It's back. . .
I'm having New York envy. It attacks about once a year, usually in early Spring or late Autumn, and is almost always kicked off by my reading or hearing someone use a term like "Netherlandish" to describe a branch of art, and then presenting two respectable volumes on a subject which actually is termed Netherlandish fucking art. Within a matter of days, as the melancholic longing sets in, I'm behaving really strangely. I stop making eye contact with strangers. I dart out into traffic without first looking to see if there are any taxicabs speeding toward me. I dye my hair almost black, wear no makeup except for very dark, stark and severe red lipstick, and compulsively start applying 50 block before braving the elements to go across the street for a pack of smokes. I've also been seen, in the throes of this yearly attack, running, screaming from my car to whatever building I'm destined for when I realize I've left the house without my sun repelling blanket.
My syndrome can have consequences for the environment, too, disrupting my sleeping patterns and disturbing the groove of the normal, passionate affinity I have for the beautiful flora around my home. I complain about my city's fair and friendly sunshine, as I defiantly click on the air conditioner, even when it's not very warm. I become the ingrate to end all spoiled L.A. natives, scowling at the ordinary colored leaves on the trees around the city, which rarely ever change much from one season to the next, and occasionally find myself in the car, muttering stuff like "You're supposed to be red or orange!" - while my bratty, jaundiced eye denigrates their simple and perennially green loveliness. And if that's not enough to warrant an actual diagnosis, on par with Seasonal Affective Disorder, or worse, I'm also struck by a weird (but very compelling) impulse to buy funkily elegant outer wear I don't need. . .
But this, too, shall pass.
My syndrome can have consequences for the environment, too, disrupting my sleeping patterns and disturbing the groove of the normal, passionate affinity I have for the beautiful flora around my home. I complain about my city's fair and friendly sunshine, as I defiantly click on the air conditioner, even when it's not very warm. I become the ingrate to end all spoiled L.A. natives, scowling at the ordinary colored leaves on the trees around the city, which rarely ever change much from one season to the next, and occasionally find myself in the car, muttering stuff like "You're supposed to be red or orange!" - while my bratty, jaundiced eye denigrates their simple and perennially green loveliness. And if that's not enough to warrant an actual diagnosis, on par with Seasonal Affective Disorder, or worse, I'm also struck by a weird (but very compelling) impulse to buy funkily elegant outer wear I don't need. . .
But this, too, shall pass.