5/13/12
I have spent hours of my life, hours upon hours, on the train this week, hours poured in libation to the black, age-smeared tunnels of the city underground. And now, the fruits of my labor: I am officially a tax-paying resident of New York City.
The subway system’s erratic repair schedule is one idiosyncrasy that will probably take me a while to grow accustomed to. I was on my way uptown yesterday when a man got on the train and took the empty seat next to me. “Do you know if this train is stopping at such-and-such place?”
I’m not sure, I answered, squinting at the overhead display and trying to figure out where we were at all. The train isn’t running on its usual line today.
“Yeah, weekend repairs, I know how it goes. Are you from the city?”
I told him that I’d only been here for a few months, and that I had moved to Brooklyn just the week before.
“Wow, good luck.” He paused, then added, smiling, “I’ve lived my whole life in this Babylonic city.”
We talked for a bit longer, but the man ended up getting off the train at the next stop. When he left, he wished me luck one more time. And I continued forward through Babylon.
May 13, 2012
My dear Sir
Art is useless because its aim is simply to create a mood. It is not meant to instruct, or to influence action in any way. It is superbly sterile, and the note of its pleasure is sterility. If the contemplation of a work of art is followed by activity of any kind, the work is either of a very second-rate order, or the spectator has failed to realise the complete artistic impression.
A work of art is useless as a flower is useless. A flower blossoms for its own joy. We gain a moment of joy by looking at it. That is all that is to be said about our relations to flowers. Of course man may sell the flower, and so make it useful to him, but this has nothing to do with the flower. It is not part of its essence. It is accidental. It is a misuse. All this is I fear very obscure. But the subject is a long one.
Truly yours,
Oscar Wilde
May 1, 2012
What I’m searching for
To tell it straight, I’m trying to build a wall
4/28/12
A line flitted across my mind before I fell asleep, and when I woke up, it had vanished. A familiar and frustrating disappearing act.
When I was younger, I fantasized about owning a device that could transcribe my every thought. The purpose of this device would be twofold. First, with it I could preserve the movement of my ideas—those that burst and fade like a light leak on film—and second, more importantly, I would have an endless pool of data with which to map the trajectory of my life.
(I studied literature. Then, as with now, I am obsessed with narrative. Trim away the noise, the secondary characters, those lazy days so easily forgotten, and find that central stream of cause and effect. But lately I have begun to doubt whether this a good approach. Nothing in life is as thematically clean as a novel.)
Of course, this magical machine does not exist, and thoughts change shape once they are committed to tangible form. Memory and reality continue to clash over the truth, and while they engage in their battle, the future voraciously consumes the past.
Apr 28, 2012
4/14/12
8:30 am: Wake up from a terrible dream.
***
Today was a gorgeous 60-some degrees. We spent the afternoon in Central Park, and at dinnertime Meyanna’s friend invited us over to his place for a barbeque.
It was a beautiful apartment located two blocks away from the park. Composed of two stories (the second of which was the bedroom), and a rooftop perch. We had our meal on the roof.
***
Fluffy gray dog sits on a stone bench, next to his owner who holds the leash. Fluffy gray dog looks out toward the pond. Fluffy gray dog sees new dog, yearns to greet dog, cannot reach dog.
***
The friend is Martin, who works for the UN. He hails from Amsterdam. “I recognize my apartment from the outside because we have five bicycles chained to the front,” he tells us. “And all the bikes belong to my roommate and I.”
What? we ask. What do you do with five bikes?
“For Dutch people, bicycles are really something sacred.”
Four clocks hang in a row on the wall of Martin’s living room. They display the times of, in order: New York, Amsterdam, Juba, and Shanghai.
***
Today was a good day. My face still feels warm from the sun. The smell of smoke lingers in my hair.
Apr 14, 2012
Apr 12, 2012Listen! I will be honest with you,
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes,
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is call’d riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve,
You but arrive at the city to which you were destin’d, you hardly settle yourself to satisfaction before you are call’d by an irresistible call to depart,
You shall be treated to the ironical smiles and mockings of those who remain behind you,
What beckonings of love you receive you shall only answer with passionate kisses of parting,
You shall not allow the hold of those who spread their reach’d hands toward you.—Walt Whitman, Song of the Open Road
I rewrote the ending to Farewell to Arms, the last page of it, thirty-nine times before I was satisfied.
Hemingway (The Paris Review)
Apr 9, 2012
__ state of mind
Tired, I blinked. And just like that, March was over.
I know dreams are never interesting to anyone but the dreamer herself, but humor me for a moment. Lately it seems my mind has all but run dry. Then today, for the third time in a row, I finally woke up remembering.
My parents flew in on Thursday. That night, I had a dream that my uncle came to visit, and on him he carried his newborn children: an armful of clothed rats. Friday night I dreamt that a liquid was spurting from a small hole in my stomach, and last night I gave my old flute to a tuner with perfect pitch, who then turned the instrument into a useless ceramic cup.
During the daytime we took the city like clueless tourists. I didn’t mind for once, because it was refreshing to see New York as someone who didn’t daily make the trudge. The surprise of the weekend was when my mom took me to see The Phantom of the Opera, which I never thought I would go see because, well, I won’t elaborate. Those who would understand, will, and without explanation.
So during this show, two things happened: one, I discovered that I still basically have all the lyrics memorized, and two, I started tearing up. I was obsessed with this musical in middle school (so about ten years ago by now), and seeing the show performed in front of me, live, was a lot to handle.
Apr 8, 2012
