One Foot Out the Door . . . a cautious guide to commitment

The End

2010-07-16T08:10:00.007-04:00

Back when I was actively writing a memoir, I was always looking for a place to stop telling the story. You know, a good ending. The memoir started with my mid-life move to San Francisco. My new life was unfolding in many delicious ways and my story kept building. I wrote scene after scene and there was always another, no end in sight. Then I moved to NYC. An end, yes, but also another beginning. Then Tom died and as upsetting as that was, I knew that was my ending. Trouble is, it also ended my interest in writing the memoir. Instead, I started this blog.

The title "one foot out the door" is my way of saying I have difficulty with commitment. There are reasons that probably stem from childhood and I won't bore you (or me) with pondering them. But the way it shows up in my life is this: whenever things don't go as I'd like, my first response is to leave, to quit, to break up. I don't always act on that impulse. In fact, quite the opposite. I stay while inside I'm screaming, let me out of here!

Seven years ago I was working in a loft in Oakland, preparing to move to NYC. I've now been with the same company for 9 years. I lived in the same apartment in SF for 5 years, all the while scanning Craigslist for something cheaper, larger, more convenient. I lived in my West Village shoebox for 6 years. Tom and I were an item for 6 years; immediately prior, I was with David for 9. (What does it say that my longest relationship—14 years—is with a cat?) In January, I made an unbelievable commitment and purchased an apartment in Brooklyn. I have a 30-year mortgage. These are not the actions of someone who avoids commitment. Fearful? Yes. But I do it anyway.

And what I've realized is that commitment is a living breathing thing. As changes occur, we adjust and re-commitment is necessary. Sometimes daily. We've recently had changes at the office and we're moving back to the original location I came to on my first day of work in NYC. What a feeling of full circle I had yesterday when I walked through the door and introduced myself to the receptionist. But there has been progress. Instead of returning to the meager cubicle where I used to sit elbow to elbow with a co-worker, I now have a beautiful office. Indeed, as I write this from my dining room table looking out over the rooftops of Brooklyn, I'm thinking this is yet another beginning and I can't wait to see what will happen next.

Life in Brooklyn

2010-03-27T13:36:00.001-04:00

Last night a craving for nachos led me to the neighborhood pub where tho lively and well-populated, there was plenty of room at the bar. The most connected guy in Brooklyn sat down next to me and I soon learned the nearest place to buy organic produce (I never would have found it on my own), where I can get a community garden plot, that the Ft. Greene food co-op is ready to go as soon as it finds a space (please let it be within one block of me), the bar across the street is rough, and the coffeehouse most like Farley's in SF used to be is Outpost on Fulton. The nachos were good too.

I'm still getting my feet on the ground here in my new neighborhood, which is packed with small businesses where everyone is friendly and the person behind the counter is likely the owner herself. The cashier at the above-referenced grocery store tried to talk me out of the organic produce I had walked 8 blocks to purchase. "Why you buy that at $5.99? You get the same thing for $1.99 on special today. As far as I'm concerned that is just over-priced!"

It was a lovely walk down the brownstone-lined St. James Place. Breakfast today on Myrtle was a delicious waffle with real maple syrup and scrambled eggs for $9 (it compares to french toast at the French Roast in the West Village, where for $17 you get a big helping of indifference). Next door is a tiny yoga studio where I can do Pilates on Saturday and Iyengar yoga on Sunday. It's as if I woke up and found myself transported to Bernal Heights in SF (except without the fragrant air). And next week it will feel doubly so when my Bernal Heights friends are here to visit! Can't wait.

The Discomfort of Success

2010-02-15T23:04:00.002-05:00

Last week a very welcome letter came in the mail: “I am pleased to announce that you have been nominated by a member or members of our Board of Contributing Editors for Pushcart Prize XXXV: Best of the Small Presses, to be published in November 2010.

Wow! Achievement of the next milestone, I thought. I let that sink in—for about five minutes. Then came the questions, the doubts, the take-aways. (If you’re a writer, you know what I mean.) Then I picked up Pushcart XXXIV and read Kim Addonizio’s personal essay, “How to Succeed at Po Biz,” recounting the glamorous (tongue in cheek) steps to fame in my chosen field. (Her book, Tell Me, was a finalist for the National Book Award.) It was gratifying to read this particular “step:”

“Feel anxious because you are basically a private person and can’t live up to the persona that is floating out there in the world acting tougher and braver than you. You are a writer, after all, and prefer to be alone in your own house with your cat.”

That’s what a persona does—it stands in for the writer and allows her to become a character in her first person story. My persona may seem a lot like me, but not completely. Every successful first person writer creates a persona, from Charles Bukowski to Frank O’Hara to Anne Carson to Mary Karr.

A few months ago, an acquaintance read my blog and reported back that I am different here than on email or in person. Ah hah! Success, I thought. I’m doing it! Building a small space between the personal me and the “me” for public consumption.

Turn Off the Tele

2010-02-07T08:33:00.002-05:00

When I moved to NYC six years ago, I dumped my tv. It was a time-waster, the shows I enjoyed could all be viewed later on video, and whenever there was a tv in the room, my then-lover insisted on falling asleep with the screen buzzing all night long, which made me cranky.

I’ve missed the big leaps in tv technology—HDTV, surround sound, those sleek wall-mounted units—but I have yet to miss the content. Though I do have to say I’ve become clueless in the company of the 20-somethings I work with who watch "Glee" and “Gossip Girl.”

What do I do in place of television, asked a bewildered co-worker last week. Read, write, vacuum cat hair… but one of the best things is radio. In SF, it was KPFA: late night story-telling with Joe Frank, alternative rock/folk music with Bonnie Simmons on Thursdays, and of course, the always entertaining lefty political conversations.

Here, I listen to WNYC on Saturdays: Kurt Andersen’s "Studio 360," "CarTalk," "This American Life," and the newest discovery, "Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me."

WWDTM is smart, political, and hilarious. In one regular segment, they give three wacky scenarios on a particular topic and the guest contestants must decide which one is true. My favorite example from yesterday is a dating website for not-so-good-looking people called eSettle.com. The founder says they’re looking for people who’ve been on eHarmony or Match.com for a year and are getting run-over by reality. (I was only on Match for six months. I swear!)

On Thinking Big

2010-01-30T11:21:00.012-05:00

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UPS just delivered my new refurbished Cuisinart toaster with four slots. Earlier this month, I bought a king-sized bed. In my kitchen is a Viking commercial refrigerator that dwarfs the 17.6 oz container of Greek yogurt inside. The massive burners of the Viking gas stove look as if they could melt my charming little tea kettle with the harmonica whistle. Judging by the scale of things in my new apartment, you might think I was expecting company.
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Ever since I left Colorado for San Francisco, then NYC, I’ve been committed to shrinkage. Well, maybe it started even earlier, when I first started writing for a living and wanted to see how little I could spend each month. And despite the fact that I had a 400 sq foot studio and shared an 1800 sq foot house with my ex, surrounded by fresh air and pines outside of Boulder, there was always too much stuff. And I just spent the last six years living in two rooms that couldn’t have totaled more than 300 square feet. I became a regular at the Housing Works donation desk.

At 800 square feet, my new apartment isn't large by Colorado standards, but it seems to have ignited the "big thinking" lobe of my brain. Or maybe the reverse is true. But I do know that if I plan to use more than one slot of the new toaster, I’ll need a little furniture to offer to my guest(s). I hear the Brooklyn Flea Market is the place to shop.

There are other novel things about my newly expanded perspective. For one, I didn't know what seems to be common knowledge that the top floors of steam-heated buildings in NYC are overheated. If I don’t keep my windows open all day, the temperature is too warm to sleep at night. And with all the light from five unobstructed windows, I can see exactly how much NYC dirt comes in through open windows. If that’s what’s landing on my floor, how much goes into my lungs? Some realities of NYC life might better be kept in the dark.

A Note on Contributors Notes

2010-01-29T09:05:00.005-05:00

I'm posting this link from poet Diane Lockward's blog mostly to remind myself about contributor notes. But you may find it useful too. (And thank you to Practicing Writing for calling it out.) If you're committed to your art, you'll want to promote it in the best possible manner.

I would love to write more about this but I still don't have broadband internet connection at my new apartment. (No it's not as easy as calling Time Warner.) I pick up a tiny bit of WiFi occasionally that I could lose at any minute. I've been putting my problem solving abilities to good use lately. No huge problems, thank you very much. But a constant barrage, nonetheless.

Why Forever is a Scary Idea

2010-01-24T09:27:00.010-05:00

I want to expand on the post I started yesterday—specifically why the idea of moving into a place where I could be for the rest of my life scares me.

It hasn't always. When my ex, D, and I bought our house on Pineview Lane in Boulder, I had that very thought: this will be my last move. Silly me. I was only forty. I was with the wrong guy. That particular forever lasted five years. And that experience got me to San Francisco.

I certainly wasn't so naive as to claim SF as mine forever. It was expensive and troubled (kind of like me). I definitely had the feeling I'd better live it up while I could, and I did. (If you ever feel you live too much in the past or future, I highly recommend a stint in the glowing city by the Bay for a dose of NOW.) Maybe I acquired more than a temporary taste for the temporary.

I was ambivalent from the beginning about moving to NYC. But how many people in the arts are offered a salary and moving allowance to come to the arts capital of the world? I gave it two years. But unlike SF, NYC engenders deep roots. From day one, everything about NYC has grabbed hold and held tight.

Yet life in NYC is imperfect. (Read: big understatement here.) People told me it takes at least a year to adjust, but then you're hooked. You can't leave. For me, it took four. To go from dreaming every day of the day I could return to an idyllic life with my bohemian friends in SF, to investing in real estate in a down market that could take years to appreciate with a huge monthly payment that ties me to a stressful job...well, one way of looking at that is as a prison sentence. So when my realtor suggested this could be my last move if I so chose it... well, can you see why I might consider that a mixed blessing?

So I am pleased as plum to find that this move is a BIG improvement on my life in the West Village. Clinton Hill is remarkably close to what Potrero Hill was like when I first moved there. Sometimes what you resist most turns out to be exactly what you've yearned for.

Making a Commitment Will Make You Happy

2010-01-23T14:19:00.002-05:00

Now that I've announced that I am committed to the new focus of the blog, how is it possible that an entire ten days has gone by with no post? It turns out that commitment, rather than the scary must-be-avoided monster I have long considered it, results in pure happiness.

One day after I'd signed the offer paperwork to purchase my apartment, my realtor and I were riding the elevator in the building. I mentioned that I'd never lived in an elevator building. She looked at me and said, just think Karen, you could live here the rest of your life. What she meant is that when you get old enough to have difficulty with stairs, an elevator is a blessing. She might as well have started a five-alarm blaze in my commitment-phobe heart. I couldn't wait to get back to my fourth floor walk-up in the West Village.

Right up until the closing, I was second guessing myself, secretly hoping that the deal would fall apart at each of the many steps along the way. It didn't because it was absolutely the right move for me to make. After two weeks, I am deliriously in love.

The Secret to Happiness

2010-01-13T15:21:00.011-05:00

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The secret to happiness is sunshine and a great bed. To this I can personally attest, having done without either for far too long.

Yesterday I had a luscious king-sized mattress delivered. To all of you who live out in the real America, this may sound uneventfully quotidian. Please understand that for two years I've been sleeping on an upholstered board. I had traded my bed for a convertible sofa to have more liveable space in my postage-stamp West Village apartment. I attributed my sleep issues to hormone imbalance and stress. Why is it that only in retrospect do I see that, between the cat bugging me and the ventilation system next door cycling on and off erratically, anyone but the dead would have sleep issues.

Not to give you the wrong idea: Brooklyn isn't exactly pastoral. There is plenty of noise that rises to the 15th floor to challenge my newly acquired serenity. But it's white noise. And I have yet to hear a single orgasm through the wall.

Maybe it's like my friend Ron says: You have to live like a rat for awhile as part of paying your NYC dues. It's like a hazing. But in my determined manner, I adopted it as a lifestyle and not only lived like a rat, I became a rat.

That's all changed. I've barely opened my moving boxes, haven't yet located the best places to shop in the neighborhood, and the internet won't be connected for another two weeks. But after the first night on the new bed, today I woke refreshed and happy with where I am for the first time since I left San Francisco.

I Have the Keys!

2010-01-08T10:13:00.007-05:00

It's not easy for me to make a commitment. I've decided this is because once I do, it will be forever—whether I like it or not—because it's hard to undo things. Whether this is factually true or not isn't the point. (To this day my mother insists she did not force me to continue the piano lessons.) What's true is that on an animal level, this is what I believe.

Also, buying real estate in NYC during this economy when the banks are in trouble is not easy. So add "commitment phobia" to "mind-numbing process" and it is amazing that today, after four months, I signed papers for a 30-year mortgage.

We had a couple of minor glitches at the closing, but everyone is happy. The architect-owner who designed the renovation is a lovely guy--the kind of person you'd like to have as a neighbor. But alas, he's off to France to meet up with his wife and children.

The apartment itself needs a little spiffing up: some paint, some spackling, a little elbow grease. I guess there's no rush. I plan to live there for awhile.

The West Village Has Relocated

2010-01-08T09:51:00.006-05:00

I didn't get the memo that the West Village is now located in Brooklyn. But I am pleasantly surprised to discover that it is now Clinton Hill, my new neighborhood.

When I saw the claim on a real estate brochure—Clinton Hill is the West Village of Brooklyn—I chalked it up to marketing hype. But last night I attended my first social function in a beautifully restored brownstone a block from my new home. Literally, every second person I spoke with said they'd moved to the neighborhood 20 years ago (give or take), when they got pushed out of the West Village. Lovely people, very friendly and welcoming. I've spent the last six years looking for them on the wrong side of the river.

It may take Google Earth and GPS awhile to adjust their systems, and really, we'll probably want to keep this on the downlow to avoid a mass influx of investment bankers, NYU students, and tour busloads looking for Carrie Bradshaw.

Still Packing

2010-01-06T22:08:00.005-05:00

I have to make this short because I'm wrapping art work in bubblewrap for the movers on Saturday. I just wanted to report on the walk-through of my new apartment tonight as a preliminary for the closing on Friday.

It occurs to me that I haven't described the place yet here in my blog: on the top floor of a mid-rise building, it has eastern exposure. I look out to light and sky. Just wonderful. Not a palace by any means—2 bedrooms, one bath, gut renovated by the previous/current (until Fri when the owner will be me!) architect owner. White walls, aqua flooring. Tonight it felt like walking into a cloud!

Packing

2010-01-05T21:51:00.014-05:00

Once again, I'm dealing with the stuff in my life.

We have a difficult relationship, me and my things. I've been shuffling them around for the last 12 years. Abandonment issues are rife: I have sold or given away every piece of furniture, clothing, and utensil I owned prior to this decade. For six years I've lived in two tiny rooms—all of 300 square feet. Compared to most middle-aged professional women, I have very little. And still...I've been packing since Saturday.

Moving reminds me of all the previous moves (on average, every two years of my adult life) and the accompanying drama. I first landed in NYC with one suitcase, a carry-on bag, my laptop, and a purse. I dragged everything from Jet Blue baggage claim onto the midtown bus and into Grand Central Station, Sunday morning at 7 a.m. Boarded the train to Yonkers and dragged it all up the river walk to Ron and Yona's apartment where I would be staying for three weeks. It was a beautiful sunny September morning and the Hudson was stunning. I had very few options for work clothes, some toiletries, and a portfolio of important papers. I had to buy a tube of make-up on the way into the city for my first day of work because I had packed mine in the wrong box. I felt freer than I had in a long time.

When I moved into a furnished sublet in Harlem for three months, Tom helped me fly out the cats and another suitcase or two. I remember opening our bags on the floor in front of the JetBlue counter at the Oakland airport to re-adjust the weight load. I felt like an immigrant from a third world country. After I found my West Village apartment, I shipped fifteen boxes from SF to NYC via UPS and set up minimal housekeeping.

So far, so good. But I left behind in San Francisco a storage locker filled with everything I couldn't sell or give away: tax returns, photograph albums, my grandmother's punchbowl, sewing machine, French easel and art supplies, camping equipment, cross-country skis, a variety of art work. Every subsequent visit has involved some amount of schlepping as I gradually reduced the bulk.

In June, I closed out my storage unit for good. My possessions and I all now reside in the same city for the first time in years. As my mother once said, I could have bought all new stuff with what I've paid in storage fees for 10 years. $12,000 is my conservative estimate.

On Saturday, four men and a van will arrive to drive my paltry collection of boxes and beat-up sofabed over the Manhattan Bridge to my new place in Brooklyn where, for the first time in 12 years, I will have a full kitchen. I'm going to need to buy some new stuff.

Income Taxes for Poets?

2010-01-03T11:50:00.006-05:00

Fellow poets, do you run your business like this? If you file a Schedule C and claim a business loss on your tax return, pay attention. This tax expert recommends some pretty stringent documentation procedures. It seems the IRS is coming after a huge (read sarcasm here) untapped source of revenue—expenses deducted by emerging artists. It takes years to develop profit from one's artistic efforts. If we want to deduct our losses along the way, we must be extra diligent.

Note/Addition: I neglected to credit Mira's List for this information. She regularly posts grant and fellowship opportunities for artists.

Wild Animals

2010-01-02T10:23:00.007-05:00

I know it's time to start packing because all through the night I obsessed about my move next week. Up to now, the packing seemed the least of my worries. I live in two small rooms—how hard could it be? And then comes the dream where I'm in charge of some really big move that must be carefully orchestrated. A hoard of moving guys that look like a Chippendales act arrives before I'm expecting them and starts picking things up and it's all wrong somehow and I can't get anyone to pay attention to me.

So I figure, why not pack a few boxes today? Can't hurt.

There were also some great blogging concepts mixed in with the obsessing—something about comparing the act of pledging myself to being charged by a wild boar. I've never been anywhere near a wild boar.

Happy New Year from Headquarters of Three Rooms Press

2010-01-01T16:10:00.006-05:00

Kat and Peter play along to Auld Lang Syne.

Once in a Blue Moon

2009-12-31T10:55:00.011-05:00

It seems auspicious that our full-moon tonight is blue—the second full moon in a calendar month. A symbol of prosperity perhaps as we start a new decade? I prefer to think so. Or maybe it's about shining more light on these long winter nights—about hope.

Sure seems we could use a little optimism as we end a rough year and the media regales us with accounts of just how little good came out of the aughts: the zero decade. So as I do my New Year's reflecting, I'm keeping an eye out for unexpected good. Besides, my organizational development training tells me that chaos (as apt a description of our status/world disorder as I can think of) is a good thing: fertile ground for real change.

Here are a few great things about my 2009:

Poetry:
Was it really less than a year ago that I performed in a play that I co-wrote? It seems like that was another person. Meryl Streep I am not, but the experience helped strengthen my stage presence and delivery. And I had several opportunities to read my work this year: the independent book publishers event in Manhattan, March in Philly hosted by Lisa Grunberger, Kit Kennedy's monthly event on Nob Hill in May, LitQuake in October, and as the honored guest of William Wareham at Lava Rock A.I.R.

During 2009 I realized that I am very much a part of a wonderful performance poetry community here in NY. (Funny thing, Facebook was instrumental.) And yet, I struggle with my commitment to write poetry. While I'm honored to participate in a workshop led by a Pulitzer Prize-winning poet, I seriously consider dropping out each term.

San Francisco:
I made a comment once that a trip to SF takes about two weeks to recover from. My friend pointed out that one solution was to simply not go to SF. I tried it and she was right. No travel, no trauma. But also no joy. So in 2009 I made three trips. You can do the math--there was much time devoted to recovery.

I dearly love my SF friends and I hope I always will. The five years I lived there constitute a personal break-through. But this year I discovered that I don't have to live in SF. I carry what I consider special about it in my heart. I made an offer on an apartment in Brooklyn and as I write this, the closing is set for the first week in January. I will begin 2010 as a homeowner in New York City, something I didn't believe possible.

Downtime:
Ever since the first time I became a freelancer, I've used any paid vacation time to make some extra money. Now that I no longer have survival financial needs, I can use some of my free time to take an actual vacation. Maine and Provincetown have become favorites (and this year I added Vermont) not only because of the special places they are, but the friends I share them with.

Career:
Like most others, my employer did some restructuring last January. I had the bright idea that I could not only oversee five magazines, I could also take over the editing of one of them. Best decision I've ever made. I love the day-to-day of putting together a monthly magazine.

Romance:
I'm keeping this private for now, but I will say that 2010 looks particularly promising.

I'm sure there's much more, but it's time to get out from in front of the computer. The streets of The Village are covered in newly fallen snow. I'm grateful for my health, my friends and loved ones. Here's to hope and prosperity in the new year.

What Matters to You in 2010?

2009-12-29T12:36:00.010-05:00

I'm exactly at the mid-point of my 12-day holiday break from the office. Notice I didn't end the previous sentence after "break." This is because I have a giant to-do list. A break from my job doesn't mean a break from "work." I am hard-wired to be productive. Yet, what I've done mostly the past six days is NOTHING. Let me tell you: It was a very good six days.

The fact that I've accomplished NOTHING with my break half over makes me feel ANXIOUS. That the idea of returning to the office looms so large, tells me my life is out of balance.

Don't get me wrong. This is the best job I've ever had and there is much about it that I love. It's helped me grow as a person--an amazing experience actually. It got me to New York and pushed me to do things I never thought possible. But a source of fulfillment is often a source of stress. The first thing I wanted to do with my break was to sleep. After six days, sleep is still at the top of my list.

A little farther down is "revamp blog." I've been following Penelope Trunk's Brazen Careerist, mostly because I admire how candidly she writes about her life and her business relationships without boring her readers. She has a section called "Penelope's Guide to Blogging," and somewhere she talked about making sure you have a focus.

When I started this blog, the focus was to tell the world I'd put out a book of my poetry. Then it broadened to poetry in general and all the poetry related activities of my life. Then other parts of my life began to leach in. My blog lost its focus.

What this blog is really about is commitment—the way I struggle with the concept. The way for instance I resist the idea of truly settling into New York, while at the same time waking up every day for six years in the same apartment—the longest I've ever lived at one particular address. I'm doing it and resisting it simultaneously. Emotionally, if not always actively, I have one foot out the door.

So I intend to restructure this blog to clarify its focus to this larger topic that raises it's head in so many different guises: writing poetry, love, work, going to the gym (or not)...

In the meantime, here's a Happy New Year gift for those of you who are interested in the human potential movement. What Matters Now is a collection of short (really short) writings by popular thinkers and doers. It took me about an hour to read the whole thing. Like me, you may find some more interesting than others but I'll bet there's at least one that will spark something in you. For me it was this:

Commit to lifetime relationships that span events, companies, causes, and geographic boundaries. —Rajesh Setty, Enrichment

That's a commitment I can handle.

"Your hat reminds me of the Guggenheim Museum..."

2009-12-23T18:38:00.009-05:00

...said the man behind the counter of the liquor store. I took it as a wonderful compliment--an only in New York kind of thing.

I've been reading a little Anne Waldman. "Kill or Cure" to be exact. There are many reasons to admire Waldman, but what I'm attracted to tonight is her freedom of expression. Sometimes her work is crafted, and sometimes she just spits out the words.

Recently I've been trying to write in a particular way that I believe will take my work to a new level. But what's happened is I've become very self-conscious. I've lost my freedom to write poetry like a woman who wears an asymetric hat made with hoops. I think a dose of Anne Waldman might just help.

First Snow of the Season

2009-12-19T18:13:00.008-05:00

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We're having a final fling, the West Village and I. The closing on my new Brooklyn digs has been delayed until after the new year. That means I have 12 days to do exactly as I please and just enjoy myself in a place many (including me) consider me crazy to leave. (It took my landlord exactly a week to lease my apartment to someone new.) This morning everyone was out and in good spirits, getting their errands done before the snow started falling.

In all honesty, I wasn't feeling so positive two days ago when I first learned of the moving delay. After all, I don't always have 12 days off work--a perfect time to get settled in my new apartment--do a little painting, buy a bed... And hey, if I'd known I wasn't moving this week, I'd have been boarding Jet Blue for Puerto Rico with a hunky guy at my side. (Seriously.) But you know what? Maybe I just need some downtime. Down time in the West Village. Could be worse.

If you want to share a toast for the holidays, look for me at the bar of Cafe Loup. Call and let me know when you'll arrive.

Santa

2009-12-12T21:10:00.005-05:00

I left the apartment around 3 this afternoon and at every intersection along 6th Ave, groups of boisterous Santa Clauses and reindeer converged as they headed to Washington Square Park. Ah, the Santa Convention! I avoided the mass gathering but you can check it out here, compliments of Gothamist. On the way home a few hours later, there were a number of drunken Santas wobbling around Fifth Avenue.

At the arch, the tree is lit up beautifully red, and a couple posed for their wedding photo while a white Bentley idled nearby. How romantic.

I don't go in much for the commercial aspects of Christmas, but I do have something special to ask from Santa this year.

Jack Wiler

2009-11-27T18:52:00.011-05:00

I'm thinking about Jack Wiler tonight. Jack died while I was in San Francisco last month. I still don't know how or why and there's a reading in his honor next Saturday, so I found his book, Fun Being Me, on my bookshelf. He inscribed it in an inscrutable way that I never asked him to explain: "Karen, I had one foot out the door for too long. Now I'm inside making none—just like you! Love, Jack." I think I know what he meant.

The are several medical reasons Jack might have died: AIDS, Hep-C, the treatment for Hep-C. But what I'm thinking about tonight is the conversation we had over dinner in Hoboken the summer of 2005. Tom had been dead all of two months and Jack was telling me what it was like to almost die and then live to tell about it. That's what happened to him maybe 8 years ago when he was first diagnosed with AIDS. He was very sick and he told me how everyone considered him a goner that night and how he saw dark and light shapes surrounding him and that he knew very strongly the dark was not a good thing.

He made the choice that night to live. And when he realized that he indeed was going to live, he decided to make up for not having been a good person in the past. I don't remember if he put it exactly that way. Two things stuck with me for sure: 1. There was no white light with all his loved ones waiting to welcome him to the next world—rather it was terrifying; and 2. that Tom had died in a similar hospital room with maybe a similar experience.

I didn't know Jack before he got sick, so I don't know what kind of person he was then. Despite his commitment to do good with his second chance, he wasn't perfect. I didn't like all his poetry, but what I did like, I loved. (Like "The Poem Where I Say Thank You.") And when he read aloud, he had an infectious presence and voice.

Jack and I did a joint reading at Cornelia Street in September 2006 when Fun Being Me first came out. He told me to go first, because I didn't want to have to follow him. That's what I mean about Jack, the arogant SOB. But somehow you forgave him that arogance. From his perspective, he was simply being honest and you can't fault that. The best thing he had to say about my work in those days was, "that didn't suck." The crowd at Cornelia that night loved him and he was flying high afterward.

After he died, someone sent out one of Jack's new, unpublished poems. I read it aloud off my iphone to Martin as we were driving back to SF from Mt. Shasta. It was Jack's poem alright. I'd recognize his writing pattern anywhere. I could hear his voice as I read the words of the most unsentimental of love poems ever, and it brought tears to my eyes, it was so true.

That night at the restaurant in Hoboken, Jack stopped me in the middle of some point I was earnestly trying to make about Tom - I don't remember what. Jack stopped me abruptly, and said, "Karen, he's dead. It doesn't matter. He's dead and nothing's going to change that." I burst into tears and then he felt bad—but not bad enough to buy my dinner. (I picked up the full tab that night as I recall, Jack often being short on cash.) But what can I say, when Jack Wiler is right, he's right. And now he's dead.

Memorial Readings and Reception honoring Jack Wiler
Saturday, December 5
2-5
(le) poisson rouge
158 Bleeker St.
NYC
co-sponsored by Long Shot Productions, Cavankerry Press
& (le) poisson Rouge

Hey Doug!

2009-11-18T12:01:00.007-05:00

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If you're wondering what this photo of a nice haircut has to do with One Foot Out the Door, I'm waiting for a certain blogger buddy to notice my response to his recent comment.

In the meantime, check out this post by Brazen Careerist. I like her for more than the fact that she flies to L.A. for a haircut. My personal grooming routine is, SF for hair, NYC for eyebrows. (However my eyebrows too are a bit uneven today. Maybe it's a new style.)

Lava Rock A.I.R.

2009-10-28T20:29:00.007-04:00

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Morning coffee at the Poetry Shed. "Take a photo of that mountain please."
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Mount Shasta. I think this is sunset rather than sunrise, but you get the point about the view from the poetry shed.
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The famous sculptor, ranch-proprietor himself gives me a farewell send-off. You're a great host, WW.
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Poetry, Northern California Style

2009-10-26T09:08:00.006-04:00

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I'm glad we (the NY based poets of Three Rooms Press) made our San Francisco LitQuake debut, even though it seemed a little crazy for five of us to fly 3000 miles in order to read 7 minutes each. But there were fresh faces in the audience! Our work was new to them! Seven minutes is plenty of poetry to sit through and we were great, if I do say so myself. We each have our own style--very different from each other. And of course I got to party afterward with my friends!

Then there was Lava Rock A.I.R. (artist in residence), WW's 52 acres of former dairy ranch where he has moved his recycled steel sculpture studio. I fell in love with the rugged landscape where you can mark the time of day by the light on majestic snow-capped Mount Shasta. I must go back for a longer visit next fall when perhaps the poetry shed (former feeding trough pictured above) will be ready. Martin took more photos which I'll post when I receive as that's the best way to tell the ranch story. We had maybe 30 people at WW's poetry salon, where I read again and distributed my new broadside, "Take a Shot at Love."

Perhaps I'll write more later, but what's on my mind this morning is how, though I always find it tough to say goodbye, I barely escaped San Francisco alive this particular trip. Manhattan feels good to me and I'm looking forward to doing my job today, but I can tell you my heart is definitely not intact.

Off To See the Wizard!

2009-10-16T09:49:00.005-04:00

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I'm getting excited about the trip to San Francisco (leaving very early tomorrow). Yes, for those of you who are counting (my mom!), this will be my third trip in 2009. Visiting often is the next best thing to living there and I suspect my travel schedule will change in 2010 when a big part of my discretionary pay goes into my mortgage payment. So this is my last hurrah.

And what a hurrah, it will be! The Three Rooms Press gang is delivering its NY brand of performance poetry during Phase I of LitCrawl (see post below). Then I head up to the Lava Rock Dairy (pictured) where sculptor friend WW has organized a poetry salon to introduce me to the creative community of Weed, Montague, and other towns in the shadow of noble Mt. Shasta. Don't ask me why, but my inner rancher-girl finds this rugged landscape wildly romantic.

See you next week with a full report.

New York Poets Invade San Francisco's LitCrawl, Sat, Oct 17

2009-10-11T12:49:00.002-04:00

Dear San Francisco Friends,
I invite you to join me this coming Saturday, Oct 17, at 6 pm for LitCrawl, the legendary closing event of San Francisco’s weeklong literary festival, LitQuake. I’ll be reading with the poets of New York based Three Rooms Press during Phase I from 6 to 7 p.m. at 461 Valencia (between 15th and 16th Streets). And I’ll have copies for sale of a brand new chapbook/broadside, “Take a Shot at Love.”

You probably know about LitCrawl, but if not, it's like a pub crawl with readings instead of booze. It all takes place on a walkable, mile-long stretch of Valencia in the Mission. You can drop in and out of events as you please, and it’s all free. Tell your friends. (There’s food along the route, too.)

Artzone 461 Gallery, 461 Valencia
Three Rooms Press
6-7 p.m.

Peter Carlaftes, Joie Cook, Kat Georges, Karen Hildebrand, Jane Ormerod, Susan Scutti.

The 10th Day is for Freaking Out

2009-10-05T22:40:00.006-04:00

Everyone has been telling me that I can expect to be a basket case until my apartment purchase is complete. Nah, I've bought property before—I know what to expect, I told them. Right. Yes, I suffered for a week trying to make up my mind. But once that happened and my offer was accepted, I felt great.

Then like clockwork, ten days later, I woke up freaked out. That was this morning and I have remained freaked out all day: I'm paying too much, I didn't do enough research, the subway stop is too far away--I'll probably get mugged, I don't really want to leave Manhattan...

My lawyer called for my final okay, and instead, I asked him more questions. Stall tactic. I googled Clinton Hill and read random discussion board opinions, most of which complained that what the realtors are calling Clinton Hill is really the next neighborhood to the east that isn't so safe. (But never fear, my apartment is on the opposite borderline, flanking Fort Greene—the upscale neighborhood I can't quite afford.)

As I was finishing up at the office around 8 pm, I was still in a quandary. Would I really back out? (I've done that before too.) I needed a sign. I would go home as if I were going to my new apartment and see exactly what is what.

I made the G train connection from the C just fine. Yes, it's 2 1/2 blocks to my building, but Clinton Avenue is elegant. The Avenue is wide and residential and there are mature trees and even more mature architecture. A fair number of people were out getting groceries or walking dogs. Students were entering the Joseph College building for class. Around the corner on a charming section of DeKalb were cute restaurants (pleasantly occupied, not over-crowded), Tillie's cafe, and a market. Everything glowed. It reminded me of Potrero Hill.

This is going to be fine.

2009-10-03T14:39:00.005-04:00

My Facebook status update this week garnered a lot of interest, mostly congratulations: "Signing papers tonight. Big commitment." I'm surprised by the number of people since who've asked if I actually did it. Do people really back out of these kinds of things?

I got married when I was nineteen. Once the wedding invitations were ordered, I knew in my heart of hearts that I was not ready for this commitment. But my parents had paid for the invitations! I had to go through with it, didn't I?

Of course I signed the papers, people!

Dear Suzy, Doug, and Ron,
I signed six copies of the papers in 18 places, wrote a down payment check for the same amount my first house had cost in total, and took the B31 bus to the B train for a long ride from a part of Brooklyn I didn't previously know existed, back to the cozy and familiar confines of the soon-to-no-longer-be-mine (am I crazy??) West Village. Things are now in the hands of the bank and the co-op board.

I have the nagging feeling that I've forgotten to consider something really important. Today I woke up realizing that I have no idea who my new neighbors are. I could well be the only white woman in this huge building and everyone who visits me will wonder what the hell was I thinking about those aqua floors.

But it's nice to have made a decision. I can spend my time on the tasks it takes to get to the destination instead of endlessly trying to decide which road to take.

P.S. Four years after the wedding, I was separated and making up for lost post-adolescent party time.

MIA

2009-09-29T09:09:00.004-04:00

Yes, I did return from the Cape and it was a life changing experience for this grass is always greener, don't ask me for any promises kind of person. I'm working on an apartment deal in Brooklyn which will commit me to NY for at least another five years and maybe forever. That's big and the best way to deal is to write poetry.

So while I'm taking time away from One Foot Out in order to place two feet in, I can recommend some alternate blog reading. Do you know Penelope Trunk's Brazen Careerist? She's a good read, and no to the slackers among you, dear readers, it's not just career advice.

Dune Bound

2009-09-04T18:37:00.004-04:00

It's time for my annual sojourn to Cape Cod. I officially shelved anything resembling office thoughts two hours ago. Chloe kitty's companions for the week arrive soon on Jet Blue and I'll be cleaning right up to the minute they walk in the door. BOLT bus to Boston leaves 8 a.m. Sunday; fast ferry to Provincetown gets me to MacMillan Wharf at 2:30 p.m. Meanwhile, Mette and Jerry fly in from Denver and will be there in time for Sunday dinner. We're gonna have a blast!

The Brooklyn housing hunt is on furlough but has not been forgotten. Two long-term Manhattanite girlfriends have volunteered to help me explore neighborhoods. As R said last night over dinner at her grandmother's apartment on the upper east side, "Manhattan is for lawyers and investment bankers. I don't belong here."

Great NYC story that one: her grandmother died last year and the apartment is on the market for $1.6 mil. The co-op board so far has turned down the only potential buyer. They also won't allow the family to put the place up for rent so R stays rent-free. Three bedrooms, three bathrooms, view of Bernie Madoff's penthouse terrace. But honestly, other than all the rooms, it's nothing special. You can get a brownstone in Brooklyn for $1.6 mil.

Change: It can happen one table at a time.

2009-08-30T14:23:00.012-04:00

Has this ever happened to you? One day you come home to the same two rooms you've come home to every day for nearly six years—the rooms that serve the same non-negotiable basic purposes they always have—and suddenly you see how it could all be different? And that maybe change doesn't have to be as uprooting as buying an apartment in a converted public housing project in Clinton Hill or a 600 sq foot penthouse in bombed-out Bushwick? (It could be said that I sometimes practice overkill when it comes to change. Plus where did I get the idea that new stainless steel appliances would inspire me to cook?)

Maybe it's the head cold that changed my perspective. Or maybe it's this blog I've been following, The Happiness Project. But Friday night I came home and moved furniture. I moved a table to the opposite side of the room. That made space to move a chair from the bedroom. Without the chair, it seemed natural to move the sofabed to a different wall, etc.

My friend Jane used to practice radical furniture re-arrangement regularly. Her method was akin to playing 52-card pickup: shuffle everything to the middle of the living room (or the front sidewalk) and start over, piece by piece, drawer by drawer. Her process could last as long as a month. I've done the equivalent with my life a couple of times.

My tiny apartment now seems to have more air, not to mention better feng shui. I'm not going to be featured in House & Gardens anytime soon and the laundry isn't done, but Chloe kitty is happy.

Now, if I could only tune out the clock tower across the street that with every chiming bell, on the hour every hour, reminds me how quickly the day passes. I'm sure there's a solution short of blowing up the Jefferson Market Library.

How Do You Remove a Frog from a Canoe?

2009-08-25T20:33:00.008-04:00

One morning at the lake this weekend, we discovered a frog in the canoe.
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No matter how many times the little guy jumped, he couldn't jump high enough to clear the edge. We stuck in an oar for him to use as a ramp. That chased him into the hull and out of reach.
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I polled my Facebook friends (because when you're on vacation, you have time on your hands): Any tips for how to get a frog out of a canoe? "With gloves," "invite his foes in too," "dynamite," came the responses. Our favorite was "a beautiful princess standing on the shore offering a come-hither look and holding out the royal scepter he wielded before he was turned into a frog."
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It became a running gag as Ron, his wife Yona, and I began making up lines for a poem. Turns out the number one way to get a frog out of a canoe is:

Marry him!
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Next up, Provincetown

2009-08-24T21:35:00.005-04:00

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The winner of the annual Clary Lake domino rematch is safely home, unscathed by Hurricane Bill. Yona and Ron dumped, er, dropped me off today in Portland a few hours before my flight and I found Soakology, a "foot sanctuary and teahouse," where I had a foot massage, milk and honey foot-soak, pumice therapy, plus a Mediterranean plate for lunch. If you find yourself in Portland, ME, with some time to kill, I highly recommend it.

Faithful readers may remember that last year in Maine I took a great many photos. Quality has devolved a bit since the acquisition of the iphone... But as you can see, this trip was more about vegging than sightseeing.

We ate the requisite chowder, mussels, clams and lobster, I read "Olive Kittredge," thanks to the recommendation of Mary Ann Stein (a collection of linked stories appropriately set in Maine), and started five new poems, including:

1. Why Can't Love Be Like Rowing a Boat?
2. Ten Ways to Remove a Frog from a Canoe

I can't say I'm happy to be home because I miss cooking with my friends and dancing in the living room at bedtime. It's time to start planning my next vacation which fortunately is only two weeks away!

On Vacation

2009-08-20T07:45:00.003-04:00

I'm off to Maine this morning via JetBlue. (It takes longer to get to JFK than it does to fly to Portland.) Chloe's favorite kitty sitter is on her way over. The apartment is as uncluttered as it's been in months. Things are calm (and fully staffed) at the office--at least when I left it yesterday. Life is good. See you next week.

Broadway and Canal

2009-08-18T21:44:00.007-04:00

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It's one of those swampy summer nights when it's great to be outdoors. On these days the combination of sun, humidity, and concrete will kill you, but at night? After the sun goes down, the best place to be is outdoors. In your shirt sleeves.

Tonight I walked home via Broadway and as I approached Canal I heard the unmistakable sound of live music: a rock band, and a pretty good one at that. But I couldn't tell where it was coming from. I wasn't the only one looking around for some surprise street festival. I noticed a group of 10 or so men all wearing khaki colored clothing lined up across the street and I wondered what they were waiting for as they didn't look like the velvet rope crowd.

Did I mention that it was 8 pm? At that very moment, the men in unison sank to their knees facing at a 45 degree angle in toward the building. They could have been a dance company, so graceful and fluid was their movement to the ground, facing east for their prayers.

Meanwhile I crossed the street where I could see the music was coming from a rooftop. There was a large tour bus out front - the kind rock bands travel in. I wonder whose private concert that was. Look closely at the building on the right and you'll see heads of people on that roof. And the Muslim guys are on the left at the blond building, behind the parked cars. Two women had their iphones out snapping photos on the corner while the men prayed. Wish I had a shot of that - only in New York moment.

The Happiness Project

2009-08-11T08:36:00.005-04:00

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Speaking of bloggers with useful projects that become book projects, do you know about The Happiness Project?

Ms. Happiness today recommends: Take a vacation.

And I plan to do exactly that. Next Thursday I will join Ron and Yona for a long weekend in Maine. We're booked this year at the "camp" (that's what they call a house on a lake in Maine). R&Y will be there for two weeks, the lucky dogs, and will take day trips to the coast and other sights. Their steadfast rule is that, every other day, they go absolutely nowhere. And every morning, they do this:
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I have the loft bedroom with a lake view.

I look at love like it's something to wear. —Poet, Andy Clausen

2009-08-09T20:52:00.015-04:00

Okay, I lied. This happens. As soon as I decide blogging is embarrassingly narcissistic and publically vow to end One Foot Out the Door, I think about something I just have to say. It's like those times when Tom was alive and living 3000 miles away in San Francisco. I'd call him and say, "Guess where I am right now." He'd drop what he was doing (like reheating coffee on the stove top) and listen to me tell about my afternoon at the Museum of TV and Radio's "Sex and the City" marathon. "Which season are you on?" he'd ask. "Isn't that the one where Samantha got the guy to change his diet so his jism would taste better?"

Tom wasn't so much known for his listening skills, but he loved all the details about my NYC life—until mid-sentence, when suddenly he'd shout F****ck! and drop the phone because the coffee had boiled over (again). After he died, blogging filled the emptiness on the other end of the phone. And sometimes I guess it still does.

Also, I realized today that I don't really want to blog about anything purposeful like cooking Julia Child recipes or deciding if there is a neighborhood in Brooklyn that could make me leave Manhattan. While it's true that I'm apartment hunting in Brooklyn, it feels like work to write about the process and lord knows I've got enough of that already. I just want to keep a journal for cripes sake. But I am definitely going to migrate this to another website where I can be anonymous--as soon as I figure out how to do that...

In the meantime, tonight I met one of the last poets with a direct connection to the beats. Kat hosted a reading at The Bowery Poetry Club where Andy Clausen read about touring with Allen Ginsburg and Gregory Corso, some of which centered around Boulder and the Naropa Institute.

Of course, I have my own connection to Boulder and Naropa, and before I know it we're all at the bar at Acme, and Andy is talking about his life in Woodstock where he has lived for the last ten years. As we're parting, he asks if I'm on Facebook. I grin because life is too surreal when a 65 year old craftsman/poet who lives somewhat reclusively would have a Facebook presence, and he thinks my response means that I'm not sure how it works. "Find me on Facebook: Andy Clausen," he explains, "and submit a friend request." Is that what guys do now instead of ask for your phone number?

Tom would have loved that. The last of the beats is on Facebook.

Changes

2009-08-09T10:43:00.002-04:00

Once again I'm having an existential crisis over blogging, Facebook, the whole narcissistic enterprise that comprises "social media." Yes, it's wonderful to keep up with friends, but wierdly TMI when in an interview with a prospective staff member, she says, "aren't you a poet? I found your blog." Or when on your first date, your dinner companion, who knows a few too many details about your recent activities, informs you that you might want to change the privacy settings on your Facebook account.

This weekend I saw the new Meryl Streep movie, "Julie and Julia." (Loved it.) I heard Julie speak at a blogging panel a couple years ago. My blog was new at that point and I was fascinated that people were getting book deals based on their blogs. Of course, the successful ones were more than personal journals. They had themes and provided useful information on child rearing or home decorating. My favorite more recent discovery was a couple who went off the grid for an entire year in the middle of Manhattan.

I started this blog to help publicize my new at the time poetry chapbook, One Foot Out the Door. It quickly turned into more than that as it helped me crawl out of my grief and shock over Tom's death six months earlier. But now, Facebook has come along and is an easier way to keep in touch with friends. And my job has grown so that I no longer have as much spare time. If I'm going to continue to publish a blog, it needs to have a theme, or a framework—like Julie's idea to cook all the recipes in Julia Child's cookbook in 365 days and blog about it.

So, One Foot Out the Door is about to become my poetry website: that necessary internet presence where publishers and readers can find basic information about my publications and related events. I have an idea for a new blog. I'll let you know where and when to find me. Hint: I'm on my way to Brooklyn to check out a neighborhood my realtor suggested I might enjoy.

Second Line with Preservation Hall Jazz Band

2009-08-02T13:46:00.007-04:00

The rain has let up for about three minutes this summer—long enough to yesterday take the Harlem line up to Ten Mile River station, Kent, Connecticut, for the Litchfield Jazz Festival.

I have fond memories of jazz festivals in Telluride and Winter Park, Colorado—lazy days, sprawling on a blanket in the sun, making friends and sharing food (and other substances) with the folks next to you. Then, when the sun went down and the big names took the stage, everyone was on their feet, jamming up to the footlights.

It was three parts nostalgia, one part interest in the line-up that led me to Litchfield. After all, I have access to some of the best jazz artists every day right down the street here in The Village—why go all the way to Connecticut? (The way I discovered the event was because I googled Benny Green after catching him at the Vanguard a few weeks ago.) But my old-time Colorado compatriate Celeste lives in CT and it seemed a great excuse to see her (part of the nostalgia factor).

Anyway, the old days are gone forever. The Litchfield festival grounds were under about six inches of water, so they moved the event indoors where it was dry but stifling hot. Still fun, but pretty sedate (not a whiff of weed anywhere) until Preservation Hall Jazz Band came out and got us on our feet with their Second Line tradition. The after-party jam in town was shaping up to be the best part of the day, but I opted for the last train back to Manhattan. Next year, I'll plan accordingly.

Kent, Connecticut, is gorgeous and extra lush with all the rain. That lake in the photo? It doesn't exist. That is how wet the grounds were. Talk about verdant hillsides, eh? Sorry about the fuzzy photos—went a little wild with the iphone while dancing...

Kiva Cafe Poetry Salon

2009-07-31T22:53:00.002-04:00

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1st, 3rd, and 5th Thursday of every month. 139 Reade Street (between Hudson and Greenwich, near Chambers St. 1 train station): 212-587-1198

Hooked on Weeds

2009-07-25T10:06:00.006-04:00

If you think your life is stressful, I recommend an evening of "Weeds." Last night I started on season 4. Didn't help unclench my jaw, but did put some things into persective in an absurd sort of way. Plus, now that I walk to work, I've passed Mary-Louise Parker on 6th Ave near Houston twice with her kids/nanny. She's the anti-Sarah Jessica Parker.

I love it that Nancy Botwin smuggles drugs from Mexico in a Prius and brings her own reusable bags when shopping for contraband pharmaceuticals. Great statement about the hypocricy rampant in our culture. (Of course, that's what the entire show is about.)

Porch Sale, Peter Esterhazy, and the new High Line Park

2009-07-18T13:05:00.005-04:00

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"I'm putting everything into my job," I told WW on the phone this morning when he pointed out I hadn't said anything about my poetry. "I'm not writing and it's a little crazy-making. You know what that's like."

He does. A few years ago, he left San Francisco and bought land with a view of Mount Shasta. The process of moving his large scale steel sculpture pieces and making a place for himself in the overgrown tangle of what was once a working dairy had distracted him from making art for quite some time. I was happy to hear about some new projects and a gallery in town where he shows his work.

Rather than worry that I'm not writing, I've given myself permission to relax and read novels for the summer. Today I picked up Peter Esterhazy's "She Loves Me." I've been looking for this book for a good two years since I heard him read from it in his native Hungarian (the translated text was projected behind him). Now I'm home with a new pair of curtain panels from the porch sale across the street and peaches, blueberries, kale, and gouda from from the Farmer's Market.

The photos are from last week when I discovered the new High Line Park is open. In the 1930s it was an elevated freight line. What a fabulous new life this is for the abandoned rail.

On the Bus

2009-07-11T09:55:00.011-04:00

I had planned to take the Casino Bus yesterday to visit Suzy at the beach, but Suzy cancelled. Now, I've been looking forward to the many pleasures of a weekend at the shore for several weeks. So not to be deprived, I found an alternative. Yes, dear readers, of all the fabulous things I could be doing right now with Suzy (boating, kayaking, biking, sipping cocktails) it is the bus ride that I chose to replace. Last night I took the bus to the wilds of Hudson Valley to see a dance performance.

It was not just any dance performance, but I'll get to that later. First I want to talk about the bus. If you know me, you know that I have a special relationship with the bus. When I moved to San Francisco, I sold my car and insisted on riding MUNI—a plan most SF residents considered silly as well as inconvenient, if not dangerous. I envisioned a series of essays about exploring the city via the #19 bus but it didn't take me long to figure out that people did not want to read about standing in the freezing wind at Market and Van Ness waiting for a bus among vagrants and drug addicts.

In NYC, I ride the subway. I guess you could say I miss the bus. How else to explain my preferred mode of travel to Cape May, Philadelphia, the Jersey Shore, and now Dutchess County, New York. Well, also it's cheap—and last night, free. Bard College, the Hudson Valley presenter of a fabulous summer arts series, provides a bus from Manhattan in order to fill the seats in its theater two hours north of here. At the last minute yesterday, I decided to book a seat.

Now, this fabulous summer arts series has a gourmet quality outdoor cafe. Also, the air in the Hudson Valley smells of, well, nature. So with high expectations for a lovely summer night, I put on a little dress, hopped on the bus, and leaned back for the ride, pondering the possible menu selections.

But (and you could see this coming, right?) it was Friday night and everyone in Manhattan was headed north out of the city. The two hour bus ride took an unprecedented 3.5 hours. We arrived 5 minutes before curtain. The show took exactly one hour with no intermission and then I was back on the bus with a grumbling stomach.

But bus rides are amazing, especially those filled with art lovers. I made new friends: a novelist who used to write for television (60 Minutes and others) sat next to me, and an intriguing woman from my writing workshop was with her partner and I got to know her a little better.

And the show was incredible. Post-modern choreographer from the 70s, Lucinda Childs, restaged Dance, her 1979 multi media collaboration with Philip Glass and artist Sol LeWitt. The work has not only withstood the test of time, it was better than most new work I've recently seen.

And then there was that moment when I stepped off the bus and onto the lawn in front of the Gehry-designed Fisher Center (its gleaming roof reflecting the dusky sunset). The air was just as sweet and fragrant as I'd remembered. That's the bottom line of this story folks. Five and a half hours on the bus for one minute of fresh air. That's life in Manhattan for you.

Benny Green Love

2009-07-04T09:06:00.003-04:00

Even better than going out to Jack's for morning coffee is catching a late jazz show on the spur of the moment. I can't believe my luck with this strategy. Rarely am I disappointed. Last night Anat Cohen was playing Benny Goodman at the Village Vanguard.

It's easy to forget in the daily commotion that I live in the heart of New York's great jazz heritage. The Vanguard, The Blue Note, and Small's are all located within a few blocks. So I rarely follow the schedules or make advance plans. Last night I happened to check the Vanguard's website and saw that Cohen, a young female clarinetist was playing.

Now the other thing that's cool is that when you're a single, the Vanguard seats you down front at a shared table. I sat as close as humanly possible to Cohen and watched the music snake through her spine and out the horn. It's a full body affair. I'm not musically trained and last night it was a revelation to see each member of this amazing quartet use his whole being to make music.

But the real surprise of the evening was Benny Green on the Steinway. I was eye level with his hands and I've never seen anyone play like that. (Maybe if I'd been around to see Monk.) He cranked his elegant shoulders and lightning shot out of his finger tips. A lanky, reed thin redhead in a gray suit and Converse all-stars, Green would have stolen the show from anyone less talented than Cohen. Together they were aces.

After every piano solo, Green would acknowledge the applause by turning his head to profile and giving a nod. Because of my seat, that nod put me directly in his line of vision. I was so close I could see the creases on the back of his neck. And when he left the stage, he flashed a smile at me. Me! I'm in love. What a geek I am.

The group has two more nights at the Vanguard. Don't miss it.

Independence Day

2009-07-03T13:53:00.011-04:00

Holiday weekends in NYC are great. a. You get a day of paid time off, and b. Everyone else leaves town.

Life slows down just enough to sit on the bench outside Jack's and watch the baby carriages (do you think that was Sarah Jessica and Matthew's newborn twins that a nanny just wheeled past?) and pet the English bulldog puppy that is wearing a cone on his head because he just had eye surgery.

The gym isn't too crowded either, tho the staff insists on washing the floor with a street cleaning machine in the middle of your workout. You don't mind waiting behind the woman at the dry cleaner who is removing her shirts from hangers and folding them one by one while the Chinese woman behind the counter giggles and indicates she doesn't know how to operate the credit card machine. You haven't made it in before closing for weeks. And you're particularly chatty with the pet supply guy who may possibly know more about you than anyone else in this anonymous city.

Back home, the UPS man is working on the holiday and has delivered the pound of dehydrated organic blueberries you ordered that will last 18 months in a cool dry place. Standing in the sweltering tropics of your apartment, you're thinking your timing is off what with fresh blueberry season just around the corner. Dehydrated blueberries are nearly weightless. Who knew how many there would be in a pound?

And now, the treat you've waited for all week. You get to open "Lipstick Jungle," by Candace Bushnell. Pure trash and perfect for a holiday weekend.

The Long Walk Home

2009-07-01T21:29:00.005-04:00

___________________________________________________________
I'm protesting the MTA fare hike by walking. It's not that the increase from $2 to $2.25 isn't justified or that I can't afford it, but I strongly believe it's just wrong to collect the needed funds this way. Essentially it's a tax on the poor and a negative environmental move.

When my office was closer to home I walked to and from work every day. Then we moved, and it took five extra pounds before I realized how much I missed my daily commute. I'm now taking great pleasure in exploring SoHo and Tribeca. Mornings are street cleaners and construction crews, kitchen help sharing a smoke outside a cafe. Tonight, West Broadway was hopping with the cocktail crowd. I never knew this community garden existed at Bleecker and LaGuardia.

I'm sure my small gesture will go unnoticed by City Hall, but at least the reverse is not true. I now pass by the beautiful building every morning.

Modern Love

2009-06-28T10:25:00.004-04:00

The first page I turn to in the Sunday NY Times is Modern Love. It's a personal essay, a form of writing I've never quite mastered tho I met every other week with my first person writing group in San Francisco for nearly 5 years. Today's story by Simon Van Booy is no better written than any other, and honestly they're all a little schmaltzy. But there is a line today that seems as if it were written as a special message for me.

The narrator is talking to the young daughter he is raising alone. He's shaving and being mindful to not mess up her school clothes with shaving cream:

“Please keep me company, Madeleine. But don’t get too close.” Then I laughed, realizing that what I’d said characterizes the nature of my adult relationships.

I identify. This ability to speak the mind of the reader is what makes a personal essay—when it is successful—so good.

Happiness

2009-06-27T09:53:00.005-04:00

I just discovered The Happiness Project, a book, blog, way of life touted by Gretchen Rubin. I've only given it a quick look so far, but I just so like this idea. I'm especially happy to see this line in A Happiness Manifesto: Outer order contributes to inner calm.

On my way now to drop off two bags of cast-offs to The Housing Works. This week I cleaned one closet, one wardrobe unit, and two kitchen cabinets. Wonder therapy for stressed-out work head.

Summit Meeting

2009-06-26T17:11:00.004-04:00

___________________________________________________

There was one rain-free evening this week and a group of astonishing women took to the rooftops of the Upper West Side to celebrate. We went through a large quantity of red wine (we'll live to be a hundred, according to the latest research on benefits of fermented grapes) and among other things, heard an incredible tale of Fellini the cat who survived on his own for more than 30 days in an evacuated apartment building across from the collapsed World Trade Center. His owner braved security and hazards to his health to leave food and water for the missing cat.

Chris held us spellbound as she told us the story of what happened in that apartment building on 911 and the 22 months before the residents could return to their home. "But the cat," I said. "What happened to the cat?" Sure enough, Fellini was reunited with his owners and has survived to a ripe old age of 20.

Last Night on 10th Street

2009-06-22T08:28:00.007-04:00

"Life is just getting too damned hard," said the man walking in front of me. He looked to be in his 80s, hair neatly parted on the side, seersucker suit jacket over pressed khaki pants. His companion was of the same era but taller with a lumpy face. It was 10 pm on Father's Day. Their pace was slow but purposeful. They were headed home. From a dinner party? A concert? "What with my eyesight and my hearing, I have to really focus," he said.

We were walking past the building where the underground electrical explosion happened last December. The second floor residents were all evicted two weeks before Christmas and the windows are still boarded up. The pet supply store and bakery have reopened, but the shoe repair shop remains dark. you have to watch your step as you pass the gate to Patchin Place. The curb dips into a driveway there and the cement is one big pockmark.

"I'm in the same boat," said the companion. "I'm in the same boat." I powered past the two men at this point. I was on a cookie run to the bodega on Greenwich, wearing sweatpants and the baggy t-shirt I sleep in. I like it about NYC that no craving need go unattended, regardless of the hour.

"You didn't have to repeat yourself."

"I didn't think you heard me."

"I heard you," the reply faded out behind me.

Life as Art

2009-06-20T11:25:00.007-04:00

In the 70s I wrote a term paper with the thesis that marriage is outdated. Call me reactionary—my own too-early, brief marriage had just ended and it was easy to blame my personal dissatisfaction on society at large. But I might have been onto something. Now, in 2009, writer and performance artist Sandra Tsing Loh is doing the same thing. You can read her piece for The Atlantic here.

While you're at The Atlantic, be sure to view Loh's video as she entertainingly presents another parallel to my life: stacking all her worldly possessions into an 8-10 storage unit. On my trip to San Francisco last month, I ended my own version of what Loh deems a mid-life rite of passage: I emptied out my storage unit. I'm 10 years ahead of Loh—I've moved on to the next stage and maybe this time I can figure out how to translate my quotidian life into an iconic event for my generation before Loh beats me to the punch.

Matthew Dickman, "All-American Poem"

2009-06-16T09:13:00.005-04:00

I'm reading Matthew Dickman's All-American Poem and am amazed by how wonderful it is. Actually, I'm daunted. I'd like to write something that could make me feel this way. I'd like for somebody like Tony Hoagland to say this about MY poetry:

"...the poems are about as athletic and winsome as a giant American spaniel at the beach--jumping into the water, chasing the Frisbee, digging a hole to China, burying your cell phone.... Matthew Dickman's all-American poems are the epitome of the pleasure principle...free and easy and unself-conscious, lusty, full of sensuous aspiration, tarted up in metaphor, getting Cirque du Soleil fingerpaints on everything."

Here's an example that was in The New Yorker, but The New Yorker never publishes the best ones. My favorite so far is "V." Go out and buy this book, even if you've never read a poem in your life. This is the place to begin.

Sunday Morning With Wilco

2009-06-14T10:30:00.009-04:00

_________________________________________________
Distance has a way of making love understandable. —Wilco (Yankee Foxtrot Hotel)

"You don't come to New York for the lifestyle," said Rachel over Sangioviese last night at Alta. "You come here to do something."

Oh yeah, I keep forgetting. I came here for a paycheck! (And not to sell myself short, NYC has fed me in many ways.) Last week in San Francisco, it seemed every other person I spoke with was barely hanging on financially. That's the conundrum. I had deep conversations, laughed with my girlfriends, worked out at the gym, and the food...! It's easy to feel that life is perfect when you're away from the day-to-day concerns you've left behind at home. But many are struggling to hang onto that SF lifestyle I so adore: the air, the light, the people.

I'm not the only one feeling a tug between coasts. Ana Louisa (pictured) is part of a bicoastal family: J lives and works in NYC; S in San Francisco. They've been doing the back and forth thing for holy cow, yearly 9 years now. (Tom and I did it for a year and a half before he died and it wasn't easy.) Now that AL has joined them, it's mostly J who travels.

Doug and Barb have kids and now an adored grandchild on the East Coast. They feel the tug too. I dined at their table in SF last month and in Brooklyn last week.

Leanne emailed me this morning from Vancouver to answer my question: are you ever coming back? She fled abruptly two weeks ago for her part-time home because it was raining in NYC. Now she's having such a great time, she doesn't want to return, but there's a guy here...you know the story. Money and love, love and money.

Neil Simon and Charles Simic Make an Odd Couple

2009-06-05T09:08:00.010-04:00

If you like the intimate Off-Off-Broadway theater experience, but not the hit or miss playwriting that often goes with it, may I suggest Barefoot in the Park this weekend at Spoon Theater. I saw the dress rehearsal last night and thought it was charming. No limbs severed or baby's killed—just wholesome Neil Simon fun. (It helps that the oddball upstairs neighbor, Victor Velasco, is played by a good friend.)

Seems like I've been spending a lot of time at the theater recently: Irina's Vow, The Wooster Group's La Didone, Hair, Avenue Q, Ruined, Desire Under the Elms—plus The Astaire Awards presentation last Monday for dance in film and on Broadway. I don't mean to turn the main focus of this blog from poetry to theater, but I do think all the arts feed each other.

Charles Simic's most recent book is currently at the top of my nightstand stack: "That Little Something." Now that I've heard him read in person several times, I can hear his beautiful Czech accent and carefully enunciated words in my head. "Charles Simic's writing comes dancing out on the balls of its feet, colloquially fit as a fiddle, a sparring partner for the world." —Seamus Heaney

Lower Manhattan, Early Sunday

2009-05-31T21:43:00.008-04:00

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Though I rarely do it, I like to get out early on Sundays. The tourists and shoppers haven't arrived. You get to see the West Village before she puts on her make-up, her hair still tousled from bed. The supers are sweeping the building stoops. The locals are walking their dogs. Today I headed over to the Hudson. This shot of lower Manhattan (west side) is taken from a pier adjacent to Canal that goes way out into the river. A few minutes later the sun came out.

This weekend was the Lit Magazine Marathon: every journal $2 at the Housing Works Bookstore on Crosby. I met Leanne there before lunch at Snack Taverna and vowed I would not buy more books until I catch up on my current stack. My resolve faded immediately. What a great selection there was. I walked out with 8 journals (pared down from 15). And the bookstore was packed with literati.

I carefully selected only the most beautifully produced journals. Every one has at least one poem or story I found enchanting, inspirational, or written by someone I know. It is my goal to be published in each of these within the next year:

Ep;phany
Beloit Poetry Journal
Absinthe
Spinning Jenny (published by Black Dress Press, how could I resist?)
The Spoon River Poetry Review
West Branch
Columbia Poetry Review
Field

The Devil Lives In Tarrytown

2009-05-29T23:27:00.003-04:00

I took the train to Tarrytown to have dinner with Ron and Yona, and came home in high heels from Brazil. I must have been possessed.

Barefoot in the Park

2009-05-25T23:37:00.010-04:00

My friend Peter has been cast as Victor Velasco, the eccentric neighbor in “Barefoot in the Park." Last night over beer at Kettle of Fish and pizza at John's, he wore a felt fedora and spoke mostly with a French accent.

He and Kat had just seen their upteenth production of “Waiting for Godot." This particular cast— John Goodman, Nathan Lane and Bill Irwin—got us talking about what actors bring to their roles. I know Bill Irwin as a dancer, Kat knows him as a clown. You may have seen him recently as the father in the movie, “Rachel Gets Married.” But my favorite was when he played George in "Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf," opposite Kathleen Turner’s Martha. He branded this character with a subtle physical gesture: the way he held a scotch-on-the-rocks with one shoulder slightly cocked with the elbow held close to his ribs, which also tilted his hips. Yes, all of Edward Albee’s famous lines were there. But what I remember is this postural quirk that Bill gave to George. Of course, my dance interest/vocation draws my attention to movement, but this shows how strongly the body can speak.

Our discussion made me think about why certain plays are produced over and over again. We know how the story ends. Yet we pay Broadway ticket prices to see Eugene O’Neill, Tennessee Williams, and Beckett once again. I like to focus on the story and how the characters reveal themselves. As theater people, Kat and Peter ask why the director makes a particular choice. A different cast always brings something unique—like Peter wanting to understand Velasco beyond the famous movie interpretation of Charles Boyer. I can’t wait to see how he does it.

Barefoot in the Park
June 4–7
Spoon Theater
38 W. 38th St, New York
(646) 299-5345

Thursday, June 4 is pay what you can night.
Friday June 5 is opening night 7 pm
Saturday June 6 shows 2pm & 8 pm
Sunday June 7 shows 2 pm & Closing show 8 pm

Poetry at LES Arts Festival: Today!

2009-05-24T09:44:00.008-04:00

I've become perhaps a little too relaxed about reading/performing my poetry. Until I saw the date on a poetry friend's website, I had completely forgotten that I'm reading this afternoon in the Lower East Side Arts Festival. I'm only 3 minutes in a large group, but still—this is a chance to be heard by new people. I need to think about what pieces would be best to read. Aaaack, I need to wash my hair!

If you're in NYC, please come by.

LES Arts Festival
Theater for the New City (Community Space Theater)
155 1st Ave (between 9th and 10th Streets)
5-7:30 p.m. FREE!

Morning Desire

2009-05-23T10:07:00.012-04:00

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It's muggy in New York this morning. I can feel it in my apartment—the air and sun tempting me to go outside. It's 10 a.m. The strawberries and cucumbers will be gone if I don't get to the Farmer's Market soon. But I am delaying.

Mornings are my time, still dreamy, with my coffee and the cat. Mornings are fertile. You don't want to rush them. Today I woke up with a brilliant idea for my magazine—a workweek hangover. These things don't come to me during the noisy workday.

I'm also letting the play I saw last night sift through my blood cells: Eugene O'Neill's "Desire Under the Elms," with Brian Dennehy. The brilliance of this production was in the staging. You can see the plot coming from the opening lines, even if you didn't read the reviews. Maybe you're not prepared for the shocker at the end, but O'Neill is not subtle and you know his topic: the dysfunctional family.

But the lyrical way the characters almost danced the thoughts they didn't/couldn't speak! There's an early scene of the three brothers eating dinner after a brutal day of work on the family farm, where you understand through their table manners that the older two are more barnyard than human. But this is capped by a slow motion moment where one glides across the table top as if reaching over to punch his brother, who slumps off of his chair halfway to the floor. They stop short of actual physical contact and simply fall asleep as if sleeping off a drunk. What a brilliant way to convey their internal conflict.

The director, Robert Falls, also uses this method to demonstrate unspoken desire between the new wife and her stepson. I thought it was a smart way to counter O'Neill's dialogue that is often too directly telling. (I like to figure some things out for myself.)

By the way, the set is a huge stack of rocks. No elm trees in sight.

1pm Update:
The roses are from the Jefferson Market Garden where I sat for a few minutes today to breathe in their aroma with Farmer's Market strawberries in my bag. Every once in awhile, it is possible to have it all.

Ruined

2009-05-21T09:27:00.002-04:00

Go see the Manhattan Theater Club's production of Ruined. I didn't sleep well after last night's performance, but who would after that story? The playwright is gifted (2009 Pulitzer Prize, 2007 MacArthur Fellow) and the cast so deft that I forgot I was in a theater. My favorite radio show, Studio 360, interviewed Lynn Nottage last week.

Jack Stayed the Night

2009-05-17T11:04:00.009-04:00

____________________________
Gilbert stayed for breakfast: The Great Fires with scrambled eggs and delicate young onions and asparagus from the Farmer's Market. He's a graceful guest. These poems are filled with grief, my favorite subject. "Gift Horses" for example, addresses not only the loss of his wife Michiko but of places like my beloved Potrero Hill:

He lives in the barrens, in dying neighborhoods
and negligible countries. None with an address.
But still the Devil finds him. Kills the wife
or spoils the marriage. Publishes each place
and makes it popular, makes it better, makes it
unusable.

I love that Gilbert is so straightforward. You don't have to work out any puzzle to get his meaning, yet he is very compelling. A good lesson for me on a Sunday that is my poetry exercise day: Just come out and say it.

While in SF, I cleared out my storage unit, a project in progress for a good 8 years. I shipped home this apple painting by my art teacher, Robert Spellman. If you've visited me, you know my small apartment is filled with Tom's work. To find space for the apples, I had to take down one of Tom's pieces that previously I had thought a perfect match for Sylvia Plachy's "Vampires." I'm wildly pleased by this new pairing.

Cooking Flounder with Jack Gilbert

2009-05-16T20:02:00.008-04:00

I'm a late arrival to the Jack Gilbert party. Just bought Refusing Heaven and The Great Fires at Three Lives Books and am spending my Saturday night in the kitchen with Jack. Here's a brief sample that I particularly identify with. (Turns out he's a good influence on the cook - the flounder was uncommonly delicious.)

Doing Poetry

by Jack Gilbert

Poem, you sonofabitch, it's bad enough
that I embarrass myself working so hard
to get it right even a little,
and that little grudging and awkward.
But it's afterwards I resent, when
the sweet sure should hold me like
a trout in the bright summer stream.
There should be at least briefly
access to your glamour and tenderness.
But there's always this same old
dissatisfaction instead.

The Road Not Taken

2009-05-13T08:48:00.005-04:00

As I write this, I can hear a bird chirping outside my West Village window. If I tune out the accompanying drone of a nearby ventilation system, I can evoke springtime in Denver. There was something especially clean about the morning air there. And the quiet. I'm able to forget these moments until times like this.

I've been moping around for an entire week since I returned from San Francisco. You'd think that after five and a half years—longer than I lived there—I'd be over it. Other people are able to visit and say, "yeah, it's a really beautiful place, and it's good to be home." Not me. I start planning for how soon I can return. (That's what the title of this blog means to me: Never being content with what you have or where you are. Always thinking about leaving.)

And then there comes turnaround day—the day something happens to reaffirm my presence in NYC. Yesterday was that day.

I was part of an exclusive group of critics and editors invited to watch a demonstration of Horton technique at the Alvin Ailey studios led by the top experts in the world. As I watched a group of incredible dancers flawlessly demonstrate this difficult form, I thought: wow, as a dancer and later as a writer, I never imagined having this kind of access in the dance field. Having the job I do and living in Manhattan is a gift. A difficult one, but a gift nonetheless.

Then last night, I attended a tribute to poet Jack Gilbert, who at 84 has just released a new book. A veritable who's who of the poetry community flowed through the doors into the NYU Cantor Film Center! And I could put faces together with their famous names! I may not know them personally, but I've attended their readings and sat beside them in conferences. Just as with dance, I am exposed to a poetic echelon that doesn't exist anywhere else. (Yes, Jane, fabulous poets reside in SF, but the confluence and activity level in NYC is unsurpassed.)

This is what I was thinking as Meghan O'Rourke, Mary Karr, Linda Gregg, and best of all, Gerald Stern, (also two people previously unknown to me, Jim Finnegan and Henry Lyman) told stories about Jack Gilbert and read his poetry. (Gilbert lived in SF back in the day, btw.) Thanks to this event, I have a grasp of Gilbert and his work that it would take a long time (if ever) to acquire by studying his books alone.

All this is a long lede to my point: It seems there is a reason I am in NYC. Yes, I feel healthier and personally happier in San Francisco, but professionally, NYC is where it's at. For every choice one makes, there is grief over the one (or more) declined. (Robert Frost said it better, but who understands that at 15 when you first read his poem?) The dilemna continues.

Irena's Vow

2009-05-11T09:33:00.004-04:00

Enough of feeling sorry for myself. Here's someone who really suffered loss and hardship. "Irena's Vow" at the Walter Kerr Theatre tells the story of a Polish woman's courageous act during WWII. I thought it was excellent: absorbing, suspenseful and moving. It didn't go over-the-top mushy until the very end and you can overlook that. Go see it. Here's a review of the pre-Broadway production (with the same lead actress).

Memorial Week

2009-05-09T10:15:00.006-04:00

This is a double whammy week for me. It's the anniversary of the deaths of my lover Tom (May 8, 2005) and my father (May 13, 2008).

In the odd way that life happens, my trip to San Francisco last week bumped up against the fourth anniversary of Tom's brief illness and death. He had called me in NYC (we were bicoastal at that point—he in SF and me in NYC) on May 6 in a freaked out state, said he had bad flu symptoms. And he couldn't figure out what he'd done to his right shoulder - it hurt like hell. No, he wasn't going to SF General to wait for hours with the junkies and stabbing victims. He'd collapsed earlier that day, he told me, and his studio mate Julio had called an ambulance. The EMT's said it wasn't a heart attack but he didn't look good and should go in with them, but Tom had refused. Bad decisions, these.

When Julio arrived the next morning to drive Tom to the doctor, it was too late. He had to practically carry him down the two flights of stairs. At the hospital, they said he was in septic shock.

Tom died just about the time I was flying over Nevada on Jet Blue, Sat, May 8. I know the exact moment because it had suddenly occurred to me that after all the organ failure and medical intervention, there would be extensive, likely permanent damage if he survived. I understood at that moment that he was making a choice not to survive. Tom was not the kind of guy who could cope well with adversity. He would be gone by the time my plane landed and, under the circumstances, it was for the best.

Was that Tom communicating with me? Or my own conscience rationalizing? Or some universal healing energy to help me deal with the pain? The romantic in me chooses to believe it was Tom. It happened twice again after that. He sent me a message once in a dream, and once during the Broadway production of Eugene O'Neill's play, "Moon For the Misbegotten."

I've written before about the way I pretty much sleep-walked my way into that production and realized only as I was standing in line for the ladies room that the date was May 8, one year later. How ironic that I should be at a play by Tom's favorite playwright! (Tom had also been artist in residence at the O'Neill house in Cali.) The penultimate scene of the play was a direct message to me that indeed Tom had found peace. In fact, the play explained many things about the alcoholic mind—enough to bring me some peace of mind as well.

I didn't have the same kind of commmunication with my Dad at the end and after. But my stepmother has. Of course, I miss my dad, but I wasn't his mate. The grief is different. I understand what Linda is going through this week.

San Francisco

2009-05-08T09:06:00.003-04:00

From the looks of it, you'd think all I did last week was eat. (You'd be close to right and I've never felt healthier or happier.)

Good Photos

2009-05-06T10:38:00.004-04:00

Photos of the SF reading that I like are here and here. Thanks to the very talented photographer, Jane Underwood.

San Francisco

2009-05-05T22:13:00.004-04:00

I've been in San Francisco all week. There is much to report and photos to post once I've unpacked and given Chloe kitty the attention she's demanding. I performed as a featured poet last night at The Gallery Cafe and you can read a couple of reports from my very supportive SF writing group members here and here.

Thanks so much Doug, Jane, Mary Ann, and Eric—and also Katie, Sharon, Cathy, Deborah, Martin, Joan, Barb, and Jack. It was wonderful to have so many friends in the audience.

The Jefferson Market Garden is Open!

2009-04-25T13:41:00.002-04:00

It's 80 degrees in NYC today! The bare skin! The flowers! The shoes! Oh my.

Center for Book Arts Poetry Chapbook Competition

2009-04-23T22:12:00.004-04:00

Well, the results have been announced and once again I did not win the Center for Book Arts Letterpress Chapbook Poetry Competition,judged this year by Sharon Dolin and Kim Addonizio. But I did make it to the final 25 of 300 entries!

When I first got the notice last month that I was a finalist, I was thrilled. To me that felt like a pretty big win in and of itself (and tomorrow I'm sending out the poems to several other journals).

The winning manuscript is Love Letters to Sons of Bitches by Bonnie Jo Campbell of Kalamazoo, Michigan. Congratulations Bonnie Jo. I definitely want to have a look at that book--October 7 is the release date.

Vinegar Hill

2009-04-19T18:47:00.006-04:00

Nancy and I went to St. Anne's Warehouse in Brooklyn last night to hang out in DUMBO as much as to see the much talked about Didone (which I loved and I mean DUMBO as much as the play). We had both heard mention of the Vinegar Hill neighborhood and, once we found it by way of a semi-scary housing project, it was love at first sight.

If you can get past the giant Con Ed power plant and the noise of the train rumbling over the Manhattan bridge, you'll find quaint red brick rowhouses, proximity to the waterfront park, and a fabulous view of the Manhattan skyline. We peered into a tiny storefront, otherwise unmarked, and found Vinegar Hill House where we dined on green bean salad and horseradish mashed potatoes. We're on a quest for a better NYC life where we can slow down and enjoy more community. Maybe it's here.

PS. This photo was taken in front of St. Anne's in DUMBO—it's not Vinegar Hill, where of course I forgot all about my camera.

Havana Dreaming

2009-04-14T17:28:00.008-04:00

While in Havana last October, I took a lot of video footage—mostly dance related which you can view at dancemedia.com. But the final afternoon, I wandered around Old Havana and listened to music. The music sounded better in person and the editing is nonexistent, but this might give you a taste of Havana that my photos could not. Look for the couple dancing toward in the middle of this clip. No, it's not me, in case you're wondering. (smile)

Is it true that Americans can now visit family members in Cuba freely and send money?

Return of the Sixties

2009-04-11T09:46:00.003-04:00

I heard shouting through the night that sounded a lot like "Hell no, we won't go." Hard to tell where it was coming from--the concrete and wind often carry sounds up to my 4th floor window from as far away as Union Square (and there's always some kind of political rally at Union Square). But I just saw the news that students were arrested for occupying a New School University building yesterday morning. The building was over on 5th Avenue, but the campus has buildings all around this area. This also explains the parade of police cars past my corner yesterday morning as I left for the office.

Where were these kids when we protested the invasion of Iraq? Where were they when Wall Street greed melted the stock market? Where were they when Congress rescued AIG with our hard-earned taxpayer dollars? I agree that our times call for the kind of civil unrest we saw in the 60s, but I'm not sure Bob Kerrey's administrative decisions about how to spend private college money is quite in that league. Ironic that the New School is known for leaning to the left.

Missing Havana in Ybor City

2009-04-04T10:29:00.010-04:00

While Obama visited the Queen, I went to Tampa. In typical fashion, I did no research on what kind of place Tampa is (I was there for work) or even where in the state it is located. I was happily surprised to find myself on the gulf side of Florida in the lap of Westin Hotel luxury. Everything in the convention center area is brand spanking new and squeaky clean, so it threw me off a little when a certain friend asked me to bring him back a Cuban cigar.

________________________________
But indeed, Tampa—like the rest of Florida—was settled by the Spaniards and is home to a Cuban ex-pat community: Ybor City, where at one time three cigar factories operated. What's left of that era is a number of cigar stores with the requisite front window display of hand-rolling, but people are bemoaning new taxes that raise the price of a stogie by $.40, saying it will kill what's left of a dying industry.
____________________________________

______________________________________

______________________________________

I imagine that Tampa once had more buildings like this single block that I found. 2009 Ybor City is pretty quiet—at least on a Thursday at 5 pm.

Columbia Restaurant was highly recommended, so I drank a watered down Mojito at this beautiful bar. No salsa music. No sexy cigar smoking Spanish men. I'll take Havana any day.

Jane Fonda and The Perfect Jeans

2009-03-29T11:15:00.002-04:00

I was warned not to expect too much, but I really liked 33 Variations. Jane Fonda was fine (and fun to see as I've followed her since Klute), but the guy who played Beethoven! That guy had a great role. I learned something about music and I was entertained in the process. I was also moved because Fonda's character has ALS, the disease my oldest friend died from in 1999. I understand the disease on a deeper level than the play went into, but oddly the play helped me better understand what my friend went through. (Fonda even looked a little like Kim in the play.)

Both Beethoven and Fonda's character felt time pressure to complete their projects while they still had capacity. More reason to live each day to its fullest, I say. That means less time cleaning the toilet and more time finding the perfect pair of jeans. That's what I did yesterday at Paige Premium Denim. Alas the toilet must still be cleaned—not that I care, but someone is coming to take care of Chloe while I travel this week.

Tunes!

2009-03-27T22:41:00.003-04:00

It's been months since the CD player on my Bose Acoustic Wave died. Do you know what life is like without a melody? (hint: it's a little like wearing your hair pulled too tight into a ponytail.) I'll spare you the convoluted thinking that left me without music for too long. (hint: it has to do with iPods and complete technological Catch 22 madness.) And I'm SO glad I didn't listen to the advice to go out and buy a piece of crap boom box. I just got the Bose back from the factory, good as new, ready to rock for another ten years.

My first play was The Mermen. Now playing is Deborah Crooks', "Adding Water to the Ashes." I refused to listen to my friend's newest project (not so new by now...) until I had adequate sound. Sounds good so far, Deb--edgy.

The Age of Aquarius

2009-03-26T09:35:00.002-04:00

I revisited my past last night at Hair. I was still in high school when the original Hair shocked the public with its full frontal nudity, and I was surprised at how brief that moment was in this 2009 production. (They really got all up in arms about that?) I wasn't prepared to be moved by this musical reminder of how passionate (and naive) we all were about the war—and I was.

At the end, the stage was packed with audience members rockin out with the cast. The two male leads joined us upstairs where we were too far away to climb onstage. We were all standing and clapping and happily swaying. Just like the 70s.

Nature Writing

2009-03-23T21:19:00.008-04:00

Never would I have classified my poem, "The Sad Story of Her Dream House in the Mountains," as nature writing. Yes, it's full of raccoons, foxes, a snake, and pine tree pollen, but they are surreal characters/elements that help me avoid talking directly about the break up of a relationship. Yet when I opened the acceptance today from The Fourth River, it made perfect sense. Amazing how work finds the right home, sometimes despite the author's best efforts otherwise.

The Fourth River welcomes submissions of creative writing that explore the relationship between humans and their environments, both natural and built, urban, rural or wild. We are looking for writings that are richly situated at the confluence of place, space and identity, or that reflect upon or make use of landscape and place in new ways. Nature and environmental writing that is edgy and provocative, that goes beyond traditional nature writing, and contributes to a new type of place-based writing has the best chance of finding a home in our journal.

Pittsburgh is situated at the confluence of three rivers: the Monongahela, Allegheny, and Ohio. A fourth underground river, unseeable but indispensable to the city’s riverine ecosystem, is one muse for our journal. As our founding editor, Jeffrey Thomson, wrote in first issue of The Fourth River, we are inspired by the notion that “between and beneath the visible framework of the human world and the built environment, there exist deeper currents of force and meaning supporting the very structure of that world."

Sorry, I can't print the actual poem here because I've given the journal first rights, but I'll read it in San Francisco. Gallery Cafe, Monday, May 4, 7pm

Dada Poetry Salon and Maintenant 3

2009-03-20T21:41:00.007-04:00

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It could be a Left Bank bar in the '20s from the looks of it, with a dashing Tristan Tzara himself standing at the bar. But no, it's the Dada Poetry Salon at Cornelia Street Cafe as seen through the grainy lens of my iPhone in 2009. On stage is Frank Simone in Fargo style ear flaps, with an American flag draped over his shoulders, lamenting his narrator's loss of Medicaid.

We had a full house and a reading list so long I didn't get a turn. No loss, because my contribution for the evening is recorded in the prominent facing inside back cover position of Maintenant 3 (a journal of contemporary dada writing and art) and below for your reading pleasure:

Lullaby (by Karen Hildebrand, 2008)

I.
I was raised by wild horses
Oldest child not firstborn
Father tore down the house when I was five
My brother won beauty contests
I gave it all up for Jesus
Should have left for the circus
I'm not good at making things up
I am a liar and a thief.

II.
"I suppose you think your knees are pretty," my mother said.

My father said, "if only your mother had your taste in clothes."

"Stormy weather," hummed the man behind the counter,
"since my man and I aren't together."

"Men and women need each other," my father said.

"What time is dinner?" said Humphrey, the retriever, playing dead.

"I'm done with men," my mother said.

III.
I will leave behind
two lemons, an apple
burning ambition
bisque pans
plates undone
squeeze me buschke
buschke, bop-pop
I am leaving
still leaving.

Connected in Philly

2009-03-18T21:03:00.004-04:00

The reading in Philly went just great. A few of our buddies from Cape May (Peter Murphy's annual writer's getaway weekend) showed up as well as several of Lisa's students from Temple. Kat, Pete and I each have our own unique style, so there was a little something for all poetry/performance appetites.

Afterward, we put Kat and Pete on the Chinatown bus back to Manhattan, and Lisa and I continued our St. Patrick's Day experience over red wine at her apartment. Her neighborhood has a lot of charming alley streets and a Whole Foods, and get this: Her apartment has large rooms, five closests, and sunlight! Plus she has a kitten who slept next to me on the couch (at least when she wasn't attacking my toes and batting a cork across the wood floors). We talked until the wee hours and I spent this morning walking the streets of Philly. A very manageable city, though not as charming over all as I'd anticipated—though I must reserve judgment for a day when I have more time to poke around.

Sorry, no city pics. I traveled light—sans camera. But that will soon change because I just bought an iPhone! Yes, resistance is indeed futile. I've been assimilated—internet, phone, camera, GPS, and ipod in one small unit everywhere I go.

Next Up, Philly

2009-03-06T10:27:00.006-05:00

I'm getting excited about our reading in Philly. We're featured at the Green Line Cafe in artsy West Philly where we'll meet up with our poet friend and host Lisa. I love discovering new neighborhoods! And new bus experiences! We'll be traveling via the BoltBus. Free WiFi! All you car culture folks are missing a wonderful slice of the American experience.

If you're missing my regular updates about the poetic life in NYC, please come to Philly and talk to me in person. Here are the deets:
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Vermont

2009-03-01T22:03:00.002-05:00

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Check out the goon bottom left wearing goggles on a gorgeous sunny day.

This Saturday, Feb 28, noon

2009-02-25T12:21:00.004-05:00

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Here's the scoop on the reading/performance this Saturday. Sounds like fun. As you'll see below, I'm reading "poetry of envy"--envy of prize-winning poets, baby envy, sane boyfriend envy, wish-I-had-the-nerve-to-wear-that-cheap-red-dress envy. What a way to be green.

NEW YORK--New York’s contemporary cutting-edge poets and playwrights join forces with St. John’s University student playwrights at “GREENAGERS A-GLOW-GO!” The event runs Saturday, Feb. 28 at noon at St. John’s University downtown Manhattan campus’ Saval Auditorium. It kicks off Dr. Larry Myers international playwriting project.

The program will be hosted by “Greenagers” Kat Georges and Peter Carlaftes, co-founders of San Francisco’s Marilyn Monroe Memorial Theater. Their comic musical numbers will highlight the fun side of “going green.” This event puts St. John’s practicing playwrights in the center of New York’s poetry and playwriting scene. SJU playwrights include: Olivia Hartle, Kristopher Kaye, Caitlyn Mason, Taylor Pedane, Matthew Gray, Ben Less, James Losada, Maria Ruales, Mallory Soto, Feraz Khan and Anna Ilyadzhanova.

Richard Wilt will perform a new work by award-winning Off-Broadway playwright Myers, exploring the personal face of today’s environmental movement.

Also on the bill are as follows: Jackie Sheeler, creator of the blog “Get Angry With Me” who explores her personal green efforts; Angelo Verga, author of Praise for What Remains, examines the green side of finance; and Karen Hildebrand, author of One Foot Out the Door, who probes the green of envy. Undercover punk rock celebupoet Bass Player from ? offers musical interludes & excerpts from his book, Splitting Hairs. Performance poetry artists Madeline Artenberg, Ronnie Norpel, & Susan Scutti read their green-hued work.

This event is on Saturday, February 28 at noon in St. John’s University Saval Auditorium at 101 Murray Street (between Greenwich and West streets). See Three Rooms Press to RSVP.

Upcoming Appearances

2009-02-19T20:03:00.004-05:00

The Old In and Out seems to have stirred up some activity on the reading front. I'll be appearing:

Sat, February 28, noon:
I have a ten-minute spot on the theme of Green with Kat Georges and Peter Carlaftes and their wacky "Greenagers in Love."
St. John's University
101 Murray St.
NYC

Tues, March 17:
Philadelphia
details to come

Sat, April 4,
NYC book release party for Joan Gelfand's "A Dreamer's Guide to Cities and Streams."
It's a private party, but let me know if you're interested and I'll get you an invite.

We've applied to perform "The Old In and Out" as part of the NYC Fringe Festival. Keep your fingers crossed for us—they only get thousands of applications from all over the world. Here's what poet and curator Anne Cammon has to say about the show:

"With coordinated Mod dresses and puffy round microphones hovering aside their mouths, at a glance The Old In and Out evokes a kind of retro Futurism. But the poetry is as earthy as it comes. Two terrific poets--Madeline Artenberg and Karen Hildebrand--take on the vast body of female sexual and romantic experience in a dance of words and gestures. They attack their subject matter fearlessly, illuminating a host of issues from early sexual exploration to rape to the reptile glamour and accompanying boredom of a casino wife. Ultimately the two women stand alone, with all of the independence and freedom and space for self-reflection the Women's Liberation Movement ever sought to create."

Maria von Trapp

2009-02-16T20:15:00.006-05:00

I have wonderful friends—several of which are couples who occasionally allow me to tag along on their romantic outings. Last summer it was Ron and Yona on their annual trip to Maine. This weekend Sam and Celeste shared their Valentine's Day ski trip. Not only that, but Celeste packed two of everything so I'd have something to wear.

In the old Colorado days, Celeste was always the ski fashion plate — color-coordinated from head to toe in teal and purple, while I found my khaki and brown gear at the army surplus store. I had a great time this weekend in her outfits. (I didn't take my camera, Mary Ann, but there may be a couple photos forthcoming.)

I think a little of her spirit rubbed off too. She was always the first to hit the trail and the one to go fastest and farthest. No hill was too steep - up or down. (Sam and Celeste got married at the top of the ski mountain in Telluride if that tells you anything about them.) I'm here to say that this weekend after nearly 15 years, the old kick and glide was still there—at times, albeit, on the ragged edge of control, to quote Sam. It felt grand to be out in the fresh COLD air and quiet.

We did one day at the Trapp Family Lodge (yes, as in "The Sound of Music") and the next at Smuggler's Notch, near Stowe, Vermont. The snow was fresh and the sky bright and sunny. Two days on the trail could not have been more perfect. And for apres ski, there was red wine and chocolate truffles. If I could do this every weekend for the next two months, it might make up for my Manhattan lifestyle. Thanks Sam and Celeste!

Vermont!

2009-02-12T22:36:00.002-05:00

It's 10:30 p.m. and I'm supposed to be packing for the weekend. I'm going skiing in Vermont! (Nordic, not downhill.) The problem is I haven't skiied since I left Colorado ten years ago. I hung onto all of my gear and outerwear, but it's locked up in my storage unit. In San Francisco. Where it doesn't snow. 3,000 miles from where I live. How did this happen?

Doesn't matter. Everything I have is outdated anyway. The fun thing is my companion is the same person I used to ski with in Colorado. She and her husband now live in Connecticut where I'm meeting them tomorrow for the drive to Stowe. I hear it's gorgeous there.

Bigot Baker

2009-02-07T15:51:00.008-05:00

While I've been holed up in my office, my neighbors have been boycotting the bakery where I buy eclairs. I knew the guy was... well, let's say his politics differ from mine. During the primaries I got enough of an earful that I knew not to engage the guy in conversation again. But it didn't stop me from buying eclairs.

There's been a picket line outside the bakery since Inauguration Day when the guy sold "drunken negro face" cookies and offended customers with his comments. Don't people have better things to do with their time? Had it been me in the bakery on Inauguration Day, I would have just quietly not returned--I could stand to lose a few pounds anyway. But I'm glad the picketers were there today. I wouldn't have known what happened without them.

Truth is, I grew up with a racist. I loved my dad inspite of his ignorant stand on this particular issue. The difference is that my dad knew he was a bigot and would never have committed a public act. And his bad example taught me something about tolerance. I think it's sad about this baker who seems not to understand his offense. All this attention isn't going to change his hate. I guess that's not the point. The picket line is for the rest of us. No more eclairs.

The G. W. Review, 30th Volume

2009-02-03T22:09:00.004-05:00

I am crazy proud to be one of eight poets included in the new issue of The G.W. Review, published by George Washington University. Here's what usually happens when my contributor copies arrive in the mail: I flip through to find my poem, read one or two others, and quickly bored, put the book down. Today I read every poem in the journal and was astonished at the quality.

In his editor's note, Andrew Rigefsky talks about 30 years of tirelessly seeking out "the next great writers of our age."

"This year, we received a record number of submissions.... I do have to say, however, that these pieces are exceptional. These works are the product of our intense discussions concerning their every detail, down to the last period. Each of our authors, poets, and artists has a unique world view, and I would not be surprised if many go on to achieve further acclaim."

I like the sound of that: "go on to achieve further acclaim."

My poem, "Playing Canasta," is one of the pieces performed in "The Old In-and-Out." I wrote it in basically one sitting as if I was taking dictation from someone else. Pretty cool. Order your copy here.

Bettie Page

2009-01-31T19:56:00.005-05:00

You may have noticed that after three years of faithful blogging, I seem to have lost my train of thought. But I'm still here, still writing poetry, still shopping. (Tho the economy has slowed down the latter activity.) Mainly, I'm working my day job—and loving it. I'm now editor in chief of a monthly dance magazine and my life has once again become dance all the time.

But look what I found on the way home from the dance conference where I spent my Saturday. I saw the Captain Flare dress on the rack at Enz's in the East Village (125 Second Ave at 8th St.) and couldn't resist. Where the h am I going to wear this baby, I wonder?

Here's what the tag on my Bettie Page dress says:
"With hair as dark as midnight and a smile as bright as day, Bettie Page became the icon of pin-up fantasy. Bettie, "I was never the girl next door," will forever be a symbol of the mischievous good girl. A tantalizing mixture of darkness and light - of the sensual and the feminine, Bettie Page clothing captures the beautiful complexity that embodies the mystery of women everywhere.

I also got the black Catwalk skirt.

Community

2009-01-25T12:59:00.003-05:00

I love this story in today's New York Times. I've been thinking for years about creating a community living situation that is not a commune. I want to surround myself with creative people and stimulating company, but preserve my need for privacy and alone time.

I still don't know exactly how to make this happen, but here's one example of how two women made their vision come true. Anyone have an extra $3.9 million hanging around?

2009-01-15T21:06:00.004-05:00

The world premiere of "The Old In-and-Out" went amazingly well! We filled the Bowery Poetry Club and I only flubbed one line. Thanks to everyone who came to the show and those who sent support from a distance. Hopefully the show will be more than a one-night stand. In the meantime, we published the script as a book. Ten bucks and it's yours. Let me know if you want one of a limited number available.

I've barely had time to breathe for two weeks and tomorrow I'm headed for Cape May and the 16th Annual Winter Poetry and Prose Getaway. See you on inauguration day next Tuesday. We're ready, Mr. President!

The Old In-and-Out

2009-01-11T11:26:00.002-05:00

Tonight's the big night. See you at Bowery Poetry Club, 8 pm.

A Word on Process

2009-01-06T08:44:00.002-05:00

Deborah Crooks interviews me about writing and performing in "The Old In-and-Out" at Bird in the Tree.

Did I make it to your 2009 calendar?

2009-01-03T12:21:00.005-05:00

Yes, we're back to the poster at the top of the page for the next week. This is my number one priority as we begin 2009. If you came to the preview and are wondering what comes next, the answer is Sunday, Jan 11. Those of you at a distance who have asked for a review, hold onto your hats.

The Old In-and-Out
one night only
January 11, 8 pm
Bowery Poetry Club, NYC

"It starts with a kiss. A touch. A dream. It becomes a lifelong search: to discover what love means on your own terms. In this piece, two women strip away the facade of the common definition of love bit by bit, in the search to discover, in their own poetic voices, if true love actually exists."

Bring It On!

2008-12-31T09:14:00.004-05:00

I'm a trained rat. Turn the page to December 31, and I automatically start thinking about changing my ways. The old list comes out--many I can simply recopy: work out, build my savings, eat healthy.

Today's astrology lesson is that Saturn is going retrograde. Saturn is the planet of plenty, good fortune. [Actually, Saturn governs ambition, career, authority and hierarchy. It's about sense of duty, discipline and responsibility, and long-term planning.] When it reverses its course, things aren't pretty. But we knew that about the current times. How many of you are being asked to take a cut in pay next year? To do more work? To be happy you still have a job?

But here's the thing: it's temporary. Saturn is just as predictable as the greed of American CEO's. Much like human nature, planets doggedly keep going. My horoscope says give it a few months.

I do have at least one new resolution for 2009: Say yes.

Happy New Year to you all!

A Guide for the Times

2008-12-29T09:03:00.004-05:00

Do you know about this guy Broke-Ass Stuart and his Guides to Living Cheaply? He has both SF and NYC editions. He may or may not know more about the subject than yours truly, but he had the brains to write a couple of books and a website where he swears a lot. Asked in a radio interview about the difference between NYC and SF he said, "in NYC it's sink or swim while in SF it's totally okay to float."

I've been looking for my raft this weekend.

Christmas Kitsch

2008-12-27T09:38:00.004-05:00

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Many in the tri-state region make a pilgrimage with their children to view the Met's famous Christmas tree. You can spend a long time circling to admire the variety of beautiful figurines that are part of the baroque creche scene. It's absolutely gorgeous--if you can poke through the crowd to get a close enough look.

This year I visited a different spectacle: Ronald T. Merriman's Christmas House in Torrington, Connecticut.

The outside of his house is definitely worth stopping for a view, and if you get this far, don't leave without touring inside. The guy has arranged an elaborate display of his vast collection of animated dolls, toy trains, snow villages and much more. This photo is too small to see (it's larger at the website), but the house is literally filled from top to bottom. It's a little scary.

Winter Solstice

2008-12-21T10:51:00.004-05:00

My friend Jane would no doubt say that just as no one is interested in hearing about your dream, no one cares what your horoscope says. But here it is anyway:

Sunday, December 21

One thing is for sure, you would rather be in bed with a good book than out in the stressful world we live in. But you may be feeling like you're missing out on some of the good things in life. How much time do you spend with other people? Why not try finding someone else who shares your tastes for good books and being in bed?! Think about it!

Duh...

Yesterday, an old friend found and contacted me via Facebook. I'm taking the train to visit her in the country on Christmas and meet her husband and cat!

The Street is Exploding!

2008-12-19T21:56:00.007-05:00

The preview performance of our 2-woman show, The Old In-and-Out, was a success—despite the blizzard! I just got home to an huge electrical explosion on 6th Ave across the street from my building— flames shooting out of what looks like a hole in the pavement and black smelly smoke.

It's still happening as I type--the explosions sound like the finale of a fireworks show at close range. I know our show was hot, but this is a bit much. I've got Chloe kitty packed up in my go-bag, just in case we have to evacuate. I conferred with my neighbors. We seem to be unaffected at the moment. But holy cow, life in NYC is really something.