4.26.2008
4.22.2008
a pitbull, a knife wound and a good deed
His barks scrape through me
one after another
growing hoarse and hopeless
but still crying out for what?
I hear myself in his raspy call
the same desperate longing
all this hot breath into cool spring air
only to be carried along with fallen flower petals
down and out amongst the howling city sounds
Was I wrong to think I could save a life?
"That's a good thing you're doing"
and at least he's not dead
but still, he barks because he's alone
the time I have to give isn't enough
and never will be - this is temporary
so now I carry his hulking cries along with my own
a companion in my crime of virtue
reminding me with every harrowing yelp
that I will come home to an empty house of chores
cook and eat my meals in solitude
seek out the little that sustains me
before this consciousness abandons me
leaving me to dream alone in my bed
howling in my sleep for what I'll never have
Hah! I read this over and it sounds so pathetic. I guess it's okay to "be" pathetic at times.
But really, there are times when I feel so terribly alone and I wonder if everyone has these moments in their lives.
And why do we feel alone? Why do we bark? What it is we are howling for?
ADDENDUM
The lyric above is an attempt at communicating a complex matrix of emotion, a moment's feeling fluxing into the next. What it means is irrelevant. What it evokes - a complex thought or feeling perhaps - is all.
Fostering a pitbull hasn't been the easiest thing I've ever done. Over the past few days I've been asking myself why I did this - which leads to thoughts about why I choose such things for my life: service and volunteer work, teaching inner city and at-risk youth, environmental activism, riding a bike instead of driving a car, eating vegetarian or vegan, scrupulous consumerism and cooperative living, and on and on.... any of these things aren't easy in themselves and yet I think I can do them all at once. Why do I choose to make my life difficult? Why do I make myself suffer such hardship?
Don't misinterpret the text here. I'm not complaining, just asking why - as a critic. I mean, there's a reason not many other people do this kind of stuff. It's fucking hard. Why am I drawn to it?
It's a question I'd like to explore. Am I really getting anything out of it that I wouldn't be getting if I were working for a huge corporation or some fancy firm? What if I spent my time on a yacht or in a laboratory? And am I doing these things because I'm looking to gain something in return? something that isn't money? Or do I do it simply because I enjoy it?
Questions barking into the wind....
one after another
growing hoarse and hopeless
but still crying out for what?
I hear myself in his raspy call
the same desperate longing
all this hot breath into cool spring air
only to be carried along with fallen flower petals
down and out amongst the howling city sounds
Was I wrong to think I could save a life?
"That's a good thing you're doing"
and at least he's not dead
but still, he barks because he's alone
the time I have to give isn't enough
and never will be - this is temporary
so now I carry his hulking cries along with my own
a companion in my crime of virtue
reminding me with every harrowing yelp
that I will come home to an empty house of chores
cook and eat my meals in solitude
seek out the little that sustains me
before this consciousness abandons me
leaving me to dream alone in my bed
howling in my sleep for what I'll never have
Hah! I read this over and it sounds so pathetic. I guess it's okay to "be" pathetic at times.
But really, there are times when I feel so terribly alone and I wonder if everyone has these moments in their lives.
And why do we feel alone? Why do we bark? What it is we are howling for?
ADDENDUM
The lyric above is an attempt at communicating a complex matrix of emotion, a moment's feeling fluxing into the next. What it means is irrelevant. What it evokes - a complex thought or feeling perhaps - is all.
Fostering a pitbull hasn't been the easiest thing I've ever done. Over the past few days I've been asking myself why I did this - which leads to thoughts about why I choose such things for my life: service and volunteer work, teaching inner city and at-risk youth, environmental activism, riding a bike instead of driving a car, eating vegetarian or vegan, scrupulous consumerism and cooperative living, and on and on.... any of these things aren't easy in themselves and yet I think I can do them all at once. Why do I choose to make my life difficult? Why do I make myself suffer such hardship?
Don't misinterpret the text here. I'm not complaining, just asking why - as a critic. I mean, there's a reason not many other people do this kind of stuff. It's fucking hard. Why am I drawn to it?
It's a question I'd like to explore. Am I really getting anything out of it that I wouldn't be getting if I were working for a huge corporation or some fancy firm? What if I spent my time on a yacht or in a laboratory? And am I doing these things because I'm looking to gain something in return? something that isn't money? Or do I do it simply because I enjoy it?
Questions barking into the wind....
4.20.2008
4.16.2008
solopsistic city solitude
Indulge in this
a city to fulfill my every wish
breed this wantoness
hungry for what doesn't exist
with these salivate eyes
sold on every disguise
mine, mine, mine,
these vindicated buys
still sold
still tied
crying virtue
no other way to survive
(this is where I take a shower only to return and write more)
I never knew I could want so much
and I'm glad that my needs are few
and my wants are little
yet this city still calls
still tempts me with perfumes
who knew life could cost so much?
what does one do in this place if choose not to spend?
where does one go?
I'm looking for these places. Alone.
Free stimulation - nothing produced, nothing sold
only found, perhaps discovered
{space}
I don't know why I'm still spacing my lines. Is that wasteful? Should I care?
I drank spelt beer tonight. I felt high and slightly drunk and now sober. It was nice. I wish I could take up drinking as a hobby, only I know I'd bore of it too soon or find it repulsive. I don't like to loath who I am. Perhaps that's why I suffer pride instead.
I (yeah, this is about me and my own solipsism, remember?) was involved in a bike accident today. I mention it because it's worth mentioning, not because I want pity or for you, the reader of this blog, to worry about my health and well being - that's up to you and I'd prefer not to hear about it. Yes, it was the highlight of my day - and I had quite a grand day! The most visceral experience. It happened on my way to work. I'd say it was like a fender-bender, only I flew over the handlebars like some rag-doll ballerina and rolled it out down the street. Flying and rolling are best, I've found - and I'm glad they come to me instinctually. I was only slightly injured (FYI, I'm okay). Just some scrapes, a lump and a contusion. Although the experience concerned me. It hurt. So I've decided to buy a bike helmet, though I'm against helmets. Just for myself. Other people should probably wear them, if they want. My bike will need some minor repairs. I ride like a maniac and it's the only way I can ride. I'm not afraid. I rarely worry. Risk is being blind or brave? I let the asphalt decide.
I like those days when you can't quite tell the difference between dreaming and being awake.
a city to fulfill my every wish
breed this wantoness
hungry for what doesn't exist
with these salivate eyes
sold on every disguise
mine, mine, mine,
these vindicated buys
still sold
still tied
crying virtue
no other way to survive
(this is where I take a shower only to return and write more)
I never knew I could want so much
and I'm glad that my needs are few
and my wants are little
yet this city still calls
still tempts me with perfumes
who knew life could cost so much?
what does one do in this place if choose not to spend?
where does one go?
I'm looking for these places. Alone.
Free stimulation - nothing produced, nothing sold
only found, perhaps discovered
{space}
I don't know why I'm still spacing my lines. Is that wasteful? Should I care?
I drank spelt beer tonight. I felt high and slightly drunk and now sober. It was nice. I wish I could take up drinking as a hobby, only I know I'd bore of it too soon or find it repulsive. I don't like to loath who I am. Perhaps that's why I suffer pride instead.
I (yeah, this is about me and my own solipsism, remember?) was involved in a bike accident today. I mention it because it's worth mentioning, not because I want pity or for you, the reader of this blog, to worry about my health and well being - that's up to you and I'd prefer not to hear about it. Yes, it was the highlight of my day - and I had quite a grand day! The most visceral experience. It happened on my way to work. I'd say it was like a fender-bender, only I flew over the handlebars like some rag-doll ballerina and rolled it out down the street. Flying and rolling are best, I've found - and I'm glad they come to me instinctually. I was only slightly injured (FYI, I'm okay). Just some scrapes, a lump and a contusion. Although the experience concerned me. It hurt. So I've decided to buy a bike helmet, though I'm against helmets. Just for myself. Other people should probably wear them, if they want. My bike will need some minor repairs. I ride like a maniac and it's the only way I can ride. I'm not afraid. I rarely worry. Risk is being blind or brave? I let the asphalt decide.
I like those days when you can't quite tell the difference between dreaming and being awake.
4.13.2008
City at Night
pictures taken from around the DUMBO waterfront and along the Brooklyn Queens Expressway - hours after midnight, April 13, 2008.
4.08.2008
the story about story
I've been musing on story deeply these past few days along with immersing myself in Cormac McCarthy's effervescent desert portraits - his stories about stories and the stories of his heroes and the land, the ways of people, told with such magical austerity.
The story continues. My story. There is no remorse about that. Though perhaps the style in which is it told will shift and coil and then uncoil and coil again, proceeding much like the body of a snake, undulating back and forth and looking as though it is confused about where it wants to go but moving nonetheless across sand and leaves, through the grass, hidden and yet there all at once and continuing on to wherever it is that snakes go.
I think that there is a distinction between writing one's life and letting life write it for you, because perhaps it is just like a story that has already been written, only it is being read for the first time and with each page comes something new, something revealed - and yet it has been there all along. The end waiting behind so many more pages of unknown words and sentences.
There is a style to living just as there is a style to writing. Since I've been out here I haven't been living in the style to which I find myself most suited to live. But I aim to reclaim that now that I'm aware of it. Not sure how to explain this style and perhaps I will save the attempt for another blog entry. I will say that it's magical and real, romantic and fearless, adventuresome - like dreaming while awake. The limits and lines are blurred or maybe they just don't matter because I can live beyond them while existing within them. I'll leave it at that for now.
The last week in March was perhaps the most trying week I've had in NYC - work, home, weather, emotions, relations - all a fiery tempest swirling me about. On friday night (the night of earth hour) a friend and co-worker invited me into Manhattan to attend Dark Fair - an art fair in the dark, light by glow sticks and candles and powered by renewable energy sources. The event was nice but that's not the story I'm going to share.
I had wanted to bike across one of the east river bridges that night to see if new yorkers would turn off lights in mass - something noticeable. I decided I would bike into manhattan to the art fair via the manhattan bridge. The night was chill and a bit breezy and I set out on my bike towards the navy yard and then heading left down flushing ave, past the warehouses and vacant sidewalks - a route I hadn't taken since I first moved to the city and sought out the way to the bridges for the first time.
My breath growing quicker and deeper and my heart beating faster as I pedaled up the slightly sloped black-topped streets marred with pot holes and patched with huge metal plates that separate an unseen world excavated and accessed through these trenches now sealed in the night.
The ramp to the bridge path spirals up and from there it's an uphill voyage felt vigorously in the thighs and loins, the hissing and fluttering of cars as they passed somewhere above and between the huge steel trusses and cables like some elusive thunder clapping out from within the clouds. As I reached the crest of the bridge the pedaling eased and I stopped my bike to look out over the city. No other bikers passed and the chatter of the cars faded into the perpetual buzz of the city, the boats and helicopters, airplanes, trains all careening about in this space all at once and becoming one sound, like that of the river - the sound of the city.
Blue lights along the banks of Williamsburg reflected broadly into the gentle undulations of the black river, mixing with thin wavy lines of orange, pink, white and green. A large boat, perhaps a ferry, pushed off from the Manhattan embankment gliding out into the ripples of the glassy plane below me. How beautiful and frightening it all looked, like one of those miniature model cities that toy train hobbyists construct as a complete artifice to capture the fascination of children and adults alike so they stand and watch as the trains whirl around along the tracks, following the engine with their eyes as it crosses bridges and vanishes into tunnels only to emerge from a styrofoam mountainside littered with plastic trees and goats. I felt at once immensely large and small, lost in the scale of the earth and that which had been mounted upon it. All the lights beacons of the structures they illuminate stacked in a vertical grid insistent on defying the darkness that encroaches and threatens to wash centuries of tinkering and building figures and figurines all to black.
I took a photo and climbed onto my bike. From there is was a coast downhill.
4.03.2008
This Story Untold
Maybe this one entry isn't about New York, maybe it is. What I'm about to write is a sharp contrast to the content in previous blog entries. Perhaps it's pretty personal, but I strive to live openly, publicly. I have nothing to fear about myself, who I am, what I think and feel. This is my voice, my thoughts and feelings about my life right now.
As for New York... for me, New York is a story I'm writing as I live it. In the same way, we're all the authors of our own lives, our own stories. We choose, consciously or not, how to color the experiences we live through, how to interpret the world we live in, how to characterize the people we meet and see - we make these decisions just like authors who plot out stories with characters in a setting. Perhaps our decisions are even influenced by other stories already written that we believe in and adopt into our own lives (media, entertainment, religion, politics, history, etc).
What's New York like? Well, millions of people, tall buildings, concrete and asphalt, bridges and tunnels, rivers and a few parks, wealth and poverty side-by-side, a mix of races, cultures and lifestyles, tons of businesses, restaurants, bars, endless entertainment and distraction. It's a big city, that's it and that's all. But begin to craft a story and it becomes something else, something more. Add characters (like myself) and fill them with emotion, tell about the ups and downs using figurative language and climactic events. Soon you have a story - a story you made up and that only exists in the telling... whether you're telling yourself or others.
What's life like without story? When we remove the colors, the details and descriptions, the identities we hold on to so dearly that characterize who we are and what we do, what's left? Can life be lived like a blank page? Can we stare into the white pulp or the white pixelated light and still exist?
In some ways I feel like I've fallen out of my story. And in some ways I don't want to get back into one.
How does one fall out of story? For me it happened when suddenly it was revealed to me that the fabrication I was living out (the story) was just that, an illusion I had applied to the world around me, to the people, the places, the events and experiences. I made them all what I wanted them to be. Why? To make life more interesting, I assume. To give it meaning. To believe in something: a path, a journey, an evolution, progress, hope, something, anything other than what is... this... blank.... and bleak... existence.
Of course this knowledge isn't new to me. In college I read about it in Nietzsche - "The Birth of a Tragedy," where he recounts an ancient Greek legend in which King Midas sought out the wise Silenus to ask him what was the best thing for human beings, to which Silenus replies, "Wretched, ephemeral race, children of chance and tribulation, why do you force me to tell you the very thing which it would be most profitable for you not to hear? The very best thing is utterly beyond your reach not to have been born, not to be, to be nothing. However, the second best thing for you is: to die soon."
Nietzsche goes on to explain that this is why the Greeks created their gods and the stories about them - to give their lives meaning in a world without anything but life and death.
The same knowledge is woven into every masterpiece of literature, from Chaucer to McCarthy, the discreet disclosure that it's all just a story.
A few years ago I made an attempt to live without story. To be nothing. Colorless life. Blank.
It was nice for a while, then I quickly got bored and concluded that it was only natural and human to create stories of our lives - they're what make life worth living, give us feeling, depth, meaning. I dove headfirst back into my own personal narrative, living richly in great detail and a multitude of colors.
Now I find myself second guessing story again. The dangers of illusion. The potential to lose oneself entirely in story, mistake it for reality. Within I'm yearning for simplicity, a monochrome life. I just want to be and in being not be at all.
A complicated matter in this complex world saturated with story upon story.
So for now, until I figure this out, this story (as told in this blog) is on hiatus and I am just going to be.
Feel free to comment on this. I'd like to hear your thoughts/reactions/responses.
3.24.2008
the resurrection of this city within me
Today was possibly one of the most intense days I've had here in New York. I'm just getting over a cold, I didn't get adequate sleep last night, and I had to teach three classes today plus prep for three classes tomorrow, in all, lugging around materials for six classes in three different bags weighing in total around 60lbs (because of the times of my classes tomorrow I can't go into the center in the morning to pick up my materials, so I have to take them home the day before). To make things more difficult, I was only given an hour between my second class and third class of the day, the first two being in Park Slope, the third in the middle of Bed Stuy (30-60 min. commute). Oh, and I didn't have a lunch. Crazy. I know. So I'm living this day, going through the motions of this insane schedule and the whole time I'm thinking to myself that I should have said something to the scheduling department at work - it wasn't right for them to schedule me with only an hour in between those two classes - no, wait, it wasn't right for them to schedule me for three classes, all in the middle of the day (so I can't have a lunch) and then schedule me again for three classes the following day. But, I looked at the schedule last week. I knew what I was taking on and I didn't say anything. I figured I could do it. But there I was, living that day and wishing I hadn't been so ambitious - so eager to take on such a challenge. I was starving, exhausted, sweaty, pissed off (at myself and at my work), hating everything about New York - the traffic, the walking, the waiting, the people, the students, the cold air. At every subway and bus station, just as I was arriving, the train or bus was just leaving - honestly, at every single one - and I had to take one train and two buses to get from the school in Park Slope to the center (I walked) and then to my house (to drop off the materials for tomorrow) and then to the school in Bed Stuy. Oh, and the students at that school in Bed Stuy - so rowdy - 6th through 8th graders that are throwing things at each other, fighting, yelling, cursing, and difficult to manage. They don't listen, they don't do what I ask them to and when they do it's so mediocre. They just don't care. It was the worst way to end one of the worst days I've had here.
I got home and felt completely defeated. I said to myself, I hate New York. It's not for me. I want out. I want to cry. It's so hard here. Life is so hard here and it doesn't need to be. Why do people live in this place where life is so difficult. I felt like I finally understood why people out here are so impudent and brazenly self centered - and I didn't want to have anything to do with it anymore. I wanted out.
Of course, what I want isn't always what I'm going to do. I think part of me is a little bit masochistic because when things get tough, and I mean really tough to where I want to break down and cry and run away from it all - I force myself to endure. Perhaps it's because I've learned over time that, usually, when you do stick it out it makes you stronger, the experience is much more rewarding and you achieve a greater understanding of life.
Don't get me wrong. I've had some really great times since I've been here in New York. I've met some amazing people who have definitely enriched my life and inspired me, moved me with their presence. But in the end you're not always with those people and living those "high life" moments at some VIP celeb packed party on the roof top of the Gramercy Park Hotel. The majority of my life is spent waiting in musty subway stations, walking broken sidewalks inhaling exhaust, cleaning up after other people (though not so much anymore) - or just dealing with other people - millions of them - every day, alone. It really is a tough life out here. Unless you're disgustingly wealthy, life New York City isn't easy. It's really quite monstrous.
But I'm out here. My lease isn't up until August. There are a few people in my life here who perhaps make it all worthwhile to stick it out.
My roommate comes home and I confess my sentiments. She listens (I love that about her) and tells me what the masochist within tells me - stick it out. I've only been here for four months - all of which have been in the winter. It's too soon to make a rash judgment, to write off NYC and kick this city life goodbye.
I know. I know. But still, I can't help feeling hopeless, defeated, and sick of it all.
I left the house and headed for thy gym. Hot Yoga. 7:30PM. I biked in the cool air. Breathed it in deep. Let the chill feel good over my warming body as I pedaled quickly to make it in time. The female instructor was one I had never had before. She had a germanic accent, shorter thin hair that sort of spiked off her head a bit, adding a fire to her sinewy frame. We worked on focusing our energy and mind on the four points in each of our feet and hands - the extremities of the body and the poses.
We began with three chants of Om. Breathe in the sun. Oooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm. Feel the vibration within. Breathe in the sun deeper. Feel the vibration deep within. Exhale everything we've been carrying. Let it go. Out with the breath. Breathe in the Sun. Oooooooooooooommmmmmm.
Every pose we engaged out hands and feet. Toes off the floor and spread wide, feet squared, palms flat, finger tips "like claws" with fingers spread wide. I could feel each pose stretch deeper, stronger. One of the challenges in Yoga is to keep all the muscles engaged throughout the poses. Focusing on keeping the feet and hands poised and square on four points and pushing out while pushing out with the breath really helped me get deep into the poses, getting a deeper stretch and releasing deep tensions throughout my body and mind. I've never had a stronger full bridge pose. She even advised focusing the feet in this 4-point "push" while riding the bike. "It'll fix any problems with the knees."
One of the best yoga classes I've ever had. Afterwards I felt amazing. Not a 180 from my mood before - more like I achieved a harmony, leveled things out. I could think clearly about things again. My mood wasn't clouded by all the negativity. It was all released. Gone. We finished with three more Om chants, remembering the sunshine - now manifested within.
I stepped out into the cool night feeling great. Rejuvenated. Calm. Engaged.
While biking home I thought about how I was feeling before. I realized that I had turned New York into a monster. All the hard and horrible things amassed into one behemoth that was beating me down. Yet, I created this behemoth. I chose to see it this way, to let it defeat me, perhaps because it's easier to play the victim, to give up or believe that there is no chance for a positive and beautiful life here in this city - because that could take a lot of time and effort with unknown returns. So why not write it all off as a hopeless endeavor and go back to the calm, the beautiful, the natural west. basically it was all a fabrication so I could give up. I made it into a monster I had no chance against, one that would defeat me. And it did.
Like the phoenix, I rise from my ashes into a new life. Deep down I know my roots were born in western soil and that is where they will return - but they can certainly be nurtured, stretched and strengthened on this shifting sojourn in the city that never sleeps.
Spring is here. Rejoice.
I got home and felt completely defeated. I said to myself, I hate New York. It's not for me. I want out. I want to cry. It's so hard here. Life is so hard here and it doesn't need to be. Why do people live in this place where life is so difficult. I felt like I finally understood why people out here are so impudent and brazenly self centered - and I didn't want to have anything to do with it anymore. I wanted out.
Of course, what I want isn't always what I'm going to do. I think part of me is a little bit masochistic because when things get tough, and I mean really tough to where I want to break down and cry and run away from it all - I force myself to endure. Perhaps it's because I've learned over time that, usually, when you do stick it out it makes you stronger, the experience is much more rewarding and you achieve a greater understanding of life.
Don't get me wrong. I've had some really great times since I've been here in New York. I've met some amazing people who have definitely enriched my life and inspired me, moved me with their presence. But in the end you're not always with those people and living those "high life" moments at some VIP celeb packed party on the roof top of the Gramercy Park Hotel. The majority of my life is spent waiting in musty subway stations, walking broken sidewalks inhaling exhaust, cleaning up after other people (though not so much anymore) - or just dealing with other people - millions of them - every day, alone. It really is a tough life out here. Unless you're disgustingly wealthy, life New York City isn't easy. It's really quite monstrous.
But I'm out here. My lease isn't up until August. There are a few people in my life here who perhaps make it all worthwhile to stick it out.
My roommate comes home and I confess my sentiments. She listens (I love that about her) and tells me what the masochist within tells me - stick it out. I've only been here for four months - all of which have been in the winter. It's too soon to make a rash judgment, to write off NYC and kick this city life goodbye.
I know. I know. But still, I can't help feeling hopeless, defeated, and sick of it all.
I left the house and headed for thy gym. Hot Yoga. 7:30PM. I biked in the cool air. Breathed it in deep. Let the chill feel good over my warming body as I pedaled quickly to make it in time. The female instructor was one I had never had before. She had a germanic accent, shorter thin hair that sort of spiked off her head a bit, adding a fire to her sinewy frame. We worked on focusing our energy and mind on the four points in each of our feet and hands - the extremities of the body and the poses.
We began with three chants of Om. Breathe in the sun. Oooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm. Feel the vibration within. Breathe in the sun deeper. Feel the vibration deep within. Exhale everything we've been carrying. Let it go. Out with the breath. Breathe in the Sun. Oooooooooooooommmmmmm.
Every pose we engaged out hands and feet. Toes off the floor and spread wide, feet squared, palms flat, finger tips "like claws" with fingers spread wide. I could feel each pose stretch deeper, stronger. One of the challenges in Yoga is to keep all the muscles engaged throughout the poses. Focusing on keeping the feet and hands poised and square on four points and pushing out while pushing out with the breath really helped me get deep into the poses, getting a deeper stretch and releasing deep tensions throughout my body and mind. I've never had a stronger full bridge pose. She even advised focusing the feet in this 4-point "push" while riding the bike. "It'll fix any problems with the knees."
One of the best yoga classes I've ever had. Afterwards I felt amazing. Not a 180 from my mood before - more like I achieved a harmony, leveled things out. I could think clearly about things again. My mood wasn't clouded by all the negativity. It was all released. Gone. We finished with three more Om chants, remembering the sunshine - now manifested within.
I stepped out into the cool night feeling great. Rejuvenated. Calm. Engaged.
While biking home I thought about how I was feeling before. I realized that I had turned New York into a monster. All the hard and horrible things amassed into one behemoth that was beating me down. Yet, I created this behemoth. I chose to see it this way, to let it defeat me, perhaps because it's easier to play the victim, to give up or believe that there is no chance for a positive and beautiful life here in this city - because that could take a lot of time and effort with unknown returns. So why not write it all off as a hopeless endeavor and go back to the calm, the beautiful, the natural west. basically it was all a fabrication so I could give up. I made it into a monster I had no chance against, one that would defeat me. And it did.
Like the phoenix, I rise from my ashes into a new life. Deep down I know my roots were born in western soil and that is where they will return - but they can certainly be nurtured, stretched and strengthened on this shifting sojourn in the city that never sleeps.
Spring is here. Rejoice.
3.19.2008
deeper in, now than before
There are layers to this living here in this city. I was riding the F train home tonight after a dinner party in Manhattan and I had one of these moments that I experience every so often - it's a moment when it suddenly seems to settle in me that I live here and this is my life, these trains and tunnels, the waiting, the watching, millions of strangers, the longest winter of my life, all the dirt and grime, trash and endless overheard conversations, screeching silent subway rides. In one moment it all seems to dawn on me as if I never really saw it before - because I think usually I envision my time here as provisional - never permanent - and yet, here are these glimpses at what permanent life might be like, feel like, here in this city. And each time I catch one of these glimpses, as new york settles within me, it's as though I've experienced some rite of passage that leads me deeper into this inferno of concrete, steel, electric light and human life. How much further there is to go, how many more layers to spiral up or down - unknown. Perhaps living here is like passing through an abyss - maybe there is no bottom or end, only deeper in.
3.16.2008
If it wasn't for Brooklyn...
If it wasn't for Brooklyn I probably would have never come out to NYC. In my last post, the behemoth, the sinking ship - that's Manhattan NYC. The two are entirely different worlds, separated by a river. Some Brooklynites may dream like Manhattanites (they just can't afford to live there), but for the most part, the people who live in Brooklyn live here because they want to (or they don't have choice), because they know the culture is different, more laid back, more about people than commerce and flashy wealth. There's definitely a gradient to all the boroughs, a slight blending, but generally the cultural stereotype holds true. You'll see restaurants or boutiques in Brooklyn that look like they're trying to be Manhattan - and they stand out like a boob job on an old broad. Whatever, some people are into that. I'm not. There's something very real, genuine, and organic about Brooklyn. Eventhough a lot of it is cracked and crumbling, many parts have been preserved and restored, protected by the members of the community. Neighborhoods like Brooklyn Heights, Carrol Gardens, Park Slope, Fort Greene - all have preserved the historic infrastructure fairly well, businesses are locally owned, they have active neighborhood organizations and fight against unreasonable (Manhattanesque) development.
Today the sun was shining, it was 56 degrees and felt great outside. I rode my bike into Park Slope's 5th Ave commercial strip to check out a vegan restaurant (V Spot) and a few second hand/vintage/thrift stores while on my way to the Park Slope Food Coop (where I do most of my grocery shopping). I ran into my co-worker who lives next to the coop and she invited me onto the roof of her building, which has a great view of the city. Below are photos from my day.
Park Slope Architecture
A faux-dobe facade (notice the faux vigas) on a tex-mex restaurant se llama, Lobo. Looks like they mixed Santa Fe with San Antonio (interior had cow hide covered booths) - I looked in the window and cringed.
Outside the Food Coop on Union St., Park Slope
Views from the roof
This is why I love Brooklyn.
Today the sun was shining, it was 56 degrees and felt great outside. I rode my bike into Park Slope's 5th Ave commercial strip to check out a vegan restaurant (V Spot) and a few second hand/vintage/thrift stores while on my way to the Park Slope Food Coop (where I do most of my grocery shopping). I ran into my co-worker who lives next to the coop and she invited me onto the roof of her building, which has a great view of the city. Below are photos from my day.
Park Slope Architecture
A faux-dobe facade (notice the faux vigas) on a tex-mex restaurant se llama, Lobo. Looks like they mixed Santa Fe with San Antonio (interior had cow hide covered booths) - I looked in the window and cringed.
Outside the Food Coop on Union St., Park Slope
Views from the roof
This is why I love Brooklyn.
3.15.2008
Front Row Seat to NYC
Sometimes I think of my time in New York City as though I bought a ticket back in time to ride out on the first and final voyage of the Titanic, knowing well what disaster awaits, but going along for the ride anyways - to observe, to see it all go down.
Here we all are on this ship that everyone believes is indestructible, opulent and magnificent, gargantuan and omnipotent - the ship's trajectory is the same we all hold in our hearts - to achieve the impossible, to create a beautiful behemoth and win success, fame, fortune, power and influence against all odds. On board, atop the decks and in the galleys and staterooms, we're all believing in this fantastic dreamboat, delighting in its luxuries, inspired by its existence - feeling invincible, as though anything is possible and we're a part of it.
This is New York City. A synecdoche for the dominant culture that has conquered the world.
There's no iceberg in this modern epic (except those that are melting) to collide with our dreamboat Empire. Who really knows what it was we hit - other than reality - that has breached the hulls of this towering monstrosity.
This ship is sinking.
But no one will admit it. No one, yet, wants to believe that this omnipotent Empire is going down, despite the floods of water spilling in at our feet. Something can still be done to save it from going under, quick, Bernanke, fix it, Congress, fix it, President, oh captain and commander, fix it!
This story has happened before. I saw it when I was a child. It taught me the word catastrophe. Now, here I am, living it, walking these gilded streets, amongst this mass of dreamers blanketed in luxury, laughing and living unaware that this Style is sinking, still believing ever so devoutly, wearing these pyrite threads as though it were skin. No idea. Completely immersed in the ways and wonders of the Empire.
Sometimes I feel so apart from it all that when I'm standing in a subway station or waiting on the corner of street I just watch, in stillness, as it all plays out. Like suddenly I'm onstage in the middle of a performance I've seen before. The actors still going on with the show. Playing out these roles. This parade pushing through.
It's really so strange. I nearly feel like a ghost at times in the midst of all this scripted activity. It's also entertaining, beautiful, thrilling, tragic, moving. To have a front row seat to one of the greatest tragedies the world will ever know.
And sometimes I can't help but get caught up in it all and I join in, playing out some minor role, acting out the drama until I snap out of it and "remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."
Somewhat appropriate appropriation of words from Lester Burnham. But in the end, I do feel grateful for every bit of it, whether I'm a part of it, or apart from it, I'm alive and living it, ridiculous as it all appears to me at times. And perhaps it's just as silly to get caught up in the spectacle as an observer as it is to take on a dramatic role in the epic unfolding. sometimes I wonder if we can't help but be anything other than what we are in any given moment. That to be otherwise would make us something entirely different, outside the chain of events and the course of life that has shaped us of out billions upon billions of seconds in time.
That said and with these words I have shed (haha, nice rhyme!), I can only speak for myself what it is that I see through these deep blue desert born eyes, giving you a glimpse into a world different from that seen through your eyes. To see is nice, to see with many eyes, even better.
Here we all are on this ship that everyone believes is indestructible, opulent and magnificent, gargantuan and omnipotent - the ship's trajectory is the same we all hold in our hearts - to achieve the impossible, to create a beautiful behemoth and win success, fame, fortune, power and influence against all odds. On board, atop the decks and in the galleys and staterooms, we're all believing in this fantastic dreamboat, delighting in its luxuries, inspired by its existence - feeling invincible, as though anything is possible and we're a part of it.
This is New York City. A synecdoche for the dominant culture that has conquered the world.
There's no iceberg in this modern epic (except those that are melting) to collide with our dreamboat Empire. Who really knows what it was we hit - other than reality - that has breached the hulls of this towering monstrosity.
This ship is sinking.
But no one will admit it. No one, yet, wants to believe that this omnipotent Empire is going down, despite the floods of water spilling in at our feet. Something can still be done to save it from going under, quick, Bernanke, fix it, Congress, fix it, President, oh captain and commander, fix it!
This story has happened before. I saw it when I was a child. It taught me the word catastrophe. Now, here I am, living it, walking these gilded streets, amongst this mass of dreamers blanketed in luxury, laughing and living unaware that this Style is sinking, still believing ever so devoutly, wearing these pyrite threads as though it were skin. No idea. Completely immersed in the ways and wonders of the Empire.
Sometimes I feel so apart from it all that when I'm standing in a subway station or waiting on the corner of street I just watch, in stillness, as it all plays out. Like suddenly I'm onstage in the middle of a performance I've seen before. The actors still going on with the show. Playing out these roles. This parade pushing through.
It's really so strange. I nearly feel like a ghost at times in the midst of all this scripted activity. It's also entertaining, beautiful, thrilling, tragic, moving. To have a front row seat to one of the greatest tragedies the world will ever know.
And sometimes I can't help but get caught up in it all and I join in, playing out some minor role, acting out the drama until I snap out of it and "remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life."
Somewhat appropriate appropriation of words from Lester Burnham. But in the end, I do feel grateful for every bit of it, whether I'm a part of it, or apart from it, I'm alive and living it, ridiculous as it all appears to me at times. And perhaps it's just as silly to get caught up in the spectacle as an observer as it is to take on a dramatic role in the epic unfolding. sometimes I wonder if we can't help but be anything other than what we are in any given moment. That to be otherwise would make us something entirely different, outside the chain of events and the course of life that has shaped us of out billions upon billions of seconds in time.
That said and with these words I have shed (haha, nice rhyme!), I can only speak for myself what it is that I see through these deep blue desert born eyes, giving you a glimpse into a world different from that seen through your eyes. To see is nice, to see with many eyes, even better.
3.13.2008
Neighborhood Photo Update
Here are some photos from my neighborhood taken last sunday, march 8th while walking Uki to the park.
Fort Greene Park
Amazing trees
Uki and shadows
my favorite trees in the park
looking towards Manhattan
the navy yard
cranes
tall concrete wall
windowless wall
two dead lovers stuck on the fence
Fort Greene Park
Amazing trees
Uki and shadows
my favorite trees in the park
looking towards Manhattan
the navy yard
cranes
tall concrete wall
windowless wall
two dead lovers stuck on the fence
3.11.2008
Art is EXCLUSIVE
Last Wednesday I got a text message from [name omitted] asking if I wanted to sneak into the Whitney Biennial later that night. For those not so acquainted with the new york art world, the Whitney Biennial is a biennial (every 2 yrs) exhibition of contemporary american art at the Whitney Museum of American Art in the UES (upper east side) of NYC. The show usually strives to represent younger and lesser known artists and, according to Wikipedia, "is generally regarded as one of the leading shows in the art world, often setting or leading trends in contemporary art."
Bueno.
I met up with [name omitted] at the house, we ate quickly, changed into outfits better suited to the occasion (see photos below), and hauled over to the UES in a cab and then by train. When we arrived there was a huge line of people wrapping all the way around the block and these were the people with invitations - which we didn't even have. Though [name omitted] knew a artist already inside and on the VIP list and felt confident that we could get in. We tried the front entrance, walking around the line to the very front but the boleteros wouldn't hear any of it. We thought for a minute about what to do and then [name omitted] decided we should check the back entrance (for VIPs with invites). Sure enough, there was a line and more unbending boleteros. Once they let in the group of VIPs waiting we made our move. I can't give away all the details of how we got in because this is a "public" blog but I will say that it wasn't easy and we had to be persistent, but it all paid off and we were escorted into the museum, past all the ticket checks and right into the main lobby. BADA-BING-BIATCH!
It was quite a little rush and once we were in we were beaming. The art was very... contemporary. Haha. No, I enjoyed it. I prefer contemporary art and the exhibition was overall an impressive collection of what's happening in the forefront of American art. We chatted with [name omitted]'s artist friends and acquaintances, sipped some wine, browsed the art and the people, and had an amusing time at one of america's better known art scenes.
Thanks [name omitted] for such a great night!
NOTICE: the names of those involved have been removed by request for issues regarding safety and privacy.
Bueno.
I met up with [name omitted] at the house, we ate quickly, changed into outfits better suited to the occasion (see photos below), and hauled over to the UES in a cab and then by train. When we arrived there was a huge line of people wrapping all the way around the block and these were the people with invitations - which we didn't even have. Though [name omitted] knew a artist already inside and on the VIP list and felt confident that we could get in. We tried the front entrance, walking around the line to the very front but the boleteros wouldn't hear any of it. We thought for a minute about what to do and then [name omitted] decided we should check the back entrance (for VIPs with invites). Sure enough, there was a line and more unbending boleteros. Once they let in the group of VIPs waiting we made our move. I can't give away all the details of how we got in because this is a "public" blog but I will say that it wasn't easy and we had to be persistent, but it all paid off and we were escorted into the museum, past all the ticket checks and right into the main lobby. BADA-BING-BIATCH!
It was quite a little rush and once we were in we were beaming. The art was very... contemporary. Haha. No, I enjoyed it. I prefer contemporary art and the exhibition was overall an impressive collection of what's happening in the forefront of American art. We chatted with [name omitted]'s artist friends and acquaintances, sipped some wine, browsed the art and the people, and had an amusing time at one of america's better known art scenes.
Thanks [name omitted] for such a great night!
NOTICE: the names of those involved have been removed by request for issues regarding safety and privacy.
3.02.2008
Photo Update - Brooklyn Views
Prospect Park
Entrance to Prospect - Grand Army Plaza
Rotunda at Grand Army Plaza
I've concluded after todays bike ride through Prospect Park that I need to spend more time there - explore. It's beautiful. Rolling green hills. Forests. Lakes. It's crazy how far from the city you can feel once you're in the park. It's just been so cold. But it's almost spring equinox - warm is on the way and that means park time. More photos to come soon.
Entrance to Prospect - Grand Army Plaza
Rotunda at Grand Army Plaza
I've concluded after todays bike ride through Prospect Park that I need to spend more time there - explore. It's beautiful. Rolling green hills. Forests. Lakes. It's crazy how far from the city you can feel once you're in the park. It's just been so cold. But it's almost spring equinox - warm is on the way and that means park time. More photos to come soon.
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