Tumblr Tuesday: Errands

If I had written this, I would have tagged it "the 1950s would hate me."  That's why I love it (both!) so much.  That's all.  Just wanted to share.  =)

Maybe This Is It?

The last time I was here, the cardboard cut-outs of Hillary Clinton were 50% off.  Tourists stopped to take photographs with a two dimensional Obama or McCain.  Memory re-orders the shops.  I deem them misplaced but almost rejoice that they are all still here.  I know the best place to buy lunch, which line moves the fastest, how to find tiny altoids (downstairs at the convenience store tucked around the corner from the escalator).  The Starbucks line still falls out the door and accidentally mingles with the Hertz rental car line.  I remember how empty this space feels at 10pm.  It always  seemed like we were the only ones in the city who needed a late-night coffee to make it the 3 blocks home.  We probably were. 

I had forgotten the friendly nature of people here.  How much more they smile.  How much more I smile.  I recognize faces, although mine goes unnoticed.  My heart breaks a little when that face is homeless.  Still sitting and staring and chanting.  I almost walk two blocks in search of my favorite - he was a kind head nod and small smile every day that summer.  I don't want to walk by the old office and old "apartment", so I tell myself he is fine and almost believe it.  I still see faces of people who aren't here.  Who were never here with me.  People I have not thought of in months.  I'm surprised that this hasn't faded with time, and I wonder if it ever will.  Will this city always remind me of you?  I had forgotten how often someone asks me for directions: "I don't know *shrug* I'm sorry!"  I apologize that an ipod on doesn't mean resident, and they apologize for breaking my stride.  We meet in the middle of the sloppy apologetic puddle and move forward.  Kindness. 

This time around my thoughts form stories, laying words like bricks, but I'm not sure there is a foundation. This time I decide not to walk through the Senate office buildings and head straight for the Museum of the American Indian.  I stop and breath in the Capitol building.  Inhale and exhale peacefulness.  My eye searches for photographs and captures viewfinder shots differently than two years ago, when I played tourist with my camera and resident with my heart.  I sit in the shadow of the museum and watch the waterfalls cascade.  I'm gentle on myself for not remembering the symbolism of the architecture and landscaping.  Note the importance I assign this knowledge.  I pick up a brochure on my way out and promise to take the tour next time.  Next time.  Feel daunted and assured. 

At the end of the day I'm in Union Station, sitting in a gray suit with a pen in one hand and a Starbucks in the other.  If I am trying to reconcile parts of me - professional and personal - then maybe this is it?

Constructed Lives

We pass over the East River on a bridge different than MetroNorth's.  Roll through Brooklyn in the fog.  The buildings peak but the gray swallows the skyline.  The same gray as my suit.  I convince myself that I have not disappeared and wonder why this internal conversation sounds familiar.  When else did I have to convince myself that I have not yet disappeared?  What was I doing then?

As we pull into Penn Station I'm stringing words together but sitting on my hands.  Afraid I will write myself out of my life.  A constructed life, I remind myself.  It waxes and wanes, but you're okay, I coax myself.  My hands still pressed against the fake leather seat.  Willing myself not to get off the train and run into the warm New York rain.  Feel it rush down my face.  Scrunch my nose at the smell of wet sidewalks and the stench of misplaced garbage. I turn up my ipod, take a deep breath, and text a friend - my fingers need something to do.  Dismiss the thought that this must be what a quit smoker feels like after kicking the addiction.  Dismiss the thought that NYC has become an unhealthy addiction.  Call it back because maybe that will keep me in my seat.

A woman with fast blackberry fingers sits down next to me.  I grab my coffee as we lurch out of Penn Station.  Try to figure out if I started holding my breath before or after we left the station.  Scramble for my pen and paper.  Declare myself in bold ink A WRITER to the pages of my moleskin. "Once In A Lifetime" crawls into my headphones, and I can't help but wonder what this moment means for my life.  We cross what I assume to be the mouth of the Hudson, and suddenly this train ride can't be long enough.

"You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here? [...]

You may ask yourself
Am I right?... Am I wrong?  [...]

You may ask yourself: well... how did I get here?" 

[Once In A Lifetime, Talking Heads]

Tumblr Tuesday: How Do You Remake Yourself?

Is it okay if I post a tumblr tuesday on a thursday night?  Is it okay if I back-date it?  Yes?  Okay, thanks.  =)  I didn't want this week to go by without sharing with you one of the best things I have read in a long time.  Seriously, if you read anything this week, read this.

Erica is one of my absolute favorite tumblrs and one of my absolute favorite writers.  I love her writing style so much that I would probably devour the phone book if she wrote it.  She writes at the core of life openly and honestly.  I went into a book store the other day to buy a book for a long train ride home. When I couldn't find what I was looking for, I realized it was because I was looking for the book Erica wrote, or more accurately, the book I am waiting for her to write.  Until then, I'll just wait eagerly for her tumblr posts.

In this post (reblogged in part on my tumblr) she answers the question "how do you remake yourself?"  Her answer is raw but delicious.  Go read it.  I'm sure you'll love it.

If Plans Were Tangible

I have plans.  (Don't I always?)  I keep them hiding under my bed.  I stuff them away in that dark corner where I can't see them, even when I'm lying flat on my stomach.  There are lots of them.  They fill a box, weaken the seams, shuffle themselves about like disorganized photographs.  Some are photographs. 

I can't reach them unless I wedge myself between the floor planks and the bed frame, prop up my face on the box spring, and wave my hand around in the dark.  But I do this at least once a day.  I pull of the box, add a plan, re-order a section, place one plan before another, color in the night sky of another.   Sometimes I add lipstick to my face, that blue coat that is already discontinued, and hair that stays perfectly in place despite the wind.  Sometimes I make a loan payment, order a kitchen counter for my studio apartment, and take a long sip of hot coffee.  The mug is always hot enough to warm my hands but cool enough not to burn. 

But I inevitably stumble upon some plan from years ago, faded, ripped, unattained.  Or attained but with an attached addendum so heavy that it sinks into unattained.  "Inevitably" only because I don't file away the attained plans in this box.  Those I digest with evening meals; they sustain my everyday like my carbohydrates count - so unnoticed I couldn't even offer a range.  So, of course, my hand grazes the sharp edges of those unattained, still filed away, waiting, incubating, or rotting. 

I recoil.  Shut the box.  Shove it back into the corner.  I notice how easily it glides.  How heavy it has become.

When Music Heals

I left this past year in a puddle of sweat and tears on the concrete floor.  I made sure not to step in it on my way out.  I texted Nicole as we walked back to the car: "That was AMAZING.  I think i birthed myself into a new person. Holy fuck wow." 

Guitar strings poured noted waterfalls over the crowd.  Our hands up, up, palms open, letting the notes wash over us.  The saxophone sang.  The drum echoed my heart - with beat, beat, beat, beat- I am alive.  I am alive.  Lyrical perfection, my story, our story goes unnoticed; the worn map directing this music.  This jam.  This experience.

The sweat rolled, dripped, streamed, soaked.  Both my hands in the air moving opposite my shoulders, hips, sway, sway, swoosh, and feet tap, tap, swivel, tap, swivel, swivel.  Eyes closed, because this is mine.  This moment is mine, alone in a crowd of thousands, and I can't see past the glowing red LIFE alive and vibrant under my eyelids.  I'm watching pain, fear, disappointment slide down my body next to the beads of sweat sliding, sliding, pooling, pooling at my feet.  Cool blues and greens falling way to gravity.  Lightness rising, filling, exhale and inhale.  I might be that yellow balloon floating, floating, floating away.  I've left it all on the ground there beside my feet.  Now a transparent, gray, grime, puddle.

I didn't give it a second look when I stepped over it to walk out of the venue.  I knew it held every. single. difficult. moment. of the past year.  I have memorized the intersection of my bedroom wall and ceiling, shadowed in the one a.m. light of insomnia.  I know the feeling of the hard wood floor after sitting on it for hours, just looking at each other.  Puffy, swollen cheeks that come after things fall apart without a promise of falling together even better.  I didn't need to see any of it again to know I would still remember it.  Honor it.  So I left it there.  I left this past year in a puddle of sweat and tears on the concrete floor.  I walked away lighter.  I walked away a new person.  And I haven't looked back since.

LISTEN HERE

Now, Pedal

In keeping with the Italy theme this week, I thought I would post this as my Tumblr Tuesday choice.  (Actually, the Italy thing is a complete coincidence.  Or maybe a sign? ;))

"Volevi la bicicletta. Adesso, pedali. / You wanted the bicycle. Now, pedal."

So true, right?

The Bathroom Floor, Red Wine, and A Sore Butt

Confession: I never finished Eat, Pray, Love.  When a friend passed the book to me, I was in the middle of trying to figure out the differences among actual, apparent, and implied agency.  In my free time, I was trying to understand what to include in adjusted gross income, when the state could terminate parental rights, what type of constitutional rights a lawful permanent resident holds, and whether or not I actually had to go to my Foundations of Public Policy class.  (The answer to that is a resounding no.)  In short, I was starting my 2L year.  A year brought to you by adrenaline, caffeine, lots of four letter words, and a few bursts of passion.  Oh, I could tell you stories... but at another time.  The truth is: I used all of these reasons as excuses not to finish Eat, Pray, Love.

I watched the movie last night, even though I never finished the book.  (Sorry, Nicole.  I know this breaks your heart!)  I wasn't sure what to expect.  I hadn't found the time to finish the book, so I assumed I would find the movie less than mediocre.  The movie was fine.  I'll leave my review of it at that.  My personal realization about five minutes into the movie was... well, it was one of Oprah's famed "aha!" moments.  I didn't finish the book because it showed me what I really wanted.  (Even now, that's a bit of a scary sentence to write.)

Despite what Elizabeth Gilbert's bio actually says, I subconsciously read it to say: Born and raised in CT, went to prominent Northeast liberal arts school, found solace in her pen, followed the traditional path to traditionally defined "success", managed to build a "Better Homes and Gardens" life despite a fear of commitment to all things "Better Homes and Gardens", breaks down, and then, after serious introspection, discovers True Joy.  Honestly, I think I looked at the book, subconsciously saw myself reflected back in it, quietly said "oh $#!%", and promptly put the book down.  

Well, almost promptly.  I read through enough of the book to know that I didn't give it a chance to make the impact it could made.  I know that my heart should have wept with her on that bathroom floor.  I know that I should have tasted the red wine, the cappuccinos, the sugar coated pastries in Italy.  I know that I should have felt the frustration of a wandering mind when trying to sit without thought.  (That's not a commentary on her writing.  That's saying that I've spent time on that bathroom floor and tasted the freedom of red wine and practiced meditation when I just didn't know what else to do with my life.)  Instead, I read the book at an arms length.  I read about a woman in her thirties who already made a successful career, purchased a house, and said "I do".   I recognized the important message of the book on an intellectual level, but I failed to connect on an emotional level.  By putting the book down, I declared it had nothing to do with my life.

Watching the movie I realized that when I started reading the book during my 2L year, it pointed me straight towards "breaks down, and then, after serious introspection, discovers True Joy."  So of course I declared that it had nothing to do with my life and promptly put it down.  I could rationalize that I was only in my twenties, had yet to build a "real life", had very few commitments, and  never had any intentions of saying "I do"; therefore, Elizabeth Gilbert's life had nothing to do with mine.  I was too busy building my life to concern myself with her journey.  I realize now that I didn't want to face what I already knew: I was headed straight towards breakdown.   I saw it coming.  I couldn't stop it.  I'm glad it happened. 

I would like to think that last year did not constitute an actual breakdown.  In fact, I know that it did not.  But a few things in my life shattered, and I intentionally took apart a few more.  I had to take the time to find the cracks in my foundation, make repairs, change the blueprints, and start thinking about what type of life I really wanted to build.  I can recognize that I am still in the middle of this right now.  Already, from the middle (or perhaps still the beginning?), I feel closer to true joy/something more/my best life. 

I still have a lot of what I worked towards the past few years.  I still have some of the same goals - but they're clearer and more streamlined now.  They have released excess baggage and walk around with a lightness in their step.  They have a better sense of their destination and what they have to pick up along the way.  They allow other goals and dreams to saddle up beside them. 

I don't see Italy, India, or Indonesia in my near future (but someday hopefully!), but I am working on spending more time indulging, reflecting, and playing.  Whether you want to call it my own personal EatPrayLove or QuarterLifeCrisis or JustRememberingWhoIAm, I'm committing to the work involved in finding true joy/something more/my best life.  And I think I'll go out and pick up my own copy of Eat, Pray, Love because, hey, there's some of me in that book!  =)

"This Will Probably Rank High (If Not #1) On The List Of The Weirdest Emails You Have Ever Received"

["I worked in the Medical Records Department (HIM Specialist II - aka professional copy machine attendee - ha) during summer breaks from college.  One afternoon, a man came in to sign a release form.  We were busy during that lunch hour, but I remember trying my best to give him my undivided attention and to help him fill out the form.  He came back the next day with a package for me.  (Yes, this was weird behavior.)  My supervisor called hospital security, and they swept it away without a second glance in my direction.  I found out later that afternoon that he had written me a letter and made me a mixed tape. (Do those even exist anymore?)  He said something to the effect of "I really appreciated your kindness and help the other day.  Not often do I run into such simple kindness, and I made you this tape to express my gratitude."  My supervisor was pleased with me, security was freaked out, and I had to wear my badge turned upside down for the rest of the summer.  I never got to see the contents of the package or read the letter. 

The next morning, a hospital administrator called me into her office and asked how I felt about the event.  I told her I felt badly that we live in a world where somebody tries to express gratitude and kindness, and it comes off as dangerous and unstable.  I think it is important to tell a person when s/he has made an impact on you.  I told her that I understand his actions were extreme and improper, but where is the line drawn exactly? She told me that she agreed.  She told me that she, too, thought it is important to acknowledge when people made an impact on you.  She said she thought it is important to take that risk.  

I think of that man more often than expected, and I often wonder if he knows that he inadvertently had an impact on me, also. (Ha! Yeah right, I know.)  Over time, the conversation with the hospital administrator stands out more and the potential-absolute-craziness (the check-into-the-behavioral-health-unit-two-doors-down type of craziness) wears off.  I'm telling you this story, because it is where I am coming from when I write this email: I think it is important to tell a person when s/he has made an impact on you."]

And then I proceed to write an email to a guy who would never expect it coming about how he has no idea but he made an impact on my life.  And then I promptly hit the DELETE button, because I'm pretty sure I wrote THIS SAME MESSAGE to a boy I liked when I was FOURTEEN YEARS OLD (and one at fifteen, and one at sixteen, and some skewed version of this in college).  Only I wrote it MORE THAN TEN YEARS AGO on a college-lined sheet of notebook paper and not in the draft folder of my gmail account.  I have some strange mixture of pride and humiliation that I am still determined to write emails after midnight with the keen desire to say, "HEY, YOU'RE IMPORTANT."  I still have this sneaking suspicion that the recipients needs to hear this.  Like I said - a strange mixture of pride and humiliation.  But I don't want to live in that world where an expression of kindness comes off as dangerous and unstable.  I don't know if rectifying that happens solo in "my own world" by sending a note of kindness, or if rectifying that happens in "the real world" by not sending a note of kindness.  So for now, I'm keeping that email in the trash, and I will consider writing a very short  "heeyyy, what's up?  hope all is going well in your world" email at 2pm tomorrow.  Just to be on the safe side.  I'll probably write "just a hello" in the subject line.  Honestly, I'll probably hit delete on that one too, because what I really want to say is "I THINK YOU NEED TO HEAR THIS AND I DEFINITELY NEED TO SAY THIS: YOU ARE IMPORTANT IN MY LIFE."

Don't worry, I'll go ahead and tag this post "teen angst" immediately...  But seriously - where's the line?

Tumblr Tuesday: Haunted

Dear Tuesday,  

You flew by this week!  In fact, I almost missed you entirely.  No worries though, I did remember Tumblr Tuesday.  =)  See you again next week!

Love, 

Emily

This week's tumblr post is:

The Guggenheim has a great exhibit going on for a few more weeks entitled: "Haunted".  I spent an afternoon there last week walking around the circular floors and taking in the exhibit.  It is absolutely worth seeing.   I think the Andy Warhol piece was my favorite. 

The entire exhibit is unsettling, thought-provoking, inspiring, and sometimes just plain creepy.  But in that wonderfully good, important way.  It explores the concepts of national tragedy and personal tragedy.  The multi-media nature of the exhibit highlights the infinite number of ways that art can convey the unexplainable. 

I spent a lot of time thinking about tragedy and how it defines a person or a nation (or how a nation/person works not to be defined by a tragedy).  This exhibit has layers upon layers, and I could have definitely spent more than an afternoon sorting through the artwork and the meanings.  But if you have only an afternoon free - definitely go check it out and let me know what you think!

On Moving and Boxes and Goals

A good friend of mine moved last weekend.  Across a couple of states.  For an entirely new life. 

I talked to her this morning, and she sounded really happy.  The genuine kind of happy that sounds strong and graceful at the same time.  The kind that comes at the new beginnings that follow tough decisions or draining circumstances. 

Oh, and the kind that erases a long haul to a new place.  You know the kind, right?  The kind that begins with  oh my god how did i ever accumulate this much stuff?  that leads into  do i reaaaally need all of this stuff?!  followed by  welp here's where i find out because there is NO WAY it is all going to fit!!  It usually ends with a solid cry, a stream of four letter words, and then some angel swoops in with a kind face and tells you to go wash the bathroom sink for a while, or check to make sure all the windows are still in place, or some other small unnecessary task that gives you an escape or at least a private place to have a mini-meltdown. (Not that I'm speaking from experience or anything.) It always works out fine.  Somehow it all ends up fitting and arrives at the new place in one piece and full of promise. 

Full of promise.  I loved hearing about my friend's new place and new neighborhood.  She's standing at that wonderful place at the very beginning where anything can happen and anything is possible.  She decided to follow her passion and her talent, and it led her across a few states to a place where she can almost reach out and hold onto her goals.  It's that tangible.  If she slips, she can reach out and grab onto her goals.  They'll hold onto her as tightly as she will hold on to them. 

She talked this morning of unpacking boxes, ants, cleaning, and closet space, but it was light, and airy.  Solve-able chitter-chatter dunked in excitement and anticipation.  Contagious excitement and anticipation.  thankgoodness. 

I cried a few days ago at the mere prospect of the emotional and physical stress that comes with packing my entire life into a small space and then taking a leap off a high cliff towards the much anticipated "next chapter".  I have moved so many times, called so many places home (mostly for lack a better word than a sincere feeling), chasing the same goal, that the prospect* of doing it again reduced me to fearful tears.  It's the same goal I'm chasing - I just didn't realize how many chapters I would have to page through before I reached the end of this chase.  Before I actually reached the goal. 

Listening to my friend on the first real day of her "next chapter" sparked something stronger than fear.  It sparked excitement and anticipation for that graceful and strong happiness.  Excitement and anticipation for beginnings full of promise.  These things come with moving, too.  I know this because I have done it so many times before.  I can do this again.  I want to do this again.

My goals are holding on to me tightly.  We are intertwined.  They hold me up when I'm tired, worn down, and stumbling.  Their arms are heavy this summer.  When I got off the phone with my friend, they heaved a large sigh of relief, set me down, and shook out the muscle tension.  We both knew I was ready to carry them for a while.  I can't say that I am feeling strong or graceful.  But I can say that I am one wobbly step closer to happiness. 

Thank you, Bee.

*a possibility, possibility, possibility.  tangible hope for a good fit.  for a next step.  send some good vibes into the universe for me? thanksiloveyou!

Humid Days

The humidity has returned today.  Everything feels moist, and heavy, and still.  I have fallen into line.  Even the minutes seem to take a longer time counting to sixty.  Dragging their heels, stopping to rest, breathing heavily.  When the minutes drag, the afternoons stretch, and I can only think that tomorrow has broken its promise to arrive on time.  I'm afraid tomorrow will leave me here, stuck in humid afternoon air.  Hazy without even a glimpse of the horizon. 

I'm ready for an end to these summer afternoons.  I'm ready for tomorrow.

Tumblr Tuesday: Brick Walls and Taxi Cabs

Tuesday again?  Seriously?  Ok, I suppose I'm fine with that.  This week's Tumblr Tuesday post is:

I'm inserting the photo rather than the screen shot, because the actual post is too big for the screen shot.  (Someday I'll figure out how to fix it.  That day isn't today.)   I love this picture, because it has become a bit of a visual mantra since I uploaded it to iphoto last week.  I knew I liked the shot when I took it.  I thought it was visually diverse.  A bit of a contradiction.  I took a lot of photos that day, but I remember looking forward to uploading this one more than the others.  I'm not sure how long I looked at it before I realized I connected to it on a symbolic level.  (What else would you expect from a comp. lit. major? Uh, years ago... shhhh... don't tell anyone I still identify with my college major.  But I digress...)

The camera is focused on the brick wall and the "oncoming truck" sign.  Everything else is blurry and out of focus.  Obviously, I did this on purpose when I hit the shutter button, but I don't think I really "saw" the brick wall until I uploaded the photo. 

I have a bit of personal history with brick walls.  As in, I tend to run face-first into them when I am trying wholeheartedly to achieve something I am passionate about and it doesn't work out.  After I hit the wall, I always have to evaluate where the passion came from and better direct it.  Usually it's not the passion that led me down the path to the brick wall; it's something else that misdirected me along the way.  I know this about myself, and I wouldn't change it despite the occasional bruise, bump, scratch. 


I ran into a brick wall last fall.  I should have seen it coming, but I didn't.  I hit it pretty hard and then continued to bump up against it for a while longer than I ever wanted. 

I know this brick wall exists now.  I have my eyes glued to it, because I don't want to hit it again.  I'm focused on the brick wall.  And the fear of the oncoming truck.  You know the kind: the ones that run you down and leave your bones feeling at least four times heavier than your body mass.  I'm watching for the oncoming truck with my eyes glued to the brick wall. 

And I'm missing the other half of the picture.  The blurry, unfocused other 50% of the picture.  The taxi cab.  The bicycle. Vehicles.  Methods of movement.  I'm focusing on the brick wall with such intensity that I am dangerously close to missing movement away from the brick wall.  The bright, colorful, wind-in-my-hair, exhilarating, method of movement out and around and far, far, far away from that brick wall.

Sure, it's just a photo.  But this photo told me: I need to refocus.