Friday, November 30, 2007
Ride
Well now.
Also, just discovered that a certain someone shares my stretch of the island. Like, real close. Gosh, maybe if I sing loud enough...
I do miss the singing. It's pretty quiet around here...
Honor
It felt like a privilege to sit in on last night's event, "Philip Levine 80th Birthday Tribute." Several of his fellow NYU faculty members/friends read favorite PL poems, adding their own personal remarks on the feisty old scribe. There was something from a former student (or was he a colleague?) of Levine's, and I do not quote: 'When you weren't sure of yourself, Philip was, and he convinced you.' Endorsement. There was another comment about how after reading a Levine poem (I was unfamiliar before last night), you go out and you look at the world differently. May sound generic, but isn't this the best/most that a writer can hope for?
Philip himself got up at the end and read a few poems (including the one below, which I can't read, and re-read, w/o shivering), and his personal remarks, bouncing between poignant (heartfelt thanks to all), crass (reference to a long-time favorite expression of his recently called into question by his students: "ratfuck"), and hilarious (addressing the featured writers/readers: "enough w/ the bullshit lines"; his encouragement of code words in relationships, one of his sweet wife's being "interesting" in response to some self-declared "piece of crap" poem), contributed even more weight.
The Simple Truth
I bought a dollar and a half's worth of small red potatoes,
took them home, boiled them in their jackets
and ate them for dinner with a little butter and salt.
Then I walked through the dried fields
on the edge of town. In middle June the light
hung on in the dark furrows at my feet,
and in the mountain oaks overhead the birds
were gathering for the night, the jays and mockers
squawking back and forth, the finches still darting
into the dusty light. The woman who sold me
the potatoes was from Poland; she was someone
out of my childhood in a pink spangled sweater and sunglasses
praising the perfection of all her fruits and vegetables
at the road-side stand and urging me to taste
even the pale, raw sweet corn trucked all the way,
she swore, from New Jersey. "Eat, eat" she said,
"Even if you don't I'll say you did."
Some things
you know all your life. They are so simple and true
they must be said without elegance, meter and rhyme,
they must be laid on the table beside the salt shaker,
the glass of water, the absence of light gathering
in the shadows of picture frames, they must be
naked and alone, they must stand for themselves.
My friend Henri and I arrived at this together in 1965
before I went away, before he began to kill himself,
and the two of us to betray our love. Can you taste
what I'm saying? It is onions or potatoes, a pinch
of simple salt, the wealth of melting butter, it is obvious,
it stays in the back of your throat like a truth
you never uttered because the time was always wrong,
it stays there for the rest of your life, unspoken,
made of that dirt we call earth, the metal we call salt,
in a form we have no words for, and you live on it.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
What I thought were full cookie boxes are actually empty. Not one Thin Mint in the house. (Huh?)
Cavebound in two days & counting. Oh yes w/ the counting. Never thought I'd so relish one such return, but here I am. Down w/ art on the ceiling! Down w/ grimy countertops! Down w/ waking up to strange men passed out on the couch! Yup, I'm pretty excited.
I've been kindof reticent lately, which is for the most part fine by me. It's meant I've caught up on movies I've long been meaning to see, tackled a tower of magazines (really enjoyed approx half the stories in here, including this one, though my number one isn't avail online), happily rediscovered a few blogs (here's one), and spent considerable time w/ my eyes closed, reward of which has been a series of challenging (in a good way) dreams... Speaking of, I woke up one morning over the long w/e suspiciously at ease. It's happened a few times before, most recently in Red Hook, and when it does, when I wake up feeling this (very) particular way, I'm left w/ the impression that, via some forgotten dream, I've managed to come to terms w/ an issue/problem that my waking self wasn't necessarily aware needed attention. Stunning. Also speaking of, my old mom's famous: http://www.mossdreams.com
I haven't been a total shut-in. I did go on an obnoxious date last night (bluh, dating), attended the debut of a fantastically hilarious East Village comedy show on Monday (did I really say, er, IM Carolyn, the words "arse" and "spot-on?" Oof), and look forward to this--this!--tonight, and this tomorrow. Oh, then there's my job. My job! It's got me. While my first two days found me a little tentative ("you're sure she won't hate me if I cut her comma/scrap her semicolon?"), I fast learned to buck up and act like an editor, damnit! I like it. It's fun. Besides, the neighborhood's a kick, w/ Bryant Park and The Almighty Library (must go) four blocks north, Empire State needling skyward four blocks south, pretty department store windows, my gym, my crack...
Random:
Gross.
Hee. Miss Appropriation...
Monday, November 26, 2007
Sateen Dura-Luxe
This a.m. on the train, I cracked this $1 book (35 cents at printing date) I picked up at a Housing Works free-for-all over the summer, not expecting the pages themselves to do just that--crack. But, worn to a crisp, they did. W/ each page turned, I'd forfeit triangles, and plenty of paper dust, to the floor. It occurred to me that I was losing art, that I would never again experience this copy of this book w/o missing words, phrases, paragraphs, which made me vaguely sad.
Thanksgiving '07
No pumpkin pie, but the chocolate ran debaucherously deep. 
Billy's first turkey, among other culinary successes. Sadly, my green bean casserole wasn't one of them. Wet like soup.
Monkeys. We feasted at the home of this guy whom Keith (B's beau) knows through trapezing. The dude behind the Chelsea Piers school installed the junglegym. 
Who needs a walk?
Weeeeeeeeeeeee.
Eat your heart ou... Sorry
Wild.
On a related note, best-ever candyheart messages: LET IT BE, MUCH ADO, MY WAY, GET REAL!, 2000 HUGS. Oh, Necco.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Bookends
After spending a long weekend w/ a friend two days from delivering new life, I helped an old man find his way home. I was on the train from JFK when I noticed him: small and creased, moving slowly down the aisle and pausing every few feet to ask, quietly and w/ a thick accent, the same question. "Is this Brooklyn?" It took a few times before I realized what he was saying, and several of the people he addressed were quick to dismiss him (another crazy old guy). A couple of us confirmed that, yes, he was in Brooklyn, which prompted his next words: "I need to get to Myrtle Avenue." He kept repeating this, and as we pulled into the station, this other woman and I told him we'd look at a map and figure out the best way to get him where we needed to go, to Myrtle and Broadway, turned out, which he seemed to indicate was home. Realizing it wasn't going to be an easy journey (requiring at least one transfer) for the man, who clearly struggled w/ some degree of dementia, we figured it made the most sense to get him in a cab.
I did my best to explain this to him, though I wasn't sure how much was reaching him. I tried to get some background info, and if I understood correctly, he lives w/ his daughter and her family at that Myrtle address. What he was doing out near JFK, I don't know. Ill-supervised, maybe he just wandered off, winding up at x location. Anyway, he did follow me up the stairs and outside, patient while I attempted to secure a cab at 6:00 on a Tuesday evening, from a location just beyond a nasty, high-volume intersection. Tricky. I'd see an available cab, but it was always a ways out. I'd go to chase it down, turning back to make sure the man was behind me (hardly running/darting, but somehow sorta managing to keep up), only to lose out in the end. The whole situation felt a little absurd: this elderly man hovering, lost, resigned to some stranger's frantic help... Anyhow, after several unsuccessful attempts, it dawned on me that a car service was the way to go. In no time I had a guy pulled over, and, explaining the situation to him, I could tell he was compassionate, nodding kindly as we gestured the man into the backseat.
The conclusion came as a surprise to me. Not expecting much by way of acknowledgement (no fault of his, of course, it's just that I didn't think he had the understanding), I waved goodbye. He raised his hand, smiled w/ wet eyes, and an acute awareness spread across his face. He was so clearly in the moment. And he said "thank you."
It's not about recognition, obviously, but connecting. Because that instant at the end of our evening together felt like life making sense.
Here, there
It's Christmas in Park Slope! Bust out the Brenda Lee!
Today. Brunch w/ the Du: new to the city, long in my life.
Goodbye, dear old job. (No, I did not leave Mort up there to fend for himself. He's from outerspace. He wouldn't know.)
Cupcakecoma
At N's request, I made vegan cupcakes. They were chocolate-orange cupcakes courtesy of some recipe I found arbitrarily online. The early consensus was, I'll paraphrase: boring. Yet it wasn't long before the crazy pregant lady was demanding 'em like she had two tummies to feed. Such gluttony.
Oh, to call these mine. But alas, they're Jilly's. 
W/ a spoon? 
Vanilla, chocolate buttercream. Big.
Back home. Not for air travel.
St. Louis, November '07, pre-baby K
A street, somewhere in St. Louis.
Noe's & Dave's home sweet home, which is a few houses down from D's own childhood playpen.
D, right where he belongs. Back in the days of yesteryear, David & I would spend long Friday evenings in the kitchen w/ the Breitenfelds, back when they were still Chamberlain & Breitenfeld. Oh, the feasts we'd roll out. Salmon a day out of the Columbia, calamari paired w/ N's magic aoli, Chinese long beans in oyster sauce... N & D would generally call the evening's menu, w/ David & I contributing critical condiments, jokes, maybe a sidedish chock-full of (compensatory) love... One year I did manage to best D in an Iron Chef-inspired salmon bake-off. I'm not sure the win was ever formally recognized, considering our judges each held a certain bias, but I've always known.
Anyway, this time around it was paella one night and smoked pork ribs the other. Illegal. 
I just--just--missed little Kehaumailani's debut. She came two days after I left... 
Belly. 
Such original composition. Thank you.
N took me for a satisfying drive through town one afternoon. Among the neighborhoods I remember, we swung through Downtown, Lafayette Square, Soulard, "The Loop"... I sortof fell in love w/ Soulard, which is all brick & cobblestone (not that all of St. Louis isn't brick). Like other city neighborhoods of its kind/look, it's in the process of gentrifying, and soon enough all the usual bars and coffee shops, the tattoo parlors and doggie boutiques, will take up residence. Oh, following a recent re-design/build, the area hosts the most physically appealing public housing I've seen. Lafayette's all charm, too, w/ its Frenchie apartment buildings and sweet corner parks, and "The Loop" (can't remember the actual name) is their University District--record stores, music venues, vintage shops... We drove through Forest Park, admiring colors every bit as impressive as those I experienced in New England. I dangled out the window as we passed the ribbon-y Gateway Arch, and held my breath as we approached the Mississippi. (My first time!) Of course, it was just as Noe said it'd be: brown. Not sure what I expected from this city of clay... 
I went running along this trail, at one time a stretch of the Missouri Pacific rail line, each morning. Eight miles of blacktop, affording views of... trees. Grass. Horses. Ulysses S. Grant's old farm. It was quiet. It was nice.
The cemetery I passed through en route to the trail. Lots of Irish. (Big immigration wave from Ireland during the potato famine.)
Gateway to the West.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Day off
Tomorrow: Day 1 as a Scout.
In an attempt to channel my inner redhead, this morning's all about Anne Shirley. Feisty!
Josie: You wore that sweet old dress to Fanny Emerson’s wedding last year though, didn’t you Anne? You know what they say, twice a bridesmaid, never a bride.
Anne: That’s three times a bridesmaid, not twice, Josie. But then, you’re so fortunate: The only thing you’ve had to wear twice is a sour expression.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Oh, life
I'm sure if I scrolled back through the years (years!), I'd find a near-identical post, but shit, I love my friends & family. Sometimes it's near-impossible to believe my good fortune.
Minutes ago, my grandmother had me crying--crying! Sheer hilarity. I don't know, since I left Seattle, the woman's adopted this uncanny comedic persona. And it's very intentional.
Sentimental mush!
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Malcolm Gladwell on the Kenyan running/genetics debate: http://gladwell.typepad.com/gladwellcom/2007/11/kenyan-runners.html
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Witch of November
Friday, November 09, 2007
Got my Magnetic Fields tickets! Eeeeeeee!
Aw man, there're several things I'll miss about my current job, but tippy-top on this list are my people. My boss, fantastic; same holds true for the poet, w/ whom I share a special understanding. For one, we love reciting our favorite words over and over and over, often to the tune of some obnoxious song (okay, more me). And pronounciation is key, especially when it comes to a word we're equally fanatical about, which is... bauble. Sadly I never mastered this one; seems that K and K alone can get it juuust right. Smack in between 'bah' and 'bow,' w/ inordinate emphasis on this first syllable. Also, I've taken to singing to her in general, w/ a certain fondness for Jefferson Starship's "Sara"--but w/ K's name as substitution. I do this one every day.
Upon learning of my departure, K has vowed not to utter a word in the presence of my replacement, lest she/he take it as a sign of acceptance/friendship. And while I wish I could call this an endorsement, really it's her guarding against the unleashing of another me. If only she'd never encouraged me to begin w/, she's often mourned.
Whatever. I told her I'd include my signature vocabulary words/songs in the training manual I'm putting together for the new person, convinced as I am she'll miss me.
Thursday, November 08, 2007
Miscue
I just had one of these, which is sortof an all-time low for me, candy selection-wise. I don't know, I guess I figured luck was on my side after I spotted a ladybug skimming the nylon of my train neighbor's coat this morning. I kept a close eye on him, because I know how people are.
Labels: dumb luck bugs "candy that explodes"
Tracks
Arr. I still need to caption my trip photos. One of these days... Suffice it to say, I strayed off course, and not necessarily by choice, but in the end it was all pretty favorable. The train chugged past trees of blinding orange (though there were fewer breaks in the green than I'd anticipated, what w/ the time of year and all), w/ the Hudson alternately bulging and narrowing just beyond. For the most part--and I had hours and hours to work w/--I rotated between daydreams, books, and laptop movies. The two towns I explored en route to CA (Poughkeepsie, Hudson) were subtle, poised, and in retrospect, losing a day in Montreal (and my single day in Westport) was perhaps for the best. I can always go back there on cheap airfare, anyway.
On the homefront, here's a photo of my cell*:
And the lovely wood ornament I mentioned:
It's finally cold here, and it was satisfying to, this a.m., pull on the ol' running tights for the first time this season. I'm training for a yet-unnamed half marathon, probably toward the end of December, which I decided was a safer bet than launching a full marathon training program right after my first post-injury half (took place in Queens in August, went so-so; I lost precious time to a very necessary potty break at mile 6, and sortof lost my momentum following. Pretty enough route, though.) Getting a kick out of running through Prospect Park these days, and am thinking I'll finally join up w/ some fellow PS runners for Saturday morning loops.
Running... The other day, the day after the marathon, I think it was, this guy was telling me about his superfast friend who'd come in like 85th place or something. It went roughly like this: "She's this really hardcore runner type, she runs all these crazy races... Yet the violin is her real passion, and it's hard for me to see her lose so much time to running, you know? I mean, don't get me wrong, running's certainly admirable, but it's not her number one. I feel like she uses running as a distraction, like she's afraid to pursue her real love so she uses running as backup. Again, I think runners are amazing, but... music. Music's different, you know?"
No, I don't. First off, this guy was weirdly in this woman's head, implausibly in her head. I imagine that if he were to sit down w/ her and let her tell her own story, he'd hear a thing or two to surprise him. I don't know, I think running's rarely about running--at least not the training segment of it. Not that I don't consider the collaboration of muscle and mind an art (I do! it is!), but the purely mental aspect of running... this is where everything opens up. Ask any runner why they do it, and they'll so often implicate their craft (even if it's just general idea-generating), even if it's to say that they run to achieve a helpful bit of distance from a project. In the time I've spent researching the topic for stories, it's easily the most predictable part of the interview. Besides, independent of one's art/ideas, running fosters all the obvious virtues--endurance, confidence, humility--that enable success in general (art, life, other).
And I don't know, if the experience of music (performing, observing) is about connecting w/ oneself, w/ humanity, w/ something beyond, well, I think that's running, too. Someone get that guy some Sauconys.
It makes me think of the other night, when I heard Dr. Oliver Sacks speak and read from his new book at B&N. Wowie. He's supremely articulate. From my obstructed vantage point and toward the beginning of his presentation, I was convinced he was straight-reading from his work--it was just so clean. When he spoke of his patients, and of people he's corresponded w/ over the years, he did so w/ care and sensitivity, but w/ humor, too--for instance, in tackling some of the absurd behaviors linked to certain neurological conditions.
Some personal highlights: At one point Sacks mentioned Emerson (battled Alzheimer's late in life) as encouraging people to develop an artistic skill, so that if/when all else was eventually lost, they'd still have something left. (As Sacks explained, the cerebellum and basal ganglia, deeply involved in artistic process, are left almost completely unscathed in the case of many neurological diseases.) He quoted Emerson as once saying, "I have lost my mental faculties but am perfectly well." Beauty. Later, the doc explained that although so many different brain structures are involved in music appreciation, it takes the tiniest deficiency in one to send everything haywire. He mentioned a woman (patient of his?) who, up until the age of 70, dragged herself to concert after concert (her husband being a musician), even though she described (to Sacks) the act of listening to music, any music, like "violently throwing all the pots and pans on the kitchen floor." Whoa. When Sacks "gave her permission" to stop attending, she said she only wished she'd heard the words sooner. Like 30 years sooner.
So many different ways to experience, even when one's neurological health is steady, it's amazing we seem to know what each other's talking about as often as we do.
*New plan: Bid permanent adieu to homebase sometime early '08. Still, I've been half-plotting a new book idea, one involving habitual subletting in the city (since the beginning, I've diligently documented my experiences, and not just in this blog), which would probably demand a few more rounds... Hmm.
Wednesday, November 07, 2007
Doin' time
Speaking of the cave, I'm currently not in it. Not this month. Subletcity, once again.
Sadly, this time around, all's not so rosy. Not only am I not in Red Hook (that potential one didn't work out--bad timing), I'm in another cave--er, semi-cave, or what feels like one. It's a South Slope (yep, all of three blocks from the old place) loft unit w/, I think, four bedrooms (roomies are all RISD grads--I think there's a sous chef in there--w/ a rotating cast of characters who turn up asleep on the couch most mornings). Apparently mine's the only windowed room, but the outside world is mostly obscured courtesy of a large piece of plywood that rests on the other side of the glass. This w/e I'll determine whether something can be done about this (uh, get lost?), but it looks almost like an extension of the building, which I know is illogical, but... Anyway, of course I didn't notice this important detail when first checking out the room weeks ago (it was dark out and I lacked the enthusiasm to thoroughly examine), which is sucky. Man, complain! But really, I'm settling considerably, and had I known this particular prison cell (cold, minimal square footage w/ an endlessly high ceiling) would in the end be my only option (I found a taker for my own digs before locating a second-home myself--typically not at all a problem, as I've had countless craigslist successes), I would've waited till December or January for my next escape. Bah. Whine. The good news: I'm real fond of this section of the neighborhood (strange impression: walking to the train in the a.m., feels like I'm redoing late '06/early '07, trying out an alternate path under totally different life circumstances, rather than picking up where I left off or feeling conscious of the time lapse), and have tracked down my go-to grocer (no more Met--not ever!), a passable pizza joint, a few trusty Italian bakeries, the best (cheap!) sushi my tummy has known in a good while, and I've been reacquainted w/ a decent coffee shop/Internet cafe (honestly, I've spent more time here than I have in jail)... Besides, most of my Park Slope sidekicks are down this way rather than further north, so all's not hell.
And it's only a month. And I'm saving money.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
2007 New York City Marathon
Ack, busy. Wrapping up loose ends here at work, because... I got a new job! As of Nov. 20, I'll be a real live editor/writer for these guy--er, girls. Quite exciting for me, considering the main reason I moved east in the first place was to take on full-time work as an editor (and/or writer). One cool thing (among many) is that the hours are flex-y. I can work 9 to 5 or 8 to 4... I think I'll try out the earlier range to start, as I love the idea of 'home by 5'... Of course, this'll mean a pretty distasteful rise-time if I wanna get my runs in beforehand, but we'll see. Also cool is the location: an express train stop closer to home and real close to Bryant Park and that fabulous liberry. Whoop!
Back to running: As ya'll know, last w/e meant Marathon Sunday, and the trials the day before. I watched the marathon from right outside/inside this great Park Slope bar, which is a few short blocks from the cave and about 7 1/2 miles into the race. Croissants, coffee, bigscreen TV, good company... An ideal setup.
Amazing.
This runner clearly coulda used one of Petey's famous high-fives. But alas, my cushy son was nowhere in sight. (Sorry Petez. I promise to take it up w/ that other parent of yours, ensuring the same gruesome fate--locked in the apartment!--doesn't befall you next year...)
The littery aftermath. What slobs. ;)
Outside Sheep Station.
Inside Sheep Station: prime end-of-race viewing. The women were especially thrilling to watch, w/ Radcliffe (GBR) and Wami (ETH) running as if attached by a string (so consistently close) up until the very end, when Wami surged ahead (or alongside) of Radcliffe only to inspire a counter surge that put Radcliffe back in the lead for good.
Such a sweet scene at the finish line, w/ an elated Radcliffe hugging her baby (born in January!) and husband... 
Bar's owner, a runner himself, wielding weaponry. 
Watching warm.
Day before: Olympic Trials in Central Park.
That sign repeatedly came at me. Frightening.
Five miles to go, a frontrunner.
Saturday, November 03, 2007
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pheidippides
Eeeee! Watched the Olympic trials in Central Park this a.m., and what a sight to behold. The course included five loops around, and I caught the final two. W/ five miles to go, Ryan Hall (at left, pictured as 2007 U.S. Half Marathon champ) was decisively in the lead (by like a minute), a distance he held through the end. The crowd was thick from where I stood, and support was deafening. When Hall strode by that last time, the clear victor, he was all smiles and sweeping waves. As an onlooker, it was impossible not to follow suit. What a stunner. And a damn encouraging performance, heading into Bejing...
As I just learned, the morning was marked by a very sad event as well, w/ the death of 28-year-old Ryan Shay. Heart goes out.
Friday, November 02, 2007
Burn
As if Sunday weren't enough, tomorrow promises even more squeals: http://www.nyrr.org/races/pro/mens_trials/spectator_guide.asp. I'll be there, and I'll use the resulting high as fuel for my own run immediately following. Might be time to revisit my coveted GW Bridge...
Also on the trials, this page: http://www.nyrr.org/races/pro/mens_trials/glory/week_7/friday.asp. Some poignant words on running, including these ones:
The marathon is the insidious withering of the will as the body cannibalizes itself over time in an exchange of fitness for distance, until finally it reaches the point where each step is a victory. For athletes of the highest caliber, fitness is like a candle: It has to burn brightly, but not too quickly. The marathon is a long burn, and it's the rate that becomes key. Whose rhythm best matches race pace? Whose energy is being utilized most efficiently? That's what we mean by, "Whose day is it?" ... The marathon is a cruel game, as the miles rob you of your wits just when they are most required, when muscles revolt and the brain seeks oxygen now shunted to pistoning legs. These are the moments that challenge and inspire as the battle rages. ... There is purity in this process that transcends a world wed more than ever to fields of secular yields. The marathon is a contest unencumbered by modern contrivance. It won’t be determined by luck, a turn of the ball, or a referee's arbitrary call. Rather, it will be settled by trial in the crucible of all systems coming under fire. It has been this way since the beginning, since gravity's design of leg, lung, and limb. And though training methods have been refined and equipment and surfaces have improved, the outcome remains determined by men carrying no more than what they first brought into this world, whips of sinew and cudgels of bone.
Thursday, November 01, 2007
A day late, but...
xo
On your mark...
Below is my latest RW credit. Below that is a neat running essay--one of my fav RW columns--that's also in the current issue. Novel, provocative, awesome.
Speaking of running, NYC marathon this w/e! I literally cannot wait. Can not! I'm already so excited thinking about first laying eyes on that front pack of elites, then the nutty costumes, my fellow Park Slopers' very vocal support for the event... Running in/around PS last w/e, I caught a couple of comments from shop owners, things like, "you ready to run next w/e?" Bleh, damnit. Next year, next year...
I do plan to run religiously along Fourth Avenue these next few days (beginning tonight), which is always kindof a thrill, given the banners/signs already hung and ready to be run beneath by the masses. For one last year, I'll pretend.
x