Walnut Street Gazette

No Such Thing as Bad Press

2010-07-15T12:27:00.016-04:00

Hello again.

New York Magazine online posted a weekend getaway feature about Beacon last week. The local response to the article - from what I've overheard or solicited - is that it fails to promote an authentic experience and that there are blatant omissions.

Poppy's does indeed have the best grass-fed beef burgers I've ever tasted. They are expensive and he should stay open later (for the desperate post-commute search for decent take-out that isn't sushi), but Poppy's is right across Main Street from School of Jellyfish (included in the article, justifiably). Perhaps the author felt that the burger joint recently grabbed the spotlight on the Food Network and was no longer in need of buzz. Frankly, I won't ever set foot again in Superfood after paying $6 for a seltzer and after the owner woke up G. very late on a school night. Okay, so the ginger was freshly ground and, uh, well...that's about it. And what about Bank Square? Ella's Bellas make me cry they are so good and their namesake is pretty damn cute. I mean, you practically smack right into this coffee house while stepping off the train. The River Terrace? Really?

I support NYM's editorial catering to the Manhattan mindset. I read this article and I instantly recognize the audience for which it is written. It's true there really isn't anywhere you can go in Beacon for a glass of wine al fresco, along the Hudson. That's what these readers would expect and we don't have many options. The River Terrace seems to be built on a colony of mosquitoes and Amacord is way too expensive (and nowhere near the water). We do have Artisan's weekly wine tastings, which are not mentioned in the article even though tours of Bannerman Island are, despite the fact that apparently they just discovered a live mine there (oh, the futility of those cool looking hard hats). The one secret that really should not be best-kept is that the Metro-North train to Beacon leaves from Grand Central, not Penn Station! This glaring misprint and some omissions make me wonder if the author was ever actually here, or just surfed the internet. I imagine a bunch of potential Beacon fans ending up in Rhinecliff instead, in search of $6 seltzers.

Fact checking. It no longer seems to be a part of the editorial process.

As a PR professional, I am ecstatic about the piece, at least because Electric Windows is first up. Grumbling over these inaccuracies and misprints is like agonizing over a chiron when you're on Letterman. Touted as the "go-to insider guide" in its online media kit, nymag.com reaches 5.7 million users per month. I know that Beacon has been featured in the press before as a destination, with mixed results. Main Street businesses are still struggling. I haven't lived here long enough to comment. I can say that it has been a pleasure to work with local organizations like Local 845 and Open Space, as well as Blackbird Attic, Beacon's newest and best consignment shop.

I look forward to George Mansfield's new visitor's center.

In other news, SWAT finally came back to the Boo Radley house on my block to tow the various disabled cars from the driveway. After a previous incident in which one crazy neighbor tried to kill another neighbor and my entire street was in lockdown, there had been a lot of suspicious comings and goings at the green house, including one kid zooming in and out on his motorcycle to presumably deal drugs from the stoop. At one point, a pit bull was chained up in the backyard, practically suffocating in last week's terrible heat wave. As we like to say, it ain't Cold Spring.

Tonight, after F's Beacon Deserves Better meeting, we'll meet at the Piggy Bank for some live music by Tin Pan. One of my favorite local artists, Catherine Welshman, is unveiling new paintings at an opening on Saturday night at Hudson Beach Glass. The only thing that would keep me away is the opportunity to be poolside in Connecticut. I'll take it where I can get it. Apparently, we're back up to 100 degrees this weekend.

Gratitude

2010-03-12T11:19:00.015-05:00

Thank you, friends
I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you
I'm so grateful for all the things you helped me do.
--Alex Chilton

Six months ago I became a permanent resident of the Hudson Valley. I know now that coming here was one of the most important decisions I've ever made. It wasn't an easy transition, and there were days when I really doubted myself, but I have never felt alone.

Thank you, friends:

A big hug to Shannon at Shambhala Yoga Center for the intense chakra work (especially #1 and #4) and helping me get my yoga practice to its highest level in 10 years. Shannon was one of my first new friends in Beacon, and Shambhala has become like a second home to me. Shannon's husband Harrison Cannon's band, M Shanghai String Band, is playing tonight at The Piggy Bank, starting at 8:00 PM.

I subbed a few times over the winter for Ken Bolton at Open Space Gallery while he was snowboarding. Ken and I go way back. Proprietors Daniel Weise and Kalene Rivers also run a design firm, Thundercut. I recently danced my ass off at one of Dan and Kalene's Next Step parties, a fundraiser to help raise cash for Beacon's Electric Windows project. They are purveyors of cool and a lovely couple with a really cute kid.

Thank you, Artisan Wine Shop, for feeding my addiction. I love your Friday and Saturday wine-tastings and your weekly specials. Without you, I am nothing. I plan to attend this evening's event, from which local comedian (and Artisan staffer) David Rees will be live-blogging. David recently performed at Open Space, where he achieved pure gestalt as Count Andrew Dice Clay. ("Ooh, I am over here now.") Tonight, Artisan is serving wines from the Loire Valley and Campania. Tomorrow, French burgundies are on the table, after which I hope to make it to Greg Slick's opening at Gallery G.

Nicole's new Community Cat Coalition has been making great progress. The little orange tabby who was hanging around my back doorstep, Oliver, is scheduled for neutering and shots later this month, after which he can be adopted. I will miss him, but I've helped find him an existence better than scrounging around for food and risking injury or death. Counter to what I previously posted, do not send donations to P.A.N.T., as they are not at all related to C.C.C. More information is on Nicole's website.

For an "unemployed" person, I have been keeping busy. Kaufman Center's Face the Music youth ensemble has a bunch of performances coming up in the spring, including Merkin Hall on May 27, when they will perform works by Nico Muhly, Paul Desenne and Joe Phillips. I have also been working on a new documentary about the annual Tour Divide mountain bike race, titled Ride the Divide, directed by Hunter Weeks and produced by Mike Dion and my good friend Joe Cantwell. The film premieres at the Vail Film Festival next month and will be available on all media platforms soon thereafter. I've mentioned before my true feelings about bicycles. The personal stories of these hardcore bikers, one of them the first woman to finish the race, are truly inspiring to me.

I've recently hooked up with Stephen Clair, who is Beacon's preeminent music presenter. It's nice to be back in the swing/jazz/rock/blues/folk of things. His Local 845 organization produces gigs around town, including Piggy Bank Fridays. Since last November, Stephen has been organizing events to help benefit Beacon's first-ever Riverfest, including a very delicious pancake breakfast. The free, live concert is scheduled for Saturday, June 26 (Thundercut designed the logo). A digital platform for Beacon Riverfest is TK, so here's a recent post from Stephen from beaconcitizen.com:

For two years, Local 845 has been bringing live original music to the Howland Cultural Center, Open Space Gallery, the Piggy Bank Restaurant, Zuzu’s, individual store openings, house concerts, art openings, the Beacon Block Party, and now Spire Studios. The musicians have been freaking outstanding and they’ve hailed from all corners of the U.S. as well as Beacon itself. A lot of what’s driven it has been the steady enthusiasm from the audiences, who are mostly Beaconites. People say they’re grateful and I believe them. Audiences have also come from as far away as NYC and Albany because the media has even helped out. I’m Stephen Clair and I’m a musician. I have always been a musician. I’m doing this because, try as I might, my family did not move to a MUSIC TOWN when we left Brooklyn three years ago. We moved to Beacon. And I wanted to live in a town where there wasn’t just good live music—but ridiculously good ORIGINAL live music—all the time.

Bands appearing at Beacon Riverfest 2010 will be announced soon.

The big news is that I begin working full-time later this month for a freelance gig at IFCtv, where I will be filling in as VP, Public Relations while Marie and Colin make room for Baby Moore. It is time for me to say good-bye to my carefree part-time existence, although I'm excited to see old friends and looking forward to a regular pay-check. The commute will bear little challenge to my new lifestyle, I hope.

I am also celebrating a birthday this month. It seems like only yesterday we were digging out from under 3 feet of snow and convening on Bank Sq. Coffeehouse for the only internet access in town. Soon I'll be dipping my fingers and toes in Fishkill Creek and smelling the fresh-cut grass in my backyard.

errance/errantry

2010-02-12T10:44:00.017-05:00

"Though each love is experienced as unique and though each subject rejects the notion of repeating it elsewhere later on, he sometimes discovers in himself a kind of diffusion of amorous desire; he then realizes he is doomed to wander until he dies, from love to love."

--"The Ghost Ship," A Lover's Discourse, Roland Barthes

* * *

“What wife?”

My 54-year-old father dropped a bomb in the car. He had just told me for the first time that he was married to another woman before he met my mom. My scattered thoughts were brought suddenly, sharply back into focus by this news. Boxy interior. Dusty vents. Vinyl dash. My grizzled and unshaven father behind the wheel of our old Volvo sedan.

I asked him again, “What wife?”

It was 1986, the summer between my sophomore and junior year in college. My father and I were on our way to Philadelphia to visit my mother in the intensive care unit at University of Pennsylvania, where she was in a coma from an operation on her brain. Her doctor had encountered difficulties during surgery and things did not go according to plan.

“Oh boy, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, his eyes still on the road. “I think your brother knows. He didn’t tell you?” His response so vague and casual it was maddening.

“Everyone knows but me?” My brain flipping back through the years to find maybe one missed word or hint. I’m pretty sure I would have remembered. “No, I most certainly did not know that you were married to anyone other than mom.”

He made the 2-hour drive from New Jersey to the hospital almost every day and sometimes he slept over in hotels. I joined him when I wasn’t selling fresh-water decaf coffee beans and mango chutney at the local gourmet food store, the same hometown job I had before graduating from high school. I was happy to have it back this summer because it provided the flexibility I needed to be near my parents. I was a 20-year old student in an art school a few hours away. Under different circumstances, I would’ve stayed closer to campus. My brother, four years older, was busy working as a non-profit administrator in New York and couldn’t always make the trip.

I looked forward to these car rides with my dad. They were an escape for me, although our destination couldn’t be more real. They were a chance to have him to myself. It wasn’t until this particular day that I saw how deeply distressed and distracted he really was. I managed my fears differently. They were hidden away behind my more immediate concern for this person’s wellbeing. It’s a safer state of mind for me.

We were reminiscing about funny or important moments in our lives together when he seemed to have lost track of his thoughts and introduced his first wife. I felt betrayed. I didn’t know the man sitting next to me. Once the initial shock passed, I asked more questions. He answered them in short sentences. It might have felt like betrayal to him, too.

In the early 50s, my father married his high school sweet heart in his native Youngstown, Ohio. Soon after that, he was stationed away in a non-combat position during the Korean War. The way he explained it to me, by the time he returned home, he was a changed person and no longer in love. Their childless marriage was annulled after four years.

My brain struggled to process this new information. It explained why there are so few photos of my dad from before my parent’s engagement—his previous life banished to someone else’s attic. It added a new dimension to my mother’s crippling insecurities for not feeling on par with my dad’s real-world experiences. On that hot afternoon in August, just days shy of their 26th wedding anniversary, I realized for the first time that my parents were complicated grown-ups with personal histories exclusive of my own youthful narrative.

Memories of the rest of that day are hazy. I wanted to quiz my mother when we arrived at the hospital later that morning. Silent and confused, I sat next to her for a long time. The woman permanently asleep in a hospital bed in Philadelphia—our family matriarch—had suddenly become a strange woman with a mysterious past. She never told me her side of the story. She died a few weeks later at the age of 48. A few weeks after that, I returned to school and nearly flunked out. Ten years later my father remarried. Five years ago, he died at the age of 72.

I never talked about it with anyone, except for a brief recap with my brother. Over time I simply forgot. Life took over and the experience was replaced with new ones. I moved to New York City after graduation and stayed there for 20 years. I survived a string of difficult and disappointing relationships with men. These days, I’m lucky to find a romantic interest who isn’t already married. It’s common that there is at least one former or maybe dead spouse in their life, and a few kids still very much in the picture. Many of my former lovers and close friends are divorced—some of them twice, some remarried now with children. My own parents’ paths crossed and then separated, leaving one person behind (hopefully at peace) and setting the other on a new road.

The legacy of that car ride with my father only recently became clear to me. It seems we live in a different time now, when enduring love is exceptional. Never having been married at this age is considered a red flag rather than a virtue. I was recently accompanying a close friend to a jeweler in a nearby town, where he would be returning his ex-wife’s engagement ring to be re-appraised and sold. Driving up the highway that afternoon in early February—a blur of snow and cold air outside my window—I drew a final connection between my family’s intricate past and my present-day encounters with love interrupted, knowing early in my education that it’s possible for it to be born again.

* * *

For animal lovers: Please consider making a donation to P.A.N.T., a grass roots, all-volunteer organization committed to resolving the stray and feral cat overpopulation crisis in Dutchess County. Nicole has launched a new blog for her Community Cat Coalition, which is dedicated to addressing the problem locally and educating us about "humanely and effectively reducing the free roaming stray and feral cat population via the Trap Neuter Return (TNR) method." There are at least 7 stray cats just on my block who hang out on my stoop. A stunning photographer and tireless public servant, Nicole has been working on this since moving here last July, raising awareness, building and distributing shelters in high-volume areas, and developing a volunteer task force. She has made a lot of progress in a remarkably short period of time, but is still in need of funds, volunteers and donated space.

For art lovers: The painting is by Catherine Welshman. She has organized a Valentine's Day group show at Spire Studios, opening on Saturday.

Accentuate the Positive

2010-01-13T09:18:00.028-05:00

Updated 3:03PM: I was going to write about how I had nothing to write about. I have been intimidated by missives I am reading on New Year's resolutions. Indeed there are issues in the world that call for right relations -- like last night's devastating earthquake in Haiti -- but I've been too far into my own head these days to get on the bus. I was planning to address the year ahead, looming large in front of us. Then Eugene posted a link this week that has kept me awake at night.

WNYC's Brian Lehrer recently hosted a guest named Jerry McGill, an artist and a paraplegic. His memoir, Dear Marcus: Speaking to the Man Who Shot Me, is a letter McGill wrote to the person who shot and paralyzed him at the age of 12 -- a man he has never met. The link was followed up by another link to a brief interview in The New York Times with Barbara Ehrenreich, whose latest book, Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has Undermined America, is an indictment against blind optimism.

Also of interest is a friend of mine who recently rediscovered Don Hertzfeldt's animation. My friend particularly identifies with Mr. Fluffy, who hops around singing "Yay! Life is good...this is fun..." only to end the song with "My anus is bleeding." I can't explain why this is funny, but Hertzfeldt discovered his own creative coping mechanism for malaise and it makes people laugh.

I think they're all on the same track, despite the surface differences. McGill is testifying that he learned to subvert his anger into positivity in order to survive the attack and live an emotionally healthy life. In his interview, he says that the incident changed his path in life and showed him things in it that he may not have otherwise known were positives. As he says in the interview, "nobody has done anything great out of a place of anger."

Ehrenreich criticizes people like Oprah Winfrey for promoting a false sense of positivity and the worst kind of self-help. The author believes that "mind over matter" is not a proven cure for mental or physical illness.

Oprah is an effective guru for an LCD audience. Her faith and positivity are very real, but packaged for and re-appropriated by a public looking for a quick fix. This is what makes her very rich. The wellness industry has been relatively successful at promoting physical fitness and a good diet as cures for depression, but it is far surpassed by the psycho-pharmaceutical industry in market share. As I write this, I am listening to a segment on the radio about a book titled The Cultural Shaping of Mental Illness: The Globalization of the American Psyche. The author is discussing GlaxoSmithKline's distribution of Paxil in Japan. 50 Steps to Simple Happiness is #6 on the Most Popular Stories list on The New York Times website.

You need only to open your eyes and look around you to see that life is not good. There is indeed a lot in the world to be unhappy about. The holidays, which are mercifully now over, bring a persistent and unshakable cloud of "the old ennui" that is fueled by an over-abundance of cheer. Yesterday I was in a local shopping mall and it felt like the most dismal place on earth, and living proof that the economy is far from recovery (the only way I could afford to be there was because stores are practically giving away their merchandise, a great opportunity for someone in need of retail therapy on an extremely limited budget.)

In my own life, the topic of positivity is dear to my heart. It is a fascination, a hobby and something I struggle with all the time. Ultimately I am a happy person, but I am capable of becoming very seriously depressed. And life has handed me several occasions to be so. Like a lot of people right now, I am again facing a particularly challenging moment in time. What I have been contemplating over the past few weeks is the two possible ways I can go about dealing with my immediate future: 1) with soaring expectations, or 2) with an open but tempered mind.

No matter how much you hope for it, life does not always work out for the best. The higher you set your sights, the harder your disappointments will come crashing down around you. What softens the blow is perspective, which a lot of "wishful thinkers" don't really have because they are too narrowly focused on one outcome. It is an act of liberation to acknowledge that life is endlessly unfair and there is a lot of real things to be sad about. To do so is to free yourself from the "tyranny" of happiness. And the result? You guessed it!

So, rather than struggling to create a list of resolutions for the new year--which I think in itself is an act of negativity and possible defeat, I will instead set a few small intentions for 2010. Some of them have already begun, like making and spending more time with family and with old and new friends. I concur with McGill that anger serves no purpose in life and the best way to subvert your fear into happiness is to surround yourself with people who love you. I intend to drink less alcohol but enjoy it more when I do and I will pay closer attention to the origins and purpose of the food I eat.

I intend to stay open to multiple paths in front of me, with the idea that one of them might be a better opportunity for happiness than what I might have expected. Should I achieve my intentions, I hope to be able to share the resulting positivity.

Addendum: A friend of mine in Beacon, Catherine Welshman (a fellow Williamsburg transplant), is part of a group show opening this Saturday here at the Van Brunt Gallery. The opening is on January 16 from 6 to 9 PM, and the show runs through the end of February. Their website has not been updated, so here are some images of Catherine's recent work, which I love.

Know Thy Farmer

2009-12-21T18:01:00.013-05:00

After a few failed attempts over the years, I finally made it to Blue Hill at Stone Barns for dinner. To say that it was a memorable dining experience is a glib understatement. It's culinary Gestalt...a locavore's master class. Nestled in New York farmland just north of Sleepy Hollow, Blue Hill is an eco-gastronomic temple.

Opened in 2004 at the renovated Stone Barns Center for Food & Agriculture, Blue Hill is the brainchild of David and Dan Barber. The entire compound is a working farm and non-profit institution located in Pocantico Hills' Rockefeller State Park, with a mission to teach and advance community-based agriculture.

It started out like any other Saturday. J. and I had planned to check out the Live in HD performance of Les Contes d'Hoffmann, but neither of us would commit to the 4-hour running time. Besides, the worst snow storm in ten years was due to hit at any moment. I was listening to the live opera broadcast on the radio -- the clouds rapidly forming outside -- when L. called to say he had canceled his flight home to Chicago. Alone in the city, he offered to treat both J. and me to dinner at Blue Hill...if he could get a table (it normally takes months of planning).

L. is a man who knows a lot of people. In what seems like another lifetime, we lived together in a storefront loft in Williamsburg. I met him years ago when he was just mapping his way toward success -- a fresh-faced graduate student with two passions: music and money. Following a lucrative career on Wall Street, he now lives and works in the Windy City. Last fall, L. put me in touch with J., another transplant who had recently relocated to Cold Spring.

By noon that day we had a 5 o'clock reservation. By 3 o'clock, I was on the train. By 4 o'clock, with J. and I making our way down Route 9 toward Tarrytown, the snow began to fall.

The gates at Blue Hill at Stone Barns resemble the entrance to a health spa or spiritual retreat, the first indication that we would eventually leave not only sated but enlightened. The restaurant itself lies within a cluster of stone buildings inside the square-shaped compound. Upon being seated inside the ambient-perfect dining hall, we were greeted by what I then called our tour guide (but now I think of him more as our professor), because his role is to prepare diners for the experience directly ahead of them and to explain Chef Dan Barber's philosophy and techniques.

For example: one does not order a la carte from a traditional menu, one is presented with a list of seasonal provisions and chooses between a 6-course or 8-course presentation (4 or 6 savory; 2 sweet). I should note that we were given some options. When I informed them I would not eat lamb's neck, they served the brain instead -- lovingly sauteed with miniature spinach ravioli. The wine list is exempt from the local rule so I enjoyed a nice glass of Finger Lakes Riesling followed by a healthy pour of Burgundy red.

Equipped with props like an over-sized "egg shell" made of bread cracked open to reveal the baked rutabaga inside (bringing to mind more than a few science-fiction films), the professor -- flanked by several able servers -- explained the preparation process for each course. I particularly admired the three-dimensional clear glass bird's nest, lined with real hay.

For three hours, as the snow piled up outside and the wind blew new flakes across the Christmas lights in our window, we indulged in the most exquisite, painstakingly prepared cuisine: dehydrated kale flash-fried with salt, beet sliders, fresh runny eggs with lentils and curry, big eye tuna sushi, marrow with caviar, face bacon, Hudson Valley venison, homemade ice-cream, and chocolates. Oh, and don't forget the little lamb. Even the coffee was exceptional.

Throughout the meal, we marveled at the complexity of Blue Hill. It is more of a social experiment than it is a restaurant. A holistic joining of food, design, science, culture, and the earth itself. I don't think I've ever had a dining experience like this when food tasted exactly the way it should -- the way you imagine it will when it's laid out in raw form in front of you.

But the convergence of old and new friends is what made this evening as remarkable as it was. An unexpected, totally impromptu event precipitated by one very generous man. Three people connected by the past and present, sharing an unforgettable meal on a cold winter's night. I can't think of a better way to share the holiday spirit.

For more information on community-based farming and slow food, Anne Dailey writes about agrarian culture for a variety of publications. Edible Communities publishes a network of local food magazines nationwide.

"...the hearth's fundamental glow."

2009-12-14T14:13:00.014-05:00

Whether anybody was home meant everything to a house.
It was more than a major fact: it was the only fact.
The family was the house's soul.
The waking mind was like the light in a house.
The soul was like the gopher in his hole.
Consciousness was to brain as family was to house.
Aristotle: Suppose the eye were an animal--sight would be its soul.
To understand the mind you pictured domestic activity, the hum of related lives on varied tracks, the hearth's fundamental glow.

Jonathan Franzen -- The Corrections (2001)

Last week, in an email exchange, I asked my friend if he was coming home for the holidays. He responded, "where is home?"

It was both a rhetorical and literal question. He does not have a permanent place to live. He claims ambivalence toward Christmas, and I don't care much for it either. I think this is because our familial plates shifted years ago, when we were forced to rethink the notion of home and to differentiate between its place on a map and its undeniable emotional significance. This all comes to a head(ache) during the winter holidays. No matter how one rightfully or honestly feels, home is our North Star and every year we hone in on it like a flock of frenzied pigeons--or we avoid it at all costs.

I have not been home for Christmas-- soulfully speaking -- for more than 20 years. I am always with family but, up until recently, in different places each time. The lack of geographic consistency used to really bother me and for a time I held a grudge. Of course we all know what that gets us: nothing but coal in our stockings.

There have been several pleasant surprises over the years, like the time I spent Christmas Eve at a dinner party on the Bowery. In true Dickensian fashion and in probably the city's most appropriate location for a houseful of orphans, our hosts cooked a delicious roast duck and gave us all presents. There was the time that I lost my ride to my dad's house in Philadelphia on Christmas Eve. I was so pissed that I wanted to entirely skip the next 48 hours. In response, my dad offered to leave home that night and drive all the way up to Brooklyn so I wouldn't be alone. I didn't let him do it. The next morning I woke up in my apartment to the sound of absolutely nothing. The rooms were completely void of holiday vibrations, but the city itself was covered in pristine virgin snow.

Last year at this time I had a job. It was in consumer products, a sector for which the 4th quarter holiday season is crucial to year-round financial stability. The stock market was spiraling and thousands of people were losing their jobs. It's old news now but, at the time, there wasn't a headline that didn't cry out for mercy. In one week, two prominent entertainment companies laid off more than 2,000 people (including many friends). One telecom firm let go of 12,000 people globally in one day. Our company laid off a third of its staff. Part of my duties was to gather daily business news and circulate these items via email to department heads. It got to a point where I could no longer bear to be the messenger of such dismal, heartbreaking news and I stopped doing it.

This year I am unemployed but I'm not worse for wear. I'm not going to work every day with an axe hovering over my neck. I no longer have to listen to hushed, senseless speculations or people crying at their desks, on the phone with their spouses who probably lost their own job earlier that week. "I'm jealous you don't have to work here anymore, it's SO miserable. I don't know how we'll survive without you." You will find a way. Merry Christmas.

That said, I won't be disappointed if Santa leaves a job for me under the tree (figuratively speaking, as I have decided to go "green" this year and not buy one.)

Christmas Eve is the absolute best time to be in New York City and that's where I'll be. When it comes right down to it, I want to be where it feels most familiar. On my list are the Red Book, Kandinsky, and "The Lovely Bones." Archetypes, expressionism, surrealism, insanity, and death. These are my themes for this holiday season.

"There were the Useful Presents"

2009-12-09T09:52:00.023-05:00

My mother was obsessed with family tradition, but she was a freak about Christmas. There has been so much ritual in my early years that I eschew most of them now in my adult life.

Every holiday season she organized a different color, pattern and theme for decorating the house -- almost never to be repeated. One year in the 70s, she put the house on the "Holly Trail" tour. It took frenzied weeks for her to plan with the other ladies in town and, for one excruciating day, we were all living in ersatz Victorian England.

She knitted us stockings with an image of Santa climbing out of (or into) a chimney, with real angora fur in his beard. My brother's stocking had bells on it, mine did not. Every year their contents included, among mini utilitarian items, Droste chocolate fruit. They came wrapped in colorful foil in a holiday box and you could eat them in sections. They don't make them anymore. I still have the stockings.

I get misty when I think of the annual Christmas pageant at our little country church at the bottom of Stanton Mountain. If it sounds ridiculously quaint, that's because it was. As older kids at midnight mass, we sang the new-fangled hymn "Pass it On" while systematically igniting our congregation candles and filling the room with a glowing light. "It only takes a spark to get a fire going..."

We were prisoners of "family time," including the decorating of the tree, dinners, the annual Christmas Tree Hunt, Dickens Days, the Nutcracker at the high school, the Messiah at Clinton Presbyterian, and lots and lots of church. Coordinating our own social lives around Mom's rigid schedule became increasingly challenging as we grew older and more self-involved. It seemed as though every move we made during those times was carefully choreographed--perhaps my mother's effort to re-write her own foggy childhood.

Every Christmas morning, like millions of other American children, my brother and I sat at the top of the stairs and waited for our parents to amble out of bed. What was unique about our ritual was the "finger thing." My brother invented it. He would put his fingertips together in a sort of nucleus and I would do the same, then we'd join our finger-nuclei together into a "mad scientist" burst of uncontrolled excitement. You had to be there to fully understand, but it was one of his many brilliant little pantomimes.

In lieu of the ubiquitous "Top Ten" lists of cool gifts always littering the inter-web this time of year, I thought I'd share a favorite literary version:

There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why.

--Dylan Thomas, A Child's Christmas in Wales (1954)

As for the here and now, it's been slow going but I finally broke down and bought some scented candles and decorations 50% off from Rite-Aid. Being in a house now, it felt only right that I should exploit my first-ever grown-up staircase by wrapping the banister in a string of white lights -- although I won't be sitting at the top on Christmas Day.

December Second Saturday:

Being the gift-giving season, Open Space will be hosting its annual print and zine show, with affordable limited-run art prints (opening from 6 to 10 pm.) The ongoing Local Artists' sale features paintings, prints, pottery, jewelry, and sculpture (6 to 8 pm, with live music.) Shops on Main Street are now open late on Thursdays, too, for holiday commerce and good cheer. I think there might even be house tours here next week.

If I don't get around to posting again soon, it's important to mention that I will finally be attending one of this season's "Met Opera: Live in HD" performances. I worked at the Met when it launched this incredible and incredibly successful audience development initiative. I was directly involved in the publicity and marketing of the series -- an experience I will cherish for the rest of my life. These are absolutely live opera performances from the Met's stage via satellite. It's the next best thing to being there and much more affordable.

Les Contes d'Hoffmann is playing on Saturday, December 19, at the Bardavon in Poughkeepsie and somewhere in Fishkill, although I can't find the exact location on the inter-web.

Pick a little, talk a little

2009-12-03T12:01:00.016-05:00

Gossip is a rough sport with too many avid fans, as far as I'm concerned.

Last Saturday night I attended a cocktail party at an artists' loft in town. A group of really great people, particularly my hosts. I felt honored to be invited. Early in the evening, a woman I knew of but had never formally met walked up to me and my date and bluntly asked, "So, are you two together now?" She directed the question mostly at me, as if this was her way of making introductions and starting a conversation.

I see it as a good way to end one.

Usually an open and direct person myself, I was totally flummoxed by her question -- by the assumption that the answer was any of her business -- not knowing me at all, and all.

In that moment I wondered about my reputation among the group and whether an alternate version of it had preceded me without my knowledge. It was an uncomfortable feeling, but even my so-called date perked up at her query, probably because he wondered about the answer himself. All I could muster was, "We came to this party together, yes, if that's what you're asking." Not so bad in itself but, after this exchange, the woman never spoke to me again for the rest of the night. I was no longer of interest to her. I had served my purpose, whatever that was.

The best analogy I can come up with is dogs sniffing each others' asses in the park. With friends I have jokingly made reference to "Desperate Housewives" to describe my life here, but I do it for dramatic irony. I am concerned because it is moments like these (really, the only one so far) that make me miss the formality and anonymity of city life. This quaint, small-town colloquialism is too close for comfort. The lack of boundaries is unsettling, or perhaps this is a singular case of someone needing more outside stimulus to distract them from themselves.

---

In other news, I will be working at Open Space on Saturday, if anyone wants to stop by and say hello. No formalities here. David Carson has asked me to photograph his show before it closes on Sunday, for which I am flattered.

2009-11-23T12:55:00.025-05:00

I experienced my first deer-automobile collision early Friday evening. I don't like driving on the Taconic State Parkway. It's dangerous and haunted by tragedy. Built in 1929 and finally completed in 1963, it is winding and poorly lit -- a country road passing for a freeway. I prefer the Palisades, but didn't want to cross the river. In fact, I was making very good time and ahead of schedule to meet B. in Brooklyn.

Fortunately it wasn't my rental car. The deer walked right out in front of a new Jeep cruising up alongside me to my right at 60 MPHs. The sun had just set. In slow motion (but of course all within seconds), the illuminated animal statue went down like a bowling pin under the Jeep's grill. It ricocheted under the next car, then skidded rump-first toward my right headlight.

Against all common sense and my better judgment, I slammed on the brakes. Despite my prior experience with roadway collisions (I've had two, the last one totaling my Civic and laying me up for a time), I had no presence of mind and no heart to hit the deer again. In the half-second I slowed to a near halt, the speeding car to my right split the corpse in half. I risked my own life and probably other lives around me, and watched the slaughter like it was a movie. I was frozen like that deer and in as much danger.

Just as quickly, I came to my senses and resumed speed. I watched the Jeep pull over to the shoulder and followed it. Feeling my own racing heartbeat and pumping adrenaline, I could only imagine the other driver's state of mind. She was a college kid. As I walked up to the passenger side I could see her slumped over her laundry bag full of newly-washed clothes, crying hysterically. Her car was fine, she was a mess.

She rolled down her window and let me take her hand. We stayed there talking, helping each other breathe again. Choking, she said she had already had a very bad day. I told her that this could have been much, much worse and that she was lucky. That the deer could have come up into her windshield, or we both could have caused a pile-up. I listened to myself rationalize with her, while my heart slowed down to a more normal pace. When I had said all I could think of to make either one of us feel even slightly better, we said our good-byes. She thanked me and rolled up her window to call her father. I walked back to my car and made my own phone call. By this time road patrol had arrived and, by flare-light, removed the remaining bits of carcass from the road.

My brain was on fire as I headed into the city. I was so angry at the animal for not being smart enough to turn around and run away. It had only just stepped onto the pavement and had time to save itself. I was just as upset with myself for being irresponsible behind the wheel. I guess those talking cartoon animals really got the best of me.

Late last night, in the safety of my own home, I remembered that I had an illustrated hardcover edition of Bambi. The original story, written by Felix Salten in 1929, is brutally honest and filled with death. Of course we all know the fate of Bambi's mother, but many woodland creatures meet their maker in horrible, torturous ways. Wounded as a fawn, Bambi's childhood friend Gobo is saved by a hunter ("He") and later returned to the woods, only to be shot dead as an adult. Gobo's naive faith in humans causes him to be careless when the entire group is confronted by hunters:

Gobo lifted his head again feebly with a writhing motion, beat convulsively with his hoofs and then lay still. With a crackling, snapping and rustling He parted the bushes and stepped out. Marena saw Him from quite near. She slunk slowly back, disappearing through the nearest bushes, and hastened to Bambi and Faline. She looked back once again and saw how He was bending over and seizing the wounded deer. Then they heard Gobo's wailing death shriek.

This is not the Disney movie.

Bambi later comes to understand Gobo's folly, at the aid of the wise old stag (Bambi's father, although he doesn't know it) when they come across a dying hunter who has been shot:

"Do you see, Bambi," the old stag went on, "do you see how He's lying there dead, like one of us? Listen, Bambi. He isn't all powerful as they say. Everything that lives and grows doesn't come from Him. He isn't above us. He's just the same as we are are. He has the same fears, the same needs and suffers in the same way. He can be killed like us, and then He lies helpless on the ground like all the rest of us, as you see Him now."

There was a silence.

"Do you understand me, Bambi?" asked the old stag.

"I think so," Bambi said in a whisper.

"Then speak," the old stag commanded.

Bambi was inspired, and said trembling, "There is Another who is over us all, over us and over Him."

"Now I can go," said the old stag.

Second Saturday Round-Up

2009-11-13T16:42:00.006-05:00

My guess is that Second Saturday events here get more crowded together as the holidays draw nigh. There are several events planned for tomorrow, all starting and ending at about the same time. It's been a while since I've actually had to so carefully coordinate my social calendar.

I know I will be attending Open Space Gallery's Ghostfuck3R show, featuring the work of David Carson. According to the press release:

The title of the show stems from it's thematic relationship to rock music and Gustav Metzger's idea of Auto-Destruction. The hybrid-like frankenstein objects created from this relationship are what Carson refers to as Rockness Monsters. Guitars and their offspring are mutated and destroyed to create new structures. Carefully constructed formal designs are slashed, beaten and obliterated in favor of creating something new from it's ashes - each part of the process altering, remixing and destroying itself to become a new object.

This is Carson's first public exhibition and, for those of you who don't immediately recognize his name, he is the co-founder of Heavy. A free shuttle bus is providing round-trip transportation from and to New York City. Should be quite an interesting turn out.

Around the corner Gallery G is opening a show of works by Will Walker titled "darkness turns" from 7 to 10 pm, and Nicole just told me she's in Zuzu's "Small Works Holiday Show," where all original pieces are on sale at affordable prices. That's from 6 to 8 pm. With all that's going on, I will probably miss the Local 845 fundraiser event. On the west side, Fovea is opening a photography show titled FAITH from 4 to 8 pm.

Artisan is hosting pre-Thanksgiving wine tastings tonight and tomorrow evening.

Bank Square Coffeehouse (a much-improved replacement to The Muddy Cup) has incredibly good local baked goods from Ella's Bellas, something that was hard to find on the west end as an alternative to Homespun. I tried the peanut butter cookies yesterday and their richness is unparalleled--I almost wanted to eat it with a spoon. Nothing against Zuzu's (they probably have a better tea selection), but Bank Square is closer to me and en route to the train station. They are also Beacon's first distributor of Hudson Valley Fresh milk. Tomorrow morning they will be selling furniture from the Muddy Cup days, beginning at 10 am.

I'm relieved to know that I can probably do all of my Christmas shopping locally. It's never high-volume for me, but I'm still glad to be away from the crowds. I was in the city earlier this week and already felt the building tension.

Thou hast again opened thy bountiful hand

2009-11-09T12:12:00.017-05:00

My brother and I returned home last night from Philadelphia, after spending the day going through our dad's keepsakes. As I have mentioned before, our step-mother decided to put the Rittenhouse Square Street house up for sale in exchange for a smaller, more manageable apartment in town. We stuck to our plan and returned with only a van-full of loot.

In addition to only two pieces of furniture, many file boxes, and some silver pieces and antiques that I will sell on consignment (still in Harlem), I brought two small bags of books home with me on the train.

A college professor and voracious reader (and note-taker), my father had amassed an enormous library -- ranging everywhere from local to world history, text books, mystery novels (he was a huge fan), literary classics, poetry, biographies, and contemporary fiction. It was intensely difficult for me to whittle this all down to two shopping bags. As a child, I had scanned the spines of these books, gradually coming to understand their value. Over the years I had already inherited certain bits, among them a 1st edition set of Henry Miller's Tropics, very old children's books, collections on journalism and mass media, and hardcover editions of several 20th century authors.

I thought I had memorized almost the entire collection. This weekend, I found some incredible treasures previously unknown to me. There were no 1st editions that we could tell, but some printing dates go back as far as 1805, such as Universal History, Ancient and Modern, from the Earliest Records of Time to the General Peace of 1801, printed in New York by Isaac Collins, about whom my father wrote his first book. (The now brown and crumbling hard-bound publication was initially on loan from the Peekskill Academy Library at 2 cents for every day late after two weeks.) Also of note are two small volumes of stories by "local" writer Washington Irving, published in 1887. And, a small 32-page pamphlet, How to Argue Logically: The Art of Controversy, by Arthur Schopenhauer.

In a hard-bound, illustrated "Copperfield Edition" of Charles Dickens's Bleak House, my father had placed little notes inside its pages. Chapter XIX, Moving On: "Dickens's rapier-like tongue lashes out again on Chancery Lane, this time depicting the vacation period."

There are his and her first bibles -- all of his that remains is the title page and another with an illustration of Christ The Good Shepherd, presented to my father by his Aunt Emma and Uncle Charles in December 1941 (he was 9). Hers is exclusively New Testament, a tiny little palm-sized book presented to my mother by her grandmother Hazel in 1942 (she was 3).

Some books are not dated at all, like the leather-bound edition of Edgar Allen Poe's Gold Bug. I had in fact seen this book before, and actually read parts of it when I was a kid -- I think it might have turned me on to all things spooky and weird. Also not dated and the most unique piece in the bunch would be a small, leather, hard-bound 130-page ledger filled with cooking recipes, impeccably recorded in hand-written cursive. There are 7 consecutive owners, all based in the Pittsburgh-Allegheny area, ending with Mrs. Harry Young -- my father's grandmother (I think.)

Inside the book, on the left and continuing on the back page, is a hand-made table of contents, partially filled out by page number with recipes of all sorts: pickles, canned fruit and vegetables, homemade yeast, dandelion and rhubarb wine, suet plum pudding, "war time cookies," "shnitz und knepp" (ham and apples) -- along with home remedies for diarrhea, disentary (sic), vomiting, and "dropsey." Most fascinating are the instructions for "scripture cake," as detailed below:

1 Cup Butter -- Judges 5 - 25
3 1/2 " Flour -- I Kings 4 -22
3 " Sugar -- Jeremiah 6 -20
2 " Raisins -- I Samuel 30 - 12
2 " Figs -- I Samuel 30 - 12
1 " Water -- Genesis 24 - 11
1 " Almonds -- Genesis 43 - 11
6 Eggs -- Isaiah 10 - 14
a little salt -- Leviticus 2 - 13
1 tablespoon full honey -- Exodus 16 - 31
Sweet spices to taste -- I Kings 10 - 10
Follow Solomon's advice for making good (?) and you will have a good cake -- Proverbs 23 - 14

Obviously I will get out my bible (presented to me in 1978) to make more sense of this.

As frugality and the slow food movement reach higher levels of awareness and practice, I think this little ledger is noteworthy and its recipes entirely worth trying. I know it's been done before (apparently with little effect), but these are spare, utilitarian, war-time recipes passed down from American homesteaders.

For good measure, here is the dandelion wine recipe:

1 Gal. Water
1 Qt. Blossoms
1 Cup Brown Sugar
Boil & pour over blossoms, cut a lemon in let stand for 24 hours then put 2 tablespoons of yeast & the white of 1 egg beat to a froth in let it stand for 10 days then strain and put in bottles and let stand 10 more days uncorked.

There is a "grace at table" on page 122 in the book:

We thank thee dear Son, that thou hast again opened thy bountiful hand to supply our wants, grant that we may receive this food with thanksgiving & gratitude & in thy fear, and grant O Lord that whatsoever we do, whether we eat or drink, all may be done to thy name's honor & glory through Jesus Christ, our Savior. Amen.

It is indeed a gift to be simple. We were notified this morning that the house on Rittenhouse Square Street has been sold.

Random TGIF

2009-11-06T09:24:00.007-05:00

It's the first Friday in November in the year 2009, and I haven't posted in a while. Several reasons why, but mainly because I'm preparing to hang my shingle as a communications consultant. I had thoughts and ideas all week on the notion of "spanning time" and also the connection between psychology and astrology, but for now I will stay firmly in the outer world. Any attempt to convey deeper thoughts will fall short.

My brother and I are going to Philadelphia this weekend to reclaim some of Dad's stuff. Should be interesting, to say the least. When I mention it to people, in hushed tones they share concern and offer condolences. He's been dead for more than 4 years (thanks, though). This is a long time coming -- not altogether different from returning keys to an ex-lover. I'm mainly interested in some of the books, and the family rocker (neither of us until now had any room for it.)

Very much looking forward to next week's Second Saturday. Like a good friend and flack, I recommend Open Space's Ghostfuk3r show from 6 to 9 pm (a free shuttle from NYC for the first 25 guests), and the Beacon Riverfest 2010 Kick-Off Party at the Howland Center, a benefit to raise funds for a free concert here next summer.

Best wishes to Karyn for a wonderful wedding this weekend.

Townscapes

2009-10-26T09:34:00.011-04:00

I am finally coming around to reading Richard Ford's masterpiece, The Sportswriter. Better late than never! My only other experience with Ford is a heartbreaking excerpt in The New Yorker from The Lay of the Land, which I will read in-full as the last installment in his Frank Bascombe trilogy. That should be right around the beginning of next spring.

Every word, every sentence is a revelation. It is not surprising how much the precarious mind of a midlife divorced male is of interest to me (there are a few in my life). What stuns me is his firm grip on physical-emotional juxtaposition -- the relevance of place as it pertains to feelings from one minute to the next.

His passages on the details of his small town enthrall me:

A town, almost any town, would seem to have secrets all its own. Though if you believed that you'd be wrong. Haddam in fact is as straightforward and plumb-literal as a fire hydrant, which more than anything else makes it the pleasant place it is.

None of us could stand it if every place were a grizzled Chicago or a bilgy Los Angeles--towns, like Gotham, of genuine woven intricacy. We all need our simple, unambiguous, even factitious townscapes like mine. Places without challenge or double-ranked complexity.

Of course his protagonist's life is anything but simple, and that is the point. And as a newly ensconced resident in this town, I have to argue against the perceived lack of complexity. During the span of two months that I've been here, discourse has been anything but light. It is ironic to me that the sheer literalness of my stripped-down existence here is confronted by some of the greatest social olympics I've ever endured--at least not since my first days of college.

This past weekend was a marathon of "deep conversation." And a large part of the dialogue directly addressed the difficulty of presenting oneself at all authentically. Arriving here I was offered the opportunity, in a way, to start fresh. Begin a new chapter with a newly polished persona. But to successfully achieve this requires a fairly clear sense of previous chapters and their cumulative effect. The narrative leading up to this fork in the road.

I leave it here for now until I can better collect my thoughts.

Wild Things

2009-10-23T09:21:00.009-04:00

Late last night I returned home from a hipster odyssey that began with a matinee screening of Spike Jonze's new film and ended with a rock show in Williamsburg, my old stomping grounds.

The movie is indeed visionary, a peek inside the mind of a precocious man-child. I am all too familiar with this particular mental landscape and find it really unappealing. Frankly, my patience for adult men on skateboards has run out.

The monsters themselves are breathtaking. Voiced by an A-list cast and masterfully choreographed, they are the glue that holds together this otherwise flimsy, scriptless construct. Despite his hefty persona, James Gandolfini achieves an aching vulnerability--he melted my heart down to a warm pile of mush. Catherine O'Hara is instantly recognizable. Throw in an original score by the Yeah Yeah Yeah's Karen O (with Carter Burwell), and the kids are reveling in a veritable hipsterpalooza.

How fitting then that my evening should culminate in the land of pretentious 20-somethings, where a Beacon contingent convened at the Music Hall for a Broadcast-Atlas Sound double bill.

Hours later, we were driving back up the Palisades Parkway and over the Bear Mountain Bridge. The car's headlights pierced through the ink-black night, spotlighting the drifting fog and the crimson leaves littering the narrowing road. White-tailed deer grazed in the ditches. My eyes are still trained to scan the perimeter. The harvest moons are upon us, winter is just around the corner.

2009-10-16T12:45:00.016-04:00

Last week I had a phone interview with a woman who, at the end of our call, said she knew my parents. I didn't remember her, but she recounted the many cocktail parties and events at which she socialized with them.

We're talking a lifetime ago, when my mother was younger than I am now and, by all accounts, a literary dynamo. The woman on the phone detailed the annual "Bean Soup" festivals, when they all got together in Tewksbury, New Jersey to drink, make gallons of navy bean soup, and write and record radio plays on a big old reel-to-reel. There were also annual Halloween parties, and I have photos somewhere from the year my parents dressed as Czar Nicholas and Alexandra (the feature film and my dad's Grizzly Man beard probably serving as the inspiration).

It was the 70s and, if I hear people talk about my parents, I think of "The Ice Storm." As kids we were sometimes permitted to attend events, like the annual Christmas Tree Hunts, and I remember it to be very much like that. And Lee's film also does a great job of depicting adult lives separate from their children, a parenting "style" gone by way of the AMC Pacer.

Needless to say, it was a strange phone call. It isn't often that I meet people who knew them both together.

There is nothing I can say about my mother that will make her more special than anyone else's. What makes her exceptional is that she died young. What I mean by this somewhat morbid association is best described in Hope Edelman's Motherless Daughters: "Our lives are shaped as much by those who leave us as by those who stay." Other memoirs I like on the subject are Virginia Woolf's Moments of Being and NPR correspondent Jackie Lyden's Daughter of the Queen of Sheba.

Virginia Woolf: "She was one of the invisible presences who after all play so important a part in every life...But can I get any closer to her without drawing upon all those descriptions and anecdotes which after she was dead imposed themselves upon my view of her?"

And the longer they are gone, the more their image becomes myth.

The woman on the phone was remembering my mother's specter, the one I remember best and draw from most in my own life. I've read some of those radio scripts that my grandmother keeps in an envelope and they are brilliant--inspired by and possibly on par with Nichols and May. Analysis and facts aside, it is this groovy 1970s party girl, intellectual, professor's wife that inspires me most in my social life. It would only be another decade of increased domesticity, depression and parenting drollness before she would die. The image of her as a mother is much less distinct to me although it seems she did a pretty good job.

Tonight I am hosting my first dinner party on Walnut Street! At the height of any such evening--when the candles are burning down, the music is louder, and everyone is engaged in lively conversation--I look over the room and wonder if the scene unfolding in front of me is anything like the theme parties my parents and their friends once organized with great care and enthusiasm. I feel warm from the thought and secretly hope that my star is shining as bright as my mother's.

I had a second interview with the same woman yesterday in person. When she walked into the room, I instantly noticed in her expression a mixture of alarm and amusement. She kissed me, even though in my mind we had never really met. Before she sat down to begin our meeting, she looked straight into my eyes and said, "You look just like your mother."

File under...

2009-10-13T15:16:00.023-04:00

Aries Sun, Sagittarius Ascendant, Taurus Moon. Leader, eternal optimist, home body. A constant tug of war between the next big thing and a warm, cozy blanket. Maybe because it's chilly outside or because I have too much time on my hands, but the slow and steady Bull seems to be sneaking up on my outer life.

She wants to have the materials for a comfortable existence readily available at all times: coffee, chocolate, cashmere sweaters, wool socks, fresh-baked bread, honey, sunshine, red wine, whiskey, a devoted lover. She has an appetite for the cozier, finer things in life. She needs to feel at home, no matter where she is.

My homecoming has been suspended for 25 years. My dad sold our family house, after which he traveled a lot and didn't really live in any one place for long. He died in England. The Ram understands his need to start over again and again. I've lived in the same city for years, but have yet to find a true sense of place (and the Centaur will forever be slinging its arrows toward the next horizon.)

Thoughts on homesteading kicked up a notch this week when my brother and I received an email from Stepmother #2 announcing that she would be selling the house in Philadelphia and moving into an apartment at the end of this month. The update was followed by a short list of our father's things that needed to be claimed and removed as soon as possible--furniture, books, old toys, flatware, photographs, unfinished manuscripts...and our mother's ashes.

At first I felt the need to preserve and protect what should be considered personal historical artifacts, but what's curious is that neither of us really want any of it (except of course the photographs and the ashes...I guess we don't yet have claim to his). Really, it's been so long since physical things have provided any comfort or sense of permanence. And we have our own "things" now.

I'm not unearthing anything profound by saying that home really is where the heart is. There are too many variables in life right now for me to lay roots, yet I'm certainly feeling the spark of regeneration.

I haven't felt so much at home in a while as I did this weekend, surrounded by family and dear friends. And last night, basking in the glow of a raging bonfire, enjoying a meal prepared with vegetables grown 2 feet away and wine from a vineyard across the river. A group of friendly people holding court--each with their own story to tell, none that I've heard before.

For Rent, Opening Soon

2009-10-09T11:02:00.030-04:00

It seems that after only 6 weeks, I've lost my well-earned street smarts. That, or I want to believe I no longer need them.

I took the 8:29 express train home last night after a day in the city. I most often ride in the front of the train and walk home via West Main Street, a steep hill that runs through an enclave of newer development homes and past the Police Station. This time I collapsed into a seat in one of the back cars, behind a pregnant Mennonite woman and her husband, and promptly fell asleep until Cold Spring.

I exited at the main hub of the Beacon train station this time, by the taxi stand and the underpass to the waterfront. I was also near the bus station, where a young African-American man was waiting for the Loop through town. I didn't know this was an option this late at night, so my usual solitary routine was sidetracked by a curiosity for new public transportation options. A conversation started and somehow didn't end until 45 minutes later.

Fox was up from Brownsville, visiting his mother here. He is a spoken-word artist and talked a lot about devotion. We debated about the benefits of living in the country and agreed on Newburgh's arm-pit status compared to Beacon. The conversation was lively but predominantly one-sided, so I took this delayed opportunity to assess my situation and my new friend. He was genial and well-spoken, yet his meandering, excessive chatting and disheveled clothes suggested drug abuse. I noticed the tiny tear-drop tattoos at the outer corners of his eyes, possibly the markings of hard time.

My parents taught me to never judge anyone by how they look or the color of their skin. They were absolutely right to do so, but they never lived in New York City. Sometimes it's difficult to ignore the signs and this often presents a conflict for me.

When the Loop never showed (it was now after 10 PM), I gave Fox the benefit of the doubt and permitted him to join me on my walk back to Main Street. He pulled together his duffel bag and tied his boots and, during the shuffle, dropped his crack pipe onto the sidewalk. I pretended not to notice and let the first wave of panic pass through me. I still wasn't jumping to conclusions.

West Main Street is well-lit. I was only slightly concerned for my safety, but definitely on-edge and very annoyed at myself. Fox's mother transferred her physical therapy practice from Kings County hospital to St. Luke's in Newburgh. We talked about emergency room nightmares and it was then that Fox told me the story of how his best friend was shot in the face and killed during a robbery. He was there too, and his friend took the bullet to save him. I didn't ask any questions but expressed my sympathy.

When we reached the intersection of Main and Route 9D, I issued a friendly yet assertive "good-bye" and headed toward the center of town. Fox stayed put to call a friend for a pick-up. I only looked over my shoulder once.

The population percentage of non-whites here is nearly 35% out of an estimated 13,808 people and that is from a 2000 census. Like many Hudson Valley villages, this one suffered a severe economic downturn in the 1970s--when the local ski areas closed--and it lasted for nearly 20 years. A slight revival was brought on by the opening of DIA in the late 1990s. A small measure of homelessness remains, along with the residual effects of white flight.

I have no complaints. I'm merely responding to the perception that I'm ensconced in a sort of pastoral wonderland of peace and tranquility. That's not entirely the case. With the TOD at the top of its list, this town is faced with many civic and economic challenges. But if the sheer volume of public opinion on The Beacon Citizen Network (an online forum I am now a member of and read everyday) is any indication, advocacy and opportunities are powerfully taking shape.

There are bright spots! Many of the Main Street businesses are minority-owned. Tomorrow is Second Saturday for October, an aggressively promoted monthly event that draws a higher concentration of tourists. Paper Presence is moving to a more central location on the strip and the new Clay, Wood & Cotton, established by two Brooklyn women, will be celebrating its grand opening. Across the street, Beacon Cycles will be celebrating its first anniversary. Artisan will be hosting one of its frequent wine tastings, and a new coffee house will be opening later this month in the former Muddy Cup.

I Love a Parade

2009-10-07T19:23:00.015-04:00

An awkward moment yesterday at my brother's house, when he mentioned that he had read the Gazette and my line about him thinking I was selfish. It was an economical choice of words to describe a larger issue. It was lovingly written and self-deprecating. Unfortunately none of that really came across in the text. What my brother did understand was that I was elaborating for dramatic effect--using a different "voice" for stressing a point.

Blog fail.

That's supposed to be the beauty of social networking, how easy it is to create and maintain one's persona, and control how it interacts. Yesterday when I embarrassingly misquoted Woody Allen in a comment on FB, I deleted the entire thread--erasing any evidence of my stupidity. Don't like how you look in that old photo posted by a 3rd grade classmate? De-tag. If you're tired of reading inane comments from a guy you dated and now can't stand, de-friend. All done from the safety and comfort of your couch or cubicle.

Should you share with 500 people what you really think or how you really feel? I'm not sure.

----

Meanwhile, life in the real world is just as wonderful, scary and messy as it's always been. After 20 years in the city, I thought I had established a pretty solid show of myself with a few minor adjustments here and there. After all, New York is filled with chameleons and dilettantes. They are essential to its aura. Lately, I'd felt myself slipping into a more literal lifestyle, which isn't nearly as entertaining. To draw from Erving Goffman's The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life, one of my favorite books, I (the performer) became less taken in by my own routine.

A small town has its own unique social intricacies, but what strikes me is the almost complete lack of pretense. I don't think there are people in this town who have forgotten why they're here. I'm sure they don't even think about it.

There was nothing ironic about the annual parade last Sunday, with its antique fire trucks, balloons, face-painting and bagpipes. The ongoing theme this year for most events in the area is the Quadracentennial anniversary of Hudson and Champlain's travels on what is now called the Hudson River. Rained out from the previous week, the 32nd annual event drew the entire town out of doors with determined gusto. The streets were lined with booths serving every ethnic food imaginable and overrun with rowdy teenagers. It was by far the most people I've seen here in one day.

I made it a point to join the festivities. On my way out of the health food store, where I stopped to buy a newspaper, the clerk turned to me, waved, and said, "Hi, Sommer. How are you today?"

Like Riding a Bicycle...

2009-10-05T12:09:00.029-04:00

A catch phrase that has no relevance for me because, until very recently, I couldn't ride a bike. I never learned. You'd have to come up with a different reference for something never forgotten, like kissing.

Learning how to ride a bike is a Kodak moment in just about every child's personal history, yet in mine it's lost in a synapse somewhere between first day of school and getting my first period. I don't remember why no one taught me how to ride a bike when I was a kid. When the subject comes up in conversation, reactions vary from disbelief to sympathy for my having lame parents. I'm sure there are many adults who share my deficiency, but I don't know any of them.

Growing up, my mother would tell me that she didn't ride a bike until she was 13 years old. That landmark came and went for me without ceremony. For 10 years, beginning when I was 5, we lived on an unpaved dirt road cutting through the side of a mountain--far from suburban sidewalks and newly-paved cul de sacs. My older brother (who also learned how to ski while I was doing I'm not sure what) would return home from an entire day on his bike, parts of his body scraped open and bloody from accidents out on the open road. This could be one reason for the delay.

I remember when I saw E.T. in the movie theater and thought how I never would have made it through the first 5 minutes of the story, and I would have completely failed at returning the little guy to his home planet. I figured I could never be an actress because I would have to turn down any role that required me to ride a bike, like Katherine Ross with Paul Newman in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid."

My first attempt was when I was 9 or 10 years old. I was in a friend's new housing development so it seemed pretty safe. But we were all little kids without parental supervision. On a borrowed bike, I somehow made it out onto a busy street--one with cars on it. I was going pretty fast and no one taught me how to break, so when I approached an intersection I just kept going. I still remember the flash of station-wagon fender missing the front of the bike by mere inches. Thinking back now, I could have died.

Needless to say, I gave up on the idea of two-wheel transportation for another decade.

The next attempt was on a moped. I was vacationing with my dad and his new wife in Cape Cod. They married less than a year after my mom died and, for god knows what reason, rented a house in the same town where my family once owned a summer house. This place was the origin of some of my most cherished memories: learning to swim, learning to play tennis...my first Beatles song on Adam and Peter Cohen's 45 rpm record player, the green apple spinning around the spindle. I hated my step-mother and everything about this vacation but it was the only way to spend any time with my dad, who had clearly lost his mind.

She wanted to go to Martha's Vineyard, something we never did as a family because it was considered bourgeois. We took the 3-hour ferry ride, during which I failed to remember that the island is car-free but too big to walk. It was when we arrived at the dock to an endless row of bikes that I reminded my dad that I did not know how to ride things with two wheels. Did he recall that he never taught me how to do it? She was very effective at making me feel pathetic and he was too numb to defend me. Broiling with unchecked anger and emotion, I mounted the fucking thing and sputtered off down the island, with white knuckles and gritting teeth. I made it halfway to the point before exploding into uncontrollable tears. We ditched the bike and I rode the rest of the way with my dad. I was 21 years old.

Another decade slips by without even a thought on the subject.

The next chapter is about two boyfriends who both bought me a bicycle with the intention to teach me to ride. They were charmed by my deprived childhood. Whatever works!

P. came home with a beautiful pink-and-white Schwinn Debutante, circa 1965. His good intention lasted for one day, after which he resumed his daily commute to the city on his bike and never slowed down again to include me. My bike sat in the backyard for another year, rusting down to its core.

C. surprised me with a new bike from Target for Christmas, which we were celebrating together in his new weekend house. I was excited about this because I could learn in the relative safety of country roads. C. was a more patient instructor and together we enjoyed several bike rides in and around the seaside town. By the time spring arrived at our little abode, the relationship was over. It took a very long time for me to erase the vision of his new wife riding my Christmas present, among other things. In all fairness, he did ask me if I wanted it back. Imagining that my bike was already tainted by another woman's ass, I declined.

Two years ago in Brooklyn, on a whim, I bought a 1960s Phillips roadster from a guy on Lorimer Street. I geared up with a helmet and kryptonite and finally became an urban biker. Scared witless and out of breath, I forced myself to ride around my neighborhood until the nightmares subsided. I'd mostly ride around the park and down to the waterfront.

My baby's here with me now while we navigate the town's steeper hills. I'm still not totally comfortable but, without a car or any decent public transportation, she's more of a necessity than ever before. It took three weeks for the kid in the bike shop to figure out how to repair her gear shift, while she waited patiently alongside shiny new, fully loaded Kona mountain bikes.

I suppose at some point I will need to invest in something more practical for this area, but it will be some time before I move on from my good friend.

First Dog of the Day

2009-10-03T23:53:00.015-04:00

I flung myself out of bed on this wet, foggy morning and went to Shambhala Yoga Center (it's hard for me to write that, or say it, without thinking of Three Dog Night). The studio had become sort of my new best friend, but lately I've been ignoring its siren call.

On my way, I walked past Yanarella's dance school across the street, where tiny ballerinas and their stage-door moms were arriving for class. It was 9:00 AM on Saturday, so these girls were hardcore bunheads. Their dedication inspired me. It also reminded me of the thousands of hours I clocked at Eleanor Connell's School of Dance in New Jersey, when I thought I wanted to be all that.

I'm not sure what I wanted. I started when I was 4 as a way to straighten my knock knees and pidgeon-toes. Shockingly, my secret ambivalence toward the artform lasted through 20 years of study. It's really this chapter of my life that forever shaped my attitude toward organized athletics of any kind. It's love-hate. I'm a defiantly lazy girl, yet still unable to last a week without a dose of pain-inducing physical exertion.

Which brings me back to this morning. Yoga has changed my life. M.P. took me to my first class 11 years ago. At the time I thought that, with my background, the practice would flow easily but it took many years and different styles of teaching for me to be any good or achieve any benefits. I am still uncomfortable with the chanting and meditation but sanskrit is an absolutely beautiful language and you can be assured whatever the translation, it's ultimately about love and tolerance.

One of the most important things I've learned and what I try very hard to communicate to friends who are justifiably turned off by the more cliche aspects of this community, is that if you ever encounter what is referred to as a creepy yoga girl/guy (CYG), ignore them. Their smug self-aggrandizing is not only distracting, it's anathema to the practice. One of my worst social experiences in recent memory is, surprisingly, when I attended the Yoga Journal Conference this year. More CYGs in one room than any rational person could tolerate. Even the smallest pearl of yogic wisdom came with a price tag. The guest instructors may as well have been reality TV hosts and, frankly, they were exalted in that way. I'll never go again.

The very nature of yoga and the rewards that come from practicing it demand consistency and dedication. And it gets more of that from me than anything else in my life--although not so much lately, for possible reasons I've already discussed. Sure, I'm pleased with the physical results, but it's the constant verbal coaching, the repetition of the tenets of non-attachment that has kept me from going completely bonkers. There have been classes in which I feel almost romantic love for my instructor.

I like what I become in yoga class, which is very different from any dance instruction I've ever taken. Boxing's pretty good, too, but that's because you get to beat the shit out of stuff. The process begins even before I get to the studio, when I'm at home getting dressed and planning for the time. Upon arrival into this urban sanctuary, I pretend that I'm a person who is always calm and spiritually-devoted. Everyone becomes polite and respectful, if they weren't already. The cell phones get turned off and tucked away. Most everyday sounds are left waiting outside the door.

I become more accepting of my own and other's limitations, which conversely creates more space. The less I think about pain, the less it exists. I become a better listener. Today my teacher kept saying "prepare in your mind for the next pose." Think first about your next move, so that you can complete it with the fullest integrity (words to live by). I breathe so much more deeply that my lungs pop like the opening of a bendy straw. The bones in my chest actually crack open. In yogic terms, this is referred to as the anahata chakra, the heart center.

S. was right. I am glad I went. Namaste.

My baby's back!

2009-10-02T13:14:00.001-04:00

If You Really Loved Me, You'd Build Me a Castle

2009-10-02T10:54:00.019-04:00

A tiny jewel in the setting of the Hudson Highlands is called Pollepel, now familiarly known as Bannerman Island. Once an uninhabited place, accessible only by boat, it was considered haunted by some Indian tribes and thus became a refuge for those trying to escape them. These superstitions and others promoted by later Dutch sailors make for many fanciful tales. Even the name Pollepel (Polopel) originated with a legend about a young girl named (Polly) Pell who was romantically rescued from the breaking river ice and landed on the island shore, where she was promptly married to her sweetheart, who rescued her and her companion. The island was thereafter called Pollepel.

Last weekend I was at a party and met a local guy from Cold Spring. I thought it was a nice place to call home, but he's young and he said he couldn't wait to leave after high school. He's back now, however, waiting for the winter season to start in Colorado. Not surprisingly, there are a lot of adventure sport enthusiasts here.

A few hours and beers later, I started asking questions about Bannerman Island. It's quite a magical view from the Northbound Metro-North train, really because it's just so unexpected. I've memorized the landmarks that lead up to its reveal from behind a small railroad bridge anchorage. Being on the train, it all happens very quickly. It's breathtaking: a crumbling ruin of a 19th century castle, silhouetted against the sunset on an island in the middle of the Hudson River. There is enough structure left to be able to imagine its original condition, in all of its gothic splendor.

It seems everyone holds affection for the castle. My new friend concocted a plan to storm Bannerman Island by kayak in the middle of the night. He suggested doing so by the light of the Aries full moon, tomorrow.

Here is the entire history:

http://www.bannermancastle.org/history.html

Transit Oriented Development

2009-10-02T10:39:00.002-04:00

Has October Started Yet?!

2009-09-30T23:52:00.010-04:00

On a day this week when it was warm enough to comfortably sit outside, I was in the backyard with the cats. It's like a play date now for them. They sit by the door, crying to go out. Metro does it at night, which just makes me crazy with the thought. My dad always put our cats out of the house after dark, no matter what the temperature. On very cold winter nights, I would sneak downstairs and let them back in.

On this warm, sunny afternoon Judy caught sight of a butterfly and chased it all around the yard. With her eyes locked on the bug, she romped around in the grass like a puppy. It was pretty damn cute. I started to cry, the kind that takes me by surprise.

Not the right time for PMS. There must be something else going on. For the past two days I haven't really gone away from the house, other than dinner at K.'s on Monday. It was a nice evening, but by 11 o'clock I was restless and wanted to go back home. I haven't been to yoga and I haven't hiked since last week. My bike is still in the shop. I spend way too much time online. I guess some good news is I'm not drinking much either. When I start hedging toward the obvious answer -- depression -- I pick up and cook, or clean, or read.

There are a few things at play here. I'm not working full time but it's only been a month. This is a major adjustment. Everyone knows the math: we spend a LOT of time at work. I think it's safe to say that when we're not working, that time is like "anti-work." An intense decompression period. A mental and physical reaction to having been working all day or week--I don't know for sure but the transition perhaps even more prolonged until after the kids go to bed. I don't have either of those conditions now. So when I'm not doing anything I tell myself that it's okay, I've been working since I was 16 years old and the downtime isn't going to kill me. But then I read the news, and the statistics, and I imagine that I will be unemployed for the rest of my life. The longer this drags out, the weaker the leads. I wonder if I will ever again be able to buy anything for myself that isn't health insurance or has no immediate practical purpose.

I think the other story might be that I'm starting to meet people and build a new social circle. It's been wonderful. Everyone I've met so far has been friendly, genuine, and helpful. Many of them are transplants themselves, so the advice flows freely and with a hint of attitude, like New Yorkers when you ask them for directions on the subway. My stupid questions like "Why can't I buy ice cube trays anywhere here?" are no longer stupid but more like an inside joke. It's comforting.

At the same time, a new social circle means a whole new dynamic that I have to map out, mainly within myself. Particularly when I'm asked the question, "So, what do you do?" (this is still New York, it's not Europe.) Where I should be colorful, honesty prevails. "Nothing. Right now I'm not doing anything." I wait a beat, and then explain. Starting from such a clean slate I can really say whatever I want. But I have this particular talent of making things so just by saying them, an old trick where I just sort of make the decision as it's coming out of my mouth. In this case, I don't trust myself to even to do that right.

I'm not sure how else to describe it other than acute insecurity -- a feeling I'm not too familiar with. I'm pretty sure it's why many adults in New York won't move house unless, of course, it's for a job (which comes with a built-in answer and a pre-fab social circle). We work very hard here to build our personae, our (sorry) raison d'etre, that the idea of having to do it all over again somewhere else seems superfluous.

Maybe it is.

O Lost!

2009-09-29T15:54:00.017-04:00

Robert Frank, Diane Arbus, August Sander. Artists recently recommended to me by a friend for inspiration. They are all brilliant photographers, of course. My friend is a photographer. It is without doubt my favorite art form. But words in print are far more criminally risky. It's a different cognitive process that can stun or embarrass, depending on whether it's done with integrity. I find it incredibly challenging, and today I feel positively dull.

For inspiration I reach for old stand-bys, something I haven't had time do to in quite a while: Henry Miller, Joan Didion, E.M. Forster, John Dos Passos, Annie Dillard, Sherwood Anderson, Marcel Proust, Virginia Woolf, and John Berger, author of Ways of Seeing.

There isn't any one writer, however, who affects me more than Thomas Wolfe. I can't find another writer (and there are so many I do not know) who captured so touchingly and brutally the family dynamic and coming of age. And his vivid accounts of small town life are particularly inspiring to me now. At 23, I was so obsessed with Look Homeward, Angel that I took a road trip, my first ever, to Wolfe's house in Asheville, North Carolina--the site of the fictional Altamont residence. Then, I drove to the Hendersonville cemetery to pay homage to the marble statue of Gant's angel. I have photographs somewhere packed away. A twist of fate landed me in Baltimore as the last stop on my trip, where Wolfe died at the age of 38.

And since I seem to be too distracted by I don't know what, here's a single passage. Haunting, and I think appropriate for the coming season:

The great stars rode proudly up into heaven. And just over him, just over the town, it seemed, there was one so rich and low he could have touched it. Ben's grave had been that day freshly sodded: there was a sharp cold smell of earth there. Eugene thought of Spring, and the poignant and wordless odor of elvish dandelions that would be there. In the frosty dark, far-faint, there was a departing wail of whistle.

And suddenly, as he watched the lights wink cheerfully up in the town, their warm message of the hived life of men brought to him a numb hunger for all the words and the faces. He heard the far voices and laughter. And on the distant road, a powerful car, bending around the curve, cast over him for a second, over that lonely hill of the dead, its great shaft of light and life. In his numbed mind, which for days now had fumbled curiously with little things, with little things alone, as a child fumbles with blocks or with little things, a light was growing.

His mind gathered itself out of the wreckage of the little things: out of all that the world had shown or taught him he could remember now only the great star above the town, and the light that swung over the hill, and the fresh sod upon Ben's grave, and the wind, and far sounds and music, and Mrs. Pert.

...Wind pressed the boughs; the withered leaves were shaking. It was October, but some leaves were shaking. Wind pressed the boughs; the withered leaves were quaking. We shall not come again. We never shall come back again. It was October, but we never shall come back again.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to the lovely Ms. M. in Los Angeles, who is pursuing her dream study after a bit of a slog. I'm impressed and inspired.

The Other Side of the Fence

2009-09-27T16:11:00.017-04:00

At this point, many of my friends and acquaintances are married. I think that's wonderful. Almost all of my exes are married, or approaching the altar. That's great too. No resentment there. Okay, maybe a little that some of them got hitched remarkably soon after our demise, before my last tear was shed.

There has not been a lack of good relationships in my life. All built for speed but none for the long haul.

I have no idea if I would be any happier as a married person. I'm not unhappy now. People get married for lots of reasons. I know better than to compare my life to married people's lives. It's apples to oranges. I really like the way Tim Kreider described this in The New York Times:

The Referendum is a phenomenon typical of (but not limited to) midlife, whereby people, increasingly aware of the finiteness of their time in the world, the limitations placed on them by their choices so far, and the narrowing options remaining to them, start judging their peers’ differing choices with reactions ranging from envy to contempt. The Referendum can subtly poison formerly close and uncomplicated relationships, creating tensions between the married and the single, the childless and parents, careerists and the stay-at-home. It’s exacerbated by the far greater diversity of options available to us now than a few decades ago, when everyone had to follow the same drill. We’re all anxiously sizing up how everyone else’s decisions have worked out to reassure ourselves that our own are vindicated — that we are, in some sense, winning.

I'm glad I'm single when...I lost my job and knew that I had relatively low financial maintenance. When I see people getting divorced. When I witness infidelities of the mind, as well as the body. When I see couples sitting together in silence.

I'm not glad I'm single when...I lost my job and had no one to share the burden. When my brother and only living immediate family member thinks I'm selfish. When I take vacations alone. When I spend time with someone's beautiful children. When I'm injured or compromised in some way that could otherwise be alleviated by a steadfast partner.

The first sign that made me think moving here alone might be a mistake was when I toured some houses with a real estate agent. She told me that many couples are moving here from Brooklyn to have babies. That's cool. I love couples from Brooklyn. I love babies. When I looked at one place, I met my would-be upstairs neighbors. He was a gorgeous model-actor and she was a stay-at-home mom. Their beautiful infant child was asleep in the next room. The close proximity to their apparent bliss might have been a problem for me, even on my most upbeat days.

As one friend reminded me, most people commuting from the city are coming home to spouses and families. In her mind, the only reward for such an inconvenience. I would not be. I guess I was looking at this from a broader perspective, but she does have a point. Other friends were convinced I would meet Sam Shepard and he would fall in love with me.

The actual move itself was strenuous and nerve-wracking. Thank god for the ex-convicts of Delancey Street Movers, the men in my life for a solid 8 hours.

Yes, it does get lonely. But I think I've turned the corner onto knowing where to start. And the upside, if there is a perceived downside, are the possibilities.

Addendum: I wrote this entry, and then I went to the closing night party for Open Studios. There, I met N. Unemployed, she just moved here by herself from Bushwick. She confided in me that she had thought many times to herself why and whether she was crazy for wanting to make such a big change, and she's still adjusting. She told her story with an intensity all her own, not knowing that it is nearly identical to mine. Needless to say, in a moment, I felt my whole existence shift into more comfortable territory. There is a whole network of people here -- artists, musicians, men, women, couples, students, entrepreneurs -- who are working hard at maintaining a community.

Mercury Retrograde

2009-09-25T21:20:00.004-04:00

It's a small world. You hear it said a million times but it really is. The comedian Steven Wright follows up with the sucker punch, "...but I wouldn't want to paint it."

I was recently at the concert in Brooklyn for Mark Mulcahy, someone I once knew who it looks like is finally getting the credit he deserves as a masterful singer and songwriter. There, I ran into D., a really sweet college friend -- another talented musician -- who now tours with Ween. At that moment, Mark leaned over and sing-songed in my ear, "it's a small world."

The town's annual (or semi-annual) Open Studios kick-off party was tonight. I had it marked on my calendar as a good opportunity to meet people. I missed the Second Saturday events earlier in the month because of my high school reunion. I put on some make-up and fixed my hair, took a deep breath, and ventured out of the house for the short walk to the east side of town.

Along my walk, I thought, "Even if I know no one at this party, and I don't talk to anyone, it will be more interesting than most of the random socializing in my life over the last few years." I was getting a taste of Friday night in my new world. I was really nervous. It's bad enough and alienating enough to walk into any room that is full of artists, but worse if it's a small town where everyone knows everyone else.

Overall, the art was good. I really liked a lot of what I saw, and I will be sure to visit the studios over the weekend. The only person who spoke to me asked me what I thought of this one small painting on the wall. The figure in the painting was the same man, only in splotchy oils and wearing a hat. It was such a cliche, the artist pretending to be anonymous. I joked, "Whoever this guy is, he's obviously quite handsome." He replied, "If you really think about it, every piece in this room is a self-portrait."

I grabbed a plastic cup of red wine and pretended to be writing something in my brochure. I sat down on a bench and became an obvious observer. Then I walked outside. Coming down the street was my old friend K. I recognized him immediately. He lives here. I knew he did at one point, but I thought he moved. It was so great to see him. In the period of 30 minutes he introduced me to 3 people. We talked for a while and made plans for dinner. A friend!

Okay, yeah, it's Mercury Retrograde for another week, if you believe in these things. I do, but in the sense that people come back into my life for a reason and it's up to me to determine the significance. The astrological warnings serve as sort of a heads-up to the possibilities when they might otherwise have gone unnoticed. Sometimes it's to say good-bye when you didn't have a chance the first time. However, the last few weeks have been a profound rewind. All of it worthwhile and immensely enjoyable.

Personal Day

2009-09-23T13:00:00.005-04:00

A. took a ride to the country as a break from 21 days of non-stop work. That morning, I woke up with a headache spreading from my third eye out to behind my ears. I was still coming off a miscalculated, sleepless night in the city and I was anxious about meeting the expectations of my day-tripper.

A weighty challenge these days, meeting expectations. My own in particular. Never one to accept "having a bad day," it's a much more economical use of my time to simply ignore it. However, today I was encountering a particularly stubborn form of glum. First, I was questioning whether I wanted human interaction. A bad sign. Second, I could hear myself being testy with A. on the phone.

The first sign of improvement was her arrival and, in an instant, my world got bigger. She was feeling particularly raw from an exhausting job, so we just let loose and bitched for a while. It was a mutually-beneficial decompression period, A. away from work and myself out of isolation.

The weather turned out to be good, so we committed to hiking Mt. Beacon. You can see it from my kitchen window and, from there, it is indeed imposing. I had been reading a lot about the abandoned incline railway at the top, where there is now a jumble of radio towers. Even as we walked out the door, I wasn't convinced I had the required motivation. We stopped to visit Dan at the gallery and told him where we were headed. All he said was that it was totally worth it.

We walked and talked for an hour so, ascending the mountain by increasingly steep inclines, our bodies pitching forward to keep up the pace. Toward the top, we approached a massive cement wall that could only have been a damn and, around the corner, we came upon a very large, placid reservoir. Reward #1.

At the top, the town below us slowly revealed itself in a breathtaking 180-degree panorama. I thought I could see my house. The plateau is comprised of old foundations of buildings and the remnants of the incline railway that remained in operation for more than 70 years. The entire Hudson Valley was on view. Reward #2.

Mental challenge and physical exertion aside, it was one hell of a fun day. Walking home that night from dropping A. off at the train station, when I turned the corner onto my street, I looked up to the mountain and at the radio towers on the horizon.

No big deal. We were there.

Thank you for your business. We can't wait to help you grow your future.

2009-09-21T18:25:00.003-04:00

It's been three weeks. Tomorrow is the first day of Fall. I've unpacked most of my things and I've hung a few things on the wall. It's hard for me to really move in, knowing it might have to be undone next year.

I get into the city for interviews, some meetings, to babysit my nieces. To visit friends. The view from the train of the Hudson River distracts me from doing all that reading I thought I would do to justify the long ride. I mostly sit there staring out the window, thinking about my future or what to cook for dinner.

Today I thought about my senses, and how they are evolving. I'm in this gradual transitional state. I jump at quick moves or sudden actions. I am more acutely aware of the volume and sharpness of voices. At night, if I'm watching television, I have to raise the volume to drown out the crickets. I'm memorizing the Hudson Line arrivals and departures.

The last few times I stayed with friends in the city, they were inseparable from their personal devices -- typing away through whole stretches of conversation. That incessant clicking noise made me dizzy. I didn't know if anything I was saying was interesting. I was a hologram sent to represent a previous version of me.

Being closer to nature really does fuck with you. It's not a myth. People really are nicer in smaller towns. There isn't enough to distract them from it.

I opened a checking account at a local bank. I chose this particular one because, on my first day here -- the day I moved -- I left my debit card in their ATM by mistake. I didn't notice what I had done until a few hours later when I was in the supermarket. I opened my wallet and it was gone. I had no cash. I had just moved here permanently and knew no one within a 40-mile radius. Sheer panic, followed by tears. Quick thinking brought me back to the bank, 2 minutes after 5:00 PM. CLOSED. I had no choice. I banged on the glass and pantomimed my situation to the few people left inside. A woman ambled over to the door and let me walk right into the empty bank. They handed me my card and listened to my entire life story.

During my transaction today, the bank manager walked out of her office, introduced herself, and welcomed me as a new resident. I was introduced to every single person working in that bank. They gifted me with a house plant. It made no difference to them that I am not currently employed. Whatever money I have is as good as gold to them. According to Diane, my representative, Warren Buffet is involved somehow.

The New 20

2009-09-18T17:30:00.011-04:00

According to WABC-TV, 40 is the new 20. God, I certainly hope not. It was the most cataclysmic year of my life. An experience I would never want to repeat.

It was the summer that I first ventured into adult waters, without any emotional expertise to do so. I acted like a grown-up when I wasn't. And I did not have the wits or the humility to remove myself from extremely stupid, sometimes dangerous situations. Actually, I had just ended a relationship with a man 15 years older, but he was so immature that it doesn't really count as an adult experience. I was 20. I don't ever want to go there again.

Which brings me to this: a "cougar." The term was first introduced to me by a guy I dated who was six years younger. He was in his mid 20s, I was in my early 30s. Oh yes, robbing the cradle. Then, there was an article in New York (for which editorial standards have since improved) that was a first-person account of a younger man amusing himself with an older woman, until the sight of her wrinkles in the early morning light turned his stomach. I'm sure up to that point he was Prince Charming.

For years, I had been patterning as a cougar. It wasn't that I inspected driver's licenses or passports before dating someone, it just happened. Two years ago, I dated someone 10 years younger. He wore me proudly, and made me feel like the sexiest woman alive. He was from Spain. Most recently, I dated someone my age for the first time in nearly two decades. He was from Texas. All I can say in his case is that, as a teenager, I had a thriving babysitting business and the skills I acquired then turned out to be quite useful. My brother, older and happily married, thinks I should date widowers.

I guess the closest male equivalent is the "dirty old man" which, in my mind puts them somewhere in the geriatric ward. Or the age difference is referred to as "May-September." Great on film and in literature. Always romantic, often tragic. As far as I know, there isn't a clever derogatory term for men who prefer younger women -- in other words, any heterosexual male with a pulse.

I'm very curious as to how the humor will play out in Courtney Cox's new comedy series. (Actually, I thought she was older than I am). I hope straight. I contemplate this as I sit in my favorite cafe on this gorgeous Friday afternoon, a watchful eye on my cute barista.

Something about "building it"

2009-09-16T18:17:00.023-04:00

The town is embroiled over a proposal to build on its waterfront via something called a transit-oriented development (TOD) project. I just spent a good part of the afternoon reading an open dialogue with the town's mayor on a citizen's group page.

What the city is proposing is a mix of commercial and residential buildings around the train station, without affecting the waterfront (which also received $3 million to develop Long Dock Park). The proposal includes a sort of grassy promenade that serves as a "pathway" from the station to Main Street, and incorporates better walkways and bike paths to encourage alternatives to cars.

I’ll start the discussion with a citation in a recent article in The New Yorker about Governor’s Island, which, it seems, could likely fall back into oblivion after we’ve all been there, done that, and gone home again.

“…Richard Florida, the social theorist and the author of ‘The Rise of the Creative Class,’ who argues that urban renewal and invigoration occur not through master planning or public works but, rather, via density of ‘high bohemians’—artists, musicians, homosexuals, and other non-Roveans. Old story: derelict neighborhoods attract artists, who, in turn (ultimately to their own disappointment) stimulate gentrification.”

It seems to me that this town needs a combination of both government intervention and local moxy. Main Street is book-ended with contemporary design and gift shops, galleries and new consumer venues, but a vast stretch of in-between is a barren wasteland of empty storefronts. There's even a theater for sale, with 800-seat capacity and an orchestra pit.

It’s deceiving to someone passing through, perhaps during a lunch break from the museum. There is no signage for tourists, no subsidized transportation, nothing that suggests to the uninitiated that there’s anything worthwhile past the first cafe on the corner. However, I took a walk into some more stores today, only to find nothing useful (and I still can't find ice-cube trays). I finally made it into the pharmacy across the street (as opposed to Rite-Aid down the block), only to find one of each of a few select products, neatly pushed to the front of the shelf. The copy shop does just that, makes copies. It does not have computers and it doesn’t print. It doesn’t even have nice paper – just copy paper. I'm not saying that these stores should meet their maker, I'm simply suggesting that more traffic might spark new sales strategies.

Having been on the precipice of two major gentrifications in the city – Little Italy in the early 90s and Williamsburg in the mid 90s, I feel like I kind of know how it works. It’s definitely the people who initiate the change, not development. When I lived on Prince Street, I shared a large 2-bedroom apartment for $1,200 per month. When I moved to Ainslie Street, I lived in the entire third floor of a house for $650 per month. Sure, Brooklyn was an inconvenience at the time, perceived as such because it was unknown. I had to bribe people to take the L train. “Nolita” did not exist. Bedford Avenue was a ghost town. I remember the first issue of Time Out that featured Brooklyn in its listings. This thing now is essentially not a new experience to me, just a little further off the beaten path.

Just about everyone “new” here moved here from Brooklyn. That is not an assumption, that is a fact that I actually did not know before I moved here. It’s the affordable, larger housing. It’s the relative convenience to the city. It’s the opportunity to start something interesting at perhaps less financial risk (or more, depending on how you look at it). And when you're here, there's definitely something special about the place. Now that we have the influx, let’s do a better job of connecting transit to the heart of the community—at showing visitors what's on offer, past the occasional Times article. And, when that effort generates some success, people might want to live here (a potential boon to Main Street commerce). I'm not in real estate and I don't own property here, so I'm in no way invested other than emotionally.

And I don’t think it’s a bad thing to think about marketing and public relations. The waterfront project, I think, has a price tag of about $12 million. A little branding and proactive communications costs a lot less. Word of mouth, better store hours (I am encountering many “CLOSED” signs during normal hours of the day), strategic promotions, and sure, yes, publicity. There is a lot of cool stuff going on here, albeit in much lower density--particularly in the arts and culinary worlds.

I have to respect the opinions of store-owners and residents who have been here a lot longer than I have, and I’m sure they’ve been down this road more than once before. I’m just curious as to how this all turns out, and I hope I can be involved in some way.

And for those of you who are more interested in the dating scene, I'm working on that.

The Gingham Dog and the Calico Cat

2009-09-15T17:43:00.007-04:00

Two friends of mine recently lost pets who were very dear to them: Mabel the dog and Ichabod the cat. Mabel was attributed by her owner as teaching her how to live without fear or guilt. There is a lot we can learn from children and animals.

I have had cats my whole life. Actually, I don't think there was a time when I didn't have cats. It's not that I'm specifically a cat person, but my lifestyle has always been more accommodating to the species. I suppose that's not as true anymore.

When one cat would die, I'd immediately adopt another. I've fostered a few cats: an all-white one with no tail named Snoball and a one-eyed Abyssinian named Claude. Today, I have two cats -- Metro and Judy -- and they both look like the girl cat in the Pepe Le Pew cartoons ("eet ees love, love, love at sight first, no?").

The only dog I ever had was a black labrador retriever named Mali. She came home at the same time I was born, and we grew up together. Her innate sense of loyalty was astounding. Whenever I ran away from home, she followed me all the way. The summers that we headed to Cape Cod, she would ride up with us in the back seat of the station-wagon -- our cat Cassandra lying up front on the dashboard. She swam in the Atlantic Ocean with us and in the reservoirs in New Jersey. Mali lived to be 13 years old, surviving one run-in with a car. When my dad had to take her to the vet to be put down (she always readily jumped into the car, making this last ride so bittersweet), it was the first time I ever saw him cry.

The list goes on: Pale Face, Penny Whistle, Tortue, Tooshie, Lucy (who only lived for 3 days), Bob, Ruby, Biscuit. And there are dear friend's pets still alive: Rufus, Madison, Chance, Bigsby...and Ichabod's best friends, Sarah and Bullitt.

I don't have children, but I don't treat my pets like children. I am not a crazy cat lady, or at least I hope I never become one. I take care of them. I feed them. Now, I take great pleasure in putting them outside in the back yard, where they chase ants and bugs with wings. They watch everything that moves. They eat the grass. They love it, and I love watching them in their true element. And I honestly think they love me more for letting them go. One day soon, I won't be able to corral them back inside.

It's a terrible, difficult thing to put an animal to sleep. I've done it three times in my life. I've lost both my parents, and that is significant, but I decidedly ended the lives of my pets to free them from the pain and discomfort of illnesses that couldn't be cured, or were too expensive to cure.

And when you're in that vet office -- with your hand on the animal -- and they are looking up at you with the same trust they've done for how ever many nights, it is a truly unbearable form of sadness. How can I suddenly erase all of those humanly qualities and emotions that I have likely been projecting onto this animal for so many years? Why is this just as hard as losing humans? Because those qualities really are there. They are capable of providing a truly unique form of reassurance, they are stronger and more willful than we are, and only they know how to give endless amounts of unconditional love.

Peace to Mabel and Ichabod.

You can go home again...I think

2009-09-14T10:45:00.003-04:00

I planted this tree with my father more than 30 years ago. It still lives alongside the driveway of my childhood home in New Jersey. I thought it would be bigger now, but I was nonetheless heartened by its uninterrupted existence. The corresponding photo, the day we planted the tree, is in my sidebar below.

The occasion that reunited me with my tree was my 25th high school reunion this weekend. Of course most of us left home for college or other adventures, but my mother died when I was 20 and my father moved to Philadelphia, so I didn't have many reasons to return. 60-plus attendees at the country club just down the road from the school--most of them I've known my whole life, not just four years. My whole previous life.

Reunions are a common ritual. Everyone's been to at least one or found themselves in a similar situation where the past meets the present in an abbreviated period of time, and finely-tuned adult emotions must reconcile with previous versions of unedited self. I have never felt conflicted about reunions with the past. I love them. My only concern has been a faulty memory. Everyone hopes to be memorable, including myself, so I do my best.

25 years is a long time, but I didn't feel old. We all seem to be taking care of ourselves and, at least at first glance, living happy lives. It's impossible to reconnect at any meaningful level in the course of just one evening, but I was fully present -- in the moment -- and my heart swelled.

The area is relatively unchanged, if not prosperous. The farmland surrounding my old house is preserved in its pastoral splendor. The river in town sparkled in the early fall sun. Recently, an old friend (one who wasn't able to attend the reunion) remarked on my recent shuffle as "coming home." She's exactly right.

Happy and free from suffering

2009-09-09T09:53:00.006-04:00

Loka Samasta Sukino Bhavantu

I just got all Eastern on you. I went to my first local yoga class tonight and this well-known incantation was painted on the wall of the studio, with the English translation underneath ("May all beings be happy and free from suffering"). I looked at it all through class. I’ve chanted it many times. Tonight was different. I had never been in this room before.

I admire the word “may” as it’s used here. It’s open. It’s placing the potential onto us humans. It's possible—painless happiness—but it’s entirely up to you. Schopenhauer was a Buddhist. Of course I had to let go of these thoughts as soon as they entered my head.

I introduced myself to S. after class. She is the owner of the studio. When I told her I just moved here, she hugged me. I haven’t always been a hugger. My family didn’t hug each other much. I have shyly avoided hugs on many occasions. But lately, I have grown to like them a lot. I even initiate them myself. It’s that sensation of another person’s hands on my back, generating warmth and support.

S. told me that winters are very rough here, particularly the first one. She said that, when she moved here four years ago, she nearly gave up. She referred to it as “manna falling from the sky.” Her husband is a bluegrass musician. She wasn’t alone.

Loka Samasta Sukino Bhavantu

2009-09-07T16:51:00.000-04:00

The Unofficial Mayor

2009-09-07T15:57:00.002-04:00

Now that I'm starting to meet people here, which is a really great thing, I'm feeling a bit strange about mentioning names or being too exact in my descriptions. Of course there's no other way to write well about personal experiences without this level of detail. I'll do my best.

The health food store, not surprisingly, seems to be a good social hub and resource for local happenings. It's also the only nearby place I can find that sells The New York Times. I buy the Poughkeepsie Journal, too, but it only takes me about 10 minutes to read. My most recent visit brought me into acquaintance with J.G., a self-proclaimed impresario. His long, curly, salt-and-pepper mane suggested as much, but it was also written on the business card he handed to me with notable flourish. When I commented on his title, he let me know it was an opera term. Good to know ;-)

It was J.G. who informed us that Pete Seeger would be playing that night at the town arts center. We already had important dinner plans at Mercato, where a Travel & Leisure journo who was covering the Hudson Valley was going to meet us. The proprietor is my step-sister and my best friend, so plans really couldn't be changed. But I was indeed distraught by the idea that I would miss this icon of my childhood and important figure in my parents' life. When I moved to Sullivan Street and West 3rd years ago, my dad reminisced about the night that he and my mom drove into "the city" to hear Peter Seeger at the Village Gate. That was before my time. But The Weaver's song book and the Woody Guthrie songs were road-trip staples for us, back when we drove everywhere -- sometimes for days. My dad really liked to drive.

So anyway, here I am at the health food store, kind of upset that I would be missing this seemingly once-in-a-lifetime experience. Not to worry. Pete Seeger is this town's unofficial mayor. Apparently he appears at just about any town event, no matter how small. The next scheduled appearance is the Pumpkin Festival in October. Sigh of relief.

And, dinner was absolutely amazing. Thanks Michele and Francesco (I can mention them by name because they want you to come and eat with them!)

In other news, I finally bought the solar lights for my lawn. They don't seem to be working yet, but it's been overcast today. It gets really dark out here. REALLY dark.

Oh, and I picked up a job application at the Health Food Store.

School of Dance

2009-09-05T09:39:00.003-04:00

This window display really caught my eye. Yanarella's takes up three consecutive storefronts on Main Street, one of the largest businesses downtown. The night before, I walked by and stopped to watch the teenage bunheads practice their pirouettes. I felt the sting of tears and fought them back. Watching these young ballerinas really was one of those cliche moments -- my lost youth flickering in front of me.

Correction

2009-09-04T17:04:00.004-04:00

It's Foxy's Beauty Parlor. Even better. I try not to be obvious about writing things down in my notebook.

Ye Olde Towne Shoppe

2009-09-03T21:39:00.007-04:00

I came home tonight to a freshly mowed lawn. I could smell the grass from down the street but of course never realized it would be my backyard that smelled so good. Okay, so I had to wait three days for hot water, but the fact that someone came by my house and mowed my lawn today, well, that's just dandy.

I still don’t know anybody here. I’m not quite out of my shell about talking to strangers. I don’t yet have the guts to hang out at the local. People are nice. The check out girl at Key Food told me to have a good one. My neighbor three doors down, the one with the sign on his front door that says“NO SOLICITORS or other nut jobs,” said hello to me today. He feeds all of the stray cats on my street, so he can’t be all that bad. Yesterday I was very surprised to see my neighbor two doors down playing dice for money from off of his front stoop with his friends. Luck be a lady.

I noticed the store signs. Why are they always the same? I wonder how it comes to be that when I google “Ye Olde Towne Shoppe” there are hundreds of entries for almost every city—San Diego being the apparent leader in “olde thyme” signage. Some of my favorites here: The Barkery (several flavors of fresh-baked dog treats), Pizza & Stuff, Hair Haven, Rick’s R-s-a-rant (vacant,with an equally decrepit “Chinese Take-Out Coming Soon” stuck in the dirty window). My very favorite is Roxy’s Beauty Parlor in elegant neon cursive. Some signs are hand-painted and so worn down that I can’t tell what’s inside.

It seems most small town hardware stores follow the same layout. Following years as a loyal customer of Crest Hardware, I knew exactly which aisle to go today to find curtain rods. In a new place, that relaxed sense of familiarity is especially comforting. Knowing the navigation might go even further back, to Sundays after church at Crowley’s. I really love hardware stores and pharmacies.

Sitting at home now, with the windows open, I can hear the sound of the holiday weekend approaching. Kids are out late. I think someone’s having a birthday party. The moon is full, lighting a path to my back door.

Inconspicuous consumption

2009-08-31T23:09:00.000-04:00

This town is a lot like the town where I grew up. Even the way it’s divided in two by a large creek and a waterfall. My town only had a bus stop, not a train station, but Main Street is predictably split by West and East -- with a long stretch of locally-owned businesses and storefronts in between: the Post Office, the Library, the Grocery Store, the Salvation Army. The Sweet Shop is on my corner, across from the Beauty Parlor. It’s quiet and it’s boring, and I love it.

During my last visit before moving, I stopped into the Yankee Clipper for lunch to read the local paper and check out the scene. This is a patterned behavior picked up after years of watching my parents do the same thing almost every day. My dad, a journalism professor and devout socialist, served as an advisor at two local newspapers (his first book was a biography of Isaac Collins). My mom wrote theater reviews for our hometown paper. Every Sunday, they would convene at Nick’s Diner on Main Street (my first job, a waitress) with the editors of the Democrat and catch up on all of the latest municipal and civic goings-on. A year after my mother died I read “Look Homeward Angel” for the first of many times. The scenes in the coffee shop, Ben’s heaping plate of food and steaming cups of coffee—his preternatural wisdom and intelligent banter—these scenes beautifully capture for me the essence of those Sunday mornings.

I felt entirely obvious in the Clipper, despite my grubby, dressed down appearance. Perhaps it was the New York Fall Fashion issue sitting on the table that drew some attention. This is ironic, because it’s not like I will be buying any fashionable items in the near future. The surprisingly young and hip waiter glanced at the periodicals before speaking to me. He knew everyone’s order by memory, rattling off food and drink items at people as they walked though the door. I was a new challenge for him and I might have messed up his recall system by ordering a Coke, which I will rarely order in the future. Or, maybe no one noticed me at all. After years of conspicuous consumption, that would be fine.

Why?

2009-08-31T22:16:00.000-04:00

Why? Even if they hadn’t asked me directly I could see the question mark on their faces when I told them that, after 20 years, I was leaving New York City and moving to the countryside. Brooklyn to be more precise; leaving Brooklyn after a decade. Which is saying something because it's the borough where you supposedly go when you’re done with Manhattan (I personally disagree), but where do you go when you’re done with Brooklyn?

The last few weeks have been a flurry of decision-making, planning, preparation, negotiations, customer service calls (relatively painless, overall), budgeting, packing, donations, what turned out to be a lucrative stoop sale, schlepping…more packing. Powered by sheer will and adrenaline—and help from dear friends, I’ve pushed through it all, never looking back to question even myself. I’m here, gone from there. 20 years of hard-earned convenience and familiarity behind me now.

Did I mention that I’m doing this by myself? Although I’ve visited this town on occasion with significant others, taking in the art museum on the slope of the valley and peering in windows at various real estate postings with quiet hope for the future. It never happened. Today I am looking out my window at the house next door, my backyard and the green wooden garage at the end of it, and I finally do ask myself “Why?”

My answer will evolve over time. I moved here because I quite literally needed a change of scenery. I no longer have the same romantic notions for the locales I once used to love. I craved a challenge in which I actually wasn’t sure I would succeed (my favorite kind). I'm not even sure what the measure of success might be for this.

My relationships need reinforcement. My career needs realignment. My senses need awakening.

The drive back to the city last week – my last return trip – was difficult. It was raining and traffic was bad. It took me two hours to get home. I noticed that the train station here really wasn’t a 15-minute walk. I thought about how I would need to buy a car, and that depressed me. I realized how long it could take for people to visit me, and I got more depressed. I thought about work, and how I don’t have much of it yet. But few people do right now. Loved ones and families live far apart without loss of intimacy. Will we? I'm not even really that far away. Still, immediacy is a thing of the past.

This won’t always be navel-gazing. There’s enough of that. These are just stories.