Wednesday, March 31, 2010

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.

Monday, March 29, 2010

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.

Friday, March 19, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

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.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

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.

Thursday, March 4, 2010

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.

Monday, March 1, 2010

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.