I can't believe I neglected post anything this past month
Possibly the last thing I want to do anymore is type and stare some more at a screen. I want to update you all on my life, but to craft a post anymore takes more effort than i can realistically muster. Of particular relevance, this morning I purloined Brian's copy of the New Yorker, in which there was an article about the practice of writing in a diary. I'm not finished with it yet, but something that I've learned is that life can be boring and interesting at the same time, when you read someone else's private (or today, increasingly public) log. What is a mundanity in somebody's life can appear even interesting. maybe it's not the moment itself, may it's the particular style of writing which keeps that day fresh to us as outsiders--read Virginia Woolf's entries, you'll understand.
I had a conversation last night with Gabe as we walked home from the subway about the mundane. He asked me if I ever got tired of the heterogeneity of Williamsburg.
Never.
My response is tinged with a bit of embarrassment. My whole life I have spent trying to find a way to fit in without being popular. Tragically hip, perhaps. Part of a counterculture. Living in Brooklyn was perhaps a confirmation that I was hip enough. But my fate to remain on the outer limits of hipness is apparent here. Not hip enough for Williamsburg. I live in Greenpoint, on the periphery, the outskirts, the hinterlands--Williamsburg's Polish, inevitably drunk, younger sister.
I try to fit in, and in doing so that means I rely on a system of social circles that I've created. (Then I pigeonhole everyone. That gets me into trouble, this I know. Saturday I made a mistake.
I also am an impulsive talker, dig.)
Yes, Gabe says, but everybody dressing in their alternative indie rock styles and messy greasy alternative haircuts... you are not bored, you are not frustrated? Not by the elitism? Why do you want to subscribe to that attitude?
You dress well, you have nice hair, you are alternative, but you do not fit in.
Well, I'll be damned.
But it was because it was ironic, and I'm attracted completely to irony. Too bad I once again am not a part of it.
However, I can say I am proud to live in a community that produces great sausage and smoked fish. I just don't speak their language. It's hard to feel integrated.
-------
Yesterday I had my first latkes since elementary school, complete with applesauce and sour cream. It brought back memories of Girl Scouts, sitting in Anne's attic, eating meringue cookies and spending an inordinate amount of time peeling the gold wrapper off my gelt.
I lit my first Hanukkah candle on the first night of Hanukkah.
I learned yesterday night I've been wearing the wrong bra size. No American company makes my size, that I have seen. I have to pay a premium for something that fits, my ribcage is small. I have to rely on Japan to remedy my pains.
Yesterday I finagled my way into getting on the guest list for NYMag's Christmas party. My knack for pitching a load of believable poppycock is improving.
And for pitching worthy stories, as well. My first pitch to larger magazines is scheduled to land in editors' email boxes today.
My first press release is being reviewed as we speak.
This week is replete with firsts, and mores.
yesterday I took a new route to get to work, and repeated it today. The G to Queens, E across the river, A downtown. 45 minutes. It's more enjoyable that taking the G all the way down Brooklyn and coming back up on the A, or taking the bus to L across town to the A.
I get to walk on the moving walkways you find in airports.
Today when I get home--approximately 10 pm--I will make fennel ice cream.
I had a conversation last night with Gabe as we walked home from the subway about the mundane. He asked me if I ever got tired of the heterogeneity of Williamsburg.
Never.
My response is tinged with a bit of embarrassment. My whole life I have spent trying to find a way to fit in without being popular. Tragically hip, perhaps. Part of a counterculture. Living in Brooklyn was perhaps a confirmation that I was hip enough. But my fate to remain on the outer limits of hipness is apparent here. Not hip enough for Williamsburg. I live in Greenpoint, on the periphery, the outskirts, the hinterlands--Williamsburg's Polish, inevitably drunk, younger sister.
I try to fit in, and in doing so that means I rely on a system of social circles that I've created. (Then I pigeonhole everyone. That gets me into trouble, this I know. Saturday I made a mistake.
I also am an impulsive talker, dig.)
Yes, Gabe says, but everybody dressing in their alternative indie rock styles and messy greasy alternative haircuts... you are not bored, you are not frustrated? Not by the elitism? Why do you want to subscribe to that attitude?
You dress well, you have nice hair, you are alternative, but you do not fit in.
Well, I'll be damned.
But it was because it was ironic, and I'm attracted completely to irony. Too bad I once again am not a part of it.
However, I can say I am proud to live in a community that produces great sausage and smoked fish. I just don't speak their language. It's hard to feel integrated.
-------
Yesterday I had my first latkes since elementary school, complete with applesauce and sour cream. It brought back memories of Girl Scouts, sitting in Anne's attic, eating meringue cookies and spending an inordinate amount of time peeling the gold wrapper off my gelt.
I lit my first Hanukkah candle on the first night of Hanukkah.
I learned yesterday night I've been wearing the wrong bra size. No American company makes my size, that I have seen. I have to pay a premium for something that fits, my ribcage is small. I have to rely on Japan to remedy my pains.
Yesterday I finagled my way into getting on the guest list for NYMag's Christmas party. My knack for pitching a load of believable poppycock is improving.
And for pitching worthy stories, as well. My first pitch to larger magazines is scheduled to land in editors' email boxes today.
My first press release is being reviewed as we speak.
This week is replete with firsts, and mores.
yesterday I took a new route to get to work, and repeated it today. The G to Queens, E across the river, A downtown. 45 minutes. It's more enjoyable that taking the G all the way down Brooklyn and coming back up on the A, or taking the bus to L across town to the A.
I get to walk on the moving walkways you find in airports.
Today when I get home--approximately 10 pm--I will make fennel ice cream.