Mon - April 10, 2006
nyj75: missing the grease after all
Tonight my roommate and I swapped car
stories. Although we both like healthy food and our glasses of wine, we couldn't
have more opposite approaches to cars. She'd own a nice black Mercedes with
leather seats, I dream of an apple green Volvo with stick-shift, plaid seats and
good stereo. She hated everything having to do with maintenance, while I still
boast about changing my brakes, oil, and other fluids. As I told her, I'm into
things that guys like — beer, classic rock and car repairs — just
not in a tomboy way. Something about the bonding it made for with guy friends, I
guess.
And hearing a favorite Allman Brothers song
tonight — "Ain't Wasting Time No More," that life came back to me. Times
like this, I miss it: the warmth of an autumn evening in Tempe, the space of the
suburbs, and sprawling out on my friend's driveway to fix the Eunuch (aka, my
death-trap Geo). It wasn't an exciting life, but man it had its
moments.
I spose I'll someday think the same of this life — missing, perhaps, the glorious sunlight of my bedroom in the morning, or those days of making cell phone calls on the fire escape to snag what fragile signal I could find. I might miss the warm red brick of the wall in the living room, or laugh about the photo shoots shot and attempted in this tiny, snug Park Slope shoe box.
I wonder: are such moments of contentment the vast majority or just glancing rays of joy we too often sleep through because of working till 8 a.m. again?
I spose I'll someday think the same of this life — missing, perhaps, the glorious sunlight of my bedroom in the morning, or those days of making cell phone calls on the fire escape to snag what fragile signal I could find. I might miss the warm red brick of the wall in the living room, or laugh about the photo shoots shot and attempted in this tiny, snug Park Slope shoe box.
I wonder: are such moments of contentment the vast majority or just glancing rays of joy we too often sleep through because of working till 8 a.m. again?
posted @ 10:21 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Sat - April 1, 2006
nyj74: wistful now, no foolin'
You know those scenes in movies where they
pull away from a character, and let you see them sitting or riding or living
somehow, but
thinking,
more than anything? I'm in one of those places now. Wistful sequence of tunes
tonight, thanks to iTunes and the random
mode:
Nina Simone, "I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl"
Robert Cray, "Right Next Door (Because of Me)"
Harry Connick Jr. "Do You Know (What It's like to Miss New Orleans)"
Nina Simone, "I Want a Little Sugar in my Bowl"
Robert Cray, "Right Next Door (Because of Me)"
Harry Connick Jr. "Do You Know (What It's like to Miss New Orleans)"
I guess they all touch on that place between
sheer misery, and life working out how you want to. A place closer to happiness,
really, but felt in those moments when it's still so your soul can feel all the
falling-short alongside the pretty-good ... and somehow be content. Tonight I
think it's because I finally ate after spending most of the day with scant food
besides two lattes. My body hits this panic sometimes, when I don't eat right
and the fridge and cupboards are little help. I don't even really know it,
fully, till I finally eat and feel the calm ebb through my system as the food
starts to digest. We're gonna make it after
all. We're not die ... tonight.
When I used to live in Phoenix, such moments sometimes hit while flying down the freeway in the dark, in my little red death-trap Geo, all the lights of the city to right or left (depending on whether I was coming or going from friends and plans that night). There was a strange sense of peace in the space and the speed and the fragility of life unpierced despite the uncertain future. We're gonna make it home or there or wherever after all. We're not gonna die in this car ... tonight.
The funny thing is, if I ever marry, I'm sure there will be nights when instead of feeling the wistful space inside I usually do, I'll miss those wistful moments all alone with my belly now calmed or then in my car! Those days before kids and a life where you can't just check out or slack off or sleep in because you feel like it — 'cause you can't now.
But one thing will stay constant, I think: my joy at hearing songs like "Come By Me." And that's a good thing. Perhaps it's something like Paul's claim in Philippians that he had learned to be content in plenty and in want: I've learned to love the music both in solitude and company. Whether sharing my joy with God or the children I still hope I'll have, I can rejoice in this life I live moment by moment. (Not to say I'm happy about the big, leggy bug I just failed to squash on my floor ... but peaceful for the most part.)
When I used to live in Phoenix, such moments sometimes hit while flying down the freeway in the dark, in my little red death-trap Geo, all the lights of the city to right or left (depending on whether I was coming or going from friends and plans that night). There was a strange sense of peace in the space and the speed and the fragility of life unpierced despite the uncertain future. We're gonna make it home or there or wherever after all. We're not gonna die in this car ... tonight.
The funny thing is, if I ever marry, I'm sure there will be nights when instead of feeling the wistful space inside I usually do, I'll miss those wistful moments all alone with my belly now calmed or then in my car! Those days before kids and a life where you can't just check out or slack off or sleep in because you feel like it — 'cause you can't now.
But one thing will stay constant, I think: my joy at hearing songs like "Come By Me." And that's a good thing. Perhaps it's something like Paul's claim in Philippians that he had learned to be content in plenty and in want: I've learned to love the music both in solitude and company. Whether sharing my joy with God or the children I still hope I'll have, I can rejoice in this life I live moment by moment. (Not to say I'm happy about the big, leggy bug I just failed to squash on my floor ... but peaceful for the most part.)
posted @ 09:13 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Sat - February 18, 2006
Stationary dork
Email sent to
Ikea.
This isn't a question, actually, but some feedback I wanted to pass along in case you could somehow see that it gets back to the designer. I thought he/she might like to know.
So, last December I picked up a few packs of the IKEA PS JÄMSHÖG stationary on clearance at Ikea Tempe (sadly it was still full-price at my local store when I went back for more). My sister just deployed to Iraq, so I decided to buy enough of the cards that I can mail her one each week, for the whole deployment. Not only do I think the cards are incredibly beautiful and texturally complex in a wonderfully satisfying way (which excitement I love sending people), but they make a great "signature" for my correspondence to her. It makes me happy to know that each week when she gets a letter from me, she'll know who it's from as soon as she sees the envelope.
This isn't a question, actually, but some feedback I wanted to pass along in case you could somehow see that it gets back to the designer. I thought he/she might like to know.
So, last December I picked up a few packs of the IKEA PS JÄMSHÖG stationary on clearance at Ikea Tempe (sadly it was still full-price at my local store when I went back for more). My sister just deployed to Iraq, so I decided to buy enough of the cards that I can mail her one each week, for the whole deployment. Not only do I think the cards are incredibly beautiful and texturally complex in a wonderfully satisfying way (which excitement I love sending people), but they make a great "signature" for my correspondence to her. It makes me happy to know that each week when she gets a letter from me, she'll know who it's from as soon as she sees the envelope.
Thanks for consistently providing such
marvelous stationary, at such affordable prices! I still thrill at the
gold-flecked, cinnamon-scented blank Christmas cards I found at Ikea Singapore
several years back. Those were the best cards EVER. I doubt I'll ever find cards
with that much tactile, sensory delight again, but it's a nice memory. :) I'm
sending the last one I have to my sister, as her Chinese New Year/Valentine's
day card.
posted @ 04:46 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Tue - February 7, 2006
nyj73: 2005 wrap-up
I realize it's a bit late to be sending New
Year's letters, but as Sis and I were engulfed in a crowd of Chinese New Year
celebrants on our D-train last Sunday, I'm gonna sneak this in anyhow. Gotta
live up to my childhood nickname of "Last-minute Lucy" sometimes, right? ;) At
least I can blame the delay on work this year. What a reversal of fortunes I've
seen! Last winter, things got so grim my church paid the rent and my cell phone
bill one month, and gave me gift cards for groceries. At the time all I could
think about was moving west, though I hardly had funds to do
so.
In retrospect, it's almost as if that very commitment to stubborn escapism was the main thing holding up the blessings God had in store. As soon as I chose to forestall that dream, things started to change dramatically. By early summer I had an agent for my memoir, interest from Random House, and publicity in a major national magazine. When I turned 27 in July, life revolved around four basic unknowns — teaching, boy, book, work — which all resolved themselves within months, if not weeks.
In retrospect, it's almost as if that very commitment to stubborn escapism was the main thing holding up the blessings God had in store. As soon as I chose to forestall that dream, things started to change dramatically. By early summer I had an agent for my memoir, interest from Random House, and publicity in a major national magazine. When I turned 27 in July, life revolved around four basic unknowns — teaching, boy, book, work — which all resolved themselves within months, if not weeks.
teaching/work:
In August, I completed GRE teacher certification and was placed in a class that
concluded in September. As it turned out, this was just the experience I needed
for a major freelance, now permanent part-time, position that came along around
the same time. I haven't taught since, but I now work 20 hours/week (or close to
it), developing ACT/college-prep curriculum and related materials. Never could I
have created such a perfect next job — one that builds on both my
editorial and teaching experience in challenging, satisfying ways. If that
weren't enough, in October I picked up another project, doing technical writing
and editing for a major freelance client — a great opportunity that ended
a couple weeks ago when their budget ran out. Which means my hand (and
income-tax savings) have now been emptied ... but who's to say what God will
shortly fill it with? If there's one thing I've learned in this New York
adventure, it's that the adequacy of God's provision has nothing to do with much
advance warning I
have.
book/boy: Although I'm still uninsured, the timing and nature of my work this year could not have been better suited to the book deal finalized in early September. Manuscript is due July 1, so most days now begin with a solid stretch writing before I dive into the monthly bill-paying freelance work. Things with the boy did not work out ... the way I planned, anyway ... but I'm handling that far better than expected. I'd started to think God could never free me from what had become an enslaving idolatry of sex/marriage/family — but I thought the same thing seven-ten years ago about my weight. In both cases I've been proved wrong about God's capacity to heal and chasten. In the last three-four months, I've begun to find, for the first time in my life, a growing sense of purpose and direction that has neither to do with hoped-for relationships nor work. Marriage or not-marriage, book and post-book: all can be equally subsumed to this new sense of direction, which is contingent on nothing except my willingness to serve God and others instead of myself. Case(s) in point ...
action point 1: Thanks to the book deal, I'm thrilled to be partnering with my friends Tremolo on the benevolent fund they started with profits from their record, Love is the Greatest Revenge. Last August Tremolo launched an online forum for fans to suggest and discuss the causes they care about most, one of which gets our money. Last month we winnowed the list down to the top five, and officially "opened" the voting booth for our first fund payout. UPDATE: Voting is now closed, but thanks to all who "spoke up." It was a very tight race, the winner prevailing but only .5%, but our 2005 proceeds will go to Free the Slaves. Stay tuned for first-quarter 2006 voting, in a bit.
action point 2: Some of you may remember the Cosmo party I won, from which half the budget went to a needy Louisiana school. Recently I learned the same school has a very under-supplied art program. If any of you are interested in donating new or used supplies, let me know. Some old photo supplies I recently sent were very gratefully received, and since then I've been trying to pass the word to everyone I know about that need.
Thanks for the love, prayers, support and friendship so many of you have offered in this last year. Much of its richness truly owes to the companions I'm blessed to have on this strange and challenging journey. The deeper in I go, the more I'm pulled out of my selfishness, into the starkness and grimness of life. And yet, at the same time, I see the beauty of God more than ever before. Thanks to all those who've helped remove the scales that blind me to both the reality and the beauty.
book/boy: Although I'm still uninsured, the timing and nature of my work this year could not have been better suited to the book deal finalized in early September. Manuscript is due July 1, so most days now begin with a solid stretch writing before I dive into the monthly bill-paying freelance work. Things with the boy did not work out ... the way I planned, anyway ... but I'm handling that far better than expected. I'd started to think God could never free me from what had become an enslaving idolatry of sex/marriage/family — but I thought the same thing seven-ten years ago about my weight. In both cases I've been proved wrong about God's capacity to heal and chasten. In the last three-four months, I've begun to find, for the first time in my life, a growing sense of purpose and direction that has neither to do with hoped-for relationships nor work. Marriage or not-marriage, book and post-book: all can be equally subsumed to this new sense of direction, which is contingent on nothing except my willingness to serve God and others instead of myself. Case(s) in point ...
action point 1: Thanks to the book deal, I'm thrilled to be partnering with my friends Tremolo on the benevolent fund they started with profits from their record, Love is the Greatest Revenge. Last August Tremolo launched an online forum for fans to suggest and discuss the causes they care about most, one of which gets our money. Last month we winnowed the list down to the top five, and officially "opened" the voting booth for our first fund payout. UPDATE: Voting is now closed, but thanks to all who "spoke up." It was a very tight race, the winner prevailing but only .5%, but our 2005 proceeds will go to Free the Slaves. Stay tuned for first-quarter 2006 voting, in a bit.
action point 2: Some of you may remember the Cosmo party I won, from which half the budget went to a needy Louisiana school. Recently I learned the same school has a very under-supplied art program. If any of you are interested in donating new or used supplies, let me know. Some old photo supplies I recently sent were very gratefully received, and since then I've been trying to pass the word to everyone I know about that need.
Thanks for the love, prayers, support and friendship so many of you have offered in this last year. Much of its richness truly owes to the companions I'm blessed to have on this strange and challenging journey. The deeper in I go, the more I'm pulled out of my selfishness, into the starkness and grimness of life. And yet, at the same time, I see the beauty of God more than ever before. Thanks to all those who've helped remove the scales that blind me to both the reality and the beauty.
posted @ 04:53 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Thu - January 26, 2006
music theory, pt. 2
“Jazz, at its best, can be the perfect
combination of brains and romanticism.”
— response to the
rehearsal for a big-band concert rained out at Bryant Park, July 6,
2005.
posted @ 01:11 AM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Sun - November 27, 2005
reflections on project
Berkeley was the first time I committed
myself wholly to God's use and service for a period of time; the first time I
really participated in seeking first His kingdom in some sense. Maybe it was one
of the first, important times of stepping out into my calling.
—book-of-moments
entry
posted @ 01:16 AM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Wed - November 16, 2005
nyj72: recovering from a hit of ole suburbia
Ventured down Texas way, this last weekend.
Mission: get away from the chaos that is my life and have a newly relocated
friend shoot my author photo. I haven’t taken a trip like that in a while.
It took me back to another trip to Dallas, that one to see a cousin married.
I’d just finished my freshman year of college and barely could have
identified my insides if you’d introduced us on the street. It took
answering the oft-repeated question, “How was your first year?” for
me to realize that, actually, it had sucked. A lot. In fact, when I got on that
plane out of Dallas, a great black hole of misery opened up as I realized I was
flying back Des Moines way. And at summer’s end ... headed back to the
tiny little one-silver-screen town where my school
was.
If I expected similar drama this time, it’s delayed so far. No misery on my late-night flight — just gratitude. After speeding past endless semis up the 35 north to Dallas (I’d been in Austin for a spell), I finally had to stop for gas. Alas, I chose the exit that led not to some ubiquitous Texas oil but the “Victory Way” to their convention center. And I was already tight on time for returning my car and checking in for my flight! Twenty minutes later, the downtown nearly had its victory as more wrong turns after further bad directions threatened to induce panic. But I couldn’t cry! I was wearing five times the normal makeup, vestige from the morning photo shoot that put me in this time squeeze. God only knew what sort of horrible rainbow-colored tracks such panicked tears would leave. (This is the genius of the female mind: a ravaged face creates more angst than missing a flight.)
If I expected similar drama this time, it’s delayed so far. No misery on my late-night flight — just gratitude. After speeding past endless semis up the 35 north to Dallas (I’d been in Austin for a spell), I finally had to stop for gas. Alas, I chose the exit that led not to some ubiquitous Texas oil but the “Victory Way” to their convention center. And I was already tight on time for returning my car and checking in for my flight! Twenty minutes later, the downtown nearly had its victory as more wrong turns after further bad directions threatened to induce panic. But I couldn’t cry! I was wearing five times the normal makeup, vestige from the morning photo shoot that put me in this time squeeze. God only knew what sort of horrible rainbow-colored tracks such panicked tears would leave. (This is the genius of the female mind: a ravaged face creates more angst than missing a flight.)
At last the woman outside some swank affair
with valet parking knew of a gas station up the road. The gas was even
cheap!
But this was not the end of my woes, oh no. When I finally reached the rental
car return, I couldn’t find the entrance for Enterprise. Made one full
circle of the sprawling garage then finally wound up where I started. Not a
pleasing development when it’s after 8 p.m. and your flight leaves at ten
to 9! On my second loop, I saw that Enterprise was the
first
gate, wouldn’t you know. Collected my things, caught the bus for the C
gate, then made the dash to the ticket
counter.
“Is it too late to check in for the 8:55 to New York?” The man calmly took my ID and printed a boarding pass, then told me I’d have to hurry: my flight was leaving from the D terminal! So much for TV monitor guidance. “But I thought it was C17!”
He shrugged. “Gate change. These things happen.”
At least the line at security was blessedly short. No one blinked an eye at the woman toting not three but four carry-ons (at LaGuardia, she wouldn’t let me queue up for the luggage scan till I crammed bag #3 in my purse). Shoved my sneakers back on, made the dash to the SkyTrain, started nibbling an apple, then sprinted down the escalator to my gate. Never has a crowd of people been such a welcome sight. As hoped, the flight was delayed some 10-15 minutes. Not only had did I have time to wet my now-parched palate (panic seems to devour internal fluids), I even got to finish eating my apple. As a final boon, my seatmate on the flight turned out to be going home to Park Slope just like me, so we split the cost of Brooklyn cab fare (at 1 a.m., the subway could have taken nearly two hours).
Once home I was energized enough to stow all the loot from my fabulous foray into suburbia. Bargains unparalleled out there. Got a swank suede jacket from St. Vincent, only $18.50. Stocked up on stationary, a spicy giant candle and deeply discounted perfume at T.J. Maxx. Bought cute, cheap “junior” shirts at Ross.
I realize that I miss those mainstream treasure hunts. And the freedom of a car is rather intoxicating. Drive-through Starbucks! CD players and cup storage! Trunk and passenger space that’s probably bigger than all my Brooklyn storage combined. The last time I left Dallas, I knew I couldn’t face the small town. This time, I’m not sure how long I can put up with the city. I practically froth at the mouth over spaces my friends outside New York call home. Even for those paying California rent, at least it typically covers a spacious pad, a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. Sometimes even a washing machine. Those other places sell liquor and wine in the grocery store — at chains like Trader Joe’s and good ole Safeway (where they will not hassle you for returning milk that spoiled before the due date).
It’s hard not to see some patterns in life repeating themselves. This season in life feels so much like my last year in Arizona — which I spent working on my thesis. Only this time when I finish writing, I get a pile of money instead of the pile of debt that I came into at graduation. Money that just might help finance a move to someplace slightly less urban than here. We shall see. A move is not the same when you’re nearing 30, and you no longer make it fueled by excitement at all the new men you could meet in your new town. My life has rarely had long-term permanence, but this time I’d like to move to someplace I could settle for longer — not the in-between place I always thought New York would be. The only question, really, is can I give back to this city in nine or so months in proportion to what I have taken from it?
“Is it too late to check in for the 8:55 to New York?” The man calmly took my ID and printed a boarding pass, then told me I’d have to hurry: my flight was leaving from the D terminal! So much for TV monitor guidance. “But I thought it was C17!”
He shrugged. “Gate change. These things happen.”
At least the line at security was blessedly short. No one blinked an eye at the woman toting not three but four carry-ons (at LaGuardia, she wouldn’t let me queue up for the luggage scan till I crammed bag #3 in my purse). Shoved my sneakers back on, made the dash to the SkyTrain, started nibbling an apple, then sprinted down the escalator to my gate. Never has a crowd of people been such a welcome sight. As hoped, the flight was delayed some 10-15 minutes. Not only had did I have time to wet my now-parched palate (panic seems to devour internal fluids), I even got to finish eating my apple. As a final boon, my seatmate on the flight turned out to be going home to Park Slope just like me, so we split the cost of Brooklyn cab fare (at 1 a.m., the subway could have taken nearly two hours).
Once home I was energized enough to stow all the loot from my fabulous foray into suburbia. Bargains unparalleled out there. Got a swank suede jacket from St. Vincent, only $18.50. Stocked up on stationary, a spicy giant candle and deeply discounted perfume at T.J. Maxx. Bought cute, cheap “junior” shirts at Ross.
I realize that I miss those mainstream treasure hunts. And the freedom of a car is rather intoxicating. Drive-through Starbucks! CD players and cup storage! Trunk and passenger space that’s probably bigger than all my Brooklyn storage combined. The last time I left Dallas, I knew I couldn’t face the small town. This time, I’m not sure how long I can put up with the city. I practically froth at the mouth over spaces my friends outside New York call home. Even for those paying California rent, at least it typically covers a spacious pad, a garbage disposal and a dishwasher. Sometimes even a washing machine. Those other places sell liquor and wine in the grocery store — at chains like Trader Joe’s and good ole Safeway (where they will not hassle you for returning milk that spoiled before the due date).
It’s hard not to see some patterns in life repeating themselves. This season in life feels so much like my last year in Arizona — which I spent working on my thesis. Only this time when I finish writing, I get a pile of money instead of the pile of debt that I came into at graduation. Money that just might help finance a move to someplace slightly less urban than here. We shall see. A move is not the same when you’re nearing 30, and you no longer make it fueled by excitement at all the new men you could meet in your new town. My life has rarely had long-term permanence, but this time I’d like to move to someplace I could settle for longer — not the in-between place I always thought New York would be. The only question, really, is can I give back to this city in nine or so months in proportion to what I have taken from it?
posted @ 06:19 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Wed - November 2, 2005
jazz paranoia
Pulled out an old CD the other night: David
Sanborn's
Upfront.
It's one of few acquisitions I can pinpoint to my freshman year of college, that
brief season spent in Iowa where if winter is not longest it is their fiercest
season. Between school dances at which I first discovered I
could
dance after all, and bouncing about the bench of the jazz band piano, it was a
splendid year for music. One song I heard and had to have after airplay at a
raucous outdoor dance one night was Sanborn's infectious "Bang, Bang." So in
those days far before the reign of iTunes, I bought the whole
album.
Lately I've been buying more CDs, which brings on occasional spurts of storage guilt in which I peruse the dustier cases that round out my now 400+ collection. Is there possibly one I should resell? Or maybe there's some hidden, long-forgotten gem to get me out of my 5-10 record rotation rut (the problem's emotional as well). On one of these jaunts the other night, I pulled Sanborn from hibernation and peered at him warily. He was only so many cases from my Kralls.
Lately I've been buying more CDs, which brings on occasional spurts of storage guilt in which I peruse the dustier cases that round out my now 400+ collection. Is there possibly one I should resell? Or maybe there's some hidden, long-forgotten gem to get me out of my 5-10 record rotation rut (the problem's emotional as well). On one of these jaunts the other night, I pulled Sanborn from hibernation and peered at him warily. He was only so many cases from my Kralls.
I've had not a little guilt for my taste in
"jazz" these days. Sure, twas Julian Adderley's "Sticks" provoked my tears at
church Sunday night, but I had to go allmusic him to confirm that was the
same bloke I call Cannonball. And while I recently bought my first two but long
overdue John Coltrane CDs I suspect my taste runs to his more traditional stuff
— no doubt a major failing. After all, attempts to broaden my jazz
collection did not go so well for pride at the little shop where I got my
stash.
I wanted to get some new hits, I told the owner. "What do you like?" "Well," I began hopefully, "McCoy Tyner, Oscar Brown, Jr. ..." I'm embarrassed to say I forget the other pianists I mentioned — I don't know them by instrument, mainly; I just know the songs I like — and if I like one, maybe I'll like an album. But even so, my short list was quite damning: "You like piano jazz?" Oh. Well just because I play it and always fall for musicians better than me at my instruments ... "Well I like other things too," I mustered hastily. "Sarah Vaughan, Nina Simone..." "Oh, you like vocal jazz." That didn't sound very refined! That sounded even worse than liking piano jazz. I didn't tell him I own five Harry Connick Jr. CDs — five. Not including his breakthrough soundtrack.
The shopkeep hastened to reassure that it didn't matter what I liked as long as I liked it ... but that seemed akin to telling a guy who drinks Bud Light at a party it doesn't matter that he's passing up, say, Guinness, as long as he likes his cheap-ass beer you could make from the spit-glasses at a wine tasting. Objectivity has its limits to be sure, but there comes a point when you've got to admit in liking, say, Tom Jones or Ricky Martin, you're showing an abject lack of taste. Nothing in you that wants to dance to those two is moved by a thing of quality. Which is not to say either is the performative equivalent of a drum machine ... but still. You own TJ, you gotta own the full-on camp of it, the totally hang-your-head sell-out (though I still say he's a better buy than Britney or Journey).
So I dropped my Sanborn cautiously into the mix. Sure he'd been purchased from the same era as my Kind of Blue and Dizzy Gillespie 3-set, but a friend whose father is also on allmusic tells me nothing I own by Dizzy goes remotely beyond his mainstream work. Would she think better of my catalog if I told her I found her dad supplied the keys on an Art Blakey I own? No doubt that too is from his "Taco Bell" stage or something (the term a writer friend uses for work you can't pretend was done for anything but the money — though we say solvency is grossly underrated).
I doubt the Sanborn will ever be found in some future Jazz Hall of Fame (though he is better than Kenny G, I suspect he's somewhere in the realm of Pat Metheny — a smooth-jazz culprit I bet I'm wise to not yet own, should jazz aficionado police get hold my albums). But he's not bad. The record is well-suited to an urban night of solitude — the sort when you know posh, classy bars are filled with supposedly glamorous crowds and chitchat but you don't mind being hunkered here, alone, with your dehydrating drink of choice and late-night freelance work or writing or sitting home to mind the house. The music may be lonely, sure, but it has the sort of loneliness not of having nothing better to do but knowing the "better things to do" may not be all they're praised for.
Which strangely reassures me. Sure, my hips may have no self-respect at what tune they'll respond to, but my heart still knows that purity of genius when it hears it. Some B.B. King licks. Blakey's "Dat Duit" (yes, especially the piano solo). The spare, emotional keys backing up Oscar Brown Jr.'s vocals on "Brother Where Are You?" Coltrane's "Blues to Elvin." And even some of Tom Jones' more distinctive work. Even camp can have that all-important purity; the essence is just utterly different from what's pure in Blakey. Sometimes, more than anything, I need a little Tom Jones to revive my spirit; other times I need mellow time with King or Robert Cray. But that doesn't change the integrity in either. Maintaining mine means admitting sometimes my soul is just as hungry for less-refined things as it is for top-shelf music. If such tastes are failings, at least acknowledging that leaves room for a general character refinement that may lead to me someday reselling Tom Jones just as I no longer need to chase after all those parties evoked as the melancholy backdrop of Sanborn's set.
I wanted to get some new hits, I told the owner. "What do you like?" "Well," I began hopefully, "McCoy Tyner, Oscar Brown, Jr. ..." I'm embarrassed to say I forget the other pianists I mentioned — I don't know them by instrument, mainly; I just know the songs I like — and if I like one, maybe I'll like an album. But even so, my short list was quite damning: "You like piano jazz?" Oh. Well just because I play it and always fall for musicians better than me at my instruments ... "Well I like other things too," I mustered hastily. "Sarah Vaughan, Nina Simone..." "Oh, you like vocal jazz." That didn't sound very refined! That sounded even worse than liking piano jazz. I didn't tell him I own five Harry Connick Jr. CDs — five. Not including his breakthrough soundtrack.
The shopkeep hastened to reassure that it didn't matter what I liked as long as I liked it ... but that seemed akin to telling a guy who drinks Bud Light at a party it doesn't matter that he's passing up, say, Guinness, as long as he likes his cheap-ass beer you could make from the spit-glasses at a wine tasting. Objectivity has its limits to be sure, but there comes a point when you've got to admit in liking, say, Tom Jones or Ricky Martin, you're showing an abject lack of taste. Nothing in you that wants to dance to those two is moved by a thing of quality. Which is not to say either is the performative equivalent of a drum machine ... but still. You own TJ, you gotta own the full-on camp of it, the totally hang-your-head sell-out (though I still say he's a better buy than Britney or Journey).
So I dropped my Sanborn cautiously into the mix. Sure he'd been purchased from the same era as my Kind of Blue and Dizzy Gillespie 3-set, but a friend whose father is also on allmusic tells me nothing I own by Dizzy goes remotely beyond his mainstream work. Would she think better of my catalog if I told her I found her dad supplied the keys on an Art Blakey I own? No doubt that too is from his "Taco Bell" stage or something (the term a writer friend uses for work you can't pretend was done for anything but the money — though we say solvency is grossly underrated).
I doubt the Sanborn will ever be found in some future Jazz Hall of Fame (though he is better than Kenny G, I suspect he's somewhere in the realm of Pat Metheny — a smooth-jazz culprit I bet I'm wise to not yet own, should jazz aficionado police get hold my albums). But he's not bad. The record is well-suited to an urban night of solitude — the sort when you know posh, classy bars are filled with supposedly glamorous crowds and chitchat but you don't mind being hunkered here, alone, with your dehydrating drink of choice and late-night freelance work or writing or sitting home to mind the house. The music may be lonely, sure, but it has the sort of loneliness not of having nothing better to do but knowing the "better things to do" may not be all they're praised for.
Which strangely reassures me. Sure, my hips may have no self-respect at what tune they'll respond to, but my heart still knows that purity of genius when it hears it. Some B.B. King licks. Blakey's "Dat Duit" (yes, especially the piano solo). The spare, emotional keys backing up Oscar Brown Jr.'s vocals on "Brother Where Are You?" Coltrane's "Blues to Elvin." And even some of Tom Jones' more distinctive work. Even camp can have that all-important purity; the essence is just utterly different from what's pure in Blakey. Sometimes, more than anything, I need a little Tom Jones to revive my spirit; other times I need mellow time with King or Robert Cray. But that doesn't change the integrity in either. Maintaining mine means admitting sometimes my soul is just as hungry for less-refined things as it is for top-shelf music. If such tastes are failings, at least acknowledging that leaves room for a general character refinement that may lead to me someday reselling Tom Jones just as I no longer need to chase after all those parties evoked as the melancholy backdrop of Sanborn's set.
posted @ 12:58 AM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Mon - October 31, 2005
nyj71: ah, the freelance life
It finally hits me today, how good I have
it. This is work: sitting in a snug, darling coffee shop (my favorite of the
neighborhood offerings), free of supervisor, laptop or modem cords, able to
puzzle over ACT problems as I please (part of planning to write a lesson). Ella
on the stereo, the last of the shop's croissants somewhere in my
belly.
It's so easy to focus on the minor challenges of planning my day, breaking down this project into manageable chunks I could forget how much I have. No dress code! No mandatory start time! No fixed desk! But that's why Eve ate the fruit after all: she focused not what on she had but what she lacked. Paradise may largely depend on perspective.
It's so easy to focus on the minor challenges of planning my day, breaking down this project into manageable chunks I could forget how much I have. No dress code! No mandatory start time! No fixed desk! But that's why Eve ate the fruit after all: she focused not what on she had but what she lacked. Paradise may largely depend on perspective.
No work is free of challenges, but I would
do well to remember how much I would have once given for freedom like
this.
posted @ 01:38 AM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Thu - October 20, 2005
nyj70: A little sugar in my mug
The other morning I was sitting here with my mondo mug o' latte, debating whether or not I needed to add more sugar after having added more coffee in (before the sweetness was perfect). It tasted better before, for sure, but the bitterness now was not unpalatable. In one of those strange flights of fancy an earlyish morning can bring, my brain mused how it is that sugar effectively dilutes the bitterness of coffee. It's not necessarily intuitive. Why shouldn't more water, or something like salt? Is it really "dilution" even? Somehow these ramblings got me thinking how my father always used to sweeten my cups of coffee to just the perfect degree.
I don't remember exactly when, but at some point my parents accepted my initiation into the adult world of steaming caffeine. Perhaps the mail-order savvy that finally bought and brought my own personal coffee maker and stash (thanks to Gevalia) had a role in that coup. At any rate, by Singapore days my hit was always accounted for in Mom's careful measuring out of grounds for the pot. (No doubt my younger siblings' reliance on coffee had taught her that "the junk" (as my friend likes to call it) was in our adulthood her offspring's new milk.
And then I thought,
Dad used to make me a cup of
coffee. Which I recall him always doing
with such cheerfulness and no mind about it. It was really a sweet thing to do,
but something I don't think I appreciated about it because he was simply my dad
and in high school or college one doesn't think,
Wow, it's really nice for a man to take so
much care with my coffee.
Now I would appreciate such cheerfully made, perfectly sweetened cups a lot. And I wrote Dad to tell him so — because, really, what good does such a happy, grateful thought toward someone else do if they never know the smile and warmth they brought to a moment for you?
Now I would appreciate such cheerfully made, perfectly sweetened cups a lot. And I wrote Dad to tell him so — because, really, what good does such a happy, grateful thought toward someone else do if they never know the smile and warmth they brought to a moment for you?
posted @ 01:25 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Wed - October 19, 2005
nyj69: book deal finalized with Random House
Yup, the writer business is well night
official. Signed the contract Sept. 23, got the money a few weeks later. Kicked
off writing with a 10-day relaxation/research trip earlier this month, funded
largely by my teaching income from Prep
Co.
Yes, that's right: despite draining sessions here and there (turns out it's wise to eat before teaching 3-hour sessions), I finished my first GRE class last month. My schedule will be quite full in the coming months, between juggling two demanding freelance writing projects and working on the book, but only Prep Co. gives me access to health insurance. The savings and security that provides would be more than worth the ongoing 7-10 hour commitment per week.
Especially since my pants are getting loose again (sigh). It's not that I can't cook (I can, and usually well) but somehow lattes are never quite the meal I wish they were. And, well, grocery shopping is such a pain when you're out of the habit and overwhelmed by meal-planning for one (check, check). At least I've had a couple good meals here and there. While Mom and Dad were in town, they took me and some friends out for a fabulous, intimate dinner at my favorite Lower East Side Italian place. And just last week, I actually got a pretty good meal (well, cocktail hour + appetizers) on the tab of Cosmopolitan magazine.
Yes, that's right: despite draining sessions here and there (turns out it's wise to eat before teaching 3-hour sessions), I finished my first GRE class last month. My schedule will be quite full in the coming months, between juggling two demanding freelance writing projects and working on the book, but only Prep Co. gives me access to health insurance. The savings and security that provides would be more than worth the ongoing 7-10 hour commitment per week.
Especially since my pants are getting loose again (sigh). It's not that I can't cook (I can, and usually well) but somehow lattes are never quite the meal I wish they were. And, well, grocery shopping is such a pain when you're out of the habit and overwhelmed by meal-planning for one (check, check). At least I've had a couple good meals here and there. While Mom and Dad were in town, they took me and some friends out for a fabulous, intimate dinner at my favorite Lower East Side Italian place. And just last week, I actually got a pretty good meal (well, cocktail hour + appetizers) on the tab of Cosmopolitan magazine.
How did I land this, you ask? Well, there
was this contest. Basically a popularity contest for grownups: wherein people
who work in media nominate some studly colleague for
Cosmo's
"media man" of the year. A certain friend of mine got nominated, and leveraged
his blog for votes (which
Cosmo
encourages in volume and from repeat voters). Seeing as how voter
fraud/obsession/loyalty are so central to the contest,
Cosmo
also set up a special category for the highly motivated/very lazy friend
(depends on your
perspective).
Having done my share of data entry years ago, I opted to spend more energy on this "special" route — praising, wheedling and otherwise cajoling the judges my friend should be their winner. Gimic of choice: rewriting overplayed pop song lyrics to stress my friend's virtues. A tepid "Hey Mickey" started things off but I warmed up to greater (and judge-persuading) brilliance with Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual" and Stevie Wonder's "She's So Lovely" (lyrics available on request). That did it for creative efforts, but those few songs were more than enough to win the judges and the Cosmo cocktail party.
When I heard about my win, however, and started planning the guest list, I found myself stuck at 6 of the 10-person party. Then it occurred to me this might be a boon. One of my more unusual freelance gigs this year has been giving editorial assistance to the friends whose first national release hit stores in August. I've thought a lot about Tremolo's message this summer, and the benevolent fund they launched along with the record (50 percent of net profits go into a fund controlled by record-buying fans, who decide quarterly which charity to benefit). Even the local concerts they play in San Francisco apply this radical 50/50 split to ticket revenue (though they have other sources of income).
So when I hit my guest-list snag, I thought, What if I applied that Love > Revenge model to this party? Surely Cosmo would be willing to give part of the budget to charity. And ever since Katrina, I've felt a little guilty about embarking on all-out indulgence — especially of the food and booze kind (surely one things N'awlins is known for, besides the music). Most persuasive: the friend at the center of this cocktail quandary is from Louisiana and spent days after the hurricane blogging on-site reports from friends back home, raising money for local causes, and listing things readers could send a friend in Opelousas. I asked Ken what he thought, then went to Cosmo with the plan: if we only brought 6 people, would they put the rest of the budget to a cause of Ken's choice?
They'd be "ecstatic." Throughout the planning the woman remained quite dubious I'd want to curtail our boozeathon just so half our budget could benefit Katrina clean-up. But none of we five who partied last Thursday regretted such a small sacrifice when half of our budget — $375 — was helping a damaged public school where Ken's friend works. Not that in hearing this story you should think me that noble. As my pastor recently noted, the chief distinctive of Christians should not be that we confess our sins but that when we confess our sins we also repent of the motives behind the ostensibly good things we've done. That, my pride informs me, is devilish tricky — part of why his words resonate as truth profound. But hey, if telling you gets a few more people thinking how they could practice a Love > Revenge mindset in their own lives, it's worth my keystrokes.
Having done my share of data entry years ago, I opted to spend more energy on this "special" route — praising, wheedling and otherwise cajoling the judges my friend should be their winner. Gimic of choice: rewriting overplayed pop song lyrics to stress my friend's virtues. A tepid "Hey Mickey" started things off but I warmed up to greater (and judge-persuading) brilliance with Tom Jones' "It's Not Unusual" and Stevie Wonder's "She's So Lovely" (lyrics available on request). That did it for creative efforts, but those few songs were more than enough to win the judges and the Cosmo cocktail party.
When I heard about my win, however, and started planning the guest list, I found myself stuck at 6 of the 10-person party. Then it occurred to me this might be a boon. One of my more unusual freelance gigs this year has been giving editorial assistance to the friends whose first national release hit stores in August. I've thought a lot about Tremolo's message this summer, and the benevolent fund they launched along with the record (50 percent of net profits go into a fund controlled by record-buying fans, who decide quarterly which charity to benefit). Even the local concerts they play in San Francisco apply this radical 50/50 split to ticket revenue (though they have other sources of income).
So when I hit my guest-list snag, I thought, What if I applied that Love > Revenge model to this party? Surely Cosmo would be willing to give part of the budget to charity. And ever since Katrina, I've felt a little guilty about embarking on all-out indulgence — especially of the food and booze kind (surely one things N'awlins is known for, besides the music). Most persuasive: the friend at the center of this cocktail quandary is from Louisiana and spent days after the hurricane blogging on-site reports from friends back home, raising money for local causes, and listing things readers could send a friend in Opelousas. I asked Ken what he thought, then went to Cosmo with the plan: if we only brought 6 people, would they put the rest of the budget to a cause of Ken's choice?
They'd be "ecstatic." Throughout the planning the woman remained quite dubious I'd want to curtail our boozeathon just so half our budget could benefit Katrina clean-up. But none of we five who partied last Thursday regretted such a small sacrifice when half of our budget — $375 — was helping a damaged public school where Ken's friend works. Not that in hearing this story you should think me that noble. As my pastor recently noted, the chief distinctive of Christians should not be that we confess our sins but that when we confess our sins we also repent of the motives behind the ostensibly good things we've done. That, my pride informs me, is devilish tricky — part of why his words resonate as truth profound. But hey, if telling you gets a few more people thinking how they could practice a Love > Revenge mindset in their own lives, it's worth my keystrokes.
posted @ 04:32 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Sat - August 20, 2005
nyj68: 3 years in NY
Yikes, I have been slacking, haven't I?
Well, as my excuse, the following is submitted
forthwith.
Earlier in the summer I joked how this season was being defined by four "uncertainties": teaching, love life, book, work. But really, these four open questions have in some form dogged me much of the last year. I haven't had a permanent job or health insurance for nearly 16 months, I started pursuing teaching jobs last fall, and the blog has been an unfolding odyssey involving my love life and now a book. With that much up in the air you could start to go a little crazy! But somehow just as I was finally listing out my uncertainties, they started resolving, removing themselves as summer advanced into my 27th year.
Earlier in the summer I joked how this season was being defined by four "uncertainties": teaching, love life, book, work. But really, these four open questions have in some form dogged me much of the last year. I haven't had a permanent job or health insurance for nearly 16 months, I started pursuing teaching jobs last fall, and the blog has been an unfolding odyssey involving my love life and now a book. With that much up in the air you could start to go a little crazy! But somehow just as I was finally listing out my uncertainties, they started resolving, removing themselves as summer advanced into my 27th year.
Not long after my birthday, I was certified
as a GRE teacher for Prep Co., a part-time job that should hopefully make me
more competitive next time I apply for a religious-studies teaching position.
Gearing up for my first lecture next week's a little scary. But especially now
that things are starting to break in areas of strength and competency, it's
probably healthy to likewise embrace new challenges that stand to humble me. One
of those breaks is the sale of my blog-adaptive memoir, which was announced to
the publishing trades this week. The book will likely come out spring 2007.
Kinda crazy, eh?
I'm a symbolism/meaning freak, so I like to connect these boons with my recent success as urban gardener. Miraculously, the girl who once went through potted herbs and ill-considered cuttings like damp matches now has several jars of thriving vines. My thumbs are still fairly flesh-colored, but I do seem to be mastering the basic art of watering. Recently I even ventured beyond the insulated condition of sunny bedroom to leave a plant outside on my fire escape. So far my 2' basil (nearly that tall when I bought it; does it qualify as a tree yet?) has produced flowers and only lost a few leaves near the base. Shocking. I keep it fortified with the grounds from my daily latte habit (in lieu of fresh dirt) and made my first pesto from it while the folks were here on a recent weeklong visit. The happy tangle of roots that fills the wine bottles on my windowsill is a reminder I did not get here on my own — either to this mini greenhouse or my book deal.
On the eve of my birthday last summer, in a suddenly dark and very bleak place, two friends brought me two graceful stems of curly bamboo as a present. Not even they may have realized the wisdom of their gift, but those marvelously low-maintenance shoots launched the cultivation of not just what has become my "garden" but the discipline necessary to sustain it. Last summer was pretty rough — for a season associated with sun, sangria and breathy jazz like "The Girl from Ipanema" — and this winter I joked wryly of going through "character boot camp." But in the midst of that there were the friends, some of them recently come along, whose character, integrity and generosity nourished and encouraged me, emboldened me to do things I'd previously been too scared or rebellious to do. Those people have all become tools in God's hands — part of the chisels hacking away at the stubborn stone of my pride and laziness to reveal hints of the better self the artist meant to be, to the praise of his vision and goodness.
For many of you reading, this post is a testament to your faithfulness and patience; I would not be writing this without you. It's a little strange that my first book will be a memoir, but I hope it is equal parts the story of my mishaps and struggles and your redemptive faithfulness to me — friends who laughed and listened through my incoherent, inconsistent screwiness and hung in there through the dark days. Nina Simone sings an old song, ">Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out , but I'm humbled and grateful to say that hasn't been true of my friends. Some of you loved best and deepest when I was most down and out. May I have the privilege of being there for you when such troubles come! And may we not forget, as we go about our lives, that our actions form not just ourselves and our futures but those around us well. Do we bring out the better or the bad in others?
But enough solemn reflection. These days it's the blessed grace of humor I 'm most grateful for. I sure need mine — thanks to the small crop of suitors my blog and its publicity have produced. A crop such that I — yes, this madcap, modern single — recently decided to let my father do the initial vetting of these men (some of whom seem to be rather serious). Scary. And weird. I'm glad my humor has been so honed through blogging and other mishaps.
Oh, but that only covers three of my uncertainties, doesn't it? As to work, last week I picked up a great freelance gig that should keep me occupied full time through a good part of the autumn. We'll see where things go from here. Since I'll be keeping so busy this fall, I've also resigned from my volunteer duties at the New Pantagruel. See my flickr page for more pics from the parental visit.
Dad and I swap glasses.
My roomie and I at a belated birthday celebration.
I'm a symbolism/meaning freak, so I like to connect these boons with my recent success as urban gardener. Miraculously, the girl who once went through potted herbs and ill-considered cuttings like damp matches now has several jars of thriving vines. My thumbs are still fairly flesh-colored, but I do seem to be mastering the basic art of watering. Recently I even ventured beyond the insulated condition of sunny bedroom to leave a plant outside on my fire escape. So far my 2' basil (nearly that tall when I bought it; does it qualify as a tree yet?) has produced flowers and only lost a few leaves near the base. Shocking. I keep it fortified with the grounds from my daily latte habit (in lieu of fresh dirt) and made my first pesto from it while the folks were here on a recent weeklong visit. The happy tangle of roots that fills the wine bottles on my windowsill is a reminder I did not get here on my own — either to this mini greenhouse or my book deal.
On the eve of my birthday last summer, in a suddenly dark and very bleak place, two friends brought me two graceful stems of curly bamboo as a present. Not even they may have realized the wisdom of their gift, but those marvelously low-maintenance shoots launched the cultivation of not just what has become my "garden" but the discipline necessary to sustain it. Last summer was pretty rough — for a season associated with sun, sangria and breathy jazz like "The Girl from Ipanema" — and this winter I joked wryly of going through "character boot camp." But in the midst of that there were the friends, some of them recently come along, whose character, integrity and generosity nourished and encouraged me, emboldened me to do things I'd previously been too scared or rebellious to do. Those people have all become tools in God's hands — part of the chisels hacking away at the stubborn stone of my pride and laziness to reveal hints of the better self the artist meant to be, to the praise of his vision and goodness.
For many of you reading, this post is a testament to your faithfulness and patience; I would not be writing this without you. It's a little strange that my first book will be a memoir, but I hope it is equal parts the story of my mishaps and struggles and your redemptive faithfulness to me — friends who laughed and listened through my incoherent, inconsistent screwiness and hung in there through the dark days. Nina Simone sings an old song, ">Nobody Knows You When You're Down and Out , but I'm humbled and grateful to say that hasn't been true of my friends. Some of you loved best and deepest when I was most down and out. May I have the privilege of being there for you when such troubles come! And may we not forget, as we go about our lives, that our actions form not just ourselves and our futures but those around us well. Do we bring out the better or the bad in others?
But enough solemn reflection. These days it's the blessed grace of humor I 'm most grateful for. I sure need mine — thanks to the small crop of suitors my blog and its publicity have produced. A crop such that I — yes, this madcap, modern single — recently decided to let my father do the initial vetting of these men (some of whom seem to be rather serious). Scary. And weird. I'm glad my humor has been so honed through blogging and other mishaps.
Oh, but that only covers three of my uncertainties, doesn't it? As to work, last week I picked up a great freelance gig that should keep me occupied full time through a good part of the autumn. We'll see where things go from here. Since I'll be keeping so busy this fall, I've also resigned from my volunteer duties at the New Pantagruel. See my flickr page for more pics from the parental visit.
Dad and I swap glasses.
My roomie and I at a belated birthday celebration.
posted @ 07:18 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Wed - July 6, 2005
Online clippage
Readers of this blog, or my regular emails,
won't find this
essay new, but it's now new to the Matthews House online
project. Check it out during the month of July.
Now if only I could get
paying
clips ...
posted @ 09:24 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
music theory, pt. 1
“... the blues work on you in this
peculiar way whereby you can be talking about some very great pain — in a
song that makes you want to get up and grind with your loved
one.”
— email to a friend,
May 26, 2005
posted @ 09:13 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Mon - June 27, 2005
caught these blues between my ribs
Now about a week ago, I stumbled across a
friend's month-old blue ramblings. The loneliness was eloquent, the soundtrack
all too apt for storms then gathering about me. Is it possible to catch
another's blues, I wonder? I held his pain inside me for a day, my heart so
heavy I had to pray three miles and some tears before peace came. Now the turn
is mine to hear and ache and weep and write. I'm just less tipsy. Beck
is
well-suited to these moods.
It's probably ironic I'm so low; my face is
tucked within a cover gracing news stands 'round the country. But love is still
elusive — too, stability and income. My purpose is a question mark, the
sort made by sky-writers who must write, re-write and write again in circles as
they battle smoke's resistance to the
permanent.
"Maybe I'm a lost cause ..."
How we all etch blues with beauty; must be hope's insistent prodding through the tears.
"Maybe I'm a lost cause ..."
How we all etch blues with beauty; must be hope's insistent prodding through the tears.
posted @ 06:54 PM remark! Email |
as quoted: similarly:
Current Quote, uh ...
“Sometimes trying to start writing is like feeling all over a wall for the secret place that, when touched right, will open the door.”
— journal entry, Sept. 12, 2002
— journal entry, Sept. 12, 2002
ego e-bolstery
"Queen of bloggers" tippler-about-town
"Funstuff..." NY musician
"There are so many blogs whose writers deserve to be flogged. Your stuff reads well." former journalist
"...eloquent..." long-time penpal
"Full of fascinating stuff." British novelist
"Nice haircut." friend from church
"Always makes for good reading on a bland day." small-business owner
Support this blog!
Categories
Who's the crazy dame?
Christi A. Foist is a writer, swing-dancer and knitter who also maintains the Ouroboros. Visit the Navel often for travel-writing, pictures and other observations on life as seen through (l)-4/(r)-2.25 vision.
for the suicidal cat
☀ more from my life
Love > Revenge Fund worthy site I’ve assisted with
❦ friends on the web
Alarming News
The Golike Gazette Joe & Jen Golike’s site
A Healthy Fear of Botulism the blog of Dead Serious
I don’t want to blog Paul Britton blogs against his will
Katie Meier she’s down with the streetspeak, yo
The New Vintage Jessica: fellow knitter, NYer and all-around fun blogger (also another Republican woman)
13 Pt. the guy who estimated the airspeed of an unladen swallow
✈ just for kicks
Live in New York? Make new friends through the Lunch Club.
Live vintage wood? Shop reZurrection gallery!
... And a kick-ass Oakland-based band, Tremolo
☂ references
All Music Guide fab music db
