The Return

The holidays always remind me of new beginnings. Maybe its the food induced coma we go into after a delicious meal or the reflection in ourselves in family in friends- either way, something propels us to a resolution in the new year. My process for coming to a resolution starts with a list of the last year's attempts.

A few I accomplished....just under the deadline: cut soda consumption (and all other vices) send out christmas cards and stick to a budget (somewhat).

Some I failed miserably: Write everyday. (haha- didn't I just skip 6 weeks of posts?) Get healthy. (hey, I gave up vices!)

Depression sinks in. Around the dessert, I start to list the things not on my list that I accomplished: (perhaps its the sugar rush and not pure optimism) -made it through a year in NYC, got a job, paid off one credit card, set up paying off the rest, applied for grad school (alright, so im in the MIDDLE of that) Oh and saw a Yankees game. (more bucket list than resolution).

Now to come up with a resolution (or set of them) to periodically fail and semi-accomplish as 2009 begins...

-write more. (a trend at this point)
-pay off credit cards
-start grad school

I've got a few weeks to come up with something unachievable.

Until then- I'm learning how to cook a tofurkey.

Wall Street

I'm going back to Wall Street today. The cobblestone streets remind me of Ragtime by E. L. Doctorow. There was still hope around a week ago. I don't think it will linger today. Not after yesterday. I wonder how fast people started figuring out the last crisis...without all this instant technology- things took months to get around. 

Television

I can't wait until the day when we can use our computers just the same as we can use the tv. When I can turn into the Turner Classic Movie station and watch a marathon of Lucille Ball, Gene Kelly or Peter Lorre. When being stuck on the train just means a pause in my streaming video of Animal Crackers. (Taped in Astoria...by the way) If I can see a coat in a window at Ralph Lauren, take a picture of it, and buy it via my phone, why can't I watch live cable online yet? It's very frustrating when you get the chance to watch tv and it consumes your day. Now where did I leave my Monday? 

Art.

There should be a scratch-n-sniff gallery. So you can smell art. I imagine Warhol would smell like tin cans or soup. Van Gogh would smell like potatoes and a marina, with a bit of sweat. Frida would smell like dust and heat and hair and Monet would smell like algae. Dali wouldn't be there though- could you imagine the smell of melting clocks and elephants? Which also means Picasso wouldn't be there either- Guernica would be deemed too graphic for olifactory purposes. Maybe then, we'd figure out what the Mona Lisa was smiling about.

Once Upon a Time...

This guy drew crowds. I can only imagine what it felt like to be in the audience as he performed one of his amazing feats. No matter what, I think I will always remember seeing David Blaine doing his "Dive of Death". Regardless of what did or did not happen, the rush and excitement of the stage, the posters describing the feat and the crowd is what makes it worth while. That's what's magic about it all.

Bartleby...

...is set on Wall Street. I work on Wall Street. (at least until the end of the week)

For those of you not versed with the story and at risk of being crucified for this Reader's Digest Cliff Notes-dvd version, here's the basics. Guy (named Bartleby) comes to work for a man and proceeds to frustrate the staff because he doesn't want to make friends yet impresses the boss because he's damned good at what he does. Boss finds out though that he's been sleeping there, kicks him out and never sees him again.

(To avoid your ability to use this for any redeeming purpose, I will end here)

Today, Bartleby would have to sign in at the front desk of the building, take the elevator to his floor and have a fingerprint scan to get in the door. Then he'll sign in AGAIN, and take a seat. All before beginning his daily tasks. He'll go days before meeting a boss, much less the boss. At lunch, he'll scurry down to grab a wrap and water at a bistro where Bloomberg tv, cnn and nbc are on flat screens parading as art on the wall. He'll check his blackberry, change the playlist on his ipod and think about the rising cost of his loft. Wonder why he's quiet? Because his ipod's playing and when he's done with a task, he checks up on his stocks.

Bartleby could have been a temp.

I'm reading Moby Dick by Melville currently. If I saw me on the train, I'd interrupt my reading and ask if that's the book about the whale. Just for a laugh. Sadly, no one's done that yet. I think humor is lost somewhere around Spring Street.

Someday You Need a Smile

If I had to make a movie about my life, my father would be played by Chevy Chase. That should give you a bit of insight into my childhood. I did take an RV with him from Florida to Indiana once. My brother, mother and I typically let him go about his antics, either laughing or pretending not to becuase we were "serious". You Can Call Me Al reminds me of those moments, playing Paul Simon to his Chevy Chase.

Party Like its 1945.

A Monday Kind of Smile:

Working 9 to 5ish

 Dilbert stands out in my head whenever I go to an office with cubicles. I was about 13 when I read Dilbert's Principles and maybe I should credit Scott Adams with my desires for careers that allow me to think outside of the cube. I also can't help but think of Office Space. Instead of fighting the urge to tear down my wall so I have a view, all I really have to do is turn around. There's a beautiful view of downtown NYC, right at the tip near Battery Park. A huge Colgate clock stands across the river, beckoning me from my 10th floor Wall St. office. I only hope the woman who's office I look through either A)doesn't come in this week or B) is an office wanderer. Thus allowing me an unobstructed view of the outside while not labeling me creepy. The novelty of a job where there are a lot of cubicles hasn't worn off yet. Neither has the actual dressing up for work. Although, I do fight this urge at about 2pm to get up and do a dance...just to remind myself that I'm not a machine. 

New Kids on The Block.....

...were my favorite band of all time. I had all of their tapes, a few Barbie dolls. (Jordan and Joey ONLY) and I do believe I had a lunchbox complete with thermos. Not to mention the twin sheet set AND every single cassette tape. I remember my 7 year old self jumping around to the music singing my heart out and when the cassette stopped- taking a break to get some water and then flip the tape over. I can only imagine what my mother thought, she probably still can recite the words to the songs. 

When I was home after college, I found the pillowcase from the set. After 17 years, I guess that's the only thing to survive. I showed it to my father. Sometime during my NKTOB phase, I began sleeping over at friends houses. My father always tried to lure me back home saying, "Hurry up and leave, Jordan and the New Kids are coming over for ice cream and YOU aren't invited." I'd always laugh, even though some of the coolest things happened while I was gone: my mother almost lost her pinky, my brother watched an R rated movie before me, my dad's friend brought a monkey over, etc. This ice cream date with the New Kids was my father's fall back no matter my age (I believe it even came up when I announced my move to NYC at 22). In 5th grade I got the first cd (TLC's crazysexycool) and somewhere along the way, all the cassette tapes made it onto my shelf where they collect dust to this day.

Now, every time I go home, my father's made my bed with the NKTOB pillowcase. I like to think its his way of saying he's glad I'm home. And when I run into an old friend who asks when I'll be "coming back to Florida" I think to myself: not soon, I'm planning an ice cream party with the New Kids. 

My Side of Paradise

A perfect Sunday would include (but is not limited to):  a quiet morning of breakfast and the paper at 8am, a Cary Grant movie following, then somewhere in the city for a couple hours of fun and lunch. Maybe a gallery or location of a movie set. Then, back to my place for dinner.

The World is Your Oyster.

Every time I go to Long Island, I can't help but think of all the things I want to do during my lifetime and the different ideas I've had along the way.  A couple of my friends are starting to buy homes. Others are getting married and having children (not always in that order) I can still count on a few others to remain the moving souls I love them to be- traveling, going to Burning Man, etc. Meanwhile, I steadfastly remain tethered to my ambition. Pausing slightly to gather dreams along the way and store these dreams in a claw-footed bathtub for future use. As I navigate all the gift registries and courtesy cards, I can't help but wonder- what do the stars hold? 

A Year in New Amsterdam

Today I've officially been in NYC for one year.

I've been told that the way you celebrate a milestone reflects the type of person you are. I woke up early, packed a few things, left for Queens and returned about an hour later because I'd thought I left my stove on. (Which I hadn't) I returned to Queens and spent the afternoon watching TV and sporadically applying for jobs. To finish the evening, I will have a beer, make dinner, write a bit and watch a movie. By those actions, I must be a self-starter, anxious, a couch-potato, ambitious, a writer, a chef and a film fanatic. 

I'll have to think about that.

Didn't You?

"we used to...laugh about...what everyone else was talkin 'bout"

There are still moments when I look outside and wonder where the time has retreated. when i look into my bag and notice the books Im reading are penned by others. So I think about my earlier days…

Can you look at the sky and remember a time when Wednesdays meant spaghetti for lunch? when 2 pm never seemed to come and dinnertime was way too close to snack time. No one ran off to answer a phone, and staying inside meant playing Nintendo. Bike rides were all day events and no one looked at you funny when you pulled out Huck Finn to read under the tree. Can you look at a school bus and remember the smell of the leather? Do you think you could roll your saftey patrol belt the way they taught you? What about the mornings when getting up late meant missing Gilligan's Island at 8am and staying up late meant watching Roundhouse?

AND I RETURN TO REALITY-

The ink that seeps out of my skin lacks sufficient luster to form coherent thoughts and plots on the pages of my journals. blank. BLANK. Nothing comes to mind in the moments when I need inspiration. I've eradicated many distractions from my life- cable. So my ramblings and musings will cease to grace the blogged out pages of my meaningless cyber existience. FEAR NOT! As the wanderlust are apt to excl.. focus, focus, focus! I shall retreat from these momentary minstrels on paper to exhort all energies towards one goal: publication, of what? of anything. I shall hitherfore be a submittal slut, provocating wisdom of the literati kind towards any and all (nay, only the attempts deemed decent by my risk-analysis theory of work) chances for submissions yielding monetary rewards. In short: writing for cash. Next stop, understanding. Final disembarking at: printed word. 
Yet, will my young, naive, blase and self-depreciating fick-tion be deemed worthy enough for your personal entertainment? 
I begin, a knight errant in search of futon with the structural integrity equal to the weight of the three-volume novel that awaits uncovering in the grey matter I have yet to deplete.To end: "the answer my friend is blowing in the wind"

My Southern Comfort

This was not the South I experienced. Yes, it would be wonderful to have a place that looks like this. With acres of space and lots of parties. I'll admit, its a dream. But my childhood wasn't full of mint juleps and savannah-ian accents. Think of the Blue Collar Comedy Tour. Those are the fellas I grew up listening to. Grits weren't served often- they heat up a kitchen and take too long. Breakfast is cereal or eggs if you are lucky. Every summer day was spent outside, with a hose nearby if you were thirsty. We spent our days thinking of Huck Finn or the Rascals and maybe Swiss Family Robinson. Maybe fishing, but usually not because of alligators. Ask me what I want to eat and I'll tell you biscuits, mashed potatoes, fried chicken and green bean cassarole. Water? No thank you, sweet tea'll do mighty fine. Dessert is pumpkin pie in the fall and strawberry shortcake in the summer. You name it- we fried it. Elvis found his way into the hymns, heading off to the church for sunday evening service or near the holidays. Summer began as school let out in June and the Fall officially started the middle of August when you went back to school. No one owned snow boots or rain boots or even an overcoat. Flip flops can be worn year round and winter has officially begun when your pool is under 64* Which is usually some cold day in December. I spent many Christmases at the beach or a bbq. But like any place, living your life is a whole different experience. Just how many new yorkers go see their city? I do. One new thing a week. You only live once.

School's Back in Session!

I continue to resist the constant urge of being a language arts teacher. Tomorrow, a dozen of people I know will greet youngsters on their first day of school. Their day will be full of smiles, tears, lunches and crayons. Another dozen will head back to their classrooms to construct that welcoming room for their future students. Sometimes I wonder if that's where I should be- in a classroom. Teaching the times tables, reading Bridge to Terrabithia, and assigning book reports and scheduling pizza parties. Maybe one day I will be there. Not this school year.

The Time Has Come the Walrus Said....

Why don't more people look up when they walk? It's more attractive when you do. You discover things on your walk. Like this building. I like this building. It's on Central Park West. I don't know if I'd appreciate it if I lived here. You don't really stop to look at your building before going inside. Plus, I'd probably have a lot on my mind if I lived there. More money, more responsibility. For some reason, I always think it would be a good place to sell something door to door. (Not that that is allowed inside.) I don't even like doing door to door things. But it would give me a chance to see inside other people's homes. Not in a stalkerish way. Just in a "wow. I would NOT have put red curtains in THAT room" kind of way. Now you know.

My Moveable Feast

About once a month, our apartment throws together a brunch. We make the main dish and ask our friends to bring what else is needed. Some days it's impromptu- someone had leftover potatoes, so we have home fries. Another time, an excess of Bisquick. Whatever seems to work. We've finally gotten to the point where there's a base of people that come by and spend a couple of hours eating good and catching up on the past few weeks. It's funny to think that in the short time we've had it, a couple of legit business deals have gone through, a couple of jobs have been discussed and none too often, words of encouragement for a passionate shift into art or creating are passed around. Although by the time the brunch is over its usually 4pm, I'm settling in for a sugar coma of sorts and I've only managed to clean the dishes; I still feel that the day is an accomplishment. I also notice that the words and ideas percolating in my head for the past month spill out onto the page faster.

There are gorillas in the mist?

They found 125,000 gorillas recently. In the Congo. Apparently, you don't really "tag" or "count" these gorillas, you just look at their nests and count them. (Called nests, I prefer- pallets to sleep on) Have you seen the size of the Congo? Where do 100,000 gorillas hide for 10 years. (The last count was in 1992) I misplace a sock or my eye glasses for a week- but gorillas? The WCS located the "mother lode" (I take this direct quote) and also discovered 6,000 gorillas they didn't even know were in a isolated swamp. This fascinates me. I understand the concept of the forests. I understand the concept of a secretive species. But misplacing and underestimating 125,000 gorillas? They're not mice- how does this happen?

In other news, you can now get a camera, mp3 player and other small electronic needs at vending machines in the Dallas Airport. ...Maybe we can pick up a tracking device on the way to the Congo.

I don't believe in Sundays.

It's a lot like finding your borough. When you find another one that's "almost" yours, you realize just how much your current borough isn't for you- even though this other one isn't yours as well. Does that make sense? Being here reminded me that my time is short in NYC. Not because I don't love this town. Don't get me wrong. I love NYC. But it's not my borough. Not forever. I'm still searching for mine. Vermont isn't where I belong either. I'll know when I get there.
In the mean time, I'll enjoy the side trips from NYC to places I've never been before.

Ante Up.

Sometimes I wish I'd spent more time paying attention in my Web classes rather than using that time to update my myspace and edit my Shakespeare papers.

But, as with Algebra classes- what's the point? I'd just hire someone to do this kind of thing for me.

Confessions of a Scrap-a-holic

I scrapbook. It's not blogging. It's not about my "journal" entries, my momentary lapses into organized chaos at work or a place to release a diatribe about the latest fad I've seen on the subway. No, I scrapbook because it's calming. I'm in control of the complete process- layout, setup, organization, content- the whole nine yards. How that would translate into a regular paying job is beyond me. What I do know is no matter how stressful life can be- I can, without hesitation, sprawl out on my floor with pages and pages of paper, stamps and ribbons and create a memory on paper. Looking back at the past 10 years I've been indulging in this hobby- I can see how much better I've gotten and resist the urge to redo the pages. After spending $90 in Michaels on Friday I can't help but wonder- would someone pay me to do this?

Working on Leaving

I stood at the door of Holy Apostles anguishing over a decision about my future, not unlike the 1,000 people who’d walked through the doors earlier that day to receive a free meal carry. Six months into my AmeriCorps fellowship and already I’d worked with 1,884 volunteers serving over 67,396 meals. Still, it seemed something was missing. Maybe it was time to walk away from AmeriCorps and realize I was not cut out for this sort of work. I’d finally decided that this night would determine my future with AmeriCorps. I thought maybe some clarity would come to me by the end of the night. I had no idea that it would be one person that made all the difference.

St. Johns Bread and Life is a soup kitchen in the heart of Bedford-Stuyvesant. Even though it is only a few blocks from my apartment, I didn’t serve there until 5 months into my service year. St. Johns feeds about 250 daily with a small kitchen and crew of devoted volunteers. What stands out among those that volunteer is the food pantry coordinator. Always with a smile, Yemi is quick to laugh and even quicker to put you to work. No matter what her mood, she always has a smile just for her volunteers. From the first day at YSOP, I’ve heard many comments about how volunteer’s experiences are enriched due to a smile and a laugh with Yemi. She made the part of the day easier when volunteers talk about their experiences at a soup kitchen.

I greeted donors and friends of YSOP as they came into Holy Apostles. Although I’d only met her once before, she made a beeline for me, said “Thank You” and handed me flowers. It caught me off guard. So many times had I called her frantically needing a site and asking if I could send her “just 6 more volunteers” So many times have I had to call her and tell her groups were running late or not coming at all. She even came in on a Sunday just to find something for my volunteers to do at St. Johns. If anyone should be doing the thanking, it should be me. I stood there speechless. I tried to express my gratitude for everything she’d done and asked why in the world she would be thanking me. In so many words she explained that without the volunteers that I sent, she wouldn’t have the energy to do the work that she did. Without her, I tried to explain, there wouldn’t be volunteers eager to serve.
As my year comes to a close, I still think about the night I almost walked away. Long hours and a few encounters with angry students, teachers and homeless individuals can deter anyone, much less someone in this position. I started out my year thinking I was helping the homeless and helping students. But it was a smile and a couple of flowers that showed me that the real lives I was touching were the ones that have dedicated their lives to serving others.

Pancakes and Posts

Here are two posts I'd started to write and then stopped. Note the emo eminating off. Oh and each one posted with the same picture:

1: Is there a point in one's life where things just sort of work themselves out? Or is life still just a series of events that our brain connects based on how important they seem to you? Is there any point to worrying about tomorrow? Especially when it prevents you from living for today? What a melancholy train of thoughts.
I'm looking for a new job. I've got just a few weeks left with this one and need to get on the job search. I've also started looking into a script I'm developing. I don't know what that's going to be like but it's starting off well.

2. There's a lot to be said about the moments during a rainstorm. Its the time where I can compare the chapters of my life and smile just a little more. Rain is soothing. Use the lightning to channel your breathing. It rained inside some days. Just like it rains inside your soul some days.
Writer's Note:
You will read this and think, "Is this directed at me?" To which, I can only respond, "Parts of it were". The truth is, F. Scott wrote to Zelda and Gerdie wrote to Alice. Hemmingway wrote to a couple of ladies (although I wouldn't call that writing) and Jane Austen wrote to someone she never met. So there are some days when yes, I am writing to you. Some days, I'm writing about someone else. And sometimes, I'm writing just to make sense to myself. What flows through my fingertips is a mixture of reality, fantasy, love and loathing. I cannot take credit for everything. In fact, I believe I will take the Mark Twain approach to most of my musings. Those attempting to find truth shall be shot. Or something like that.

Live Live Live.

If you get a chance to, read It's Kind of A Funny Story by Ned Vizzini. It's quite possibly one of the best books I've read lately. Its taken up most of my weekly reading and I will use it to justify the lack of posting. I might also attribute this to the fact that I am finally getting a bed tomorrow from IKEA. Yes. I will have a bed. Maybe tomorrow I will post from said bed. IF I can construct it correctly.

Boot Camp.

Let's not go into what it took for me to get to Parris Island, the location of the USMC Boot Camp for the East Coast.....

Or lets:
Left work: 14:00 Wednesday
Left for Airport: 16:00 Wednesday
Flight Boarding: 18:45 Wednesday
Taxi to Front of Runway: 10:45 Wednesday (30 min past original arrival in Tampa)
Return to Gate for Repairs:00:45 Thursday
Landing in Tampa: 2:45am Thursday
Bedtime: 3:45 am Thursday (Original departure for USMC)
Departure for USMC: 6:45 am Thursday
Arrival at Parris Island: noon Thursday (original arrival: 10am)

I do have to say though, I missed that kid.

The Best of What's Around

I'm not too sure of what to expect. There are so many thoughts running through my head about this life of mine. I am definitely not where I belong, but I sure as hell am not where I shouldn't be. Does that make sense or is my rhetoric too confusing for this post? Put simply, I have mixed feelings about the first two days of this adventure. Because that is what it will be at the end of the day, an adventure of my mind and a couple of towns I called home. I will walk with my own ghosts and resurrect a past I flew hundreds of miles away from to forget.

I am a year older, maybe wiser and it's only a rare moment when I think about the decisions I've made or others have made for me that have gotten me to this point. What will the dedication page of my first novel say? How many will email hate mail because my experience is different than they remember it? Where will I be next year? Would you like fries with that?

I will be on a plane in 24 hours, hopefully almost there. Holding my breath, waiting for everything to fall into me.

5 Days Later

In less than a week, I will wake up same as I always do. I will put my pants on one leg at a time, grab my sunglasses and walk out the door same as I always do. Except today will be different. I will be different. I will stand next to my brother in support of him. Yet, I will do this while my politics and beliefs sit on the side of I-95. On that day, my brother will be a Marine. From that second on, every step he takes is down a path built by an institution I do not support. For one reason and one reason alone. There is no boot camp for veterans. They are not untrained, de-briefed or re-humanized. The old saying, "Only the strong survive" does not speak for the battle fields or the countries overseas. It speaks to the returning veterans thrown back into society with no fighting chance of completely becoming a full-functioning citizen. I will look into the face of my younger brother and only see the possible man I might serve in a soup kitchen years down the line.

Regardless of my politics, I will stand proudly by his side as he accomplishes the first goal he set for himself. I will do this because for the rest of our lives we will differ in our politics, our religions, our lives and our heart aches. We both know this to be true. It took one letter for me to realize all of this. One letter I didn't even have to open before I knew that on the day my brother becomes a Marine, I will stand by his side. He may be a Marine, but he's still my little brother.

Thoughts on Bed.

In two months, I will have been without a bed for a whole year. Some people say its entirely possible to wake up on the wrong side of the bed...What if you are on the wrong bed to begin with? I'm not saying I haven't enjoyed the whole experience, but maybe I am ready for a bit of stability in my life- ie, a bed. I mean, I am 23. But if I have a bed, then does that mean I can't leave as easily? Will such a permanent item keep me from doing something I love? 

What We Will Talk About

If McCain is elected.

Based on the comments stated by McCain, when I go to my 10 year high school reunion, we will be discussing the withdrawal of troops in Iraq. In the midst of talking to the people that I've spent the past 10 years avoiding, reconnecting with the people that have simply been my friends on Myspace, and seeing what unfulfilled paper pushing jobs people have- we will somehow talk about "this war in Iraq" You know, the one that started when we were all in the 11th grade.

I don't like the sound of that. Unfortunately, many of my cohorts, like myself, were raised in households that lauded the Bush administration. I'd be afraid to ask how many of my buddies are Republicans. (Not that this really matters, they probably don't vote) That's all I could think about last night during my overnight workcamp.

The Answers My Friend Are Blowin' in the Wind

• I didn't ever pay attention to the fact that anchovies are in Ceasar salad. When I found this out, I talked to my mother and apparently, it's a fact that she has been hiding from us. My father didn't even know about the anchovies.
  
• There's also an online networking website that many professionals use. Both of my parents are on it, yet as I worked my way onto posting my resume- neither of them mentioned this as a tool.
  

I'm sure there are other things my mother hasn't told me, but these two have been the "revelations of 2008" Trivial at best, it still makes me laugh. I wonder what will become apparent to me as the years go on. I also wonder what things I will keep to myself when I raise kids.

Word to Your Mother

Some mothers spend their Mother's Day at a nice dinner. Others, are left alone while the kids are taken out. Still others are treated to visits by grandchildren, trips to the spa and/or a vacation of sorts. When we were younger, my brother and I would get our mother exactly what she asked for on Mother's Day: a six-pack of Mountain Dew, Rasberry Pop Tarts and 4 hours of not having her children around (or atleast quiet) Since we've both flown the coop and this is the first official year of neither of us spending the day with her, I wondered what it would be that my mother would do. After all, for half of my life she's been a housewife and for the other half a single mother. She never wanted anything those other mothers asked for on Mother's Day. No spa, no fancy meals, not even a trip to see a movie. So how is my mother spending Mother's Day? Weeding, chasing after her puppy (who has an affinity for underwear) and then reading a magazine- the same thing she does every Sunday. Except today, there's a bunch of Stargazer Lilies on her kitchen table. And after all these years, it makes sense. All my mother ever wanted was the freedom to do what she wanted on Mother's day.

**I should mention that 19 years ago, her Mother's Day consisted of having my brother and every 6 years she forgets Mother's Day so my brother can have his birthday when they fall on the same Sunday. **

Classifieds

Getting a job- easier or harder with the Internet? I have resumes on three sites, I'm "linkedin" and I can get advice about how to go about getting a job while I eat Fruit Loops and listen to my neighbors play AC DC. But, I'm also supposed to have email etiquette and know whether or not to send an email "thank you" or if a typed note is preferred. No more days of waking up and looking through classifieds and resigning myself to the fact that it could take months before I have a job. Nowadays, it's all about connections, your network (which reminds me of the Verizon commercial when people ask me how my network is) and whether or not you spend hours a day on the various sites that jobs will post to. I suddenly have to know how to sell myself in 5 minutes. I haven't felt this cheap since I went to roommate interviews 9 months ago.

WANTED: JOB. Exciting, lucrative job that will allow me to speak to large groups, write essays or reports on products I've sampled, and coordinate projects. Preferably little phone conversation. Health and Dental a must. Mondays optional before 11am.

Until I find this job in the classifieds section of the Village Voice- I'll content myself with the soduku.

The Usual Suspects

In a month, I will be going home again. For 6 hours. Then going to South Carolina to see my brother become a Marine. Then back to Florida and finally back to NYC. This is the longest both my brother and myself have gone without seeing our parents. After 7 months out of Florida and the 5th year out of Tampa, I am finally learning that home means many things. It's true we all fit into a role designed well in advance when we return to our parents' homes. I wonder what my role must look like to those around me. I'm certainly not the perfect child. Nor am I out of favor with anyone. (Hence my willingness to sit in a car for 12 hours with my father.) Still, it leads me to wonder about the things I will be thankful to leave behind when I get back on my plane bound for JFK. What will I realize I miss the most? Maybe it will be the sunsets. Most likely, it will be the car rides, sweet tea and not having to pay for my meals. Thankfully, my father and I share one thing in common when road tripping: Mini-Bar at the hotel.

Spending My Saturday Reading Not Doing

I read all of Robert Rodriguez'  Rebel Without A Crew yesterday. Mostly on the N train doing the ludicrous loop from Astoria to Brooklyn. It made me think of all the times I spend reading about doing the things I enjoy and not actually enjoying the things I do. It also made me think about all the people that have accomplished things at my age. Robert Rodriguez was 23 when he got El Mariachi written, made and bought. I turn 23 in exactly 17 days.   What are the odds that I can get something done in those days? (I did smile a bit when RR went into a diatribe for a page about the accomplishments of others- he was dreading 26...) Maybe someone will ask RR what he wanted to accomplish by 40 and see if he's taken care of it before his 40th birthday this year. Maybe I will have to ask. Meanwhile, I will concern myself with more meaningful tasks like avoiding my art with the excuse "I can't afford it" 

What Would Mark Twain Do?

For some reason, I think Mr. Mark Twain might have an opinion on my new hobby. Actually, its the same hobby I've had for a while- just in a new format.

I'm reading Kafka's The Metamorphasis through my email. Yes Ladies and Gentlemen, I am reading a book online. When Stephen King announced he would publish his next book over the internet- and not in paperback first, I was not impressed.

When all those ibooks and palm-piloty things came out so you could read a book on a small screen the size of a hardcover novel, I turned up my nose as if they were green eggs and ham.

Then I realized just how much space books take up in my 10x11 room. How heavy they can get sometimes. Not to mention, the scarcity of cheap copies of the classics. So, without alerting any of my "friends who read" * I contemplated actually checking into this online reading.

*Friends who read: those individuals with whom I trust their advice on a novel suggestion and who will return a book lent them within a reasonable amount of time in the condition I lent said book.

~~~~~~~~~
A couple of weeks later, I happened to be actually reading the writing magazines I pick up at the store and came across an article for http://www.dailylit.com/. Novels, Non-Fiction- you name it- the couple that started it has broken stories into readable sections that they will email you daily, or three times a week at the time you specify. It's in good chunks- not in the middle of a sentence or thought. Some stories- like the Kafka one I'm reading- are free to subscribe. Others cost up to $6.

It takes me about 5 mintues to read the email every day. Bad news is, I've gotten into the story and want more- but I can't figure out how to get more delivered.

I still can't imagine only reading books this way. There is something to this- but you have to be pretty adept at picking up where you left off- and multitasking. Kind of like only reading three pages on the subway. (Hard for some) I'll let you know how it goes. Both Kafka and the website.

NOTE: dailylit.com turned out to be not too shabby. I figured out how to get more installations- which means I get through the stories faster. Kafka is proving harder to read than I expected. Somehow, I don't think the literal meanings are working. Salesmen aren't cockroaches.

Why the Homeless Need A Shower.

There are many things I take for granted.Examples: my lungs, the ability to ask my parents for advice, air conditioning, FL sunshine and showers.

Let me explain.

When you have no where that's your own and you are constantly in other's space it's necessary to be as small as possible. Take up as little room. The fear is one day you will wake up and their patience will have sailed away with Winken, Blinken and Nod. You will be out on your own. Maybe you are lucky enough to have a job. So you work 9 to 5 and then spend a couple of hours a night searching for an apartment. Realizing that with each day's search- your ability to cover 1st, last and deposit is dwindling. Maybe you feel you can't even make yourself breakfast (nevermind pack a lunch) where you are staying. Thus, you spend $$ you need on food you can't afford.

There are anxieties and stresses that cannot be adequately expressed in words over being homeless. Even now, 7 months later, I cannot write those feelings without believing they miss the point. The only thing I can expound on from my 8 weeks of homelessness is the one place I found absolute solace.

A shower.

Its the one place nothing is expected of you. That 2x5 space is yours for those 15 minutes. You owe no one. Thinking only of Lather, Rinse, Repeat- you do not need to plan out how to make as little noise as possible when waking up. No one cares if you are vegetarian, do your dishes or plan to keep the common space clean. Craigslist doesn't exist. It doesn't matter if its 25* outside or 125* outside. For those few precious moments, you are beholden to nothing. No one is above you on the social ladder and no one is below you.

Its somewhere you can control every piece of your atmosphere. Maybe you'll dim the lights. Maybe you'll wash your hair last instead of first. Maybe you will keep your socks on. For the homeless (or rentless, as I was) your liberty is not your control. You are at the mercy of those that take you in. But in the shower, you can reclaim your voice.

NO! I will NOT wash my hair today.

Decisions, however small, are decisions none the less. Its hard to explain to anyone who's never experienced the sort of helplessness that comes with relying on others for housing. But, when I get the chance to sit and talk with the ladies and gentlemen I encounter in soup kitchens- I can understand the small haven ensconced within a shower.

It really is the little things.

No Wonder We All Have ADHD.

Randomly, in this high-powered position I hold... it is imperitive for me to have constant updates on whether or not the National Service Learning foundations are suddenly freeing up nonexistent government funds for non-profits.

Thus, I must get a RSS feed.

Have you ever heard of this? I like to think I'm tech savvy. I ROFL when my BFFs send me jokes. (Thanks to a NYT article, I've updated my list) Plus, the kids that come on our programs keep me up to date on "coolness" factors: ie- "She's so uncool....she's still got a landline."

But, seriously, a ticker at the bottom of my screen telling me every hour that the NSLC has NOT infact received money to fund more service learning programs in the Tri-State area?

I figured it would be a simple little button in the bottom of my screen that would pop up when the site downloaded. No problemo. So I try to download this RSS program. Three sites later, I finally get the program downloaded. Yes, ENTIRE PROGRAM.

It's Outlook for the ADHD web addict. In two seconds (faster than my own outlook can receive a message) I have 1034 breaking news stories, 765 updated pages and this ticker is telling me about local news for a small town outside of Mumbai.

Is this what the world is coming to? I just want to know when the government will release funds for my non-profit. When Counting Crows will play in NYC. When Broadway tickets are free.

I don't need to know that liver disease is preventable in rats with artificial human liver particles.

So, in the midst of doing the daily grind, I am fighting with this stupid program with pop-ups and tickers and flashing alerts telling me about tooth loss predicting faster aging and children in Scotland finding a woman's head. (Oddly, they continue to mention that the kids were playing soccer...in Scotland, this would be futbol.)

So my mind is on futbol heads, rats and the length of my life in relation to the teeth that might fall out due to my lack of dental insurance INSTEAD on whether or not the government will free up money for my non-profit.

I thought this feed was designed to help my day. Not throw me into this informed tangent of life where I want to update my monster.com profile to reflect possible dental needs. In the week of my finals during two semesters of college (seperate times, same computer issues) I was without internet. Thus receiving spectacular grades because I did not spend 2 hours a night checking my myspace, facebook and livejournal. Nor did I need to see what Britney Spears was up to. After this, I decided that Sundays were forever going to be no cell phone days. Try contacting me on a Sunday. You think its tough to get me on Tuesday? Sunday will be nigh impossible. All because cutting yourself off from instant access tends to produce greater results. And more sanity.

So, as I sit on the subway next to the guy with his Blackberry heading to his hipster pad where we all have internet and myspace pages for buildings like McKibben Lofts, I wonder, how does a writer get away from it all- when so much fodder lies within the thick of it?

We (?!) got a fish...

I don't know if it was the amazing weather, delirium from walking 55 blocks in a short amount of time or if I'm really enamoured with this person that made me do something completely domestic.
I am the proud parent of a beta fish.
Is this how it begins? What next? Matching scarves? Knitted booties?

I grew up in a household bereft of pets for the most part. Dogs would drift into my mother's apartment for a few months at the maximum and at some point, Cruella DeVil (as we were apt to call her, unfortunately) would pass the dog onto a loving family who could care for it and wasn't a single mother with two jobs raising two teens and trying to keep up with the Jones. All together, we had 4 dogs, numerous hamsters, 2 cats and a rat- the result of an impulse purchase at a reptile store.
College saw a few mice and the random beta my roommate would purchase and we would eventually kill with the grand idea that sure- they can consume vodka. (it was not the vodka that killed this beta- it was the poor judgement of pet sitter in a man that looked like a cartoon, sounded like Beaker and pretended to be a 22yr old hipster in a 32 yr old yuppie Prof. job.)

But I'm digressing.

Here I am, 7 months into a new city, new job and new relationship and I'm buying beta fish. I'm not following my usual path of progression. There is no cat involved, nor lease and we've made it past the 3 month mark. Isn't that some sort of record??

Still.

I have a fish that I purchased with someone.

Part ownership. I don't do ownership well. Unless it's books. Then, back off. But even my clothes are just mine as in "a stopping point between the last thrift store and the next one" Maybe its due to all of the stuff I've lost in relationships: dvds, music, clothes, jewelry, cats (2), "toys", friends and as I would lament in my pint at the pub: pieces of my soul. My room tends to resemble the sort of place Bukowski and Kerouac describe in their novels.

So the contents of my room are now- one mattress on the floor, one book shelf full of books, one laptop that might work if you angle it right, and one beta fish named Rhett. Is this how people do it in NYC?

Don't get me wrong. (continue reading honey- I really DO like the fish)

It's time for me to care for something other than my own sanity. But, having a pet means I have to grow up just a bit more. I have to think about feeding said pet, cleaning water, reading up on habits and God forbid- care for it if it gets sick. I wake up wondering if he's jumped to his little Poisson death. Or if the water was too chlorinated for him. These are anxieties I wasn't anticipating in the pet store. Yet- I was concerned enough to purchase a $12 bowl for a $3 fish that could die before my next paycheck.

Part of me thinks this is my new and twisted way to avoid consistent writing and a creative way to explain that Ramen now comprises EVERY meal in my diet.

All in all, I enjoy the fish. (I mean, Rhett.) It's added plenty of conversation to our relationship: "How's the fish?" "Fine" "How's work?" "Okay"
I feel like I've accomplished something less than 4 minutes after I get up. Its become (in 24hrs) proof that I'm not in a detrimental, dependent, stereotypical relationship. It's not bound by alcohol, narcotics or the rest of the list I'd rather not go into...

You can keep your babies. Your mortgages. Your car payments.

I've got a fish.