Underachievers Please Try Harder

This giant solid mahogany desk sat in the cluttered storage room in the shop my Dad had when I was a little girl. I used to weave my way through the bookcases filled with miscellaneous car parts smelling of grease to get to the abandoned desk. It had three drawers on each side, and a top so big my arm could not reach the wall when I was seated at the desk. The dark reddish wood drawers (say it with me now NJ residents: droors) had simple u-shaped handles of a tarnished silver color. Together, the wood and the metal handles, and perhaps the age of the desk made the drawers very heavy and hard to open and close. They made funny sounds and smelled of old pen ink. What fascinated me most about the desk was the sense of ownership I felt over this imposing piece of furniture. My desk, my office. Here I came to work. I snatched up paper and office supplies from the offices on the lower floor and made myself letterhead. I tried to think of important things to do while in there, but mostly it involved getting the drawers open and putting my office supplies away in them. Sometimes, I'd try to teach myself cursive, or at any rate how to sign my name in cursive, to seem more official. The best part of my office, my desk, were the two boards of polished wood secretly hidden above the three drawers on each side. You could pull out either, or both of the boards, to create additional desk space. I'm sure they have a name, no clue what it was. This feature was the highlight of the desk. As, it was, ever so important that I have more desk space to complete my important office tasks and sign my name on my important office documents.

I work in an office now. I sign my name far too often and it doesn't feel important. My floor is being renovated, so everyone was relocated. I'm down a couple floors in a hallway-like group of cubicles, complete with a desk. My large wooden desk is similar in size, not color or smell, unfortunately. The handles have been improved to a more art-deco style in tarnished brass. But the desk is complete with the additional pull out desk space. Unfortunately, it is now actually useful to my job. When I first situated myself at the desk last Friday, I pulled the wooden shelf in and out, happily. Then I wondered what I was thinking as a child and why the situation I now found myself in was something I had once pretended to do for fun. Maybe next time I'm at work, I'll pull out the shelf and pretend I'm David Geffen or Jacques Chirac. or maybe I'll just get my work done.

Economies of Scale

In a love affair with New York City you never get any sleep.

Money, raucous laughter, scheduling, planning, dreaming - always wanting more, always more to be done. Listening, observing, reading, investigating, enjoying, thinking, discussing fills the days. Thinking fills the nights, and sleeping gets left behind. In a world where high-stress, high-demand jobs are as much as a status symbol as certain last names - money and stress are the order of the day. And yet, there is more to do with your spare time, more to amuse yourself with, and more to spend your money on than anywhere else in the United States.

The culture here will always be unique. I've taken in a bit of culture of late, visited the Guggenheim and saw an Aztec exhibit, that was interesting, but an odd fit as the form-focused exhibit lacked the context in history and details that makes the society most interesting. Then visited Central Park to take pictures of the snow, but found I was too cold, and remembered I'm not really a photographer. Saw a Broadway musical, attended an impromptu house party, and went to the movies. Of all the activities, going to the movies made me feel the most like I actually lived here because I was among the obviously local masses. The culture in all of it wasn't the activities, but the opportunity for people watching.

I've decided most people here are observers of people. In being observers, oddly, we often forget we also have the potential to be observed at times, and at others, think of nothing but that possibility. Here, we're surrounded by other people at almost every moment with fantastic opportunities to observe people when they forget they're being watched, or when they know it.

Initially, when first moving in, I certainly used such observations to learn how to act on the subway - to get up just before the train stops at your station, to stare blankly. I observed what to wear and when, what to say, how to be prepared always with a book and umbrella, but mostly what people are doing, while making up my own subtitles. All that observation has to cause something, more than just to copy a style or to remember not to make a particular facial expression. Do we watch to see if we're normal or to remind us we're different. What do we hope to see? Will our, will my, curiosity ever be satiated? What is the effect of such frequent opportunity for observation among such a large and diverse sample of human beings?
In a city with so many people, is there a mass consciousness? Are we afforded anonymity, individuality or a tacit conformity? Where are we from monopoly to perfect competition ...


Today's Song: Optimist, That Fleeting World

between reason

"When the bus shelter windows and napkin-dispensers surprise with distorted reflections, it's never the someone you're hoping to recognize. When the rent is too high living here between reasons to live and you can't sleep alone and your memories groan and the borders of night start to give. When you can't save cash or conviction; you're broke and you're breaking - a tired shoelace or a wave. So long past, past-due. A new name for everything.

When the one-ways collude with the map that you've folded wrong and the route you've abandoned is always the path you probably should be upon. When the bottle-cap ashtrays and intimate's ears are all full with results of your breaks and the threads of your fear are unfurled with the tiniest pull. One more time, try. Stand with your hands in your pockets and stare at the smudge of a newspaper sky and ask it to rain a new name for everything.

Fire every phrase. They don't want to work for us anymore. Dot or Dash our days. Make your face the flag of a semaphore. All you won't show. The boxes you brought here and never unpacked are still patiently waiting to go. So put on those clothes you never grew into and smile like you mean it for once. If you come back, bring a new name for everything."

-the weakerthans, A New Name for Everything

In nobody's eyes but mine

I never look up at the night sky in New York. I've only seen the skyline.

Always seems odd to me that I don't even know it's possible to see stars while you're in the city because it never occurs to me to look up. I only think about the fact that I don't know what the sky looks like at night when I'm inside, but by the time I've gone outside, I forget to look. I think it's time to get more sleep. The week has been good, though. Rhett Miller was awesome. and - I even made it back to Bleeker Street once again. Work has been unusually productive, and therefore, somewhat less tedious - and - we have Monday off. Unfortunately no one else does. I con't decide whether to waste it on sleep or diligently use it for an adventure. . . stay tuned. you know you want to.

Most of the Time

I had found a new passion for Bleeker Street. All of it, I think. I'm making a resolution to frequent there. On the way home today on the subway, the solicitations began with a man requesting food, change, anything anyone had. His story was the first original one I've heard, he had just gotten out of the hospital that day, he was carrying a patient's plastic bag and even produces a bottle of pills and some pink carbon-copy papers. One would think visual aids would be a powerful thing. He was unsuccessful. Usually, there's only one solicitor per ride, selling something, telling a sad story or performing. Tonight, I was lucky - it was a triple feature. He was followed by a mime, well, not literally. There are these women who in their fannypacks and plastic back packs must be carrying all the noisy and flashing items they sell. For some reason they are always women and always asian. They never say anything but shake the bobble-headed elephant that is clear colored sparkly plasic and not only lights up but also makes noise as it shakes. They also display the other items for sale, and the occasional sales person is sometimes even conveniently selling suspiciously packaged name brand batteries. I have never seen these toy peddling women sell anything. The third man tells perhaps the most about sales and the most about the mentality of a New Yorker. Dressed as the average subway rider, complete with nice kicks and a decent watch, he used a black and white laminated cover of Vibe, picturing the hip hop group of which he was a member. He proceded to tell the car that they were independently and individually selling their CDs and DVDs. Explaining that thier hip hop was progressive and non-violent and they did not promote gang involvement. They had all graduated from college and were just looking to sell their CDs. His shirt also listed a website on the back, he noted. where riders could find out more. Along with your purchase, he would also provide promotional materials. At least six people out of the 25 in the car bought either a CD ($1) or DVD ($2) or both. When he had to make change, he pulled a giant wad of dollar bills out of his pocket after working quite hard to get only that small wad and not the entire pile contained in his pocket. He changed cars at the next stop.

Reality . . . check.

A vocal moment of silence:
There's a huge dose of reality abounding in the world. I can't begin to say how incomprehensible and heartbreaking the results of the Tsunami in Southern Asia are. I am incapable of empathizing or relating, but I commend the efforts of those giving and serving. I have no basis of knowledge to share or be helpful, so I'm not going to even attempt to blog relevantly on the matter or compete with the work of the SEA EAT Bloggers.
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It is no wonder that fiction outsells non-fiction. Even the words, communicate fiction's preferential treatment in society - like factual and historical novels are the "other" section when it comes to bookstores which are mostly just purveyors of fiction. (Note, however, that Bob Dylan's current book Chronicles Volume 1 is so good you'd think they were fiction). The important role that fiction plays in our lives can't be overlooked, and it hit me while reading on the subway yesterday:

Every fairy tale offers the potential to surpass present limits, so in a sense the fairy tale offers you freedoms that reality denies. In all great works of fiction, regardless of the grim reality they present, their is an affirmation of life against the transience of that life, an essential defiance. This affirmation lies in the way the author takes control of reality by retelling it in his own way, thus creating a new world. -Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran

My adult life had, until now, always been my own work of fiction. The Hollywood version of reality. And now, here I am, creating my own masterpiece of non-fiction (certain NOT to be shelved near Dylan's). So then, I've figured it out, and I'd like to choose fiction, please. I'd like the show to go on. Yet here I am, in an unfulfilling job, not only with underutilized potential, but ceased dreams. What would Langston Hughes say ?

So this is the new year

It's been a long time.

Christmas in New York. Anticipation mixed with dazzling displays and crowds to match. Kindness and consumerism, selflessness and worldliness all to the extreme. Experiencing this season was like nothing else, especially while working on the program to provide gifts for the children at our shelters. I have too many experiences, wroght with emotion, to begin to share. The season was different for me, it was good. Unfortunately I found myself stuck in the Ohio valley storm, spending an unexpected night to wake up on the floor of Cinncinatti airport for Christmas eve. In the end - I made it back to Salt Lake, and more than ever I felt what home means. While I usually avoid being overtly religious in my web log, I must say that I had pause to reflect on the reason for which the setting of Christ's birth was in a manger - not in a home, a hotel, a castle or a church - but a manger. It's certainly not happenstance, even if the bible isn't your thing - you can at least note that the author/storyteller certainly chose the setting carefully.

At any rate, Christmas ended - even "the holidays" have ended, and the above is old news. I have been in Salt Lake for eight days now, and have been reflecting on my own sense of home and birth. Mostly enjoying the confluence of factors: physical, emotional, circumstantial that have defined my Salt Lake home over the years. It should be useful as I figure out what in the world this coming year is to bring. I don't know where I'll live or what I'll be doing this time next year. Fortunatley, for some reason, that doesn't frighten me, but it does make me confused an anxious. Maybe I should want my life to be a page turner, but then I'd have to relinquish my desire for control. hm. At least I will always have this "home" to come back to, whether physically or not, at least mentally, and often with good company. For the new year and the last, I must say, I am especially grateful for that. So thanks to the city lights, the Queen of spades, Big Cottonwood, the pink house, little Hun, baby Nathan, the gateway, la Puenta, snowflakes, deans, Desperado, taquitos, Foothill, Mount Olympus, gasoline, 4WD, heck and miss for being "home" this time.

. . . carry me back.