The Flaw in Blogging or; Flawgging

I've discovered, since revamping this blog, that it has begun to run my life. It was subtle at first, but now I've started to notice more and more how I analyze each encounter, each chance observation, every thought and feeling and impulse of my quotidian life for it's blog potential; it's blogability, if you will.

This phenomenon is both frustrating - every time I answer the phone (which is a lot of times), I think "Oo! Please say something unexpected!" and then I forget what I'm supposed to say - and self-defeating - they never say something unexpected. This is why so many poets write bad poems about writers block. Because they have writers block. And they are searching too hard.

By way of example, I'm going to share some choice selections from my search for inspiration.

Yesterday, at the gym. I was stretching and a Suzanne Vega song came on my iPod. The lyrics were beautiful.

"If sand waves were sound waves
What song would be in the air now
What stinging tune
Could split this endless noon
And make the sky swell with rain"

And I thought, "YES! Something profound and original and touching! How inspiring." And then the song ended and Bedrock by Young Money came on. For those less familiar with the lyrics than myself and the rest of my a cappella group, I include a brief sample:

"Oh Baby,
I Be Stuck To You,
Like Glue Baby,
Wanna Spend It All On You,
Baby,
My Room Is The G Spot,
Call Me Mr. Flintstone,
I Can Make Your Bed Rock Girl"

Right. So much for inspiring.

Today, walking down Ludlow St. I saw a bicycle cosy. It was pink and purple and red and it was attached to a bicycle. It looked crocheted. Or possibly knit. It was the most ridiculous thing I've seen in a while. Unfortunately, I am so loathe to look like a tourist that I refuse to take pictures of anything in New York where someone could see me, so I have no documentation of this bicycle cozy. It was so not inspiring. Funny, though.

Tonight, in my kitchen. I haven't been home in time to cook dinner in a while, so I decided to go all out tonight and make a giant batch of pasta salad to eat for the next couple of days. As I set about making the dressing, I wondered in what container I was going to put the leftover vinaigrette. Tuperware in my kitchen is oddly shaped and rarely useful. I was just about to recycle the olive oil bottle I'd just emptied when I thought, "Aha! A container! I'll even peel off the label so it looks all pretty and green and chic. How innovative. How inspiring!" So I spent the next thirty minutes scrapping infinitesimal flakes of pulpy glue and paper off of the bottle, while running it under hot water, while trying to make sure the pulpy glue and paper didn't go down the drain and block my sink, while trying not to burn the vegetables, while talking to my sister on my cell phone. The result: a sort of pretty used-to-be olive oil bottle with two large, square shaped smudges that are irritatingly sticky to the touch. Holds the salad dressing though, so there you go. Practical. But not blogable.

The clever reader will realize that I'm contradicting myself. This entire blog post is utterly reliant on the unblogable. A paradox. Who shaves the barber?. Well, maybe not quite so clever.

And so, the moral of this story is that there is no moral. Another paradox? Maybe. Anyway, the point is, if you look hard enough for what is meaningful and profound, you will inevitably find what is foolish, funny, and human. Like a purple, pink and red knitted (or possibly crocheted) bicycle cozy.

Snap Shots

One.

Union Square Park. Nighttime. Secluded, grassy section, removed from large crowd observing contortionist in fluorescent tights. 6 Ephoria girls. Tight circle. And So It Goes. Minus the alto two's. Performing to and for ourselves.

Two.

One of our commission artists at Dixon Place. Tall, chiseled. A warm, firm handshake. Holding on longer than most people do. Direct eye contact. Comforting. An ease and honesty in conversation that defies his stutter. Spoke of writing and golf and laughing paper.

Three.

Vegan noodle restaurant. Mediocre food. Delicious cookie. To The Lighthouse. Sudden, intense downpour. Small Chinese man handing me a white plastic garbage bag, the kind with the drawstring, to wear as a poncho. Fashion statement of the year.

Four.

Burlesque show at DP. World Famous *BOB*. Nipple tassels and vagina sequins. Her story. Her hug. Her joy. Her love. Inspiration.

Five.

The view from the Manhattan Bridge at night. All dusty sky and lights. From the inside of the cab, I feel a bit like I'm flying.

Grand Street Station; An Exercise in Infrastructure Failure

The Grand Street Station, which deposits subway travelers into the heart of one of the many Chinese markets in Chinatown, has a very particular smell. It's the smell of raw fish, rotting vegetables, and garbage. It's none to pleasant. If, when getting on the subway on the other end, you don't line yourself up just right so that the door through which you leave is positioned at the foot of the one set of stairs leaving the tracks, you will find yourself in a sea of impossibly slow moving people. They are invariably either quite old and carrying canes or quite young and pushing strollers. This makes for a frustrating and sweaty morning, Grand Street being the stop I use to get to work. This morning was no exception. I found myself, due to an error of judgment, in a car much too far away from the staircase, and as such, spent the next five minutes plodding my way up one staircase, through the turnstiles, and up another. I was not happy. But as I was about to break the surface, instinctively holding my breath, I caught sight of a man, moseying up the stairs to my right. He was old, maybe mid 60s, and Chinese, wearing charcoal suit pants, smudgy gray socks, black crocks, and a faded forest green tee-shirt, which had a slogan printed in the yellow on the back. It said "Noodles Never Die". Well. There you have it.

The reason I was so poorly positioned on the subway this morning was because I was coming from uptown (I usually come from Brooklyn), where I had a breakfast meeting with Pia, the producer/director of Manon/Sandra, a French-Canadian play that she is presenting at this summer's Fringe Festival. And, as of this morning, I am her new production assistant. Due to some STI related contacts (thanks, Ev), Pia found out that I was looking for some more creative-type things to be doing. And suddenly, I'm a production assistant. Working 9 hours a day for a different theater will make things slightly more challenging, but I'm excited to see what happens. I will be joining the group this Saturday morning for rehearsal. Apparently they lead viewpoints-style warm-ups each morning. I'm invited. It will be my first rehearsal in several months and I am very much looking forward to being in a space filled with creative energy.

So, it seems, the moral of the story is: ask and you shall receive. Stay tuned next week when the moral of the story will inevitably be: don't bite off more than you can chew...

Some Questions

-Why is bubble tea so good? (For the curious)

-Does carrying an umbrella around, even when it's too hazy for the sun to shine, really help keep you cool?

-How many people in New York City are, at this moment, reading The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo? If we were to take a sample poll of people on the subway, I would say the result would be alarmingly high.

-Why have I not yet taken advantage of half-price cinema tickets if you go before noon? Inception for 6 dollars? Yes, please.

-I really wish avocados weren't out of season. They are so good. Oh wait. That's not a question... WHY GOD, WHY!? There we go.

-How do you keep ripe tomatoes from molding away in your fridge? I welcome responses here.

-What is the meaning of life?

-How did I become one of those people who give directions using North, South, East, and West instead of Left and Right, after spending so long scorning those New Yorkers who confused me with such orienteering?

-Why does the almond butter at Whole Foods cost twenty-one dollars?

-How do I carry a bike up and down four flights of stairs without hitting myself in the eye with the handlebars, scrapping my thigh with the chain, staining my clothes, and throwing my bike down said stairs in consternation? Again, suggestions welcome.

-Why can't I think of a creative, probing, profound question on which to end?

Answer to all of the above, as supplied by most parents/babysitters/siblings of a four year old:

Because.

A weekend in the country

On Friday, I went home for the first time in three years.

They say home is where the heart is. That is certainly true. I have felt at home in a number of places over the past few years of my life: Williams, Sweden, Cape Cod, New York City, Morocco, etc. However, moving to Sweden, for all the opportunity and experience it offered, also brought a feeling of displacement. I love Stockholm, but I will never truly claim it as my own. Even my house in Windsor, which has, for the past three years, stood empty and shrouded, was no longer my home. The empty rooms and barren walls contained no warmth, and childhood memories took on a bizarre, warped quality that seemed distant and not a little foreboding. But on Friday night, with my whole family piled into the car as we hurtled up the long dirt drive, I saw my house in a new light, a soft glow in several of the windows, cars in the driveway, and a tractor out front. It no longer looked ghost-like and imposing. The inside of the house is an odd blur of activity and production now; swatches of different colored paint (egg-shell versus gingerbread) checker the walls, furniture is scattered in odd corners, tools lie in unexpected places. The container holding most of our furniture and belongings is still slowly chugging its way across the Atlantic, so we are making due with what's left in the house. And despite all the activity, I felt so settled. Finally.

I woke up at 6:30 on Saturday morning, in time to drive Lily to Holiday Farm, where she is working for the summer. When I got back to the house, I headed out for a run, ignoring my mother's warnings about the vicious deer flies. There's no way anything sane is up at 7 in the morning.

False.

I lasted 15 minutes, before turning around, booking up the driveway, flailing milkweed stalks in both hands in a vain attempt to discourage the persistent creatures. I fell into the house, crying "I SURRENDER!". It felt wonderfully melodramatic.

The rest of the day passed in a both active and comfortable fashion. Breakfast on the porch, impromptu head shots taken by a colleague of my father's, a visit to our family farm, fresh picked vegetables for lunch, the pleasure of polishing a tarnished silver bowl that belonged to my father and his grandfather before him, the scent of earth, air, and trees that I've been missing so much, and the discovery of an old photo-album of my mothers - all long legs, tube socks, seventies hair-cuts and adolescent boyfriends.

So many people go to the woods and stumble upon a great discovery. Thoreau discovered enlightenment in the form solitude. Rosalind discovered independence in the form of Ganymeade. The cast of "A Little Night Music" discovered a whole lot of things. And me? I went to the woods and found my home, right where I left it. It was, and is, refreshing beyond my ability to express.

a lengthy meal

From July 12 to July 25, it's Restaurant Week in Manhattan. Misnomer notwithstanding (Restaurant Two Weeks doesn't have the same ring to it), it is a chance for food lovers big and small to put on their fancy pants and wine and dine at New York's swankiest eateries. There is a prix fixe menu at all participating restaurants. 35 dollars for appetizer, entree, and dessert. The catch, and the bit of marketing genius, is that the wine portion is not included. 35 dollars for dinner and nearly double that for alcohol. But it's worth it.

On Wednesday night, after a Darlingside concert that looked more like a Williams 5th year reunion - a great show that was evocative of both the Decemberists and Vampire Weekend, with a non-insistent indie-funk vibe that mixed well with the drinks, the hip clothing, and the relaxed, post-liberal arts degree chatter - Augusta, Yanie, Margot, Eve and myself headed to Rayuela, a chic "Estilo Libre Latino" inspired restaurant on the Lower East side.


Two bottles of wine, four courses each, an adorable Polish waiter, talk that included discussions of Babeland (if you are a woman and you haven't been, you should go), French men, beautiful women, and muscle relaxers, and three hours later, we lightly tripped into the night air. (Note the romantic use of "lightly tripped". It's probably a euphemism). With promises of a reunion in France, we made our way to our respective subways. It was, to the last drop of wine, exactly the kind of evening that makes me both content with the present and excited about the future.

I recently came across a passage in Jane Eyre quoting Solomon:

"Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, then a stalled ox and hatred within".

With all due respect to Solomon, a dinner of red velvet cake and gazpacho where love is is even better.

On reasons for over-sharing

I moved to New York City almost two months ago. (Has it really been two months!?) Brooklyn, to be exact. My room is small, but bright, and one of the few downsides to the place is the 4th floor walk up which makes using my bike less than appealing.

I work for Dixon Place, a non-profit, experimental theater company dedicated to presenting works in progress and, in particular, allowing gay and lesbian performance artists to present their work in a supportive, nurturing, and more often than not, sparkling, environment.

Our logo is two dogs. They are humping. We sell tee shirts..

This is Dixon Place. We have a cozy bar, a beautiful black box theater, very expensive chairs, and an enthusiastic bulldog named Kirby. Stop by. We'll give you condoms.

I am the administrative intern at DP. It's a lot of work. It's fulfilling because I gain satisfaction from being productive and because the people I work with are fabulous. Lately, however, I've been suffering from a lack of creative outlet. I miss acting and singing and writing. So.

Consider the renewal of this blog an attempt to stave off creative atrophy.

In the meantime, I'm on the look-out for theater workshops of all kinds: clowning, singing, lighting, etc. If you hear of anything, I'd love to know. For now, Jane Eyre and the occasional, whimsical, nonsensical blog-entry will have to suffice.