Time to (try to) Be a Grown-Up

This is another sheepish entry.
Life has been very busy lately, but that's no excuse for my absence! I'm feeling the need to slow down a bit for the next couple of days. I've been running at fever pitch for the last week or so, traveling, working late, and not getting to the things I need to - for both my practical and creative sanity.
I've been letting things get away from me, which I guess is normal for someone whose life has become filled with work and other diversions. At the same time, I feel as if I'm losing track of some important parts of my life - like writing, appreciating more about New York, and taking some time to be more responsible. These are lessons to be learned, but I get the impression I'm walking a line between being too easy and hard on myself about not confronting them head-on.
So, this weekend, I have decided to take a three-pronged approach. Sunday will be my no-excuses 9-5 writing day, and Saturday (after spending some time formulating - cringe- a much tighter monthly budget for myself) I will brave the crowds at the Met to see the Matisse exhibit. He's a favorite, and I haven't been to a museum in ages. Plus, while that exhibit will definitely be mobbed, the great thing about the Met is it's so huge you can always find space to yourself.
A few months ago, before it got too hot to be outside for more than 15 minutes at a time, I was reading a Russian novel in Central Park - The Idiot by Dostoevsky, which is heavy on the Christ-like themes and imagery. There was a somewhat disheveled man sitting on the bench next to me, drinking coffee and giving me strange sideways glances. When this went on past a comfortable amount of time, I was about to switch benches when he started to talk to me, asking about what I was reading. Oh boy, I thought, I don't need to talk Russian literature with some guy with a serial killer haircut. As it turns out, this man had been a docent at the Met for 10 years, and, given the nature of what I was reading, started chatting me up about his favorite paintings depicting the Crucifixion that were on display in the museum. He even pulled a little crumpled map of the Met out of his blazer pocket and circled the gallery where his favorite painting, The Crucifixion of Saint Sebastian, is hung. I was completely surprised by this man, as happens in New York from time to time, and felt grateful for being proven wrong about him.
So, in between tightening my belt, trying to spark some creativity, and searching for a second income, I'm going to dig for that map and go see Saint Sebastian and Matisse this weekend. My life has been so insular lately, so I'm looking forward to marveling at something much greater.

Catch Up

So, I have not been great about posting lately. This past week/weekend was a bit of a blur. Lots of work and play - so I've been distracted.
Life in Publishing has been great, busy, and made the past month and a half fly by (I can't believe I've had my job this long). It has also, peripherally, been stirring a bit of jealousy within me. I think it's the good, motivating kind of jealousy, though. Seeing young debut novelists get good reviews and exposure makes the whole game of getting published less mysterious and also more tangible...as in, why aren't you doing this?
As a result, I've been reading and writing a lot lately. As Faulkner said, "Read, read, read everything." Very wise words - nothing inspires me more. When I attended the Young Fiction Awards at the New York Public Library a while ago, I swiped copies of all 5 nominated books (a feat for someone in a pocket-less cocktail dress and a handbag barely big enough to hold my wallet). I've been blazing through them, the first being All The Living by C.E Morgan - a gorgeous and unique book for many reasons. The novel takes place on a dusty, lifeless tobacco farm in Kentucky and very little happens, but I can't remember the last time I was so engaged by such a seemingly simple narrative. The author, who went to Harvard Divinity School, weaves in religion in an unexpected and fascinating way. I love being able to see how clearly the ways in which our experiences can shape the way we express ourselves creatively. It makes me thirsty to do more and varied things.
Now, I'm on to Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower, which could not be more different. I was initially excited to read it, beyond the great reviews and the fact that it actually won the Young Fiction Award, because I think the title is badass. It also resonates with every story, which range from chronicling a man building an eclectic aquarium in a trailer park to hilariously following a group of vikings as they, yes, ravage and burn things.
This post has somehow turned into a book review. This is not surprising, as a large portion of my days now are devoted to me reading, scanning, and trying to get book reviews for our titles. Oh well. Tomorrow I'll cover the writing part of this rant and post one of the things I've been working on - which is narrated by a child, an exercise I love.
Also, there will be more tomorrow on the second job search...my work is never done! Plus, the wine-related aspects of my life haven't had enough airtime lately.
So, I exist. I am still writing this thing, and I will be back tomorrow.

Some Vintage Stuff

Last night was lovely. I had dinner with a great friend, her sister, and her sister's boyfriend - delicious food, great wine, and lots of fun. Afterward, I was lucky enough to spend the rest of the evening with some wonderful family, feeling the love. There was a lot of talk about art, following creative pursuits (one of my cousins is living the dream as a musician). It's great to spend time with people where there is so much mutual understanding and appreciation - particularly when they're family. What made last night so great was being able to be around people with whom I felt so comfortable and happy - family and a friend who feels like family to me.
Anyway, it brought me back to the super-observant descriptive writing that I'm actually trying to move beyond. There's nothing wrong with it as far as sketches or little portraits go, but I need to get better at integrating plot and dialogue -which is significantly more challenging for me. So, here is a bit of an artifact from the not-so-recent past:

Sunday Afternoon

As if on cue, the bugs started to come into view at the first sign of sweat gathering on my upper lip. My nose predictably reacting to the summer cold I can’t seem to shake brings more sweat, that of frustration. I stare at the huge box of sand and gravel in front of me, longing for a beach as a dog lifts its leg against a nearby bench. I watch a couple probe the insides of one another’s mouths as the light begins to change – the sun feeling no less powerful despite its waning position behind me. Summer in this city shows itself on my feet, which are a different shade than my ankles. A fly lands on my second toe, and I don’t brush it off right away, which feels perverse and satisfying. I stare down at the bricks that serve as pavement, mismatched and from different years. I am suddenly conscious of how eagerly I am avoiding checking the time. I even attempt to connect the dots of an excessively annoying nearby cell phone conversation. The man is bent laboriously over his phone, almost yelling into it, ending each sentence on an incline, as if asking an infinite amount of questions.

It quickly becomes too much, enough to rouse me from the bench and force me to look down at my watch – still more than an hour to waste. Somehow the idea of having nothing to do is incredibly enticing until it is all there is. Having no job and dwindling funds leaves me at the mercy of my busy friends’ schedules and the shortage of inexpensive things to do. To take my mind off the burdens of independence, I have discovered an hour and a half of yoga every day at a donation-based studio on St. Mark’s Place. Instead of the eight dollars the studio suggests, I offer a genuine, if slightly embarrassed, smile and thank you on my way out the door.

By the time I have traversed across the park, offering the proper reverence to the old brownstones and attempting to ignore the surplus of tourists on a Saturday, and east on 8^th Street, I try to find a place to sit and wile away the fifteen minutes before the previous class trickles out. I take refuge on the steps of a combination noodle restaurant/tattoo parlor, and stare at the door to the studio across the street.

After feeling a vibration against my waist, I reluctantly answer the call of a friend who seems to be constantly in some sort of psychological turmoil – or at least whenever she calls me, since she consistently asks for advice. Since I can hardly seem to help myself these days, I mostly just listen to her talk for fifteen minutes. For some reason, she sees me as wise, though what I really have is common sense. In my mind, wisdom implies experience, which I certainly lack. It’s all I can do to hear her words through the never-ending debate in my head – is it better to not feel pain and be alone? It’s difficult, even now, to distinguish whether what I feel is numbness or solitude. I hang up the phone with a combination of envy and pity, still with twenty-five minutes to kill.

Fed up with the hard cement of the steps and my inability to get away from my thoughts, which were slowly becoming more and more overwhelming, I gathered myself and climbed the two flights of stairs, wide and probably tiled before I was born.

Before I go to yoga, it always takes a fair amount of inner convincing, my mind forcing my body to be dressed and be at the studio on time, but once I am inside the building, I am in complete accord. The combination of sweat, the wood of the large, wide room, and various perfumes and scents of the surrounding bodies truly reconcile everything that bothers or conflicts me in the moment. What is initially difficult becomes fluid, simple, and focused 90 minutes later. What complicates and frustrates me is eventually simple and unimportant. I feel flexible, aware, and a little breathless – not to mention drenched with sweat and a strange awareness of my femininity, the sexual experience of breathing deeply with thirty other people.

Afterwards, I eventually sink into the reality of the humidity, my unemployment, the construction workers taking note of me very vocally, and my intense thirst for nothing but water. I begin to inevitably come down from the high I have become used to receiving, but there is the memory of it. Also, the opportunity to recapture something so elusive.

Irish Pub, Late Night

As I mentioned before, this is a continuation on things previously written (ie. this would appear after "Gate 74" from before). Again, just a draft / musings which might result in a draft.

Ingrid came into the bar tonight, around 11:30. I knew her vaguely in high school, but she was into artsy stuff that I couldn't penetrate. I went to a play once that she was in, "All's Well That Ends Well." Shakespeare. He's tough enough to understand, regardless of the 3 hard lemonades I'd pounded in the parking lot beforehand, but there was something about the way she talked, said her lines. I've never been able to forget it. It was almost like singing, but not in a way that was lame or contrived at all. It was lyrical, literally. I wanted to kiss her right on the mouth when she started going on about how "an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities."
She recognized me pretty quickly, though I'm not sure why. I can't remember us ever having any sort of real conversation, besides stupid smiles in the hallway and me feigning interest in the school plays. But when she saw me, something in her eyes changed, like she'd isolated a goal or something. She sidled up to the bar, and ordered something like whiskey on the rocks. I asked her what kind, pretending not to know her, wanting to force her to jog my memory of who she was. Somehow needing her to perform that in front of me, for my benefit and no one else's.
I guess I wasn't very convincing, sizing her up, probably too noticeably. As I would have guessed, she started going on about New York, how she lived there now, and how great it was. I always feel like the second someone spends more than a month there, it's all about how much better you are than everyone else. She was calling it "the city", like it's the only one there is, and getting all uppity about it. I gave her the cheapest whiskey we had, and after the first sip she looked surprised, disgusted, and then, immediately aware of herself, tried to cover up both, drinking the syrupy liquor too quickly, trying to seem used to it. I should've felt bad, I guess, but I didn't. It was like getting back at her for how annoying, yet compelling she was. She was quickly drunk, honest, and full of herself.
I quickly started blowing my own cover, too, peppering the conversation with memories I had of her in high school. I think I even mentioned the Shakespeare, which must have totally given me up. I think I ended up giving her three whiskeys, but I was spitting out the shots that drunk frat boys were buying me after the Phillies won around 11. I wanted to keep being able to notice how her eyes were getting wider and how she would laugh constantly, avoiding my eyes and staring down at the bar. I started wondering, after hours had gone by and she hadn't spoken to anyone else, if she'd come here just to see me. Usually girls come in packs, only occasionally breaking away from the herd and letting anyone else in. Penetrating those groups is both impossible and terrifying. Somehow, she came with just herself and no attachments, except maybe to me.
Soon enough, we closed, and it was clear she couldn't drive, so I offered, with bad intentions disguised by honorable ones.