Wednesday, June 10, 2009

Reading in Bed

I'm up late reading "Important Artifacts and Personal Property from the Collection of Lenore Doolan and Harold Morris, Including Books, Street Fashion, and Jewlery".
It's depressing, therefore I find it quite readable.
Reasons why:
1) at the start of the relationship she is 26 and he is 39. Why why why.
2) that 2 people in semi-creative fields in the new millenium can own that much
crap, and I mean CRAP is beyond me.
3) if New York is the centre of cultural zeitgeist and these 2 are living in the
centre of it (see point 2) creative fields) then their lack of any kind of taste, save for
kitsch, is disturbing on many levels.
For those who have not delved into this masterpiece just yet,
let me admit, that yes, I DO like it,
hence the fact that I can't put it down and
I know I have to get up in 6 hours.
It IS original, using an auction catalogue for the
forum of a burgeoning, then ultimately, failing,
(flailing?) romance. But the photos scream
to be done in colour to me.
The endless black and white, the girl half of the couple's astoundingly
ugly bathing suits, and the odd collections
of books are distressing to say the least.
But compelling, yes. Oddly, yes.
It's written by a Canadian. Of course it is!
Transplanted to New York, but Canadian through and through.

Monday, June 8, 2009

2 Things for Monday

I have what could be described as a mildly difficult neighbour. She's sort of high-profile, and due to some situations beyond my control, I became grist for the mill, so to speak, and have had to decide how to deal with the possible "bad blood". Last night I got home late, there was a card in my door, no label, and it was sealed. I stepped into my apartment, locked the door behind me, and ripped open the envelope. It was a card, albeit a creepy one, of a woman in a kind of newspaper origami, with curlers in her hair, and the headline "Sex Scandal". Inside was a handwritten note. It was...odd to say the least.
What to do?
I consulted the experts, 2 good friends who have been following developments closely. They had, from the beginning, persuaded me not to slash any tires and instead, deal with the situation by taking the high road.
So I did.
On the way home, while shopping, I picked up a bottle of Cabernet. I came home, work clothes still on, heels, raincoat, the whole bit, and wrapped said Cabernet in a New Yorker wine bag, covered with typeface, my own little attempt at newspaper humour. I took a deep breath and walked next door.
I knocked, in a civil, not angry, way, and waited, holding gift aloft so my visit would not be interpreted as disingenuous.
Door opened. I introduced myself and handed over the wine. Stammering ensued. I kept it short. No hard feelings. Walked back to my apartment, head held high. Good deed done.
Ahh Monday.
My rumination about the card last night didn't last long. I had another piece of news after an old friend sent me a message, commenting on my blog. I had been having thoughts about wasting time on Sundays, frittering them away by not getting to the "big things" in life, whatever the hell those things are. Her message gave me serious pause, and this is a friend who has always had a gift for doing that to me. Back in the day this was a friend who challenged me with an intellect that I had never seen before. I am thinking of her today. My friend commented that she was glad I'm still writing. I'm glad too. It's been a while, but sometimes it's the only way I can communicate with myself, and with the people who know me well, to whom I can't always have the big conversations with. The conversations that mean you have to feel twinges of pain, or of regret. Where things are often said that leave you feeling exposed and uncomfortable. But as I once read in a memoir-ic novel by a writer whom I really admire--"If it feels scary and painful, it probably means you're doing the right thing." -Caroline Knapp, author.

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Dry Your Eyes Sunday Girl

Most of my downtime, as you can see from my postings, happens on Sundays. They are a lazy-ish day, even for me, and i am not the "sit on the couch and do nothing" type.
They used to be a bit more fun, let me explain.
About a year and a half ago, my dear friend Lauren moved to NYC. She was my ultimate Sunday Girl partner. We coined the term from the fantastic song by Blondie, and how we spent Sundays together (as fellow never-been-married-no-kids-in-the-forecast) varied only according to weather. Rainy days meant scrapbooking inside, organizing photos while heating up frozen pizza, swigging back wine, and baking cookies. Nice day out? Buying flowers on Avenue Road, sunning ourselves on the rooftop of my building, or lunch out on a patio, usually the Bedford pub.
We appreciated the same laid-back approach to the day--not rushing about doing errands, in the traffic snarl of downtown Sunday, but a more relaxed vibe that let the day stretch out.
Sundays in 2009 usually involve a serious workout and no lazy morning. It's a trade-off. I need to work out alot to allow myself the caloric intake i love. Now, at 35, I need to maintain and energize, and the work-outs give me that. Then, maybe a tan, lunch with my sister, and then laundry and cleaning. Not alot of time for soul searching. Then, as I've written about before, I focus on Monday worrying. Why can't I space out my creative times through out the week? I have a demanding job, and after taking care of errands, food shopping, proper meal cooking, and my never ending commute--there is not alot of evening time left. The need to set realistic goals in terms of weeknights is imperative. Ahh a goal. Something I can work toward. ...