No words needed... 'cept these lyrics.
Mumford & Sons performing "Below My Feet" on a recent SNL.
Mumford & Sons performing "Below My Feet" on a recent SNL.
September's Rooftop Slumber
It was completely quiet.
The heavy door slammed behind me and blocked out a slew of
intrusive noises -- some comforting, like the clatter of dinner plates; some
irritating, like the wailing of an uncontrollable infant.
But up here? All I could hear was the soft sound of moving
air.
The wind tousled my hair into knots as I looked over the
ledge, down, down, down onto 6th Street. How happy I was to be
perched up high, rather than sitting on the over-exposed front stoop. Typically
I wouldn’t mind the chance for random conversation with eclectic passersby of the
East Village, but today I couldn’t bring myself to keep up with arbitrary
conversation.
I was tired.
The afternoon at work had been hectic, and I’d barely
escaped in time to pick up supplies from Whole Foods. A group of us were making
dinner that night and if I was in charge, then it better be half-decent, no?
So I purchased two bags worth of pita bread, olive oil,
tomatoes, etc., and carried the Italian-themed smorgasbord eight avenues to the
east and nine blocks to the south.
Despite my ambitious load of groceries, the walk was
pleasant, considering I’d watched most of the day perish from the inside of an
office building (as I’m sure you did too). Still, when I finally placed the
brown paper bags down, my hands screamed in their displeasure.
Whoops.
As I dug around inside the oh-so trusty purse for Band-Aids, another
thought occurred to me: After all that rushing, fast walking, and overall
hustle – I was quite early. Too early.
In fact, no one was home.
Whoops x2.
Subsequently, I pretended to be “locked out of my apartment”
so some gent would buzz me through the downstairs door. While I still wouldn’t
have a key to my friends’ place, I did
know there was always available rooftop access.
And in that instant, sunset was all I wanted.
And maybe also some of that hummus I’d just purchased.
(But that’s beside the point.)
Thus, there I was.
Sitting on the roof. Taking in that expectant moment when hurried
night is about to overtake retreating day. During quiet twilights like this one,
I can never determine if I’m despondent or excited; apprehensive or self-aware;
completely overwhelmed or perfectly content.
I decided, quite contrarily, I was impossibly all of the
above. Then I placed my jacket over my legs and slept peacefully, if only for a
moment or so.
[Editor's Note: The rest of the evening was also immensely enjoyable.]
When It's The Perfect Temperature Outside
Fall is in the air… and I think I’m a tiny bit excited about
this fact.
The change in seasons means a few things: apple picking,
pumpkin beer, blanket-covered mornings, and scarf-wearing nights. Summer is my favorite season by far,
but autumn is a close second because of countless nostalgic moments – and, of
course, that crisp, dry leaves smell that can be captured even by the likes of
New York City.
I can also eat hot food again in my apartment.
Without melting.
Woo.
Still, it's hard to believe I've already walked amongst the streets of midtown and spotted little carts with aromatic chestnuts roasting. The early darkness and sudden drop in temperature occurred almost over night, with Labor Day as the official (and literal) “adieu” to
summer’s hazy months. These switches in seasons almost always trigger self-awareness
in my writing, so below are the oh-so brilliant thoughts that occupied my mind
on the train ride home this afternoon:
One: This is the first time I’ve not gone back to school in
15 years.
I decided this realization is bittersweet.
Two: I never received my diploma in the mail, though I was
promised I would by July.
Three: Therefore, maybe I did not graduate?
I decided this
realization is concerning.
Four: This led to another conclusion: Maybe I should go back
to school? Maybe I’m meant to be a student my entire life, in the comforting
classrooms that offer intellectual observation and perpetual academic discourse
with enthusiastic peers (ah… sigh).
Five: But then again, maybe not.
And do you know why I think "maybe not?"
DEBT.
Anyway, happy fall! Here are some random end-of-summer pics:
Parks at night.
PBR that’s just right.
Bus trips home.
DC alone.
Sisters on the road…
With a broken car that should be towed.
Parts of campus still undiscovered,
Hash browns, "smothered and covered."
Fuel for the last leg of our journey,
And a sister that’s really quite nerdy.
That Moment When Less Leads To More
So here we are again.
I’m starring at another job application, an unsigned roommate contract, and an email informing me of my impending student loan start date. There's a four letter explicative I would like to insert right about…(here).
This month’s goals are daunting, and all the while summer is slowly slipping away into that unstoppable, seasonal darkness. The days are less likely to reach their climatic noon, or stretch so delicately into evening. It’s only September and I feel that approaching winter dread – or is it subtle excitement? I can’t tell which anymore; maybe these perceptions simply arrive as an inseparable pair.
Back to that job application: “First name, last name.”
With each keystroke I’m reminded of my temporary position.
No, I think cruelly. Not one temporary position–you should be reminded of them all. Four months here, six months there. How pleasant it must be to have a salary, my mind says. To have benefits, to have footing – dare you dream to have some clout! Oh don’t you long for these nuisances? Or at least… they would be nuisances for you.
I click off of MediaBistro or Journalism Jobs or whatever the hell website I’ve dragged up from the depths of the internet. Enough of that for now. I sip water out of a glass fashioned from an old jelly jar. How is it so damn stuffy in this apartment when autumn has already robbed us of late evenings and 9 o’clock sunsets?
I stare off into space for a minute. Then I allow myself to ask the dangerous question that's never truly examined: What am I doing?
Sure, I know what I’m doing today, tomorrow, this weekend and probably the next. But now I sit in silence and blink hard; hard enough to stop a flood of possible tears. Breathing in three times, I acknowledge the moment of weakness for what it is: I’m overwhelmed by possibility – choosing wrong, choosing right, choosing anything for any sphere of my life. Making a choice toward one particular direction or another has paralyzed me into an apathetic numbness.
So here we are again.
Jobless, penniless, tireless, listless – less less less!
Ah ha.
But wait?
I am not less.
We, my friends, are not less.
The mere mention of the world less strikes up a rejuvenation in me that spurs the antonym more. And then I remember…it hits like a ton of bricks!... I am faultlessly hungry for more.
THAT is what I’m doing. And the question isn’t even “what am I doing” but how, and why, and for what reason. Do I have a worthy reason? If not, then best to jump ship now before sinking into some unexplored doom.
But the reasons, too, come flooding back to me. I don’t want a salary, or benefits. I don’t need footing, or clout. If I did, I never would have moved to New York to be that tirelessly cliché writer-type who works for ten bucks an hour and eats eggs like they’re going out of style.
No, no, no… My mentality was momentarily smothered by desires that will never fulfill what I truly long for, which is, most easily described as a voice, a story, and possibly (if I’m so lucky) an impact.
What am I doing? I’m living. What am I doing? I’m writing. What am I doing? I’m trying and failing, and succeeding and flourishing, and attempting to do all of the above over and over again until there’s not an ounce of me left I haven’t given to this story.
My story.
Your story.
Our story.
So let me write these stories... because I can.
[Editor’s Note: A big thanks to all those in the past couple of weeks who have been retweeting, reposting, and responding to my HuffPost articles and the blog. It really means the world to me that you spend precious minutes reading my work. So thank you, thank you, thank you one thousand time over].
30 Common NYC Poses
I just stumbled upon this little New York-inspired GIF and thought I'd share its brilliance with the blogosphere. My favorite poses (and most frequently used) are the following: "Crowded train," "Ew, air conditioner rain," and "I think that was Ryan Gosling."
GIF by Nathan W. Pyle
Happy Friday, kids.
A Belated Birthday Post: 24 in NYC
Thesis statement
Broken heels on pavement
Ham for lunch
Still on for weekend brunch?
10 bucks an hour
No need to shower…
Mild December
Church member
Hummus and wine
Dismissing time
TK lists
The drive to persist
Years that are blurring
Nights on a train with people slurring
New place of work
Guys that lurk
Long summer days
Finding the right phrase
August’s electric air
The persistent struggle to pay cab fare
Late nights
Great nights
Sudden morning lights
Rooftops
Mountaintops
Dirty subway stops
Graduation
First vacation
Ongoing narration
Flirtation
Starvation
Absolute liberation
Self-inflicted obligation
Always met with
quiet restoration.
Now here’s to being 24
And knowing there’s still
so much
more.
The Proposal
I was sitting on the north side of Union Square Park, happily killing time with a book before dinner. The main character was
about to learn something important when…
“Hello?” an Asian American, NYU-looking student ducked into
my line of vision. We made eye contact as I peered hesitantly over the book.
You think I would know, by now, that eye contact is a death
sentence to remaining obscure.
I was required to speak. “Hi,” I said with an overtly
awkward face.
“So… I love you.”
I laughed, again, awkwardly.
“No, I love you.”
I look around for a camera, or even a group of laughing
friends. None could be spotted.
“Er… ah, did someone dare you to do this?”
“No. I knew when I saw you. I saw your red hair,
and I knew I loved you.”
and I knew I loved you.”
I eyed my frizzy curls. When was the last time I’d showered?
“So yeah, I love you.”
He seemed to speak as though he were joking; yet he was
relentless in his quest for attention. I couldn’t seem to shake him with any
number of coy remarks.
“I’m a man on a mission,” he stated firmly.
Yeah… and I’m a girl
with a knife.
Then he smiled lightheartedly and got down on one knee.
“Will you marry me?”
“Oh. Oh dear.” Now the surrounding 15 or so people were
watching as I calmly closed my book. The main character’s surprising discovery
would have to wait until I’d disposed of Improbable Future Husband.
I glanced at the man to my left for moral support. The older
Italian gentleman had tan skin and the kind of designer glasses you know
cost more than my apartment.
“He-he-he,” he giggled at me.
“Unfortunately, I’m taken,” I say. Two can play at this.
“Oh,” he seemed genuinely surprised. “I see.”
“Yeah, sorry ‘bout that.”
“Well how long have you been dating?”
Persistent sonofa…
“Two years since May,” I shoot back, not batting at eye.
“Are you going to marry him?”
“Probably.”
“You really think so?”
“Oh, I don’t know!” I say quickly. This conversation had become a long detour from my supposed afternoon plans. The neighboring Italian
man begins to flat out laugh. “I am loe-king for da cam-aira,” he chuckles.
“Me too,” I say glancing around, half assuming the lovelorn
bachelor’s antics will somehow end up on YouTube.
“Well, you might marry someone else. But I DO love you.”
“Well… I’m sorry I didn’t meet you first?”
“Can I give you my number?”
Sigh.
“Sure thing.”
“Oh! What’s your name?”
“Uh… Brit.” I couldn’t think on the spot. Obviously my name
is Nicole and I’m from Nebraska!
“Is that a fake name?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes. What’s your number?”
He gives me his digits, which have a 718 area code – meaning
he probably lives somewhere in the boroughs. Then he makes me label him in my
contacts list as “Person I’m Supposed To Marry,” and he’s not content till the
name is just so.
“Ok, now call me,” he says.
Blast! I should have known better.
Whatever.
I could probably take this guy (right?), and I could
definitely block his number.
definitely block his number.
“So if you ever breakup with your boyfriend… call me?”
“Of course,” I say with a smile. He sauntered off, and I
resumed my reading. A few minutes later the Italian stood up to leave. “Watch out
fer those hopeless roman-tics,” he wisely suggested as he nodded his farewell.
The next morning, I received a short text message.
“I love you brit,” it said from Improbable Future Husband.
Well… there are worse ways to start your day.
[Editor's Note: I realize I didn't spell "person" correctly in the above picture, but as I was slightly frazzled, I thought I would leave my grammatical error for effect.]
What A Woman Thinks She Wants
I find myself wishing I could possess a few luxuries in life. Here is what I imagine myself owning in the future:
First, I would like a saltshaker. No more pinching sea salt from the palm of my hand. No longer will I accidentally douse my eggs with one, over ambitious shake. I will own a saltshaker, and be content.
Second, I would like an ice maker. No more cracking ice that isn’t yet frozen. No longer will I spill half a gallon of water in the freezer because of one clumsy move. I will own an ice maker, and be content.
Third, I would like counter space. No more making my meals, squished within the confines of a microwave and a dish rack. No longer will eggs roll to their untimely death because room was limited. I will have counter space, and be content.
Fourth, I would like central AC (I know – I’m getting greedy). No more fans blowing sweaty pieces of hair from my forehead. No longer will I toss and turn in the stuffy and constricting night air. I will have central AC, and be content.
Fifth, I would like a job with benefits; an expanding saving’s account, a maid to put away my piles of laundry… and a puppy. A fat, fluffy puppy.
If I had these things, I would be content.
Except, I wouldn’t.
If I had these things, I would not be content.
If I had a job with benefits and a savings account, the thrill of living through my early 20's in New York would quickly diminish. If I had a puppy, I would be relentlessly tied down and begrudge responsibility.
If I had central AC, counter space, or an ice maker, I would be paying more rent and completely oblivious to the fact that pre-made ice is actually something you can take for granted. But if I had a saltshaker? Well, I’ve gone so long without one that I probably wouldn’t think to use it.
I will not be content because of these things.
I do not ever want to be content because of these things.
These are things. These are THINGS. These ARE THINGS.
I want to be content because I tasted every flavor of ice cream,
Because I rode the subway line in its entirety,
Because I found 25 cents and it meant something.
I want to be content because of the way
New York smells some mornings,
Like bread and coffee; like summer and steel.
I want to be content because I walked through a
bookstore as though the novels were my friends,
And they whispered to me their endings,
Quiet and excited; you can hear them speak.
I want to be hopelessly unsatisfied so that there is always, always
something to look forward to -- except in those blissful moments when I am peaceful.
Because I’m just living, and breathing, and being.
***
[Editor’s Note: You may have realized that I did not contradict the maid I would like to have for my laundry. That’s because I really would like one… no, but like really.]
