about this thriving metropolis that used to feel so unique, so post-worthy, are now just the annoying and all-too-regular aspects of my everyday life that I'm starting to hate: Has someone shit on subway again? People still haven't learned how to navigate a sidewalk? The only good men in this city are engaged or on social security?
But a writer's work is never done (and you see here after all this time I'm finally referring to myself as a writer. Another thing I've come to find about this city is that everyone wants to proclaim to the world what they are before they even make the effort of actually becoming it, and I'm tired of sitting around waiting while everyone else takes undue recognition. And anyway, just throw a stick in this city and you’ll hit a writer).
I read a quote somewhere by writer Richard Price that made me nod my head in agreement was I got to the end of it. "The only thing I can compare it to is if you're a woman of a certain age and you haven't had a kid yet, and Mr. Biology is tapping you on the shoulder and you're in a panic. You don't want to raise the kid by yourself, but you wanna be married . . . so you rush it, and you wind up in this horrific divorce with a kid . . . I've written - started books - that I never should have started . . . but I was too freaked out about not writing to stop."
I figure I’ve been married and divorced at least five times by now - but like any naive New Yorker who wants to make something of themselves, I’ll keep at it until I find true love.
The thing I've come to find is that as a writer you always want to write, but what stops you at times from showing it to others is the fear that it is in fact, at the end of the day, total and complete crap. That very real possibility compounded by living and working in a place that does nothing less than give me a hard time at every street corner, I’ve been halted from torturing my readers with nonsense posts for nearly a month.
And really, after writing for almost three years about this city I've run out of steam – I work too much, I'm tired, drained, poor, and the little things about this thriving metropolis that used to feel so unique, so post-worthy, are now just the annoying and all-too-regular aspects of my everyday life that I'm starting to hate: Has someone shit on subway again? People still haven't learned how to navigate a sidewalk? The only good men in this city are engaged or on social security?
But a writer's work is never done (and you see here after all this time I'm finally referring to myself as a writer. Another thing I've come to find about this city is that everyone wants to proclaim to the world what they are before they even make the effort of actually becoming it, and I'm tired of sitting around waiting while everyone else takes undue recognition. And anyway, just throw a stick in this city and you’ll hit a writer).
I read a quote somewhere by writer Richard Price that made me nod my head in agreement was I got to the end of it. "The only thing I can compare it to is if you're a woman of a certain age and you haven't had a kid yet, and Mr. Biology is tapping you on the shoulder and you're in a panic. You don't want to raise the kid by yourself, but you wanna be married . . . so you rush it, and you wind up in this horrific divorce with a kid . . . I've written - started books - that I never should have started . . . but I was too freaked out about not writing to stop."
I figure I’ve been married and divorced at least five times by now - but like any naive New Yorker who wants to make something of themselves, I’ll keep at it until I find true love.
August 18, 2008
Gabardine Sleeve of Hope.
Relationships in New York aren’t in any way necessary. If you ask me (and I guess you didn’t) spending all that time trying to make sure someone else is happy in this city is just a big waste of time. New York is a place where you can really only be bothered with having to look after yourself (and who can afford dates anyway?). I’m lousy at talking on the phone and I hate holding hands and don't understand the pressure to rehash all of the trivial details of my day to someone who will inevitably leave me for someone prettier, more clever and less argumentative in the long run anyway.
That being said, I'll be the first to admit that this city can be a hell of a lonely place when it wants to be, and like most New Yorkers I'm always looking for something better than what I already have - which in this case, happens to be nothing at all.
So when I was standing in the rush hour train at 8:50AM holding on for balance with one hand and propping a 250 page book against my stomach with the other, (overwhelming scents of perfume, shampoo, body odor and aftershave taking up half my concentration) a navy blue blazer arm pushed past my ear and grabbed hold of the bar by the side of my face and suddenly I started to wonder. There it was, awkwardly one inch from my cheek with seemingly no body attached, and as I stood there trying read and picture at the same time what the rest of him looked like, I caught the lingering scent of cigar smoke and coffee and for a moment (this city is full of dreamers) wondered if this could be someone great.
Of course we all know that forced moments on the subway never go anywhere (do they?) but it’s always nice to see that they exist, that there are some men who carry with them the possibility of hearing the mundane details of what I had for breakfast (this city is full of hope).
I can’t say that I’m asking for much, but is it really so much for you to find a tie that matches your shirt? Is it necessary for the first contact I have with your eyes for me to see your own glaring everywhere other than my face? Does the first time you talk to me have to be you drunk on cheap beer at a bar uttering monosyllabic things like "Sup?" Is it really too much to ask that you have read a newspaper or book recently? To call when you say you will? Is it possible for you to not have "Tommy" tattooed on your upper right arm causing me to wonder if you put it there in the off chance that at any given moment you might in fact, actually forget what your name really is?
No, I’m not asking for much. Actually at times it appears as though I’m not asking for anything at all - which is why there’s nothing like a foreign navy blue sleeve in your face at 8:50AM to jolt you out of the reality that is your life and into that always exciting realm of possibility that is nowhere greater in the world than it is on a Manhattan subway. Could this be the sleeve I’ve been waiting for?
One small glance up from my book as the doors opened at 42nd street I could see the navy blue sleeve was in fact attached to a man about twice my age, with a protruding gut, yellowing teeth, and a striped tie just didn’t work.
Damn.
That being said, I'll be the first to admit that this city can be a hell of a lonely place when it wants to be, and like most New Yorkers I'm always looking for something better than what I already have - which in this case, happens to be nothing at all.
So when I was standing in the rush hour train at 8:50AM holding on for balance with one hand and propping a 250 page book against my stomach with the other, (overwhelming scents of perfume, shampoo, body odor and aftershave taking up half my concentration) a navy blue blazer arm pushed past my ear and grabbed hold of the bar by the side of my face and suddenly I started to wonder. There it was, awkwardly one inch from my cheek with seemingly no body attached, and as I stood there trying read and picture at the same time what the rest of him looked like, I caught the lingering scent of cigar smoke and coffee and for a moment (this city is full of dreamers) wondered if this could be someone great.
Of course we all know that forced moments on the subway never go anywhere (do they?) but it’s always nice to see that they exist, that there are some men who carry with them the possibility of hearing the mundane details of what I had for breakfast (this city is full of hope).
I can’t say that I’m asking for much, but is it really so much for you to find a tie that matches your shirt? Is it necessary for the first contact I have with your eyes for me to see your own glaring everywhere other than my face? Does the first time you talk to me have to be you drunk on cheap beer at a bar uttering monosyllabic things like "Sup?" Is it really too much to ask that you have read a newspaper or book recently? To call when you say you will? Is it possible for you to not have "Tommy" tattooed on your upper right arm causing me to wonder if you put it there in the off chance that at any given moment you might in fact, actually forget what your name really is?
No, I’m not asking for much. Actually at times it appears as though I’m not asking for anything at all - which is why there’s nothing like a foreign navy blue sleeve in your face at 8:50AM to jolt you out of the reality that is your life and into that always exciting realm of possibility that is nowhere greater in the world than it is on a Manhattan subway. Could this be the sleeve I’ve been waiting for?
One small glance up from my book as the doors opened at 42nd street I could see the navy blue sleeve was in fact attached to a man about twice my age, with a protruding gut, yellowing teeth, and a striped tie just didn’t work.
Damn.
August 11, 2008
I will tell you what I know to be true.
I know that life is short and that the moment I start to recognize the sad but blatantly real truth about time and how fast it passes (August already?!) the sooner I’ll start living my life the way it’s meant to be lived.
I know that there’s no real point in getting up every day and trekking to work (cross-town bus, downtown 2/3 to 14th street, 1 local to Houston...) in order to do a job to pay the rent for an apartment I can’t afford in a city that often turns its back on me, only to come home and go to the gym and sweat and struggle (all mice on our wheels) trying to become a better version of myself - but I do it anyway because that’s just who I am and there’s nothing like hope to get you out of bed in the morning.
I know that people I care about always end up leaving for one reason or another (sometimes it’s forever), and no matter how much I want to, (boy I hate change) I can’t stop them.
I know that there’s nothing like leaving New York for seven long days, traveling to six different cities in order to make me appreciate what I have right outside my doorstep on a daily basis. What a shockingly strange reminder that in other places across the country restaurants close at 10 (what?) cabs cost exponentially more to get you from one place to the next (being that everything is so far apart) and the chance to meet someone new and interesting on the way to get your morning coffee is nowhere else as palpable as it is in Manhattan.
I know that when I heard the bus driver on the M72 this afternoon on my way home from work (a job I have in order to pay for the apartment I can’t afford...) talking to a friend of his who was perched on the seat by the door about the woman in his life who he let get away ("she doesn’t know how much this is hurting me, how much this is tearing me up inside") - I realized that there’s no point in love unless you can be honest about it, and that there’s no point in life if you’re not.
I know that I don’t know half as much as I should about things in general at this stage in my life, (how is it possible that I’m still making so many mistakes?) but there’s no fun in knowing it all (who ever wanted to be a know-it-all anyway?). I’m a knows-enough-for-now, and I figure that’s good enough to at least get me through tomorrow.
I know that there’s no real point in getting up every day and trekking to work (cross-town bus, downtown 2/3 to 14th street, 1 local to Houston...) in order to do a job to pay the rent for an apartment I can’t afford in a city that often turns its back on me, only to come home and go to the gym and sweat and struggle (all mice on our wheels) trying to become a better version of myself - but I do it anyway because that’s just who I am and there’s nothing like hope to get you out of bed in the morning.
I know that people I care about always end up leaving for one reason or another (sometimes it’s forever), and no matter how much I want to, (boy I hate change) I can’t stop them.
I know that there’s nothing like leaving New York for seven long days, traveling to six different cities in order to make me appreciate what I have right outside my doorstep on a daily basis. What a shockingly strange reminder that in other places across the country restaurants close at 10 (what?) cabs cost exponentially more to get you from one place to the next (being that everything is so far apart) and the chance to meet someone new and interesting on the way to get your morning coffee is nowhere else as palpable as it is in Manhattan.
I know that when I heard the bus driver on the M72 this afternoon on my way home from work (a job I have in order to pay for the apartment I can’t afford...) talking to a friend of his who was perched on the seat by the door about the woman in his life who he let get away ("she doesn’t know how much this is hurting me, how much this is tearing me up inside") - I realized that there’s no point in love unless you can be honest about it, and that there’s no point in life if you’re not.
I know that I don’t know half as much as I should about things in general at this stage in my life, (how is it possible that I’m still making so many mistakes?) but there’s no fun in knowing it all (who ever wanted to be a know-it-all anyway?). I’m a knows-enough-for-now, and I figure that’s good enough to at least get me through tomorrow.
July 28, 2008
People tell me things.
I didn’t do anything this weekend,
and by Sunday night I was more tired than ever before.
Don’t know about you, but I really can’t afford to leave my apartment this weekend.
Last week he told me he couldn’t talk to me anymore
because his girlfriend was getting mad and wouldn’t allow it.
Yesterday they broke up and he sent me an email.
I got bit on the lip by a spider while I slept last night.
It scurried out from under a pillow while I was making the bed today.
Killed it.
I’ll definitely have kids in the next five years.
I have been on the crosstown bus at 23rd street for 15 minutes,
and have gone only two blocks because someone in a wheelchair wanted to go one block.
You are already on wheels. Go.
Since it’s raining does that mean I don’t have to go to Brooklyn?
Please!
Tell me about it. I know. Falling in love in New York
is like hitting the lottery. You have to be in the right place
at the right time, and most of us have horrible luck.
and by Sunday night I was more tired than ever before.
Don’t know about you, but I really can’t afford to leave my apartment this weekend.
Last week he told me he couldn’t talk to me anymore
because his girlfriend was getting mad and wouldn’t allow it.
Yesterday they broke up and he sent me an email.
I got bit on the lip by a spider while I slept last night.
It scurried out from under a pillow while I was making the bed today.
Killed it.
I’ll definitely have kids in the next five years.
I have been on the crosstown bus at 23rd street for 15 minutes,
and have gone only two blocks because someone in a wheelchair wanted to go one block.
You are already on wheels. Go.
Since it’s raining does that mean I don’t have to go to Brooklyn?
Please!
Tell me about it. I know. Falling in love in New York
is like hitting the lottery. You have to be in the right place
at the right time, and most of us have horrible luck.
July 21, 2008
Vertical New York is making it hard to see.
I don’t know when things changed and everyone started to lose sight of themselves in the haze of other people’s lives. All the time is the constant humming of other people’s lives in our ears, sometimes loud, sometimes drowned out by our own questions that have been testing us.
Because we deep-down-know, (don’t we?) that we’re just another face on just another subway, holding just another railing, hand over hand, the railing that helps us up and helps us along, helps us out of the haze. Lost, (aren’t we?) even after so much happens, that at times we can’t help but look back and wonder how we ever made it through, how we’re still here, right now putting foot in front of foot, walking forward, walking home. But we can’t really forget, (can we?) who we really are in the midst of all the confusion.
Being in New York it’s easy to feel like you’re not measuring up, like you’re not as good as the next person, not as pretty, not as successful, not as important, not as smart, (and) without the: better bag, better career, better apartment, better boyfriend, better reservation at the better
restaurant...how are we, in a city full of so many people who know exactly what they want, supposed to fit in and find a place of our own?
Seems like things pass so fast here that if you spend too much time thinking about what you really want you’re going to miss out on it to the one’s that already do, (and they do, don’t they?)They know and you don’t know why, or how, or what led them into the arms of such extreme clarity that they’re able to go through each day with it all seemingly figured out.
Wish we had our own personal copy of TONY delivered secretly to our apartment door every week that would tell us exactly where to go to get everything we want: Time Out New York would suddenly become Time Out [insert your name here].
Maybe that’s the thing about this city that makes you start to lose sight of yourself in the haze of other people’s lives, makes you want to skip town altogether and find a place that isn’t so threatening to your dreams - too many people all wanting the same things always means that someone is destined to end up blind and empty-handed.
Because we deep-down-know, (don’t we?) that we’re just another face on just another subway, holding just another railing, hand over hand, the railing that helps us up and helps us along, helps us out of the haze. Lost, (aren’t we?) even after so much happens, that at times we can’t help but look back and wonder how we ever made it through, how we’re still here, right now putting foot in front of foot, walking forward, walking home. But we can’t really forget, (can we?) who we really are in the midst of all the confusion.
Being in New York it’s easy to feel like you’re not measuring up, like you’re not as good as the next person, not as pretty, not as successful, not as important, not as smart, (and) without the: better bag, better career, better apartment, better boyfriend, better reservation at the better
restaurant...how are we, in a city full of so many people who know exactly what they want, supposed to fit in and find a place of our own?
Seems like things pass so fast here that if you spend too much time thinking about what you really want you’re going to miss out on it to the one’s that already do, (and they do, don’t they?)They know and you don’t know why, or how, or what led them into the arms of such extreme clarity that they’re able to go through each day with it all seemingly figured out.
Wish we had our own personal copy of TONY delivered secretly to our apartment door every week that would tell us exactly where to go to get everything we want: Time Out New York would suddenly become Time Out [insert your name here].
Maybe that’s the thing about this city that makes you start to lose sight of yourself in the haze of other people’s lives, makes you want to skip town altogether and find a place that isn’t so threatening to your dreams - too many people all wanting the same things always means that someone is destined to end up blind and empty-handed.
July 14, 2008
I don't feel like I ask for much.
In fact, I think I'm someone who has gotten pretty accustomed to being disappointed when it comes to most of the things in my life mainly due to my altogether too high expectations. This character trait if you will, prompts most of my friends to call me things like "bitter" and "pessimistic," forcing me reply that I'm simply quoting the reality of things, (and trust me, I don't enjoy having to do it). The thing is that in the end I can't help but feel that most of the time there's really no escaping things not turning out the way you want them to.
So, on this dark and rainy Monday, getting up in a lazy weekend-induced stupor, paralyzed at the idea of having to go back into the office, I was struggling to keep focused by the time the clock struck 3:24 PM. 3:24?! The worst thing that can possibly happen to a person on a dark and rainy Monday is when you go to look at the clock feeling more than 100% sure that it's at least a quarter past five, and finding that it's merely 3:24.
Actually, the worst thing that can possibly happen to a person (me) on a dark and rainy Monday is that when the clock strikes 3:24 and you think it's a quarter past five and you go to your local distributor for your much needed fix and come to find when you order that grande Pike Place (all while knowing you can't really afford it but can actually taste it standing in line and listening to Sinanta croon Don't Get Around Much Anymore) - they are out. (the horror!)
Starbucks, I'm really trying here to turn over a new leaf of understanding, patience and overall optimisim - but it's really too much to ask of me to not be bitterly infurated when you, the largest coffee chain in the country, are actually in fact out of the very thing that you proclaim to sell, at the exact moment I need it most.
"Do ya want...decaf?" the barista behind the counter asked with mild trepidation. Decaf? I was about to look behind me for the candid cameras when I closed my eyes, counted to three, took a deep breath (all while thinking of those friends, you readers out there, who keep telling me to try to be more patient, to calm down) and told him no thanks.
"Well...what do you want instead?" Instead. That word. Really the worst word in the English language. Instead. What I wanted to tell him (yell if there hadn't been so many people behind me in line) was that what I wanted was the chance, in this most patience-testing city in the world, (what with people stopping at the top of staircases, infront of subway doors, right infront of you on the street to take a picture or answer a phone or write a blackberry message, all impeding your life from happening at the exact pace and flow that you want it to. What with seemingly every person around you all competing with you for a better job, better seat on the bus, better apartment, better friend or better lover) - was to for once, have someone to be able to give me the exact thing they're supposedly offering, the exact thing I deserve really, without my having to settle for something...less.
Instead.
I am bitter and pessimistic for a reason.
"I guess I'll have a latte," I said. "Not decaf."
So, on this dark and rainy Monday, getting up in a lazy weekend-induced stupor, paralyzed at the idea of having to go back into the office, I was struggling to keep focused by the time the clock struck 3:24 PM. 3:24?! The worst thing that can possibly happen to a person on a dark and rainy Monday is when you go to look at the clock feeling more than 100% sure that it's at least a quarter past five, and finding that it's merely 3:24.
Actually, the worst thing that can possibly happen to a person (me) on a dark and rainy Monday is that when the clock strikes 3:24 and you think it's a quarter past five and you go to your local distributor for your much needed fix and come to find when you order that grande Pike Place (all while knowing you can't really afford it but can actually taste it standing in line and listening to Sinanta croon Don't Get Around Much Anymore) - they are out. (the horror!)
Starbucks, I'm really trying here to turn over a new leaf of understanding, patience and overall optimisim - but it's really too much to ask of me to not be bitterly infurated when you, the largest coffee chain in the country, are actually in fact out of the very thing that you proclaim to sell, at the exact moment I need it most.
"Do ya want...decaf?" the barista behind the counter asked with mild trepidation. Decaf? I was about to look behind me for the candid cameras when I closed my eyes, counted to three, took a deep breath (all while thinking of those friends, you readers out there, who keep telling me to try to be more patient, to calm down) and told him no thanks.
"Well...what do you want instead?" Instead. That word. Really the worst word in the English language. Instead. What I wanted to tell him (yell if there hadn't been so many people behind me in line) was that what I wanted was the chance, in this most patience-testing city in the world, (what with people stopping at the top of staircases, infront of subway doors, right infront of you on the street to take a picture or answer a phone or write a blackberry message, all impeding your life from happening at the exact pace and flow that you want it to. What with seemingly every person around you all competing with you for a better job, better seat on the bus, better apartment, better friend or better lover) - was to for once, have someone to be able to give me the exact thing they're supposedly offering, the exact thing I deserve really, without my having to settle for something...less.
Instead.
I am bitter and pessimistic for a reason.
"I guess I'll have a latte," I said. "Not decaf."
July 8, 2008
How pressed for time are you really when you feel compelled to clip your fingernails on the subway?
Of course the real question here is about luck, bad luck mainly and the law of probability and how after a long day back at the office that nice gentleman had to sit down next to me (how lucky I thought I was to score a seat during rush hour!) and after taking a deep breath he pulled out the clippers and started snap snap snapping away.
Little bits were flying everywhere, and as we all looked on in disbelief I sat for a while contemplating my options:
sore feet (new shoes I can’t afford) and a seat where I can comfortably read my book
or
stand safely outside the nail-fly-zone.
Where else is one forced to make such decisions on their journey home?
It didn’t take me long. I was up and away just before he started to remove his shoes.
Little bits were flying everywhere, and as we all looked on in disbelief I sat for a while contemplating my options:
sore feet (new shoes I can’t afford) and a seat where I can comfortably read my book
or
stand safely outside the nail-fly-zone.
Where else is one forced to make such decisions on their journey home?
It didn’t take me long. I was up and away just before he started to remove his shoes.
July 1, 2008
If you live in New York City...
...it’s only a matter of time before you find yourself
on your hands and knees
wearing yellow plastic dish gloves
scrubbing ever corner of your apartment at 11 o’clock at night
half drunk on a bottle of wine
blasting The Rolling Stones
and cursing under your breath
because you saw a cockroach scurry across your floor earlier in the morning.
You can’t always get what you want, indeed.
on your hands and knees
wearing yellow plastic dish gloves
scrubbing ever corner of your apartment at 11 o’clock at night
half drunk on a bottle of wine
blasting The Rolling Stones
and cursing under your breath
because you saw a cockroach scurry across your floor earlier in the morning.
You can’t always get what you want, indeed.
June 30, 2008
when it rains, it pours.
Its been raining in New York for days now and the streets look the way they do in all the movies with the lights reflecting and the people running with umbrellas over head, and newspapers and coats. The tourists curse it. He/she/they say it’s bad luck, bad timing, bad news. Rain in June? they ask. And their maps get wet and they’re slowed by the rain and so are the cars and the busses and my commute home.
All tourists do when they come here is spend too much money on stupid souvenirs, all that crap from junk-filled stores to try make the memory more real. I take home matchbooks and napkins I’ve written notes on and mental pictures of faces and distinct sounds of laughter, and figure I have legitimate mental souvenirs of every place I’ve ever been.
And you can find yourself sheltered from the storm in a little coffee shop and realize that you don’t need a map to get you to the places in life that you need to see. And you don’t need to spend money on anything more than a café latte to strike up a conversation with a normal person with a normal life to realize that New York in the rain is just as good as New York when it’s not.
All tourists do when they come here is spend too much money on stupid souvenirs, all that crap from junk-filled stores to try make the memory more real. I take home matchbooks and napkins I’ve written notes on and mental pictures of faces and distinct sounds of laughter, and figure I have legitimate mental souvenirs of every place I’ve ever been.
And you can find yourself sheltered from the storm in a little coffee shop and realize that you don’t need a map to get you to the places in life that you need to see. And you don’t need to spend money on anything more than a café latte to strike up a conversation with a normal person with a normal life to realize that New York in the rain is just as good as New York when it’s not.
June 26, 2008
Because you can never have too many chances.
One of these days I'm going to finish something (and I don't mean drinks or boring phone calls or bad movies). I mean one of these days I'm going to follow through with all the things I think about doing and talk about doing and feel in the pit of my stomach that I should.
But I keeping losing time. It flies, doesn't it? Like flies that float and land on burning lamp bulbs and disintegrate or get squashed and disappear.
For too long I have thought I have an infinite amount. And that's so easy, isn't it? With clocks everywhere counting down your every moment, quantifying and qualifying every part of your day, your everyday that never seems to change. And there will always be more vodka sodas and boring phone calls and bad movies - but not chances. You can never have too many chances.
Because one night you can go to sleep and wake up in the morning and find that time has caught up with you. And clocks stop and you don't want them to (you never do), then there you are in the middle of a sea of crowded minutes, hours, days, all struggling against the drowning chances that you know you've missed, swimming in the regret, suffocating in the always too-late realization that it’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown.
But I keeping losing time. It flies, doesn't it? Like flies that float and land on burning lamp bulbs and disintegrate or get squashed and disappear.
For too long I have thought I have an infinite amount. And that's so easy, isn't it? With clocks everywhere counting down your every moment, quantifying and qualifying every part of your day, your everyday that never seems to change. And there will always be more vodka sodas and boring phone calls and bad movies - but not chances. You can never have too many chances.
Because one night you can go to sleep and wake up in the morning and find that time has caught up with you. And clocks stop and you don't want them to (you never do), then there you are in the middle of a sea of crowded minutes, hours, days, all struggling against the drowning chances that you know you've missed, swimming in the regret, suffocating in the always too-late realization that it’s a silly time to learn to swim when you start to drown.
June 19, 2008
To the girl at the corner store.
I know it’s tough, it has to be. Every day it’s the same, the same people asking for coffee, asking for change, asking for your number.
They’ve been coming in with their large coats and pressed suits knowing that every day it will be the same, that they will come in, and you’ll be here. I know it won’t be long, and soon they’ll be coming in with their flip flops and tanned faces from their weekends at the Hamptons and they’ll find you’re gone.
You feel your life is on the other side of the world, that no one here understands you, and you wish you had someone to count on. Count on. Count faces, count names, count Burberry scarves and Dior sunglasses, count missed chances and glances and lost lives.
You think that in time, they’ll remember, once you’re gone, once you’ve taken the chance to start your life somewhere else, out from behind the counter of this city that moves too fast for you.But you don’t count on it. You’re tired of counting, so you smile and say good morning and good afternoon and good bye.
Because you know it is easy to love people in memory, the hard trick, is to love them when they are there, in front of you.
They’ve been coming in with their large coats and pressed suits knowing that every day it will be the same, that they will come in, and you’ll be here. I know it won’t be long, and soon they’ll be coming in with their flip flops and tanned faces from their weekends at the Hamptons and they’ll find you’re gone.
You feel your life is on the other side of the world, that no one here understands you, and you wish you had someone to count on. Count on. Count faces, count names, count Burberry scarves and Dior sunglasses, count missed chances and glances and lost lives.
You think that in time, they’ll remember, once you’re gone, once you’ve taken the chance to start your life somewhere else, out from behind the counter of this city that moves too fast for you.But you don’t count on it. You’re tired of counting, so you smile and say good morning and good afternoon and good bye.
Because you know it is easy to love people in memory, the hard trick, is to love them when they are there, in front of you.
June 17, 2008
Quiet, please, and I'll tell you everything.
Leaving Manhattan is supposed to be an altogether peaceful adventure, parting ways for a few days with the noise and craziness to seek out vast horizons and lush trees (well, as vast and lush as Albany can muster).
So I sat down on the most inefficient, poorly run, overpriced and never-on-time piece of transportation in the country - Amtrak - to leave above mentioned city for the weekend. And already seated, I watched as those who boarded played the game on the sold out train of eyeballing everyone to deem who looked the least offensive to sit next to.
Of course the man who sat next to me was quite possibly the most ridiculous person I’ve ever encountered to date (and I’ve encountered some pretty ridiculous people in my time). He was Dwight Schrute meets Robert Goulet. He was middle-aged with dyed jet black hair. He was lumbering, awkward, cumbersome, and asked me "can I sit here?" while already hefting his bag into the overhead compartment. He sat down with the full force of a fighter jet, causing me to wonder (as I read a book pressed against the window trying not to make eye contact) if he'd ever sat in such a small confined space before in his entire life.
(What is it about people on journeys going somewhere or coming back from someplace else, that compels them to talk? I'm not here to entertain you, or tell you my life story, or answer ridiculous questions. All I want to do is sit and not talk. I think not talking is totally underrated. Sometimes it’s nice, isn’t it, to just be able to sit and not say anything for awhile and just let the world and the people around you marinate).
I thought I was out of the woods until I realized that Dwight Schrute Goulet didn't bring anything with him for the two and a half hour train ride to entertain him but the video he took on his cell phone that he'd filmed that day of Times Square (of course). "Here we are in the famous Times Square..." the speaker-phone blasted his best flight attendant narration. How do these people find me?
It was really only a matter of time before his attention would turn to me with:
"I'm in programming, what do you do?"
I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. Here we go.
I tried to answer as briefly as possible as not to incite any excitement or false hope that this sort of line of questioning was going to continue for the remainder of the trip. He took notice, I think, but him being him he decided to ask questions with his own answers in order to propel things forward.
"Where are you from, are you from Albany?"
"Yeah."
"Where? Glens Falls?"
"Yup." (a lie)
"Where do you live now, the city?"
"Uh huh."
"Where in the city are you, downtown?"
"Yup." (lie)
"Where did you go to school, SUNY Albany?"
"Sure." (lie)
After a while I warmed up to the questions and admittedly liked pretending to be someone else for a while. And there's nothing wrong with telling little lies to strange people you're never doing to see again, is there? They're people who don't really care about the truth anyway. They're just looking for a quick fix, the need to not feel alone, the longing for conversation, for the comfort of...words.
By the end of the trip I was a waitress-cum-television producer from Glens Falls who was engaged to a guy that works in investment banking who I met on a blind date through the internet. (how fun!)
"That's how everyone meets these days, just meet and fall in love, isn't it?"
"Basically."
Sometimes it’s easier to just tell people what they want to hear.
So I sat down on the most inefficient, poorly run, overpriced and never-on-time piece of transportation in the country - Amtrak - to leave above mentioned city for the weekend. And already seated, I watched as those who boarded played the game on the sold out train of eyeballing everyone to deem who looked the least offensive to sit next to.
Of course the man who sat next to me was quite possibly the most ridiculous person I’ve ever encountered to date (and I’ve encountered some pretty ridiculous people in my time). He was Dwight Schrute meets Robert Goulet. He was middle-aged with dyed jet black hair. He was lumbering, awkward, cumbersome, and asked me "can I sit here?" while already hefting his bag into the overhead compartment. He sat down with the full force of a fighter jet, causing me to wonder (as I read a book pressed against the window trying not to make eye contact) if he'd ever sat in such a small confined space before in his entire life.
(What is it about people on journeys going somewhere or coming back from someplace else, that compels them to talk? I'm not here to entertain you, or tell you my life story, or answer ridiculous questions. All I want to do is sit and not talk. I think not talking is totally underrated. Sometimes it’s nice, isn’t it, to just be able to sit and not say anything for awhile and just let the world and the people around you marinate).
I thought I was out of the woods until I realized that Dwight Schrute Goulet didn't bring anything with him for the two and a half hour train ride to entertain him but the video he took on his cell phone that he'd filmed that day of Times Square (of course). "Here we are in the famous Times Square..." the speaker-phone blasted his best flight attendant narration. How do these people find me?
It was really only a matter of time before his attention would turn to me with:
"I'm in programming, what do you do?"
I closed my eyes and sighed deeply. Here we go.
I tried to answer as briefly as possible as not to incite any excitement or false hope that this sort of line of questioning was going to continue for the remainder of the trip. He took notice, I think, but him being him he decided to ask questions with his own answers in order to propel things forward.
"Where are you from, are you from Albany?"
"Yeah."
"Where? Glens Falls?"
"Yup." (a lie)
"Where do you live now, the city?"
"Uh huh."
"Where in the city are you, downtown?"
"Yup." (lie)
"Where did you go to school, SUNY Albany?"
"Sure." (lie)
After a while I warmed up to the questions and admittedly liked pretending to be someone else for a while. And there's nothing wrong with telling little lies to strange people you're never doing to see again, is there? They're people who don't really care about the truth anyway. They're just looking for a quick fix, the need to not feel alone, the longing for conversation, for the comfort of...words.
By the end of the trip I was a waitress-cum-television producer from Glens Falls who was engaged to a guy that works in investment banking who I met on a blind date through the internet. (how fun!)
"That's how everyone meets these days, just meet and fall in love, isn't it?"
"Basically."
Sometimes it’s easier to just tell people what they want to hear.
June 11, 2008
Sh!t Show.
It was only a matter of time before I got onto the wrong subway car (again!) where there was literally shit all over one of the seats. And (the irony!) with The Times Op-ed page having been used and left behind as toilet paper (speaks volumes).
I suppose I should have thought something was up when I noticed everyone in the packed rush-hour train was trying to stay away from one end of the car. "Don’t go over there," they’d say or "I wouldn’t do that if I were you." But this is New York. Underground. During rush-hour. No one ever pays attention to what people are saying to you in such a heated and high-pressured situation.
I’m destined to always learn the hard way. So, this is what we’ve come to then? This is, like, where we are now as a society and we're OK with it? I was thinking these and many other thoughts standing there trying to read my book but unable to concentrate due to the smell. Everyone packed into the car was pushing incrementally en masse away from the scene of the crime. Of all the subway cars in all the city...that nice guy (and I’m taking a guess here as to the sex of the guilty party) had to go and shit in mine.
I suppose you could say it was only a matter of time before I got onto the wrong subway car (seriously, what is with my bad luck?) with shit on the seat when the dreaded "we are stopped momentarily due to train traffic ahead" announcement would come on, keeping me trapped underground (between 59th and 68th! One stop from home! One stop until I can breathe again!) for what could have quite possibly been the longest ten minutes of my life.
New York: just when you think you’ve seen it all - it’s only matter of time before it sets you straight.
I suppose I should have thought something was up when I noticed everyone in the packed rush-hour train was trying to stay away from one end of the car. "Don’t go over there," they’d say or "I wouldn’t do that if I were you." But this is New York. Underground. During rush-hour. No one ever pays attention to what people are saying to you in such a heated and high-pressured situation.
I’m destined to always learn the hard way. So, this is what we’ve come to then? This is, like, where we are now as a society and we're OK with it? I was thinking these and many other thoughts standing there trying to read my book but unable to concentrate due to the smell. Everyone packed into the car was pushing incrementally en masse away from the scene of the crime. Of all the subway cars in all the city...that nice guy (and I’m taking a guess here as to the sex of the guilty party) had to go and shit in mine.
I suppose you could say it was only a matter of time before I got onto the wrong subway car (seriously, what is with my bad luck?) with shit on the seat when the dreaded "we are stopped momentarily due to train traffic ahead" announcement would come on, keeping me trapped underground (between 59th and 68th! One stop from home! One stop until I can breathe again!) for what could have quite possibly been the longest ten minutes of my life.
New York: just when you think you’ve seen it all - it’s only matter of time before it sets you straight.
June 9, 2008
The Heat
Everything in New York is a little less clear when the temperature rises. Something about the suffocating air makes the city itself seem more unbearable than ever and you’re walking down the street feeling the sweat drip down the small of your back and you can’t remember for the life of you why you’ve chosen to be so surrounded by so much pavement when it’s topping out at 100 degrees.
We are never satisfied of course, as people who are always looking for The Next Best Thing, for something more - and the weather is no different. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer - when is it ever just right? Well it never is (though we refuse to accept it), and we are rarely prepared for life’s elements - we never remember to bring that umbrella for the sudden downpour, or a cardigan for when the sun goes down and The Chill creeps up from the ground and surrounds our ankles and starts to swallow us whole.
The Heat is starting to be a little much. All I want to do is lock the door and stay inside where the air (and my thoughts) are more level. Believe it or not I can think of a few things that are more fun than packing myself into a crowded downtown 1 train (really what are the odds that I happened to find the one train car without AC??) early on a Monday morning unready to start a week of heat-induced fuzzy attention to detail.
Could this be the week I lose my job? I couldn’t help but think sitting there almost unable to breathe. No, certainly it’s that guy who just woke up across from me with pit stains seeping out onto his light pink dress shirt who most definitely just missed his stop - and from the looks of it the start of a very important meeting - who’s on his way out. "Out of my way!" he shouts as he pushes himself off the train.
Well if he doesn’t lose his job, he really should.
But I won’t complain too much about The Heat because there will inevitably be something wrong with what’s next (mid-80's but too much rain? A sudden drop to a windy 60's and too cold?). And it’s good to not be able to think so clearly sometimes. It’s good to have a break from the crisp clarity of more reasonable temperatures and give yourself some time to let your mind wander. We forget (don’t we?) what we really want when we have so much time in more comfortable climates to over-think things.
So until this breaks (and it will, it always does) I’ll stop thinking for a while (and be OK feeling overheated and uncomfortable...) and just let the humidity fall where it may.
And I’ll try my best to get off the train in time.
We are never satisfied of course, as people who are always looking for The Next Best Thing, for something more - and the weather is no different. Too cold in winter, too hot in summer - when is it ever just right? Well it never is (though we refuse to accept it), and we are rarely prepared for life’s elements - we never remember to bring that umbrella for the sudden downpour, or a cardigan for when the sun goes down and The Chill creeps up from the ground and surrounds our ankles and starts to swallow us whole.
The Heat is starting to be a little much. All I want to do is lock the door and stay inside where the air (and my thoughts) are more level. Believe it or not I can think of a few things that are more fun than packing myself into a crowded downtown 1 train (really what are the odds that I happened to find the one train car without AC??) early on a Monday morning unready to start a week of heat-induced fuzzy attention to detail.
Could this be the week I lose my job? I couldn’t help but think sitting there almost unable to breathe. No, certainly it’s that guy who just woke up across from me with pit stains seeping out onto his light pink dress shirt who most definitely just missed his stop - and from the looks of it the start of a very important meeting - who’s on his way out. "Out of my way!" he shouts as he pushes himself off the train.
Well if he doesn’t lose his job, he really should.
But I won’t complain too much about The Heat because there will inevitably be something wrong with what’s next (mid-80's but too much rain? A sudden drop to a windy 60's and too cold?). And it’s good to not be able to think so clearly sometimes. It’s good to have a break from the crisp clarity of more reasonable temperatures and give yourself some time to let your mind wander. We forget (don’t we?) what we really want when we have so much time in more comfortable climates to over-think things.
So until this breaks (and it will, it always does) I’ll stop thinking for a while (and be OK feeling overheated and uncomfortable...) and just let the humidity fall where it may.
And I’ll try my best to get off the train in time.
June 5, 2008
Street Affair.
The man running the coffee cart on Hudson and Morton was watching me as I approached, then looked me in the eyes and told me he loved me.
For such a declaration, was it callous of me to just laugh and keep on walking?
When strangers profess love I don’t know the proper etiquette. It’s polite, I would imagine, to at least say "thanks." After all, it’s not a thing one gets to hear every day.
Maybe next time I’ll respond (I don’t need an explanation). Though I could never love a Cart Guy - what’s to stop him from just picking up and leaving at a moments notice (boredom, better traffic, prettier customers)?
(SIGH). Men. Always different street corners, different girls. Always love-me-then-leave-me.
And here I thought it was meant to be.
For such a declaration, was it callous of me to just laugh and keep on walking?
When strangers profess love I don’t know the proper etiquette. It’s polite, I would imagine, to at least say "thanks." After all, it’s not a thing one gets to hear every day.
Maybe next time I’ll respond (I don’t need an explanation). Though I could never love a Cart Guy - what’s to stop him from just picking up and leaving at a moments notice (boredom, better traffic, prettier customers)?
(SIGH). Men. Always different street corners, different girls. Always love-me-then-leave-me.
And here I thought it was meant to be.
June 3, 2008
Home is what you come back to.
I’m pretty sure that New York makes more sense coming than going.
What is it about that skyline that somehow, through the clouds and setting sun reflecting off the Empire State building, screams home? Because you have to leave a place sometimes in order to remember how much you love it (absence really does make the heart grow fonder?).
3,000 miles away across the country for a few days was long enough for me to realize that I am, and always will be, in a New York state of mind. Distant cities always hold the possibility that I’ll find what I’m looking for once I get there, but somehow I’m always let down (so much expectation and disappointment you’d think I’d have learned by now).
Sure, after 5 and a half hours smashed against the window next to a woman who does nothing but snore and kiss her girlfriend and hold her hand during turbulence, and constantly adjust herself and ask you ridiculously personal questions ("No, I don’t think your friend should be pressuring you into having baby just because you’re nearing forty," and "I guess I never really thought about falling in love with someone who already had a kid," and "Yes, you did just elbow me in the arm...again,") - you can be ready to jump out into just about any city in the world.
(What is it about tight enclosed spaces that makes people want to become best friends? I’d much rather spend that time floating at 29,000 feet with my life hanging in the balance, looking out over the passing states - Pennsylvania, Iowa, Colorado, Nevada... - and have some time to myself. think).
And California is too sunny with too many barren hills and too much open sky that it makes me feel uncomfortable. Where are all the tall buildings? Where are all of the angry people with purpose? Why does everyone walk so slow? Why doesn’t anyone honk their horns here when they drive? I could never make it. I’m much too cynical and bitter and realistic to ever be happy in such a place.
All I know about home is that it means a whole manner of things depending on who you are and where you’ve come from. It’s always shifting, roots uprooting and replanting in different cities and houses and apartments and rooms and streets all over the world (though I’m pretty sure that we’re all looking for the same thing to return to at the end of the day). I figure I’m always disappointed because I’ve already found my place.
Grass-is-greener isn’t always a good mentality to have, because you can spend so much time looking for something that might be better, that you lose sight of how great you’ve already got it. Give me the powerful streets of Manhattan, with their endless, streaming chorus of strong voices and passions any day.
Like anything else you choose to come back to in life, Manhattan makes more sense coming than going (what a thing to miss something that's been under your nose the whole time!) - and oh how happy I was to be home.
What is it about that skyline that somehow, through the clouds and setting sun reflecting off the Empire State building, screams home? Because you have to leave a place sometimes in order to remember how much you love it (absence really does make the heart grow fonder?).
3,000 miles away across the country for a few days was long enough for me to realize that I am, and always will be, in a New York state of mind. Distant cities always hold the possibility that I’ll find what I’m looking for once I get there, but somehow I’m always let down (so much expectation and disappointment you’d think I’d have learned by now).
Sure, after 5 and a half hours smashed against the window next to a woman who does nothing but snore and kiss her girlfriend and hold her hand during turbulence, and constantly adjust herself and ask you ridiculously personal questions ("No, I don’t think your friend should be pressuring you into having baby just because you’re nearing forty," and "I guess I never really thought about falling in love with someone who already had a kid," and "Yes, you did just elbow me in the arm...again,") - you can be ready to jump out into just about any city in the world.
(What is it about tight enclosed spaces that makes people want to become best friends? I’d much rather spend that time floating at 29,000 feet with my life hanging in the balance, looking out over the passing states - Pennsylvania, Iowa, Colorado, Nevada... - and have some time to myself. think).
And California is too sunny with too many barren hills and too much open sky that it makes me feel uncomfortable. Where are all the tall buildings? Where are all of the angry people with purpose? Why does everyone walk so slow? Why doesn’t anyone honk their horns here when they drive? I could never make it. I’m much too cynical and bitter and realistic to ever be happy in such a place.
All I know about home is that it means a whole manner of things depending on who you are and where you’ve come from. It’s always shifting, roots uprooting and replanting in different cities and houses and apartments and rooms and streets all over the world (though I’m pretty sure that we’re all looking for the same thing to return to at the end of the day). I figure I’m always disappointed because I’ve already found my place.
Grass-is-greener isn’t always a good mentality to have, because you can spend so much time looking for something that might be better, that you lose sight of how great you’ve already got it. Give me the powerful streets of Manhattan, with their endless, streaming chorus of strong voices and passions any day.
Like anything else you choose to come back to in life, Manhattan makes more sense coming than going (what a thing to miss something that's been under your nose the whole time!) - and oh how happy I was to be home.
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