Invisible Alternate City

My budget is tiny and the ridiculously high subway fares are killing me ($4.50 for every round trip), so I have been walking farther than I normally would. I enjoy walking. I only perceive it as something like a punishment when the weather is poor or time is short.

In an age of perpetual distraction, it is a bit of a relief to simply walk. I rarely talk on my cell phone or listen to my ipod while walking, so I focus on the surroundings. Yesterday, it occurred to me that the commentary in my head as I walk is mostly an inventory of things that happened to me in the places that I walk past.

For example, as I pass Canal at Broadway I think fondly of the now defunct Bulgarian social club that used to occupy the second floor. I remember dancing in a sweaty frenzy to foreign versions of 80s pop songs, watching Sufis perform, and joining a belly dancer (she beckoned) in her floor show. As I pass Lafayette and White, I once again admire the beautiful home of the Downtown Community Television Center and recall seeing the screening of a friend's film there. Now I can't enter the courthouse at Centre Street without thinking about two more recent events: serving a remarkably pleasant jury duty and arguing an unpleasant Small Claims case.

As I walked, I wondered whether all of this reminiscing is a natural extension of so much walking or a warning that I am living in the past. If I were employed, I wouldn't have such ample opportunity to take these memory tours of Manhattan.

On the other hand, I could be strategizing about the future as I walk. The sad fact is, I don't feel hopeful about the future and I don't know what to do about it. Perhaps that is why I am not oriented towards it. Foolish, but true.

A friend in Washington, DC recently shared a blog devoted to documenting changes in New York. It appears I am not the only one focusing on the past. It doesn't make my fixation excusable, only less unusual.

Elevator Evesdropping

After tonight's dance practice, I shared an elevator with three young men: a tall African-American with dreadlocks and braces; a short latino with athletic bag, gold chain, and baseball cap; and a quiet, lanky African-American with headphones, gold chains, and fancy track suit. They appeared to be about 20 years old.

The outgoing Latino announced to all, "I'm making vegetables and tofu when I get home!"

The tall one looked at him and said, "Is there even a word in Spanish for tofu?"

The Latino smiled, "Nah!"

First, the homeboy look of this young man didn't suggest that he was tofu eater. It was evident from the expression of his friend that he thought the same. Second, as a vegetarian for over 20 years, I immediately recalled the repeated difficulty I had ordering vegetarian dishes at a popular El Salvadorian restaurant years ago. There doesn't appear to be a word for vegetarian in Spanish.

After a pause the Latino confessed, "I'm going home to vegetables and tofu. That's sad!" He shook his head and then said, "Well, I've got two cats." Pause. "I'm going home to vegetable tofu and two cats. That's sad!"

Finally, the quiet one said forlornly, "At least you have two cats. Some people don't have anyone to come home to."

We exited the elevator and all three stood at the entrance holding the door for me, which was super sweet. I was compelled to break the New Yorker's 4th wall and tell them I enjoyed their conversation. The smiled shyly, thanked me, and walked toward apartments with vegetable tofu, cats, or emptiness.

Detox

It's been at least a year and a half since I relinquished my television. It was old and very heavy. I didn't have a place to put it and didn't want to pay to move it, so I let it go.

I am not a devoted television viewer. There have been shows that I liked to watch, but television isn't important to me.

Antennas don't work well in New York, so it is difficult to get any reception without cable. Regardless, I am amazed that most people spend a minimum of $40 a month to watch television.

So, it was a little perplexing to find myself avidly following Conan O'Brien's split from NBC. I read every New York Times article about it, and even watched numerous highlights from the final shows on You Tube.

Very little bores me, but I consider Jay Leno boring. His shtick might have been edgy in the days of Lawrence Welk; it is embarrassingly unfunny now. I am not a great fan of Conan, but his sense of humor is far move relevant than Leno's. Besides, Leno's new show bombed.

Therefore, NBC's decision to pay Conan to go away so Leno could take his spot seemed bizarre.

It wasn't until I was viewing the final show that I realized Conan's situation was similar to a lay off. Sure, he was paid handsomely to go away, but he was forced out and publicly humiliated like the rest of us cashing unemployment checks.

It was cathartic to watch him rant about NBC and his ill treatment. Many viewers probably lived revenge fantasies vicariously through Conan as he complained about his soon-to-be-ex-employer to a huge audience and performed skits in which he pretended to waste NBC's money flagrantly.

His severance package is enough to last him several lifetimes. I am using my nest egg to pay for rent, health insurance, and groceries. So, there is little similarity in our positions. Yet I appreciate that his situation highlighted another dumb decision by a big US corporation. How can anyone defend the notion of self-correcting capitalism when high-paid executives are making poor decisions repeatedly?

NBC's split agreement prohibited Conan from hosting a television show for 8 months. Network TV's audience is being leached away by the internet. Are TV executives the last people to understand that television needs to move to the internet to survive? The same cable companies carrying television signals also supply broadband internet service. It's flowing through the same hardware. When Katie Couric's interviewed Sarah Palin in September 2008, more people saw it on You Tube than CBS.

It seems to me that Conan could cause more "damage" to Leno/NBC by hosting an internet-based show rather than a television show. The average person knows television is not going to regain market share in its present format, but the big bosses at the networks seem unaware of it and chose to bet tens of millions of dollars that a has-been like Leno is going to lure viewers.

It's another indicator of the type of poor decision making that has lead to the topsy-turvy economic situation in this country.

Gift Violence

Christmas is a complicated holiday for me. My family isn't religious. The holiday is a tradition with little meaning.

For reasons I don't understand, my mother has high expectations of what Christmas is supposed to entail. In addition to desired material goods, there is a vision before her about familial happiness that includes a specific setting and script. For example, she wants us to gather around and bake cookies, but to do so in a fabulous house we don't inhabit, while listening to certain music, wearing particular clothes, using exact ingredients, at the moment she wants it done, the way she wants it done, and without any scheduling or instruction.

I suspect a lot of people may carry similar ideas of an ideal holiday in their minds. It is composed of media images that have been generated over decades. Most likely, this ideal is kept in the back of the mind. There isn't anticipation that it will be realized.

My mother packs so much emotional emphasis in this holiday and raises her notions of success for it so high that it inevitably results in unmet expectations and despair. I dread it every year, and especially this year.

It is a conundrum. I don't want to visit my mother at Christmas for this reason but if I don't visit it is very hurtful to her.

Of course, this year, everything is compounded. My very being is a failure in this context. In addition to the usual disappointment that I am unmarried and childless, I have been out of work for nine months. I made gifts for my family members, but they seem inadequate.

In my family, the holiday invites a continual comparison to our extended family. My mother's sisters are significantly better off than my mother in all of the ways that matter to my mother: they have comfortable homes, married children, grandchildren, and ample incomes. This disparity is ever present but never discussed.

Although I appreciate my family's good intentions and concern, it is sometimes humiliating to receive their gifts. One aunt informed me that she continues to give me and my sister gifts because we are the only cousins who remain unmarried. She also asked me not to open her gifts in front of my uncle because she didn't want him to know that she spent money on me.

There usually is a one on one discussion about my mother and sister with my aunts or cousins, and they readily acknowledge that I am not to blame for the behavior of my mother or sister. However, I sense that I am blamed for my current jobless situation. That I insist on living in an expensive city instead of living in the area in which I grew up. That my expectations exceed what I deserve. There is disapproval.

It is painful to be placed in such circumstances. It is stressful to be a charity recipient who is expected to feel grateful for gifts laced with resentment.

I suspect the situation is awkward all around. No one wishes for relations like my mother and sister and now me. It must be irritating to have family that is doing poorly and to feel obligated to help them.

When I consider the religious meaning of the holiday, all of the baggage surrounding it seems absurd. I recall discussing it with my grandfather shortly before he died. He was disappointed by his daughters' emphasis on the material aspects of the holiday. The day after our conversation took place he was expected to travel to a granddaughter's house to watch great-grandchildren open presents and he resented it. All of the wrangling over gifts annoyed him.

During the depression family members exchanged a few gifts if they had money, but the aspect of the holiday they most enjoyed was eating a good meal together. He wished to do away with the presents and just savor the feast.

I quite agree with him.

Constant and Variable

A friend took me to see "In the Next Room (or the vibrator play)," which is set in the late 1800s. Much of the play is about blindness and perception with regard to science, medicine, and social progress. The main characters are two couples, a cold scientist married to an engaging woman who seeks greater intimacy with her husband and a depressed (and possibly lesbian) woman married to a man frustrated by her behavior.

The scientist treats the depressed woman's hysteria with an electronic vibrator to produce a paroxysm (orgasm). The women are inspired to explore their sensuality, but the "rational" men around them seem baffled by the women's "erratic" behavior. All are fairly clueless about female sexuality, but the men are unique in their simultaneous arrogance and ignorance.

At one point in the play, a character marvels about the constancy of electric light compared to flickering candles. Electricity made a treatment available but the condition was misidentified. Ironically, the condition did not require a technical solution. The characters populate a world that has recently become brightly illuminated yet they continue to lack insight.

I suppose in a world that lacked consistent, bright light, the elation about obtaining this technology overshadowed the appeal of other types of light.

Candles are dim and flicker, and these qualities are admirable in certain circumstances. Flickering is comparable to variations or imperfections in paint application, pottery, fabric, wood, brickwork, or plaster. I enjoy flickering as I enjoy the occasional pop or crackle in a vinyl record or nutty grains in bread. I regard flickering as a light texture.

Uniformity is unappealing. I can immediately recognize CGI technology in films because it is too uniform. When it is used within the premise of replicating something real, it fails. Real things are variegated. While I acknowledge the superiority of modern recordings, their slickness invites boredom. The sound of vinyl is richer, as brown bread is richer than white bread.

I recently saw a film in which a character sang about the Moon's phases. He cautioned that a Moon that isn't full only appears partial. The Moon is always complete, it is only our perception of it that makes it appear incomplete.

This sentiment struck me as hopeful. Things often are not what they seem to be. There is an alternative view that may make more sense. Just as, when it is dark, the Moon reminds us that the Sun still shines somewhere else.

Dim and Bright Beacons

It may sound pretentious, but I often think about a section in Walden in which Thoreau discusses intentionally becoming lost or losing his beacons. Like Thoreau, I acknowledge the trepidation in this event, but also the benefit. Sometimes I think time is slowly erasing my beacons without my awareness of their disappearance.

I have an artist friend who has become more of an acquaintance over the past few years. She has introduced me to many of her friends. It is slightly ironic that I have strengthened friendships with the several women I met through her while our relationship has waned.

This artist has set an agenda for herself and works diligently. It is clear that she has chosen to pursue her art career rather than friendships. I admire her resolve and do not feel slighted by her decision.

When I hear from her, it is usually through an email about a show in which she is participating. Usually, her shows are located outside of Manhattan and I am working. But this week, she had a show in Nolita.

Yesterday, I met a designer friend to attend her show. He is a lovely person with a unique perspective, and I treasure our conversations.

Unfortunately, there was someone in the gallery who had treated him badly in the past. He did not want to go inside.

I understood his reluctance to see this person. I quickly saw the show and said hello to the artist. It was a very good show, and I would have lingered further under different circumstances. I felt the tug of respecting the decorum of the gallery visit and the needs of my friend.

The designer was hungry. We walked to a pizza place so he could get a slice to go. As we walked, we noticed another art opening that looked promising. He finished his slice outside while I went inside to see whether the work on display was by Chris Roberts-Antieau, an artist I discovered at the American Visionary Arts Museum this summer. It was.

As I stood in front of a piece I admired, I noticed another artist standing behind me. It was Marie Roberts, who is a favorite painter and an acquaintance. It was a pleasant surprise to see her. I introduced her to my friend, who presented her with an "optimism" button that she really liked.

The designer and I wandered into a couple more galleries before heading home. He confessed to me that he is in a relationship, and I am delighted on his behalf. He is a wonderful person who deserves a good partner.

It is interesting how events can wend over years or an evening. It was a night of thwarted intentions and welcome unintended events.

What Happened Was

A Rube Goldberg, mid-life version of losing my retainer:

A nail slid out of the wall.

The "Don't be Bitter Use More Glitter" picture fell on the dish holding the retainer case.

The dish flipped into the sink.

The retainer case bounced and flew across the room.

The case opened and part of it fell into the toilet and part of it fell on the floor.

At least I didn't have to go through all of the trash in the lunch room to find it. Nor did I have to endure a lecture from angry parents.