moving on
I haven't been nearly so regular in my postings as I once was, due in part to a broken computer (since December 1st, the day after NaNoWriMo ended, strangely enough) and in part to a greater focus in my writing toward working on my book and sending out a few poems for potential publication (both of these primarily in November). However, as of today I have inherited my mother's adorable black MacBook (thanks Mom!), so I am going to dance back onto the face of the earth (what is the opposite of dropping off the face of the earth?). While not having a computer for awhile presented some challenges, such as only being able to check my email at the library, it was also a positive experience in some respects. I think I did a bit of detoxing, one could say -- and I especially appreciate the increase in written correspondence, which I've fallen a bit behind on while moving. Now, of course, I've been gorging myself on the Internet, but I have a better idea that I actually can live without it, and that the world will not end if I don't check my email multiple times a day. Tomorrow I'll transfer the hard drive of my old computer onto this one, and I'm looking forward being able to have my music playing when I'm relaxing, cooking, writing, or reading.
Packing is always an experience that encourages nostalgia -- the act of going through one's belongings, deciding what is important enough to keep. I suppose that's what grown-ups refer to as "spring cleaning", but I can't be bothered unless there's a practical cause to my efforts, such as trying to carry everything I have in New York on the subway. I came off a bus, I reasoned. I don't have that much stuff. While the previous statement is true, I failed spectacularly, barely managing to lug a giant suitcase and several bags of music, books, and groceries (like I could leave my bacon behind!) down four flights of stairs in two trips.
At nightfall, I hailed a cab outside my apartment -- no longer mine -- and I watched raindrops race down the windows as we drove over the Brooklyn Bridge. It felt beautiful to leave, in a way, though I am sad at leaving so many records dusty and quiet, and I regret that I will no longer be able to go home and cook meals for myself on my breaks from work. That said, I am hopeful for whatever resolutions and revelations the next few weeks will bring, as I figure out where I am going to live and continue to answer questions about what sort of life I want for myself.
I'm working in a cafe at the moment, making expensive espresso drinks for customers who are hilariously particular in their requests ("yes, of course, ma'am, I can make you a latte with a quarter-shot of espresso, with exactly a quarter-inch of foam"). One of my job responsibilities includes selling $3.25 Godiva chocolate bars to children in strollers. ("Little Heathcliff must have the best," as Michael says.) My favorite part of the job is that I find it fascinating how weird people are. I love the regulars, and knowing that one lady who comes in always wants a medium coffee with a flat lid -- if you give her the other, she'll ask you to switch it -- and that she likes to put whipped cream on her scones. I love the couples who fight half-heartedly about who will pay. I've always harbored an interest in people-watching, and this job is perfect for that -- I am a fly on the wall, observing. It's not all fun and games, though -- it does feel like work a lot of the time, and I'm on my feet for eight full hours a day. The hardest part, though, is when customers talk to me like I'm stupid. Unfortunately, I think of the most excellent retorts when I know it would be less than prudent to say them out loud. Anyhow, I've determined that when customers are rude to anyone making them coffee, it is not about the coffee at all; rather they are exerting some degree of control, however miniscule, on their lives, which seem to be hurtling out of control.
Also, I've started volunteering with an organization that does horseback riding lessons for people with disabilities. I've just been once so far, but I think it's something that I could really get into. So far I've done sidewalking (as the instructor told me, my job was "to keep the horse between the kid and the ground"), but I'm hoping to do some teaching as well as I gain more experience working with special needs. Content-wise, the lesson I assisted was very similar to camp -- even a version of Red Light Green Light. Also, I find it so lovely and strange that there's a riding stable in Brooklyn. The first time I tried to find it, I felt like a crazy person asking around if anyone knew where the horses were. It actually does blend in pretty well -- you can barely tell it's a stable until you walk in the door, and then there's the wonderful smell of grain and clean leather.
I love how many lovely and strange things I find in this city.
Packing is always an experience that encourages nostalgia -- the act of going through one's belongings, deciding what is important enough to keep. I suppose that's what grown-ups refer to as "spring cleaning", but I can't be bothered unless there's a practical cause to my efforts, such as trying to carry everything I have in New York on the subway. I came off a bus, I reasoned. I don't have that much stuff. While the previous statement is true, I failed spectacularly, barely managing to lug a giant suitcase and several bags of music, books, and groceries (like I could leave my bacon behind!) down four flights of stairs in two trips.
At nightfall, I hailed a cab outside my apartment -- no longer mine -- and I watched raindrops race down the windows as we drove over the Brooklyn Bridge. It felt beautiful to leave, in a way, though I am sad at leaving so many records dusty and quiet, and I regret that I will no longer be able to go home and cook meals for myself on my breaks from work. That said, I am hopeful for whatever resolutions and revelations the next few weeks will bring, as I figure out where I am going to live and continue to answer questions about what sort of life I want for myself.
I'm working in a cafe at the moment, making expensive espresso drinks for customers who are hilariously particular in their requests ("yes, of course, ma'am, I can make you a latte with a quarter-shot of espresso, with exactly a quarter-inch of foam"). One of my job responsibilities includes selling $3.25 Godiva chocolate bars to children in strollers. ("Little Heathcliff must have the best," as Michael says.) My favorite part of the job is that I find it fascinating how weird people are. I love the regulars, and knowing that one lady who comes in always wants a medium coffee with a flat lid -- if you give her the other, she'll ask you to switch it -- and that she likes to put whipped cream on her scones. I love the couples who fight half-heartedly about who will pay. I've always harbored an interest in people-watching, and this job is perfect for that -- I am a fly on the wall, observing. It's not all fun and games, though -- it does feel like work a lot of the time, and I'm on my feet for eight full hours a day. The hardest part, though, is when customers talk to me like I'm stupid. Unfortunately, I think of the most excellent retorts when I know it would be less than prudent to say them out loud. Anyhow, I've determined that when customers are rude to anyone making them coffee, it is not about the coffee at all; rather they are exerting some degree of control, however miniscule, on their lives, which seem to be hurtling out of control.
Also, I've started volunteering with an organization that does horseback riding lessons for people with disabilities. I've just been once so far, but I think it's something that I could really get into. So far I've done sidewalking (as the instructor told me, my job was "to keep the horse between the kid and the ground"), but I'm hoping to do some teaching as well as I gain more experience working with special needs. Content-wise, the lesson I assisted was very similar to camp -- even a version of Red Light Green Light. Also, I find it so lovely and strange that there's a riding stable in Brooklyn. The first time I tried to find it, I felt like a crazy person asking around if anyone knew where the horses were. It actually does blend in pretty well -- you can barely tell it's a stable until you walk in the door, and then there's the wonderful smell of grain and clean leather.
I love how many lovely and strange things I find in this city.