Saturday, January 31, 2009

The Bad Example

Sometimes I'm glad when someone else does the thing I sort of contemplated doing, and shows me how bad it would have been to have done it myself.

I was almost finished with my long trip to the Bronx on the 1 line, when a new person entered the other end of the car and started playing loud music.

It is legal to play music on the subway, as long as headphones are used.

At first, I was annoyed and felt like saying something. But a moment later, a man started singing to the music.

In an instant, I changed from hating the music to loving it.

As the train approached my stop, the performer was before me collecting change. He was wearing a traditional South American outfit and carting some kind of sound system on a hand truck.

An irate passenger walked up to the performer and told him that he should not be playing loud music on the subway. The performer didn't understand. He started speaking to another passenger in Spanish. The other passenger explained that the man didn't know English.

The irate passenger got more angry. He complained that the music was a violation of his privacy and against the law.

The other passengers looked annoyed and rolled their eyes at each other. The performer was apprehensive. The Spanish-speaking passenger explained that this was the way the man made money. It only bothered passengers for a few moments, and many of them enjoyed the music. He made a big show of defiantly placing a bill in the performer's hand. He was clearly angry with the irate passenger, who was shouting that playing music on the subway was illegal.

The doors opened, and the irate passenger got out. I was walking behind him and hoping no one thought we were related in any way. He was still fuming and I was still wondering why someone would get so angry about a performance that lasted less than two minutes.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Fruition

I hate shopping, especially for clothes. It is annoying to take my clothes on and off just to check whether something on a hanger will look good once it is on my body.

I often wish I could approach strangers wearing something I like, check that we are the same size, and buy the garment off their back.

Of course, this isn't what I do to build my wardrobe. I shop like everyone else.

Except yesterday.

My dance teacher surprised me at the end of class by handing me a coat she wore a few months ago.

When I first saw the coat, I sent her an email asking if she had bought it recently and where she got it. It turned out she got it a while ago, so it was no longer in stores.

I almost forgot about it until she handed it to me last night.

What a sweet gesture. I am delighted to have it. I have wanted a coat like this for a long time.

Friends who follow astrology tell me the upside of Mercury Retrograde is that things in process reach completion.

My instructor told me she intended to give me the coat a while ago and forgot repeatedly to bring it to class.

Today, an old college boyfriend friended me on Facebook.

A piece of furniture I ordered in September is scheduled to be delivered on Friday.

A friend from high school sent me an email informing me that I would soon get the book she promised to loan me last month.

With all of the missed appointments, mixed messages, and transportation snarls suffered during Mercury Retrograde, it is sweet to savor these fruits.

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

New York's Finest

As I was exiting the subway at 43rd and 8th Avenue, a young boy stood at the top stair crying and wining. He did not want to move.

A moment later, I could see why.

A mounted policeman's horse was standing a few feet from the entrance, and a small cluster of New York City children were gathered around admiring the animal.

At one moment, the horse made a big movement, such as lifting its neck from the ground to shake it high in the air. The children, who looked likely to be a difficult-to-impress street smart group, were awstruck and delighted.

The policeman was answering their questions with a big grin. He clearly enjoyed entertaining them. It was a joy to hear their childish laughter as my heels clicked down the street.

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Gym Pass

As I walked up the subway stairs at 53rd and 7th Avenue, I received a text from my dear friend. He informed me that he got tickets to the Miami City Ballet performance that night, and would meet me at the bar during intermission.

This is the grown up version of passing a note in class to make plans to meet by the gym soda machine between first and second periods. It thrills me now as much as it did in high school.

Another friend, an abstract painter, made plans to see the ballet with me. I admire her work profusely and am intrigued by her astute and unusual perspective on arts and events. It is a treat to spend time with her.

We saw two older pieces choreographed by Balanchine: "Symphony in Three Movements" and "La Valse." The evening closed with the fantastic "In the Upper Room" choreographed by Twyla Tharp.

Each time I see dance performances, I am struck by the young ages of the dancers. If the quality of the performance wasn't superb, I would mistake it for a high school production. This probably is a testament to my own advancing age.

I also find myself pondering the differences among all of the perfect physiques. All of them have been trained in the same way for the same purpose, yet genetics has formed their muscles in different ways. All of them must have about the same body fat ratio, yet some are lean, sinewous, and bony while others are more bulky with more visible muscle.

A variety in body development was particularly unusual in this ballet troupe because it is not diverse. It surprised me that a group based in Miami appeared to include only a few Latinos. I didn't see a single African-American on stage.

Alex Wong was outstanding. His leaps were spectacular. He hovered in the air. One is accustomed to seeing the special effect used in karate films of freezing a jump kick and changing perspective. Wong seemed to bring that effect to the stage.

At the end of the performance, the dancers took a bow with the ballet founder Edward Villella and choreographer Twyla Tharp (still lithe and beautiful at 67). I noticed that she had her arm around Alex Wong but only held the hands of the other dancers. He must be a universal favorite.

The costumes and sets for these dances were very simple. "Symphony in Three Movements" is an older piece with the traditional movements, but it is also quite athletic. "La Valse" was more typical traditional ballet. "In the Upper Room" was an energetic fusion of modern dance in ballet with jerky, mechanic motions and asymetrical movements that seemed unbalanced but allowed each dancer to retain equilibrium.

It was fun to meet during each intermission with my friends to discuss the dances. My dear friend is an avid arts fan, and has seen these ballets before. He pointed out several young dancers among the bar crowd. They looked like average high school students. If I had not been told that they were principal dancers in the New York City Ballet, I would never have guessed that they hid highly trained physiques under those jeans and slouchy sweaters.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

The Difference a Day Makes

I am up late at night worrying about what I will do when I am laid off. What should I do next? Where will I live? When should I give up and move out of New York? It isn't an exaggeration to say I am terrified about my economic prospects.

The country is in an awful mess. My office had another 10% staff reduction a couple of weeks ago, and I suspect the lay offs will continue. The whole publishing industry is dying, so there are practically no job prospects for unemployed publishing professionals.

It is bizarre that under such circumstances, I am stirred by an event that doesn't effect me directly.

I was not an Obama supporter. I backed Hillary because, as a former Washington lobbyist, I knew she was a brilliant politician and I thought he was too inexperienced to be an effective president.

Yet, I could hardly focus on anything but the inauguration today. If I began to even ponder the transition that would take place, I got teary.

The whole office stopped to watch the proceedings on television. I felt foolish bringing a tissue with me to the lobby, and then watched half of my colleagues cry openly and share a big box of tissues.

I couldn't understand what was making me feel so emotional.

Seeing an African-American assume the presidency proves profound changes can happen in the U.S. Seeing an unapologetic liberal garner so much support leads me to believe things will get better. If McCain had won, I assume he would continue the horrid policies that led to this crisis. I would have no hope for recovery.

The expression on George W. Bush's face as he walked through the Capital crypt told a story I was eager to see come to fruition. In the past he had proudly claimed that he did not reflect on or feel regret for his actions. I found this boast deeply disturbing because it shut out hope that he would recognize the harm he caused or feel remorse for it.

As Bush moved toward the inaugural platform, he wore the expression of someone who had come to a dark realization. It appears that during the inauguration he finally realized how much people despise him, his policies, and his effect on the country.

I didn't hear it when I watched the ceremony, but I read in newspaper coverage that the crowd of two million people were loudly booing and hissing as he and Chaney stepped onto the platform. A moment later, the record-breaking large crowd was chanting "O-bam-a" as the president-elect entered the stage.

You could tell by the look on Bush's face that he was bracing under the rebuke. He is a man who prides himself on being liked, and he was just dissed by two million people in one of the most watched live events aired on media outlets around the world.

What is at issue isn't simply the rebuke of a person. It is the wholesale repudiation of his philosophy and policies. For eight years he and his ideological brethren have had free reign to test their ideas -- deregulation, markets managing themselves, trickle down economics, hawkish aggression, indulgence of short-sided gains -- and they have brought this country near to ruination.

It took a while to figure it out, but I realized the source of my tears was profound relief.

Monday, January 19, 2009

Reclaiming Pride

I had a wrecked bathroom to clean. The ceiling began sagging months ago, and it finally fell in two weeks ago. The repair was about as messy as the ceiling crashing down.

I thought I would listen to the We Are One concert while cleaning. Instead, I was glued to the computer screen for the entire concert. I don't have a television, so I watched online.

Before the concert started, my throat was tight with oncoming tears. Seeing the crowd at the decorated Lincoln Memorial made real the big transfer of power about to happen.

It surprised me that I was so emotional. The songs were mostly standards and I tend to regard celebrities as uninteresting. Yet, seeing Bruce Springsteen perform "The Rising" with a full gospel choir before Lincoln's statue made me choke up. It set the tone. This country has been through eight hellish years and now we are on the road to recovery.

Performance after performance emphasized the things I love about this country. Things that are discussed but discounted, such as diversity, plurality, culture, and tolerance. I love that I live in a country with such a rich musical culture. Americans watching the inauguration of a leader in France, Russia, China, or Brazil would most likely not be able to hum along to the tunes sung in celebration of those leaders. American music is popular world wide. I suspect most foreigners would recognize at least a third of the songs played at this concert.

I love that much of the music popular in this country has been made by disenfranchised and impoverished people -- from slaves and farm workers to rappers and American Idol winners. I loved seeing a gay men's choir sing with Josh Grobin and Broadway star via Trinidad Heather Headley. I loved that country superstar Garth Brooks was backed by a group of beaming, energetic teenagers that represented just about every race. I love that he generously gave one of those teenagers a moment in the spotlight.

U2s performance summed it up for me. Here were four men that grew up poor in Dublin, Ireland. At the inauguration ceremony of our country's first African-American president they played their hopeful song about Martin Luther King, Jr. and nonviolence on the very steps where MLK delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech. Bono basically told the audience that he was proud of America for this achievement. That the world would once again look upon the United States with respect.

I realized at that moment that this inauguration marks this country's shift from being an international disgrace to being the pride of the world. Although this country is in the grip of a crisis, it feels is as if we are emerging mindfully from a dark age into a renaissance.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Appearances

As I was walking down 23rd street today, a woman stopped me and started speaking to me in a foreign language. When she paused, I told her I didn't understand what she was saying.

She looked puzzled, then pointed to her head. One of the words she said sounded like "Rooskie."

At this moment, I realised that she thought I was Russian because I was wearing my big fur hat.

She said in English "F train" and "Coney Island." I walked her to the F stop entrance that was a few feet away, but poorly marked.

It is intriguing to learn how I am perceived by others and the basis of assumptions that are made. This is the first time I have been mistaken for a Russian.

Now that I think about it, the hat was made by a Russian furrier on West 28th and 7th Avenue. Perhaps he left a Russian imprint on me.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

To Be Free

There is something about New York City that creates an environment in which people feel free to be themselves, and it is wonderful to witness. It makes me happy to see people enjoy this freedom.

It snowed heavily this morning. As I walked to the subway (5 degrees F with windchill) an older couple ahead of me burst into song about the joy of snow. One would sing a line or two and then the other. I didn't recognize what they were singing. It sounded like a Broadway tune. Maybe they made it up. Regardless, I thoroughly enjoyed their enthusiasm.

On the way home from work, I passed what I am almost certain was a bearded woman. She had delicate features, a long mane of hair, and a very long beard composed of a patch of thin hair at the base of her chin. This beard was about six inches long. She walked with confidence and it is clear that she cherishes her facial hair.

Today I read an essay about George W. Bush's long goodbye from the White House. The author noted that he has used the word "freedom" excessively in public speeches. He said it 27 times in his brief 2004 inaugural address.

Honestly, I am so adverse to George W. Bush's overall philosophy and policies that I don't bother to read his speeches closely. I'm not really sure what he means when he talks about freedom. After all, this is a man who has championed all kinds of surveillance activity that curbs the right to privacy.

I suspect his definition of freedom includes an assertion of Western ideals. For example, that girls can walk to school without worrying about being assaulted with acid.

The Taliban banned music, dictated fashion, regulated facial hair, and made homosexuality a capital crime. Yet, I doubt that George W. Bush would champion the freedom to burst into song on a city street without attracting frowns or strange looks.

I'm not much of a patriot. So, it surprises me to realize that I share with George W. Bush a passion to protect freedom. However, my passion is reserved for the special kind of freedom New Yorkers experience -- the freedom to be a woman and wear a beard, the freedom to sing a duet on a city street. A freedom so absolute one feels entitled to be oneself without censure.

It is the promotion or tolerance of these simple freedoms that create the strongest deviation from extremist regimes. This is precisely the kind of freedom worth fighting for.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Period Pareidolia

This really happened. It is disturbing, yet funny.

When I pulled up my pants in the bathroom today, I was surprised to see a little face smiling up at me.

I have my period, and the blood had formed a happy face in my pad. It wasn't a sloppy-you-can-see-it-with-one-eye-shut happy face, it was as clear as if it were drawn with a pen.

It was odd thing to see something simultaneously gross and friendly.

Immediately, I thought about how people have seen images of the Virgin and Jesus in cinnamon buns, the burn marks of a tortilla, or a grilled cheese sandwich. I wondered whether the same people who revered those religious sightings would cherish the appearance of a similar image in a bloody maxi pad.

It is a disturbing thought, but it also made me smile.

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Vision

I had a optometrist appointment in my old neighborhood, Cobble Hill, yesterday. Dr. Poran dilated my eyes and put yellow dye in them as part of the exam.

It is the definition of stupid to have a repeated experience and not prepare for its repercussions. I forget to bring my glasses to these exams each year, and then have to make my way home in NYC practically blind.

I made arrangements to meet friends who live in the neighborhood for dinner after my exam. We had a nice long meal at Luluc, so my eyes had some opportunity to improve.

Then, two of us decided to buy a bottle of wine and surprise a couple of mutual friends who opened Robert Henry Vintage in nearby Park Slope. We have seen little of these dear friends since they began their venture. They are now bound to babysit their shop rather than socialize.

My friend helped guide me to the subway and then I led her to the store. It was a neighborhood unfamiliar to her, and it was an interesting experience to lead her there while asking her to identify landmarks for me.

I had difficulty crossing the street because street lights and car lights looked the same unless a car was in motion. I would not have been able to see a bicyclist until it was a few feet from me.

All lights gained volume. Christmas lights seemed particularly rich. What must have been a meager strand of lights strung on a tree seemed like a thick garland of twinkles, each bulb emitting a starry snowflake the size of my splayed palm.

We had a very long visit with our friends. It surprised all of us when we discovered it was after 1am.

My eyes were still dilated. I asked my friend to walk with me back to the subway because it was still difficult to see. She kindly obliged and disembarked at the Bergan station.

As I rode alone to 23rd Street, I thought about a couple of friends who have impaired vision. One has blurry sight that cannot be corrected. He wears very special lenses and can read with a text inches from his eyes, but he will never see well enough to operate a car.

He once told me that his blurry vision made him more open to experiences. It is impossible for him to make presumptions about people based on looks. His approach is friendly to all. He thinks this has led to enriching encounters that probably would not have happened otherwise.

I could tell from the posture of some people on the train at 2am that some of them were probably homeless. Based on the conversations I heard, some were young people returning home late after parties or clubbing. I am not sure about the rest.

As I walked home, I appreciated the crosswalks on 23rd and the avenues that are equipped for the blind. These are standard in Amsterdam. They emit beeping sounds to signal when it is OK to cross the street safely.

A couple of rats scurried across my path. At first I thought they were black plastic bags blowing in the wind.

As I passed people I couldn't see, I wondered whether they were nodding and smiling at me. One person said hello. I wondered whether my oblivious expression confused or engaged them.

The world seems altered when one can't see it. It makes me realize how my estimation of what is around me is based on the faulty apparatus used to evaluate it.

Friday, January 2, 2009

Galloping Consumption

As I walked down the 2nd Avenue platform of the F train, I noticed a man moving in my direction who was asking people for change. He looked down on his luck.

He moved near me. I didn't have any change and didn't want to encourage him by making eye contact.

I got the urge to cough and did so.

"You better check out that cough." he said as he sped past me "It could be T.B."

Thursday, January 1, 2009

Fresh Start

Somehow, I consistently allow New Year's plans to be forgotten in the rush to address Christmas responsibilities. I didn't even consider making a New Year plan until I was leaving for my mother's and realized it would be nearly New Year's Eve when I returned.

Friends invited me to Shanghai Mermaid's party at Galapagos in Dumbo, but the tickets had to be bought on-line and I had just cancelled the credit card I designate for on-line purchases. I decided to wait until I returned home from the holidays. By that time I would have the new credit card and access to a computer.

But it was too late. The tickets were gone by the time I got back. I suspect that Shanghai Mermaid is about creating cache through scarcity, and that pretentious PR crap annoys me.

I made a tentative plan to get one of the "limited" tickets available at the door and accepted a dinner invitation from friends who already got their tickets. At my request, a couple of friends who initially were supposed to attend the party with me were also invited.

It was an exceptionally cold day. It snowed and rained. The sidewalks were icy. I was not in a festive mood.

My bathroom ceiling fell in the night before. I skipped a shower due to worries that it would encourage more plaster to rain down.

My wardrobe contained little that matched the occasion and weather conditions. I made a meager attempt to don beads and sequins, but finally decided on a New York uniform of black top and boots with skinny jeans.

The liquor store was jammed with people, which led to my late arrival to dinner. I felt terrible about it because the two friends I invited were not acquainted with the hosts.

Fortunately, I was the first guest to arrive. The hosts were gracious as usual. A painter/textile designer, painter/unemployed production manager, painter/editor, photographer, and actor/software engineer fell into easy conversation. We had a wonderful meal in a beautiful and warm apartment.

The photographer and painter/textile designer suggested we follow a ritual. We wrote things to leave behind in 2008 on slips of paper. Then we wrote things to embrace on 2009. We read what we wrote aloud, then burned the 2008 papers in the fireplace. It was a little humiliating to read the papers aloud, but gratifying to note that we had met some of our goals (i.e. reaching out to new people) in the gathering.

After several attempts and a consultation with the internet, I made an origami boat. It was labeled 2009. All of us placed our 2009 papers in the boat and dribbled champagne on it.

After bundling up, we walked to the Ferry Landing and released the boat into the cold waters. The wind swept a couple of the papers back up to the pier. We chased them down and threw them back into the water. I am convinced it was my paper that flew up three times before hitting the water.

Our hosts headed to the party. I was not able to get a ticket at the door, so I accompanied the photographer to Jivamukti. The painter/textile designer went off to meet other friends.

Jivamukti was hosting a silent meditation party. I have done yoga one on one with friends who were going through teacher training, but have only attended two yoga classes. It was my first time at this venue.

We took off our shoes and entered a softly lit room. Many people were sitting or lying on the floor. It was warm.

I put my large scarf on the floor and stretched out on my back. It was only about 10:30pm, but I felt tired and almost fell asleep. All of the things I worried about earlier in the evening - wardrobe, wine, lateness - seemed stupid.

At 11:50 a person came in with a sign encouraging us to go to the big room. I got up and followed the others out of the room. I noticed a man in a business suit on one mat. He looked like a Wall Street employee.

The big room was crowded. I found a spot and sat down in the back. There were two candlelit alters at the front of the room. At midnight, people began chanting om.

It seemed simultaneously odd and familiar to chant om. I spent January 2008 in India to celebrate a milestone birthday and to meet a personal goal. In fact, I arrived in Delhi on New Year's Eve. It was a wonderful trip, and I am very eager to go back. This was a nice way of completing the arc of the year by returning to India via New York.

We continued chanting until two people at the alter began talking. They gave a couple of short inspirational speeches.

As I chanted, listened, and yawned (from sleepiness not boredom), I pondered the difference between this method of embracing the new year and the more typical drinking and noise making. It surprised me that the boisterous celebration outside could not be heard within the room.

In the Hindu temples I visited in India, ringing bells or gongs dispel negativity. 2008 was a very negative year for me and many other people, and I wished I could ring a bell in addition to chanting.

But it is a goal to try new ways of doing things. Perhaps chanting om is a better way of establishing an auspicious year. It is about embracing the good rather than rejecting the negative. Perhaps this sets a better tone.

I intended to take a subway home. It was freezing outside and many drunk people were stumbling around. But by the time I reached the subway that would deposit me near home, I decided it was silly to just not walk the rest of the way.

As I bounded the three flights of stairs to my apartment, it struck me that I felt festive. This was a pleasant surprise to myself.

Lazarus Lamp

The light bulb in my floor lamp blew last night.

This is a nuisance. The lamp is an old lamp that belonged to my grandfather. It was stored in his dusty basement for at least 30 years. It was not operational and lacked a shade when I got it. As I put it in my car, the switch device fell off, rolled down the driveway, and tumbled into the grass. It would be impossible to find it.

It took a bit of effort to revive the lamp. I rewired it, connected it to a power strip so I could turn it on and off with that switch, and tracked down the special bulb that fits in the large socket. That mogul bulb cost $25.

This Emeralite lamp was prized for its green glass shade. Replacement shades are quite pricey, so I have put off that purchase.

Work released a little early this afternoon, so I ran some errands in the West Village. I realized I was near a specialty lighting shop, Filaments, and popped in.

The proprietor could not have been more gracious. Of course they had the bulb (for half of what I paid for the previous one), and he noted that the old bulb may still have life in it. It was a 3-way bulb, and the filaments for each setting are different.

I explained that my lamp no longer had the switch device, so I wouldn't be able to use the other settings.

He disappeared to a backroom and fumbled through a small box full of old switches. He handed me two switches that he thought would fit. No charge.

One of the switches fit the lamp. It turns out the old Mogul bulb is still operational.

I loved discovering that something that seemed dead had two more lifetimes in it.

They should not have stopped making these Mogul bulb lamps. This bulb has lasted 8 years. Apparently, it has another 16 years to go!