daffodils and hyacinths and magnolias, oh my
I think they're magnolias, the trees in Brooklyn that are presently droopy with pink flowers. They're enormous, and I'm used to the smaller magnolias with the giant white blooms that stood in a corner of my childhood backyard, but I don't know what else they'd be.
The park at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge is awash in daffodils and for once I didn't read while I walked to the office. I soaked in the flowers and, for a split second, wished for a backyard. Yesterday was glorious. I opened all the windows, which dislodged cat-fur tumbleweeds from I know not where, and I stood in the middle of the bedroom breathing in that springy smell. I could almost swear that first breeze of spring finds little droplets of scent - from my BPAL collection, from hair gloss, from wherever - and lifts them up again; there's a particular spring scent I've noticed since I started buying BPAL and other scented things. It's seasonal and sneaky, and I love it.
I have five days left at the agency job before I'm a full-time bookstore employee. I don't know yet what my schedule will look like, or where I will find cute shoes that are good to stand in, but I'm excited; I walk through Greenpoint and feel like it's mine in a way I never felt before. My coworkers know everyone; the dog in the photo of the day on the store's Tumblr belongs to one of S.'s friends. My neighborhood feels like home.
On the flip side, I walk through Dumbo on the way to work and it feels like a suburb that fell to earth between the bridges, all rich moms and nannies pushing pale children and big SUVs and the occasional film crew. It reminds me of Portland, but not at all, and if you wander over to Vinegar Hill, the weird feeling gets even stronger: it's all cute small buildings but I'm fairly certain no one can really afford to live there. It feels fake, too clean, too tidy, like there's actually an invisible wall keeping "undesirables" out. I like the stores and cafes, but to live here would be to forget there's a city out there, dirty and messy and crowded and will distinct personalities, so many of them, all crushed up against each other on an express train home.
I'm reading the most amazing book. I'm obsessed with nail polish, even though it takes so much time. (I need Glee to come back; painting my nails while watching Glee is just freaking perfect.) The weekend before last, we hosted a Nerdathon - four episodes of Game of Thrones, in a rush to catch friends up before it starts again, six friends in the living room sipping Aperol punch and making dirty jokes ("Which one is Winter? They keep saying he's coming..."). That weekend was full of friends; this last one was quieter but not quiet, me and a book; me and my first full day at the store; S.'s band playing; a friend from Oregon, now in Ithaca, in town briefly for brunch and a quick walk around the neighborhood. S. and I went walking again later and I bought myself a little present, a ring with a tiny ampersand on it, a present that matches my sometimes-username but says a lot of things to me. It says And I'm home, And I'm going to write more, And I'm going to read more, And this is one hell of a life.
(And I want my entries to stop being these giant summaries, And I miss seeing personal posts, not just Cheezburger, on my flist, And I'm starting a new thematic blog soon, And I wrote a silly book post on my real-name blog, And the internet is full of potholes but I'm going to make my own road.)
The park at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge is awash in daffodils and for once I didn't read while I walked to the office. I soaked in the flowers and, for a split second, wished for a backyard. Yesterday was glorious. I opened all the windows, which dislodged cat-fur tumbleweeds from I know not where, and I stood in the middle of the bedroom breathing in that springy smell. I could almost swear that first breeze of spring finds little droplets of scent - from my BPAL collection, from hair gloss, from wherever - and lifts them up again; there's a particular spring scent I've noticed since I started buying BPAL and other scented things. It's seasonal and sneaky, and I love it.
I have five days left at the agency job before I'm a full-time bookstore employee. I don't know yet what my schedule will look like, or where I will find cute shoes that are good to stand in, but I'm excited; I walk through Greenpoint and feel like it's mine in a way I never felt before. My coworkers know everyone; the dog in the photo of the day on the store's Tumblr belongs to one of S.'s friends. My neighborhood feels like home.
On the flip side, I walk through Dumbo on the way to work and it feels like a suburb that fell to earth between the bridges, all rich moms and nannies pushing pale children and big SUVs and the occasional film crew. It reminds me of Portland, but not at all, and if you wander over to Vinegar Hill, the weird feeling gets even stronger: it's all cute small buildings but I'm fairly certain no one can really afford to live there. It feels fake, too clean, too tidy, like there's actually an invisible wall keeping "undesirables" out. I like the stores and cafes, but to live here would be to forget there's a city out there, dirty and messy and crowded and will distinct personalities, so many of them, all crushed up against each other on an express train home.
I'm reading the most amazing book. I'm obsessed with nail polish, even though it takes so much time. (I need Glee to come back; painting my nails while watching Glee is just freaking perfect.) The weekend before last, we hosted a Nerdathon - four episodes of Game of Thrones, in a rush to catch friends up before it starts again, six friends in the living room sipping Aperol punch and making dirty jokes ("Which one is Winter? They keep saying he's coming..."). That weekend was full of friends; this last one was quieter but not quiet, me and a book; me and my first full day at the store; S.'s band playing; a friend from Oregon, now in Ithaca, in town briefly for brunch and a quick walk around the neighborhood. S. and I went walking again later and I bought myself a little present, a ring with a tiny ampersand on it, a present that matches my sometimes-username but says a lot of things to me. It says And I'm home, And I'm going to write more, And I'm going to read more, And this is one hell of a life.
(And I want my entries to stop being these giant summaries, And I miss seeing personal posts, not just Cheezburger, on my flist, And I'm starting a new thematic blog soon, And I wrote a silly book post on my real-name blog, And the internet is full of potholes but I'm going to make my own road.)