How many movies have you seen in which either some gruff, unshaven middle aged man or a trim, well dressed young woman says "Coincidence? Bah. I don't believe in coincidence"? I'm gonna go ahead and guess that it's a lot. I, on the other, do believe in coincidences. There has been an increase in coincidence in my life of late.
August 8th, around midnight. Flipping through an old journal, I read aloud an entry from a very difficult, and vastly different, part of my life. It was about faith. And God. I didn't notice the date of the entry until the next day. August 8, 2005.
August 10th, early afternoon. Perusing the blog posts of a close friend, I noticed that the name of her blog, and the subsequent sub-title, is a quote from Beloved, my favorite Tony Morrison novel. "It's good, you know, when you got a woman who is a friend of your mind". It is this quote that I, upon reading it one day last winter, immediately transcribed into my journal and, later, wrote in a letter to a friend of my mind.
August 11th, midday. Reading through past entries on my blog, I came across a comment left by another very dear friend. She had, unbidden and from a country oceans away from me, responded with clarity and care to fears and questions that had quite suddenly overwhelmed me the night before.
I don't claim to know or even suspect that these moments, along with several others that are less poetic, but no less significant, are signs or clues to some hidden truth. I highly doubt that, several days from now, CSI New York will come busting through my apartment door, waving fingerprint ink in my face and shouting "Now it all makes sense!". But there is something oddly comforting about coincidence. While divine intervention is a bit beyond the scope of this blog, I will say that at least, to me, it implies a sort of universal ordering of things. And, if you have ever seen my closet or my desk, you will understand that a little cosmic order makes me feel right at home. And so, yes. I do believe in coincidence, in the same way I believe, wholeheartedly, in sticky-notes and paper clips.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Subway Strings
For the second day in a row, I have been greeted by the haunting sound of a string instrument upon entering the stuffy, unbearably hot subway platform. Last night it was a cello on 34th Street. Today, it was a violin at 7th Ave.
I have always held a deep admiration for the people I see busking in New York City, in Paris, in Pittsfield, anywhere. I envy them, too. I realize that there is much more behind street musicians than a desire to be heard. I do not claim to understand or know those reasons. And yet, still, I envy the ability to share with the world a piece of yourself into which you have put a bit of your soul. I have trouble with this. My journal is filled with poetry, short plays, character sketches, monologues, and stories. Other than myself, no one has read them. Even this blog has been difficult for me. Not many people know about it. If you are reading it, chances are I love you.
I'm not sure how much this has to do with the two different musicians who have, in the past twenty-four hours, made me stop, lean against the hot and sticky walls of the subway platform, and listen. But I want to perpetuate them in some way. And so I pass them on to you; the few, but very important people who take the time out their day to read my ramblings. Perhaps this is a bit of plagiarism on my part. The cellist and the violinist gave me a bit of their souls, and now I've taken them, appropriated them, and woven them into my own narrative. Plagiarism or post-modernism or pretentious(isms) aside, I bequeath those bits to you because, if you are reading this, you have both inspired me by sharing yourself with the world and you have nurtured me by accepting that which I share with you. So thanks. Have a small piece of violin or cello music from the subway. Do with it as you will.
I have always held a deep admiration for the people I see busking in New York City, in Paris, in Pittsfield, anywhere. I envy them, too. I realize that there is much more behind street musicians than a desire to be heard. I do not claim to understand or know those reasons. And yet, still, I envy the ability to share with the world a piece of yourself into which you have put a bit of your soul. I have trouble with this. My journal is filled with poetry, short plays, character sketches, monologues, and stories. Other than myself, no one has read them. Even this blog has been difficult for me. Not many people know about it. If you are reading it, chances are I love you.
I'm not sure how much this has to do with the two different musicians who have, in the past twenty-four hours, made me stop, lean against the hot and sticky walls of the subway platform, and listen. But I want to perpetuate them in some way. And so I pass them on to you; the few, but very important people who take the time out their day to read my ramblings. Perhaps this is a bit of plagiarism on my part. The cellist and the violinist gave me a bit of their souls, and now I've taken them, appropriated them, and woven them into my own narrative. Plagiarism or post-modernism or pretentious(isms) aside, I bequeath those bits to you because, if you are reading this, you have both inspired me by sharing yourself with the world and you have nurtured me by accepting that which I share with you. So thanks. Have a small piece of violin or cello music from the subway. Do with it as you will.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
L.O.L.
My life has been marked by a touch of hilarity of late. Maybe it's the 90 degree heat. Maybe it's the 10 to 6 job accompanied by the production assistant position. Or maybe it's just my body's defense mechanism. It's my subconscious way of protecting myself from insanity.
This week, I have been busy. I have been tired to the point where hyperbole escapes me. Just as the Hot Festival begins to wind down at Dixon Place, the fast-paced scramble to settle the fall season kicks in. On Tuesday, I felt as if I'd been pushed off a cliff and told to fly. I left work with a headache, a stomachache, and an aching desire to GO HOME. Instead, I went to a production meeting for Manon/Sandra on the other side of town. We sat in the lounge of the SITI studio on 8th Ave and went over all the things that were, and still are, going wrong. It was one of those days. The meeting was adjourned at nine, not because we had resolved any issues or come to any conclusions, but because we were just. too. tired. Tina, Pia, Jessi, and myself hung around in the computer lab for a while afterward, desperate for a little girl time, for company that was purely non-business. We ended up staying in that small little room for another 45 minutes. I don't remember how it started and I don't really care. All I know is, by 9:15, we were bent over double, tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks. What a breath of fresh air that was.
Today at Dixon Place, the atmosphere was similar. In this case, it was Kirby the British bulldog's outrageous, freakishly child-like antics, that had me in paroxysms, holding the partially unwrapped toner I was about to insert into our finicky, freakishly child-like (in its constant need of supervision and care) printer. It was the kind of laughter that makes it difficult to hold things or perform precision tasks. In my case, it made it nearly impossible for me to manipulate the box cutter I was using to slice through the foil wrapping of the toner. My body's way of telling me to take a break.
I started of this post by referencing helpless laughter as a subconscious safeguard against insanity. I'd like to retract that statement. I think laughter is an escape from the sane. It is a relief from the mundane tasks that threaten to overwhelm our sense of joy. It is a reminder that sometimes, it's okay when things don't make sense. Sometimes, you really just need to laugh at the way the British bulldog is attacking the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance most commonly associated with Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Because it's just plain funny.
This week, I have been busy. I have been tired to the point where hyperbole escapes me. Just as the Hot Festival begins to wind down at Dixon Place, the fast-paced scramble to settle the fall season kicks in. On Tuesday, I felt as if I'd been pushed off a cliff and told to fly. I left work with a headache, a stomachache, and an aching desire to GO HOME. Instead, I went to a production meeting for Manon/Sandra on the other side of town. We sat in the lounge of the SITI studio on 8th Ave and went over all the things that were, and still are, going wrong. It was one of those days. The meeting was adjourned at nine, not because we had resolved any issues or come to any conclusions, but because we were just. too. tired. Tina, Pia, Jessi, and myself hung around in the computer lab for a while afterward, desperate for a little girl time, for company that was purely non-business. We ended up staying in that small little room for another 45 minutes. I don't remember how it started and I don't really care. All I know is, by 9:15, we were bent over double, tears of laughter rolling down our cheeks. What a breath of fresh air that was.
Today at Dixon Place, the atmosphere was similar. In this case, it was Kirby the British bulldog's outrageous, freakishly child-like antics, that had me in paroxysms, holding the partially unwrapped toner I was about to insert into our finicky, freakishly child-like (in its constant need of supervision and care) printer. It was the kind of laughter that makes it difficult to hold things or perform precision tasks. In my case, it made it nearly impossible for me to manipulate the box cutter I was using to slice through the foil wrapping of the toner. My body's way of telling me to take a break.
I started of this post by referencing helpless laughter as a subconscious safeguard against insanity. I'd like to retract that statement. I think laughter is an escape from the sane. It is a relief from the mundane tasks that threaten to overwhelm our sense of joy. It is a reminder that sometimes, it's okay when things don't make sense. Sometimes, you really just need to laugh at the way the British bulldog is attacking the vacuum cleaner with a vengeance most commonly associated with Mel Gibson in Braveheart. Because it's just plain funny.
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