Paix, Pace, Paz, Peace passe

Among the hundreds of faces, passing half conversations via cell phone, jaunting cars, and signs vying for attention it's difficult to find a peaceful space for a thought, a conversation, or just a moment of zen. So for my many missed moments of zen, inadequately replaced by stairwell conversations or unnecessary bathroom visits, I went somewhere more peaceful, and celebrated the Presidents.

This time, the sky caught my attention before I even thought to look at it. Orion's belt vibrantly displayed over the rustle of palms, peace. And when the wind was calm, so was everything else. Back in my Brooklyn bed, I've tried to convince myself that the soft roar of cars on the expressway down the street are really crashing waves. The honking doesn't sound like birds, though, and the skyline still nothing like the stars. And so I go, to see landscapes in oil at the Met, fake palms and oceanscapes on Broadway, and wind meeting the trees in Central Park. These extraordinary things to the tourist are merely replacements for the mundanities that flavor life. The details that make a walk more than utilitarian, a night more than an end, a life more than a function. And in the masterful paintings, the unparalleled performers and impeccably landscaped parks, we find the details that are life. Revered entertainments become the ordinary scenery. and thus, New Yorkers invented the word passe.

The park is draped in bright orange gates, by an artist who's too modern for the confines of paint and canvas. When paint is on the canvas it is not an image but a thought, displayed inside revolutionary space. Dinner takes on a new look and new combinations. Until it, too, is no longer entertainment, but scenery. passe. In many ways, it's reassuring to know that humans can constantly reinvent beauty, art, entertainment and enjoyment. But for me,the confused casualty of man's latest, nothing will ever be as satiating as nature inimitable.

Valentine You Belong . . .

What could be more sappy than songs about love ?
Here are my top ten - gushing with romance:

1. Something in the Way She Moves - Beatles (George Harrison)
2. The Nearness of You - Norah Jones
3. Magic - Ben Folds Five (tough to pick only one from Ben, Missing the War gets an Hon. Mention)
4. Mona Lisa - Guster
5. The Blower's Daugher - Damien Rice
6. Green Eyes - Coldplay

7. Just the Way You Look Tonight -Frank Sinatra

8. February Stars - Foo Fighters
9. Such Great Heights - Iron & Wine

10. L.O.V.E - Incredible Moses Leroy

Also qulity, but just not sappy enough to make the list:
Only In Dreams - Weezer
Friday I'm in Love - The Cure

This was a quickly assembled list while at work. Share the love - make your own additions/suggestions in the comment section - you don't even have to sign in.

Love,

Emily

Chapter and Verse

Haven't felt inspired lately. Taking one from the archives of random writings not originally intended for web view.

She asked me why I came here. In her habitually upbeat voice, she told me how dumbfounded she was when, unlike all the times she said her daughter was living in New York City, the woman actually asked her why. She asked me why I came here like it was the first time the thought had occurred to even her.

Occurring in my mind on a daily basis, the answer to why I came to live in New York City had yet to be articulated, but always to be known somewhere on the tablet of my mind. Twenty-one had seemed a milestone of age before I had reached twenty, and now it seemed younger than any age I had been before. My skin had an oily sheen and a suppleness that could not be concealed. The baby fat still remained on my chubby and rosy cheeks. My evident youth was noted by the delivery men and loiters on the street as they emphasized my beauty in some oral fashion. While I for that reason, combined with the adult nature of New York and the working world, wished that I could conceal every faucet of youth, while at the same time look and feel beautiful in the way that mature seasoned New York women seemed to be.

Two weeks past my twenty first birthday, I had signed a lease on a basement apartment in the upscale Brooklyn Heights neighborhood of New York City. Just one day prior, I was hired for my first salaried job. It happened one month to the day following my graduation from college, and it had all happened so quickly that the question of why remained distant from my signatures on the many dotted lines.

I signed again and again as I made credit card purchase after credit card purchase. I owned a bed. A bookcase. A desk. Dishes.

Why?


Today's Song: Mint Car, The Cure