I am going to BEA! This is a coup for Australian publishing ... I mean, for me. It starts on Friday and ends on Sunday. I hope to meet everyone on earth at this thing. And I actually don't think that's completely impossible.
It's all thanks to my former employer in Melbourne. Such good news. If I don't have a job by the end of this weekend, I don't think I can ever get a job anywhere.
I've got a lot of work to do. Finding three dresses, one for each day, is the main thing. Setting up meetings is a bit crazily unrealistic, as everyone is there to buy books - not, as I am cunningly trying to convince them to do, editors.
But I will target specific publisher's stands at appropriately downtime moments and do a little choreographed tap-dance to first raise interest. I will follow this with a recitation of the First Amendment to impress upon them my US patriotism and understanding of free speech. Then I will take advantage of said amendment and freely speak of my desire for them to employ me.
It can't fail.
Thursday, 31 May 2007
Break from Work
I've been absent from the computer for a few days, just enjoying summer in New York. It looks a bit like this, if you're interested:
It also features the following elements:
Lopsided bike rides,
Dogs,
Brownstones where socio-economically possible,
Long dusty walks in the baking heat,
Cute kids on bikes,
Found objects,
Colour-coordination with food where possible,
Indecision and/or teamwork,
Picnic destinations unknown,
Eventual triumph/discovery of the perfect spot,
Well-deserved picnics,
Frisbee,
Abandoned shopping carts filled with previously found objects, such as a typewriter and a mixing desk,
Walks home at dusk ...
... followed by posing on Brooklyn rooftops,
and hanging out with new friends,
... some of whom graciously say they would definitely marry you for visa purposes if they weren't already married. A fact which makes you so deliriously pleased you pose with a full mouth of popcorn while said potential-fiance-if-not-for-current-wife looks on in curious disgust.
It also features the following elements:
Lopsided bike rides,
Dogs,
Brownstones where socio-economically possible,
Long dusty walks in the baking heat,
Cute kids on bikes,
Found objects,
Colour-coordination with food where possible,
Indecision and/or teamwork,
Picnic destinations unknown,
Eventual triumph/discovery of the perfect spot,
Well-deserved picnics,
Frisbee,
Abandoned shopping carts filled with previously found objects, such as a typewriter and a mixing desk,
Walks home at dusk ...
... followed by posing on Brooklyn rooftops,
and hanging out with new friends,
... some of whom graciously say they would definitely marry you for visa purposes if they weren't already married. A fact which makes you so deliriously pleased you pose with a full mouth of popcorn while said potential-fiance-if-not-for-current-wife looks on in curious disgust.
Saturday, 26 May 2007
Message to My Parents
Before I forget - I really have to thank my parents on behalf of a guy at the bar I just came from. He told me I was GORGEOUS. I said, WHY, THANK YOU! He said: NO. DON'T THANK ME. THANK YOUR MOM AND DAD.
So, thanks 'Mom' and Dad! Just so you know, you contributed to an unbearable evening, because the talk of my perceived gorgeousness (i.e. YOUR GENETIC FAULT) led to a hands-tied situation of force wherein I had to endure an incredibly boring conversation.
Please consider this next time you decide to give birth to gorgeous children.
BUT THANKS ANYWAY MOM AND DAD!
So, thanks 'Mom' and Dad! Just so you know, you contributed to an unbearable evening, because the talk of my perceived gorgeousness (i.e. YOUR GENETIC FAULT) led to a hands-tied situation of force wherein I had to endure an incredibly boring conversation.
Please consider this next time you decide to give birth to gorgeous children.
BUT THANKS ANYWAY MOM AND DAD!
Long Weekend
It's 92 degrees here today (33 celcius) and it's the start of the Memorial Day Weekend. I asked my friend Kris what Memorial Day was for and he said it was a celebration for getting drunk.
I will be celebrating by going to another appointment this afternoon and meeting up with the guy who I am occasionally doing dog-walking/cat-sitting for. I also want to try to get to the Lincoln Center to see a ballet. Everyone seems to be going 'upstate' for the weekend, so perhaps New York will be empty and I can have it to myself for once.
I am back to putting 'Half and Half' in my tea - milk which contains half cream and half milk which was absolutely foreign to me at first, but so very deliciously delicious. I think this is a reliable predictor of a dizzying downhill slope: it begins with Half and Half and ends with me dead at 27 of a coronary and one cup of tea too many.
I will be celebrating by going to another appointment this afternoon and meeting up with the guy who I am occasionally doing dog-walking/cat-sitting for. I also want to try to get to the Lincoln Center to see a ballet. Everyone seems to be going 'upstate' for the weekend, so perhaps New York will be empty and I can have it to myself for once.
I am back to putting 'Half and Half' in my tea - milk which contains half cream and half milk which was absolutely foreign to me at first, but so very deliciously delicious. I think this is a reliable predictor of a dizzying downhill slope: it begins with Half and Half and ends with me dead at 27 of a coronary and one cup of tea too many.
Thursday, 24 May 2007
Seeing the Light
The Light appeared as if by chance, just outside of my periphery. It wavered for a moment, and then hovered down towards me.
"You have a message for me?" I whispered, barely able to contain my excitement. My entire body quivered as I asked the question that had been on my lips all day.
'O, Light! What say you of all my troubles? Will I pretty, will I be rich? Will I get a visa?" I leaned in closer to hear what it had to say.
In a single effulgent gulp, the Light swallowed up my entire face. Beams of sharp, dagger-like rays sliced my face up and julienned my ears so that all I could hear was the cut, cut of slivered skin, which inconveniently drowned out the words of what I supposed was the Light's 'illuminating' answer.
As it drifted away again I pulled myself together - one entire half of my body had been inexplicably sliced off in the attack - and I decided it was all definitely a sign to leave this weirdo apartment and stay on someone's couch for the next week or so.
And that's where you'll find me the next time you're looking.
PS
I'm fine now, thanks for asking. But ouch! One of my ears still hurts.
Wednesday, 23 May 2007
On the Town: Part 3
Hmm, a nice stroll across the Brooklyn Bridge. What a delightful way to spend a summer's afternoon in New York.
Wow. You know what, if someone had told me four weeks ago that you could walk all the way from Manhattan to Brooklyn ... across a bridge ... well golly gee, I probably wouldn't have believed them. This one's for all you guys back home!
Right, now let's see, which way?
A-ha! C'mon then! Let's go!
Uh-oh. What's all this about?
Hey, look I know we live in a temporal world, but you know, sometimes you just fall in love - with a city perhaps, with a person most certainly - but I'm telling you, who's to say it can't also be with a bridge!
It's just that I feel uncomfortable about being told what to do with my emotions.
But alright, I'm here as a tourist. And as a former exchange student I really do respect other cultures. Okay then - so what does it matter if I'm not allowed to get too attached to the bridge?
It's only a 20 minute walk to Brooklyn anyway. Who gets attached that quickly anyway, huh?
Don't get attached to the Brooklyn Bridge ... this too shall pass ... don't get attached to the Brooklyn Bridge ...
Wow, it sure is beautiful.
Hang on. What's that up there?
Whoah. Looks to me like they're going after someone - someone who formed an attachment to the bridge without getting written permission first, I'd say.
I mean, you can't blame people for that. It is such a pretty bridge.
But ... still ... yup, someone is really gonna get what's coming to them today.
[sniff] Can't say we weren't warned though. I honestly don't know why people can't just do as they're told. I guess I'm just really lucky I know how to read.
Afterword
Getting all the way to the very end of the bridge that day was all the more rewarding because I knew that there were some people who never made it. I knew that I was one of the lucky ones.
On the Town: Part 2
After the stimulating discussion with my iPod, I quickly changed into my tourist costume. As it was so unexpected that I should need to be a tourist here, I had to improvise. Regrettably the red hat was a $5.90 H&M number. Which was more Mayim Bialik than Maurice Sendak, but never mind. In New York, you learn to rise above these things.
Well, here we are. The Staten Island Ferry presents a wonderful overview of Lower Manhattan. It is orange and free and therefore suits me wonderfully.
Ah, Lady Liberty - you may know of her. She used to be a lighthouse! I know this because I wrote a book about lighthouses of America. Some of you may not be aware of that. Keep listening carefully and I might throw some more surprises your way!
At first, I was the very vision of pure touristic apathy and indifference. Sunglasses, iPod, inscrutable expression - I knew my role and I was determined to be good at it.
But soon the wind started picking up ...
... and suddenly everything went completely and terrifyingly wrong!
PHEW! Why didn't anyone tell me how crazy and unpredictable New York could be? I've had enough for one day!
Thinks: Next time I go on the ferry I won't wear the hat.
The End
On the Town: Part 1
Featuring: LoreleiPod
Oh my god iPod! Did you just say something?
What was that? You think I should quit the job search for the day, get out of the apartment and explore Lower Manhattan?
Look, I dunno about that, iPod. It's not as if I came to New York to be a tourist you know. As you are well aware, I'm a professional lady with only one goal in mind!
... Having said that, it actually might be a good idea to take a trip on the Staten Island Ferry, for research reasons of course. I mean, I think it will probably help me to land a job just to feel first-hand how Melanie Griffith must have felt as she commuted to her fictional workplace every day in Working Girl. Hey, get this - it might even help me in my own efforts to be a 'working girl' in Manhattan, ha ha!
Oh iPoddy-pod, I really feel like I can be my own silly self around you!
Well, you know what? I think I might just do as you suggest! Maybe I'll also visit Ground Zero, Battery Park, and walk across the Brooklyn Bridge while I'm at it!
Hey, you know what? For an iPod, you sure have some great ideas!
This post is dedicated lovingly to my only friend and confidant in New York, the iPod.
Tuesday, 22 May 2007
Can't Sleep
As far as I can tell, there's a random dude sleeping on the floor in the kitchen and it makes me feel uneasy. And I can't sleep.
So I thought that together we might cast our mind to more pleasant things, such as the Paul Poiret exhibition at the Met which I saw the other day and took some illegal photos of before they told me to put my camera away.
Such amazing and exquisite dresses and coats! Designed for and modeled by his wife Denise in many of the photographs. He was quite a revolutionary early on - basically banning the corset (it was in around 1910) and going instead for beautiful flowing shift dresses for women that were really simple and straight (the dresses were simple and straight; the women I'm sure were sophisticated and intriguing) and in doing so, he subsequently paved the way for the flapper dresses of the twenties.
He had amazing costume parties where you had to dress up - which in my experience, everyone always says you have to do but no-one yet has come up with any real consequence of what will happen if you don't. (I have been saying for years we should jail people who don't dress up.) But Poiret followed through with the excellent 'threat' that if you showed up without a costume on, you would be 'forced' to wear something out of his own collection for that season. It could possibly be the only costume party in the entire world that I wouldn't go dressed up to precisely because of this clause.
You should have seen some of these dresses. I nearly died. Which actually would have been handy, because if I had died last Thursday I clearly wouldn't now be dealing restlessly with a stranger sleeping on the kitchen floor (who apparently lives here as well but the other flatmate subletted his room out to ME while he was in Texas - please don't ask me for the details. I can't go through them at the moment, it's all too ridiculous). Anyway, all I'm saying is that if I had died last week as a result of these dresses, I'm sure I'd be feeling a lot better than I do right now. Anyway, back to the clothes.
I love that the black and white design on this amazing coat is practically identical to the most amazing little dress Emily gave me before I left Melbourne.
And this brilliant pair of dresses - although exceedingly and undeniably beautiful - actually pale in comparison to the rest of the exhibition, which I couldn't take photos of because after I took this one I was told that taking photos was not allowed. But through the blur of the image which is 'Lorelei taking a photo without really thinking very deeply about it', you can perhaps see how genuinely gorgeous the fabrics are.
And with that, I think, we come to the end of this post. Please, The Met, don't sue me for taking photos.
So I thought that together we might cast our mind to more pleasant things, such as the Paul Poiret exhibition at the Met which I saw the other day and took some illegal photos of before they told me to put my camera away.
Such amazing and exquisite dresses and coats! Designed for and modeled by his wife Denise in many of the photographs. He was quite a revolutionary early on - basically banning the corset (it was in around 1910) and going instead for beautiful flowing shift dresses for women that were really simple and straight (the dresses were simple and straight; the women I'm sure were sophisticated and intriguing) and in doing so, he subsequently paved the way for the flapper dresses of the twenties.
He had amazing costume parties where you had to dress up - which in my experience, everyone always says you have to do but no-one yet has come up with any real consequence of what will happen if you don't. (I have been saying for years we should jail people who don't dress up.) But Poiret followed through with the excellent 'threat' that if you showed up without a costume on, you would be 'forced' to wear something out of his own collection for that season. It could possibly be the only costume party in the entire world that I wouldn't go dressed up to precisely because of this clause.
You should have seen some of these dresses. I nearly died. Which actually would have been handy, because if I had died last Thursday I clearly wouldn't now be dealing restlessly with a stranger sleeping on the kitchen floor (who apparently lives here as well but the other flatmate subletted his room out to ME while he was in Texas - please don't ask me for the details. I can't go through them at the moment, it's all too ridiculous). Anyway, all I'm saying is that if I had died last week as a result of these dresses, I'm sure I'd be feeling a lot better than I do right now. Anyway, back to the clothes.
I love that the black and white design on this amazing coat is practically identical to the most amazing little dress Emily gave me before I left Melbourne.
And this brilliant pair of dresses - although exceedingly and undeniably beautiful - actually pale in comparison to the rest of the exhibition, which I couldn't take photos of because after I took this one I was told that taking photos was not allowed. But through the blur of the image which is 'Lorelei taking a photo without really thinking very deeply about it', you can perhaps see how genuinely gorgeous the fabrics are.
And with that, I think, we come to the end of this post. Please, The Met, don't sue me for taking photos.
Addendum
You get home Monday evening and things can seem very different to the way they looked Monday morning.
As an example, I've just found out that I'm getting ousted from this apartment and need to find somewhere else to live from now until June 3rd.
Friends?
Ideas?
Anyone?
Craigslist is not coming through for me in my hour of need.
I give up for now anyway.
I'm going to the library to read.
As an example, I've just found out that I'm getting ousted from this apartment and need to find somewhere else to live from now until June 3rd.
Friends?
Ideas?
Anyone?
Craigslist is not coming through for me in my hour of need.
I give up for now anyway.
I'm going to the library to read.
Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah
You wake up on a Monday morning and things look completely different to how they looked Sunday night.
Thanks to your diligence which in turn is thanks to your complete and utter depths of despair, you have eight new emails: an appointment set up this afternoon at a dog walking firm for part-time work, three meetings organised for later in the week with two big publishers and a literary agent, a reply from an admired editor who is happy to meet with you after Book Expo America winds up, two more names that people have passed on for you to contact directly, and the announcement that some beautiful friends in Melbourne are getting married in June.
Overall, a lovely morning! I wonder what will happen when I actually leave the house for the day?
Thanks to your diligence which in turn is thanks to your complete and utter depths of despair, you have eight new emails: an appointment set up this afternoon at a dog walking firm for part-time work, three meetings organised for later in the week with two big publishers and a literary agent, a reply from an admired editor who is happy to meet with you after Book Expo America winds up, two more names that people have passed on for you to contact directly, and the announcement that some beautiful friends in Melbourne are getting married in June.
Overall, a lovely morning! I wonder what will happen when I actually leave the house for the day?
Monday, 21 May 2007
Hold My Hand and We're Halfway There ...
The start of my fourth week here and I have gotten more aggressive in my marketing campaign. I have to. I am completely freaked out.
One of my tactics before I left Australia was to email straight to the top of a number of larger publishing houses - Penguin, Simon and Schuster, Random House - and I mean the big guys at the top, not the HR departments. I found a way to connect myself to them through someone else I knew and thought that my romantic story might register with them enough ('Young editor trying to get a job in big, bad city') for them to decide to throw me a freakin' bone, so to speak. So, it happened that it was Bologna Book Fair when I sent that first round of emails out, and so understandably I got either out of office replies from them all or no replies at all.
So, tonight I went back in for another attack. (Except I described it as a 'follow up' to them of course.) I also went back through the routine of contacting HR departments everywhere, as well as some other packaging companies who I never thought I'd work for but who may be able to help me in some way anyway. And this was is in addition to applying directly for advertised jobs on Mediabistro, Publisher's Marketplace, and at internal job boards at each company's website - I applied for a total of five jobs this weekend which isn't bad considering they were five completely different jobs and I had to fashion my meagre 3 years' experience to fit each and every different role. (I stopped short of applying for the editor position at a Christian book imprint - 'Must have knowledge of the Bible.' I could have done it because I actually have read up to Leviticus and I went to a Lutheran school, but I was too tired at that point to really put my heart into that cover letter.)
The reason for upping the ante is that I am running out of money quickly. I went to my lovely new Park Slope place today to pay my first month's rent - but Jamieson said that after thinking about it a bit more she decided she did want a security deposit after all. Which is fine and really normal, but just unexpected because she hadn't mentioned it earlier. And suddenly I need to find another almost-$1,000 straight away for actual rent. And multiply it by three.
Let me clarify - I'm good for it - I came here with some hard-earned savings - but it's literally all I've got and so doesn't give me much room to do anything else in the meantime but sit in my expensive bedroom and type my life away. Which only makes me smile when I think about the past three years in a full-time Melbourne job - where so often I just wanted some time away from it to literally sit in my bedroom and type my life away.
If I don't get a job I won't be able to stay. If I can't stay, I can think of no other conceivable life for myself. Dramatic, I know, but there's no other way to feel the urgency of life except to freak yourself out by thinking that it may end suddenly: 'Send ye emails while ye may ...'
The title of this post is brought to you by the barbershop octet on the corner of W39th this morning. They were warming up for a Hell's Kitchen outdoor performance, and they were elderly and beautiful and singing to me as I walked past ... 'There's a place for us. Somewhere! A place for us.' Already, I have come across more Sondheim lovers in New York than in ever before in my whole life - the man permeates this town, appearing at the most random moments - just when you need him.
One of my tactics before I left Australia was to email straight to the top of a number of larger publishing houses - Penguin, Simon and Schuster, Random House - and I mean the big guys at the top, not the HR departments. I found a way to connect myself to them through someone else I knew and thought that my romantic story might register with them enough ('Young editor trying to get a job in big, bad city') for them to decide to throw me a freakin' bone, so to speak. So, it happened that it was Bologna Book Fair when I sent that first round of emails out, and so understandably I got either out of office replies from them all or no replies at all.
So, tonight I went back in for another attack. (Except I described it as a 'follow up' to them of course.) I also went back through the routine of contacting HR departments everywhere, as well as some other packaging companies who I never thought I'd work for but who may be able to help me in some way anyway. And this was is in addition to applying directly for advertised jobs on Mediabistro, Publisher's Marketplace, and at internal job boards at each company's website - I applied for a total of five jobs this weekend which isn't bad considering they were five completely different jobs and I had to fashion my meagre 3 years' experience to fit each and every different role. (I stopped short of applying for the editor position at a Christian book imprint - 'Must have knowledge of the Bible.' I could have done it because I actually have read up to Leviticus and I went to a Lutheran school, but I was too tired at that point to really put my heart into that cover letter.)
The reason for upping the ante is that I am running out of money quickly. I went to my lovely new Park Slope place today to pay my first month's rent - but Jamieson said that after thinking about it a bit more she decided she did want a security deposit after all. Which is fine and really normal, but just unexpected because she hadn't mentioned it earlier. And suddenly I need to find another almost-$1,000 straight away for actual rent. And multiply it by three.
Let me clarify - I'm good for it - I came here with some hard-earned savings - but it's literally all I've got and so doesn't give me much room to do anything else in the meantime but sit in my expensive bedroom and type my life away. Which only makes me smile when I think about the past three years in a full-time Melbourne job - where so often I just wanted some time away from it to literally sit in my bedroom and type my life away.
If I don't get a job I won't be able to stay. If I can't stay, I can think of no other conceivable life for myself. Dramatic, I know, but there's no other way to feel the urgency of life except to freak yourself out by thinking that it may end suddenly: 'Send ye emails while ye may ...'
The title of this post is brought to you by the barbershop octet on the corner of W39th this morning. They were warming up for a Hell's Kitchen outdoor performance, and they were elderly and beautiful and singing to me as I walked past ... 'There's a place for us. Somewhere! A place for us.' Already, I have come across more Sondheim lovers in New York than in ever before in my whole life - the man permeates this town, appearing at the most random moments - just when you need him.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
It's on the Bag
I'm so grateful that Americans have lists of ingredients on their food. Although, having said that, I've already had too many disgusting experiences with food (there is always SO much sugar involved) that I no longer even attempt to buy anything in a box or bag that might require a list of ingredients in the first place. The word 'whole wheat' here does not seem to mean anything whole or wheaty. It means something closer to an Arnott's Nice biscuit.
That's why I was ever thankful to my small bag of baby carrots this morning which, just in case I was in doubt as to what was actually contained therein, stated proudly: 'Ingredients: Carrots'. Most reassuring.
That's why I was ever thankful to my small bag of baby carrots this morning which, just in case I was in doubt as to what was actually contained therein, stated proudly: 'Ingredients: Carrots'. Most reassuring.
Park Life
I was familiar with Park Slope, Brooklyn, because it's the location of Dave Eggers' 826NYC (where I'm trying to get work as a volunteer) and also because 'Dog Day Afternoon' was set on a street there. (Don't ask me how I know that.) It's generally made up of pretty expensive brownstones. (They're both pretty and expensive.) My one and only trip there at the beginning of the week was beset not only by a ravenous hunger (I was trying to survive until I got home before eating) but also disappointment because I was CERTAIN I would never get the apartment there that I was looking at. And it was terrible because once I looked at it, I wanted it badly.
I don't know how to explain it, but you see so many places and you keep missing out on them so you eventually just start expecting to never, ever, ever get a break. I suspect it's a part of the daily plan the city has to break you down. I've already learnt that if you fight through it, you'll be rewarded. But with the Park Slope place, I had already given up. That night, I briskly emailed seven other substandard craigslist ads to try to get back in the game. I made myself forget about Park Slope.
Then this morning, I got an email to say I actually got it! Before I go on, I have to tell you about the girl who's subletting it because I not only think she's amazing but I owe her my life. Her name is Jamieson (pronounced 'JAME-a-son') and she's from North Carolina (like Marisha Pessl, I noted, and similiarly, brunettely fabulous). She is off to Florence to do a museum curating internship which is why she's subletting the room. Bless her gorgeous heart for entrusting it to me.
Now to describe the contradictory states of emotion you have to live with here every day. After three seconds of total jubilation, feeling the heavy weight lifting off my shoulders because it's a three-month sublet and this means I can stop worrying daily about having a roof over my head and start focusing more on work, I naturally started thinking of all the problems involved with this particular apartment. Like, how it takes 25 minutes to get into Manhattan. Like, how it's on the F line which sometimes takes a while to come. Like, how I actually don't have the money for 3 months' rent yet or rather, I have it, but it's all the money I've got in the world. (Luckily, Jamieson is happy for rent to be paid month-by-month and not all upfront. Plus, there's no security deposit.) And finally, how it's slightly more expensive than I was looking for originally, (I had to cast the net wide because I just wasn't finding anything) but I've been so worried about not ever finding a place that it's worth it I think. And after that quick inventory of all the possible negative things (and a 25-minute train ride is seriously not that bad) my thoughts shifted towards all the amazing things the apartment has to offer.
A book-cover-designing Tibetan girl as a flatmate who has an amazing bike; a great kitchen and living space; the whole place is clean and full of books; the room has built-ins; it's on the ground floor of a great building; the street is safe and nice; it's one and a half blocks from the subway; it's RIGHT NEXT TO PROSPECT PARK - the amazing park which was designed by the dudes who did Central Park but word is that even they thought Prospect Park was done SO MUCH better - there are farmer's markets, families, food, bars, and Brooklyn Library is at the top of the park. I'm excited about it now. More than anything, I'm just so glad I don't have to think about it for the next two weeks.
I have to say, I really love living in Manhattan, but I also love Brooklyn - it was just a matter of finding the right area and an actual place to live in. I barely know what I'm doing anyway, and I just need somewhere homely to call home. I have - I hope - heaps of time to move back in to Manhattan. Probably, by then, everyone else will have moved out.
I don't know how to explain it, but you see so many places and you keep missing out on them so you eventually just start expecting to never, ever, ever get a break. I suspect it's a part of the daily plan the city has to break you down. I've already learnt that if you fight through it, you'll be rewarded. But with the Park Slope place, I had already given up. That night, I briskly emailed seven other substandard craigslist ads to try to get back in the game. I made myself forget about Park Slope.
Then this morning, I got an email to say I actually got it! Before I go on, I have to tell you about the girl who's subletting it because I not only think she's amazing but I owe her my life. Her name is Jamieson (pronounced 'JAME-a-son') and she's from North Carolina (like Marisha Pessl, I noted, and similiarly, brunettely fabulous). She is off to Florence to do a museum curating internship which is why she's subletting the room. Bless her gorgeous heart for entrusting it to me.
Now to describe the contradictory states of emotion you have to live with here every day. After three seconds of total jubilation, feeling the heavy weight lifting off my shoulders because it's a three-month sublet and this means I can stop worrying daily about having a roof over my head and start focusing more on work, I naturally started thinking of all the problems involved with this particular apartment. Like, how it takes 25 minutes to get into Manhattan. Like, how it's on the F line which sometimes takes a while to come. Like, how I actually don't have the money for 3 months' rent yet or rather, I have it, but it's all the money I've got in the world. (Luckily, Jamieson is happy for rent to be paid month-by-month and not all upfront. Plus, there's no security deposit.) And finally, how it's slightly more expensive than I was looking for originally, (I had to cast the net wide because I just wasn't finding anything) but I've been so worried about not ever finding a place that it's worth it I think. And after that quick inventory of all the possible negative things (and a 25-minute train ride is seriously not that bad) my thoughts shifted towards all the amazing things the apartment has to offer.
A book-cover-designing Tibetan girl as a flatmate who has an amazing bike; a great kitchen and living space; the whole place is clean and full of books; the room has built-ins; it's on the ground floor of a great building; the street is safe and nice; it's one and a half blocks from the subway; it's RIGHT NEXT TO PROSPECT PARK - the amazing park which was designed by the dudes who did Central Park but word is that even they thought Prospect Park was done SO MUCH better - there are farmer's markets, families, food, bars, and Brooklyn Library is at the top of the park. I'm excited about it now. More than anything, I'm just so glad I don't have to think about it for the next two weeks.
I have to say, I really love living in Manhattan, but I also love Brooklyn - it was just a matter of finding the right area and an actual place to live in. I barely know what I'm doing anyway, and I just need somewhere homely to call home. I have - I hope - heaps of time to move back in to Manhattan. Probably, by then, everyone else will have moved out.
Friday, 18 May 2007
A Yoga Story
I woke up this morning in time to get to my first New York yoga class on Eighth Avenue. That in itself surprised me, as I've been sleeping in quite a bit lately. But I got to the office building at 9.55am, just in time to sign in and take advantage of this '$10 during the month of May' class they have there (the cheapest I could find in NYC at the moment).
I rented a mat for $1, went into the room in which three other women were sitting calmly (I couldn't help noticing how CALM they were already) and I lay down my mat. I should say here that I became addicted to yoga and Pilates in Melbourne for about three months last summer, practising one or the other fanatically four or five times a week when I was competing at 'peak level'. (The quotation marks are admitting the ridiculousness of that descriptive term in reference to me.) But life got busier and my class attendance started dropping, which resulted in my body whinging and whining like a three year-old ever since - 'Mum! We never go to yoga anymore!' All this year I have been wanting to rediscover the hysteria I once had, so yoga was always something I definitely wanted to do over here - a total ambition and priority. Along with finding a job, getting a visa, getting an apartment, eating at least one meal every day, and some day running into Winona Ryder by accident.
Anyway, as soon as I walked into the studio my nose started bleeding and refused to stop, which is very common for me and can happen anytime and anywhere (proving that I literally do have spontaneity running through my veins - pity that it feels compelled to rush out of my nose though, ha ha) . Luckily, I was in a situation where lying down on the floor is not only acceptable, it is encouraged, particularly when the class is in its pre-beginning stages and everyone else is meditating and stretching in one way or another anyhow. So, I lay down and for five minutes had to deal with that sickly, salty, familiar taste in the back of my throat whilst maintaining an expression of deep meditation and seriousness. And although the view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows was of a construction site, and the sound of heavy machinery penetrated into the studio in a way that must have been orchestrated in order to challenge our mental and spiritual strength, I nevertheless began to feel my body relax and my breathing slow down, as it is meant to do.
It was at that moment that someone came in to tell us that the unfortunately the class had to be cancelled because the door to the yoga instructor's apartment had broken of its hinges, and so she had to stay at home to be there for when the landlord came. The four of us got our money back plus a free pass each, and one of the girls - who as it turns out was fifteen and wasn't at school because it had been cancelled due to the destruction of the storm yesterday - walked around with me for a while on Ninth Avenue. She talked about how much she hates musicals and I talked about how much I love them. She bought a watermelon and I bought some potatoes, and I was relieved at that point to discover that we both pronounce potatoes the same. Which to my mind, proves that tiny cultural differences such as a dislike of glitz and schmaltz and corn (the Broadway variety) doesn't mean that two people more than ten years apart in age can't still enjoy a friendly walk around Midtown in the morning.
I rented a mat for $1, went into the room in which three other women were sitting calmly (I couldn't help noticing how CALM they were already) and I lay down my mat. I should say here that I became addicted to yoga and Pilates in Melbourne for about three months last summer, practising one or the other fanatically four or five times a week when I was competing at 'peak level'. (The quotation marks are admitting the ridiculousness of that descriptive term in reference to me.) But life got busier and my class attendance started dropping, which resulted in my body whinging and whining like a three year-old ever since - 'Mum! We never go to yoga anymore!' All this year I have been wanting to rediscover the hysteria I once had, so yoga was always something I definitely wanted to do over here - a total ambition and priority. Along with finding a job, getting a visa, getting an apartment, eating at least one meal every day, and some day running into Winona Ryder by accident.
Anyway, as soon as I walked into the studio my nose started bleeding and refused to stop, which is very common for me and can happen anytime and anywhere (proving that I literally do have spontaneity running through my veins - pity that it feels compelled to rush out of my nose though, ha ha) . Luckily, I was in a situation where lying down on the floor is not only acceptable, it is encouraged, particularly when the class is in its pre-beginning stages and everyone else is meditating and stretching in one way or another anyhow. So, I lay down and for five minutes had to deal with that sickly, salty, familiar taste in the back of my throat whilst maintaining an expression of deep meditation and seriousness. And although the view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows was of a construction site, and the sound of heavy machinery penetrated into the studio in a way that must have been orchestrated in order to challenge our mental and spiritual strength, I nevertheless began to feel my body relax and my breathing slow down, as it is meant to do.
It was at that moment that someone came in to tell us that the unfortunately the class had to be cancelled because the door to the yoga instructor's apartment had broken of its hinges, and so she had to stay at home to be there for when the landlord came. The four of us got our money back plus a free pass each, and one of the girls - who as it turns out was fifteen and wasn't at school because it had been cancelled due to the destruction of the storm yesterday - walked around with me for a while on Ninth Avenue. She talked about how much she hates musicals and I talked about how much I love them. She bought a watermelon and I bought some potatoes, and I was relieved at that point to discover that we both pronounce potatoes the same. Which to my mind, proves that tiny cultural differences such as a dislike of glitz and schmaltz and corn (the Broadway variety) doesn't mean that two people more than ten years apart in age can't still enjoy a friendly walk around Midtown in the morning.
Thursday, 17 May 2007
The Year of Magical Thinking
It's a few hours since my last post, and I've just gotten back from seeing 'The Year of Magical Thinking'. With all of the talking about the weather earlier, I completely forgot to mention that today I managed to get myself a ticket to see it tonight. Oh alright, I'll tell you the whole story then.
On a whim, and because I was walking past anyway - just before I went to the bank and the storm hit - I stood in line at tdf for actually not long at all. This is the discount Broadway ticket office thing, that opens at 3pm for the night shows and you're meant to be able to get 50% off tickets to whatever shows are available. The thing is that the queue for the musicals is crazy - it winds and curves and looks intimidating, boring and violent. However, there is a separate 'play window' which, being all in lowercase and Arial like that, a sign just stuck on a single booth, means it is quite difficult at first to comprehend what purpose a 'play window' could possibly have, or its relevance to me, almost a native New Yorker by this point (as I have been here two weeks) and thus in possession of the harried, tormented lack of time common to my fellow city folk. Is there a game called 'window' that I can play? Are there toys available in this queue? But with only three people standing in line, I tried my luck, and as I had just been paid $80 for a transcribing job, and I worked extremely hard for that extra cash (a four hour job that turned into twelve), I was completely happy to pass half of it over and receive, in return, seat G5 in the mezzanine. I always suspected that this was the sort of thing I could do in New York, and allahu akbar, this is the sort of thing I can do this in New York!
It had been raining on and off since the storm hit that afternoon, and it was still raining when I walked out at 7.40pm. I live on 39th St and the Booth Theater is on 45th St, so it wasn't very far to walk. But it was horrible. Broadway at night - even a Wednesday night - is hellish. With sleazy, swerving cabs trying to hit on demure rain-filled gutters, splashing is the inevitable reaction; like the slap on the cheek that misses its target (a target who knows from either experience or Rita Hayworth films to duck) and so instead hits the innocent waiter walking by with a tray of drinks. Or, in this case, the determinedly high-heeled young lady in the purple party dress on her way to see her Very First Broadway Show. I know it will bring down the individual experience I am having here as a writer who is in New York when I start talking about Carrie Bradshaw, but those opening credits of 'Sex and the City', where the bus splashes mud all over her skirt ... actually, no, I won't carry on with that line of thought, because that show is too ingrained in the psyche of - well, what I know to actually only be a very small proportion of the whole world but I do probably share a proportion of that readership - as what is supposed to happen when a young lady writer wears a pretty dress in New York. But basically my expression of contempt and disgust was of a similar calibre - or because of my current continent of residence, caliber - to our fictive female friend, and I was literally soaked by the time I got to the theater.
I was already running late because I had walked in the wrong direction for a bit - this happens to me a lot. Walking past all the other theaters tends to heighten the anxiety as well - you see all the different crowds for all the different shows moving inside to take their seats. Bells are sounding, cigarettes are being stamped out, the sidewalks become a little freer for you to quicken your pace, but that just makes you more nervous. LATECOMERS NOT ADMITTED. It rings in your head. You know the rule, but you figure they could never refuse a determinedly high-heeled lady in a purple dress, sodden as she may be. But there's always the possibility. Umbrella held up like a flamingo, higher than anyone so you can squeeze past without getting tangled up in the flocks of various other umbrella-birds ambling along far less gracefully or urgently.
I got there and took my seat - everyone ended up being late from the rain, I suppose, so I was fine. Right up the back but with an excellent view of Vanessa Redgrave as Joan Didion in the stage adaptation of the most amazing book I read last year.
There are no words to properly describe how the show made me feel. But afterwards, I cried the entire way home. A guy yelled at me as I walked past, 'Hey! I love you princess!' and I wanted to swing around, with my black shawl dramatically backing me up a split second later in the earnest way that only shawls can do, and yell back - 'You don't know ANYTHING about LOVE, buddy!'
I didn't do it, but I wanted to. Years of reading Salinger can wryly catch up with you. When you're actually in New York and you've been crying for the last hour and a half, but remarkably, it's not about yourself, and you realise that although you may not be Franny Glass you nevertheless still are SOMEONE, and not only that, you are someone who's in New York ... well, the only reaction, the only PERSONA you can have in this situation - aside from the one where you dress up as a sailor and pretend you only have 24 hours to explore the town - is to call a stranger 'buddy' and be theatrical about it. Which I did, but only in my head.
I regret not giving Redgrave a standing ovation along with most of the audience, but I was crying in such a way that I didn't want to stand up and draw attention to myself. Even though other people were audibly, visibly, sniffing and crying, I simply couldn't do it. I continued sitting there as the lights came up. After a while I had to leave and so I glided softly downstairs and outside, not wanting to be noticed, not daring to look at anyone because I thought I'd start sobbing again if I looked into anyone's eyes. Because I honestly felt that what I would see there would be all the grief and untold sadness that people carry with them, all the helpless gestures that people use to comfort people with, and ultimately, the safety that you can never have because life can change in an instant ('You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends') and you can't do anything to stop it.
They showed that famous photograph of Joan and John and Quintana at the very end - the one that is on the back of the book; the one that shows Joan (yes, cradled in a shawl) leaning over the balcony and looking at her beautiful husband and daughter with such love and pride. Those two - the two who died before her, and in such quick succession - both look straight into the camera. Showing it like that was one of the most wretched, haunting things anyone could have done to us; a crime against humanity. Or maybe it was just humanity. The crime was that I couldn't even look at it because it was too distressing. After you've listened to this incredible telling of the story with such fluency and clarity, to the words sewn together with such amazing skill, there is nothing to distract you from the pure suffering of the story.
I stood out on the sidewalk long enough to overhear a male New York accent equivocate, 'Well, she's really quite a SELFISH woman I think. I mean it's all about HER isn't it' - the inanity and cluelessness of the statement hit me sideways which enabled me to find a clear opening through the crowd; still crying but composed enough now at least to begin walking home.
On a whim, and because I was walking past anyway - just before I went to the bank and the storm hit - I stood in line at tdf for actually not long at all. This is the discount Broadway ticket office thing, that opens at 3pm for the night shows and you're meant to be able to get 50% off tickets to whatever shows are available. The thing is that the queue for the musicals is crazy - it winds and curves and looks intimidating, boring and violent. However, there is a separate 'play window' which, being all in lowercase and Arial like that, a sign just stuck on a single booth, means it is quite difficult at first to comprehend what purpose a 'play window' could possibly have, or its relevance to me, almost a native New Yorker by this point (as I have been here two weeks) and thus in possession of the harried, tormented lack of time common to my fellow city folk. Is there a game called 'window' that I can play? Are there toys available in this queue? But with only three people standing in line, I tried my luck, and as I had just been paid $80 for a transcribing job, and I worked extremely hard for that extra cash (a four hour job that turned into twelve), I was completely happy to pass half of it over and receive, in return, seat G5 in the mezzanine. I always suspected that this was the sort of thing I could do in New York, and allahu akbar, this is the sort of thing I can do this in New York!
It had been raining on and off since the storm hit that afternoon, and it was still raining when I walked out at 7.40pm. I live on 39th St and the Booth Theater is on 45th St, so it wasn't very far to walk. But it was horrible. Broadway at night - even a Wednesday night - is hellish. With sleazy, swerving cabs trying to hit on demure rain-filled gutters, splashing is the inevitable reaction; like the slap on the cheek that misses its target (a target who knows from either experience or Rita Hayworth films to duck) and so instead hits the innocent waiter walking by with a tray of drinks. Or, in this case, the determinedly high-heeled young lady in the purple party dress on her way to see her Very First Broadway Show. I know it will bring down the individual experience I am having here as a writer who is in New York when I start talking about Carrie Bradshaw, but those opening credits of 'Sex and the City', where the bus splashes mud all over her skirt ... actually, no, I won't carry on with that line of thought, because that show is too ingrained in the psyche of - well, what I know to actually only be a very small proportion of the whole world but I do probably share a proportion of that readership - as what is supposed to happen when a young lady writer wears a pretty dress in New York. But basically my expression of contempt and disgust was of a similar calibre - or because of my current continent of residence, caliber - to our fictive female friend, and I was literally soaked by the time I got to the theater.
I was already running late because I had walked in the wrong direction for a bit - this happens to me a lot. Walking past all the other theaters tends to heighten the anxiety as well - you see all the different crowds for all the different shows moving inside to take their seats. Bells are sounding, cigarettes are being stamped out, the sidewalks become a little freer for you to quicken your pace, but that just makes you more nervous. LATECOMERS NOT ADMITTED. It rings in your head. You know the rule, but you figure they could never refuse a determinedly high-heeled lady in a purple dress, sodden as she may be. But there's always the possibility. Umbrella held up like a flamingo, higher than anyone so you can squeeze past without getting tangled up in the flocks of various other umbrella-birds ambling along far less gracefully or urgently.
I got there and took my seat - everyone ended up being late from the rain, I suppose, so I was fine. Right up the back but with an excellent view of Vanessa Redgrave as Joan Didion in the stage adaptation of the most amazing book I read last year.
There are no words to properly describe how the show made me feel. But afterwards, I cried the entire way home. A guy yelled at me as I walked past, 'Hey! I love you princess!' and I wanted to swing around, with my black shawl dramatically backing me up a split second later in the earnest way that only shawls can do, and yell back - 'You don't know ANYTHING about LOVE, buddy!'
I didn't do it, but I wanted to. Years of reading Salinger can wryly catch up with you. When you're actually in New York and you've been crying for the last hour and a half, but remarkably, it's not about yourself, and you realise that although you may not be Franny Glass you nevertheless still are SOMEONE, and not only that, you are someone who's in New York ... well, the only reaction, the only PERSONA you can have in this situation - aside from the one where you dress up as a sailor and pretend you only have 24 hours to explore the town - is to call a stranger 'buddy' and be theatrical about it. Which I did, but only in my head.
I regret not giving Redgrave a standing ovation along with most of the audience, but I was crying in such a way that I didn't want to stand up and draw attention to myself. Even though other people were audibly, visibly, sniffing and crying, I simply couldn't do it. I continued sitting there as the lights came up. After a while I had to leave and so I glided softly downstairs and outside, not wanting to be noticed, not daring to look at anyone because I thought I'd start sobbing again if I looked into anyone's eyes. Because I honestly felt that what I would see there would be all the grief and untold sadness that people carry with them, all the helpless gestures that people use to comfort people with, and ultimately, the safety that you can never have because life can change in an instant ('You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends') and you can't do anything to stop it.
They showed that famous photograph of Joan and John and Quintana at the very end - the one that is on the back of the book; the one that shows Joan (yes, cradled in a shawl) leaning over the balcony and looking at her beautiful husband and daughter with such love and pride. Those two - the two who died before her, and in such quick succession - both look straight into the camera. Showing it like that was one of the most wretched, haunting things anyone could have done to us; a crime against humanity. Or maybe it was just humanity. The crime was that I couldn't even look at it because it was too distressing. After you've listened to this incredible telling of the story with such fluency and clarity, to the words sewn together with such amazing skill, there is nothing to distract you from the pure suffering of the story.
I stood out on the sidewalk long enough to overhear a male New York accent equivocate, 'Well, she's really quite a SELFISH woman I think. I mean it's all about HER isn't it' - the inanity and cluelessness of the statement hit me sideways which enabled me to find a clear opening through the crowd; still crying but composed enough now at least to begin walking home.
Tempest
When I was in my first year of uni, for my scriptwriting class I wrote a terrible film script. I gave it the title 'Tempest', and to say that I generously applied the metaphor of weather as a barometer for the main character's 'emotional weather' is a polite understatement. There was no subtlety about it. Everything in the entire script was about the storm - both the one ravaging inside her and the one slowly brewing in her teacupped, autumnal world. The leaves tumbled and twirled, leaving no question that her heart and mind were similarly flurried and fluttery. That's right folks - with nineteen year-old me at the helm, I wanted there to be absolutely no confusion regarding the matter - she, herself, WAS a tempest! Just waiting to descend on some poor, hapless, possibly mute indie-looking love interest, leaving nothing but destruction and mayhem in her wake. I won't tell you about the hackneyed, painful finale, but I will tell you what happened to ME at the end - I got a 7 for the script and I felt so ripped off because I knew how terrible it was. I never trusted myself to ever try to write another film or play again, because if something so bad was given the highest mark in the class, there was something completely wrong with the world. And I didn't want to have any part of it. Okay Morales?!
I mention it today because the storm that descended out of the dust and desert that was New York this morning was so far beyond what I have ever experienced of the weather, or more specifically, of 'tempests', that I have to revisit the idea.
I had spent all day out. Trekking through the heat; winding in and out of the crowds on Seventh Avenue, trying to find the offices of the publishers I had appointments with. The sun baked the sidewalk (as I now call the footpath); a preview of summer. After I had finished my second meeting for the day, exhausted but still focused on the errands I had left to do, (buy food; do laundry) I went into the bank to pay my rent. It was sunny and hot when I went inside, and I was out again within eight minutes. But the world had completely changed in that time.
At the bank, there was a man with a lime green iguana hanging onto his back, and a red string was tied to the iguana's throat which was attached on the other end to the man's thin wrist. The iguana's name was Sam, and he caused something of a disturbance in the bank, as he fell off his master's back and was hanging limply for a couple of seconds while the female bank tellers screamed and gasped. But Sam was okay; we were all okay! It was, in fact, a brilliant presentation and I'm sure I can speak for everyone when I say we were glad to have witnessed it. Master and iguana left the bank, and as we turned to watch them walk out, that's when we saw the storm coming. A lady in line cried out - 'Oh meye gawd! The storm's gonna hit!' And it was like the 'To-tal eclipse of the sun!' moment in 'Little Shop of Horrors'. It got very dark.
Everyone started getting very nervous. I finally got to the teller, deposited my rent and walked outside, absolutely dumbfounded by the sudden greyness of everything. Immediately, I felt little pellets of dirt and sand, New York bullets, start hitting me in the face hard. I couldn't see a thing. Everyone was rushing around, trying to hail cabs, swearing, trying to get undercover. I actually thought I might still have time to go the fruit shop, which was on the way home, before the storm hit. But I have never known storms like that, and I was completely wrong because it just came on too quick to do anything.
It pounced hard just as I was crossing the road, and I realised I just needed to get home very quickly. It was 4pm but it was as dark as night-time. I have never seen anything like it. People screaming and yelling at each other. A plastic cup followed me for at least two blocks, yapping at my heels. My entire body felt pummelled, and I walked like some weird sideways robot, unable to actually see where I was going, amazed that I didn't slam into someone as they were all struggling in the same way too.
It wasn't until I was half a block from home that I allowed myself to look around and smile at the amazing scene and appreciate it, because I didn't have to be so scared anymore. I got upstairs and turned on the lights - everything was so dark. I had made it inside just before the rain began to properly slam down. I was sticky with sweat, because the heat still clung on, all the better for the dirt to add itself to the mix. There were about a thousand different particles, articles, in my eyes. I hurried about making a cup of tea, and when I sat down and looked out the window, the rain had stopped and it was once again day.
All I could think about was the wish that I could go back and inform my well-meaning but idiotic nineteen year-old self - in the manner of Crocodile Dundee - that THAT'S not a tempest you're writing about. THIS is a tempest!
I mention it today because the storm that descended out of the dust and desert that was New York this morning was so far beyond what I have ever experienced of the weather, or more specifically, of 'tempests', that I have to revisit the idea.
I had spent all day out. Trekking through the heat; winding in and out of the crowds on Seventh Avenue, trying to find the offices of the publishers I had appointments with. The sun baked the sidewalk (as I now call the footpath); a preview of summer. After I had finished my second meeting for the day, exhausted but still focused on the errands I had left to do, (buy food; do laundry) I went into the bank to pay my rent. It was sunny and hot when I went inside, and I was out again within eight minutes. But the world had completely changed in that time.
At the bank, there was a man with a lime green iguana hanging onto his back, and a red string was tied to the iguana's throat which was attached on the other end to the man's thin wrist. The iguana's name was Sam, and he caused something of a disturbance in the bank, as he fell off his master's back and was hanging limply for a couple of seconds while the female bank tellers screamed and gasped. But Sam was okay; we were all okay! It was, in fact, a brilliant presentation and I'm sure I can speak for everyone when I say we were glad to have witnessed it. Master and iguana left the bank, and as we turned to watch them walk out, that's when we saw the storm coming. A lady in line cried out - 'Oh meye gawd! The storm's gonna hit!' And it was like the 'To-tal eclipse of the sun!' moment in 'Little Shop of Horrors'. It got very dark.
Everyone started getting very nervous. I finally got to the teller, deposited my rent and walked outside, absolutely dumbfounded by the sudden greyness of everything. Immediately, I felt little pellets of dirt and sand, New York bullets, start hitting me in the face hard. I couldn't see a thing. Everyone was rushing around, trying to hail cabs, swearing, trying to get undercover. I actually thought I might still have time to go the fruit shop, which was on the way home, before the storm hit. But I have never known storms like that, and I was completely wrong because it just came on too quick to do anything.
It pounced hard just as I was crossing the road, and I realised I just needed to get home very quickly. It was 4pm but it was as dark as night-time. I have never seen anything like it. People screaming and yelling at each other. A plastic cup followed me for at least two blocks, yapping at my heels. My entire body felt pummelled, and I walked like some weird sideways robot, unable to actually see where I was going, amazed that I didn't slam into someone as they were all struggling in the same way too.
It wasn't until I was half a block from home that I allowed myself to look around and smile at the amazing scene and appreciate it, because I didn't have to be so scared anymore. I got upstairs and turned on the lights - everything was so dark. I had made it inside just before the rain began to properly slam down. I was sticky with sweat, because the heat still clung on, all the better for the dirt to add itself to the mix. There were about a thousand different particles, articles, in my eyes. I hurried about making a cup of tea, and when I sat down and looked out the window, the rain had stopped and it was once again day.
All I could think about was the wish that I could go back and inform my well-meaning but idiotic nineteen year-old self - in the manner of Crocodile Dundee - that THAT'S not a tempest you're writing about. THIS is a tempest!
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Hear the Beat of Dancing Feet
I have gotten an interview. It's on Tuesday, and it's as an editorial assistant at a children's publisher. I was trying to go straight in as editor, but beggars can really not be choosers. Plus, I have so much to learn about this industry; it's very different to Australia, so entry level might not be such a bad idea. Who knows. It is a wonderful piece of news to just have someone agree to see me, no matter how you look at it.
I've spent the week a little bit flat; not so much disenchanted just low. I know everyone's going through the same thing here, so that helps. I'm getting to know the neighborhoods more; getting to know the crazy highs and lows you feel daily.
Tomorrow - I get to stroll through the New York Times and get my resume in order, ready for a new week.
I've spent the week a little bit flat; not so much disenchanted just low. I know everyone's going through the same thing here, so that helps. I'm getting to know the neighborhoods more; getting to know the crazy highs and lows you feel daily.
Tomorrow - I get to stroll through the New York Times and get my resume in order, ready for a new week.
Monday, 7 May 2007
A Renovator's Dream
I just looked in the mirror and it occurred to me that right now I look like a 36 year-old, long-service-leaving, renovating, mother-of-at-least-two.
Behold - the jeans (which I usually never wear). The hoodie (which I usually never, ever wear). The serious case of wrinkled brow thumping and pulsing urgently enough for me to have to place my hand up there in order to to quieten the lines. The hair in a tousled mess, bunched up with strands tickling my ears and eyes like in a lifestyle magazine - a total renovation. I just need a speck of blue paint cutely splashed across my cheek and a power drill ensconsed awkwardly in my over-clenched fist. And not to belabour the renovation metaphor, (too late!) I do feel like the past week has sardine-gutted my insides completely and I now await some kind of refurbishment courtesy of the city of New York.
I arrived last Friday, a little over a week ago. I have been hesitant to start this blog, as I had no idea about the tone or the voice of it, or who I am writing to, or any of the other things I think are actually important because once you get into the nitty-gritty of it, writing is a complicated thing and these are necessary considerations, particularly for someone who is critical of every word ever put to paper, both by herself and everyone else. But by tricking myself into thinking of this as being just like letters home, I have decided to let myself off the hook for once. So welcome to my love-in of peace and acceptance and letting go. Magic Happens.
The other reason it's taken me a while to write on this thing is that my computer broke. But now I have a brand new one, and thus, life really, truly begins again.
Now, a little bit about myself. I'm subletting a room in Midtown West, around 42nd St and Broadway, known as the Theater District in American (I have to be careful and not accidentally call it the Theatre District or noone here will know what I'm talking about, ha ha). As you would know, I grew up on every single musical on earth - my first role being that of the Little Old Birdwoman in Mary Poppins when I was four, so it's truly breathtaking to be here. But also very full-on in a touristy way and quite gross. Times Square is ridiculous. But I have to say that walking up 45th St, and seeing the huge and beautiful billboards for Grey Gardens, A Chorus Line, Wicked, and even Legally Blonde the Musical, I felt my heart sing and possibly do a little slide shuffle too. My third biggest priority here (after finding a job and a more permanent place to stay) is to usher for as many of these musicals as possible and get in for free. I don't even know if you can do that, but I'm going to try. There's no way my budget can accomodate barely even one of these shows, even for the $20 rush tickets. If I don't get to see Vanessa Redgrave as Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, my trip here will be a waste of time - my time, the airline's time, the time of everyone who has bothered to reply to my interview requests, as well of course, a big waste of your time. There is no way I am NOT going to see that show no matter what - it would be a travesty and insult to my entire life on earth to miss it.
Tomorrow starts a new week, my second one here, and the job search starts in earnest. I also just found out that I may only have this room until Saturday - I thought I could rent it for a full month - so once again, I will be appearing daily on Craigslist, with a possible matinee performance on Wednesdays and Saturdays as well.
Behold - the jeans (which I usually never wear). The hoodie (which I usually never, ever wear). The serious case of wrinkled brow thumping and pulsing urgently enough for me to have to place my hand up there in order to to quieten the lines. The hair in a tousled mess, bunched up with strands tickling my ears and eyes like in a lifestyle magazine - a total renovation. I just need a speck of blue paint cutely splashed across my cheek and a power drill ensconsed awkwardly in my over-clenched fist. And not to belabour the renovation metaphor, (too late!) I do feel like the past week has sardine-gutted my insides completely and I now await some kind of refurbishment courtesy of the city of New York.
I arrived last Friday, a little over a week ago. I have been hesitant to start this blog, as I had no idea about the tone or the voice of it, or who I am writing to, or any of the other things I think are actually important because once you get into the nitty-gritty of it, writing is a complicated thing and these are necessary considerations, particularly for someone who is critical of every word ever put to paper, both by herself and everyone else. But by tricking myself into thinking of this as being just like letters home, I have decided to let myself off the hook for once. So welcome to my love-in of peace and acceptance and letting go. Magic Happens.
The other reason it's taken me a while to write on this thing is that my computer broke. But now I have a brand new one, and thus, life really, truly begins again.
Now, a little bit about myself. I'm subletting a room in Midtown West, around 42nd St and Broadway, known as the Theater District in American (I have to be careful and not accidentally call it the Theatre District or noone here will know what I'm talking about, ha ha). As you would know, I grew up on every single musical on earth - my first role being that of the Little Old Birdwoman in Mary Poppins when I was four, so it's truly breathtaking to be here. But also very full-on in a touristy way and quite gross. Times Square is ridiculous. But I have to say that walking up 45th St, and seeing the huge and beautiful billboards for Grey Gardens, A Chorus Line, Wicked, and even Legally Blonde the Musical, I felt my heart sing and possibly do a little slide shuffle too. My third biggest priority here (after finding a job and a more permanent place to stay) is to usher for as many of these musicals as possible and get in for free. I don't even know if you can do that, but I'm going to try. There's no way my budget can accomodate barely even one of these shows, even for the $20 rush tickets. If I don't get to see Vanessa Redgrave as Joan Didion in The Year of Magical Thinking, my trip here will be a waste of time - my time, the airline's time, the time of everyone who has bothered to reply to my interview requests, as well of course, a big waste of your time. There is no way I am NOT going to see that show no matter what - it would be a travesty and insult to my entire life on earth to miss it.
Tomorrow starts a new week, my second one here, and the job search starts in earnest. I also just found out that I may only have this room until Saturday - I thought I could rent it for a full month - so once again, I will be appearing daily on Craigslist, with a possible matinee performance on Wednesdays and Saturdays as well.
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