Friday, June 29, 2007
No spill, no cry
Milk powder! In a straw!
Oh no. No. Yes?
Monday, June 18, 2007
Sad day.
Impermanence in mind, I found this, composed by the Sanskrit poet Kalidasa:
Listen to the Exhortation of the Dawn!
Look to this Day!
For it is Life, the very Life of Life.
In its brief course lie all the
Verities and Realities of your Existence.
The Bliss of Growth,
The Glory of Action,
The Splendor of Beauty;
For Yesterday is but a Dream,
And To-morrow is only a Vision;
But To-day well lived makes
Every Yesterday a Dream of Happiness,
And every Tomorrow a Vision of Hope.
Look well therefore to this Day!
Such is the Salutation of the Dawn!
Friday, June 15, 2007
Good hard back-slap to Pea for landing a job at breakneck speed. (His salary negotiating tactics were, I hear, remarkably effective.) In a few weeks, the man'll step into the role of city planner for DCP, where he will broker peace and stump for trees. (Oops.) Cheers! (That's a Black Russian, 'course.) NYC's safer/cleaner/prettier already.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
ID
Having just spent the last few minutes standing in front of the bathroom mirror, laughing over last night's damage while engaging the coworker-poet in ridiculous, one-sided conversation* as she went about her business (a ruthless move, joined as K and I are in contempt of any and all public restroom dialogue, be it inside or outside stall doors), I figured I'd blog about last night's trip to the salon. More like a cafeteria, really, albeit w/ a less palatable menu.
Astor Place Hairstylist, blue-collar response to the $200 foil. The name alone--generic, improper--strikes at the haughtiness of the Gene Juarez's and the Antonio Priesto's, the Paul Labrecque's of this ego-driven city. I'd been once before, lured by the prospect of a 14-buck lop.
I descended a single flight of stairs, the physical act of descending being all too familiar since April's relocation, and there I was: hair hell, though not in the negative sense. It's just that APH is in a basement, and the scene total mayhem. Besuited Wall Street types, NYU kids in gym shorts and hoodies, a razor-cheeked Eastern European model, a down-on-his-luck guy I'd seen panhandling outside just minutes before: all in wait of a revamp. Lordy. Shears and hairs were flying, languages overlapping (the salon claims to accommodate 12 different languages), and then there's the random tagging, signed celebrity pinups, pages pulled from Celebrity Hair Today, street signs, and band posters that mask most inches of wall. There are, I don't know, 70 cubes set up throughout, and while this number might suggest impersonality, the result is anything but. Stylists are assigned permanent stations, which they crowd w/ family portraits, professional certificates, glittery kid-art, darling collectibles... It's like hanging out in a scaled-down version of NY: blurred, but w/ room for distinction. (Aw, way to tie it together, cheeseball.)
Anyhow, after waiting a few short minutes, I was assigned to N, a woman who moved here six years ago from Venezuela. She's worked at the salon for as many years, and expressed an unflinching love of her job. Yet while her performance was economical, taking maybe 15 minutes from start to end, the outcome was, how shall I say... jagged, and not in that chic, purposely disheveled way. I'll be honest, I sortof saw it coming when, at the outset, she grabbed for the spray bottle in lieu of taking the standard washbasin-approach. ("Your hair's pretty clean already, right?") How 'bout this, N: We'll blame dull scissors. Next time, next time.
So what if my layers look axed rather than angled, my style hewn over honed? It was a fun time, and anyway, I found myself fixing more on the symbolic nature of haircuts, about the significance--and this is so where I'm at--of a) the physical descent, b) the intentional loss of hair (willful surrender of power), and c) the subsequent ascent/re-acclimation.
Or maybe this is simply a coping mechanism. Ha.
*I threatened to sing, actually, reminding K that upright toilets are, when you consider the alternatives, worth the praise. She wasn't havin' it.
Friday, June 08, 2007
Ribbons Undone
Dr. E-ho Mlle. (ahem, a nickname he embraced) entered my life in 2002, and we became friends from the inside out. I knew his heart (expansive, fearless) before I knew his afternoon snack habit (Twix, vanilla latte), which, oddly, felt like a natural progression. I confided in E w/ a directness reserved only for him, and he was always ready w/ wise words, a hug, and/or a wildly inappropriate sex joke. His blue eyes jumped and his skin, pearly like the moon, flushed easily, leaving his cheeks always pink. I've never seen a more alive looking person. Last Saturday E passed away, beat by a relentless disease that he fought for years. As Pea aptly put it, he is finally rid of the fucked-up body that held him trapped for so long.
In the wake of the break-up, E sent me an email that dissolves me every time I refer back to it. This is one part, and I know he wouldn't mind me sharing. You know those nights, when you're sleeping, and it's totally dark, and absolutely silent, and you don't dream, and there's only blackness? This is the reason: it's because on those nights you've gone away. On those nights, you're in someone else's dream; you're busy in my dream.
I love you, E. I won't ever lose what you gave.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Superman underwear
In the last several weeks--especially the last couple--I've had to accept that certain things are just not going to get done, and more importantly, that this is okay, maybe even good. Because while I do get frustrated w/ my inability to slip into machine-mode--home from work, eat cheese, check email, pick up apartment, sort something, wine run, cheese run, watch movie/read/write/wander--I'm realizing that almost nothing I do actually needs to get done. At least not in such an organized manner.
As I've been noting way too frequently here, the writing's weird these days. Not much going on in terms of the freelancing (RW chef story cut due to chef's sudden departure from restaurant, essays for Health and RW under endless consideration, no new mag story ideas to speak of), but I'm starting to come to terms w/ this, reason being, when I do get the rare urge to sit still and give a go, the picture's a little sharper: 'Uh, why are you saying it like that? You were there, you know it felt like this.' Okay, so it's a one-time observation, having occurred three days ago for like two hours. But I'm excited. I'm working toward assuming the best, waving off anything less as challenging but work-throughable.
Also cool is the impression that, when I operate w/ care, treading toward what I'm pretty convinced is progress, the payoff--increased acuity, and not just in my writing, but in the way I look at the insanity around me--builds. Or maybe it's just that I'm wearing brand new contacts today. It's like Nintendo, man. I'm finally paying enough attention to be able to pick up a few tricks,* and in the process, I'm racking up extra lives, or extra life.
Still on life, clicking through the covers, some very evocative quotes. I love the fullness of this (Clooney):
"The more time you spend with the people in the camps, who are holding on by a whisper and still believe that their lives will be better," he says, "the more you believe that anything is possible."
Of course, Bush is conspicuous in the lineup. I guess I wasn't aware of the extent of his contribution, hardly pennies. Too bad it isn't higher still, plausible were it not for certain otherwise-directed funds, an investment that has had a completely different impact on humanity. Bleh, ending on a negative. Sorry.
Oh wait, not negative: My lovely and amazing friend, A, though she may be a scientist by trade, makes pretty things for girls. Love.
*That eight-turtle stomp move was hard, and I'm proud to say I was the only neighborhood kid to land it w/ any consistency. Take that, Little Chris.