Posts Tagged ‘brooklyn’

11
Sep
2015

fall

categories: brooklyn

The muddled sound of bells clanging. What a deep and mournful echo. Why do I want to cry every time I hear a church bell in the distance? Today is the first day of fall. Not by any calendar’s notation. But, I can feel it. Closed toed shoes and thick jeans are on the horizon. Shiver bumps on my arms from the breeze mingling with the misty air, a sensation I haven’t had in months. A hot pot of coffee, brewing slowly on my counter. I’ll drink mug after mug and still feel morose. Jets hidden behind a blanket of grey clouds, concealed but still audible. Like some banshee wailing, unseen, bringing an omen of death. It’s sweater weather, I can taste the September apples, the rich meat of butternut squash and cinnamon. The trees are already toying with the idea of transformation and rebirth. Like a tiny reflection of sunlight at the tip of their leaves, orange and yellow, ombré hued tentacles beginning to droop and huddle in groups. The ground has that spongey quality, the air is rich with the sour smell of decomposing plant matter. Before I’m ready it will be dark by five and when I look out my window I won’t see green but rather the faces of my forlorn neighbors staring back at me, searching too for that elusive streak of red from our cardinal friend. Straining to hear the mockingbird, whose songs kept us awake, cursing, through hot, sticky nights. Where have they gone? we will wonder. Why are the leaves falling? my daughter will ask. Because, my love, nothing is permanent.

05
Sep
2015

olfactory receptors pt.2

categories: california

I was walking by an empty, overgrown lot the other day and got a whiff of cedar. It was remarkable. I closed my eyes and I was back in California. I was walking the shadowy Independence trail, ducking under branches, sliding, ever-so-carefully down the empty creek bed, hopping across the teetering, wooden foot bridge, dipping my feet in the freezing pool at the end of the trail — filled with mating newts, twirling and spinning and fucking in groups — and plopping myself onto a hot rock.

There is nothing better than that smell. Add a cloud of freshly kicked up red dust, crushed pine cones, manzanita branches and wild blackberries and you’re in the Sierra Nevadas of Northern California.

I have so many memories attached to smells. Tomato leaves, wilted from the sun, dampened dust after rain, freshly mowed grass and trampled mint. Each season has its own particular scent. Each occasion its own distinct blend.

02
Sep
2015

on growing up

categories: me, new york

This is going to sound ridiculous, but a few years back when I bought my beautiful bike, Dot, I became obsessed with getting a matching brown leather backpack. I envisioned riding around on my gorgeous cream colored bike — with brown handlebars and a brown leather seat — wearing a matching backpack in which I would carry my odds and ends.

Back when I was looking, backpacks really weren’t back in vogue yet. Now, it seems as though the 90’s have returned with a bang. And, with that era comes the small, girly backpacks of Friends and Felicity fame. I have been seeing them everywhere. Particularly on the younger generation. So, I’m having a bit of a dilemma. Do I get a backpack? Do I join the masses? Am I too old for this fad? I really wish I had gotten one years back so I could feel, you know, validated by being ahead of the trend.

Now, it just feels like I’m following a trend. I hate that. I don’t know why. Who cares? In fact, shouldn’t it be a source of great pride? Especially considering my yearning to fit in for all those years? I can’t quite explain it. But, all I know is that I have an intense desire to go against the norm.

This is all coming up because I just walked by my dream backpack. It was in the window of what I like to call a, triple-digit-boutique. You know, the stores you don’t even think about entering, because there are no price tags in the single or double digits.

But, it’s beautiful. It’s a medium brown leather, it’s the perfect size, it has these really cool closures made entirely of slightly darker stained leather pieces. It’s art. Perhaps that’s how I could justify its purchase? As a piece of artwork that I can enjoy and pass down to my offspring? Agh. Even I can’t swallow that. But, it’s so pretty!

When I was a kid, I had my own sense of style. A style which generated the argyle sock incident of 93′. “Are you wearing your grandpa’s socks?!” Rachel had asked me and then burst into laughter. I was wearing knee-high blue and yellow socks that I thought were the coolest. Then there was the rumor in 6th grade that all my clothes came from the thrift store (gasp!) which, as it turned out, was mostly true. That was before thrifting was hip. In 95′ I was the “dyke” at my high school both because I had a proclivity toward boys and girls and because (mostly because, in fact) I had short hair. In a school of 3,000 I was the only person who both identified as female and also had short hair. It was a dark time in my small town. And, it was pre-Halle Berry looking all shorn and gorgeous.

I look around and see stylish people, lots of them in fact, because I live in New York City. And, I love the way they look. The seemingly effortless flawlessness. The aura of confidence and cool. The way their shoes are the perfect match for their shorts, which cling in all the right ways. And, their shirts are spotless and pressed and their necklaces hang just so. And their hair? Well, it’s just a different universe on top of those heads. Filled with curling irons and hairsprays, gels and products of all varieties.

So many beautiful people. It’s great, honestly. Makes for wonderful people-watching. But, I also can’t help but sort of look down at my dingy, coffee-stained blouse, my gap shorts and my Park Slope mom shoes and think, who is this person? How does my style reflect who I am? When you’re young you have the luxury of wearing your personality on your outsides. Then, you get a job and you have to start conforming to certain standards and dress codes (depending on the job, I suppose). It’s so limiting. Because, the truth is, if you work five days a week (or more) then you’re mostly wearing work clothes. And, if you’re mostly wearing work clothes then you’re mostly buying them. Then, before you know it, you dress that way on your days off too. Because, what if you run into the super conservative parent of the child in your class whilst wearing your shortest, tattered jeans and a tiny tank top with no bra?

This is how it happened. Slowly. It crept through my wardrobe one item at a time. I bought one pair of gap shorts then four more. A simple gingham top and then a denim one and then that was all I had. Then, I needed comfortable shoes because…I’m on my feet all day and I have back issues. I had a baby and grew two sizes so tons of things just got tossed out (never to be seen or heard from again — the clothes or the previous dress size) and it continued on down the line. I never go out, this dress will probably never fit again, it’s ripped anyhow, and on and on.

Sometimes I think about dying my hair or shaving half my head and I know it would shift peoples’ perception of me. Some would think I was way cooler. Some wouldn’t hardly notice. A few would be offended and some might even have the audacity to complain. My first job working as a teacher’s assistant up in Yonkers in 2001 was a disaster due to my fashion choices. I worked for half a day before being pulled aside by my supervisor who told me the principal was concerned about my appearance and that, unless I took my septum ring out, I would not be allowed to continue working there.

I refused. And, got fired. But, that was fourteen years ago. Before I needed to make rent and buy diapers.

Now, I drool over beautiful, too-expensive backpacks and worry I’m too old to pull things off. I stare longingly at hip-punk girls with bleached hair and tattoos. And, I wonder things like: Does the way we look determine who we are? Or, does who we are determine the way we look? At the very least, the way we look determines how we are perceived. And, then I think about choices. The choice to live in a diverse and welcoming city. The choice to have a career that is still quite socially conservative. And, how sometimes you compromise on one thing you love to get a thing you love more.

And, then I think, relax, it’s just clothes.

27
Aug
2015

poor choices and the friends with whom you make them // present

categories: brooklyn, california

Age and experience certainly change your perspective on yourself and on the world. But, mistakes continue to be made well into adulthood. I can’t imagine that I’ll ever stop making them. The good thing is that those big, scary mistakes are all behind me (I hope) and the little ones are really not such a big deal. I can recover from an ill-informed decision every now and again. A silly purchase, a non-refundable fee, a bad movie, a terrible meal, a baking project gone terribly wrong, a pair of shoes I swear fit perfectly in the store. These are bummers in the moment but not life-altering moments in time. Not the kind of decisions you look back on and think, That was a crossroad. And, I chose to go one way instead of the other.

A size-too-small pair of heels will not make or break me.

My language around choice has shifted. My comprehension of consequence has comfortably settled into a spacious, well-lit corner of my mind. My actions have equal and opposite reactions. I realize this. I live with this knowledge. I find myself making a decision and thinking, yes, I am comfortable with the possible outcomes. They are not all great but, I can live with any one of them.

I just read this Op-Ed by David Brooks about making life-altering choices and he had this to say, “When faced with a transformational choice the weakest question may be, What do I desire? Our desires change all the time. The strongest question may be: Which path will make me a better person?”

I am not someone who shies away from change. I’m not afraid of my life being different from what it is now, I’m not afraid of switching up my daily routine. It doesn’t fill me with fear to consider changing jobs. I’m not afraid to move, or make new friends. I don’t love moving but I’m never sad to do it. I don’t mourn places, I don’t mourn stuff. I’m really good at getting rid of clutter and not getting overly attached to tangible objects. I don’t tend to be overly nostalgic or sensitive. I have been known to be a bit of an, “out of sight, out of mind” kind of a gal. I don’t list these qualities as positive or negative attributes. They are just an honest assessment of who I am in this world.

My husband and I are both from California. Most of our family is out there. Quite a few of our friends are there too. We love the weather and the geographical diversity California has to offer. We miss the produce and the access to nature. We miss a lot of things. But, we also love New York. We love the easy access to amenities, the incredible public transportation, the food, the architecture, the anonymity, the never-ending list of things to see and do and hear and eat.

But, since having the baby…you know where this is going…it’s been very difficult to justify this lifestyle. We aren’t going out every weekend, or taking advantage of all that this great city has to offer. We hardly ever eat out, we never go to bars, we might go to a museum once every few months when there’s an exhibit we can’t miss. We work all the time, our rent is outrageous and we have no outdoor space, which feels really crummy for someone who loved being outdoors as a kid.

We’ve always talked about going back to California. It’s always been a conversation but it wasn’t a serious one until I got pregnant. Let’s see how it goes, we decided when we found out I was pregnant. We’ll see if we can’t make New York work for us with a baby, we’d agreed. Well, we’re two years into the experiment and it is both an incredible place for child-rearing and a horrendously, awful one. On the one hand, you have access to incredible stuff, a lot of which is free or cheap. On the other hand, childcare is SO expensive and schlepping your kid and a stroller and the bazillion things you need as a parent, is exhausting, to say the least.

So, this leads me to the question of what to do. Do we stay? Do we go? And, it brings me back to this Brooks article and the query of what will make me a better person. What will make my daughter a better person? Diversity and culture, access and education? Or, family, nature, clean air, and a slower pace of living? I honestly don’t know the answer but it plagues me daily. Am I a better mother with familial support, a house and a backyard to run around in? Or, am I a more contented person living in a city where I can have a fulfilling career and lead a life brimming with excitement?

It’s a crossroads, for sure. And, whatever decision we make, I hope to not look back on it with any regret. We will bide our time and determine what is right for our family, with the knowledge, also, that nothing is permanent. A step in one direction does not have to determine the rest of our lives. And, mistakes are inevitable. Desires change, realities shift. For now, we live in Brooklyn and are pretty darn happy in our day-to-day lives. Although, I must admit, that California sun will be looking pretty enticing once winter rears its ugly head.

14
Jul
2015

olfactory receptors

categories: brooklyn, california

Someone woke up this morning and said, “It’s a fine day for a fire.”

Perhaps it’s the rain. Or, the drop from 86 to 81 degrees. I suppose this is chilly for Brooklyn in July.

I can’t imagine why anyone would be lighting their wood-burning stove today. But they did. And, it’s magnificent.

Is it wrong that smoke makes me nostalgic for California? Given the current drought situation it seems macabre to be daydreaming about such things. But, I can’t help it.

My sweatshirt is soaking up the the oak’s insides, the sap sizzling and popping, creating a fountain of bright orange ember. We’re sipping Makers and staring into the sun’s reflection in the moon. Stars. So many stars. And darkness. It’s so damn bright in New York.

I’m roasting marshmallows and drinking bloody beers at 9am. Baking potatoes, canned beans, sausages, whose idea was it to bring the instant coffee? I love you. Waking with the sun. The sensation of heat as a being, an entity, trapped inside your tent, pushing against your ears, squeezing your thighs until your eyes are forced open. The sound of the ocean in the morning. Constant, magnetic, totally, totally scary. I mean, the ocean is gorgeous and hypnotizing and totally terrifying, right? I find the warm sand to be a perfect place to enjoy that majestic beast.

All this in one breath.

Thanks for the smoke, Brooklyn.

13
Jul
2015

actions and reactions // present

categories: brooklyn

Vortex2 Vortex1 Vortex3

Last winter.

You may remember it as the polar vortex. The winter to end all winters. The winter that made me question whether or not I could continue to be a New Yorker, even after fifteen winters here.

I had a 6 month old at home. So, aside from all the new parent anxieties and hangups that come with the territory, I was also struggling through a horrendously frigid season with a brand new baby in a brand new apartment.

We stumbled upon the dream apartment through friends of friends when I was 7 1/2 months pregnant and decided to seize the magical, anomalous, Brooklyn real estate moment despite the obvious complications.

We’re talking exposed brick, high tin ceilings, giant windows, skylights, wooden floors, a balcony. Let me repeat. A balcony! A BALCONY. As in, viable outdoor space. Enough space for a BBQ, an herb garden, a large tomato plant and a few habaneros. I mean, the place was dreamy. That should have been our first tip off. Who gets to live in this apartment?

Well, we moved in. Because, how do you say no to that apartment? Even though, I was meggo preggo, even though we couldn’t really afford it, even though we loved our previous apartment and even though we weren’t really sure if we should stay in New York with a baby. Even though.

That winter we had no heat.

December passed and we were mostly out of town. Florida and California welcomed us with their temperate winter climates. January was filled with confused phone calls and repairmen who never came and hours and hours and days and days of waiting. We gave our landlord the benefit of the doubt time and time again. We assumed the best and tried to be patient.

February was all angry phone calls and pleas for help. A full month of exasperation and outrage on my end. I sat in my daughter’s tiny, closet-sized bedroom with a space heater running all day and all night long. We played in there, we ate in there, we lived in that room.

In late February we had a few days with no power. Which meant absolutely no heat. She slept in our bed with us. And, two months of sleep training went out the door.

By early March the mean temperature was 37 degrees. And, I was filled with disgust. I gave my slumlord an ultimatum. Get us heat or we call the city. You have one week.

Two weeks later and two weeks prior to the end of our one-year lease, he served us eviction papers. The city had come and written him up and we were out.

Now, had I been single and unencumbered and fearless…well, that would have been a different story. But, fighting the man who controls your heat and water when you have a baby just doesn’t feel smart or safe.

So, we found a place in two days, boxed up everything we owned and moved seven blocks north. Into a charming little duplex with sweet neighbors and a landlord who offered to put us up in a hotel when our shower didn’t work for 12 hours.

There are no exposed bricks with flaky white mold, no high ceilinged rooms to heat, no balcony filled with mosquitos and squirrels and no leaking tin roofs at 2am.

So, here we are.

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