when a cold cloth over the eyes just isn't enough

Sometimes, when you have a kid, you can feel like they are sucking away your life force, like a cat sucking out your soul, like Rogue leeching super powers from her fellow X-men. They are the little Dorians and you are reduced to a painting, a shell of your former self, growing rapidly more hideous as they venture further out into the world. Even their small crimes, a tiny hand scattering cat kibble to all corners of the house, ages you, adds jowls, produces dozens of wiry grey hairs that grow not from your formerly distinguished temples but directly from the top of your head, as a visual reminder of your energy leaving you through your crown chakra. It is at this point that you feel sorry for your own parents, when you understand why they went to bed at ten, why they were on occasion too tired to finish their beers, why it is that they never went anywhere or did anything (or that was how it seemed then). It is times like this when I really want to invest in a more comfortable couch. I just need more sleep. Then I can resemble this painting instead.

Luckily, when my kid says my name or asks very sweetly where her baby doll might be so she can hug it and kiss it, I don't feel any of this. She warps my mind with her cuteness.

this is to all the haters out there

I have recently notice an anti-New York City trend, not just among tourists, but among New Yorkers themselves (see Onion article, see all whiny commuters). The typical complaint usually goes something like this: New York is crowded, dirty, expensive, overrated, and generally just too hard. Their solution is usually to leave, or to talk incessently about leaving. Do not get me wrong, there are many beautiful and worthy cities out there (San Francisco, Boston), and there are plenty of reasons to move to said cities. I would love to be closer to my own family. That said, I feel that in the face of all this negativity I need to utter some rare words: I never want to leave New York City.

Yes, New York is hard. Life is hard, people. Michelangelo didn't say, "you know Julius, the ceiling seems like a great idea, but why don't we go ahead and just do the walls?" I will admit that while in New York you may see the bare ass of a homeless person in the middle of the day on a public street. You may see chicken bones on the ground, and you may smell something ungodly burning. You may also see a slow-moving cockroach zigzagging down the sidewalk with a camera around his neck, stopping at every goddamn corner to take a picture. You may later see thousands of his friends boil up from a sewer grate in a way that makes you think you should run for high ground. This is all totally normal.

But there is also Bach's solo cello suites in the subway; delicious Ethiopian food; watching Cary Grant try to salvage Ingrid Bergman's modesty in Notorious on the big screen; the mo' stormy at The Farm; the Highline (finally the city realized it needed to preserve its strange and wonderful archiectural oddities); the Met (one of the best museums in the world and it's free); getting a reserve book brought out of the stacks at the main branch of the New York Public Library, completely entertaining street fashion, 5 Pointz and the Broken Angel house. And that is just the obvious stuff. There is a whole secret New York, perfect hidden jewels that can be mined by taking circuitous routes home and lingering in doorways and talking to strangers.

This weekend I went to Central Park with my friend (self-dubbed the Derelict House Guest), and I was reminded of just how much I love New York. It is an inspiring place, not only because of all the amazing things to do and see, but because of all the people--the artists, the madmen, the writers, the thinkers, the magicians, the furries, the losers, the cruisers--who choose to live here. There is adventure here and courage, not only because it is hard (and yes it is frogging hard) but because it is full of seekers, people looking to be part of, and contribute to, something bigger than themselves. This population exists everywhere, but is particularly vibrant in New York. My dear Derelict House Guest has helped remind me of this. Here is her completely inspiring foot.

I was struck by the texture of the stone and her leather shoe. She is the stone, we are all the stone and the park and 72nd street, and the plastic roses on the horse bridles, and The Dakota, and the moon. Henry James knew. John Lennon knew. David Byrne knows. New York is not a lonely place.

even better than Christopher Cross

Since I discover a new band (new to me, of course) about every five years, I thought I should share my latest revelation. Tennis. The band is comprised of a couple who ditched life in their land-locked state, sold everything, bought a boat, sailed up and down the eastern seaboard, and wrote some sweet and perfect songs, of which this may be my favorite.

And now I'm completely obsessed with the idea of a couple on living on a sailboat. It may be a cliche, but checking out of life on land is the ultimate geographic cure. When he wants to quit MI6, James Bond does it with that hot girl from The Dreamers. In a classic uptight-tight-girl-lets-her-hair-down make over, Kathleen Turner and Michael Douglas do it at the end of Romancing the Stone. The elves, when they are all done with their life among the humans, sail to the West. It seems like a great idea. In it there is escapism, decadence, romance, adventure. But what happens once land is out of sight, once the clouds begin to gather and the foul weather gear has to come out (I'm talking the yellow rubber waders with suspenders)? What happens when you aren't Jack and Jackie circumnavigating Chappaquiddick? What happens when you are on day 639 eating sprouts grown in a can and drinking wine out of a box because the bottles were too hard to strap down? I guess that is the other side of this image. The salty dog alone on his boat, left by his lady. Now a drop out he finds comfort in bars close to marinas singing "...my life my love and my lady is the sea." None of it matters when you listen to this song. This song is good weather and safe harbor, even if that's not what the lyrics say.

You have to believe...

The other day, meaning sometime in the last year, my man and I were discussing how heartbreaking it was, as children, to discover that magic wasn't real. I don't actually remember the moment of that realization, instead I remember faking it. I remember knowing that Santa Claus was a lie, but still hoping for the sound of hooves on the roof. I wanted to be wrong. But I wasn't. I pretended to believe. After a real low point around junior high, I began to rediscover magic, to search it out, to manufacture it, if necessary.

Magic, I use the word because I like the sound of it, the inherent sparkle within it (I feel the same way about the word "amazing"),  but I am referring to anything strange, mysterious, enchanting, supernatural (in feel, if not in reality), heartwarming, secret, or cool. As I amassed a mental list of places where I find magic, I noticed a trend. These magical places or things seems to be where humans and nature overlap, the seam where the two worlds are stitched together, where the two exist simultaneously.  Like Avalon and Glastonbury. The sound of a fog horn over still water. The whistle of a train drowning out the chirp of crickets. Church bells. Tires on gravel (the sound of vacation). Listening to someone practice music, hearing it float out of windows, the saxophonist across the street, the bagpiper walking the bridle paths of prospect park, the xylophone on the subway platform, even the off-key aging barber shop quartet on the train. (sorry pan flute dudes, you don't make the cut).

Then there is art.  Public: Things hidden in trees or hanging from building facades. Graffiti. Murals (Precita Eyes!). Street light shadow tracings, making night surreal, a time when objects seem alive. Private: there are too many to list here. But Joseph Cornell cornered the market on magic.

Then there are things that seem pregnant with possibility, that are exciting to see, hear, pretend, play along with, or generally encourage: like jazz at three in the morning, strong cocktails at sunset, The Rapture ('cause who knows?), tarot cards, the smell of wood smoke when walking in the snow, hide and go seek with little kids who can cram themselves into ridiculously good hiding spots, oh god swimming (this will one day be its own post), teenagers making out in the park, pretending to be a teenager making out in the park, vintage cars, art cars, and those roller skaters in central park.

I feel like I could ramble on about sunshine on water and ice cream cones with jimmies and hot baths with good music and tiny teeny flowers, but my Julie Andrews-in-a-thunderstorm moment is coming to a close. (I forgot to put thunder and lightening on the list!) Any way, just a few things to think about when the dogs bite and the bees sting.

going public

This is my first crack at blogging, so I'm going to put forth some rules for myself, things to keep me from becoming stymied by my own ridiculous idea that perfection is necessary or even possible.
1. This blog will never be perfect.
2. It does not need to be original, or smart, or funny. Or have correct spelling. (Sounds great, right?)
3. This is an expression of opinions not expertise (no matter how truly right those opinions may seem to me at the time).
4. In the words of a great blogger, if it stops being fun I won't do it.
5. This is not a blog exclusively focused on writing, pop culture, art, music (definitely not music, I can tell my embarrassing misunderstanding lyrics story another time), cats, or my baby. But I may talk about any and all of those topics.
6. This is a blog about stuff I like. Things that make me happy. Things that make me angry. I'll leave it to the good people who read it to decide if it is about more than that.
7. One can not stop at list at 6
8. Potatoes
9. I may post multiple times a day or every few months. Got to keep readers on their toes.
10. A public journal is a very strange endeavor and I'm sure there are thousands of articles about the narcissistic tendencies of our culture and our need to be seen by the larger world, there by considering ourselves some form of famous. Gross. And I am forever behind the times when it comes to this sort of discussion. But I know this: writing with an audience in mind is a dangerous thing that can lead to bad writing and ego-mania. Editing with an audience in mind keeps a writer from putting out utter garbage. Blogging: life on the razor's edge, clearly. As I learned recently from my ridiculously smart brother in law, I am very attached to an outmoded model of media consumption, and as a writer, my place in that world. So this is my first step into the modern era. I am moving into the future. I am a time traveller. Bring on the ego massage.