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.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
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.
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. ...
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. ...
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Perfection
It sometimes seems, and I think that people want it to seem--that life is effortless for some. They put on a show that things are going very well, and that life is easy, manageable, and never better. Their pictures show smiling faces, their emails chirp about picket fences, home renovations, and pets. And yet...something seems..amiss. I've written those emails, the ones where you tell everyone that things are Great! and your relationship is Going Well! and that you are Moving ahead! and going forward with the wedding/kitchen renovation/new car/vacation to the Caribbean.
But behind those emails, there are the same doubts. The same worries, the same IMperfections. That our haircut is outdated. That those 5 lbs are NEVER going to depart, that we're looking different than we did 5 years ago (how could we not?). That everyone else has more money/self confidence/mojo/luck/looks than we did.
But really, we are our own worst enemy. In reality, everyone else is staring at themselves in the mirror with that ever-critical eye turned on themselves. And everyone has their achilles heel that follows them, when they get out of bed in the morning, down the street, into the office, and back home.
So what is the trick? Recognizing your own weakness and chink in your armour can help. For me, taking the edge off involves listing my own positive points, like shiny hair, bright eyes, a sense of humour--against my short stature, my curvy build, and my non-fashionista sensibilities. It's not as bad as it sounds. The other strategy is to lose the sorority mindset and focus on the inner things. The things that don't show in photographs. Like, a core of strength that lets things shake you, but not take you. The way you calm yourself from anxiety in the face of a problem, and don't let it overtake you. Comforting a friend. Helping a parent. Giving advice.
Those things that don't show in photographs.
Those quiet, real things.
But behind those emails, there are the same doubts. The same worries, the same IMperfections. That our haircut is outdated. That those 5 lbs are NEVER going to depart, that we're looking different than we did 5 years ago (how could we not?). That everyone else has more money/self confidence/mojo/luck/looks than we did.
But really, we are our own worst enemy. In reality, everyone else is staring at themselves in the mirror with that ever-critical eye turned on themselves. And everyone has their achilles heel that follows them, when they get out of bed in the morning, down the street, into the office, and back home.
So what is the trick? Recognizing your own weakness and chink in your armour can help. For me, taking the edge off involves listing my own positive points, like shiny hair, bright eyes, a sense of humour--against my short stature, my curvy build, and my non-fashionista sensibilities. It's not as bad as it sounds. The other strategy is to lose the sorority mindset and focus on the inner things. The things that don't show in photographs. Like, a core of strength that lets things shake you, but not take you. The way you calm yourself from anxiety in the face of a problem, and don't let it overtake you. Comforting a friend. Helping a parent. Giving advice.
Those things that don't show in photographs.
Those quiet, real things.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Aftermath
A rainy Monday. After stressing about Monday all day yesterday, the day was quite benign.
It began with a 4 am nightmare after which sleep eluded me. It was clock-watch-and-worry time.
I can't help it, it's what I do.
I started with work, the economy, (I guiltily admit that this was my first worry, perhaps because the nightmare had been work-related); I then moved on to family members, health and well-being, the general misery and failure of my personal life, and it went on from there.
I'm not remotely proud of unscrewing the Bell Jar in the middle of the night and crawling up inside it, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. Sometimes there is no fighting the big worries that crop up in the early hours of the morning. You just have to let them in. Maybe it's really the only way to release them.
I had a mediocre weekend. Let me explain.
After attending what feels like the thousandth-wedding shower of my lifetime (albeit a fabulous one of a wonderful friend) I left feeling like I always do, like the one who is eternally not chosen, the ultimate singleton. The feeling didn't last, dinner with 5 girlfriends and 3 bottles of wine teased it out of me, but I still had to face Sunday morning. Ugh. Sometimes.
So now it's Monday evening, I've spent the evening the way I imagine grown-ups do, cooking, tidying up, watching the rain, feeding my sister's cat. And now, back in the swing of the work week, I feel a little more serene, like "here's my place".
It's the weekends that are scary. That remind me my identity has not yet found a niche in my personal life. It's all wrapped up in my work-life, where, for 10 years, I have been able to lose more hours then I have spent on myself, working for some nameless reason, covering ground that seems endless. But it's what I do. I'm reminded of a quote I once heard, someone defending their occupation-- "It's what I do--not who I am"...
Is it who I am?
Or what I do?
I think it's time to start really evaluating life outside the office.
It began with a 4 am nightmare after which sleep eluded me. It was clock-watch-and-worry time.
I can't help it, it's what I do.
I started with work, the economy, (I guiltily admit that this was my first worry, perhaps because the nightmare had been work-related); I then moved on to family members, health and well-being, the general misery and failure of my personal life, and it went on from there.
I'm not remotely proud of unscrewing the Bell Jar in the middle of the night and crawling up inside it, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do. Sometimes there is no fighting the big worries that crop up in the early hours of the morning. You just have to let them in. Maybe it's really the only way to release them.
I had a mediocre weekend. Let me explain.
After attending what feels like the thousandth-wedding shower of my lifetime (albeit a fabulous one of a wonderful friend) I left feeling like I always do, like the one who is eternally not chosen, the ultimate singleton. The feeling didn't last, dinner with 5 girlfriends and 3 bottles of wine teased it out of me, but I still had to face Sunday morning. Ugh. Sometimes.
So now it's Monday evening, I've spent the evening the way I imagine grown-ups do, cooking, tidying up, watching the rain, feeding my sister's cat. And now, back in the swing of the work week, I feel a little more serene, like "here's my place".
It's the weekends that are scary. That remind me my identity has not yet found a niche in my personal life. It's all wrapped up in my work-life, where, for 10 years, I have been able to lose more hours then I have spent on myself, working for some nameless reason, covering ground that seems endless. But it's what I do. I'm reminded of a quote I once heard, someone defending their occupation-- "It's what I do--not who I am"...
Is it who I am?
Or what I do?
I think it's time to start really evaluating life outside the office.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday Afternoon for Single Girls
Ahh Sunday afternoon. Sometimes, for a single girl with some time on her hands, it can be the most depressing time of the week. I've read articles and columns about what my sister and I have coined "Sunday Night Syndrome". It starts innocuously enough, maybe a few thoughts of the coming week twinging you while you're at the gym in the morning, or maybe while you're lying in bed, making excuses not to go to the gym.
Then you have some coffee, try to go outside and find the city teeming with people, all coupled up, wrapped around each other as they walk down the street. And you feel a little smaller, a little less noticed.
Throw in the fact that all your married and relationship-ed friends are doing husband/family/boyfriend things, and a girl can really go adrift.
You picture the rest of your life as one long, unbroken string of workweeks, and paying every bill yourself, and you are fully there. In an angst ridden Wonderland where your life, in your mid-thirties, does not really resemble the 'standard'.
Then you have some coffee, try to go outside and find the city teeming with people, all coupled up, wrapped around each other as they walk down the street. And you feel a little smaller, a little less noticed.
Throw in the fact that all your married and relationship-ed friends are doing husband/family/boyfriend things, and a girl can really go adrift.
You picture the rest of your life as one long, unbroken string of workweeks, and paying every bill yourself, and you are fully there. In an angst ridden Wonderland where your life, in your mid-thirties, does not really resemble the 'standard'.
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