Sometimes I have to re-visit old truths

The main thing is this:

Transition is Tough.

I know I've said this approximately 72 million times in the last 2 months (oh who am I kidding. . . since May), but it's once again eminently apparent. This time it's after a conversation with M, a fantastic woman who fits somewhere between the category of former boss and older sister. M is in New York this week with my friend J (M's 6-year old) on vacation from sunny San Francisco.

Over a glass of wine I quickly recounted the shorthand version of the last few months- medical mishaps, romantic entanglements and their eventual (sordid) dis-entanglements, new beginnings, therapy. . . just the good stuff, really. I stayed in and played grown-up for a few hours with J (and G) so M could go out with her long time friend, L, and when they came home later M and I played catch-up a bit more.

Part of my mood for the evening has been a lonely, melancholy reflectiveness. Which is a really silly way of saying that I've been lonely. [which is incredibly understandable] My body has been unwell for some time now, and though it's on its way back to good health, there are still tons of hormones running a muck and dictating far more of my life than I'd like to admit. I also tangibly miss my dearly beloved people, who seem to be perpetually scattered across the country in a most inconvenient fashion. Not to mention I'm still nursing a bit of a bruised heart. It's completely natural to feel a bit lonely at times like this.

Especially when one's friend comes to town and one realizes that she's lost two major front teeth, grown several inches, and learned to respectfully speak her voice when someone hurts her feelings.

During my conversation with M at the end of the night I spent quite a bit of time talking about New York. We talked back and forth about how difficult it is to start over in a new place, about how the East Coast is particularly difficult for social freaks, about how amazing the cultural and artistic opportunities in New York are (especially when compared with San Francisco), and how it was still so early in my move. As I walked out of the biggest apartment I have ever seen and hailed a cab to take me across town and to my bed, I thought again that this is such a tenuous time for me.

It is understandable that I have been feeling melancholy, but it is unfortunate that I have been coloring my impression of New York as a new home with only the grays of my current emotions. I have been understanding of the fickleness of my opinions (having only just lived here two months) but I have not been particularly forgiving of New York for not being San Francisco. Or Michigan.

Tonight I (yet again) realized that transition is difficult. That I will feel completely differently about New York once I have established even a short history here. That though I love San Francisco, what I have really been longing for is the familiar.

Because transition is fucking difficult.

But the difficulty of this particular transition will wane, regardless of my acquiescence or lack thereof. San Francisco will probably always hold the same lure but New York will not always feel so emotionally bleak. The universe will bring more and more people of my sort to my life. I will be part of a beautiful community here, I know it. If I am patient (and diligent in my pursuit of diversion and challenge) I will someday in the not particularly distant future find myself fully entrenched in an active love affair with this town of apples and insomnia.

It's just tough for now.

Apologies and Such

I've been neglecting my blog lately.  What can I say?  Life has kept me quite busy.  Though I've had several thoughts and quite a few rants come to mind, I couldn't quite find both the time AND energy to commit anything to the electronic page.

A couple of housekeeping notices, first:

(1). Congratulations to my brother and his wife, who were married last week in Michigan (this lady got to be in the wedding party!!)

(2). Congratulations also to A & G, whose wedding I am currently in the process of attending.  A and I have been friends for more than ten years- ever since I pretended to shoot up with my mechanical pencil during choir.  (this lady ALSO got to be in their wedding party!!)

Down to business, now!  I need to clear the air after my last post.  It was brought to my attention (by one of the ladies I referred to, hereafter known as the assigned name, Veronica) that some of my language was a bit unclear.  This lack of clarity was easily misconstrued, and was thus rather hurtful.  This was not at all my intention.

I sometimes forget that by posting things on this blog I display them to the possibility of the entire world indiscriminately.  This is not to say that I post things I don't want people to read, but rather that I often assume much about my audience.  I assume, for example, that the only people reading my blog are people who already know me quite well.  This has proven itself to be absolutely untrue.  As I found out this week, I cannot assume that my blog audience knows me at all, or that they understand what I mean between the lines.  

So, to clarify, when I said:

These are the popular, chic, pretty students. . . At least that's how they carry themselves.  I'm not in awe of them or disgusted by them- mostly I'm intrigued by them.  They must spend so much time in the morning putting all that makeup on.  And by *all that* I simply mean that they always look very coiffed, with makeup and outfits and shoes and hair. . . and they invited me to sit with them?

I did not mean this description in a derogatory way at all.  I was trying to establish the fact that I felt out of my element.  I did not mean "pretty" and therefore "stupid" or "pretty" and therefore "snobby".  I meant that I have spent a lot of time with quasi-hippies over much of my adult life, and the situation I found myself in was different from the very start.

I had the excellent fortune of being able to talk about "Cattiness" with Veronica.  She had seen a link to my blog on my facebook page and followed it out of curiosity.  Imagine her surprise (and hurt) when she found that there was a post about her at the top of the page.  To Veronica's immense credit, she responded by contacting me to talk about the entry and her feelings about it.  

I am so grateful that she did so.  It would have been so easy to absorb such hurt and let it play out passively over time.  And I might always have carried a little reservation about her, too.

Instead, we talked.

Thankfully, due to the communication age, we processed all of this over chat.  Though that might sound like a passive way to resolve conflict, I rather think it allowed both of us to be more direct and honest than a face to face conversation would have.  

I will admit that it was a difficult conversation for me to have, even so.  My first inclination was to make everything ok- do whatever I had to to make Veronica happy with me.  Instead, sweaty palms and all, I stuck my ground.  I listened to what she had to say with my listening ears.  I re-read the entry, and I saw how I had been hurtful.

This was such a growing experience for me.  I was able to take ownership for my words and feelings.  I explained the context of my words, and apologized for hurting her feelings, all while maintaining my original point: the conversation I had been drawn into had been uncomfortable and inappropriate.  

A magical thing happened: just as I had listened to Veronica, she listened to me!  She explained that her comments had come out of continued frustration with a fellow student's work ethic.  It hadn't occurred to Veronica that a table in the cafeteria filled with future colleagues (at least one of whom only just arrived from San Francisco) might not be the best place to vent such frustrations.  Veronica apologized.  I apologized.  I felt such relief.  In a funny way, my faith in humanity rose quite a bit. 

People like to rant about how inhuman the internet makes interactions, and often enough they have a valid point.  But after exchanges like this, I feel the need to extoll the possible virtues of the interweb.  Sure, it allows dis-empowering porn to multiply faster than bacteria on stinky tofu, AND it allows trolls to air the most disgusting fruit of their overactive ids to the entire internet-world, but it's not ALL bad- 

sometimes it can be downright revolutionary.  

Start of Term

It's been a little while since I last updated, but I've been busy. Too busy to get a full night's sleep, actually, so though I've thought about reporting my most recent escapades to my anonymous blog audience, I haven't had the opportunity to do so until now.

What a week it's been, too. Summary in list form: my first guest Beth has been here since last Friday, working 30 hours for Carolyn, The Frick Collection, The American Museum of Natural History, The Museum of Modern Art, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeing Sarah JEssica Parker filming SatC Two, Beth's birthday with sushi, beer, and an attempted visit to the Empire State Building, a date, first day of classes, finding my first piece of furniture on the street (a table!), the arrival of boxes and boxes of things from SF, more classes, and much start-of-term geekiness.

I am so tired at the moment. I seem to be at that weird mid point between events, when one has enough time to realize just how sleepy one is even though there isn't enough time to truly relax. I have a rehearsal room with my name on it in an hour or so, and a class after that. Yay for humanities at my music conservatory. I'm sure I'm quite thrilled and exhilarated by the prospect.

*ahem*

It's not that I don't like books, but rather that the very concept of taking a course in humanities at the college level is a bit abysmal sounding. It's not a literature class, it's not a philosophy class, it's a humanities class- a 'let's see how much we can cram into a required course so that we can maintain accreditation' class. It might turn out to be ok, especially since I was able to comp out of HU0001, and am taking HU0003 this semester instead, but I am a little skeptical. That and the class runs from 8.30-9.45pm two nights per week, which is a ridiculous hour to spend in discussion of said things.

Otherwise, school is looking rather excellent. And obnoxiously intense. I'm taking the following courses:

• Voice Lessons (3 Credits)
  
• Sophomore Aural Skills (2 Credits)
• Humanities III (3 Credits)
  
• Medieval/Renaissance History (2 Credits)
  
• Advanced Freshman Theory (3 Credits)
  
• Freshman Theory Lecture (1 Credit)
  
• Phonetics (2 Credits)
  
• Symphonic Chorus (0.5 Credit)
  
• 2nd Year Performance Class (0.5 Credit)
  
• Concert Attendance (0 Credits)
• Humanities Lecture (0 Credits)

To be fair, though, I was able to sign out of my humanities no-credit lecture, as it conflicts with my theory class, so my schedule isn't as intimidating, but that only saves me 50 minutes.

I am overwhelmed by both the breadth of work I have ahead of me and the sheer joy of being here with such opportunities. My professors (thus far) are all absolutely engaging and at the top of their game. Zillions of nerdy jokes have already made me laugh again and again. I am surrounded by people who take their craft seriously, which is intimidating but extremely validating at the same time.

I'm eager to dive into academia of this sort- my theory prof. wants us to explore both the mechanics of music and the philosophical concepts of where those mechanics came from. Fascinating. My history prof. is dynamic and a bit of a drama queen, and I hope I am never late to his 9 AM lecture. My phonetics course requires that I learn a completely new and MUCH larger alphabet. The very first thing I had to do at school was perform for my as yet unmet peers in my performance class when I had *of course* neither warmed up nor brought music (thank you beloved Library for saving my ass!).

This program is going to alter me significantly. I am ready.

Weekend Events

I thought I'd share about my weekend, seeing as I had been feeling quite melancholy/pensive/gloomy about New York during much of my last week.

My weekend was pretty fantastic, actually. Friday night my housemate, Doug, came home from Michigan. In case I haven't already explained, Doug is from my hometown. With him came Amber, a very lovable canine who shares our apartment. There was a dramatic thunderstorm that night, which kept me from sleeping. I stayed up until around 6 am, surfing the internet and listening to rain. *yawns* Saturday I had a required piano placement exam, which completely embarrassed me and emphasized the fact that it has been 10 years since I studied instead of the fact that I studied for 10 years.

The MOST EXCITING THING that happened during the day on Saturday, though, was that I got my. . .



. . .



(wait for it)



. . .

Library Card!!

I was standing amidst the cd collection stacks in the library on Broadway at 113th, and I got so excited that I actually had a little pinch whenever I breathed. I think that this may have been the turning moment for me in New York.

I love the library so much. It's a deep, supreme sort of love. Besides that fact that I get to take things home and use them for free, which is awesome, the very concept of the library is absolutely radical. Libraries provide free knowledge to the public. Access to any available knowledge- Completely free, without regards to class, creed, orientation, gender, age, ability, etc. Libraries are funded by the state for the betterment of the people. God, I love the library. I'm so excited about the library at this moment that I can't even construct a clear description of why I love the library so much, on an ideological level. Therefore, I'll leave it at that.

At any rate, I got my library card and proceeded to borrow some cds and movies (I'm in the middle of a book already). Movies: Bollywood/Hollywood, La Chinoise, Talk to Me, and Persuasion (which happens to be one of my favorite Austens). I immediately watched 'Persuasion', which I of course loved. I then set out for Brooklyn for dinner, wine, and a movie with my friend Candace.

I brought two bottles of Recession Wine, Candace bought Vegetarian Chinese Take-Out, and we sat on the floor of her new apartment, watching 'Talk to Me' with frequent breaks for cards or talking or more wine. We ultimately stayed up until around 4 am listening to music and discussing everything from our moves (Candace is a friend from the Bay Area, who also just moved to NY) to romantic entanglements to Jay-Z.

In the morning, I trekked back to Manhattan, which I must say is quite a trek. At least to the upper west side. Getting from my apartment to Candace's was similar to the commute I was used to in SF when traveling from SF to Oakland. Saturday night my timing was awesome, and it took about 55 minutes, but Sunday morning, it took much closer to 90. I had intended to visit ABC No Rio on the Lower East Side to join in Food Not Bombs, but after showering, getting ready, and running to the Subway, I discovered that I had left my Metrocard in my jeans pocket. I was to meet friends by 3, so I decided to wait until next weekend to try FNB.

At 3 my friends Richard and Hilding came by in their trusty Volvo and picked me up for an afternoon at the beach. We drove out to Fort Tilden and Breezy Point, a drive that took maybe an hour? It was amazing, as these places are part of NYC, but they are so remote and so removed that one feels as though one is far, far away, in some beach resort town. We picnicked on the beach, H & R went swimming, I dipped my feet in (surprisingly warm!), and then we headed back to the city.

We ended up driving all the way through Brooklyn instead of taking the Highway, which was very scenic, in terms of orientating oneself to a new area. Brooklyn is so unbelievably huge. When we got back to Manhattan, R & H invited me over for dinner at their apartment.

Richard cooked a delicious Swiss pie sort of concoction- filo dough filled with Cheese, Cheese, Heavy Whipping Cream, and Egg. Mmmmmmm. . . And we had a salad and a few beers, after which we proceeded to discuss such things as whether prostitution ought to be legalized, what the purpose of its illegality is, victimization, the difference between homosexual prostitution and heterosexual prostitution in personal opinion, rape and its definition, a possible re-framing of consent as seeking active consent and its implications on the legal definition of rape (much of this within the confines of the Swedish legal system), and of course, our respective summer vacations.

I had a brilliant time, and left to go home around 11.30. At this point, I saw the M4 pass a block and a half away. I ought to have run after it, but I stupidly assumed there would be another one in due time.

After 50 minutes of waiting on Madison at 64th, I gave up, and began an alternate and tedious route. I took the following: M66 to the 6; the 6 to the M96; the M96 crosstown. I then walked 10 blocks home. Grrrrr. . . it was after 1 AM by the time I reached my apartment. *grumblegrumble*

Which brings me to one final rant. As I was walking home last night, I felt generally safe. It was late, but I knew where I was, the neighborhoods I was in were all relatively safe, and I was awake and aware of my surroundings. That being said, I was quite pissed off by a group of young men in my neighborhood. On Columbus, about 5 blocks from my apartment, I noticed three guys standing on the sidewalk, hanging out. I actually prepared myself in case they decided to have a friendly little chat with a single woman walking home at 1 in the morning. (I'm learning that every time I pass a man, especially a group of men, on the street, I must brace myself. It is incredibly irritating, and I'm sure I'll blog about this some other time)

Sure enough, I pass by and one of the guys steps out and says,

"Hey there, Big Girl-"

"Fuck you."

Now, I have never responded to someone I don't know in such a manner. However, the rules of this world definitely imply, and he ought to know, that he has no right to talk to a single female walking down the street at that time of night. I'm in self-preservation mode. I'm going to tell him to fuck off.

"I see you've got your determined walk"

"Yep"

It felt damn good to respond with a bit of fire, I have to say. Damn Empowering.

I made it home, finished some computer things, and went to sleep. This place is beginning to feel like home.


Currently Reading: Male and Female

Accomplishments

During the past few days I have done the following:

-Scrubbed grime that I assume has been living on my kitchen walls since the Reagan Administration

-Listened to at least 10 episodes of This American Life (the radio show)

-Watched 4 episodes of This American Life (the tv show)

-Downloaded 8 songs by Ladytron

-Removed all traces of cigarette refuse and sludge from my room

-Eaten spaghetti with plain tomato sauce every day at least once

-Eaten rice and beans/lentils for the other meal of the day

-Eaten Eggplant Parmigiana (this was free from school)

-Begun decorating my room with Queer Propaganda

-Crafted a makeshift table in my bedroom using the following: Two empty wooden crates, Two half-used paint cans, One striped box, One plywood board, One tapestry-like piece of material

-Put my Tibetan Prayer Flags up

-Met 2 MSM students from Grand Rapids

-Met 60 Billion Grad students who are younger than me

-Met 2 Undergrad students my age

-Gone to the pub with colleagues

-Gone on a cruise around the island of Manhattan (paid for by my school)

-Lost an unknown amount of weight due to sweating

-Discovered the following on my street: French Bakery, Indian/Pakistani/Bangladeshi Take-out, Mexican Take-out, Chinese Take-out, Southern Restaurant, Burger Restaurant, Two Delis, Fried Chicken Take-out, Cafe, Creperie (if I ever have money, I might get to try some)

-Made Coffee at home using the following: a Saucepan, a Small Sieve, and a Piece of Paper Towel

-Discovered that I am taking 18 credits this semester, which is apparently normal at this school. This does not count a couple of no-credit requirements.

-Considered writing an email 67 times, only to write it and send it to someone else

-Applied for work-study at school library

-Bounced continuously back and forth between ecstasy and terror at my present situation

I am very, very tired.

For your viewing pleasure:

View of Bedroom from under loft

View of Loft from doorway

On the School Cruise under the Brooklyn Bridge

This American Life is Sustaining Me

I just finished the third coat of paint on two of my bedroom walls. Red. As in a fiery maple leaf, or a delicious tomato, or. . . ketchup? The cheap kind, not the deep maroon of heintz or hunts, but with an almost orange hue akin to ball park condiments. You might ask what color I chose for the other two walls-

. . .


Yellow.


My room might appear to have been decorated with kitchen sauces by the time I'm done. At least it won't smell like said deliciousness. Mmm. . . vinegar. . . salt. . . smells that last.

Which leads me to the thought of the smell in my apartment building's hall. Putrid seems an accurate term. Let me preface this by explaining that New York has been rather warm since I arrived Monday. Yesterday the fire hydrants in my neighborhood had been turned on, an action I'd seen in movies but doubted happening in the course of normal life. At around 90 degrees in a large city, though, I suppose one does what one must to detract from the oven like sensation that clings to everything.

Ovens are delightful when they're put to good use. They bake delicious things, creating a waft of tantalizing scents, tempting one to hang about and steal a wayward cookie. The hallway of my apartment building is not baking cookies.

The smell is somewhat akin to a combination of ashtray and greasy potatoes. I'm not sure if you have ever noticed the difference between cigarette smoke and an ashtray, but let me assure you that the difference is vast and the ashtray wins the award for most obscene.

Climbing three flights of stairs in the midst of such delightful company is not particularly comforting. Or welcoming. I'm sure that this experience will fade as the following things happen: (1). The weather becomes less kiln-inducing, (2). The follicles in my nose die a little from having lived in a large, smelly city, (3). I become so used to living here that I associate the smell of baking garbage with homecoming, (4). I acquire an actual room to live in so that coming home is a happy and relaxing event and thus don't mind trudging through disgusting odors to visit my oasis.

With regards to (4), I must explain that I have a room, but it is in all sorts of disarray. I am not living in my room, but rather in my roommate's room. It's sort of like camping out in a closet. There's nowhere to sit and hide on the internet (I'm writing this on the floor. My butt has gone numb). There's nowhere to lie down and watch a movie.

None of these things are the end of the world, but for someone who relies on a solid sense of home, who has been without her own stable, personal space for more than 2 months, and who is in the midst of a stressful transition, this is incredibly frustrating. All I want at this moment is to have a comfortable refuge from the difficulty of finding my way in a foreign world.

I mean, I don't even know where to get a good cup of coffee. I have to go exploring, discover new lands and new comfort zones just to find a caffeine fix. Which is fantastic- adventures are exactly what I wanted. However, I have to do the same thing when I get 'home'. There's no marginal space for me to feel at ease or at peace or comfortable. My surroundings are not very supportive.

Inner Peace, babe. It's a struggle.

I know that this will all pass. I know it's part of the big experience of moving and being 24 and trying to make sense of this world. I know in my head that this will get better. But in my gut, I can't help but feel a little twinge, wondering if this risk, this GIGANTIC risk, was worth it.

I think about the story my grama told me about the time she tried to move to New York. She got off the train and looked around, which was precisely when she realized that she didn't know what she was doing. She didn't have a job, or a place to stay, or friends. Her response? Run home. She stayed the night with friends of her mother, and then took a train home.

When my grama told me this story, I gave her a patronizing look. I attempted to be considerate and understanding, but inside all I could think was how stupid and weak she must have been. Why would she try to move to New York without making plans? Why wouldn't she stay?

The truth is this: I have made a LOT of plans in preparation for this venture. And though I have a place to stay, I am still unsure if things will work out. For the first time I understand my grama's decision to return home without a fight. In fact, I almost envy her the ability to admit defeat. Not that I have been defeated yet, as it's far too early to tell that, but I don't feel particularly fierce.

People have been telling me all summer 'how brave' I must be for doing what I'm doing. I've accepted their words, and scoffed inside, just a bit. Well, maybe a lot. Brave?? I'm not brave! It's not as though I had a choice to be sheepish. What else am I to do? This is just where I'm supposed to be, what I'm supposed to do. It made sense.

But last night as I took a break from painting my room to go downstairs to the DingDong Lounge (I live above a bar. Sweet.) and have a pint, I realized just how scary this venture is. I could have stayed in San Francisco, where I know my way around, where all the great coffee is, and when free museum days are. I could have stayed in Grand Rapids, where my closest of friends live. Where my heart still beats outside my chest. Where I could probably finaggle a job out of friends and relatives. But I left.

And here I have no cushion. No financial cushion. No real social cushion. This is a big risk. I sat at the bar and drank my Brooklyn Lager and didn't talk to anyone. The act of sitting there, present with my fears, stepping outside of my door to challenge those fears, was enough for that moment.

Halfway through my beer a torrential downpour began. I watched as outside the trees were whipped about and rain fell in great glops. And though it's silly and selfish, I felt as though the rain was for me.

Somehow it made me feel safe.