At Last

At a moment when it really needed to happen, I finally got a job. It is a tremendous relief.

In reviewing all that has happened in the past year and a half it is difficult to distill and find one coherent lesson. It's difficult to make sense of something that occurred randomly and nearly blew my life apart.

As I sift through what happened and my reaction to it, it is my attitude rather than the circumstances that I could have changed. It was a time to concentrate on the light. If I stared into the dark I wouldn't be able to crawl out of bed every morning.

Ironically, at a time when prospects seemed most dim and I felt pressure to be particularly ascetic, disciplined, and diligent, the lesson I learned was that I also needed to savor life a bit. It was difficult to indulge in anything because I felt great economic stress. But I made an effort to enjoy some part of every day.

My budget made it impossible to indulge in much, so I had to seek the pleasures that are free. I loved the extra access to the outdoors. When I was employed full time, I would often resent toiling in a building that sealed out warm Sun and bright light. The opportunity to bask in warmth and light was a blessing.

Its strange because I don't consider myself much of an outdoors person. I tend to prefer traditional indoor activities to outdoor pursuits such as gardening, hiking, or sports. Bouts of skin cancer have also urged me avoid the Sun. But when I was sick it seemed ridiculous to worry about skin cancer anymore. The pleasure I get from the sensation of being warmed by the Sun far outweighs reasons for avoiding it.

As a more practical matter, the lack of work gave me the time to take classes and to figure out some things on my own. This blog was an effort to build my technology skills. I was very fortunate to have an Americorps grant to pay for courses. Otherwise, I might not have been able to enroll.

Looking for work has always been a challenge for me. While I have no difficulty advocating for ideas or other people, I feel uncomfortable promoting myself. In the new work environment where we are supposed to move around every two years, this is a real problem. I'm grateful that I learned how to network a little better. It is something I still have to develop, but I did improve. This led to some interesting freelance work and new business contacts. Now it is up to me to continue building on this foundation.

The lack of purpose and routine that accompanied job loss was eventually replaced with a recognition that my free schedule was an opportunity to invite more unexpected events into my life. This seems obvious in retrospect, but when one is concentrating on the lack of a job the opportunity to pursue the frivolous doesn't seem like the best choice.

The effort to enjoy a part of every day spurred me to grasp the chance to do something new and different. Since I was a child and saw images of ticker tape parades in old films and photographs I have wanted to participate in one of these parades. I had the chance when the Yankees won the World Series. I also accepted a spur of the moment invitation to the US Open on a week day.

Since I didn't have to worry about getting up early to go to work, I was free to take late evening classes to pursue things that interested me but that I wasn't passionate about. This led me to learn the Michael Jackson Thriller dance with a group of strangers. I also finally made the effort to participate in the Halloween and Macy's Thanksgiving parades -- two events I always meant to do but didn't because I would get caught up in work and not realize that the time for the event was approaching. I also scheduled touch tours for my blind friend at the Metropolitan Museum and MOMA, and was able to accompany him on both tours.

This lull was a chance to take advantage of some of the deals I would miss while chained to my desk in an office. On a couple of days I waited for 4-6 hours in a ridiculously long line for $20 opera tickets at the Met. My flexible schedule also enabled me to snag a free Remy eyebrow shaping, Fekkai shampoo, and Origins cleanser.

This odd expanse of unfettered time also revealed to me my strange relationship with time. I now realize the great extent to which my enjoyment of events is damped by anticipation of time constraints. It was wonderful to see friends on weekdays without concern for the clock. We were free to enjoy each others' company without the expectation of cutting the night short to get to bed early.

Similarly, I was able to enjoy reading several dense books while recuperating from illness.

Now I realize how much worrying about schedules and lists of things to do infringes on my enjoyment of my time when I am working. It is as if none of my time is really free. There is always a concern in the back of my mind that doesn't allow me to fully relax.

I also concentrated on the sense of compassion I felt from others. It pleasantly surprised me who offered help and how they offered it. High school classmates that friended me on Facebook gave me work leads although I hadn't seen them in 25 years. My doctors gave me drug samples so I could save money on prescriptions. My dance instructor insisted I continue taking her classes without paying. Friends took me out to lunch and picked up my drink tab.

On the one hand, I felt embarrassed to accept charity from my friends. On the other, I recognized that I would do (and have done) the same for them. In fact, it sometimes came to light that the "unlikely" people who helped me had received favors from me in the past and I had forgotten about it.

Experiencing this kindness had a profound effect on me. I'm sorry that it was necessary that I be in such a position to receive these blessings, but I am also relieved that the world is more benevolent than I expected it to be. Now I am consciously focusing on developing more compassion for others. I doubt any of my friends think I owe them something. Instead, I am very eager to pick up the tab for any friend who is looking for work.

I suppose the greatest lesson I learned is that I could survive. Unfortunately, I have lived through bad times before. I endured seven miserable years putting myself through college, weathered medical problems, and suffered a lay off and unemployment a decade ago. All of these are events I would rather forget, yet they taught me that I am resilient and can survive tough blows.

For all of these blessings, there are some regrets. My fear led me to cage and punished myself a bit. I was extremely austere. I walked everywhere to save subway fare and cut back on food. Although I had time to take art classes and could have benefited from distraction from stress, I didn't take them because it seemed like an indulgence. I felt guilty about making any art at all, and stopped making it.

As I pushed myself into these corners, it felt as if my personality had ceased to exist. It went underground and I walked around like a purposeless ghost. I played the role of someone I thought I should be and thus became invisible.

In retrospect this was a big mistake, and I'm glad my illness lessened the grip of this misguided notion. Jobs rob us of time and personal pursuits. Our personalities are suppressed each day we don a professional demeanor.

Near the end of my unemployment, I read an anecdote about American painter Charles Burchfield. While in ill health, he noticed a leaf that had landed upright in the neighbor's lawn and escaped fall raking. All through the winter, he monitored this leaf to see whether it had survived another day of gales and snowstorms.

"For me it has become a sort of symbol or example -- as it clings so stubbornly, so must I 'hang on' through this illness which has lasted so long. I have moments of utter despair, and then I look out and I see this little oak-leaf, my little friend. Each morning I look for it and it is always there." (letter 1957)

He made a painting of the courageous leaf. His wife later framed the leaf and hung it in his studio. When I read this story, I felt the presence of a kindered spirit.

Tweet Love

Every year thousands of people visit New York to attend the US Open. They see great tennis in a small patch of Queens.

I've lived in New York for over a decade and haven't yet visited the small patch of Queens that is the U.S. Open. Although I have played tennis and enjoyed it, it isn't something I have done recently. I was someone who would like to go to the US Open, but wasn't sufficiently motivated to spend the money on a ticket.

Then, Twitter changed its format and added a "suggested friend" window in the home page. The day this happened, I got a note that my friends were following the Beer Baron of Baltimore, and maybe I should too.

It was easy to click yes, and I did.

About two minutes later the Beer Baron of Baltimore sent me an invitation to the US Open. He had an extra all day pass and it was free.

The Beer Baron is a friend of a friend I have known since I was a teenager. We are not close, but each time I see him I like him a lot. He is a defense attorney with a great sense of humor who ran for Congress in Maryland. Now he is the liquor commissioner for the state. He dated my former best friend from high school for several years. Now he is married and has a two year old.

I hadn't seen him in about 10 years, so it could have been strange. Instead it was wonderful. We instantly bonded and had a great time. He is an enthusiast who had prepared an itinerary of all of the games he wanted to see. I had no agenda, and was eager to see what he thought would be good games. All day we manically bounced around from venue to venue in brutal 90 degree F heat to watch game after game.

It was fantastic! We caught up and shared stories. We laughed over the continual feed of liquor board emails he received from disgruntled constituents and bar owners. When they bought an apartment next to a bar did they think they had a right to close it down? Does a parent complaining about a bar sign with "ass" in it marvel about the propriety of taking their kid to a bar? What part of the liquor laws leads people to think they can expand their business to a public sidewalk after 2am?

The Beer Baron planned to go back to his hotel by 8pm, but we had so much fun we stayed through to the end.

Who knew a twitter following could go so right?

Sweet Things

There is a wonderful bakery around the corner from my apartment. It is well known in the city, and there usually is a line outside. Its reputation is deserved. They make the best banana cake!

This week I watched three young boys enter the bakery and press their faces against the glass cases. They appeared to be second graders. Instantly I could sense the joy, wonder, and anticipation they felt upon looking at all of the sweet delights. The smell in that room is intoxicating. The visuals can put one over the edge.

These boys looked like they might live in the housing project down the street. They composed the only people of color in the room. The leader inquired about the cost of a cupcake, and the reaction was disappointment. His two friends sat down with frowns. One seemed uncomfortable and eager to leave.

The leader continued to review the options and make inquires about prices. Could he buy a cupcake without frosting? Was it cheaper?

As he deliberated, one of his friends walked to the front door, opened it, stood on the threshold, spit his sunflower seeds out onto the sidewalk in a beautiful three-foot arc, and walked back to his seat.

I exchanged a look with the man enjoying a piece of cake at the adjoining table. Neither of us could suppress our laughter. This young fellow's innocent lack of propriety was positively refreshing.

Finally the leader returned to his friends. He had purchased two cupcakes. He ate one and let his two friends share the other one. All of them seemed satisfied.

I felt as if I had lived through a Norman Rockwell scene.

The Event Without a Happening

This year I am grappling with a severe bleeding problem linked to uterine fibroid tumors. There is a whole cascade of events that led to this monthly hemorrhaging issue: oral contraceptives caused a blood clot that led to a pulmonary embolism that led to a year of blood thinning medication that made the bleeding worse.

I met with two surgeons in the past year in an attempt to address this problem. One lost my confidence when he failed to communicate with my hematologist, and I canceled surgery. The other suggested using a progesterone IUD until I was off of the blood thinner and able to have a safer surgery.

Fortunately, I saw my hematologist the day after a particularly bad bleeding episode which expelled the IUD. I was very weak and my INR had shot up due to the great blood loss. She insisted I have surgery as soon as possible to address this problem. For the first time that I can recall, a doctor related my inability to resolve blood disorders to this monthly bleeding problem.

The hematologist recommended a surgeon at her hospital. Everyone pushed their schedules so I could coordinate a surgery by late August. My COBRA insurance expires at the end of September.

I rushed to gather images, wean off of blood thinners, take additional blood tests, arrange to have someone pick me up the day of the procedure, notify the insurance company, and meet with the surgeon and hematologist to get clearance for surgery. I even learned how to self-inject Lovenox -- something I never thought I would be able to do. It was a lot of work.

Despite some minor drama with a persistently low iron level, anemia, and a positive D dimer test (an indicator of too much clotting material in the blood), my hematologist continued to advocate for the surgery and provided detailed instructions for addressing the clotting risk during and after the procedure.

Finally, I got clearance and went to the hospital anxious but glad that this problem would soon be resolved.

When I woke from anesthesia, I was a bit groggy and nauseous but delighted that my long odyssey was over. My dear friend showed up and we giggled as I drank ginger ale and read aloud post-op instructions to "not put things in the vagina for a week."

Then my surgeon entered the room and informed me that she had bad news. She was not able to remove the fibroid because it was too large. To get it out, a different type of surgery would have been required. There were options we needed to discuss at a later time, such as trying Lupron shots or a surgery involving an abdominal incision.

I was shocked and horrified. I would have to write a big check to pay for an unsuccessful surgery and self-inject Lovenox for the next month, yet the problem remained. Worse, I would lose my COBRA and have to resort to some crappy insurance that would probably cover a far smaller fraction of another surgery cost (if any).

Fortunately, I was too groggy to worry about these implications.

My dear friend took me home and fed me bread. I sat on the couch for an hour, and then felt like taking a walk. It was a beautiful day.

Since the operation didn't involve any cutting, I felt pretty normal. We went to the park and hit the Barney's Warehouse sale.

At least the recovery was better than expected.

Stunning

My yogini friend is taking off for Mexico to teach yoga at a spa. I won't see her for a few months, so I wanted to get some time with her before she goes away. I made dinner for her in my apartment. We talked non-stop for about six hours.

The weather is pleasant, so we ventured out after eating to walk to a couple of parks in my neighborhood. To our delight, there was a fantastic salsa band playing on the High Line. A large crowd was dancing. We immediately joined them.

That's how it is with my yogini friend. Each knew the other would want to dance. We dove into the crowd without saying a word.

While dancing I noticed a very attractive man in the crowd. The music stopped and my friend asked that we hang out so she could say hello to someone she knew.

Lo and behold, it was the gorgeous man.

They exchanged greetings and talked about yoga class. He was annoyed that some of the instructors argue with their boyfriends on their cell phones before class, and then preach detachment.

At some point my friend asked him whether he was still modeling. He said he hadn't in the past year because there was a problem. Now he is just teaching yoga for a fraction of what he used to earn.

She asked what the problem was. He shook his head as if it was to complex to convey.

I touched his arm, looked in his eyes, and said "It's because you're ugly."

He's a model. He knew I was kidding, and all calmness and sincerely said, "No, its because of this problem."

He was doing a job in Columbia, and was detained by US immigration when he tried to return to the US. It took a year and a half to settle the issue. In the meantime, he couldn't get any work while in Columbia because "everyone looks like me."

I said, "Everyone looks like you in Columbia? I am moving there!"

He was slightly offended. "No! No! I am not from Columbia!" He pointed to the middle of his chest, "In Columbia, they are only this tall. I am from Argentina!"

Note to self: I must move to Argentina.

As we walked away the yogini told me he was straight. My jaw about hit the ground.

My Secret Garden

A while ago a friend told me about a private garden a block and a half from my home. One has to ask permission to visit, and somehow, this small barrier prevented me from going.


Until now.

I regret that I hesitated for so long.

Every day I look forward to packing my bag and walking to my oasis.

Beyond the heavy iron gate is a small park nestled within a city block cloister. There is a large lawn shaded by ancient trees.

A colorful border of shaggy roses, giant dahlias, butterfly bushes, crepe myrtles, heavy hydrangeas, salvia, cheery cone flowers, lavender, rose of sharon, and firework monarda surround the buildings and paths.

There are chairs on the lawn. Patio furniture is provided next to one of the buildings. Thankfully, this furniture is in the shade so it is perfect for working on my laptop.

I love flowers and trees, but I am not a gardener. The city is my favorite environment, yet I enjoy being outside. The sensation of being warmed by the Sun is something I really crave.

My apartment is hot, dark, and stuffy. Being able to work in this beautiful outdoor environment each day is a blessing. Usually there is a breeze, so it is about five degrees cooler than my home. The degree to which these visits lift my mood surprises me.

At first, I felt a bit like an intruder in the garden. There aren't many people around and those that are there tend to be quiet. But everyone I see is quite friendly and we are starting to recognize each other and nod hello.

It feels as if I finally have a bit of earth, and it was free. All I had to do was ask for permission.

Retreat

It has been a particularly brutal weather week. Every day the temperature has been in the 90s, so the air conditioning is on. But it makes little difference in a railroad apartment with little air circulation. All of the cool air sits in one room and is quickly overcome by the hot air rising from apartments three stories below.

My mermaid friend lives about 1,000 feet from the Ocean in Coney Island. She has a new boy friend in upstate New York, and travels to see him most weekends. Since she would be away a long time over the holiday weekend, she invited me to enjoy her home in her absence.

I love the fact that I can take the subway to the beach. The change in environment in such a short distance (as the crow flies) is remarkable. The air must be about 5-10 degrees cooler in Coney Island than it is in Manhattan.

At the mermaid's apartment by the water, it is even cooler. I had to wear a sweater at night.

I brought a stack of New Yorker magazines and a sack of groceries. It was great to relax and enjoy reading in the garden or on the sand.

And it was wonderful to be able to use the oven and stove to cook real food. There is a thermometer in my apartment kitchen, and it was hovering between 95-100 degrees. Even boiling water makes the kitchen intolerable. The nights at the beach were so cool I was able to roast corn in the oven!

Since I was in a place that was large enough for entertaining, I invited a few people to visit. My yogini friend was the first to accept my offer.

We met in India. She was my first room mate there, and I adore her thoroughly. She is also looking for work and having a very lean year. Lately, she has been too depressed to socialize. She almost didn't make it to the beach, but it was a blessing that she did. We had a wonderful visit.

A horrid break-up and a bad dye job had left her feeling wretched. We conversed in the garden, consulted the tarot, walked on the beach, and plotted for her to find a studio from which she could teach yoga classes.

It was as if our meeting nourished her in some way.

When we were in India, she cared for me while I was sick. Although she barely knew me, she sprang out of bed at 3am and routed through her medicine chest to find the right homeopathic remedies. I think she stayed up with me for the rest of the night. In the morning she consulted with our guide on my behalf. My choices were to stay alone in this isolated, tiny town a day's journey from a hospital or to take a grueling day-long bus ride over dirt roads to Pushkar. She got me through the bus trip.

I feel a strong bond with her.

At a time when I have little to offer, it felt marvelous to share my borrowed piece of paradise with her. She arrived agitated and sad, but she left feeling hopeful and refreshed. Her beautiful face was glowing again. She said the change in environment had a profound positive impact on her.

It really is far more satisfying to share good fortune than to hoard it. A friend helped me and I was able to help a friend. This truly makes me happy.

Impervious to Wonder

It is a big laundry day. A chore I hate because it involves a trip to the horrid laundromat.

Due to a recent hemorrhaging problem, I had four loads to do. It required two trips to carry all of the bags to the laundromat. It was exhausting.

Thankfully, I didn't have to wait for empty machines. Maybe because the prices rose again.

Once everything was loaded, I ran to the post office to mail a deposit to my bank.

As I passed a group of people conversing on the sidewalk, I noticed a butterfly perched on the thigh of one of the talkers. Butterflies are fairly rare in NYC. In 13 years in the city, I haven't seen one land on a person outside of the Museum of Natural History.

She looked down at it as it slowly stretched its wings and resumed talking. Her companions were oblivious to the natural phenomenon resting on their friend. The talker appeared indifferent to to this delicate, colorful creature.

Perhaps she isn't a New Yorker. Maybe she hails from the oyamel forests of Mexico and encounters this kind of thing every day.

The Gift of Compliments and Confusion

He pointed to his head and mouthed "Your hat is fabulous!"

I put up my hand for a high five, but he held it.

"My friend just gave it to me!"

"It's fabulous!"

"Thanks!"

His eyes swept up my body.

"Are you married?"

He's not gay? When did straight men start saying "fabulous" and complimenting women's hats?

"You're too much!" I say and walk away.

That one was surely a player.

Witness Mystery

Today I noticed several stacks of "The Watchtower" magazines on the curb of 21st Street between 9th and 10th Avenues. They were prepared for recycling .

There were enough of these magazines to fill about 9-12 feet of shelves.

"The Watchtower" is a Jehovah's Witness publication that is often distributed by door-to-door preachers.

At first I thought the stacks would contain left-over magazines that were not distributed. But each issue was different.

This is a residential block of expensive brownstones in a predominantly gay neighborhood. It seemed unlikely that an evangelical who frowns upon tobacco, gambling, non-marital sex, contact with other religions, and blood transfusions would live here.

Yet, it appears that someone was either a Jehovah's Witness or had collected all of the magazines given to them by door-to-door preachers over the years.

The New Old Friend

My composer friend has become my new gay husband.

Like many relationships, ours has been strengthened by proximity and copious free time.

We met in college. He lived across the hall from me. Now he lives 30 blocks away, which I consider walking distance. Recently his work schedule has contracted -- he is a professor and one of his classes was cut due to budget considerations. More importantly, his boyfriend has chased work to Illinois.

We realized that we now meet about once or twice a week. We do mundane things together. The types of things we did in college, such as watch Bollywood movies on television and make dinner together. These are inexpensive ways to meet, but they are also luxuries at our age when time tends to become more precious.

Although we have known one another for nearly two decades, we have discovered new things about each other. I've learned that he has become a very good cook. He also has pursued an interest in regency-era British female authors. This is a literary interest that I share, and it has been a delight to discuss literature and the manners and history of that era with him.

Our deepening friendship has been an unexpected pleasure during this fallow time.

The Passive Listener

I've been exposed to a lot of new music in the past couple of weeks. My composer friend has kindly taken me to performances of new operas and symphonies.

Tonight we listened to Ensemble ACJW orchestra at Carnegie Hall. It was interesting because John Adams conducted, and the orchestra began by playing a piece he composed: Son of Chamber Symphony.

Basically all I know about classical music I've learned through conversations with my friend and his comrades. He hinted that work in the program was not to everyone's liking, but I enjoyed it. In fact, I thought the John Adams piece was rather mainstream. It resembled a Broadway or film score.

Another interesting composition in the program was Louis Andriessen's De Staat. It is based on Plato's Republic, and includes a performer who sings (in Greek) passages of the text about the danger of musical innovation. I particularly enjoyed the line that in translation means "Any alteration in the modes of music is always followed by alteration in the most fundamental laws of the state." If this sentiment were more widely shared, I imagine anti-incumbent politicians would be enthusiastic supporters of new music.

Prior to the performance there was a disclaimer from the conductor about its volume and dissonance. It seemed odd that those familiar with the music appeared compelled to warn listeners about what they would experience. Although some of the piece was loud and not harmonious, it wasn't unpleasant.

I particularly enjoyed the vocalist. Her voice seemed like an oasis within in a storm. Perhaps the dissonance created a contrast that helped me concentrate on her sweet voice and the sounds accompanying it. The music seemed to mimic the experience of focusing in a chaotic place.

By coincidence my friend and I were seated by one of his colleagues. I met her last week at the Vox Contemporary American Opera Lab where one of her pieces was performed. We marveled that we sat through the first half of the concert without realizing that we were seated side by side.

There were several interesting pieces at the Vox event.

Du Yun's opera Zolle was about a ghost that seeks peace. The opera includes unusual elements, such as singing through walkie talkies. The piece was inspired by black and white abstract landscape photographs by Frank Dituri, which were projected. This background information and the image helped me appreciate the piece. I would have had difficulty reconciling the music and subject matter without the visual cue and story seed.

David Little's Dog Daze is based on a short film about a family trying to survive the ravages of a war in the US. It is both disturbing, funny, and profound. The family are starving. The daughter, who sings about admiring her body now that it is model thin, befriends a man who dresses and acts like a dog. Eventually the men in her family kill the man for food. Although initially disturbed that the man imitated an animal, they later assert his status as an animal as justification for killing him. Little describes his musical influences as a mix of Metallica and Rogers & Hammerstein.

Scott Davenport Richard's A Star Across the Ocean sounded like Broadway. It tells the story of an interracial family that travels to Paris during the 1960s. It was a difficult time for interracial families. Richard uses characters based on Josephine Baker, Paul Robeson and others to explore the hope and disappointment African-Americans expatriates experienced as they tried to escape American racism.

My favorite piece was Missy Mazzoli's Song from the Uproar. It is based on the fascinating story of Isabelle Eberhardt (b. 1877 Switzerland). Her close family perished by the time she was 22. Unencumbered by dissenting relatives, she traveled North Africa dressed as a man, converted to Sufism, and embarked on a writing career. She drowned in a flash flood at age 27.

The performance was accompanied by a film that perfectly complimented the music. It included archival movie footage that appears to date from the 1920s to the 1940s. It includes scenes of a family. Slowly the family members are erased and the young girl remains. Later portions show rolling clouds and slowly blooming flowers. It ends with churning water and a woman in bathing suit and cap slowly diving from a high platform. The film is turned upside down so she appears to fly up toward the water like a superhero. The performer subtly mimicked the dive at the end of the film as it was projected.

There was another opera, With Blood, With Ink, that featured music that I found less interesting. However, the story on which it was based is intriguing. Sor Juana Ines de la Cruz (1648-1695) was a brilliant woman who entered a Mexican convent to pursue her intellectual and artistic interests. She was a philosopher, poet, writer, and feminist. During the Spanish Inquisition, she was forced to renounce her work and died shortly after doing so.

Although music is not my artistic medium, I enjoy its many forms and deeply appreciate the opportunity to sample new works. More importantly, I am grateful for the exposure to new ideas.

Lately I've been marveling that greater access to information appears to be narrowing my influences. As most of what I select to do reflects my taste (iTunes, Pandora, Netflix) and the number of fixed, curated outlets diminish (such as radio or broadcast television) so do encounters with new art via serendipity. This was a wonderful opportunity to buck that trend!

Impact

Since being laid off I've had nine interviews without landing a job. In the past I always got a job within three interviews. More often I was hired after one interview.

Today I took three trains and walked three-quarters of a mile to go to an interview. It took an hour and a half to get to the office. If I get the job, the commute will cost me $3,000 a year.

I saved myself $2.25 by walking from Grand Central to my home. It is a nice walk.

As I walked down a side street I noticed a ragged man waving a construction flag. He stood outside of a parking garage. It was unclear whether he worked for the garage or not.

When I passed, he peered into my face and said, "You look sharp."

The day is salvaged. At least I made a good impression on someone.

Biennial

The Whitney Biennial is going on. I am always curious to see what the curators choose. There was a lot in the 2010 show that I really liked, and most of the pieces I enjoyed were by artists unfamiliar to me.

Kerry Tribe's film "H.M" is one of the best art films I've seen. It explores memory, veracity, and subjectivity. These are subjects I ponder, and what little reading I've done about philosophy of mind and cognitive science already introduced me to H.M. Tribe's treatment of the topic is multi-layered and ingenious.

I also really liked Lesley Vance's abstract oil paintings, Curtis Mann's distressed photos, Marianne Vitale's "Patron" video, and drawings by Roland Flexner, Storm Tharp, Aurel Schmidt, and Dawn Clements.

It struck me that much of the work that appealed to me was about salvaging and process. There were a lot of pieces of art that employed techniques dependent on chemical reactions and accident. Often accident-based processes are combined with highly controlled renderings in a piece.

Vance's paintings depend upon an old master palette. The source of her color choices was apparent immediately. She salvaged the somber spectrum of the late 1500s. Its impact surprised me. She does something completely removed from representational painting, but by resourcing those colors she creates a strong connection to that body of work.

Curtis Mann uses a type of masking (similar to tie-dye or batik) technique to highlight portions of photographs. The part he masks remains intact while the rest of the photograph is faded. The fading results in interesting patterns. He uses the masking to keep whole elements within a photo (such as a car) or to make a new mark (such as the partial outline of a person where no person appeared in the original photograph).

Roland Flexer manipulates a paper marbleizing technique to make sumi ink drawings. There is little traditional drawing in the process. He tilts, blots, or blows on the wet paper to move the ink. The result resembles a distressed, detailed drawing.

Storm Tharp also utilizes random patterns made by wet ink, but he embellishes this accidental foundation with carefully controlled, highly representational drawing. The contrast is striking.

Both Aurel Schmidt and Dawn Clements make large format, highly detailed drawings. Schmidt creates fantastic creatures composed of everyday materials such as hair, beer cans, cigarette stubs, and cob webs. Clements depicts domestic interiors that are pieced together from life or films. Her work resembles a map of a memory. The pages of drawings are fastened together in a quilt-like pattern in which pieces of the scene make almost a whole image.

Many artists make a habit of complaining about the Biennial. In some ways I feel like a Pollyanna admitting that I really enjoyed this one. I wasn't enthusiastic about everything in the exhibit, but I don't expect to like everything in the show. In fact, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that the large-format floral ink drawings featured in one room were by an artist I have not admired in the past: Charles Ray.

The show introduced a lot of good art to me, and that is its purpose. Well done.

Jolly

On Earth Day I heard from a friend on Facebook that Origins was giving away free cleanser in exchange for empty cosmetic bottles. I am running low on cleanser and can't afford to replace what I have. So, I pulled an empty bottle of toner out of the recycling bin, and walked over to the Flatiron store.

It was a nice spring day and the door was open. There were about 15 unhappy women in the tiny space. The store just ran out of cleanser.

I was headed to the Upper East Side, so I inquired about stores uptown. A helpful employee gave me the number to the Upper West Side store. A few minutes later I was on a subway car rocketing to 72nd Street.

There was a line at the 85th Street store, but I managed to get one of the last bottles of cleanser. It smells great. I'm looking forward to trying it -- especially after the effort it took to get it.

I felt pleased to have accomplished my little mission and was enjoying my walk over to the east side. Around 84th and Columbus I passed a group of boys sitting outside of a school. One of them looked like an African-American version of Seth Rogen.

"Miss, you look jolly today!" he said with a smile.

It was unclear to me whether he was simply a friendly kid, a cheeky guy perfecting a pick up line, or a student trying to use vocabulary word jolly in a sentence. Regardless, I had to smile as I walked past.

This is my favorite time of year. Chartreuse is one of my favorite colors and it is the top note on nature's palette right now. Everything looks tender and lush.

This year, almost all of the flowering plants are blooming at once. Central Park looks like a film set. One would think a prop department planted blooming hyacinth, tulips, iris, pansies, blue bonnets, lilacs, and wisteria over night. Everywhere my eye fell, there was a touch of floral color.

Although it was a bit off of my path, I went through Shakespeare's Garden, Belvedere Castle, and a some of the Ramble before skirting the Lake.

In addition to the abundant flowers, I saw several robins and noticed a man pushing a medium-sized dog in a wheel chair intended for humans. The shivering animal curled up in the seat looked very sick.

As I walked across the park the sky darkened. I love the contrast between delicate spring green plants bursting with optimism and a menacing stormy sky. The rain fell steadily as I walked around the Lake. I paused under a wisteria covered arbor and watched the drops form designs on the Lake's surface. It seemed like a gift to be in this place at this time.

When the rain eased, I pulled out my umbrella and continued walking until I got to the Whitney Museum. I felt really happy and it must have showed. A man ducking the rain at a construction site around the corner from the museum looked at me quizzically and said, "I'm glad somebody's happy!"

Me too. There have been far too many sad days lately. On this day it was my turn to be happy.

The Perplexing Male Mind

Years ago a woman who did pro-bono work in a prison told me the inmates would routinely ask her out on dates.

It is unclear what a date within a prison would entail. Oddly, I imagine something similar to a junior high date: the couple talks and kisses while the cell mate on the top bunk pretends to read. It isn't an enticing prospect.

This woman is a smart attorney with a beautiful figure and face. The men seeking her company are incarcerated for life.

It is phenomenal that these men thought a woman who encapsulates Destiny's Child's "Independent Woman" would date them.

These were not intellectual political prisoners such as Vaclav Havel or Nelson Mandela. They are hard criminals who hurt people. Did they really think her dating prospects were so weak that she would consider accepting an invitation to spend time with a dangerous high school drop out confined to a jail cell?

Or did these men over-value themselves to an absurd degree? They are incarcerated for life yet arrogant. Perhaps confinement has warped their self-conception.

Generally, women and men with similar attributes (levels of income, attractiveness, intelligence, etc.) find each other and form relationships. Yet, I've often observed men with modest attributes approach far more accomplished women.

A college friend was a model, and I recall how every man at a crowded bar attempted to chat her up one evening. She had a boyfriend and didn't welcome any of their approaches.

I wondered what drove these men to pursue a woman so unlikely to return their regard. Is it a deep seated sense of entitlement? Are they simply pushing the envelope? Do they have no sense of embarrassment when they are refused?

As I waited at the crosswalk of 23rd street the other night an elderly drunk homeless man asked me to help him cross the street.

His request was a cheeky come-on rather than a feeble person's request for assistance. He wore a lecherous smile. It did not elicit sympathy.

For the millionth time I marveled at the strange ways some men perceive women and themselves.

Lost and Found

My alma mater boasts a college president who conducts orchestras. A six figure degree from this institution isn't helping me get a job, so I was thrilled when the college offered me free tickets to a symphony performance at Lincoln Center's Alice Tully Hall last night.

I invited a couple of friends who also appreciate good music and an inexpensive night out.

I've grown more fond of classical music in the past several years. It used to be a struggle to remain attentive by the end of a concert, but now my mind is too active to grow bored. It isn't necessarily an outgrowth of an increased appreciation of the music. Nor do I think I've become more focused. This trait probably reflects a more purposeful use of distraction.

Initially, I concentrate on the music. Then, I attempt to pick a thread from the sound tapestry and determine which instrument made the sound.

I was amused by the percussion section, and the utter seriousness of the triangle player as he approached his periodic ring. The gravity he assumed while preparing to play a single note seemed ridiculous.

Later I simply use the music as a soundtrack for all of the thoughts swirling around my head. I suppose the creators of Fantasia, Sesame Street, and Bugs Bunny cartoons were guilty of similar modes of thinking.

The last piece was Mahler's Symphony 4, which I really enjoyed. The 3rd movement made me think of an image of a bride with a veil and train blowing wildly in the wind.

I vaguely recalled a painting called "Bride of the Wind" associated with Mahler. Mahler's wife, Alma, had a heated affair with painter Oskar Kokoschka. Her relationships with creative men were notorious. Kokoschka created the painting after she concluded the relationship. It's strange that this information surfaced after listening to the music.

The weather in New York is in flux again, so I wore a light jacket and my favorite pashmina to the concert. The Hall was warm and I placed the pashmina beside my seat near the ticket taker. This was the last time I saw it.

The shawl has accompanied me around the world, and it is unlikely we will be reunited. I'm surprised that a Lincoln Center symphony patron didn't take it to lost and found. Another stereotype shattered.

I walked home significantly cooler. I suppose this was karmic retribution for laughing at the percussionists.

The Poo Guardian

It is a beautiful Easter day in New York City. I took advantage of the warm weather to take a long walk along Hudson River Park.

When I got to the 50s, I decided to go to Westerly to pick up a bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap. It is always on sale at this store.

I walked down a residential street and noticed a young girl watching me closely. She appeared to be anticipating the moment when I would walk by her. She wore a pink and purple striped dress and had ribbons in her hair. It is likely that she just got out of church because she was standing before one.

As I got closer to her I saw that she was straddling a pile of poo. She waved her hands at me. Then she pointed down at the pile with both hands. She said some type of warning but I had difficulty understanding her. It was clear she relished this job. She wore a big smile on her excited face.

I walked down the same street on the way back, but she was gone. I had to step carefully without her guidance.

Along the park path a rollerblader cracked a whip as he passed me. I'm not sure why he needed to carry or crack a whip while rollerblading.

A friend sent a Tweet about seeing a woman in Central Park walking a young goat on a leash.

Who needs the amusements of Disneyland when they can walk the streets of New York City?

Monkey Slap

There are some people with whom I establish a connection in an instant.

This doesn't happen often, but when it does it is a marvelous event.

I met my Macy's manager friend through a former work colleague. They are room mates. Upon introduction the manager invited me to participate in the Macy's parade.

Participating in that parade was a lifelong ambition. He had me at hello.

Although we get along very well, I haven't seen him in several months.

I was delighted when called me yesterday. He wants to visit to India and was seeking travel tips. Talking about India is one of my favorite things.

Within half an hour we were seated at dinner together.

I gave him the basic advice, some guidebooks, and far too many travel stories -- some of which included monkeys. He grew excited. He loves monkeys!

He told me that he had a pet monkey when he was a teenager growing up in Mexico City. Monkeys are adorable but, he warned ominously, they are also wily.

He relayed a story about working at a restaurant in Mexico City that kept caged monkeys.

One day the monkeys made coy faces at him. "They acted like coquettes!" he told me while imitating their pin-up style facial expressions and poses. They were so cute he moved closer to get a better look at them.

When he was near enough to the cage, a monkey's paw grabbed his hair roughly and pulled him up against the bars. My friend was eating candy. The monkey slapped his face and took his candy!

"They played me, Darling!"

I laughed until I cried.

Falling

I reconnected with a former work colleague recently who I really like, and we made a plan to meet for lunch.

My stubborn inability to estimate the time to do something nabbed me again. As I walked the 13 blocks to the diner, I realized I would not make the appointment in time. I marveled that I was able to transverse the same 13 blocks plus 3 long avenues the night before in about the same amount of time I allotted to go only 13 blocks, shook my head, and began jogging to get there faster.

Somehow I tripped and fell. I don't know whether I tripped on my own feet or broken sidewalk. It is strange because I am hyper aware of everything else about this fall which seemed to take place in slow motion.

I recall initially attempting to shift my weight to avoid falling. It seemed for a micro-moment as if I would recover. But then I continued to fall forward until I slammed into the pavement.

As my knee hit the sidewalk, my heart sunk. My knees have been causing me some pain for the past several years. It is essential that they work so I can dance. My movements have already been compromised by minor knee pain. A chiropractor told me there is little that can be done to make them better.

This was likely to ruin my knee and further curb my ability to dance.

A woman came over to help me get up. I wanted to get up on my own just to assess the damage. She told me I was bleeding on my chin.

My last INR test had been very high. In fact, it was one percentage point away from dangerous. As a result, I was warned to avoid falling or hitting my head.

My hands felt numb, and I was nervous that this indicated a bad ramification of falling with very thin blood. I wanted to phone my insurance company's nurse hot line to get advice, but my hands felt like mittens and I couldn't grasp (let alone dial) my phone.

People stared at me as I hobbled to the diner. My purse strap was broken, my sweater was torn, and my chin was bleeding. I was on the verge of tears. I must have looked startled and deranged.

I met my friend and tried not to cry. It is unclear why I was so weepy. By this point I wasn't in that much pain. Maybe it had something to do with feeling fragile. This has been a very difficult year, and I can't absorb another problem.

People at the diner stared at me. I got the sense the staff did not want me to stay. There are strong taboos about blood in the age of AIDs and Hepatitis. Perhaps my bleeding chin made them nervous. It bled for the next hour.

This experience tapped into some notions about my unemployment that simmer at the back of my mind. Although my status is involuntary and I am seeking work, I feel guilty about not working. I sense that others think I am to blame for losing my job. A laid off worker is unwanted. For whatever reason the employer rejected me rather than the person sitting next to me.

It may be my own perception rather than a real phenomenon, but being an unemployed person during the Great Recession feels radioactive. It makes others uncomfortable to be around a person who has lost their job.

It is as if unemployment is the plague. People are afraid they will be next to get a pink slip. They want to avoid those who have succumbed and mingle with the strong.

Others simply don't know how to respond. Everyone knows those who have lost their jobs are unlikely to get employment. If they do, it is probably going to be for a lesser position with a substantial pay cut. Its difficult to be around someone facing such prospects. There is little one can do to help.

As unemployment drags on, I find it more difficult to socialize. I feel like a poor kid with my face pressed against the glass of the candy display case. It seems inconceivable that other people get candy. I feel isolated, depressed, and scared. It can't be pleasant to be around me.

At the diner I had the physical signs of a fall. My pathetic interior was matched by noticeable external bruises, limping, torn clothes, and bleeding. It was as if the fears I harbor as an unemployed person were on display. I resembled a social outcast.

At least I still have health insurance. After lunch, I went to my doctor so he could examine my swollen and stiff knee. You never know where the day will take you. On this day, it was the Columbia Presbyterian radiology department so a technician named Irving could give me an X-ray.

Garbage Murder

There are a lot of rules about disposing of things in New York City.

These procedures promote recycling and help reduce the amount of waste in landfills.

The rules are confusing. Plastic, glass, metal, and paper are recyclable but only under certain conditions. For example, only plastic jugs or bottles are recyclable and cartons for milk are sorted with plastics and metal rather than paper. It takes some time to figure out what to do with each item.

Regardless, I support the effort to separate and dispose of recyclables properly.

I wish I had a dollar for every time I called the Sanitation Department or visited its website to verify the right way to dispose of something. Does a broken thermometer go in glass recycling or trash? Are compact florescent bulbs to go in trash or to the hazardous waste drop off center? The correct way to deal with yogurt containers, old paint cans, expired batteries, a spent can of Lysol, televisions, or a used bottle of insect repellent can be elusive.

It isn't my love of mother Earth that motivates me to sort my garbage perfectly, but a deep-seated fear of inadvertently killing a sanitation worker.

Years ago, I read about the death of a sanitation worker who perished because some moron threw toxic materials into the trash.

I've developed a relationship with the Sanitation Department partly because I'm terrified that I'll extinguish one of its employees by thoughtlessly tossing the wrong item in the garbage bin.

Sanitation workers pay the ultimate price for those who ignored the memo about not mixing bleach and ammonia. Workers feeding trash to their garbage trucks tend to look tough and burly but I regard them as extremely vulnerable despite their strong physiques.

Perhaps I am overly concerned, but I have the impression that many people do not give much regard to the safety of sanitation workers. Attention to trash issues seems to wane between the moment a garbage bag is placed on the curb and the moment it lands at some facility or landfill.

Is one who causes the death of a sanitation worker through ignorance a murderer? So far, I haven't heard anyone else express concern about the ramifications of inadvertent trash death karma. Regardless, I don't want that taint on me.

Knee Apiary

New York had a blizzard three weeks ago. Now summer has arrived. The temperature is in the low 70s. This prompts New Yorkers to wear shorts and tank tops.

My heaviest coat and fur hat are still hanging on the coat rack. All of the sudden I have to confront hair removal for the summer wardrobe.

Other people may accept leg hair on women, but I think it looks ugly and unprofessional.

Razors are off limits due to bleeding risks. Cream depilatories smell awful and don't work very well. However, I can't afford laser therapy, so they are the best option I have.

Since the creams stink and my legs were covered all winter, I let the hair grow. It looked pretty manly below the knee.

I was hoping to avoid leg baring work so soon, but it had to be done if I wanted to shift from corduroy to Capri pants.

I lathered my legs with hair removal cream and waited the maximum length of time allotted before washing it off in the shower. Afterward, there were still unattractive patches of stubborn hair that didn't respond. Experience with these creams last summer led me to expect that result.

What I didn't expect was the intense itch that emerged hours later. This had not happened before.

Both of my knees were red with hives. I didn't have any anti-itch cream in my medicine drawer and it was too late to go to the pharmacy, so I hoped it was a temporary reaction that would go away.

My knees itched all night.

Upon waking I scratched my knees so thoroughly, they tingled and throbbed when I was done. The experience was similar to skin orgasm. Why is scratching an itch so satisfying?

In my superstitious family, two types of itches were associated with particular outcomes. An itchy nose meant someone was coming to visit. When someone had itchy hands it meant they would soon receive money.

I don't recall hearing any sayings about itchy knees.

Since they are covered with hives, I suppose I have bee's knees.

This thought made me smile as I walked to the pharmacy to buy anti-itch cream.

I'm With Stupid

I have phobias: fear of heights, fear of blood, and fear of flying. I hate that I have these unfounded fears. They are irrational and reduce my range of activities.

My unscientific approach to dealing with these phobias is to try to dispel them by engaging in things I fear. Basically, I force myself to do things that scare me.

Yesterday, I walked across the Manhattan Bridge.

It is a pretty bridge with filigree iron work. I've admired its beauty many times while walking across the Brooklyn Bridge and wondered what it looked like up close. I wanted to walk across it but avoided doing so.

The Manhattan Bridge was in great disrepair when I moved to New York. A high official in the public works department told a friend that it was in such dangerous condition he refused to drive across it.

The Manhattan Bridge supports subway and car traffic. According to the official, this was inappropriate use of the bridge. Routine subway crossings cause too much stress on a bridge intended for cars and trolleys. Also, the bridge was designed by the same person responsible for the Tacoma Narrows Bridge, which collapsed 3 months after completion.

The bridge underwent a major renovation during the 00's.

I decided it was time to face my fear and do something new by walking across the bridge.

I walked down to the far east side of Canal Street and found a path leading up to the bridge. There was a sign for bicyclists, so I asked a passing biker whether the path was only for bikes. He said pedestrians use it also and encouraged me to use the path.

I should not have listened to him. Unlike the Brooklyn Bridge, bicycles and pedestrians have separate paths on the Manhattan Bridge.

Bikers angrily rang their bells as they passed me. But by the time this happened, I had crossed one quarter of the bridge (about a quarter of a mile). It was too late to turn back.

When I reached the part of the bridge that begins the span over the water my heart started to pound. The only separation between me and the water approximately twelve stories below was an open iron work banister.

It makes no sense, but open structures such as stairs without risers or steps composed of iron grid work exacerbate my fear of heights. Anything above the second story is too high for me to climb unless a stairway is composed of solid materials.

I averted my eyes from the water and Brooklyn skyline to fix them on the path ahead.

As the subway rumbled and the bridge rocked, I tried to focus on the recent repairs rather than the structural instability associated with the train.

When I reached the middle of the bridge, I noticed that the light was fading quickly. I was on the north side of the bridge, so the bridge cast a shadow on the walkway as the sun went down.

I could see there was a homeless man ahead gesturing to bikers as they went by. It was clear that he did not have a good grasp of his wits, and I wanted to avoid him. But there was nowhere to go except past him.

I was not looking forward to passing him in the dark on a restricted path with scarce bikers.

A jogger passed me, and I started jogging near her so we could pass this person together. I didn't want to turn back. I wanted to get to the other side as quickly as possible.

I started thinking about the many times I have driven under caged overpasses on urban highways at night. I would marvel that anyone would walk on those passageways after dark. They make one so vulnerable because they are poorly lit and there is no alternative exit route.

Here I was in a similar setting but this one was a mile-long, enclosed walkway on a bridge I fear.

I passed the unhinged man about 10 feet behind the jogger. The street lights on the bridge kindled at about this moment. I followed the jogger all the way down to the clover leaf highway at the base of the walkway.

Instead of feeling a sense of accomplishment, I was annoyed with myself.

Why did I place myself in a somewhat precarious situation? I should have researched the location of the pedestrian walkway entrance before getting on the bridge.

Why did I allow myself to get so nervous about a situation that probably was not dangerous? Most likely the jogger took this path routinely. The homeless guy was not in his senses, but he was probably harmless.

It appears that there is more than the phobia in me that is irrational.

Career Composting

It has been uncharacteristically sunny this weekend. But instead of basking in bright light and the warm 40 degree weather, I spent all of my daylight hours in the basement of the Fashion Institute of Technology.

Prior to Saturday morning I had no idea what a Cascading Style Sheet was. Frankly, I was a little nervous about getting through the class with my rather weak computing skills. This sense of doom was exacerbated because I didn't sleep a wink the night before (inexplicable insomnia).

Somewhere in the middle of eight hours devoted to the foreign language of computer programming code I started to feel encouraged.

As the instructor reviewed HTML coding for the rest of the class and introduced it to me, I instantly drew parallels between the code and traditions of manuscript styling.

The bracketed instructions in manuscript share almost the same syntax as HTML and CSS. There is a marker to show where pages, paragraphs, and headings begin and end. Text styling such as boldface, italicizing, and underlining is called inline editing just as it is in print publishing. If I hadn't worked in publishing, the concepts would have been entirely foreign and, in the context of my accelerated academic schedule, probably overwhelming.

I felt relief that something from my former profession could be salvaged and used to bolster my effort to resist erasure. Perhaps I'm not headed to obsolescence after all.

Spray to Forget

My brilliant designer friend has developed a conceptual fragrance called Spray to Forget. It is intended to help the wearer release unwanted memories. It also smells good.

This perfume brings several associations to mind. In a corner of my mind devoted to highbrow literary allusion, I imagine the bottle contains metaphysical Lethe river water. In a lowbrow popular culture mind corner I remember Batman used a sleeping spray to prevent passengers from recalling directions to the Bat Cave.

My friend supplemented income from Armory Show design work by getting a gratis booth, and asked me to volunteer at his booth to help present Spray to Forget. This would be a task involving both performance art and selling.

I tend to be allergic to most perfumes, but thankfully not this one. The project sounded fun. I readily agreed to volunteer.

The Armory Show is New York's behemoth annual art fair. These art fairs take place in almost every major city around the world, such as the Art Basel in Miami, Frieze in London, The Biennale in Venice, and FIAC in Paris.

I've intended to attend the Armory show for years, but its inconvenient location and fairly expensive admission price ($30 this year) made it easy to skip. This was my chance to help my friend, mingle a bit, and finally see the show.

As it turned out, I was scheduled to volunteer on VIP night. Apparently, this was the preview night for collectors and the press.

I enjoyed myself far more than anticipated.

The people watching was amazing. This must have been the point on the planet that day with the highest proportion of underweight 20 year old women wrapped in fur.

It was easy to differentiate the collectors from the press. Rich people who collect art wear beautiful clothes and have airbrushed faces. Everyone else has visible pores and misplaced hair.

It was also interesting to note the power dynamics within the relationships of the mega rich. I saw a pretty, subtly cosmetically-enhanced 60-70 year old woman with an attractive young man in his early to mid 20s. I assumed he was her grandson until I saw him rub her ass with his hand. Of course, the usual pattern of young women paired with older men dominated. I suppose de facto prostitution is seemly once a certain price point is breached.

A trip to the VIP lounge was surreal. Literally every attendee was a VIP, so the lounge was the least exclusionary place within the Armory. It was nearly impossible to move across the room to get a brownie and tea. Navigating the crowd was a full body contact experience. Fortunately, this wasn't the A train. The bodies were well scrubbed, thin, and clad in buttery fibers. It was like stage diving into cashmere.

Regardless of income or class, I enjoyed interacting with the crowd. It was interesting that the older customers seemed to grasp the conceptual art element more readily than younger people who appeared to regard it as a gimmick. The scent is pleasant, so it sold on that merit to the under 35 crowd. The artist came to a different conclusion, but that was my experience.

It was also interesting to note the large proportion of people willing to discuss with a stranger what they wanted to forget. No wonder therapists are so popular.

I discouraged people from confessing the bad memories they wished to release because I didn't want to promulgate the impression that it was a necessary to do so. Some people curious about the product preferred to keep their bad memories under wraps. I didn't want to create a barrier that would prevent them from sampling the scent.

Ironically, the fragrance had some effect on me. We were spraying a lot of it and the booth became a cloud of scent. After a few hours of inhaling it, I became terminally distracted.

In the evening one of the artist's friends came by to say hello. I was told we had met before. Although I have nearly a photographic facial memory I could not recall him.

After watching me interact with the crowd, he and the artist commented on my lack of awareness about men flirting with me. On this and just about any other hour, I do not perceive flirting. It is probably a combination of factors: I don't regard myself as a remarkable physical specimen and I don't pick up on subtle body language. I tend to only notice flirting if it is overt to the point of being comical.

A sad state of affairs, yet it is the state I am in.

The boys decided to help me out by creating a code word: caviar. Each time a man flirted with me, they would use the word so I could concentrate on the mechanics of flirting to learn to identify it.

Under the influence of Spray to Forget, I immediately forgot these instructions.

For the remainder of the night I noticed they mentioned caviar several times, but assumed it was associated with an unusual craving for fish eggs. When the show closed, we headed for dinner. I figured they wanted to go somewhere that served caviar because it had been mentioned repeatedly.

The boys reminded me of the codeword plan. I had failed the fifth grade-era mission to recognize flirting. No wonder I am a late bloomer.

It appears I am doomed to flirting failure.

At least I smell good.

The Recursive Explorer

When I was eleven, I befriended a girl whose father was a professor at Bowdoin College. The former home of Admiral Peary was the faculty housing in which she and her family resided.

As I recall it, the house was a sprawling Victorian labyrinth with strange narrow passages and an octagon-shaped room somewhere in the middle. The structure impressed my young mind. Its eccentricities seemed suited to a man who dared to traverse the Earth's extremities.

In one of the parlors my friend pointed out some of the stuff her family found in the attic when they moved in. There were small glass bottles bearing century-old labels from a local pharmacy, dilapidated wooden snow shoes, and a stereoscope.

Playing with these items was marvelous. Somehow the provenance of these objects led me to plumb the depths of my imagination. It felt like we were stepping into the footsteps of history just by exploring the house and its contents. The situation pushed my mind to take a turn it would not have considered prior to this experience. The extraordinary seemed a little more possible.

Later, I marveled that his effects were strewn in faculty housing rather than locked in a museum. In the United States any historical object with a pedigree is regarded as precious.

My experience in his house engendered an affinity for Admiral Peary. At the time, I understood that he was the second person to reach the North Pole, and I felt a little sorry that he hadn't met his goal of reaching the Pole first.

Strangely, I didn't bother to research Admiral Peary. I suppose I thought my direct experience didn't render further investigation necessary.

Months ago I read a New York Times article about the arctic explorer. It was written around the centennial of Peary's celebrated North Pole voyage, and noted that Peary's claims to have reached the Pole are widely disputed. His rivalry with Frederick Cook now appears unseemly, and his treatment of Inuits unethical. I learned from other sources that he fathered children with very young Inuit women and abandoned both mothers and offspring.

Sometimes concepts I read about incubate in my mind for weeks, months, or years. I suppose I am not bright enough to digest some ideas upon first encounter, so I'm glad that my brain appears to be automatically inclined to gnaw at some notions over time.

The revelations of Peary's fraud led me to ponder whether the objects in my friend's living room really belonged to him at all. Perhaps my memory or cognition is faulty. I may have attributed the objects to Peary because they were found in his house. Although I recall my childhood friend as an earnest girl, perhaps she embellished the truth.

Whether they were genuine historic artifacts or old junk, I wonder about the impact of these objects now that they have been cast in a new light. Interacting with the items made events in the past seem more accessible and deeply intriguing. Would I have been as inspired by them if their story of origin were less interesting?

Would I have bothered to strap on a pair of old snow shoes and march across the living room if those shoes hadn't crossed the North Pole? I remember excitedly telling my parents about wearing Peary's arctic snow shoes. I don't recall that they were impressed. But I know the experience generated in me a heightened sense of possibility because something grand had intersected my meager life.

It's really the authenticity of my interest in the subject matter rather than the provenance of the objects that is at question. If I had known that Admiral Peary was a jerk, would I have shunned these articles? Would I have bothered to figure out how to use the stereoscope of a lesser person? Would I have gained the sense of expansiveness I got from that experience from something else?

The New York Times article explores the phenomenon of people's blind loyalty to either Cook or Peary and relates it to polarized politics. Myopic supporters of the explorers (from 1909 to today) overlook plain facts that make the arctic claims dubious. I regard this academic dispute and current polarized political maneuverings in the context of the endless caucus race from Alice in Wonderland.

After mulling it over, I've decided that the part of this history that matters most is the extraordinary attempt that inspired so many. The journey, particularly at that time, was amazing whether it was the first or hundredth. It's the story that perseveres. In fact, it has branched out and radiated into many stories -- stories about a race, a journey, hardship, grand deception, cultural transgression, abandonment, identity, multiculturalism, and more.

The story is an ember that lights a thousand fires.

Island Living

I'm using some grant money to take NYU continuing education courses at the Woolworth building in the Financial District. This is in a part of the city I rarely visited before now.

When classes began, I was scheduled to participate in my dance school's annual recital at the Tribeca Performing Arts Center. The theater is a few blocks from the school. I was concerned about how I would simultaneously attend a final exam and dress rehearsal the day of the show.

As fate would have it, my dermatologist made the decision. He found dysplasia on my back and it required surgical removal. I couldn't dance with stitches so I missed the show this year.

After class on the day of the recital, I stopped by the dress rehearsal to return costumes to my dance instructor. The stage and the dancers looked amazing. I felt a pang of sadness about not performing. It reminded me that this is the second annual event I missed this year due to health issues.

When I left the theater around 4:45, it was still sunny and reasonably warm. It snowed heavily the day before. I realized I was fairly close to Battery Park and decided to walk home so I could enjoy the snowy scenery as the sun set on the Hudson River. As I walked, I noticed that the sun was setting much later. Lengthening daylight is a small encouragement that spring is approaching.

When I reached 20th Street, I turned right. This is the heart of the Chelsea gallery district. Once again I admonished myself for not going to more gallery openings.

Although I was a bit eager to get home, I was intrigued by what I saw in the window of Jack Shainman's gallery and decided to get a better view. The show consisted of large, shimmering wall hangings made by Ghanaian artist El Anatsui. Each piece was composed of hand-sewn pieces of beverage packaging components, such as metal labels or bottle caps. It is marvelous that such humble materials can be transformed by artists into glorious objects.

I felt inspired.

After a quick change and bite to eat at home, I headed uptown to a former co-worker's birthday gathering at a bar. I was wavering about going. My energy level was as low as my bank account, but he is one of the loveliest people I have known and I wanted to see him. We were laid off around the same time, and he joined me in the Thrill the World dance project and Macy's Day Parade.

As I walked the 20 blocks to the Hell's Kitchen bar, I decided to call a couple of friends who live in that neighborhood to see whether they could join me. It is rare that I go out now, so I thought I should maximize the event.

My designer friend welcomed an opportunity to take an impromptu break from a heinous freelance project, and planned to meet me at the bar.

When I hung up with him, I passed a man dressed late-Elvis style walking out of The New Yorker Hotel. He adopted every Elvis detail from the glasses to the 1970s flared suit. His hair, which may have been a wig, was jet black and perfectly coiffed into a pompadour. He appeared to be about 50 or 60 years old. As he pushed his date into a waiting taxi, I wondered whether he was a fan or had dressed this way for a special occasion.

Regardless, his flamboyance made me smile.

The birthday boy assembled a small group of close friends at the bar. I was surprised and honored to realize I was in the inner circle. I enjoyed meeting and talking with each of these extraordinary people. It was also a special treat to catch up with my designer friend.

Unexpected blessings seem especially likely to happen in New York City, which in my mind, is beginning to resemble a campus. I am fortunate to live in the middle of Manhattan where I am within walking distance of so much, and am able to take full advantage of social networking technology. It also helps that I enjoy walking a mile to meet people or go to an event.

To mention that life is a journey with many unexpected twists and turns is a cliche. It is a cliche for a reason. Most people seem to expect a smooth road.

I grew up in a chaotic environment and am particularly adverse to instability. Unemployment is especially difficult for me to bear. In the past year I've endured a rapid erosion of the financial foundation I built in the expectation of bringing calm and stability to my life.

I've struggled to find another, less depressing interpretation of this experience. The alternative view is that this period of unemployment and uncertainty is a lesson in handling events that are unexpected and unwelcome.

It has also taught me to be receptive to the many pleasant, unexpected things that can happen when you let them.

A window closed today, but a few others opened. I never know where the day may take me. This day reminded me that sometimes that is a good thing.

Compromise

A popular message in American media is the triumph of a unique individual against conformity. This theme is played out in many forms, such as the nerd against the elite clique, the scrappy entrepreneur against the corporation, or the parent who decides to home school.

This year, I had a pulmonary embolism and thereafter entered the uncomfortable world of medical compromises. A medication I used to address hemorrhaging from a fibroid tumor was a contributing factor to the embolism, so I am no longer able to use that medication. Nor am I able to take the medication used to control the pain associated with the condition.

As a result, these serious fibroid-related side effects went untreated and became distressing. I found myself with few options to address the problem and agreed to a surgery that I had refused several years ago.

Relatives in the medical field urged me to see one of my uncle's colleagues for a second opinion. I canceled the surgery (which took several months to schedule) and traveled to Baltimore. The new surgeon considered the procedure far too risky for someone on blood thinners and recommended a progesterone IUD instead.

An IUD is one of the last things I ever imagined acquiring. In my mind they were tied to major gynecological problems. I already have major gynecological problems. Why would I invite Pandora's Box to reside in my womb?

The lack of options to address my problem led me to accept a solution that looks like another problem.

The insertion did not go well. Among other unpleasantries, it involved a shot in the hoo-ha. From that moment on, my body shook throughout the procedure. As I laid supine on the exam table, I imagined running from the room on my buttocks like a cartoon character I saw in Tex Avery's Rock-A-Bye-Bear.

I expected to have cramps during and shortly after the insertion, but I didn't expect them to last for several days. The pain was distracting, and I probably focused on it more than I usually would because I distrust the device that had been inserted into my body. There was very little in the drug literature about persistent cramping, except with regard to lower abdominal pain as an indication of a PID (which is a recognized side effect).

My mother happened to call a couple of days after the procedure, and I ended up confessing to her my distress. Generally, I avoid telling her about any problems because she is incapable of offering sound advice. Her remarks, which tend to reflect poor judgment and her removal from mainstream intelligence (this is someone who doesn't use an ATM, cell phone, or computer), usually are not helpful and tend to result in more frustration. That I told her about the pain, my concerns about the device, and my overall sadness about my life-long struggle with gynecological problems indicates my desperation.

I'm not sure why, but after hanging up with her the idea crossed my mind that I had acted like the conformist derided in the popular American cinematic and literary narrative. Instead of being a Norma Rae or Karen Silkwood who fights for my medical options, I succumbed to a procedure I really didn't want. In fact, I paid a $95 co-pay for it.

As I pondered this idea, I began to realize that the notion of people becoming medical consumers who have control over their care and health costs is deeply flawed. In what realistic scenario am I going to know which tests are necessary, how much they should cost, and which labs charge reasonable fees? In light of my long-term medical odyssey in which I have researched my ailments and current treatments, it is remarkable that I hadn't recognized this before.

It is virtually impossible for anyone other than a medical professional to know the panoply of medical options available to patients, especially when the need for treatment is pressing. Insurance companies tend to not cover experimental treatments, so options are limited by their designations of appropriate treatment. Now my medical options are further narrowed by another medical condition and the medication used to treat it. In fact, the extreme complications raised by these factors led me to surrender to the advice of the best doctor I could find.

It isn't reasonable to expect every person to acquire the expertise of a doctor to address their health needs. I go to a doctor because I am not a doctor.

This line of thinking made me reconsider the American narrative of the rugged individualist fighting the system. In many cases, the likely outcome is that the nerd would be better off avoiding conflict rather than risk getting crushed by those who are stronger, the Norma Rae is a crackpot fighting a lost cause based on faulty arguments, and the home schooling mother is an unqualified educator doing her children a disservice. Perhaps by focusing on the triumph of a maverick the expectations for ethics, collective expertise (such as those that inform medical and insurance decisions), and educational standards have been allowed to plummet.

Being the leader who fights the system is admirable in some situations. But it really shouldn't be the expected default when the system is deeply flawed, especially in a world where companies drop your service or charge a fee when you complain to customer service.

It's a sad fact that sometimes it makes more sense to go along to get along. As a former coworker advised me, there is a time to "put on the rain slicker and let the shit fly.

It was a holiday weekend, so I had to wait a few days to call my doctor. I was in continual pain and discouraged about my options. I looked forward to calling the doctor early on Tuesday morning.

On that day I woke up for the first time since I got the IUD without pain. Suddenly, it was gone.

Later, I called my mother to let her know I felt better.

It amazes me that pain can overshadow my existence for days or weeks. Then, when it lifts, I fail to appreciate adequately the miraculous state of non-pain for more than a day.

A Slow Turning

When I think about myself as a teenager or young adult, I usually cast that recollection as a more ignorant or naive version of someone like myself now. Every once in a while, that perception is challenged.

Today I signed up for web design classes at the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT). As I walked around the building to register and get my student ID, I recalled visiting the campus as a high school student. At that time I was hell bent on going to FIT because I wanted to be a fashion director for a department store.

I am so far from fashionable now, it takes effort to recall that I used to focus on it obsessively. As a high school student I was most likely the sole subscriber to ID and Women's Wear Daily in my suburban Maryland zip code. I grew up in a conservative community where my theatrical 80s fashion risks stood out. Whether it was positive or negative regard, I was considered stylish.

There was only one class in my high school that took a trip outside of the county, and I made sure I got into it. The class went to New York City where I visited the FIT campus and decided it was the place for me. Unfortunately, my parents, who cultivated the expectation that I would pursue tertiary education, declined to provide financial support for me to attend FIT or any other school when the time came for me to apply. So I went to a community college and then transferred to a liberal arts school. It turned out to be a seven year odyssey to earn my tuition and complete my coursework for a degree.

In those seven years, I changed a lot. What I learned changed me, but I was changed most dramatically by financial circumstances. I was poor and couldn't afford clothes, hair cuts, cosmetics, or fashion magazines. I tended to work at two or more jobs simultaneously, so there wasn't time for much primping.

In bitter moments, losing my job has led me reflect a lot on my odyssey and how I valued a college education. At the time, I thought a college degree was my ticket to employment. I made sacrifices with the expectation of future reward.

In the twenty years since I graduated from high school, the world has changed. A college degree is about as meaningful as the high school diploma was when I earned it long ago. I now hold a master's degree and am having difficulty finding a job.

The fact that I have invested approximately $130,000 in education and 20 years in work experience and can't find employment is depressing. But when I think about it, and I rarely do, the circumstance that really saddens me is that I changed in ways I didn't like to accommodate a job market that has failed me. In fact, I changed so much I almost forgot who I was and what my initial ambitions were.

To be clear, I don't feel pangs of longing to be a fashionista. Department stores are fading as quickly as publishing houses, so my career circumstances would be just as dire. My regret is a more diffuse remorse about the choice to pursue a less creative path. That an effort to pursue a career I would have liked was supplanted by an expedient plan to do what I could to pay for school. Instead of shaping my future, my future was shaped for me by my environment.

The fact is, few people have the resources to control the course of their lives.

It was strange to be at FIT today, and to recognize that in an odd way I am realizing a long-dormant ambition to attend school at that institution. Like much of what life offers as one wends their way through circumstances, this ambition is realized in a way that doesn't match my expectations. Yet, I take it as a hopeful sign that things will work out in the end. The result will probably not be exactly as I envisioned it, but the bones of the expectation will be present.