The perpetual first date

Just a quickie today because I'm at Kinko's and I'm off for an appointment at the temp agency--oh PLEASE send me someplace nice!

Look, not to be a downer to you all, but there's something I really need to admit. I am really homesick today. When I say "homesick" I don't mean a little mopey, I mean I sat crying today over the missed message from my dad that I found this morning. Look, don't get me wrong, New York is NEW YORK (in all caps)! New York is EXCITING! New York is NEW! New York is the EAST VILLAGE! New York is SOHO! It's just that right now I'd give almost anything to go to my dad's house and wrestle with my little brother and hold my little sister after she's taken a nap. I'd give almost anything to hug my dad hello. I'd give almost anything to sit with my best friend Jenny Sue and crack up and not have to WORK to connect or to get someplace. Somedays I feel like I'm on a perpetual first date--or worse, a perpetual job interview. Thoughts like, how do I look? Will she like me? Am I too old to be taken seriously? Where the heck IS this place? come over me.

I want familiarity. I want ease. Goodness me, do I want some place where I walk in and people are happy to see me.

This is, of course, to be expected. As Jen might say, "It's so natural, but this is going to be SO GOOD for you." Yadayada yada.

Sometimes people, you wake up excited, full of curiosity and somedays you want more than a phone call that says, "Hope you're doing well." Today is just one of those days.

Cautionary Tale, Cupcakes, and Unlikely Reasons to Love New York

Thank you to you ALL for my birthday wishes (and you know who you are). I know I mention his name all the time in this blog (it's the only way he'll read it), but I want to give it up for my man, GRAHAM, for working his tail off to make sure I had a good birthday. I awoke early to roses and coffee and cupcakes and presents in bed. This was just the beginning! The day held up with balmy weather and crabcakes for lunch with my friend Michael. Then the oldest parts of the Natural History Museum, with gorgeous totem poles that reminded me of Emily Carr Paintings. Then a walk through the park, where we sat by the pond and made faces at babies and watched mini sail boats. The end was at the stoic gold and brown lobby of the Algonquin Hotel, drinking cosmopolitans with two friends I have known since the second grade, Judy and Vitali. Usually Judy lives in California and Vitali lives in Paris, but they just happened to be in town on business--how great is that?? A GREAT birthday!

And now, a cautionary tale...

My friends, let me give you a word of advice, nay, a WARNING! Do not, I beg you, under ANY circumstances, no matter how much you might think it is a good idea, no matter the reasons...DO NOT PAINT YOUR WALLS RED! This weekend was a giant lesson in why red (my favorite color)is only seen in make believe homes like those in Amelie, or the Royal Tanenbaums or storybooks. It took FIVE COATS as opposed to the two coats the rest of the rooms took. It actually could use more, but we gave up after two days of painting. It's definitely striking. It makes the pink look as docile as the Snuggle softener bear. In a fit of frustration, I started calling it our "Redrum Room," but G. got a little freaked out about it, so now I use my inside voice and STILL call it the Redrum room. I don't understand why red is harder to paint with than say, Jamaica Green, but it is. Save your money and stick to blue, green, and pink.

This weekend I also found two reasons why I love New York. One was watching a guy get off the subway, after seeing him for at least four stops, and realizing that he had a BIG, long antennae branding COCKROACH riding uptown on his shirt! I doubt the guy knew about it, but it made me laugh. The other was seeing a nun walk into a shoestore called SHOEGASM. You have got to love a town where cockroaches ride the arms of subway riders and even nuns have reasons to go into an effervescently named shoe store in Chelsea. Everything really DOES happen here.

A Moment of Grace

I’m in the midst of hatching another crazy scheme. I feel a little excited. Earlier in the day I was beginning to feel a bit on the anxious-I-need-to-make-money side, but I feel suddenly like something’s afoot.

Earlier I was on the phone with someone very dear to me, bemoaning that I need to find a job, and how scared I was, and how loathe I was to do it because it sucks out my VERY SOUL, wah wah wah. She asked tenderly, “Well, what would you rather do?” I answered, “Make a living from my art.” She then pointed out gently that in ten days I am leaving to go on tour for a week. “I just want to point out,” She added, “That you already are.”

These are the things that anxiety, worry, uptight thinking will blind you to: THE BIGGEST ELEPHANT having a snack on your couch! I’ve been so worried about what I have to do before and after the tour that I am not actually acknowledging that the tour is a BIG effort towards my dream life. For one whole week I’ll be doing music full-time. This is quite an honor. I keep forgetting that even the smallest efforts matter. A tour is not a small effort—-it’s a biggee, actually. It takes a lot of time and effort and energy to plan it. I’d like to publicly thank Nathan and Coppelia for both hatching the road plan and laying it down brick by brick.

All this talk of lists, and noticing what you have, and small actions toward creative dreams are all so friggn’ important, but it still takes work to remember. Thank the sweet stars when you DO remember! It’s a moment of grace.

Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going out to brunch with Graham and an old friend in Brooklyn. Then I am going to take a walk in Central Park and do the Holden Caulfield tour of The Natural History Museum. Later, I will go get a drink at the Algonquin Hotel, where Dorothy Parker often charmed the pants off people with her wit; where Anne Sexton lived during the run of her play Mercy Street; Where My Fair Lady was written. I’m going to eat cupcakes and ice cream and I am going to blow out the candles and make a wish, which I have a feeling might come true.

What Comes Next

Today is gorgeous in Manhattan. I sat outside this little cafe in Williamsburg this morning, talking with my dear friend Juju (hi Juju!)on the phone. I told her how the sky is that clean kitten eye blue, with little puffs of clouds here and there. Then I told her about how one of the greatest discoveries we've made here is the "Happy Laundry" place around the corner from our apartment. We can drop off a sack of laundry and for a few bucks we can return three hours later to a stack of clean laundry, folded pristinely, neatly, aesthetically pleasingly. For this reason, I love my underwear for the first time in my life. They fold it into perfect squares the size of hamburger patties. Oh the pleasing delicate patterns in a short stack! So beautiful to the eye! So easy to put away! When I showed it to Graham, he nearly giggled himself silly.

All this is to say that things are already accumulating in our favor. You forget when when you start something completely new, that everything seems hard. You feel like a toddler, learning to say "Please" and "Thank You." It seems simple enough, but instead it comes out, "Peez" and "Dank-Ew"--not quite right. Everything is high maintenance. You go out of your way to get the simplest of things, because you don't know where else to get them. Then bit by bit--S L O W L Y--little things fall into place. Instead of the 25 minute subway ride to Union Square for groceries, we now walk down the street to the local market, where avocados are under a dollar! Thanks to the wonderful, WONDERFUL Felicia, I now know of a cheap DELICIOUS Thai place for dinner. On a walk, I also rediscovered my favorite bookstore, St. Mark's Bookshop, and got to show it to Graham, who fell in love with it.

We went on a long walk through the east village last night. I think I want to walk around with a t-shirt that says I (HEART) the EAST VILLAGE. It's always been my favorite place in New York, and last night I remembered why. All the public gardens, with the weeping willows spilling out onto the street; a neighborhood produce sale; red faced brick buildings with people hanging out on the roof; the murals; people calling out on the street from cafes. SO GREAT.

During our walk, I realized that this is a very unique time in my New York life. This will be the only time I am completely outside of it--where EVERYTHING is like turning a page to discover what comes next. I'm not quite intimate with it yet--I haven't even scratched the surface. I STILL get excited when I see the old subway signs. I STILL love the sight of the Empire State Building. Yet, New York remains a mystery to me. Although my things arrived last week, my life isn't quite here yet.

Graham took me to a bar he'd discovered on St. Mark's. Tiled, low ceiling, a cat making the rounds, and popcorn for a buck--it was perfect. Also, it wasn't HIP in the slightest way, so I didn't feel like I was entering A SCENE. Because I rarely drink, I got buzzed on my one gin and tonic. Graham and I made our way home, arm and arm, zig zagging to the subway. Last night was the first time in the three weeks that I'd been here that I thought, "I think I'm going to like this place." I went home and drew a picture of us in my journal and wrote down all the discoveries, turning the page to see what comes next.

The Six Month Check-In

Back at the CUNY Library, I was going to tell you all about how I think I may have the best kitchen I have ever lived with. It's the only room in the apartment completely finished. The green walls are adorned with art and photographs and Christmas lights. Why do hanging kitchen utensils above the stove make me feel like I could spring into cooking at any moment? If it wasn't so hot, I just might.

This is what I was going to write to you, but on the subway here I realized my birthday is on Friday. I don't know about you folks, but birthdays (mine and others) mean A LOT to me. When else do you have full range to celebrate someone or yourself? It's the only day of the year you have a right to do anything YOU want. Plus, it's practically ILLEGAL not to have cake AND ice cream. I've got to love a day where that happens.

I have a couple of traditions that I make sure I do for myself. One of them is to eat cake and ice cream. The other is to do a six month check-in. I do the latter twice a year--once on February 26--six months into my year, and once on my birthday, August 26. The check-in consists of listing all the things that have happened, or that I have done in the last six months, and then to list all the things I want to happen or to accomplish in the next six months. This is something I find incredibly helpful and immediate to inspire me in my life. First, it lets me see that I have lived--that my time has been used, not wasted. I started this practice two years ago, because I was in a deep depression and believed I was wasting my life. Listing all that I have done (from seeing movies to painting a picture), shows me that I am indeed living. The second part helps me focus my dreams and desires into possibilities.

It's been amazing what has come true on the list everything I dare myself a little. For example, last check-in I wrote down that I wanted to connect with an artist that I admired. I was thinking along the lines of Lynda Barry, but what I got was an unexpected in-depth conversation about music, art, and inspiration over ice cream with Ed Hamell, an independent musician I have admired for years.

In the last six months I've done A LOT. I've been to New York twice, and then moved here. I filled up three journals, made a calendar, played a few shows, made plans to tour. I've moved in with my boyfriend, reconnected with three old friends, read six books, started A BLOG, gone to Chicago...etc. etc.

In the next six months I want to tour, sell twice the calendars I did last year, create a mini book, buy a digital camera and a scanner (so I can show you folks the pink room and my art work), make a red velvet cake, buy new shoes, stay connected with friends and family in California...etc. etc.

The check-in is a great way to take stock. As you probably know, I like to make lists. They are great for their immediacy. They instantly prove that fears are so often lies; that our lives are rich; that our dreams are attainable if done in small moves.

Run for that bus

You will not believe this, but I am actually writing this from home! Halleluja! We still haven't figured out the internet thing, but Graham has wireless and so somehow it works right now--yipeee! So now I can tell you that I am sitting on my bed, with my pillows and comforter fresh from all the things that arrived from California today---MY THINGS. I finally have my life here! Hip hip hooray! Let the villagers rejoice!

We spent the morning yesterday painting the office/studio a BRIGHT PINK. The inspiration was The Royal Tanenbaums, but I feel like I am in a room owned by PINKY TUSCADERO. It's so bright that when we shut the door it glows through the cracks between the floor and the door. It looks like aliens have invaded and are filling the room with majestic, brilliant light. VERY INTENSE. I am secretly really giddy about it. It feels like a good room to play in. It feels like a room that Maira Kalman created. I am very inspired by it.

I don't know if it was the excitement of the pink room, or my stuff coming, but I did something rather adventurous. I was reading SARK's Creative Companion, and my fantasy mind started whirling. Anytime I'm inspired by somebody I always start this fantasy whirling in my head about playing a show for them. I'll play a show, then they will be cowed by my INSPIRING and GENIUS music into wanting to be my best friend. Usually it's people like Benecio Del Toro or Adam Duritz--really really famous people. Famous people usually, psychologically, mean OUT OF REACH, so it stays in the *fantasy* section of my mind's bookshelves. Well, yesterday the fantasy thing started rolling about SARK. I actually think SARK might like my stuff. I mean, I am kind of folky (although the folk people don't think so) and kind of rocky (although the rock people don't think so), so she might actually dig what I do. So I took it the next step: I CALLED HER! I called her inspiration line and left a message about how I wanted to play a show for her--that it was a creative dream for me, that I usually just shelve such ideas under the fantasy section, but that I really wanted to make it come true. So I left it as an invitation for myself, and said that crazier things have happened, so why not play a show for SARK?

I don't know if it will happen--I kind of doubt that she'll respond, but WHO CARES! It was so exciting to step out of the mind and into the real world with a dream. It got me all gittery and excited, like I had just asked somebody out on a date. Life is really big, so why not? I never thought I'd live in New York, and here I am. Also, in 1994, when I had a big crush on Ethan Hawke and watched him in Reality Bites, how could I know that we would walk down the same street 11 years later? So why not this little dream?

My favorite quote by Julia Cameron is: "Pray to catch the bus, but run like hell to get it." What's something you fantasize about? What little thing can you do to make it a possability? Now say a little prayer and get running!

Curse of the Arty Journals!

Yesterday was the first complete day in New York where I was in a good mood the entire time. This may have to do with teh fact that we had a blissfully cool day yesterday. We opened up all the windows, and never turned on the AC. It was heaven. We also painted the living room, the most georgeous blue. This morning I noted that it looked like the most perfect, deep storybook sky. We are both inspired to paint the last two rooms. Also, I got my first morning in writing in my journal. Graham left to read the paper, and I sat in bed with coffee and feasted myself upon the neglected white pages with pen in hand. It did wonders!

For years I have kept a journal of sorts. Recently, I completed a creative dream of taking them all out of their boxes, putting them in chronological order, and counting them. It was amazing! I was surprised by what this taught me. First, it was cool to see the various stages of types of journals that I went through. I've done some experimenting--spiral bound, lined, unlined, notebooks, sketchbooks, various sizes, but the one that does me right, that I have always returned to is the 8.5"x11" black bound Canson basic sketchbook. I love them. I love the quality of the paper--it's strong enough for any medium, and a wonderful texture for rollerball pens. Plus they are cheap!

The other thing I learned was that while my first journal dates back to when I was 11, I did journaling rather sporadically until my senior year in high school. Then it was semi-regularly until my grandmother died, in May 1993, when I began journaling in earnest. I've filled a journal, one after another, every 4-8 weeks ever since. As it turns out, I'm on my 69th.

Each of them have their own character. They are kind of like family: They remind me that I have lived, but sometimes they also creep me out and drive me nuts. I went through a journal from five years ago and was shocked to read a very deatiled description of something I don't remember. I guess as we age we have to do away with some memories in order for there to be room for new ones, but I've always prided myself on my archivist memory. Apparently, it's a flawed system. I can remember the exact outfit you wore on July 28, 1989, but not a night five years ago, where I played a show at a bar in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and had many emotional matters with several people in the room, to the extent that I devoted SEVEN PAGES of description to it in my journal. Very odd indeed.

Until I began an e-aquaintance with Keri Smith about 4 years ago, I honestly believed I was an anomaly. Other people kept journlas of writing, but a creative journal filled with drawing and writing and other matters seemed to be lost on other people. Then when Keri and I sort of connected, I was shocked that here was a woman out there who also kept an arty journal. I've learned since that she was just the tip of the iceberg--there are people everywhere who do such things (like you, perhaps, who is reading this). I have to admit, I wasn't so sure I liked knowing other people did it too. I kind of liked being the only one I knew who did it--it was part of that pesky identity thing I was clinging to: this is what made me UNIQUE, and INTERESTING. Well, a alot of people are being unique and interesting--oh, darn!

Then I found Dan Eldon's journals and Sabrina Ward Harrison's journals and I felt REALLY SCREWED. I didn't know you could be a GENIUS in journaling, but these two youngsters spun circles around my mucked up ramblings and water color musings. I felt both inspired and full of despair. I felt like the Eskimo in the story, told by Annie Dillard in Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, who asked the missionary who had come to "save him" with Christianity: "If I had not known about God, would I have gone to hell?" The missionary said, "No, of course not." and the Eskimo replied, "Then why tell me about Him?" If I had not known about the gods of journaling, I would have not known about the hell of thinking that mine were suddenly not enough.

This lasted for awhile, but I am so damn hard on myself about everything I do that I made one of the smartest decisions I've ever made about my creative work. I gave up all such comparing and worrying and trying when it comes to the journal. If the journal isn't a safe place to JUST BE, then the world is a deserted place. I compare myself to everyone else in everything else I do: art, writing, and music. The journal was the one place I could count on to release all the wild animals in. Those pages are for me alone and to turn to them, like a kind home where they have to let you in, is nothing short of pure heaven.

Nothing exciting--but wait! There's Sam Rockwell!

I did not mean to take such a long break from the internet, but I did. We are still without an e-connection at home, so the only way I get on for free is to travel with Graham to the deliciously cool climate of the CUNY library. I didn't end up going with him at all after Wednesday. I can't seem to remember quite what I did. Oh yeah--we painted the kitchen a vibrant, shocking green. The only way to describe it is Amelie green, which is the growing inspiration for the colors of our apartment. I love the Graham not only is agreeing to this color scheme, but is now spearheading it! The things you learn about people upon shacking up! My hardcore, philosopher boyfriend, also has a thing for bold colors! Who knew??

Also, after 10 days of seeing no one and hearing from next to no one, I got five calls from friends on Friday--three of which I ended up seeing on Saturday. Very thrilling to catch up with old friends. Also, while waiting for my friend Judy in the East Village at 11:30 at night the actor Sam Rockwell walked right past me. Now, I know I am going to bore the hell out of you with these celebrity sightings, but this was significant in two ways. One, I have a crush on him. Two, Judy has an even BIGGER crush on him. She called only seconds after he sauntered by, and I nearly chased him down for her, but he disappeared around the corner in his jean shorts. Come back to the five and dime Sam Rockwell, Sam Rockwell!

Oh yeah, and I also read the entirety of Lolita. I felt I was supposed to be reading this book. A few friends of mine had mentioned it in the last month as an important book to them. Then I found out my friend Erica's daughter's name is Lolita. Then I saw a movie with a character named Lolita. Then I went to a bookstore, and it was on top of a stack of books I went to look through. I gave in and all I have to say is: HOLYCRAP, that book is intense! It's the best book I've read in a long time. I had no idea that Nabokov's writing was going to be so lush. I had just given up on Rick Moody's Garden State, and the difference was astounding. I always had this very cartoony impression of the story of Lolita--sick, humorous, letcherous older man lusting over woman child, sucking on a lollipop. It wasn't like that at all--it was much more intimate and sad and cruel and beautiful. I went through many emotions reading this book and at the end, I was shocked to find that I was so sad.

Other than that, I've been worshipping the AC in our bedroom as a sort of god, bowing down to it as it delivers mercy in the most incredible, and relentless heat. Last night we were gifted with a spectacular thunder storm, which has cooled everything considerably. I am a huge fan of rain. I LOVE the rain. It came down in heaps, and the street was lit up by all the flashes of electricity.

Today's plan is to stay in the library and finish the bios for the Great Gals Calendar, that I hope to go to the copy place by the weekend. Does anybody know a good, reliable copy place in New York that isn't Kinko's? Any help would be grand. Also, here's a question to you illustrators out there: does anybody else get a thrill out of seeing their drawings 'published' by xerox machines? I go weak everytime I see one of my pictures duplicated in beautiful black & white--oh!

More on the Mess

It's Wednesday. The jobless have to think about it to know what day it is. All the days seems to run into the other.

I'm a little down today. The insomnia that had been threatening to go full fledged since I arrived, kicked into high gear the last two nights. Why is it that we need sleep so badly, but sometimes it doesn't work? I lay there last night, my eyes snapping open like two trick blinds. Graham slept like a baby.

I realized last night that when I go into a ditchy place I seriously consider quitting music for real and for good. It's not the only thing I do artistically, and it feels like an unhealthy relationship. The past 3 years I've been sort of on the fence about it. I've kept one foot in, while also wanting to leap away with the other foot. After a really painful, messy period both professionally and personally, I didn't do it at all for a whole year. I played guitar alone in my room, but that was it. Meanwhile my mother yelled at me that I was wasting my life and my talent, my CD collected dust on a shelf in Massachusetts, and I had anxiety attacks everytime I tried to play the guitar. In that year and the following two years, while I was so busy focusing on these wounds, I also wrote a novel and created two calendars, and got a little better. Although I have come along way--I started writing songs again, performing again (and shocker of shockers), kind of liking it again--I still feel this enormous thorn in my side about it. It still hurts, so I want to give it up.

I once heard that Chuck D. of Public Enemy (a secret hero of mine) was speaking to a large assembly of youths who wanted to be rappers and hip hop artists. He said (and I am paraphrasing here), "Over and over I hear from guys who say they want to make it big and then retire at the age of thirty. I ask them, do you love music? Because that's the only reason to do it, and if you love music, there is no such thing as retiring."

In her book, The Sound of Paper, Julia Cameron talks about her own desires to quit writing at a point when despair and doubt had overtaken her. She says that quitting any medium you've had your heart in, is like a messy, unsatisfying divorce. You become way too interested in how your ex is doing.

You see my predicament.

Ultimately, when I say I want to quit, it's not music per se, it's the relationship I feel to it. It's the part of me who thinks I need to succeed at it to be an okay person, to not let those who I feel have hurt me, continue to hurt me. I am so afraid and ashamed of my own failures that I try to outrun them, but THEY ARE RUNNING ME. I still don't know what to do about this, but I've made a decison for right now. This week I am going to do only what delights me. Nothing of what I think I SHOULD DO in terms of artistry. No shoving. It's harder to do than you think--I've got a lot fo resistance. It's hard to let go and not ask of everything: BUT WHAT DOES THIS MEAN?? I am addicted to meaning. But I want to try to let go for once. I want to quit these hounds of hell that nip at my heels, and kill them with kindness.

Another Golden Nugget on the Trail

I had my first VICTORY yesterday. Not only did I venture out myself and found a Barnes and Noble, and then a Kinko's, I went on a LONG walk from Union Square to the West Village and found Edna St. Vincent Millay's house--all by myself! Knowledge is power! I feel so much more at ease today.

If anyone is travelling to any major city in the world, I highly recommend the City Secrets series for guide books. They are filled with personal recommendations for things to do by artists, writers, architects, city officials, actors, etc. For example, the actor Eric Stoltz recommended WNYC as a radio station. I have been craving a dose of NPR, and I was so happy to turn to his suggestion. I sat in the kitchen this morning, eating cereal and listening to an interesting debate about the Rev. Al Sharpton. (Thanks Eric! I loved you in Some Kind of Wonderful!)

At the suggestion of 3 writers, I made my way to Millay's house. Highlights of the walk included a great street musician duo in Washington Square Park, more languages being spoken than I can count, the famous music club The Bitter End, where Bob Dylan got his start (and future spot of shows by the likes of me--I vow this day...), lots of eateries, and bakeries. I was relieved to find that Bedford Street, where Millay's house is, was still a crooked, narrow lane, lined with old brick brownstones. It hasn't changed much since she lived there. Her address, 75 1/2 Bedford Street, is squeezed in between two buildings. It is so narrow that it houses one room on each of the 3 floors. I sat on a stoop of a closed dry cleaners and did a sketch of it. I saw people come and take their picture by the dark doorway and then leave. All the while, I sat and drew the brick facade, and enjoyed the moment immensely. It was very quiet and peaceful.

Afterwards, I decided to celebrate by walking to the Magnolia Bakery. I went there a couple of times at the suggestion of my friend Judy. I didn't know that it was a tourist spot until I read about it in the City Secrets guide that it was featured prominantly on Sex and the City. Oh well--I only saw a couple of those shows and besides, they have the BEST CUPCAKES on the PLANET! Personally, I think cupcakes are highly underrated. Not only are they asthetically attractive, but they are a great amount of dessert. The Magnolia Bakery does them right, piled high with buttercream frosting. When I got there I was deterred by the line around the corner. I opted for the biography bookshop across the way instead , enjoying the air conditioning and the first few pages of Lolita, which I've never read, but may have to now.

When I looked out the window and saw that the line for cupcakes hadn't decreased, I said screw it and opted to go home. I was walking down the street, in the direction I thought I remembered the subway being, and who should I almost bump into, but JIM JARMUSCH! I almost yelled at him: HEY! I just saw your movie 2 days ago! EXCELLENT WORK! But he was obviously in a hurry, talking anxiously with his lanky female companion. His film just opened 2 days ago, so maybe he had a lot on his mind. For me, it was another golden nugget on the trail. Then another great thing happened: I found the subway no problem, and it happened to be MY LINE!

I couldn't wait to get home and tell Graham. For the first time in a week, we had more than just chairs and air conditioners to talk about.

My candle burns at both ends

Forgive all neurotic ramblings today. I am out on my own for only the second time and I feel like a kid with ADD, who just ate poprocks AND Jolt soda. I can't quite keep my heart and mind still. I AM OUT IN NEW YORK!

Yesterday, Graham and I decided that we would try doing things seperately. We've done pretty good for a pair of people who have spent every single moment together for 6 days. When terms like "I don't have A DESPERATE NEED for chairs LIKE YOU" started flying, we knew it was time to take a breather.

At first I was elated. Then I realized I was going to have to leave the apartment. So far I had just been like a bobbing baloon teathered to Graham's belt through the subway rides. Now it was up to me. I took a deep breath and all my things and stepped off into the abyss.

Once out, I got all gittery. I suddenly felt like a stray animal--skittish and convinced everyone was staring at me. I decided to try something easy, so I went to Union Square, a mere 25 minute subway ride. I knew the Strand Bookstore was there and I was dying for a new book. Plus, when I am in a new town, I try to immediately locate a bookstore as a sort of refuge in case of emergencies. Emergencies being absolute boredome or aimlessness, freak out at being in a new strange place, or having a sense of alienation. If I can't find a new book, I can always visit my favorite books. Like old friends, they console me with their familiarity and the love I have for them. I know, I am a nerd.

After the victory of finding a new book--Rick Moody's first novel, The Garden State--I decided to go sit in the park. I'd been dying to sit under those trees. I LOVE the trees in New York. I love how tall they are and how they've been around for awhile. They are the only living things in New York which seem to lack the mad rush or desperation that public places produce. They are elegant and quiet.

I walked passed all the drunks and book readers that sat on the benches and made my way to the monument in the center of the park and sat down to read and write awhile. As I wrote in my journal, more people came and sat at the monument. Two young women discussed publishing. I watched a pigeon puff up and strut his stuff for a female that looked like she was busy saying, "Uh, I can't now--I think my mama's calling me!" before nervously getting the hell away from him. Finally, I was too hot, so I decided it was time to go do something else. I wasn't sure yet, but I wanted to look like I had things to do. So I got up and no sooner did I step down from the monument that my ankle gave out and I went completely FACE DOWN in front of ALL OF UNION SQUARE! The two girls paused and without really regarding me or lifting their voices, said, "You okay?" I dusted myself off and said, "Yeah." I really wanted to cry. Not out of pain, but out of pure high pitched anxiousness. I was a nervous wreck and then I did a face plant. I wanted to yell out: I AM TRYING! But I am a big girl, so I went and got a Mr. Softy ice cream and dried my tears.

Today, it took even more strength to go out, but here I am. This time, a little further out. I just bought a guide to New York that is based on artist's and writer's and architect's favorite places. I am going to find the house of the poet Edna St. Vincent Millay. This is one of the reasons I wanted to move to New York. I want to feel a part of its artistic energy. I want to walk down the street where she wrote:

my candle burns at both ends;
it cannot last the night;
but ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--
it gives a lovely light!

Me too, Vincent, me too!

A world filled with Justice

When moving to a strange city, waiting 2 weeks for your things to arrive, the smallest things make a huge difference. I made coffee at home this morning. Can I get an 'amen'? AMEN!

Before I left California, I bought my favorite roast of Peet's coffee. Sitting on the bed with Graham, in front of the blessed box fan, drinking our delicious cups of coffee, was a welcomed way to start the day.

Also, we bought a rose colored kitchen mat for in front of the sink. You'd think my dearly departed grandmother had showed up with goodies, the way I felt so comforted at the sight of it this morning. It's the only color we have in the kitchen so far, and it glows with warm beauty at the foot of our sink.

I think I am doing better today.

Already we have ordered an AC for delivery tomorrow morning. I've balanced my checkbook. The junky couple, who sat in front of me on the subway, and who almost got into a fist fight, but fell asleep first, didn't get under my skin.

Oh, yeah--and my car sold! So I have money coming, and I don't need to explain why this is a good thing. Add that with another check that is coming and it covers the cost of my guitar getting fixed almost exactly! You see? I may change my blog name to THINGS WORK OUT.

Tonight we are going to see Broken Flowers, the new Jim Jarmuch movie, starring Bill Murray. I've been looking forward to this movie for a long time. I hope it's good, because we already tried a movie excursion with, Gus Van Sant's Last Days. We walked out of it. It's very rare for me to do that sort of thing, but I am getting to the point where it's not enough for me to watch people act effed up for 2 hours. Michael Pitt does a great impersonation of Kurt Cobain, but since when is impersonation the same thing as acting? Van Sant was smart to keep Courtney Love out of it. There's nothing minamalist about her, and this movie is so minamalist that it lacks plot or story line.

In any case, I love that Bill Murray has become this heavy contendor in Hollywood. This is the guy who I grew up with thinking the best role he ever did was Ghostbusters. Now he's up there with De Niro in stature. I've got to love a world where that happens.

The Exhaustion continues--but wait! There's Ethan Hawke!

I am back! I have landed in New York! Or is it that New York has landed on me? Listen folks, not like you need to hear it from me, but these last few days have taught me that you can follow a dream, and STILL have LOTS to complain about! You can follow a dream and wonder what the hell you are thinking! You can follow a dream and feel crabby as all get out!

I am reminded of why I hate moving so much, how change is exciting in the idea stage, but really uncomforatble in the launching stage. As per usual, I feel really tired and strung out. It's hot here. I miss my things. My relief of not spending all my time in a car, on a highway, is replaced by the reality that I am spending all my time in the cacoon of a subway car. I know it will get better, but right now, I am literally dizzy with activity, and things to do.

Yesterday I was thinking, how does anyone ever get "discovered" here? EVERYONE looks like a rock star, model, or arty type. The fashion here wouldn't fly anywhere else, but somehow it's just how it is here. The new kid feeling in me feels like I wore my best dress, only to find out it's from Kmart and everyone knows it. I feel like I am walking around the cafeteria, wondering where to eat lunch.

But here's a tasty morsel: While walking to the god-forsaken U-Haul place in Chelsea, I saw Ethan Hawke--slacker actor extraordinaire! I like spotting celebs in New York better than anywhere. In L.A., it's kind of expected, being the industry town that it is. New York kind of feels like the way Disney Land feels, when you're trying to find Mickey Mouse or Donald Duck. Want to see Sleeping Beauty? Go to Fantasyland! Want to see Ethan Hawke? Go to Chelsea!
Graham got a little jealous. He said I was looking for Ethan Hawke. He said that I had my "Ethan-dar" out. He's probably right. He actually had been on my mind, because we walked by the red faced Chelsea Hotel, and I thought of the movie he directed there, Chelsea Walls. Wouldn't you know it? Ten minutes later, he's walking with his blond son, Roan. I kind of think these sightings are charms among the maze, representing good luck. I'll take it.

Thank you to everyone who's been commenting lately. I am not going to pretend that I don't RUSH to see if someone has commented. I am not that cool. I LOVE comments! After being out of touch, seeing a few new ones made my heart sing.