Midnight in New York City
neglects
starlight and
mutes all calm with
horns and sirens and the
pounding of hidden
trains forever running
on a fated track,
riding in eternal artificial darkness...
I wonder if they miss the
night sky, too.
Sunday
Wednesday
Sunday
August 22, 2010 (This one's for you, Mom)
I spent this past weekend discovering Christmas in unexpected places...
My friend and I found a shop on 7th Avenue devoted entirely to Christmas... YEAR-ROUND.
And Michaels has begun stocking its Christmas craft items:
jingle bells, wreaths, mini trees, rows and rows of red ribbon, deer (very gold and slightly disturbing deer, but still very Christmasy), and more sparkly things than even I would know what to do with...
It was exciting. And lovely. And while I have PROMISED myself not to pull out the tunes until October 1st, I'm pretty sure I heard an instrumental rendition of 'Silent Night' coming from my roommates' room the other evening and, I must admit, I let myself listen for a little while.
I am all for living in the moment and not wishing away these warm, lazy summer days, but there's just something about the beginnings of fall and colder weather, and knowing Christmas won't be far behind... I find sometimes I just can't help myself:
124 days.
Tuesday
Sunday
August 15, 2010
I met up with my brother and his friend this week for a day in NYC and a Grizzly Bear concert. We watched a mustached man swallow a sword, a man with a tattooed face managed to hand out a lot of flyers to my very kind brother, we experienced Shake Shack for the first time (wicked good burgers), and rode the elevators at the Marriott (don’t judge until you, too, have experienced those speeding bullets of tourist-filled terror). We also went to Pop-Tarts World. Yes, that’s right. Here are some of the bits of (real) conversation I heard inside…
“It smells like a fresh Pop-Tart!”
“Honey, get on line to order. You can get something all Pop-Tarty!” (This was not said sarcastically)
“Wow. They have like all the Pop-Tarts. You can get so many flavors here!” (I believe this is also called Wal-Mart)
“Oooh! They have sushi!”
I will never be the same.
Ty loved Pop-Tarts World. A lot. He ordered the sushi.
By mid-afternoon it was pouring rain, but that was not enough to deter us from our next goal. So, with the extra tiny umbrella we thankfully found lying unclaimed on the Marriott floor (Don’t worry, we did try to find the owner. It was us or the trash.), we honed our tracking skills to find this:
Supposedly it has some of the best (and strangest) ice cream in the country. I was still too full of Shake Shack, but the boys said the sea salt was delicious.
Finally, after a quick ferry ride to Governor’s Island, we were met with the horror of horrors: Gang Gang Dance. Sounded a little like Satan. On drugs. Or my 18 year old cat, Chardonnay, who is… no longer with us (like the audience, two songs in). GGD came fully armed with hisses and cries shrill enough to make you want to swim for Manhattan. And completing the band was a small man who stood on stage waving a garbage bag flag taped to a broom. Epic.
(I apologize to any GGD fans reading this… Maybe their recorded music is better than their live performance. Unfortunately, I may be too scarred to ever find out…)
Then came The Walkmen. Decent.
And finally, Grizzly Bear. I was familiar with some of their music, but not really a fan. Personally, I was completely traumatized after watching a few of their trippy music videos and was sort of nervous.
I am a fan now.
They were enchanting. One of the most beautiful concerts ever. If you can see them live, do. They are worth it.
“It smells like a fresh Pop-Tart!”
“Honey, get on line to order. You can get something all Pop-Tarty!” (This was not said sarcastically)
“Wow. They have like all the Pop-Tarts. You can get so many flavors here!” (I believe this is also called Wal-Mart)
“Oooh! They have sushi!”
I will never be the same.
Ty loved Pop-Tarts World. A lot. He ordered the sushi.Finally, after a quick ferry ride to Governor’s Island, we were met with the horror of horrors: Gang Gang Dance. Sounded a little like Satan. On drugs. Or my 18 year old cat, Chardonnay, who is… no longer with us (like the audience, two songs in). GGD came fully armed with hisses and cries shrill enough to make you want to swim for Manhattan. And completing the band was a small man who stood on stage waving a garbage bag flag taped to a broom. Epic.(I apologize to any GGD fans reading this… Maybe their recorded music is better than their live performance. Unfortunately, I may be too scarred to ever find out…)
Then came The Walkmen. Decent.
And finally, Grizzly Bear. I was familiar with some of their music, but not really a fan. Personally, I was completely traumatized after watching a few of their trippy music videos and was sort of nervous.
They were enchanting. One of the most beautiful concerts ever. If you can see them live, do. They are worth it.
Too enchanted to take many pictures, but doesn’t it just look magical?
Wednesday
August 11, 2010
I am slightly obsessed with POSTSECRET. I stay up til midnight every Saturday so that I can read the new batch of "Sunday Secrets" at postsecret.com. A couple years ago I was skimming through one of the books at a Barnes and Noble when something fell into my lap.
A secret.
It is one of the most exciting, honoring, surprising, and burdensome experiences to come into possession of one of these little slips of paper. I've developed the habit of always checking Postsecret books now when I'm in a bookstore. And when I do happen to see a thickness between the pages, or see a flutter of white fall to the floor, I can't help but brace myself for the secret I am about to read.
Many are sad. Some are disturbing or gross. A few are inspiring. The best ones to find are the ones you can relate to. The ones that make you realize you are not alone. That someone else has had similar experiences or feels just like you.
This was my most recent find:
A secret.
It is one of the most exciting, honoring, surprising, and burdensome experiences to come into possession of one of these little slips of paper. I've developed the habit of always checking Postsecret books now when I'm in a bookstore. And when I do happen to see a thickness between the pages, or see a flutter of white fall to the floor, I can't help but brace myself for the secret I am about to read.
Many are sad. Some are disturbing or gross. A few are inspiring. The best ones to find are the ones you can relate to. The ones that make you realize you are not alone. That someone else has had similar experiences or feels just like you.
This was my most recent find:
A good reminder, I think.
Sunday
August 8, 2010
When do I start to feel like a writer, for real?
Somehow jotting something down on paper every day, playing those “get rid of writer’s block” games, reading and reading and reading about writing… just doesn’t quite seem enough sometimes. What comes next?? It doesn’t seem enough to sit in my little apartment, at midnight, in a city supposedly full of opportunity, penning lame poetry (or blogging…) just to keep my hand warm. Is it even about more than that? Is it really about writing “real books” and getting published? Finding someone who wants to read these things? Or is it just about the experience? The expression and creativity and freedom? The way I feel when the words start to spill? Is that still enough for me?
Most days, I say YES. Yes, it is.
But then there are other days… Days of frustration, worry. Days of cramped hands that shudder at the sight of a pen. Those days I can’t help but wonder.
So much to think about.
So much to write, if the words would just come.
Somehow jotting something down on paper every day, playing those “get rid of writer’s block” games, reading and reading and reading about writing… just doesn’t quite seem enough sometimes. What comes next?? It doesn’t seem enough to sit in my little apartment, at midnight, in a city supposedly full of opportunity, penning lame poetry (or blogging…) just to keep my hand warm. Is it even about more than that? Is it really about writing “real books” and getting published? Finding someone who wants to read these things? Or is it just about the experience? The expression and creativity and freedom? The way I feel when the words start to spill? Is that still enough for me?
Most days, I say YES. Yes, it is.
But then there are other days… Days of frustration, worry. Days of cramped hands that shudder at the sight of a pen. Those days I can’t help but wonder.
So much to think about.
So much to write, if the words would just come.
Friday
August 6, 2010
In the process of building on to my wall of inspiration...
...and yes, that is HANSON you see.
Wednesday
Sunday
August 1, 2010
So I have been staring at my computer for two days now trying to think of something brilliant to share with the world. But, half a case of Dr. Pepper, half a novel (not my own), and the complete second season of Gilmore Girls and … I still have nothing.
This is one of the most frustrating things about writing, and one of the reasons it is so scary to begin the process of making it my life. Writing does not hold any guarantees. While you can (usually) make yourself write something, you cannot make yourself write something good. It is scary to have moments, or days, or weeks, months, YEARS of. . . nothing. And writing is such an agonizingly slow process. It takes so long to sit and think of what to write. Wait for inspiration. Extra long if research or observation is involved. Takes time to edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite, and on and on and on. And then to finally send this never-really-feel-like-it's-finished work on to someone and wait more months to hear if maybe they actually like it, actually want to read it, maybe want others to read it, too, enough to consider publishing it. So much time. So much work. And no guarantees.
It’s all so risky. Uncertain. Scary. Especially for someone who is not always very patient. And not always very good at taking risks.
But I write anyway. I Sit. Wait. Play a little solitaire. Grab another Dr. Pepper. Tap my pen. Sometimes for hours. And then write a little more. Because I love it. And I am crazy enough to believe that all this risk and all this “sharing pieces of myself” and all this patience is going to be worth it... Is worth it.
This is one of the most frustrating things about writing, and one of the reasons it is so scary to begin the process of making it my life. Writing does not hold any guarantees. While you can (usually) make yourself write something, you cannot make yourself write something good. It is scary to have moments, or days, or weeks, months, YEARS of. . . nothing. And writing is such an agonizingly slow process. It takes so long to sit and think of what to write. Wait for inspiration. Extra long if research or observation is involved. Takes time to edit, rewrite, edit, rewrite, and on and on and on. And then to finally send this never-really-feel-like-it's-finished work on to someone and wait more months to hear if maybe they actually like it, actually want to read it, maybe want others to read it, too, enough to consider publishing it. So much time. So much work. And no guarantees.
It’s all so risky. Uncertain. Scary. Especially for someone who is not always very patient. And not always very good at taking risks.
But I write anyway. I Sit. Wait. Play a little solitaire. Grab another Dr. Pepper. Tap my pen. Sometimes for hours. And then write a little more. Because I love it. And I am crazy enough to believe that all this risk and all this “sharing pieces of myself” and all this patience is going to be worth it... Is worth it.
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