this new need. a home.

last night i stood with my fingers poised on the doorknob listening for the footsteps to recede into the room furthest from my own.

i hadn't even realized he was home.

the roommate.

just as i'd been about to open my door, i heard the shuffle of his feet and so paused, hand in the air, breath in throat, waiting

we've entered into a dance, both of us, without ever speaking of it or agreeing to it, with no words at all, we've found a way of living in which we shuffle step, one around the other. never occupying the same space, interpreting the music of closing doors, running water, the sweet hum of the kettle.

i'm not proud of this, this way of living. this absence of hello's or how are you's. this passing as strangers on the street. and we are, we're strangers, tied together only by the loose bond of mutual acquaintances and similar schooling. he had seemed the best choice to fill the third and largest room.

and he was. he is. he's fine.

it's not really about him, you know?

this three-room apartment, this once castle-in-the-sky, this once playground-of-open-space, endless flooring, and hudson views, it's--well, it's not enough now.

priorities have changed. values have shifted.

i want my own space. i'll take a closet, if i have to, but i want it to be mine and mine alone. i want to build a home. i want to recognize all the smells, know the hair on the bathroom floor. i want to be sure of who to blame for the over-stuffed and over-ripe garbage (yes, me). i want to be sure the nicks and scratches littering my favorite bowls were the product of my careless fingers--and until the possibility that they were caused by the man i love, by our growing children, well, until that possibility is more than just  hope or passing thought, let me live alone.

i want to know that the next time i share a space with someone the impetus will be love.

this new need is so immediate, so strong. startling, really, in just how physical it is.

i was talking about it at work when another girl said, oh, you're moving, do you need a roommate? in her defense, she had caught the tail-end of the discussion.


no, i replied, taking a deep breath and smiling slowly. i want to live alone. 


alone, why would you want that? 


i gave her a little laugh, oh you know...


the oh, you know was my kind way of saying if you even have to ask, it's not worth explaining. 

perhaps it's age, perhaps it is shifting wants and needs from this thing called life, perhaps it's just part of my makeup. perhaps it's part of my fierce need for independence, product of my believe that space is charged and sacred.

who knows for sure.

all i know for now is, let me live alone. let there be a new adventure, a new experience. for the first time in all my years of new york city living, let me lay claim to a space, let me build a home.

pho in chinatown.

i have reached this lovely little phase in my life in which i'm surrounded by the most amazing women. kim, is one of those women. we haven't known each other terribly long, but i can confidently say, i adore her. she's the best. the BEST. (she's been a showgirl in vegas, a lounge-singer on a cruise ship, and a woman of international intrigue {i imagine}). she loves to travel (and she's good at it) so when we take to the streets of new york we do so with idea that we're visiting--and what i mean by this is--we take it in with fresh eyes and force ourselves to traverse the parts of the city we're not terribly familiar with. we seek out independent book-sellers, eclectic fashion boutiques, bars with dim-lighting and cute bartenders.

kim introduced me to pho (pronounced: fuh) which is a vietnamese noodle soup that will knock your socks off. (add the hot sauce and that won't just be metaphor talk). we went in search of some today since i'm now four weeks in to a chest cough that won't quite budge (my socks needed some knockin').

so if you ever find yourself in chinatown (you can take the N/R/Q from 42nd to Canal) go get your pho on.

did i mention it's all of about 4 dollars?


places to go:

Pho NhaTrang
Pho Pasteur

(they are next door to each other and located on Baxter street, between White and Walker streets)

tip-of-the-tongue.

i got off the A train at 181st street around midnight last night.

from the train platform to the entrance of the street is nine stories. you can choose to take the stairs or long escalator up.

i hurried off the train last night, toward the towering, long escalator, and found myself in step behind a taller man, blond, dressed in an impeccable suit. and walking behind him i thought, this man reminds me of someone.

but i couldn't put my finger on it. couldn't dislodge it from that proverbial tip of a very real tongue.

it started to drive me nutty, who does this person remind me of? it wouldn't come. there were murky images and half-formed thoughts, but still, even now this morning as i sit with my coffee, a lit spiced egg-nog candle just off to my side, i haven't really a clue.

the strongest thought or sense or notion, is more that it's someone i've yet to meet. not the man i followed behind, this really has nothing to do with him, it's that he reminds me of someone i've yet to meet.

nonsense.

and yet.

not.

i don't know.

it's been happening a lot lately. this pervasive feeling that i have exciting news to share and then thinking, well, what is it? and coming up blank.

everything feels so on the cusp. just over the ridge. beyond that next hill. so close--closer than ever before.

but what if it's not?

you know when you've can hear a really great song in your own mind? and it sounds so good rattling around up there that you attempt to sing it aloud. it's clear as a bell to you, perfectly crystallized, but when it comes out, oh dear, hideous. the journey between your mind and the mouth, the surfacing that has to happen, it distorts, mistranslates.

i feel like that's where i am: a song surfacing. coming through water for air. on the way up, so very near to the surface. but what comes out, well, that has yet to be seen.

it could be nothing short of disaster.

or not.

i don't know.

i just feel like i'm nearing the end of this nine-story-long-escalator. and as for my sense of what's waiting at the top when i get off? murky, half-images, at best.

claiming the land.

i hated new york this week.

hated the long subway rides. the assault of smells. the brush-bys by men who should not be. that. close.  

hated that i've taken to hiding in the stairwell when i see that one particular neighbor waiting for the elevator. (26 brings maturity, don't let anyone tell you different). 

hated that the guy at the corner store knows me. has for near two years now. hated that he knows when i'm eating well. and when i'm not. hated how his hand always brushes against mine when he hands me the change. no matter how i place my hand--inviting the dropping of the coins, he brushes up against it.  and since i have this theory (or strong-held-personal belief) that all intimacy begins and ends in the hands i find this action invasive, intrusive. 

and yet. he knows me. let's me cut the line when i'm just getting my chocolate covered pretzel. i hand him the dollar and he gives me a wink and a smile. he knows my name. always offers kindness, even when i don't deserve it. 

but this week. oh this week. 

this week i was lonely. 

seems to me as i cycle through emotions some, at certain times, are harder to admit than others. and why is that? sometimes i can't admit sadness. i'll claim everything else, but don't ask me to reveal the underside of that cloak that falls heavy on the shoulders.

this week loneliness sat heavy and oppressive on my chest. this week loneliness curled up under the two highest rib bones, wrapped itself there and clung.

and i considered writing about it. but upon the realization that somebody might actually read these words--oh god, people actually see this?--i evaded, ducked and missed the words all together, which was the first real mistake i made.

it's been harder to write, lately. as though it costs more. takes something from me. a wise friend suggested it's because my life has more value now--or i value it more, so yes, writing from this place is quite literally (metaphysically) more expensive. a side effect of getting better i did not anticipate and certainly do not welcome.

loneliness.

i thought about giving it all up this week. my lease ends in six months. i could sell my furniture. or put it in storage. take three weeks to travel around europe (because it's been suggested to me that three months would not be financially sound) and then move to seattle. or portland. and no i've never been to either of those places but i've  just this sense that i was meant for the pacific northwest. for the gray skies and massive pines and the water. for a pace of life that differs and bends.

i think i would thrive there. i have not reason to think this, no basis for this thought, other than it seems many a good musician is there now and some damn, fine writers as well, so maybe there's something in that water? and maybe that something would do me some good.

if i'm going to be lonely, might as well really be.

might as well go to a place where no one can ask me if i'm acting--if i'll ever, because no one will know me as such, as an actor, as a person who used to act. i hardly know myself as such. no one will know me at all. blank slate. fresh page. page turn.

and just as i'm having all these thoughts, just after having gotten off the train, and having passed quickly through the corner store, i look down at the bottle of sparkling water in one hand and the yam in the other. and the lack of bag, this quick purchase on the way home--it seems so very new york to me. and i love it. and i love new york for it. and just as soon as that thought passes, i pass the local restaurant and wave at my good friend from college who's perched at the end of the bar. and there is a love for that moment.

i'm trying, god help me, i'm trying to feel it all: the dislike and discomfort. the loneliness and wanderlust. the snippets of love i feel for this corner, this home. the in between-ness of this time in my life. because i know it will pass. i know this time, too, is sacred and important. i am changing now, becoming the grown-up version of myself. but oh, how the pushes and pulls make me sick to my stomach.

but again there comes that call--that push: remember this. remember this.

that's the great comfort: all things pass. sadness and loneliness. seasons of our life and slivers of time. and happiness too. and it cycles back only to move on again.

so, okay, before i rid my apartment of all my things, before i take off for europe, i'll enjoy this--this latter  half of october, when, heaven help me, i'll feel loneliness, really feel it. i'll live with it and study it and know it. i'll stake claim to it, plant flags in it, delineate territories and identify tributaries. and make it mine.

if only for a time, if only for a time...


image
via.

counting.

it was cool. the air was cool in coming home.

suddenly.

the promise of fall made manifest.

the streets quiet. 

me padding down the sloping hill. 

and there came a push: remember this. 

the thought leaned into me. 

remember this. this sacred time of night. this alone time. this feel of the air. this ritual that has made your life these last few years, remember this. your days by the river are numbered. these carefree days--untouched and totally afraid--are numbered. 

as long as i live in manhattan, i should:

there is a low, guttural call in the pit of my stomach.

it is the desire to spend a night in a basement bar dancing to nothing but bob marley (or any music that came out of paris in the 1960's).

to leave the bar only when forced and wander the streets of lower manhattan in search of breakfast.

this is entirely doable, non?

who's in?


photo via. 

friday night in brooklyn

what's a gal to do on a friday night in brooklyn? mexican food and wine in prospect park. a trip to the park slope food coop for coconut ice cream. then stealing spoons from an actual outdoor ice cream shoppe (well done, alisha). lots of laughing, new friends, a beer garden, and a little bit of adventure.



i seem to have misplaced my cannon's lens cap (this is why they tell you to replace it immediately). i know that it's somewhere in the apartment, but until i unearth it...well, until then we're left with instagram. so...okay.

the hudson (from where i sleep)

i have a skewed sense of money. i'll pay four bucks for a cup of coffee with only the slightest twinge of regret, but i absolutely refuse to leave the refrigerator door open for one second longer than necessary. don't get me started on running a half-empty dishwasher--i feel bad enough running the full one.

and then there's air conditioning. my guilt at turning on the small window unit in my room knows no bounds.

my stomach is in knots just thinking about it. actually, come to think of it, my stomach may be in knots because i just broke one of the keys on my brand-spankin'-new-macbook-air...sigh. kerfuffle. splat. {feeling like a bit of a disaster today. most days, really}.

but that's another story for another day.

back to the air conditioner.

when new york got hot this summer and the heat rash broke out on my stomach i swallowed my guilt and started pressing that glorious little button of that cooling machine. at first i'd pull my reading chair right up to it and let it blow over my face. i'd close the doors to my room and create a little ice box: air conditioner, fan, closed windows, closed doors, and me in the corner--a greedy little kid stealing cool air from the pantry and hoping not to be caught.

from there my idea of it expanded. i'd turn it on and walk about the room, unapologetically. i even took to sleeping with it on at night (though usually i'd wake sometime just after three to turn it off in a half-wake/half-sleep/half-guilt stupor.

and then new york got hotter. and these old buildings--these buildings that have seen it all and tell countless stories began to take that heat on and in and i started to lose my mind.

and just as the mind went, clarity arrived (go figure). why not move my bed as close to the window unit as possible? why not switch my room around for the sake of the practical.

when i took this room--this room with two separate window looking out over the hudson--i knew one thing: my desk would sit between those windows. and mornings would be spent there with coffee in hand taking in the water's gleam and getting work done.

from there i arranged the bed. the bookcase. the dresser. and it was just right. just as it should be.

but having flipped the room, for the sake of the practical, well, i can see the hudson and the green of the palisades when i wake in the morning (from my bed). gone is the image of the red building across the way--a building who's facade i loved and was always glad to greet upon rising. turns out river and trees trump red brick, every time (go figure).

i'm not sure why i'm writing about this this morning. i think because there's a metaphor in it.

i didn't want to move my bed. i thought it was in the perfect spot. but i did because i knew i'd be cooler at night. turns out, the air conditioning isn't even what i most love about the shift. it's the view. the view i least expected. the view that i'm not quite sure how i didn't work out months ago was best seen from this position.

my mind is in a fog this morning. what i'm getting at (and what i need to take away) is that shifting one's perspective can illuminate a lot more than you bargained for.


hmph. something like that. and because i always like seeing people's space and home and such, i give you some of mine:

summer in the city.

it was so hot in new york the other day.

so hot that i wanted nothing more than to get home, strip to my bones, get as close to the floor as possible and just lie there. not move. just press into any remaining winter that the floor might've retained.

instead i purchased a pint of ben and jerry's at the corner store and trekked down the hill, toward the river, breathing in the heavy, still, hot air.

i was barely in the elevator before i could take it no longer. off the top of that ice cream flew and there i found myself face first in a pint of ben and jerry's half-baked.

no spoon.  just dove right in.

it was not a pretty sight. me face first in a pint of ice cream.

and as i was there getting equal parts cold and mess all over, the thought i kept coming back to was: if something were to happen to me. if in the next few days something really bad were to happen and the police had to go looking for some trace or trail, they'd come across this. this elevator surveillance. of me. face first. pint of ice cream.

i weighed my odds. sent up a prayer for my continued health and safety. and sojourned on (foodie that i am).

and just as the elevator neared the sixth floor, the doors opened and my fifth-floor neighbor stepped on-- the one who always says hello--the one with the children i remember to ask about. he appraised me. smiled. said something about catching me in a weak moment.

and i just stood there, pint in hand. one painful floor more. face covered in chocolate and flushed with being-found-out.

i finally arrived home. pulled out a bowl. plucked a spoon from the drawer. stripped to a tank and shorts. situated myself directly in front of the fan and carefully (and demurely) ate what was left.


new york city living really is terribly glamorous. and sometimes a gal shouldn't have to wait.

photo. 

a friday night cab ride.

i took a long, lone cab to brooklyn last friday.

i finished work, slipped out of my trusty black heels into a pair of worn flip-flops, untucked my work blouse, pulled my hair into a pony, and with exhaustion in tow, raised my arm and hailed a cab.

i listened to johynny flynn's sweet william, part one the whole way there:

i was born with this story, it's older than i.

as the familiar lights of ninth avenue streaked past and a cool air slipped in the window i could think of nothing but a night nearly seven years ago when i and three girls from school squeezed ourselves into our friday night best, piled into a yellow taxi, and headed into the belly of the beast that  friday night in manhattan invariably becomes when you're young, wide-eyed, and (yes) impressionable.

we hardly knew each other then. hardly knew new york. hardly knew ourselves. and certainly didn't know what was to come.

but i do remember that paused at a stoplight, i thought: i should remember this. this will be one of those nights i'll need to remember. this is the beginning. this is the starting point. 


and that's all i remember of that night.

well, that and the gorgeous garden balcony boasted by the chelsea apartment we finally ended up at.

one of the girls in that cab is married now. to the man she began dating not long before that late september night. another is engaged. many working actresses. all thousands of miles from home. all forging lives and ferreting out truth--or trying to, at least. one girl i haven't spoken to in years. with the others we do what we can but life is hard and time is short and the phone calls have become uneven at best.

i have spent so much time in the seven years sandwiched between those two cab rides wishing it all went differently. wishing the great love of my life proved himself such. wishing i was well. successful, even. wishing it all went a little differently.

but here's the thing. headed to brooklyn last friday, still in my work clothes, speeding down ninth avenue, i felt so...happy. so at peace. so aware that all those seven years and all those things i would've changed led to that moment--to that delirious, little, heaven-sent moment--to that moment in which i was filled by a story older than i, filled by the past, charged by attraction and desire, and thankful i didn't get the guy or the job the first go round.

because i'm still so young. and i've got a little rebellion left. and i'm finding all it takes is a smile to melt a man. they don't care what you're wearing or what you do or even the size of your hips. just a smile and they turn to putty. and it's so damn fun to watch for that moment in which they return the gesture and then wonder if they've done it suavely. and men, i'm gonna level with you: most of the time you haven't. but that makes it all the better. suave is so uninteresting.

and i'd take interesting and flawed any day of the week. whether it's a man. or my life.

the fat radish. (and on my manhattan).

in figuring out what to do this go round (with my mom in town) my mind immediately went to the new leaf cafe. 

(let it be known, my love for the new leaf knows no bounds).

but it was my mother who pointed out that we first fell in love with new leaf two years ago when we went in the spirit of trying something new--expanding our own idea of new york.

so with this in mind, we tabled new leaf (after all, i can pop up to fort tryon whenever my heart desires {and my wallet allows}) and went in search of new restaurants. (recommended restaurants).

both peels and the fat radish were suggested by a co-worker and i must say: she done good. they both pleased and tickled my aesthetic sensibilities and rustic palate.

but more than the wooden tables, and farm-to-table food--more than the downtown-chic-beard-wearing-men or the beet chips and butter biscuits--more than any of that, what i really loved was that both restaurants got me to take in parts of manhattan that are foreign--foreign, to me, i should say. parts that i rarely see, rarely explore. but parts that when i do take the time to wander about fill me with a deep, rumbling satisfaction.

the reason i entitled the series in which i show photos of manhattan, my manhattan, is because manhattan is so many different things--so many different things to so many different people. it wears many masks, changes by street and neighborhood. one could live here their whole life and still not know all of it. 

manhattan is experiential. and it is because of this that so many come in search: in search of the city, in search of themselves. it is this that entices and excites--allows new yorkers to overlook the day-to-day grind that makes city living quite difficult. 

so for all my hawing about how much i dislike the city at times (and i do. dislike it. often.) that's on me. because that dislike can be changed, transformed--by simply changing my attitude, my perspective, or walking a city block. by taking a train to a new and foreign neighborhood and finding a new part of myself in what the city offers up in that small nook.

so here's to the rest of the week. and as many new moments i can unearth in this (mostly) concrete jungle. 

we meet again.

oh hello, summer in new york.

didn't expect you so soon. or so warm and malodorous in your arrival. 

thinking i'm gonna need a new wardrobe. primarily one of long, loose skirts and sleeveless t's.
and thinking i might just bring the red lip back. 

life, as of now.

there is this consistent, persistent feeling that i'm being pulled under by the tow. 


not that i'm drowning--i've felt that before and this is certainly not that--but that i'm running out of air. and gasps are getting harder to come by.

it's getting harder to pack my life--lives, really--into two bags each morning. to carry those (three?) lives outside of me--toting them from one location to the next--zigzagging across a city that is unforgiving of such things. tennis shoes, computer and camera, black dress and high heels.

i find myself arriving home late at night. too late. crouching on my knees, spilling the contents of my bags--my lives--onto the floor in search of my keys. my keys, please, just let me find the keys. i empty out everything i own, tossing books and cards and all the receipts that need to be sorted, and there they are--bottom of the bag--fallen into some hole in the lining. and before i can pick up the now scattered content, i desperately thrust that single metal stick into the lock, and it breathes air into me. it is a gasp for air that thrust. just in time. coming home breathes in new air. and i stand there. chest heaving. alight with the panic that comes from feeling like you won't get that next breath in time. and when the lungs are just full enough and the heat of fear lines only my extremities i sink to the floor once more. pick up the contents of my life for the last time that day and cross the threshold. 

and just as this true. so is the feeling that i am buoyant. and good. and so very happy. so very lived in. 

so very in love with waking each morning to begin again. so very in love with my coffee on the windowsill and the way the sun slices through my flat, wood blinds. in love with the new stack of books piled under my makeshift bed-side table. in love with the scent and feel of a spring long-overdue in this cobbled, fragmented city.

it is always an interesting experience to operate on both ends of the spectrum. to hold two opposing ideas next to each other and say, yes, both are true. for me, these two opposing notions are true. right now. at the same time. it is electric. creates more space, actually--you know, for that air to get in.

i don't hate new york. i thought i did. turns out i'm just not entirely keen on the life i've built here. and so slowly, ever-so slowly i'm making changes. 

if there is frustration--and yes, of course there is--it comes from feeling the need to justify those changes. from feeling like i must contain this life that is desperate to barrel forward, tumble out. from having to pause and wait while every inch of me screams to continue on. 

the good news is, before long this shall pass. there may be a few meltdowns along the way. but it shall pass. 

the room, following the (non) move.

somehow a headboard seemed important before. a crown for the bed--a talisman of something grown-up, adulthood, if you will.

the bed is smooshed against the wall now. no headboard. up and off to the right hangs my framed casablanca poster, placed there because there was already a nail and so, why not? and somehow this somewhat careless arrangement works. seems just as it should.


i wasn't terribly careful arranging this space. i pushed my bed into the one corner, the bookshelf into the other, placed the dresser against the not-to-be-used-french-doors, and stuck my desk just where i knew it would go: between the windows. as for my reading chair? it swims in this space and i wouldn't have it any other way. i pull it this way for mornings and push it that way for late evenings and let it rest between bookshelf and door for much of the rest.

as i sit here typing this a mug sits on the ledge of the window next to my bound leather journal that tells the story of the end of high school into the much of my first year at college. i've been going through it of late. marveling at the pure drivel that is most of it and sending up multitudinous prayers that no one ever finds it. in reading it so much feels familiar, cyclical to life now. this is...humbling, to say the least. because i feel like a different person. am i not? am i the same as i ever was? eighteen all over again?

i don't think so. some thoughts and feelings are bound to reverberate for much of my life, but i feel like i've come out of some period of darkness transformed.

this transformation is its own struggle, or, well, challenge. i feel new. and different. and while at times exhilarating, this newness is also terrifying. here i am, twenty-five forced to reacquaint myself with the world and my surroundings as a changed person.

the thing is, in this new room, it all feels possible. is it possible for something to be more than you ever imagined? is it possible that i know this already? that the space is charged. holy, even. i swing the double doors open, i pull up all the blinds, i open the windows, i watch the river. i press my feet into the patterned wood floor. and this, all of this, makes the A train bearable. the neighbors are slowly learning my name and i am slowly making friends with their dogs. the coffee shop is still on the corner, an irish pub is opening across the street, and the trees are in bloom, pink against the palisades. slowly, i'm coming round to this life in new york. slowly i'm forgiving myself. for feeling like i've not done enough-- come far enough. slowly i'm learning the only person i have to reckon with is myself. slowly i'm persisting, making goals, learning to say yes. inch by inch there is life in this room, in this neighborhood, in the city, in myself.

yes, slowly there is life. and i am in love with it.

the next room.

washington heights apartment, circa 2009-10

i lived in the dorms my first two years at school. in a building connected to juilliard, right there in the heart of lincoln center. my first year space was a lofted bed over a desk with a roommate who studied the violin under itzhack perlman, haled from greece, and didn't believe in bull-shit. i adored her. second year brought a slightly larger room and with it a girl who believed she had been maria callas in a previous life...okay.

in my third year i moved off campus. to an apartment in a renovated brown stone on 104th. i'll never forget that space: the light wood floors, my bedroom's two windows on opposing walls, and the rumble of the subway and the deep call of nearby church bells.

oh the sense of space and promise of freedom that apartment afforded!

but third year was hard. and the apartment became home to a sadness that pressed in on my chest--threatened my very breath. so when another apartment--on the same floor, in the same building--opened up and it had a separate kitchen and a more conventional living room, i emptied my hopes into the space.

and we moved. next door.

and i willed that this would be a place in which life would improve.

i remember very little of that next-door apartment. remember very little of my fourth year, really.

after school ended i put my things in storage, visited home for several weeks, and then spent two months living on the top floor of my aunt and uncle's house in montclair. and i started the slow trudge back to  self.  i gave thanks each morning for the worn floors and slanted ceiling and sense of home.

and after just a few months i returned to the city, lived on 80th--the beating heart of the upper west--sandwiched between parks, surrounded by restaurants. and when spring came that year ushering in april's showers i escaped morning after morning to central park where, with not another soul in sight, i imagined myself on a roman holiday, traversing the gardens at the villa borghese.

and then before long, after realizing i had hardly a cent to my name, i moved north. to washington heights--where the rent was low and the A train was long. and i fell in love. and then out of love. and then in love again.

and so the pattern continued, tumbling on, but allowing me to make a home.

and i lived in one apartment now followed by another.

and another year is done. and i'm still here. sitting in my reading chair, window open, staring into the enclosed courtyard dreaming of the move that's just two days away: same apartment, different room.

and oh how i've lusted after that room for a year now! lusted after its two windows and french doors and view of the hudson. dreamt of placing my desk just so that i might wake in the morning, brew my coffee, sit at my workspace, breathe in the water, and set about writing the next great american novel.

you want to know what i've learned--what i've learned from all the different spaces in all the different years: life hardly ever turns out as you thought it might, hoped it would. but it does get better. and failure proves fertile ground for whatever follows.

i don't know what will unfold in this next space. perhaps nothing. perhaps everything.

but i do know this. i'm no longer emptying my hopes into a new space. not casting out a desperate attempt for change. i'm simply moving my things. just down the hall. and looking forward to the stories its walls will tell.

blue skies.

since returning to new york several weeks ago the sun has come out...twice. (maybe).

it's april 13 and my heater still roars (sputters) to life each morning.

i am. losing .my mind.

but today i officially signed a second lease for my current apartment making this little castle in the sky the longest place i've ever lived in new york city and removing me one step further from vagabond-em (fear not, i'm still pretty close).

so...

blue skies, no?

it should be noted that when we moved into our apartment a year ago i began calling the bathroom our etruscan tuscan wonderland. yes, yes, i know etruscan and tuscan pretty much mean the same thing. yes, yes i know that makes it repetitive. but i care not. with all the sand colored stone and strange, circular, tiled design  it deserves to be named. twice.

just the other day i found myself taking a shower with the window open and i thought, this is so nice. almost like i'm bathing al fresco. in italy. okay, well not in italy, but al fresco nonetheless. 


it took me a good five minutes to realize that the view i was so enjoying of the blue sky and other apartment windows was not without a cost.  if i could see others milling about through their windows well then they could see me. showering. naked. exposed.

needless to say i will not be showering with the window open again.

a night in sunnyside.

in an effort to prepare myself for the non move this week (we're {two of us} staying in the same apartment but playing musical chairs with rooms) i attempted to organize my room.

it now looks like either (a) i was robbed or (b) a bomb went off. i can't walk but for tripping over organizational containers. and suddenly my lenten resolution to keep a clean room is out the window and i am in a terrible mood. messy rooms, dirty sinks, and never-ending progression of grey skies will do that to a girl. but i digress.

last night i abandoned my messy room, my mile-high-pile of laundry and headed to sunnyside, queens. {for those who don't know new york city is comprised of five boroughs: manhattan, brooklyn, the bronx, queens, and (this is the strangest of them all) staten island. i live in manhattan. way, way up in manhattan. all the cool kids live in brooklyn. and a growing number of young people are moving to queens (where rent is cheep and space is abundant)}.

alisha (of doppelganger fame) and her boyfriend daniel hosted me for a lovely night of gourmet tomato soup and grilled cheese. 

as soon as i walked in the door i became that crazy person that can't even say hello before they marvel at the thing before them...the thing resembling an actual home. i opened every closet door, peered out every window, inspected every surface, sizing up square footage and inquiring about rent--this is what you do in new york when you've lived here long enough and reached a certain age. 

the night was perfect. good food. good discussion. a little baseball on the tele. and really good people. 

the (non) move.

monday mornings can be hard. most difficult when the week threatens to undo you before it even begins. 

yesterday i marveled at the shifting light now hitting new york. i walked along the river and watched as bicyclist after bicyclist pedaled past. this corner of new york is dare i say, something of a bike mecca. i noticed young men with rackets on their backs headed to the free tennis courts just down the hill. suddenly the neighborhood is alive and threatened with the prospect of having to leave it, i simply don't want to. 

much as a part of me is ready to leave new york, it's not time yet. and it wouldn't be so easy. tumultuous as our relationship is, we have mutual accounts, joint stock options, and suddenly a lot of furniture that i don't want to give up. 

so i've decided to stay. for another year at least. which means another year in my castle in the sky apartment. but not moving can prove unbelievably stressful.

and there's nothing like moving (or not moving in new york). the whole things is a giant game of roulette combined with cat-and-mouse, and even a little strategic chess (or battleship, depending on where your preferences lie). and then there's that pesky little sticking point: it's expensive. and not terribly well-managed or policed. 

so this is the week that i roll the die. cast a net out in search of a roommate and hope that all the little card houses i've built add up to something...viable, instead of crashing down around my feet.

of course there's not enough time for any of this...but such is life.

so i remind myself to breathe and throw a little prayer up towards the powers that be, a little help?

hudson heights.

when i was a little girl my father was constantly traveling to russia.

he'd return with beautiful items from the one of the country's many outdoor markets. small wooden toys. intricately carved santas. hand-painted matryoshka dolls detailing native fairy-tales. and from these items i gleaned what i could from a country that felt a world away. a lifetime away, really.

i remember once dreaming that i was there, in russia, swinging on a swing set. i went to jump off (as children do at the peak of a swing when you're young and without fear) and off i flew. and off i fell--off the edge of the world--i disappeared from the image. as though the world was two-dimensional and i had died. (think old-school video games).

that was my impression of russia. that the world was flat and russia was the edge.

sometimes that's how i feel about my little corner of new york. aslant on the hill. just next to the river. quiet.

and at the edge of the earth.

as though at any moment i might simply fall from the screen.