(Thanks Mom, for reminding me about this.)
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Stand By Me
I saw this wonderful film maker on PBS the other night. It took years and years of travel all around the world to gather the footage. His message is good, the song is great. Turn the sound on, click here and enjoy.
(Thanks Mom, for reminding me about this.)
(Thanks Mom, for reminding me about this.)
Thursday, December 18, 2008
I really do ♥ NY
I have found myself feeling down on NYC lately. I have found myself irritated at the fact that my apartment is small, I don't have a dishwasher, I have to schlep laundry down the stairs and around the corner to the laundromat with a 7-month-old strapped to my chest. I have found myself irritated at the grime and the noise, even in our fair Brooklyn. I have found myself fantasizing about living in a big, suburban house which has a driveway and multiple bathrooms. I pretend to love being an urban "baby wearing" momma instead of a stroller-pushing suburban momma, when in truth my shoulders kill me but I wear her anyway, since strollers and subways stairs do not mix. I spend a lot of time thinking about all the things that are wrong with New York City and all the ways it doesn't work for me.
But then, when I got to seriously thinking about how life would be for our family if we lived elsewhere (in some unnamed "regular town",) I realized why it is that we live here instead: the people. It's the way New Yorkers think and act and interact with each other. I could do without the subway, the skyscrapers, the noise, and even the Strand Bookstore... but if I left New York, I would miss the people. I'm not talking about the freaks and crazies (though they do provide some entertainment,) I am talking about the everyday people at the bagel store, the dog park, the Union Square market. There's a forced interaction here that requires you take the time to learn a little bit about everyone you meet - the lack of space demands it. It's not something you find anywhere else in the United States.
(There's also something to be said for the amazing diversity here in the city. Call me crazy, but being surround by all white people who speak only English sounds pretty boring once you've experienced the opposite. I love love LOVE that my daughter is going to grow up in such a multicultural environment - she'll know from the get-go that the world extends far and wide beyond our borders.)
In celebration of my epiphone about my love for our fair and sparkling city, I post this link. Be sure to check out the one about NYC's pregnant women. Yeah. :)
Click: New York Magazine's Reasons to Love NY - 2008
But then, when I got to seriously thinking about how life would be for our family if we lived elsewhere (in some unnamed "regular town",) I realized why it is that we live here instead: the people. It's the way New Yorkers think and act and interact with each other. I could do without the subway, the skyscrapers, the noise, and even the Strand Bookstore... but if I left New York, I would miss the people. I'm not talking about the freaks and crazies (though they do provide some entertainment,) I am talking about the everyday people at the bagel store, the dog park, the Union Square market. There's a forced interaction here that requires you take the time to learn a little bit about everyone you meet - the lack of space demands it. It's not something you find anywhere else in the United States.
(There's also something to be said for the amazing diversity here in the city. Call me crazy, but being surround by all white people who speak only English sounds pretty boring once you've experienced the opposite. I love love LOVE that my daughter is going to grow up in such a multicultural environment - she'll know from the get-go that the world extends far and wide beyond our borders.)
In celebration of my epiphone about my love for our fair and sparkling city, I post this link. Be sure to check out the one about NYC's pregnant women. Yeah. :)
Click: New York Magazine's Reasons to Love NY - 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Snow-ish day
It snowed today. The fat flakes didn't accumulate, but they fell for quite a while and the sky took on that grey, ethereal tone that you only ever see on a snowy day. I tried unsuccessfully to capture the falling snow on film.
I woke this morning with terrible stomach pain. I called off work; I couldn't even pick Lucy up without feeling like knives were in my gut. I finally gave in to my husband's insistance and called my doctor, feeling like an ass saying "I have a stomach ache." But since the pain was persistent, she did want to see me. Though, she said, her office was closed for the day so would I mind coming to her house? Amazing. When was the last time that happened, ever, in the world of today?
I took a car service to her apartment. The light was fading into that sad violet of winter evenings and the snow had thinned to a drizzle (if snow can drizzle) as we drove through Hasidic Williamsburg. Which has got to go down as one of the strangest and most fascinatingly alien places in all of New York City. Hasidic Jews are to New York what the Amish are to Pennsylvania and Ohio. They are so insular, so orthodox, so weirdly dressed and so steeped in traditions of the ages that I can't help but want to know all their creepy secrets.
Once inside my doctor's warm and welcoming apartment (where the walls were painted all manner of jewel tones that I am scared to commit to) she went to work on my belly and in 5 short minutes determined I was not dying. Nor did I have an ulcer. Probably damaged the lining a bit from taking too much pain medication, she said. She prescribed Prilosec, thanked me for visiting, refused my attempts to give her my $10 co-pay, and sent me back into evening.
Standing on the front steps of her apartment building, I realized for the first time in 12 hours, my belly didn't hurt anymore. Psychosomatic? Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to get out of my house.
I woke this morning with terrible stomach pain. I called off work; I couldn't even pick Lucy up without feeling like knives were in my gut. I finally gave in to my husband's insistance and called my doctor, feeling like an ass saying "I have a stomach ache." But since the pain was persistent, she did want to see me. Though, she said, her office was closed for the day so would I mind coming to her house? Amazing. When was the last time that happened, ever, in the world of today?
I took a car service to her apartment. The light was fading into that sad violet of winter evenings and the snow had thinned to a drizzle (if snow can drizzle) as we drove through Hasidic Williamsburg. Which has got to go down as one of the strangest and most fascinatingly alien places in all of New York City. Hasidic Jews are to New York what the Amish are to Pennsylvania and Ohio. They are so insular, so orthodox, so weirdly dressed and so steeped in traditions of the ages that I can't help but want to know all their creepy secrets.
Once inside my doctor's warm and welcoming apartment (where the walls were painted all manner of jewel tones that I am scared to commit to) she went to work on my belly and in 5 short minutes determined I was not dying. Nor did I have an ulcer. Probably damaged the lining a bit from taking too much pain medication, she said. She prescribed Prilosec, thanked me for visiting, refused my attempts to give her my $10 co-pay, and sent me back into evening.
Standing on the front steps of her apartment building, I realized for the first time in 12 hours, my belly didn't hurt anymore. Psychosomatic? Maybe. Or maybe I just needed to get out of my house.
Monday, December 15, 2008
100th Post.
How fitting it is that this, my 100th blog post, is where and when I get to resurrect this blog. Very cool.
When I began, it was mostly about my adventures here in New York City and Brooklyn. I hope to continue to bring you such tales, but I want to expand my "content" to include my personal musings on life, art, politics and the world in general. Is that okay? I thought so. I have once again started carrying my camera around all the time, so hopefully I can capture some interesting things for you, my friends and family, to look at.
"My Broken Typewriter" refers to an old Royal typewriter from the 1930's that sits in my apartment. It's dusty and has some dog hair stuck in the keys, but it still halfway works and I use it to type out transporting little phrases that usually end up in my assemblage artworks. My dad gave me the typewriter years ago (my dad can always be counted on when one desires a specific item of antiquity) and though it should probably live in the case where it would be better protected, I wouldn't be able to see it. I like to look at it. It's an art object all of it's own.
When I began, it was mostly about my adventures here in New York City and Brooklyn. I hope to continue to bring you such tales, but I want to expand my "content" to include my personal musings on life, art, politics and the world in general. Is that okay? I thought so. I have once again started carrying my camera around all the time, so hopefully I can capture some interesting things for you, my friends and family, to look at.
"My Broken Typewriter" refers to an old Royal typewriter from the 1930's that sits in my apartment. It's dusty and has some dog hair stuck in the keys, but it still halfway works and I use it to type out transporting little phrases that usually end up in my assemblage artworks. My dad gave me the typewriter years ago (my dad can always be counted on when one desires a specific item of antiquity) and though it should probably live in the case where it would be better protected, I wouldn't be able to see it. I like to look at it. It's an art object all of it's own.
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