ny winter

Another one that got lost in the anneals of the draft box, regarding the end of 2017

I am starting to think that lyricism is a frame of mind, a lens to look through at the world. It is something I have been struggling with lately. To lose the ability to look at the world cinematically is also the loss of ability to take photographs and write; and it is daunting to try and find that lens, misplaced somewhere in the attic of the mind.

After lengthy and long overdue conversation on the phone with Esther, during which she mentioned that she was going to NYC and said that I should come, I made some arrangements to take the trip. Canada, where she lives, is far away; NYC less so. The practice where I work had no patients that week anyway, so on Wednesday morning I took the subway over to south station and started my long bus ride over. I got off by FIT and entered the first place that served food. I scarfed down what amounted to two lunches; a large soup with bread, and a large piece of greasy spinach cake which was more delicious when I started it than when I took the last bite. Having completed this meal, I headed towards Wall Street. 

Leonid had warned me, somewhat embarrassed, "it's very posh". I entered the building from the wrong side, and a hotel-visitor pointed me towards the check-in desk for the apartments. Everything is gilded gold, with sweeping stone floors and an enormous Christmas tree lit up in the hall. The concierge rung up to the apartment, got Leonid's ok to let me in and buzzed the turnstiles. To my right, a couple rooms were sectioned off with slow arches, separating the postal boxes from everything else to hogwartsian effect. Finally, I made my way up in the pho-Greek style elevators to the sleek apartment with impressively large windows reaching all the way up to the tall ceilings. I claimed one of the couches to sleep on and met a flat mate that had not yet left for winter holidays. Leonid made us some drinks - a skill he's been honing recently. Eloosha swung by and it was funny to think; how different and how the same we all are, that we have known each other for more than half our lives. Once Eloosha had left Leonid and I went to get dinner; poke bowls close by, a fad that is not quite caught on in Boston. Then drinks. Then sleep.

When I got up in the morning I had the place to myself. I made myself some coffee and fell asleep again. There was something very nice about this; I often wake up tired but I am never able to do anything about it - waking up a second time well rested was lovely. I lounged around the apartment for the entire morning, reading Jean Gadget's Prisoners of Love and arranging my thoughts. For lunch, I met Leonid and Kostya by Union Sq., Dorado's and I can only remember that we ended the conversation discussing spelling. Writing now, I remember that my New Year's resolution a few years ago was to improve my spelling, the results of this resolution, like of many New Year’s resolutions, are very limited. On top of that, difficult for me to evaluate: even if my spelling has improved, my ability to catch misspellings has not so I can't do a comparison and see how far along I am.

Leonid and I then headed towards the winter market and went hunting for a supplementary Christmas gift for his girlfriend. We both bought some tights from an energetic group of Israeli women doing convincing demonstrations. More coffee and then to a party somewhere in midtown, with his law-student friends. I was immediately served an old-fashioned - his friend also honing his cocktail-making skills. A log burning in a fireplace filled the room up with smoke. Chips and another drink and talking; stories about a terrible house guest, discussions about identity. It got late and then later and then we departed. 

Leonid left early the next morning and I waved him a sleepy goodbye from the couch. Another lounging morning and then headed towards Union Sq. to drop off my backpack with Kostya who had kindly agreed to hold onto it. Then I walked 25 blocks to meet Esther and Niko. A tight warm hug! Lots of bread for lunch. A face sorely missed. And then, after a few hours, I walked back to Kostya and to my backpack, talking to Matt on the phone - it was already snowing in Boston.

Kostya continued to work and I went back to the winter market to pick out a couple of gifts and track down the artist name for a ring that was beautiful but much too expensive to buy. Twinkling lights and postcards and sweaters, mulled cider and felted ornaments. For my mother: Brooklyn truffle oil, for Matt: NY made ghost pepper hot sauce. Once Kostya was done we got pizza and headed towards the main event - Eloosha's birthday party at Olivia's place in Brooklyn. Immaculately decorated and hosted, rooms filled with people and mulled wine. Here too: it got late and then it got later, and Kostya Rebecca and I got a ride back to Kostya's place where I now again claimed a couch as my bed.

I had slept in later than usual: the living in which I slept had no windows, so no light woke me. Soon we had gathered ourselves for brunch; hipstery eggs Benedict. Then we went to get Eloosha and Olivia and some bags and back to wintry Massachusetts (though I had bought a bus ticket, but a car ride with friends won out).

Now I’m home.

aquasleep

In case you were thinking; oh wow, T--- did not write for a year, why the sudden post yesterday?
you are misled by my absence here; I wrote letters and even tried to write something for here, but was never satisfied somehow. here is one attempt (from my favorite place - my e-mail draft box):

11/16-17-2017 I woke up early this morning from restless sleep, for the third day in a row and I’m not sure why. I’ve been better about letting things go before bed and falling asleep, sleep through the night. I tell myself “Worrying about tomorrow is not going to help me now or tomorrow. Let it go. Sleep” and this works on some nights. But the last few nights I’m not sure what I’m hanging onto into my slumber which reaches up at four am to say “get up, now is the time. No, you are not rested. Your body wants to stay in bed, your mind wants to return to sleep, but wake up. Wake up” and I do. I spend the next two hours restlessly in bed, dipping my toes into the well of sleep but not being dropped down into the depths to fill up with energy like a bucket fills with water. Yanked up to the surface almost empty to thirsty lips.
after eating some of my pickled tomatoes I remembered: I do not like pickled tomatoes. As a child, I did not like mushrooms, but I told my parents (probably around age six) that I thought I would like them one day. I knew I had the capacity for change, and that is something I am trying to remind myself of now. I made pickled tomatoes, I still do not like them, but other things may change.
I wonder if it startles my mother when I respond to emails she sent me years ago. 48 emails in my inbox not yet responded to, mostly from her and her brother, with only five exceptions. At the crux of it it is because they send me information to review: long stories to read in Russian that I haven't gotten around to, authors to look into but I haven't checked out any books from the library by them, or even glanced at the Wikipedia link - sometimes, that is all the e-mail consists of. A heading and a link to Wikipedia. Sometimes I do get to them - the oldest ones are from 2014. Matt's inbox is the antithesis of this: only two e-mails that are ongoing, everything else archived in as far as I can tell, invisible.
____
I don't have a photo from when I wrote that, so here is some mint that I got to grow from the grocery store

something about nothing

Matt likes order. I try to oblige, sometimes - we now try to go grocery shopping on Thursday. Last trip was therefore almost a week ago. 

We were checking out and the self scan broke. I just wanted the limes! But the belt couldn't sense them. After we had a highschooler try and help us a couple of times to no avail, I told the guy behind me "at this point you should probably switch. You know that cognitive trick that prevents people from switching because they've invested time in a line? That's the only reason to keep standing here." After a couple more minutes, he nodded at me, acknowledging that it was time to break away, and switched to another lane. The girl behind him i convinced to switch as well. The next guy came, two florescent bottles of fanta in hand. "And they aren't helping you?" he asked, skeptical of my statement that it would probably be a good idea to find another lane "well, they are, but it's not something they can resolve with just swiping the card" (one of those employee override cards) - he broke into a smile understanding that this will not be resolved quickly.

These are banal moments on paper. I suppose they add up and make up the majority of a life, though not the parts that are typically documented in ones memoir. The other day I was sending something for the doctor I work for. His sister had come to visit and purchased a couple pieces of furniture she wanted sent to her home in France. One of these things I have arranged a special company to send it - that can insure something as expensive as this antique, and be gentle with it. To send the folding chair I went to UPS, and while waiting for the Doctor to ok the price of shipping asked the two guys who were working: what's the weirdest thing you've shipped?
Right off the bat: a duck corpse. Frozen, being sent to a taxidermist. He said he had called the infection control people and they said it was fine.


Also: live fish. "I told the girl they would probably die and then when they arrived dead, she called and accused me of murdering her fish. You have to have thick skin"
Almost got to send a plaque of cultural significance, but UPS only insures up to 40 dollars, not the million they needed.

And while I feel that perhaps I have lingered to long in this post-undergraduate limbo, I have to say: I have gotten much better at talking to strangers; those standing in line behind me, those who work jobs similar to mine. And I appreciate that, drink it in.

cheers to the everyday and trying to negotiate order in a disordered world

Valentine's Day

Yesterday Matt and I went to the ICA: he wanted to take me out for Valentin's day, even though I don't care about it but it was nice to go, which I guess is the point. We saw the short animated films nominated for the Oscar, of which we both will highly recommend: Negative Space (Max Porter and Ru Kawahata). He wanted to see some of the museum as well, but we just ate and went home on account of a headache. Planning on returning this Thursday.

Thinking back on past Valentin's day's: one year Kostya got me roses, which I accepted and felt like I was doing him a favor by not being cruel and turning down. So long ago. One year I went with a roommate to eat cheese and drink beer at Aeronaut. I want to go there again; the roommate and I no longer talk. When Matt and I started dating, February rolled up fast so we ran away to Canada, where it was too cold for all the little red hearts. Last year we did go out: Wednesday night I think. I got drunk though, I didn't like myself that night. This year I got got him small things over weeks: vinyl of an artist we will be seeing this summer (hear), we made palmiers (taste), a scented candle (smell), poems (feel), flowers (see). About half way through he said "are these gifts for me, or is this an art project?" "both - and you are my muse"

A couple days ago I finished reading Cities I've Never Lived In by Sara Majka. I'm going to send it to Luisa, I think she'll like it.

Tonight Matt and I spent an hour reading old pieces we had written, leaving us pensive. I am falling asleep now. good night.

autumn in vermont

On a Saturday over a month ago, I got on a bus to visit a few Bardians in Burlington, VT. Hannah picked me up from the station and we headed towards her and Will's apartment. It is; Mustard yellow walls in the hallways and a vegetable plot a couple blocks away. 

In the evening, the three of us went out to eat at American Flatbread: line stretched out and we stood with our beers at the bar, hungrily picking out the pizzas. We didn't hit the town after that: instead we came back to their apartment, and fixed our gazes on the shenanigans of Wallace and Gormit before settling into sleep.

The next morning we rummaged for wakefulness and the deep pockets of our consciousness and, still looking for it, walked over to Nunyans for breakfast. It was chillier in Vermont: that was one of the very nice things about the visit. After having spent the rest of the unusually warm autumn in Massachusetts, it was as if I had gone forward a bit in time to real autumn. Autumn with cool air and pretty rustling leaves. It was as if I had been watching a movie with the audio delayed and it finally lined up: day of the year and temperature of the air. 

Later in the day I met with Elyse, who had driven down from home for a while to see me, and I was so glad she had. We spent time by the lake, sitting in the grass as a girl played guitar and boys rolled by on long-boards. After a bit we were joined by Hannah and Will and then Adrienne as well at Muddy Water, a cafe I had gone to during my last visit as well, which meant that we had five of us from the same year in a mini college reunion. Sipping coffee and cocoa and mulled cider, surrounded by plants mounted on the walls. Elyse had to leave after that, and Adrienne Hannah and I went off to do some thrift shopping. Halloween was around the corner so the shops had brought out all the costume-wear, and students milled around looking for wigs and foam swords. In one shop I reaped a winsome silk skirt from the 80's.

We headed back towards the apartment, ordered some food from Tiny Thai, and the four of us scooted together on the bed and a bottle of wine, watching Monty Python skits and Black Adder. 

I don't remember exactly what was said but it was very funny

at the Ethan Allan homestead

The next morning Hannah ate rustic bread and drank tea. They we drove out a few miles for a walk on the lovely grounds of the Ethan Allan homestead. They house a program there which is very Vermont: giving little plots of land to recent immigrants to farm. We saw a few people leaving, on top of one girls a head an impressive bundle of harvested vegetables, on her feet only flipflops even as the temperature promised to dip below freezing that night. A sizable portion of the immigrant community there came from a farming background I guess: the fields are doing well, and some of the plants I did not recognize. After walking around the field we followed a path down to the water, where we looked for signs of beaver activity walked through a small parcel of preserved swamp with a wood plank bridge floating on it We picked up leaves from the ground, looking for the ones to encapsulate October in Vermont. The weather promised first frost that night, so we went to the vegetable plot and harvested everything that was left:  salad  greens, unripe tomatoes, hot peppers and a few small radishes. 

After the harvest, Hannah and I met Adrienne at some fancy tea place, sitting on an elevated platform with a low table surrounded by meditation pillows. Small nibbles and a shared pot kept warm over a candle flame. Eventually Hannah had to go so Adrienne and I meandered through shops and alley ways. We walked past a an art studio and some more familiar places from my last visit, into her large house with many any people and porch that looks over the neighbors chicken coop. 

That night dinner was three of us: Hannah and Will and I, surrounded by those yellow walls, a feast which included their home-grown salad. Then I set off into the night to meet with Luisa, whom I hadn't seen in so long but time collapsed and we were soon back were we had been, drinking a gin-drink out of a tea cup at the bar where her boyfriend works - our time in NYC didn't seem so far away. 

Tuesday was my last day. I partially woke up with Hannah and Will, to say a sleepy goodbye before clumsily collapsing back into a slumber. When I did wake up, I took my time: I drank some black tea and ate the fantastic plum cake Hannah had whipped up the day before. 

After her shift had ended, Adrienne met me at a very small coffee shop aptly called The Tight Squeeze, where we chatted with the barista and shop co-owner for a bit about the monster that lives in lake Champlain. 

Adrienne walked me to the bus stop, and back I came.

Stock

A late Saturday afternoon - a hot mug of tea on my left, a vinyl of Shubert filling the room (99 cents well spent). I have some stock simmering on the stove and laundry being done in the basement. While it seems like this part of my day should have come a few hours ago, I am contentedly writing on the couch facing the (non functional but still pleasing) fire place.

I get way too much into cooking for my own good, but to the right: quick pickles I made this morning. I had grated too many carrots (on a food processor) for borscht I made earlier this week, added in a tomato and the pickling brew. Now I wait.

Below: collected all the vegetable scrapes I had made this week for a vegetable stock. Forgotten scallion and beet stalks: it'll be different every time. I don't eat meat and don't like buying stock or flavoring cubes so this is satisfying.

Dream: I was a passenger on a small plane, ten rows forty passengers plus the pilot and one or two crew members. We were dropping in altitude and I suddenly realized we were landing in a snowy mountain, in an area that looked like a not well kept ski trail. There were a couple of cars trying to drive down too, one we simply and passed over and the next fell off of the trail. A van did a full flip off the side into the woods. The stewardess was announcing to the pilot each time the stair-like trail made a dramatic dip "and DESCEND". Then there was a small red flag and sharp 90 degree turn to the left to a trail that went up slightly. Which we made, butt was terrifying because if we had not we would be dead. I think in the end we landed safely.

Under the Ocean

This was supposed to have posted a few weeks ago! anyway:

My dreams are rarely anything but nightmares, but I hadn't had any in so long. And even though they are often terrifying, it still feels like such an integral part of me that when I stopped dreaming as much for a while, I was pretty saddened by it. Dreaming the dreams I do makes me feel like my brain is always doing this wild creative work. When they dimmed, part of me felt like it meant my mind had dimmed.

Anyway, I'm happy to present to you my two most recent dreams, back to back:
One: Once I started my Yom Kippur fast and had fallen to sleep, I clung to the sharp edge where the beach met the cliff. I braced myself as a 200 or 300 foot tall wave crashed against the cliff. It kept pushing and pushing but I did not suffer it's impact. What I did have to do was wait. Wait for all the rushing water to stop going towards the cliff and start and to pull away. It was cold. I had a pocket of air I had somehow trapped in a crevasse of the cliff with my arm but the oxygen was thinning. I did not know how much longer I had to wait. And I knew that when the time came, I would have to hold on with all that was in me so I wouldn't get pealed into the deep sea. I was feeling weaker and hoped the air would last, and that I would be able to hold on; so trapped and so terrified of what was to come.  (I don't remember waking up but it was before the water pulled away, possibly I had run out of air)

Two: I remember waking up from a dream, but I wasn't sure it was a dream. I thought maybe it is reality. But I also thought: it was crazy, how could I believe it? Scared, unable to tell what was real from what wasn't as Matt brought my to the ER and I thought that my sanity had gone, that I was in the midst of a psychotic break.