July 30, 2010

"Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more."

~Donald Miller

Blue Like Jazz

July 28, 2010

This site is, in a word, AWESOME. I would share some of the entries, but my post would become a little long. There are too many good ones.

1000awesomethings.com

Check it out.

I visit this site often, especially on days like today...

I woke up this morning super excited because tomorrow is Friday. Already almost the weekend! Then I got to work and realized... it is Wednesday. And it did not begin as a particularly good Wednesday either, even after I got over the initial disappointment of it not being Thursday. My class of two and three year olds conspired early this morning to make my day extra "special," and I'm pretty sure the rest of New York City was in on it, too.

However, I decided to find the awesome in this Wednesday and not let it go to waste...

1. Cheap Dr. Pepper 

2. A new email from my sister
3. Playing in a sprinkler... and getting paid for it.
4. Having my class mistake a policeman stopping traffic in the street today for the President and begin screaming "IT'S HIM! IT'S HIM! IT'S MR. OBAMA!!" (I think the officer thought this was pretty awesome, also.)
5. Free pizza during a meeting tonight.
6. An almost empty bus ride home. (Where to sit? So many choices!!)
7. Getting to wear flipflops all day.
8. My view tonight (see the picture a few posts down).
9. Realizing that tomorrow I get to rethink the "tomorrow is Friday" thoughts from this morning... for real this time.

Happy Wednesday, everyone.

And I hope you all find something totally awesome in your day, too...

July 26, 2010

To continue with the weekend's theme of sometimes sucky jobs I thought I'd share an essay I wrote a couple years ago during another one of my short-lived careers... as a barista.

* * *

If you are an addict in need of a fix, I am the one to come to. I can make a latte in under two minutes, grind beans and brew an entire pot of coffee in under 4 minutes, and whip up the egg and cheese bagel with a cappuccino breakfast special in five. Three coffee shops. Three years. Expert barista. I have mastered the techniques of preparing the ultimate cup of java. However, catering to the world of caffeine addicts has forced me to come into contact with some of the world’s most desperate and edgy customers, and has taught me the people skills I need to deal with just about anyone.

Coffee shop #1, New Haven, Connecticut. It was the mini Mecca of political, social, and religious debates, and was host to the city’s liberal professors and working mothers.

Sam wandered in, 2:00pm as usual, long black trench coat moist with the fall drizzle. I already had his mug of black French roast waiting for him on the counter. He settled into the nearest corner and opened the paper, commenting on intriguing articles and asking me what my plans were when I graduated while I wiped down the counter. Jim came in soon after. He ordered his small, dry cappuccino and sat down next to his friend. Sam put his newspaper down, eager for today’s debate with his professor friend. Today’s topic: the pros and cons of foreign cars and comparing their grown children’s accomplishments. Jim and Sam went back and forth, Jim’s bushy grey mustache catching some of the foam in his drink as he sipped in between his input.

My boss came in with a new shipment of beans. She was a small Italian woman who usually began most of the debates that accompanied each day in the shop, and had no problem putting down what she was doing to join an overheard conversation. She would often stand over the counter to shake her finger at the customers who obviously had it all wrong. She was a proud feminist and Democrat in her late fifties and was a second mother to all the regulars who wandered in daily.

This shop taught me two things: the beauty of a neighborhood family, and how to keep my mouth shut in the middle of a heated discussion among professors, liberals, feminists, and angry mothers in a space not much bigger than a large closet.

Coffee shop #2, Van, Texas. It was the first espresso based coffee shop in the area and a second home to the area’s crazy zealot teens and old cowboys who thought the ‘ch’ in mocha was pronounced the way it looks, and that a ‘latte’ was a ‘lottie’. It was host to the typical southern stereotypes: slow and easy drawls, big hair, cowboy hats, and hardcore Republican Christians. And yet, the sweet, hospitable, and polite Southern dispositions that usually went along with these characteristics were somehow missing. Unlike Coffee Shop #1, those that came in did not confess their opinions point-blank, but instead, tried to find clever, creative ways to convey their points. However, the points were often conveyed a lot less inconspicuously than the customers assumed.

One afternoon a woman that I had never seen before came in. As I stood there making her mocha, I could see her staring at me unashamedly from over the espresso machine. Finally, tapping her finger to her lips, she asked me if I had anything brown in my closet. I did. She proceeded to tell me that because of my red hair and pale complexion, I should be wearing brown. Apparently, the black shirt I was wearing was not my color and I would look much nicer in a dark chestnut, according to the color wheel. The color wheel was never wrong. I do not know what a color wheel is, but I do know that you should not criticize a barista while they hold your mocha in their hand. (She only thought that was foam she tasted.) I decided that maybe the color wheel lady just needed a little coffee and chocolate to fix her day and tried to forgive her as I smiled a “thank you” and handed her the drink.

My favorite customers at this shop were the ones who were completely crazy even with the caffeine. The ones you wanted to pick up and throw around a little bit. The infamous service bell-ringers, television button-pressers, tip-stealers, Christmas music-haters, double-shot frescante-orderers and the ones who wanted to tell you exactly what they thought of you, your drinks, your business, and your momma – while still being sweet and polite, of course.

What I learned at Coffee Shop #2: How to deal civilly with impossible people, and how to make a kick-ass frappuccino.

Coffee shop #3, New Haven, Connecticut. Smack in the middle of Yale – home to some of the world’s most brilliant minds – and home to hoards of spoiled, midnight coffee drinking freshman. I experienced more coffee shop cleaning than coffee making here. The walking scientific, historical, and literary geniuses who rushed in and out all day long could not figure out how to use a trash can. They could not pick their napkins up off the floor. They could not learn to pee in the right direction or flush the toilet. They left Kleenexes and empty cups scattered on tables and window ledges. I don’t care how smart you are, I do not want to touch your spit and snot. One morning I watched as a poor girl wandered in circles asking us where she was supposed to sit because the only empty table in the place had a used cup on it. My co-worker had to leave his post to go throw the cup into the garbage for her.

The talented and privileged individuals we served here also took their coffee a little too seriously. It scared me. It was a whole new kind of crazy. No debates sending people angry and running for the doors. No sly southern opinions shot through smiling lips. This shop catered to the kind of crazy that would have girls slamming coffee cups down on the counter, foam and espresso splattering our aprons and the walls, if we forgot to use vanilla soy. The kind of crazy that would send young men rushing back towards the counter shaking fists and demanding free refills for their Americanos if we were off by a few degrees in temperature.

What I learned from Coffee Shop #3: Many brilliant minds lack common sense, and often these minds are unable to function if they do not start their day with the perfect cup of java.

The art of coffee-making taught me more than just how to use sugar and caffeine to tame the beasts within people. While I often finished my days feeling a bit overwhelmed and cynical, I have since discovered the true importance of a barista’s job. Each person that enters a coffee shop, regardless of location or customer base, enters because of a need. In many cases, the need does go beyond getting a jolt of coffee. I learned not to take things personally, and watched as the tensions of the day would be relieved as customers would sip eagerly from the cup of coffee I had made just for them. I became a silent counselor, a shrink who responded to reflection and venting and exasperation with a quiet smile, an uttered “one shot or two?” and a grind of the beans. In supplying a fix for caffeinated addictions, and often taking on the responsibility of absorbing the frustration of uptight or concerned or just plain tired customers, I learned that we all sometimes just need a little coffee and a little love, even if it’s from someone we don’t know.

July 24, 2010

One thing I have learned the very hard way is that I probably should have gotten an internship in the writing/publishing field while I was still in college and had the excuse of "still learning." Most (every) job I have applied to here in NYC has a minimum requirement of 1, 2, 3, 10 years of "experience." I worked full time during school so never had the opportunity to intern, and now I am (dun dun dun) too INEXPERIENCED to be hired. So, due to these circumstances, I am now doing very different work. Very "unwriterly" work. I am a teacher. For two year olds. On the Upper West Side. (New Yorkers should know what that can mean...).

I love my kids. I love coloring. And I love free Cheezits every afternoon for snack.

I DO NOT love potty-training squirming, drooling toddlers who like to look at their business and then tell me excitedly just how similar it looks to the chocolate cupcakes we are about to eat for another child's birthday party.

Or having a child ask you a question and then sneezing into your mouth when you open it to answer them.

Or hugging a crying child and then watching their snot get wiped onto your sleeve and then begin to drip slowly down your arm.

Or having mothers get angry with you because you cannot remember the exact number of cheerios their child ate for a snack.

I ride the subway home every night, staring enviously at the "business" workers surrounding me. At 6pm they still look like they did that morning. Hair neat, each strand still in its place. Unwrinkled clothing. Makeup, not smeared. Heels!!

A few nights ago I was staring, astonished, at the person across from me. A crazy for sure. Then I realized it was my reflection. I had seven neon smiley face stickers on my shirt, a piece of yarn with multicolored pony beads tied around my neck, and I was striped up to my elbows in blue paint, with somebody's very small handprint on my thigh.

It is exhausting, chasing two and three year olds eight hours a day. And there are days I feel a little pissy. A little bitter. Very unwriter-like. In fact, 7 out of 7 nights a week I come home and do not feel like writing. Not even a sentence.

I began a project on my birthday this year to write one poem every day. I felt it was important to make myself put something down on a regular basis and to hopefully develop a productive habit with pages of beautiful, excellent poetry. But after a long day, that book of poems gets not much more than a glare. I think my last "poem" went something like this:

"Hot. Very hot.And tired. So tired. Can't think of anything to write."

Anyway...

The point of this rant? INTERN IF YOU CAN.

And I suppose I am slowly learning that it is the craziness and ordinariness of daily life that gives us those little bits of inspiration in the end. And it's also what makes getting lost in writing (when you do finally have the time) something so wonderful and worthwhile.

(Just so you don't get me wrong, I really, truly do love my children. And I am honored that these parents trust me enough to care for their children for so many of their waking hours...)

July 20, 2010

"Cut off as I am, it is inevitable that I
should sometimes feel like a shadow walking in
a shadowy world. When this happens I ask to be
taken to New York City. Always I return home weary
but I have the comforting certainty that mankind is
real and I myself am not a dream."

~Helen Keller

July 18, 2010

This guy is amazing…

I had the opportunity to see Anis Mojgani perform while I was going to school in Seattle, and I count it as one of the most inspiring moments of my entire education. He has the ability to spit words so full of passion and feeling you can’t help but be moved. I was thrilled when he came out with a book, Over the Anvil We Stretch. Thrilled, but also worried, because when I first started reading it I ran into a few problems. There were strange images, and more than a few lines that made me wonder what the hell he was trying to tell me. Maybe I’m not smart enough, creative enough, or patient enough. I’m not gonna lie, as much as I love poetry, I have very little patience with it. If a poem requires a week’s worth of lectures to understand, and people are writing 35 page papers about it, I probably would have to force myself just to get it down. I can appreciate well-thought-out poems. I can appreciate the genius behind word play and hidden ties between stanzas and current events. But if a poem does not grab my attention and does not make me feel something, make me want to change, make me ask questions, or at least fill me with some sense of wonder, I find it hard to believe it is worth my time. This was my fear with Anis’ book. However, it didn’t take long before those words of his did start to move me. He possesses the ability to spin words into something so beautiful, it makes me feel something whether I “get it” or not. And sometimes that is enough. I think that is really the point of poetry. Maybe we don’t always know exactly what we are “supposed” to feel, or what the poem is “supposed” to be about. But if it makes us feel something, enough to make us stop/consider/cry/wonder/smile, then I think the poet has succeeded. And I think that is a realization we have lost. I have sat through months of lectures on how to analyze poems to determine if they are good, and then sat through more months of others analyzing my own poems and telling me what I needed to do to make them good. But never once did I hear someone ask me or anyone else if any of these poems made us feel something. Feeling is really the only reason why I ever started reading poetry in the first place. And it’s really the only reason I ever decided to pick up the pen.

For My Professor Of Poetry

My words,

circled and crossed

with yours

over mine

in red pen

ink that bleeds

and spreads

and hides.

Not enough

specificity.

Too much

mystery,

perplexity.

Not enough

clarity.

What happened

to the purpose of

poetry

that existed

mentally,

in frightening whirlpools

of words

that rocked

society

emotionally

physically?

Did the lines that barely

breathed,

barely

made sense

scientifically

academically,

sacrifice themselves for an

artistically

graded,

career-minded

and jaded,

community

of cynics

bigots

liars

and fools

believing

that the biological details

of her form,

the syllabic collaboration

of their names,

should replace

the tangled shadows

of indescribable

humanity

divinity

eternity?

And so I sit

calmly,

patiently

waiting,

with my hands folded

in my lap,

and I look into your

eyes

crinkled with the years,

egotistically

measuring my

thoughts.

I retreat back,

and back,

and back again

into my mind of

secrecy,

abstract

distant

vague and

pure.

Freefall into

what cannot be explained,

only felt:

uncertainty,

absurdity,

true.

 

(Written during one of those special lectures…)

July 12, 2010

Where has the beauty gone?

The fantastic?

The magic?

Buried behind me

in the home I cannot find.

Have I been forgotten

in this hole

billowing with

driven stares

catering to evil?

Paying the price,

enslaved submission,

for their temporary satisfaction.

In an effort to survive

I try to believe

that maybe you

remember me.

. . .

love146.org



July 11, 2010

“Breathe in experience, breathe out poetry…” (Rukeyser)

New York City is covered in grey today, but the tourists are out in droves. It’s amazing how living in a city this alive and wonderful can still leave me so desperate for inspiration every week. Or perhaps it is just so full of striking moments and interesting people that it is more a problem of narrowing down the overload of sights I take in, trying to determine just what is worth writing about. It seems natural to search for the big events and eccentric characters. But I think I’ve begun to change my mind about what material really has potential to turn into something worthwhile. I’m starting to let go of these isolated “big moments," turning instead to the ordinary. It is the ordinary that should really drive my writing. The little moments in life that often go unnoticed, but that, if given a chance, can inspire over and over again. I think maybe because they are very real moments. Moments we all have, and can all relate to. A couple years ago a professor encouraged me to begin an “observation journal.” I try to carry it with me most days and when I am met with these moments, I write them down. This journal has served me well on those days when I feel left with nothing. Pages of tiny glimpses into daily life and small, beautiful instances. And it also helps me to remember to take the time to appreciate these experiences every day as I rush around, trying to keep up with this crazy NYC pace.

The view from my apartment