the new year, stranglers, etc.

Since the Kensington Strangler started exhibiting his knack for murdering young girls a few weeks ago, my mother has consistently reminded me to watch out for him. As if leaving the apartment to commune with other humans wasn’t difficult enough, now I fight a vague but nagging awareness that the ghoulish character and I are like two points on a map of Philadelphia, fluctuating in relative distance but always fairly close to one another.

The hesitation I feel about going out alone--even to meet up with people--is best categorized as inertia. Generally I’m the type that enjoys staying in. But it’s a bit tough even when I want to venture outside.

I’m writing this on a train, en route to a dinner with two friends. It took way more coaxing than it should’ve to get out the door.
---------

The above is from a few nights ago. I had to quit writing because the train approached my stop, and the moment to finish the thought is now passed. But I was going to say something about my unexpected exhilaration at traveling alone through the guts of this city and how I'm going to live my life more. Together with the recent move and a chance to relax at last, everything added up to optimism. I felt anchored in myself and this place.

And now it's New Year's Eve, the cliche juncture to make claims like this, but. I think it's gonna be a good year.

If you're reading this: happy new year, y'all! Raise your glasses (and/or the corners of your lips) to new beginnings. Let's make it good.

Love,
J

The world is a weird place

Exhibit A: Koran written in Saddam's blood

Exhibit B: King Henry IV's preserved head

Discovered at work, Jan Toorop's "The Three Brides":

No two ways around it

Walking home from work just now I saw three identical blond sorority girls dressed as...Mexicans? Woven ponchos, giant sombreros, false mustaches. They were hanging out on the sidewalk in front of their house. A guy they knew approached and they all yelled "ARRIBA ARRIBA, UNDELAY," etc. at him.

Uh, what?

writing in the moment exercises

I'm pretty pleased with the way these came out:

1. I enjoy the way the bristles of the electronic brush shudder against my teeth and the loud buzzing of the advanced craft currently mapping out my molars. Despite my unfounded conviction that a toothbrush with batteries is more powerful than the old-fashioned model, out of habit I press much harder than I need to. I don’t floss. It’s one of my most shameful secrets. Although I know it’s probably bullshit, I tell myself that if I brush with conviction I’ll fool even the most astute dentist. I pay particular attention to the teeth cowering in the pockets of my cheeks—those fools, always thinking they’ll escape notice! As I merrily bring the brush around to the front, I ponder the thinness of the teeth I present to society when compared with those burly bastards on the sides that do all the work. There’s gotta be a metaphor there, I pontificate, something about the proletariat. I snort with laughter, which prompts Lena to shout, “What’s funny?” She’s in the kitchen, doesn’t know I’m occupied. Annoyed at having to explain myself in the midst of this—the most intimate of all possible moments—I exact meaningless revenge. I yell a response in swampy-mouthed near-gibberish:

“NOSHING IS REARY FURNIE, BRURSHING MAH TEESH.”

I turn the tap on. Before cupping cold water in my hands I do a quick mirror check to see how much toothpaste is escaping my mouth. An old boyfriend and I used to brush our teeth together, and he was always disgusted when a few drops of blue dribbled down my lips. After hearing from him again and again that I was using too much paste, that I was brushing all wrong, it’s something I’m self-conscious about—even when alone. Tonight there’s only one drop, which is excusable. I wipe it off and stare into the mirror for a moment. Rinse, and spit.


2. Today—as on many previous days and many sure to come—I am convinced that I have found the perfect two songs for editing a manuscript to. The first is Lady Gaga’s “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich,” and the second is the Ramones’ “The KKK Took My Baby Away.” I’m listening to them on repeat and editing the longest project that’s ever been given me. The work is tedium in itself. If the work were a guy that you met on the street, he would be the stereotype of an accountant personified—a dull, unwrinkled charcoal shirt, plain black slacks and glasses. The kind that speaks when spoken to and can only talk about taxes. That’s the kind of boring work this is.

Before I started listening to music at my desk I was miserable. With a rhythm behind the hundreds of pages I scroll through—changing chapter numbers, deleting tab stops, formatting headings—eventually time ceases to exist and I attain an almost Zen thoughtlessness where it’s just me and the text, me and the text.

I encounter an obnoxious phrase. He’s staying capitalized for no discernible reason. We dance. I’m wearing out my repertoire trying to seduce him, but nothing short of deleting and retyping seems to work. I’m a lost cause now. I whisper, “aw c’mooooooooon,” no longer aware of the coworkers who can hear me.

The editor-in-chief comes over. I’m blasting Lady Gaga and don’t hear him; my high heels, possessed, are doing a strange little shuffly-dance under my desk. He doesn’t knock. Instead he just says my name as loudly as he can. “GAH!” I yell, hitting turbulence on the runway back to reality. “I—I’m sorry.” I remove my headphones.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Frank says. All this is standard procedure. He hands me a set of contract requests and departs again.

--Julia Aaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr!

random things going on

1. I booked my own hotel room for the first time ever today, for my first business trip ever, in two months. My business cards should be here on Friday. I'm getting proportionally more legit by the nanosecond, it is ca-raaaaazy.

2. Opened up an ESCROW account and deposited next month's rent into it. This is one war our landlords will not win, by cracky. ("By cracky" is a phrase my dad uses all the time. I am not sure how to spell it).

3. Started my second Kenzaburo Oe novel for fiction. It promises to be as good if not better than A Personal Matter.

4. Looks like I'm finally gonna finish up this monster of a manuscript that's been weighing heavily on my mind (and desk) for way too long.

5. Considered taking the Foreign Service Exam.

6. Bummed a cigarette from a dude on the street whose build and polite manner immediately reminded me of James somehow, even all these years later. He was really, really happy to give me one, said something like, "Oh, of course!"

7. A few minutes later, when I refused a flier from a Penn student, he jokingly got offended and kept yelling, "That's IT?! 'NO THANK YOU?!' That's aaaaaalllll?" until I said, "yep, that's it" and walked away. Strange interaction.

8. Becks confirmed for Halloween! NYC it is. I'll be dressed as Carmen San Diego, and hijinx shall ensue.

9. The new Assistant to the Director is a friend of a friend who strikes me as pretty down-to-earth and personable.

10. END OF THE DAY RAMONES DANCE PARTY BLITZ.

11. An author told me, "your patience is legendary." My tolerance for his shenanigans certainly is.

12. Tomorrow is International Haircut Day (for me).

This makes me really, really happy.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1318516/Johnny-Depps-surprise-visit-London-primary-school-Captain-Jack-Sparrow.html

Detritus

I just saw a dog and thought, "if that was my dog, his name would be Scruffy Watkins."

Listening to mixes made for you by friends is one of the next most heartwarming things to having those friends around you.

Philadelphia,
maneto,
land of squirrels as big as cats!

Supplies for the Ultimate Sunday Brunch (rough list)

Bacon, cayenne pepper, honey, whiskey, eggs, cheddar and manchego cheeses, hot sauce, cheap champagne, orange juice, coffee.

Oh fuck yes. It's gonna be a good weekend.

Another subject: is it possible to overdose on David Bowie?

The answer is no you dope, of course it isn't.

Here's what you missed.

Good red wine, "Riders on the Storm," salad-making. Sometimes that's just the way it goes.

gorgeous

photographs

To spell it out just once

I have no desire to be on the "cutting edge" of anything.

I wish only to filter through the deluge of every day and arrange a concrete structure, an understanding.

That's basically all there is to it.

Today

I cut my bangs last night and supposedly this makes me look younger. I am walkin' around the office today in a black dress and heels, and I'm listening to the Broken Flowers soundtrack, which has stuff on it like this:

Greenhornes, "There is an End"

Mulatu Astatqe, "Yekermo Sue"

Russian stuff is on my mind, and I've been secreting the occasional cigarette out of the Press in my bra.

The combination makes me feel a bit like a femme fatale. It's a good time.

Throwback

When I was born the hospital staff thought evolution had tripped back a few steps. My mother cried out of joy, but the doctors and nurses whispered about my huge hands and feet, my prematurely furrowed brow.

When I was six the dentist told my parents I needed braces. "She's a characteristic mouth breather," he began to scribble a note on his yellow pad, "I'd recommend you make an appointment with an orthodontist."

"How can you tell something like that this early?" my mother snapped. Dr. Lee stopped writing. Dad took my hand and we all left the office; I got braces seven years later.

The first one that's happened in awhile

What is there to make of the days?
Monday sparrows quaver in puddles.
Tuesday the bulb on the porch gives out.
Wednesday humidity,
Wednesday the stained glass window,
a man cursing on the street.
Thursday smooths the week over;
thunder trips across the sky.
Friday unexpected music burns the intestines of city streets.
Saturday is cold air.

Wow.

It's amazing what a difference biking to work makes. I hadn't biked at all this week due to equal parts rain, humidity, and laziness, but this morning's weather was overcast with just a tinge of a chill in the air. It was perfect. I feel more energized and in-the-moment now than I have in at least a few days, and I'm going swimming after work today. Woohoo!

Had a mango for breakfast. Heaven. Now half my keyboard is sticky with mango juice, and I've got fruit stuck between my teeth. So worth it. Really, it's bliss.

This week is finally turning itself around. Maybe I shouldn't talk about it too much.

Maybe the key to this whole thing is just

There are storm clouds gathering around Philadelphia, and on days like this it feels as though the city is wrapping its fingers around my throat.

Harvey Pekar died on Monday.

I bummed a cigarette from a stranger while walking around looking for lunch just now. It was a menthol. It killed me. Serves me right.

My body doesn't react to tobacco all that well. Cigarettes are supposed to be uppers--nicotine is supposed to give you a temporary jolt. That hasn't happened to me in some time if it ever did. When I smoke a cigarette, my brain just shuts off. It feels like my ears are stuffed with gauze, I can feel my eyes glaze over. When I smoke regularly, throughout the day, I feel like I'm sleepwalking a little bit.

There are advantages. It's nevertheless stress relief, and it gives me an excuse to get out of the office for a minute or two and have some me time. It's the only stress relief I have at the moment. Which is probably why I do it.

But it's not worth it. The feeling that I'm walking around sleeping all the time. The sense that if only I could wake up, I could clear my head. My thoughts are jumbled. I'm not really present in my own life.

Which is also probably why I do it.

I've been here for almost a year, and things still aren't satisfactory. Often the fact that I now have a tentative plan for the next few years sketched out in my head isn't compensation enough for the present.

I'm beginning to meet people. Slowly. I'm making an effort to go out and be pleasant. But I'm growing increasingly convinced that my criterion for a meaningful friendship is pretty skewed. I can't rely on my sense of who to rely on. I'm still largely alone.

Occasionally, despite myself, I mess something up at work. Then I beat myself up about it all day.

Don't feel like writing anymore.

Strays, First Edition: A Thought Once Uttered Is Untrue

1. She dreamt, a room. A puzzle. Hovered above concrete gray air heavy as a swamp. There were gossamer tentacles of string and she gathered them into a bunch. She pulled. The room fell together.

2. No time to think for walking.

3. The world was ending, I thought. Outside the tulips stood too still. Inside there were three of us: the woman in the yellow dress who was still silent,the old woman with a face like a dumpling, and me.

4. I want to map you out.

5. The orange of streetlamps bursting in the held breath of the fog and the heartbeats of ceiling fans on the top floors of distant buildings.

I will never understand, but I love 'em

sushi sushi sushi bar

yellow banana

um

...and when played in the correct order, they will squeak "the bells of St. Mary."

mice

Something is askew in the universe today, and this is one of my all-time favorite poems

The Emperor of Ice Cream

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month's newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

Take from the dresser of deal,
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.

--Wallace Stevens

Brussels in Winter

Wandering through cold streets tangled like old string,
Coming on fountains rigid in the frost,
Its formula escapes you; it has lost
The certainty that constitutes a thing.

Only the old, the hungry and the humbled
Keep at this temperature a sense of place,
And in their misery are all assembled;
The winter holds them like an Opera-House.

Ridges of rich apartments loom to-night
Where isolated windows glow like farms,
A phrase goes packed with meaning like a van,

A look contains the history of man,
And fifty francs will earn a stranger right
To take the shuddering city in his arms.

--W.H. Auden

recent additions to my photo stash

I'm really entertained by

the way that pigeons walk. There's a mechanism that connects their legs to their jelly necks, so if they try to walk faster they have to bob their heads frantically.

"The pigeon mechanism."

If I have a chance today, maybe I'll draw what a pigeon's insides must look like.

YES

In which I splurge on the perfect pair of boots.

black classic

Today's entry on the list of things I don't want:

A tonsillectomy.

1. Be resolute.

2. Write resolutions first thing in the morning.
3. Spend the day fixing up my room, sorting out my frame of mind.
4 (see 1). Keep 'em, these promises.

Surefire pick-me-ups

THIS KID

bouncy bouncy

We're supposedly getting a thunderstorm with hail tonight? Insane.

yesterday evening

There's a man I've never seen before on the neighbor's porch. He's drinking a beer, reading long sections of the bible about god's punishment into a cell phone. His voice is preachy but muted, and I can't tell if his heart's in the recitation. I wonder who he's talking to--he pauses every minute or so before going on, human sin, flame and more flame. It's deathly hot outside. I'm trying my best not to listen.

I light up a second cigarette, open Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog hoping for a little perspective. Here's what I get:

"To Wash

At the end of his life, a poet thinks: I have plunged into so many of the obsessions and stupid ideas of my epoch! It would be necessary to put me in a bathtub and scrub me till all that dirt was washed away. And yet only because of that dirt could I be a poet of the twentieth century, and perhaps the Good Lord wanted it, so that I was of use to Him."

This is somehow a little comforting. Still there are nights when the world is big and empty, and you're hopelessly tangled up in it.

average tuesday

I walked 14 blocks to work this morning in high heels. My feet are bleeding. I am a smart girl.

Last night: revelry with the neighbors and their buddy Mark on the front porch until 12:30 or so. Then, per my M.O., couldn't sleep for awhile. At 3 AMish two really obnoxious birds decided to carry on a conversation.

Squeaky Bird 1 (right next to my window): HELLO. WHO ARE YOU. ARE YOU THERE.
Squeaky Bird 2 (a few feet away, with slight accent): HELLO WHO ARE YOU. ARE YOU THERE? DID YOU JUST SAY SOMETHING.
(dialogue repeats ad nauseum, pro infinitum, etc.)

At some point my subconscious admitted the rhythm of the bird-jerks, and I drifted serenely off to sleep. My intention was to sleep in until 8:30, skip a shower, and dash to work.

But it wasn't meant to be. At 7:30 AM, the roofers for the neighbors' place started hitting rocks with other rocks, and telling some story that involved screaming "fuuu-uuu-uuuuck!" over and over. When they started blasting Rod Stewart's "Do Ya Think I'm Sexy" (JUST OUTSIDE MY WINDOW), I gave up. Laughed it off, tipped my hat to the sandman, and had breakfast with Rachel at Satellite.

I should mention that Mark is considerably older than I am. At some point last night, while Tracy was inside and Rach and Alex were hiking, I ended up hanging out with him on the porch. We somehow got on the topic of self-help programs, and he told me he's done EST and Tony Robbins and a few other ones I've heard about. In particular, we ended up on a tangent about the Tony Robbins "walking on hot coals" deal. My basic point was that while the metaphor is a powerful one, and I wasn't denying its potency, there are a number of scientific reasons why it's really not that dangerous (one being that the bottoms of your feet are one of the toughest parts of your body, and can withstand a whole lot). I also stated that one problem I have with programs like Tony Robbins is that people go to them and perform these symbolic rites and claim that their lives have been changed forever, but sometimes they have serious issues to address--alcoholism, drug addiction, etc.--and while walking over hot coals is empowering it shouldn't replace therapy and/or relevant treatment.

Mark's side of the "discussion" had more to do with his personal experiences than anything else, and at some point we both didn't know what we were talking about anymore, and I asked him how we got on the topic. He had no idea.

All of this is indicative of how absurd, fascinating, and wonderful life here has been so far. Last night was awesome. I'm really glad we have a front porch and can hold war counsels/barbecues late into the night. It feels trite to state this, but all of the people I've met these past two weeks are really, really great, and goddamnit that's an admission from the heart.

Glumming it.

This morning. So productive. Breezed through my work and caught up with goings-on in the world. Then suddenly something shifts in my chest. Maybe I shouldn't allow myself to listen to this song over and over again. That might have something to do with it. Now here I sit, intently sitting.

I'm wearing my new yellow dress with black polka dots, and I feel a little bit like a superhero and a little bit like a 50s housewife, which you'd think would be a paradox but somehow it isn't.

Stacen and I spoke about sand cats this morning after she sent me some pictures, and I just think they're so cool. I wish they were native to this country so that you could have one living in your flower bed, and every now and then it would just poke its head out--pop!--like a meerkat but EVEN BETTER. That, and you'd have no pests! Maybe it'd even scare away the local cats that probably give yowling concertos in the alleyways of your building. I dunno 'bout that last part, though. They don't seem to be all that ferocious.

I've decided I'm gonna learn to play all of "White Blood Cells" on guitar, song by song.

Dear Body,

Good morning, you ramshackle old house. You cheated me. Yesterday you were tautness and coordination, the efficient machine of a swimmer. Today every bit of you aches out my age. My back is an intricate sailor's knot. Two awkward bumps have been cut more prominently into the flesh of my arms, and they squeal with every movement how they don't belong. My legs, peppered with bruises, are killing me to walk. The joints at my hips and knees can't process electrical signals from my brain very well. I feel a bit like an old marionette who sat in a box forgotten for 30 years. All my strings have somehow been criss-crossed and a few of my limbs were crumpled askew.

Still, I staggered down to the porch just now with a cup of coffee, book, and cigarettes in tow. I'm not all that angry at you, body. You served me well yesterday. Everything's in this apartment now even though it's a mess. I have a whole week to settle in.

I read on the couch for a few minutes and had a smoke. The air was still with the promise of more rain, and nobody moved on the street. A few cars passed nearby, their engines a distant roar, a big cat's lullaby. Sunday took me into the palm of its hand. My brain relaxed into the humidity.

Today, if you cooperate, a few of these boxes and garbage bags will be emptied. I'll make this place into even more of a home and less of a lair. No going back to the cave-living of Chestnut Hill from now on--this is it.

I'm definitely going to test out my new bread maker. I was able to find the manual online, and the French bread recipe's simple. I'm almost out of bread now, and I'm going to bake a loaf for the neighbors too. What a night last night, after a full day of work. I left for bed early, at around 9, and everyone was understanding. Still, just 5 or 10 minutes after I locked the door, there was a knock on it. "Julia?" Alex called in, "I know you're going to bed, but I just wanted to let you know that we have wine, and if you want some, you're welcome to it." I thanked him and passed, but yes. Life is beginning. I love it here, and everything so far--even with all the car trips and all the heavy lifting, even though you hurt in a way you haven't in at least 10 years--has been full of promise, everything indicates that more than being worth all the effort, this could really be something great.

I don't wanna jinx it. I don't wanna jinx anything. Like I stated yesterday, I'm weirdly superstitious on this point. But goddamn. Sisters, don't you know. There's been a lot of of Montreal in this blog lately. And alsoalso, Florence and the Machine touches on the feeling a bit.

Alright, you. My coffee's already lukewarm. I think Alex's son (Yakob? or Jacob?) is watching cartoons of the old Warner Brothers variety. Muffled dialogue and the occasional intrusion of characteristic music--always tuba-heavy, always a little insidious--are coming through the ceiling. A leitmotif. If Oliver reads this, he'll be proud. The music that always plays when Bugs Bunny's being pursued by Elmer Fudd and is just about to outsmart him.

Time to start the day. I'll lurk in bed a bit longer, and then I'll throw a few ingredients into a machine. Soon the smell of baking bread will be everywhere in the apartment.

Body, you've done what you had to do. At least for today, hurt as much as you need to hurt. You've earned it.

Love from your animating consciousness,
Julia

Now is one of those times.

Often I'm afraid that if I articulate how wonderful and right something is, I'll cheapen it. It'll lose some of its luster, or I'll set my expectations too high.

Now is one of those times.

Yes.

I'm moving stuff

out of my old apartment, and there's a squirrel sitting just outside the window, nibbling an acorn, and staring blankly in at my efforts like this is some sort of fucking tv show for squirrels.

So.

This "mashup music video" is pretty silly. Why of Montreal and "Brazil"?

Still, damn:
My, my you busted me...like a robocop.

He's so searingly angry there! I don't often listen through to the end of the song, but I love the way it builds on the guitar riff and then spirals out of control.

On the topic of silliness, all I want forever is a Marc Johns print. These are my favorites:

An accidental species
some mutant lovechild
never meant to be

But they're so expensive.

I've just seen some folks with sun umbrellas! It's hot out, and I'm judgmental, but I'm pretty sure that's only acceptable if you're this guy:



Otherwise, you just look like a twat.

Ouch.

Still Life With Woodpecker (Tom Robbins):

"Three of the four elements are shared by all creatures, but fire was a gift to humans alone. Smoking cigarettes is as intimate as we can become with fire without immediate excruciation. Every smoker is an embodiment of Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and bringing it on back home. We smoke to capture the power of the sun, to pacify Hell, to identify with the primordial spark, to feed on the marrow of the volcano. It's not the tobacco we're after but the fire. When we smoke, we are performing a version of the fire dance, a ritual as ancient as lightning."


"Who knows how to make love stay?

1. Tell love you are going to Junior's Deli on Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn to pick up a cheesecake, and if love stays, it can have half. It will stay.

2. Tell love you want a memento of it and obtain a lock of its hair. Burn the hair in a dime-store incense burner with yin/yang symbols on three sides. Face southwest. Talk fast over the burning hair in a convincingly exotic language. Remove the ashes of the burnt hair and use them to paint a moustache on your face. Find love. Tell it you are someone new. It will stay.

3. Wake love up in the middle of the night. Tell it the world is on fire. Dash to the bedroom window and pee out of it. Casually return to bed and assure love that everything is going to be all right. Fall asleep. Love will be there in the morning."


Last night there was a brief instance of this:
will I die before I dance?

Can't say that I didn't see it coming. Which is what she said.

Ungh. Still, unfortunate. But necessary. For the best.

There's so much to do. The world keeps on turning. Reviews to write, books to read. Befriended the neighbors late last night...was up 'til 1 AM talking to them on the porch.

Life's revving its engines up, and this'll be my city yet.
-------
Postscript:

The more I watch this, the more obsessed with it I become:

Florence and the Machine, "The Dog Days Are Over"

Etc.

This thing is dying, and fast.

Christ, how to sum up. I guess I'll start with this: I zonked out at around 8:30 PM last night, exhausted, with a killer headache and a really achy back. The headache's what I'm most concerned about, as it's definitely the cause of the fatigue, and I've been battling the like of it pretty consistently for over a year. It feels like there's something sitting in the bottom of my throat, and it's got strings that are hooked to my sinuses. Pretty much every day the strings are pulled and I start to find it really difficult to stay awake and alert...at the same time I get these hollow sinus headaches that feel like a lot of pressure pushing outward. It's pretty difficult to focus on anything.

I woke up this morning and the headache was even worse. It's never been this bad before. I dragged myself out of bed, drank a steaming cup of herbal "breathe easy" tea, then followed that up later with Advil and a double-shot of espresso. I CANNOT be dead today. It's our once-monthly faculty editorial meeting at work. Usually Caroline does the bulk of the work for these. I don't remember how or why we arranged things this way, that's just the way it's been for some time. I hope it isn't because I'm just not very helpful.

Caroline's been out for a week-and-a-half or so now, though. Also, we have no work-studies or interns at the moment. So I'm doing this meeting single-handed, occasionally texting Caroline when things have been confusing.

And I'm terrified, frankly. In 10 minutes we'll have our staff meeting, and then I really have to get a move-on as the FEB meeting's at 12. Caroline's really excellent at making everything at these meeting's look perfect. I, on the other hand, would never have thought of something like tying up utensils in neat little sets, with a napkin each. I'm just not very good at making things look nice. Organization, sure, I can do that. But making things presentable...not my forte.

That, and usually there are at least 2 people to carry all the groceries; one person just flat-out can't do it. At least not one me. I might have to make 2 trips.

So I guess this is sort of trial by fire.

Meanwhile, I'm supposed to get a manuscript today that I'm gonna have to prepare really quickly, and there's plenty more work to be done.

I've moved into my new place. As of yesterday there's a working stove and the windows in the living room aren't painted shut. I think the landlord's already a little sick of me pestering him about things he should be responsible for anyway. It seems like there's an endless amount of work to be done, and every time I think I'm starting to be productive I just end up creating more obstacles for myself.

Example: two days ago I got all of my clothes out of Chestnut Hill--all that was left was everything in my closet, the nice clothes that need to be hung up. After unloading everything here, I realized that my closet has no bar in it to hang stuff on. Duuuuuuuuuuuuuuh.

Yesterday I went to Home Depot and bought an adjustable closet bar. I came back, and realized I need a drill to get the screws into the wall.

Duh.

I also spent 3 hours in Ikea last weekend trying to choose curtains or blinds for my room. I left with nothing but a whopping headache. Both curtains and blinds are ridiculously expensive, I wasn't sure which I wanted, and I couldn't be sure that the sizing was right or that hemming is an option. I also needed a quilt cover, and of course the ONE set I fell in love with was the set that they were sold out of.

Duh, ugh.

Everything is such a fucking hassle. My mom thinks I should have the landlord install the closet bar. But the landlord already hates me. Yesterday a member of his company(/family) came by and got the stove to work, and managed to open the living room windows--which had been painted shut. Now, however, I can't get one of the windows closed again. And the locks on 'em are still painted open.

On the BRIGHT side

despite the lack of storage space and the sparsity of electrical outlets

I love the apartment.

I'm so glad I painted my room a rich red. I wake up every morning and sunlight floods through the windows (which I can leave open now, as I'm not at ground level!). I can hear more birds than I ever could in Chestnut Hill. The cat is definitely happier, and we just have more space, and the space is more...ours: mine, Rachel's (and the cat's) already. We chose the colors ourselves. The neighbors are really nice folks.

It's a 20-minute walk to the Press now, as opposed to the hour's commute. I've been early every morning since the move. I'm not used to not having to rush around. Charlie lives about a 15 minute walk away. The studio where I used to do yoga (and may again) is 10 minutes away, and there are PEOPLE around, there's LIFE here.

Yessssssssssssssssssssss.

Rachel moves in this weekend. Can't wait.

...

CLARITIN HAS BROUGHT ME SOME RELIEF!

All set up for the meeting now (11:42 AM, meeting at 12...took a break and prepped everything mid-entry).

In other news, I have bruises all over the tops of my legs/bottoms of my stomach from moving heavy boxes by myself.

Other than the stuff I hired movers for (bed, dresser, couch, desk), I've pretty much moved everything by myself. My mother was kind enough to help, but of course she can't lift anything heavy--her assistance was more organizational/morally supportive. So I've been doing the grunt work myself, dashing back and forth to Chestnut Hill as often as possible (which is only during rush hour, basically, since I work from 9-5) and I am exhausted and apparently also bruised (physically, not emotionally).

Jeezy Q. Creezy.

All of this needs to be over. Now. Luckily I can take it, it's just insane. All I wanna do is eat pulled pork sandwiches, watch all 3 "Back to the Future" movies back-to-back, and maybe Disney's "Robin Hood" for good measure.

Fuck "Away We Go," but at least this exists:
Alexi Murdoch's "The Ragged Sea"

Meeting time! I hope there are no complaints.

Update

Been about a week or two of almosts. T.S. Eliot power-naps. Yesterday, as the train pulled out of the cloudy green swamp of Suburban Station, through the equally murky lenses in my face I noticed a briefcase standing solo on the platform. Not the type an executive would carry, but made of plastic. There was a crest or an insignia on it I couldn't make out. As the train pulled away I tried to snap a photo but the air was too thick with ghosts--who the hell decided on that paint color for the train station anyway? I expected somebody to scoop it up, but nobody did.

I keep on brushing fingers with the future. For a few days I catch a glimpse and I'm riding high, but then the tiny hooks of routine pull me back down again.

Here's what I mean: we signed the lease. We went out to dinner to celebrate: there was beer, laughter, things were invented and big plans were sketched out. The next day I drove to South Jersey to hang out with Rachel and Brenda. Rach and I went to Home Depot and pulled a bunch of paint swatches, then went out for pizza. The sky was overcast, and it seemed to me that everybody in the restaurant knew who Rach was. There are these weird self-contained pockets in South Jersey. I can't really describe it but it's disorienting. Frank Sinatra karoake was going on in the pizza place, and the guy singing was INCREDIBLE, I mean really impressive. I recorded some of it, and I've been trying to figure out how to post it here, but m3u file extensions are difficult. Anyway, I felt like I'd slipped onto another planet. To further the feeling, the recording I made stated that the date was the 27th. That was last Saturday. Today's the 28th. Whoops, I guess I live in the future.

We went back to Rach's and hung out in the hot tub(!), then watched "Pulp Fiction" and crashed. I drove back to Philadelphia early Sunday morning and was too tired to do any hardcore cleaning, but I cleaned up some and cooked a whole lot--2 loaves of homemade bread, curried cauliflower, potatoes, and peas.

Monday Rach came to Philly again, and we took the swatches to the apartment. We picked our colors, which are something like the following:

Rach's room: Kind of a light, minty green-white.
Kitchen: Orange burst! Satin finish.
Bathroom: A different shade of green, satin finish.
Living room: Purple!
My room: Sort of a rich red-purple, the color was "pomegranate" something, satin finish.

The painting should be done in about a week. Then we can start moving stuff in, and I can probably move in early.

So Monday was thrilling. And then Tuesday, yesterday, reality kicked in. But then a sudden attack of determination on the walk to 30th Street. I'm not sure where these come from, but they're a blessing. Called Emily when I got home:

Me: You wanna go to the batting cages?
Emily: I just got home, but I was SERIOUSLY JUST THINKING about going to the batting cages. I wanna hit something with a bat.
Me: Yes, exactly!
Emily: Tuesdays are the worst.

I have a theory that Tuesdays really are the worst day of the week, and now she's confirmed my suspicions. The result of the conversation? We're in agreement, and weekly trips to the batting cages are to ensue.

So yeah, that'll teach the third day of the week to be so dreary.

Things are good, I guess. Leveling out, being sensible, staying active. Tomorrow my first review for LAS is going up! I surf craigslist every day for writing jobs and opportunities to make a little extra money. Bard on Saturday, New York and then back here on Sunday.

Oh yeah, I've been giving a lot of thought to getting a tattoo. Don't know why, but I really want one. Still haven't settled on it. I've been thinking about getting that key I used to wear around my neck on the inside of my right arm. But I also like the idea of having a line from Mayakovsky tattooed across my back--Cyrillic script is lovely. Spent a good portion of yesterday at work perusing for That Perfect Line. Kept a list of potentials, but none of them is just right. Which isn't to put down V.M., of course. What always really gets me is that stubborn humanity that he tries to stamp out but can't. Finally, I think, it got to be too much for the poet--you can see the shift in his writing. Then it got to be too much for the man.

It's painful to read. Here's what I'm talking about.


Past One O'Clock, by Vladimir Mayakovsky
translated by Max Hayward and George Reavey

Past one o'clock. You must have gone to bed.
The Milky Way streams silver through the night.
I'm in no hurry; with lightning telegrams
I have no cause to wake or trouble you.
And, as they say, the incident is closed.
Love's boat has smashed against the daily grind.
Now you and I are quits. Why bother then
to balance mutual sorrows, pains, and hurts.
Behold what quiet settles on the world.
Night wraps the sky in tribute from the stars.
In hours like these, one rises to address
The ages, history, and all creation.

Selfishness and accountability.

I've been selfish.

In part, I think, it's a product of my circumstances. Feeling adrift for 9 or 10 months meant that I turned inward a whole lot, and it seems I've been in a somewhat consistent state of nursing various wounds and making sure this frame still stands up and can walk around and stuff.

Not that I've been in a consistent state of extreme depression. The above is looking pretty melodramatic. Just that I've been awfully focused on getting up each morning and seeing each day through.

I'm starting to wake up from that now. Things are beginning to happen. Rachel and I are most likely signing a lease tonight, and there's a future--one that isn't sequestered, one that I can build a home on--to look forward to. That, and I'm getting a book review published, and there's the potential to get other book reviews published. I'm still writing my own stuff too, and it's a small start, but hey, things are starting to happen, life is starting to happen and I'm starting to be a citizen of the world again and not some ugly, frozen, shut-in thing.

I'm starting to realize that I've thrown a lot of caring and amazing folks to the wayside.

Evey was supposed to visit a few months ago, and I guess that both of us got really busy--and we didn't talk about it much--so some other stuff for work cropped up and she wound up having to cancel the trip. And as I recall it was one that she really sorta needed, to clear her head and stuff. After that, I made no effort whatsoever to stay in touch with her. That is, until the Week of Ear Misery, when I hadn't slept in something like 4 days, was drinking wine, and decided we ought to video chat. She refused, and I started falling asleep...we spoke for all of 5 minutes. She Facebooked me after that and wanted to reconnect, but I was just too crazybusy and made no effort. And she's a close friend, and I love her, and despite illness and what-have-you I really haven't been good to her.

Max, too, was supposed to visit and had to cancel at the last minute. I've owed him a letter for weeks. After asking if I could crash at his house next month I made other plans in the interim, before he got back to me. It probably seems like I don't care at all, but I really do care an awful lot.

Dave is like a brother. He's always been there for me, and lately I've taken advantage of that. I've only spoken to him when something's going really, really wrong, and then I've whined at him forever and not really gotten a sense of anything going on in his life. I feel pretty bad about that, and I hope he knows that I really do care about him, and that I want to hear all about his life, and that he's amazing.

These are sorta big-deal fuck-ups. And yeah, most of them have had a lot to do with the fact that I'm in an awkward situation. But I'm coming out of it, and it's time to shape up. What stings is that I think I do stuff like this all the time, unconsciously, and that I've been this way for awhile. I take advantage of people, I fuck them over. Maybe part of being an adult is realizing you're flawed and doing your best to make it up to the people that matter most. I'm privileged to have friends who'll set me straight, who'll tell me up front that I'm being a jerk. It makes this juncture in my life a lot easier.

There's been some other stuff, too. I made a really out-of-line comment to Rachel last week. Though I realized my error and apologized immediately, I don't think I understood the extent to which it hurt her. It was a stupid thing to say, too, and I didn't mean it at all--it just slipped out by accident.

Similarly, when Caroline and I should've been cleaning up after the FEB meeting on Wednesday, instead I was upstairs wrapped up in a conversation about Haruki Murakami. When I came downstairs and apologized for my absence, Caroline said something along the lines of: "Yeah...you kinda do this a lot. Disappear when you're needed. Try not to, OK?"

And she was right.

I'm fucking up at work, too. And it isn't for lack of trying.

Another aspect of this whole growing up thing, I guess, is that instead of wallowing in guilt and overdramatizing everything, I'm acknowledging my faults and trying to change my behavior. Especially now that I'm finally reaching some kind of harmonious accord with my day-to-day routine, it's time I woke up.

It's been a humbling week or two. But in a healthy, proactive way. Reality's settling cozily on my shoulders, I hope.

This entry's probably the most self-centered thing I've done in some time, but I think it was necessary. I had to put this out in the open somewhere. And this is what these blogs thing are for, ain't it?

END OF RANT.

Hmf.

"Playing with Fire," Rolling Stones.

Sundays

When you wake up on a Sunday, the day holds you like an old sweatshirt, or like the still floral smell of your grandma's house that you remember from childhood. Don't rush it, and there's no sense in trying to prolong it. Stay in bed for awhile with your eyes closed and listen.

Wake up in your own time. There's always a constitutional of some kind to be stolen; this morning, for instance, it's a quest down to the grocery store for some coffee and fresh milk. The coat you've chosen isn't warm enough, but the slight chill in the Spring air signals to your joints that you're moving. The tumor-shaped parking lot of the shopping complex is nearly deserted. There's you, leather-jacketed, barely out of pajamas, unwashed with a cigarette, and there's an old woman leaning on one of those walkers that also functions as a cart. The wheels rattle a little and the rattle resounds. At first when she hears footsteps she'll snap around, suspicious. But when she sees you, she'll just smile in a way that wraps around you like a Sunday.

On the way to the grocery store you pass the Christian book shop. They're now trying to entice people in with the promise of coffee, and there are spiky neon signs that read "WOW COFFEE" in the windows, and another one that states "YES, WE NOW HAVE KOREAN BIBLES!" (Well FINALLY, you find yourself thinking, because hey, you're kind of a jerk.)

Right past the bookstore is the wig shop, which always strikes you as a weird progression.

There are others in the supermarket, others like you who know how to make the most of the day. A chunky lady wearing a bright pink sweatshirt and sweatpants. You wander up and down the aisles alone, thinking about how silly it is that they're playing "All by Myself" over the intercom. A man with a bunch of groceries offers to let you cut him in line, and you smile and thank him--there's another aisle free. You follow another man out of the supermarket, and the cashier yells after him, "I hope you feel better!" The man rearranging shopping carts waves goodbye.

The chilly wind nibbles your ears. Everything feels new and moves slowly.

Getting home. You'll inevitably drink cup after cup of hot coffee. There are responsibilities, but the distractions are just as pressing.

Saturdays, even when they unfold, have a sense of urgency to them that Sundays lack. Saturdays nag you to make use of them. Sundays are for motes of dust settling into corners, for taking the world in like you've just come up from the bottom of a well.

Flashback

Was walking to work and suddenly flashed back to a spontaneous dance party in Rachel's room last year.

These had happened before, but never on the scale of this one. I think it was either shortly before senior projects were due or immediately after we'd turned them in, but we were really eager to distract ourselves from stress and from our imminent graduation. I remember at the time I felt like it was a huge cloud looming over everything, calling not only my future into question, but also every detail of my life up until that point--my interests, my friendships, even down to the way I dressed myself (mismatched, neon yellow socks and bright pink hair wouldn't be as welcome among the "grownups" was my guess).

But we were too tired to process all this stuff, and I think that deep down we really just wanted to have a good time and maybe destroy ourselves a little bit. Rach was living in Mannex, and there was a party in Manor that night, and I think all of us were praying that just once it'd be decent. So we pregamed a bit. Then we pregamed a bit more. We were drunk. We walked through Mannex to Manor, made approximately one complete round of the nearly empty room, and then paraded back to Rachel's disappointed.

But what the hell, we were tired and just wanted to do something. So we ended up raiding Rachel's ENORMOUS collection of sunglasses, blasting music on her speakers, and dancing around her tiny room for hours and hours. A whole bunch of us were there--Rachel of course, Logan, Brenda, Nelson, Keenan was there and even danced a bit...or at least didn't stand around in the corner and shun us. Stace might've been there too, but she may have been busy that night.

So yeah. Finally all of us were really tired and sweaty and went off to bed. I can't dance at all, and usually I was a skulker at parties, occupying corners until friends dragged me out onto the floor. That or I'd be having some overly loud and enthusiastic discussion with my fellow smokers outside, which would lead to 100,000 other discussions and keep me conveniently occupied until the party ended.

But on that night I danced around like crazy, because I was with my best friends in the entire world and at a certain point it just stopped mattering. Besides, we were wearing awesome sunglasses.

I think that was one of the best nights I've ever had.

I miss those people.

Today--Ava Luna, "Clips" and "Past the Barbary" on repeat.

Status.

Ear: functional.
Full night's sleep: finally attained.
Reviews: 2/3 written and edited.
Back: achy.
Hair: ick.
Apartment: trashed.
Cover Letter: written and edited.
Social life: shmeh, s'ok.
References: queried, accepted.
Paying Job: working on a comeback.
Apartment hunt: initiated.
Obsessive lists: robust.


Addendum: Worked an extra five minutes, watched my train pull out in front of me. An adorable middle-aged Irish couple bummed me a cigarette outside.

(Both are smoking as I approach, husband presents a pack of Marlboro Reds with one cigarette left.)
Me: Heh, nevermind, have a good evening.
Wife (thick brogue): Wait wait, we have more. Wouldn't want you havin' a nic fit.
(Husband hands me the cigarette)
Me: Well, thank you!
Wife: Of course! (Taking a drag) Quit, you should quit! A young girl like you!

Not wholly convincing, but wondrous!

Tom Waits reads Charles Bukowski's "The Laughing Heart"

Crows, by Mary Oliver

From a single grain they have multiplied.
When you look in the eyes of one
you have seen them all.

At the edges of highways
they pick at limp things.
They are anything but refined.

Or they fly out over the corn
like pellets of black fire,
like overlords.

(Crow is crow, you say.
What else is there to say?
Drive down any road,

take a train or an airplane
across the world, leave
your old life behind,

die and be born again--
wherever you arrive
they'll be there first,

glossy and rowdy
and indistinguishable.
The deep muscle of the world.

Regrets, 2:44 AM

If I were in love with a prostitute, this earache wouldn't wake me up throughout the night.


Correction: Although apparently Van Gogh only sliced off the lobe of his ear. So I guess it'd still be a problem. Cheers wikipedia, I guess NOTHING ever goes the way I want it to, I mean REALLY.

Is this a blog?

Why yes, yes it is! Is it likely to last long? Probably not.

Woke up this morning, delicate breeze drifting in through the open window and the sounds of cars a few streets over rumbling by, as slow as ships. Easter Sunday. Sunday morning. As a matter of fact, that was the very first song I listened to when consciousness kicked in.

Didn't want to get out of bed yet, and by golly, I didn't have to. My laptop and the book I'm reading were waiting obediently by the side of my bed (wagging their tails).

However, my roommate was anxious that I get out of bed, probably to open the other window. I was on my laptop, and thus able to document the events that followed in case I need to show them to the police someday:

I'm not sure the photographs do justice to the strategic nature and ferocity of the attack. But I guess you get the idea.

Decided to treat myself to Sunday brunch at my favorite restaurant in Chestnut Hill. They have incredible coffee that they serve in a colossal mug, stellar food, and they're pretty cheap too. In general the service has been pretty good, but today it was kinda lacking. The waitresses are usually super-nice to me. I think it's because they're used to older customers and they like having somebody closer to their age to chat with. That, and I think it's pretty obvious to them that I'm treating myself, and they seem to think it's sorta...well...neat. I always bring a book, have a couple cups of coffee, and take my sweet time. Usually I'll treat myself to dessert (always a lemon square. I have a problem with lemon pastries).

After a delicious brunch, I decided to finally bike to Whitemarsh Hall. Not really sure what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I found there. (Now that I'm looking closely at the wikipedia page, I realize that if I'd read it closer before setting out, I might've been forewarned).

I turned left off of an endless four-lane street into a cul-de-sac called "Stotesbury Estates." I don't think I realized immediately that I was in a protected community, but nonetheless I found the yellow "NO OUTLET" sign to be kinda foreboding.

Last time I tried to bike to Whitemarsh, googlemaps told me to take a street that doesn't exist, which I found difficult to do. For a few minutes I was convinced that once again, I wasn't where I was supposed to be. Then I saw this:


WHAT IS IT, you ask. Well, it's a bunch of frickin IONIAN COLUMNS. As I biked up to it, they almost seemed to be RISING OUT OF SOMEBODY'S TOWNHOUSE. It was...eerie.

This was about the time when I started to notice I was basically in a police state. A man in a red midlife-crisis car drove slowly past, staring. A bunch of folks with an excitable dog furrowed their brows at me. Until I snapped the photo, I was alright. It was one of those situations in which it pays to look significantly younger than I actually am, to be wearing a wifebeater t-shirt (yep, I was SHOWIN SOME SHOULDER), to be...white (honest truth), and to always somehow just seem so doggone innocent. But yeah, I pushed it a bit too far. And thus when I saw the sign reading "Residents Only" with a promise to call the cops on trespassers, I decided not to risk it. Even houses were giving me the stink-eye.

In sum, it was a surreal experience, but not in the "abandoned, isolated ruins" way I expected it to be. This was a piece of a distinct and dead past that had somehow been misplaced in the present. A community had blossomed up around Whitemarsh Hall, where presidents and film stars once attended banquets; not just any community, but an uncannily safe pocket of yuppie America.

On a whim, on the bike ride home, I turned down a side street, and found some more stuff:



And some details of that last statue, which is BETWEEN TWO DRIVEWAYS:
That's the last photo I'll post this entry, I swear.

I can't imagine living in one of the houses that the above statue borders, and instructing my guests: "Aaaaaaaaaaand ours'll be the driveway on the right, next to the statue of the family that's covered in lichen, missing a limb here and there, with worn-away faces. Yep, yep, y'can't miss it."

I mean seriously WHAT.

If you stumble upon this blog for some reason, and you'd like to guess or you know with certainty what that statue's all about, please do comment.

Finaaaaaaally got back home, walked in the door and sunk into the couch. The radio was on, and I realized that apparently really resonant, beautiful jazz clarinet solos make me want to smoke cigarettes.

Now I'm listening to Patti Smith's "Horses," there's a cat on my lap, and both of us are falling asleep. Life ain't all that bad.

END OF ADVENTURE.