On Monday, we had our first meeting of the Brooklyn Review, a literary journal published at Brooklyn College. And I was lucky enough to be chosen as Managing Editor—must have been all that experience working with Quad, updating Excel spreadsheets, and juggling deadlines at Skiing way back in the day! I'm not sure exactly what my role is going to be, but I do know that the ME is always a first-year student (like me), and the ME always becomes the Editor-in-Chief as a second-year. Which means that next year, I'll get to (sorta) run a magazine! Albeit one with a single annual issue. I've always been curious about what happens on the inside of literary journals, which all seem to get thousands of submissions and reject 99.9% of them (I've been in that 99.9% a few times myself). I think the main thing that happens is that our little staff gets together on a regular basis, reads short stories and poems, eats pizza, hopefully boozes it up, reads some more, and every once in a while comes across a gem.
Michael Cunningham is speaking to our class tonight—whoo-hoo!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
New York Moments
Recently, a few people have asked me this question: Have you had a New York Moment yet? And I started thinking about it. I guess NY moments are moments when you realize, holy shit, I live here. Moments when you witness something you just couldn't see anywhere else. Moments when you feel like you belong. Moments when you wonder, after being here, whether you could live anywhere else. Moments when you can't wait to get out. Moments when you wonder what you're doing. Moments when you're sure.
All of which is to say, yes, I've had mine. What I don't know is whether there's one single instant when I went from feeling like an out-of-place visitor to feeling like this is home. That I'm, you know, from here—at least for a little while.
A few New York Moments....
• Seeing the same guy—who looks like a cross between a pirate and Bill Clinton—three mornings in a row in Prospect Park.
• Arriving on the bus from Boston, alighting on the corner of 34th and 8th, and feeling like I'd arrived.
• When my roommate, Veronica, told me about a friend of hers who was riding the J train to Williamsburg and saw two people (two!) reading Edgar Allen Poe. There are other trains 0n which people read the Post. She said, "See, it's Poe versus Post!" and I got it.
• Falling asleep to the sound of garbage trucks and hydraulics.
• Eating steamed shrimp dumplings in Chinatown at a community table with a bunch of strangers, all of whom were from out of town, and thinking: I might not be a local yet, but I'm more local than they are.
• Subscribing to the New York Times, the New Yorker, and New York.
• Going to a reading and book signing at the bookstore right downstairs.
• Standing at a party in the backyard of a brownstone talking to four guys from Seattle and one from Portland, who all live here now, and who all love the Northwest, but also love this.
• Realizing that I haven't been to Whole Foods, yoga, or a gym in two months and thinking, you know what? I still feel pretty good. (Ask me again on November 3 when I'm too sore to walk.)
• Climbing the stairs out of the subway at a new stop and going on my merry way without turning around three times, looking up, checking my map, and bumping into people when I change my mind about which way is north.
• Two words: Street festival.
All of which is to say, yes, I've had mine. What I don't know is whether there's one single instant when I went from feeling like an out-of-place visitor to feeling like this is home. That I'm, you know, from here—at least for a little while.
A few New York Moments....
• Seeing the same guy—who looks like a cross between a pirate and Bill Clinton—three mornings in a row in Prospect Park.
• Arriving on the bus from Boston, alighting on the corner of 34th and 8th, and feeling like I'd arrived.
• When my roommate, Veronica, told me about a friend of hers who was riding the J train to Williamsburg and saw two people (two!) reading Edgar Allen Poe. There are other trains 0n which people read the Post. She said, "See, it's Poe versus Post!" and I got it.
• Falling asleep to the sound of garbage trucks and hydraulics.
• Eating steamed shrimp dumplings in Chinatown at a community table with a bunch of strangers, all of whom were from out of town, and thinking: I might not be a local yet, but I'm more local than they are.
• Subscribing to the New York Times, the New Yorker, and New York.
• Going to a reading and book signing at the bookstore right downstairs.
• Standing at a party in the backyard of a brownstone talking to four guys from Seattle and one from Portland, who all live here now, and who all love the Northwest, but also love this.
• Realizing that I haven't been to Whole Foods, yoga, or a gym in two months and thinking, you know what? I still feel pretty good. (Ask me again on November 3 when I'm too sore to walk.)
• Climbing the stairs out of the subway at a new stop and going on my merry way without turning around three times, looking up, checking my map, and bumping into people when I change my mind about which way is north.
• Two words: Street festival.
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Backpacking in Brooklyn
No, I didn't carry my backpack around Bklyn this weekend (though I sorta wish I did!). I had to make do with a night around a campfire. Actually, it was more like a large flowerpot with plywood burning in it. Placed in the middle of someone's concrete backyard at a house party in Prospect-Lefferts Gardens. Surrounded by people in scarves drinking whiskey and PBR and eating pie and arguing the merits of Camel Wides. I got to catch up with three writer friends of mine—Chris and CDB and Hansen—one of which met Spank Rock in the kitchen; one of which didn't know Spank Rock and, by virtue of being white and off the heezy, was promptly dubbed "Spank Rock"; and one of which promised to invite me to the East Village for pork butt tacos. It was a great late night. I've never gotten on a subway and smelled woodsmoke on my jacket before—and I even got a whiff of it this morning when I finally woke up to a brisk fall day. The only thing missing: the s'mores. OK, maybe not the only thing. In New York, though, you take open fire when you can get it.
But someone else apparently backpacked around Brooklyn: In this clip, two dudes walked from Red Hook to Greenpoint. It doesn't exactly remind me of Colorado. But I wanted to post a couple photos anyway, for nostalgia's sake. Hi, Rach!
Happy to be in the Indian Peaks:
Still Life with Chloe:
Atop Sawtooth Mountain:
But someone else apparently backpacked around Brooklyn: In this clip, two dudes walked from Red Hook to Greenpoint. It doesn't exactly remind me of Colorado. But I wanted to post a couple photos anyway, for nostalgia's sake. Hi, Rach!
Happy to be in the Indian Peaks:
Still Life with Chloe:
Atop Sawtooth Mountain:
Eating Our Way Through NYC
On Friday, I went on Big Onion's Original Multi-Ethnic Eating Tour with my buddy Dax, who is the Communications Person Extraordinaire at Big Sky, Montana. (If you haven't ever skied there, GO—it's amazing, and gorgeous.) We learned about the history of the Lower East Side (where Little Italy and Chinatown come together with hints of Jewish and Dominican) and wandered around for a few hours on a brisk autumn afternoon.
Items consumed:
• Fried plantains
• Pickles from the Pickle Guys on Essex Street
• Halvah
• Dried plums and dried rose petals
• Soprasetta, parmigiano, and fresh mozzarella
• Cannoli
One of the most amazing things about this city is the number of cultures that all come together. In the latest issue of the Village Voice, the staff picked out their favorite dishes of 2008. There's xashlama from an Armenian restaurant. Tripe soup from Zlata Praha, a Czech place. Fish-pepper soup from the Ivory Coast. Brik from Tunisia. Roti from Trinidad. Masa patties from El Salvador. Griot from Haiti. Alu-bhate from Bangladesh. I've decided that I need to make some culinary field trips to other neighborhoods just to see what food I can uncover: I can travel the world by subway.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Day Hiking
In Colorado, "day hiking" means either 1) meeting at the base of Mt. Sanitas at 6:45 a.m. to squeeze in a quick summit before work, or 2) covering 16 miles in Rocky Mountain National Park with enough time to make happy hour at Terrace Maya. Yesterday, I had my first New York day-hiking experience—and it was, shall we say, a bit more involved. But so much fun, and such a great adventure, nevertheless.
Step 1: 9 am, get coffee.
Step 2: Get a car. In our case, Veronica reserved a Zipcar—a godsend for people like us who don't keep cars in the city but still need wheels for Ikea runs, Fairway runs, carrying heavy shit, or going somewhere that trains or buses don't go.
Step 3: Pick up fellow former-Boulderite Julie in Bushwick.
Steps 4–29: Leave the city, which took us over several toll bridges, through tunnels, onto a half-dozen state highways, through several boroughs, on and off exit ramps, through New Jersey, and back into the state of New York.
Step 30: Get more coffee. (If I had a dollar for every time I mention the word "coffee" in this blog....)
Step 31: 12:30 pm, arrive in New Paltz—a really cute college town with vegan restaurants and yoga studios and maté shops. Buy sandwiches for lunch from a guy who keeps making jokes about bologna.
Step 32: 1:15 pm, park at the Mohonk Preserve, in the Shawangunk Mountains, which costs 9 bucks a person—ouch! Gawk at the leaves, which seem to be on fire against the sky. The vividness of everything around us was amazing.
Step 33: Scramble up to Bonticou Crag, which has spectacular views of the Hudson River Valley and all the rolling, burnished, red-orange-green hills. Decide, in a fit of inspiration about the fall colors while descending, that Ev is going to name her first three kids Vermillion, Cerulean, and Chameleon (Franco, of course).
Step 34: Take many photos (see below for a couple).
Step 35: 3:15 pm, start driving back to the city. Hit Columbus Day/outlet mall/leaf-peeping/farm-standing/urban-jungle traffic. Read New York Times stories aloud, including a funny op-ed called "People of the Button." Decide that Veronica, though she's not Jewish, is an honorary Person of the Button thanks to her collection of Obama pins.
Step 36: 5:15 pm, make a wonderful and revelatory stop at Trader Joe's. (Items acquired: Harvest Grains blend, frozen mangoes, baguettes, Puffins, tomato medleys, Scotty-dog-shaped licorice, marinara sauce. Bill: under 40 bucks!)
Step 37: 7 pm, drop Julie off in Bushwick.
Step 38: 7:45 pm, return car, unload groceries, make dinner, watch Project Runway.
I tell you, it was hardcore.
Veronica, Ev, Julie on top of Bonticou Crag:
One of many ridiculously beautiful trees:
My camera just doesn't do justice to the colors, but here's a taste:
A view from Bonticou:
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Foliage
I spent the last couple days in Boston with my brother—it was the first time I'd been back to New England in the fall since my college days! And it was a nice little break from small-apartment, no-car, super-urban living in NYC. We saw a couple movies, ate sushi, and made a feast at home one night (naan and an Indian rice-and-chicken concoction):
Then drove up into New Hampshire, looking for scenes like this:
And trees like this:
We pulled many times when we came across big views, like Mount Monadnock:
We even stopped by a farm stand. I can still taste the apple I bought—it was perfect!
I also did my last long training run for the marathon, which is three weeks away now. It was a beautiful day in Boston, and I got to check out (well, sort of) the Arnold Arboretum, the Emerald Necklace, Jamaica Pond, the Charles River, Harvard, MIT, and lots of pavement under my feet. (Sometimes, if I stare at the ground, I can pretend I don't know how much further I have to run.)
Of course, no weekend in New Hampshire would be complete without a trip to the Monadnock Rod & Gun Club, where my brother is a member. While he set up targets, an old dude regaled me with stories about the various fauna he'd felled.
Fake fauna:
I'm not a gun person—at all. My parents' car, for years, bore a bumper sticker that crowed, "Shame on the NRA!" I still feel the same way. But just this once (maybe) I did a little bit of target practice with a .22-caliber rifle (fun) and shot a Colt .357 Magnum (not that fun—I was, and am, totally scared of it). I hit the target a few times, but mostly plugged my ears. Here's a short clip of me and the revolver. Step 1: Hold gun gingerly. Step 2: Feel the kick through the whole body. Step 3: Look at fired weapon, confused. Step 4: Turn to camera and grin triumphantly.
Now I'm back in Brooklyn and need to do some schoolwork. No more packin' heat!
Then drove up into New Hampshire, looking for scenes like this:
And trees like this:
We pulled many times when we came across big views, like Mount Monadnock:
We even stopped by a farm stand. I can still taste the apple I bought—it was perfect!
I also did my last long training run for the marathon, which is three weeks away now. It was a beautiful day in Boston, and I got to check out (well, sort of) the Arnold Arboretum, the Emerald Necklace, Jamaica Pond, the Charles River, Harvard, MIT, and lots of pavement under my feet. (Sometimes, if I stare at the ground, I can pretend I don't know how much further I have to run.)
Of course, no weekend in New Hampshire would be complete without a trip to the Monadnock Rod & Gun Club, where my brother is a member. While he set up targets, an old dude regaled me with stories about the various fauna he'd felled.
Fake fauna:
I'm not a gun person—at all. My parents' car, for years, bore a bumper sticker that crowed, "Shame on the NRA!" I still feel the same way. But just this once (maybe) I did a little bit of target practice with a .22-caliber rifle (fun) and shot a Colt .357 Magnum (not that fun—I was, and am, totally scared of it). I hit the target a few times, but mostly plugged my ears. Here's a short clip of me and the revolver. Step 1: Hold gun gingerly. Step 2: Feel the kick through the whole body. Step 3: Look at fired weapon, confused. Step 4: Turn to camera and grin triumphantly.
Now I'm back in Brooklyn and need to do some schoolwork. No more packin' heat!
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Creative Elements
A few days ago, I wrote about the Community Word Project. My assignment for the week was to think about my "creative elements": what inspires me to create my art and what tools I use when I create. What forces inform what I write and what tools I use to articulate the ideas up there in my head. Nebulous concepts, sure. But definitely interesting to ponder.
So much goes into a given story, a given scene, a given fictional conversation. Where does the idea come from? Why am I writing about it? What point or message or feeling am I trying to communicate? (All this is assuming a hypothetical audience, of course, since most of the fiction I write doesn't get read by many real people!)(Yet!). I'm still so new to this kind of process, to this kind of art; even thinking about writing as "art" is a strange idea for me. I've been writing for a career for a long time, so it always feels more utilitarian than artsy. Sure, there's creativity any time you put words on a page—you're choosing to say this, not this. You're crafting your meaning. But I don't know whether I'm an artist. Yet.
My (working) list of creative elements:
Relationships
Rhythm
Memory
Philosophy
Voice
Vividness
Images
Fragments
Curiosity
Observation
I'm sure I'm missing a bunch, and some of these are more important than others. But these were the first elements that came to mind. I suppose relationships are a part of almost all stories—relationships, and their conflicts and resolutions. Rhythm, to me, is the way sentences are written and play off each other—the sound of language. Memory: of course. Philosophy? I find myself asking (or making my characters ask) what it all means (why? why? why?). Voice is voice—it has to be strong. Vividness....not sure exactly what I mean by this, but it's the color on the page. The concrete details. The freshness of the prose. Images: yes. Lots of them. Fragments: yes. Just like in this paragraph. Fragments help the rhythm. Sometimes choppy is good. I think it helps to be curious—about the world, about people, about why things are the way they are. And being a careful observer just helps the whole shebang come to life.
It's fun thinking of myself as an artist—I might try it for a while. Then, someday, I might really become one.
So much goes into a given story, a given scene, a given fictional conversation. Where does the idea come from? Why am I writing about it? What point or message or feeling am I trying to communicate? (All this is assuming a hypothetical audience, of course, since most of the fiction I write doesn't get read by many real people!)(Yet!). I'm still so new to this kind of process, to this kind of art; even thinking about writing as "art" is a strange idea for me. I've been writing for a career for a long time, so it always feels more utilitarian than artsy. Sure, there's creativity any time you put words on a page—you're choosing to say this, not this. You're crafting your meaning. But I don't know whether I'm an artist. Yet.
My (working) list of creative elements:
Relationships
Rhythm
Memory
Philosophy
Voice
Vividness
Images
Fragments
Curiosity
Observation
I'm sure I'm missing a bunch, and some of these are more important than others. But these were the first elements that came to mind. I suppose relationships are a part of almost all stories—relationships, and their conflicts and resolutions. Rhythm, to me, is the way sentences are written and play off each other—the sound of language. Memory: of course. Philosophy? I find myself asking (or making my characters ask) what it all means (why? why? why?). Voice is voice—it has to be strong. Vividness....not sure exactly what I mean by this, but it's the color on the page. The concrete details. The freshness of the prose. Images: yes. Lots of them. Fragments: yes. Just like in this paragraph. Fragments help the rhythm. Sometimes choppy is good. I think it helps to be curious—about the world, about people, about why things are the way they are. And being a careful observer just helps the whole shebang come to life.
It's fun thinking of myself as an artist—I might try it for a while. Then, someday, I might really become one.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
I Heart My Metrocard
OK, real quick: An ode to this.
It may seem totally obvious, but it's so f-ing cool that this little piece of plastic takes me pretty much anywhere I want to go in this sprawling urban wilderness. I love not having a car—no parking! No traffic!—even though, yes, I miss my little old Honda. (Remind me of this in a few months when I complain about not being able to escape said sprawling urban wilderness.)
It may seem totally obvious, but it's so f-ing cool that this little piece of plastic takes me pretty much anywhere I want to go in this sprawling urban wilderness. I love not having a car—no parking! No traffic!—even though, yes, I miss my little old Honda. (Remind me of this in a few months when I complain about not being able to escape said sprawling urban wilderness.)
Monday, October 6, 2008
History, On Foot
I recently went on a walking tour with the Municipal Art Society of New York. Veronica and I met her friends for brunch at Bocca Lupo in Cobble Hill, where we talked politics (alternately depressing and energizing), ate baked eggs and crusty bread, and then met our group at the corner of Smith and Carroll Streets in Carroll Gardens. We moseyed around the neighborhood for a few hours—it was a beautiful autumn day—learning about brownstones, churches, street grids, local businesses, and Brooklyn history. I tried to imagine what it must have looked like 15o years ago, when people owned "country houses" here. This was countryside, way back when.
It was a fun way to learn about where I'm living. And just as fun to observe the people in our group, which was at least 25 strong: a woman who spent the whole tour pulling the split ends off her hair (gross!). Another woman who, obviously, spends many a weekend on historical walking tours ("See you next weekend in Crown Heights!"). Someone who smelled like mothballs (someone just pulled a winter coat out of the closet...and I thought it was the aroma of the Gowanus Canal...see below). It wasn't exactly a hipster demographic, which is what made it awesome.
Here's a pic of the Carroll Street Bridge, which crosses the Gowanus Canal (which people, apparently, love to hate). The canal, and the industrial area around it, divides Carroll Gardens from Park Slope, where I live.
Evidence of Swoon:
The South Congregational Church:
On Monday morning, because I procrastinated (I'm good at procrastinating many projects, topics, and tasks, including training!), I went on a nice run from my front door to the Upper West Side, a little under 11 miles:
It was nice and cool and windy, and the rain held off until I could jump on the subway. Which turned out to be rush hour. I'm sure all the suits appreciated me and my bad stinky self! I didn't feel too bad, four weeks out from the big race....I have to suffer through one more really long run before tapering ("tapering," for me, involves barely running a step for days at a time, drinking more than I should, staying up late watching Project Runway, and generally being a lazy-ass)(wait, maybe that's just life in New York). I'm planning to visit my bro in Boston this weekend, so I'll do the 20-mile deed there—where there's a bit more green space and less cab-dodging.
Community Word Project
I spent a full day this past weekend starting my internship training for the Community Word Project, an arts-in-education program here in New York City. CWP places artists in public schools to work with full-time teachers on creative projects—so at some point soon I'll be doing some volunteer work at a school in Red Hook or Washington Heights or The Bronx. Though I'm already taking a class at Brooklyn College to help prepare me to teach college-level composition classes, this training will allow me to spend some time with younger kids (2nd to 7th grade, probably). I haven't done this in a long time, probably since back when I was a counselor at Camp Sealth. (Those were two of the most amazing summers of my life.)
And it's already been inspiring. I met a bunch of creative folks: Laine is a circus performer. Toby draws at his warehouse space in downtown Brooklyn. Roberto is a photographer who grew up in Mexico City. There were painters, poets, actors, dancers, and musicians. We spent a lot of time talking about the creative process, and the way that different people learn best. We did skits and acted silly. Made me realize that regular adult life can be pretty effing boring sometimes! Why does being a grown-up often mean being tedious?
I've never thought that much about my own "process" per se: What inspires me to write? What informs my work? What is "my work"? What themes usually come up? People create for many reasons and so many things come out: faith, community, justice, family, time, love, metaphor, beauty, movement, color, contrast, openness, travel, magic, persistence, kitsch, heartbreak, memory, risk, home, patience, images. The CWP people call these "creative elements."
For our next day-long training, we each have to plan a presentation that portrays our creative process—and reveals our own creative elements. I need to do some thinking about this one: I know that family (not always mine, but family in general) and relationships, voice, conflict, memory/reminiscence, and a bit of philosophy seem to come up in my writing, along with lots of concrete images and lots of metaphors and details. I've never been the best at introspection—thinking about me and why I do what I do—so this should be a good challenge!
Will let you know what I find out about myself.
And it's already been inspiring. I met a bunch of creative folks: Laine is a circus performer. Toby draws at his warehouse space in downtown Brooklyn. Roberto is a photographer who grew up in Mexico City. There were painters, poets, actors, dancers, and musicians. We spent a lot of time talking about the creative process, and the way that different people learn best. We did skits and acted silly. Made me realize that regular adult life can be pretty effing boring sometimes! Why does being a grown-up often mean being tedious?
I've never thought that much about my own "process" per se: What inspires me to write? What informs my work? What is "my work"? What themes usually come up? People create for many reasons and so many things come out: faith, community, justice, family, time, love, metaphor, beauty, movement, color, contrast, openness, travel, magic, persistence, kitsch, heartbreak, memory, risk, home, patience, images. The CWP people call these "creative elements."
For our next day-long training, we each have to plan a presentation that portrays our creative process—and reveals our own creative elements. I need to do some thinking about this one: I know that family (not always mine, but family in general) and relationships, voice, conflict, memory/reminiscence, and a bit of philosophy seem to come up in my writing, along with lots of concrete images and lots of metaphors and details. I've never been the best at introspection—thinking about me and why I do what I do—so this should be a good challenge!
Will let you know what I find out about myself.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Getting in Touch with My Roots
This afternoon, I went to the Czech Street Festival on 83rd between Park and Madison—and had bramboraky (potato pancakes), knedlicky (dumplings), and plum kolacky. I called my mom and told her about it—I wish she were here with me. It goes without saying that the knedlicky were nothing like her home-cooked ones! And they didn't touch the ones my grandma used to make in Domazlice. The fest was organized by the Czech Center New York, which puts together concerts, films, and lectures about the Motherland. I overheard a lot of Czech being spoken, but the extent of my vocabulary doesn't go much beyond zmrzlina (ice cream) and dobrou noc (good night)!
The menu:
There was a lot of spirit on this cool autumn day:
Plenty of food:
And traditional dancing:
Here's a little video of the celebration!
It seems like there's a street festival, celebrating you name it, almost every weekend in this city! The Kidney & Urology Foundation Fest (Lexington Avenue from 34th to 42nd Streets). The National Puerto Rican Day Parade (Fifth Avenue between 43rd & 86th Street). The St. Anthony of Giovinazzo Feast (Mulberry Street between Broome & Spring Street). The Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen Festival (23rd Street between 8th Avenue and 9th Avenue). The Stone Street Oyster Fest (Hanover Square, Stone Street and Pearl Street). You can check out every possible nationality, cause, cuisine, and season without even leaving the five boroughs.
The menu:
There was a lot of spirit on this cool autumn day:
Plenty of food:
And traditional dancing:
Here's a little video of the celebration!
It seems like there's a street festival, celebrating you name it, almost every weekend in this city! The Kidney & Urology Foundation Fest (Lexington Avenue from 34th to 42nd Streets). The National Puerto Rican Day Parade (Fifth Avenue between 43rd & 86th Street). The St. Anthony of Giovinazzo Feast (Mulberry Street between Broome & Spring Street). The Holy Apostles Soup Kitchen Festival (23rd Street between 8th Avenue and 9th Avenue). The Stone Street Oyster Fest (Hanover Square, Stone Street and Pearl Street). You can check out every possible nationality, cause, cuisine, and season without even leaving the five boroughs.
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