One example of author/audience interaction that has, in fact, unfolded its own story and drama, came with the publication of Keith Gessen’s new novel All the Sad Young Literary Men. It received some wonderful reviews, as well as some scathing attacks on him as a person, from literary critics and everyday readers on the web. Since Gessen already had a presence on the Internet long before his book came out in print, and alongside his print literary journal n+1, (unlike most writers who do not interact with their wider reading audience at all), he took it upon himself to respond to these criticisms, and in doing so, criticized in turn most users of the internet. In his blog, he states in response to an attack by a former Gawker editor, “…we’re taking the internet back from you people. You’ve mucked it up something good.” “You people” referring to “everyone who uses this technology to traffic in gossip, innuendo, insult, etc etc.” What resulted was a war. And hype.
Though his particular comments imply he is superior to blogs like Gawker, an equalizing affect still occurs. While authors do not typically engage with their readers and their critiques, and hardly ever spar back, the internet has effectively put Keith Gessen and his audience on the same level.
I should probably mention that he used to date Emily Gould, former editor of Gawker. The story of their relationship, careers, and dialogue is still followed daily by users, bloggers, journalists and literati alike. A spectacle has been made of them, or they have made a spectacle of themselves, embracing the propensity of using the Internet for publicizing the private. Keith Gessen wrote just the other day, “I keep reading on the Internet about how I’ve been fighting the Internet. ‘Keith Gessen vs. the Internet,’ it says. And when I see that I think, Oh boy. Oh wow. The whole Internet? This won’t be easy. This will take a long time.” The content of his novel (about the need and drive of a young writer for fame) and his actions on the web both take on the same theme: the need to be seen, the need to make their lives into stories.
Go see my YouTube video if you haven't already. (Be sure to click "more info" and follow the links in the side bar.)
Otherwise continue on here.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
He's No Use To Us Dead
Online, the divide is breached not only between creators and their audiences, but between the professional and the amateur. The lines have been blurred between official and unofficial. Readers’ creative reactions to the canonic are often taken as seriously as the original that spurred them. The scope of public input has reached out an affective hand to shake commercial production.
Google allows for and encourages third party input in the form of “gadgets,” so common users can update and modify applications to create new programs and share them with others. They do not, however, reveal their source code for their search algorithms to the public. Google Labs is available for anyone to try these new applications. Firefox and Linux are open source browsers, allowing users to modify applications. It has become a community of people who are interested in making the best Internet browser they can.
To better demonstrate this, I’d like to take a look at the Star Wars Universe as it has formed on the web. This includes the world within the films, the officially licensed “Expanded Universe,” fanfiction, the people behind the scenes, and the cyber communities that have organically formed around this vast expanse of characters and mayhem. The aspect I’m most interested in within this world is the Boba Fett phenomena.
Peter Hartlaub at the San Francisco Chronicle writes, “In the movies, the bounty hunter does little more than deliver Han Solo's frozen body to the aforementioned Hutt. But Boba Fett collectibles are still among the most expensive, his fans are among the most passionate and the moviemakers treat him like a star -- Boba was the main image on the official "Star Wars" Web site this week, even though he isn't in the new movie, ‘Episode III -- Revenge of the Sith.’” In the original trilogy, the character speaks exactly twenty-seven words:
“As you wish.”
“He's no good to me dead.”
“What if he doesn't survive? He's worth a lot to me.”
“Put Capt. Solo in the cargo hold.”
Twent-eight if you count “Aaaaaaaaargh!”
But this didn’t stop the teenager who started the Boba Fett Fan Club on the web in 1996, or discourage the ascent it made in the ranks of respected cyber communities. The actors who played the bounty hunter quickly became involved themselves. Now, Jeremy Buloch, who played the part originally, posts and answers questions regularly. From Bobafett.com you can make your way to Fettipedia (the encyclopedia for all things Boba Fett), and other cohesive sites like Wookieepedia, (all things Star Wars). Elsewhere on the web there is “The Campaign for a Female Boba Fett,” which calls for the casting of a female actor in the role, in order to “demonstrate that women are not a forgotten or negligible demographic, as well as provide evidence that women can serve a cinematic purpose other than romance and reproduction.”
Though this particular demand was not answered, something in California stirred. What started out as a Sci-Fi cult reaction reached the ears of the top producers and writers in Hollywood. Boba Fett had become a fan-made icon via the Internet and its users and, in answer, was glorified by the professionals of the field.
Because of the fan uproar about the undignified death of Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” “notoriously unapologetic ‘Star Wars’ creator Lucas…has admitted he was wrong to let Boba die so unceremoniously, and contemplated adding a scene where Boba crawls out of the pit,” (San Francisco Chronicle, 2005). When the remastered trilogy was released on DVD, Boba Fett’s screen time had increased. Though he didn’t originally appear in “A New Hope,” he now has a cameo (San Francisco Chronicle, 2005).
As further proof of the Internet’s far-reaching arms and persuasive blogs, Lucas wrote Boba Fett’s father Jango Fett into the prequels and gave him a chief role in “Episode II: Attack of the Clones.” A young Boba Fett also appears. In the film we learn that not only did Lucas make Jango Fett a prominent character but he reinvisioned the entire army of the Empire: all the clones, which later became Storm Troopers, originated with Jango Fett. There is also the highly criticized TV spinoff called, “The Star Wars Holiday Special” that features Boba Fett.
Fans became involved, if indirectly, in creating the narrative of the new trilogy and, in a way, the original. The trajectory of Boba Fett’s journey to iconography began with the fans. The meta-narrative of the Star Wars universe spread out, progressing through official and unofficial channels and every medium of the web, until it came back full circle to the big screen.
There are differing opinions about the way things are changing, of course. The New York Times article Saving the Story (the film version) states, “Mr. Kirkpatrick and company are not alone in their belief that Hollywood's ability to tell a meaningful story has been nibbled at by text messages, interrupted by cellphone calls and supplanted by everything from Twitter to Guitar Hero.” In the same article, others are more positive: “If anything, Mr. Brecher added, technology has simply brought mass storytelling, on film or otherwise, to people who once thought Hollywood had cornered the business.” Theorists like Kevin Robins claim that “virtual culture is a culture of retreat from the world,” (Cyber Cultures). But I hold that it allows, even demands, participation. The internet does not allow for disengagement; we are all involved simply by acting on our own interests, if nothing else. There is a grand narrative that is changing in form and a need to be part of it is being expressed by what we generate on the web. Though often anonymous, viewers are no longer passive. The expectation of engagement is embedded in the medium and the narrative is inevitably altered.
And now...
Google allows for and encourages third party input in the form of “gadgets,” so common users can update and modify applications to create new programs and share them with others. They do not, however, reveal their source code for their search algorithms to the public. Google Labs is available for anyone to try these new applications. Firefox and Linux are open source browsers, allowing users to modify applications. It has become a community of people who are interested in making the best Internet browser they can.
To better demonstrate this, I’d like to take a look at the Star Wars Universe as it has formed on the web. This includes the world within the films, the officially licensed “Expanded Universe,” fanfiction, the people behind the scenes, and the cyber communities that have organically formed around this vast expanse of characters and mayhem. The aspect I’m most interested in within this world is the Boba Fett phenomena.
Peter Hartlaub at the San Francisco Chronicle writes, “In the movies, the bounty hunter does little more than deliver Han Solo's frozen body to the aforementioned Hutt. But Boba Fett collectibles are still among the most expensive, his fans are among the most passionate and the moviemakers treat him like a star -- Boba was the main image on the official "Star Wars" Web site this week, even though he isn't in the new movie, ‘Episode III -- Revenge of the Sith.’” In the original trilogy, the character speaks exactly twenty-seven words:
“As you wish.”
“He's no good to me dead.”
“What if he doesn't survive? He's worth a lot to me.”
“Put Capt. Solo in the cargo hold.”
Twent-eight if you count “Aaaaaaaaargh!”
But this didn’t stop the teenager who started the Boba Fett Fan Club on the web in 1996, or discourage the ascent it made in the ranks of respected cyber communities. The actors who played the bounty hunter quickly became involved themselves. Now, Jeremy Buloch, who played the part originally, posts and answers questions regularly. From Bobafett.com you can make your way to Fettipedia (the encyclopedia for all things Boba Fett), and other cohesive sites like Wookieepedia, (all things Star Wars). Elsewhere on the web there is “The Campaign for a Female Boba Fett,” which calls for the casting of a female actor in the role, in order to “demonstrate that women are not a forgotten or negligible demographic, as well as provide evidence that women can serve a cinematic purpose other than romance and reproduction.”
Though this particular demand was not answered, something in California stirred. What started out as a Sci-Fi cult reaction reached the ears of the top producers and writers in Hollywood. Boba Fett had become a fan-made icon via the Internet and its users and, in answer, was glorified by the professionals of the field.
Because of the fan uproar about the undignified death of Boba Fett in “Return of the Jedi,” “notoriously unapologetic ‘Star Wars’ creator Lucas…has admitted he was wrong to let Boba die so unceremoniously, and contemplated adding a scene where Boba crawls out of the pit,” (San Francisco Chronicle, 2005). When the remastered trilogy was released on DVD, Boba Fett’s screen time had increased. Though he didn’t originally appear in “A New Hope,” he now has a cameo (San Francisco Chronicle, 2005).
As further proof of the Internet’s far-reaching arms and persuasive blogs, Lucas wrote Boba Fett’s father Jango Fett into the prequels and gave him a chief role in “Episode II: Attack of the Clones.” A young Boba Fett also appears. In the film we learn that not only did Lucas make Jango Fett a prominent character but he reinvisioned the entire army of the Empire: all the clones, which later became Storm Troopers, originated with Jango Fett. There is also the highly criticized TV spinoff called, “The Star Wars Holiday Special” that features Boba Fett.
Fans became involved, if indirectly, in creating the narrative of the new trilogy and, in a way, the original. The trajectory of Boba Fett’s journey to iconography began with the fans. The meta-narrative of the Star Wars universe spread out, progressing through official and unofficial channels and every medium of the web, until it came back full circle to the big screen.
There are differing opinions about the way things are changing, of course. The New York Times article Saving the Story (the film version) states, “Mr. Kirkpatrick and company are not alone in their belief that Hollywood's ability to tell a meaningful story has been nibbled at by text messages, interrupted by cellphone calls and supplanted by everything from Twitter to Guitar Hero.” In the same article, others are more positive: “If anything, Mr. Brecher added, technology has simply brought mass storytelling, on film or otherwise, to people who once thought Hollywood had cornered the business.” Theorists like Kevin Robins claim that “virtual culture is a culture of retreat from the world,” (Cyber Cultures). But I hold that it allows, even demands, participation. The internet does not allow for disengagement; we are all involved simply by acting on our own interests, if nothing else. There is a grand narrative that is changing in form and a need to be part of it is being expressed by what we generate on the web. Though often anonymous, viewers are no longer passive. The expectation of engagement is embedded in the medium and the narrative is inevitably altered.
And now...
Monday, June 4, 2007
dreams and the foundation of rain
Have you ever had a dream where you know you've dreamt some terribly profound thought and so go on repeating this thought throughout the remainder of your sleep, the remainder of your dreams, until morning? I grab a pen near me, and hold it for hours while I sleep. I know I have no paper, I never have paper. Only other people's books that serve well as notepads. Tonight, or this morning, Dylan Thomas is closest. I grab him and hold him in one hand, my pen in my other, closed on my chest, and sleep still on my back for a good many half-hours. (Aside: I have trained myself not to move in my sleep for fear of my loft bed collapsing, its groans more melancholy every day.) But still, hours later, I own that profound thought that woke me many dreams ago. It is somehow altered now, like an old friend's face hazy with memory, or like Dylan Thomas' portrait on the cover of his collection. (If only he were my friend.) I repeat this thought like a game of telephone from dream to dream to dream. Finally, around 8:45 I wake enough to scribble it down, beneath the author's note, page xi:
I am closing up your exits.
When I reread this I scoff, and laugh, and am embarrassed for myself. This is my idea of profundity? But it's always like that. Dreams have a way of humbling me.
But should I analyze my dream-phrase? Who is the speaker? The audience? The tenor and vehicle? Am I addressing myself? Or perhaps gates talk? And do I care?
Dream from a non-repetition night:
I dreamt of the city from above, a time-speed video of cars at night. But there were no cars, there was just one flash of light going back and forth across blocks, up and down avenues. That light was me.
And in the vein of dreams:
It's Thursday night 1am. It's Friday morning 1am.
The sky from my roof is usually darker, like a sky anywhere else. Just hours ago it was black and I could see the half moon. But now it is orange and there are clouds like a thick army blanket. There are sirens but it is not because of them that I think there are fires on all sides of me. Fires to the north and south and east and, if the buildings and water towers were not holding my view, to the west as well. Great-World fires. Fires like only broken-heart-wartime-movie fires. Why else would the 1am sky be bright orange? It is not only by way of Times-Square and the sun is not rising yet, certainly not from all four directions. Perhaps the smog is burning. Or it is a child's watercolors in the onset of rain. I know the foundation of rain is the color orange.
I am closing up your exits.
When I reread this I scoff, and laugh, and am embarrassed for myself. This is my idea of profundity? But it's always like that. Dreams have a way of humbling me.
But should I analyze my dream-phrase? Who is the speaker? The audience? The tenor and vehicle? Am I addressing myself? Or perhaps gates talk? And do I care?
Dream from a non-repetition night:
I dreamt of the city from above, a time-speed video of cars at night. But there were no cars, there was just one flash of light going back and forth across blocks, up and down avenues. That light was me.
And in the vein of dreams:
It's Thursday night 1am. It's Friday morning 1am.
The sky from my roof is usually darker, like a sky anywhere else. Just hours ago it was black and I could see the half moon. But now it is orange and there are clouds like a thick army blanket. There are sirens but it is not because of them that I think there are fires on all sides of me. Fires to the north and south and east and, if the buildings and water towers were not holding my view, to the west as well. Great-World fires. Fires like only broken-heart-wartime-movie fires. Why else would the 1am sky be bright orange? It is not only by way of Times-Square and the sun is not rising yet, certainly not from all four directions. Perhaps the smog is burning. Or it is a child's watercolors in the onset of rain. I know the foundation of rain is the color orange.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
By George - elephants!
Last night the circus came to town. And for a moment, the elephants owned 34th street. But perhaps I should first describe the previous twelve hours, or four months.
Intent on temporarily ridding myself of this city that has become so heavy in me, I went hiking with Alex on Storm King Mountain where we balanced rocks and perched ourselves as high as we could. If only I could be so long at my processes like the autumn leaves underfoot, slippery and taking their time at decomposing. Somehow this mountain (eh, large hill) has something to do with the way I was able to be later that night at the pool party – ready. Yes a pool dance party near times square with beach balls and a sauna and steam room and bar and perfect music (Talking Heads, Amy Winehouse) and radical kids from some protest marching band. But even this was too much to take in, the vodka and steam and wide-eyed strangers going straight to our heads and clouding away what we lacked that of course it felt a dream when everyone ran down to 34th street to watch the elephants pass.
I am having a hard time finding an affective way to write about this night, for the very reason that, speechless with head-cocked laughter, hundreds of twenty and thirty-somethings ran along side elephants for blocks. I cannot dream a more brilliant interruption to the state of the world, or a movement, a weird dance into spring and out of the rut of winter. Can you imagine the laughter that elephants in the middle of the night in midtown can conjure? Fuck. Imagine running with elephants in the middle of this crazy city that has caused so many people so much pain in the last months – and then there are elephants. And suddenly we’re whole and, by the collision of this world with another, reminded that there are so many worlds and lives outside of this city and this season. It seems that these hundreds could have just as easily cried as laughed. It didn’t matter; there were elephants in the street.
And even this is not the way I meant to write about this night for what is the use of intellectualizing elephants? I have never been so affected by seasons. The seasons here are vivid and purposeful and go to great lengths to prove themselves and their innate power over all our defenses. Such committed seasons. But there is no light without darkness. We need shadows to discern our breadth and depth and where to step. Spring is here; you cannot argue with elephants. I love New York.
This is what Ursula K. Le Guin has to say about it: “Happiness has to do with reason, and only reason earns it. What I was given was the thing you can’t earn, and can’t keep, and often don’t even recognize at the time; I mean joy.”
Intent on temporarily ridding myself of this city that has become so heavy in me, I went hiking with Alex on Storm King Mountain where we balanced rocks and perched ourselves as high as we could. If only I could be so long at my processes like the autumn leaves underfoot, slippery and taking their time at decomposing. Somehow this mountain (eh, large hill) has something to do with the way I was able to be later that night at the pool party – ready. Yes a pool dance party near times square with beach balls and a sauna and steam room and bar and perfect music (Talking Heads, Amy Winehouse) and radical kids from some protest marching band. But even this was too much to take in, the vodka and steam and wide-eyed strangers going straight to our heads and clouding away what we lacked that of course it felt a dream when everyone ran down to 34th street to watch the elephants pass.
I am having a hard time finding an affective way to write about this night, for the very reason that, speechless with head-cocked laughter, hundreds of twenty and thirty-somethings ran along side elephants for blocks. I cannot dream a more brilliant interruption to the state of the world, or a movement, a weird dance into spring and out of the rut of winter. Can you imagine the laughter that elephants in the middle of the night in midtown can conjure? Fuck. Imagine running with elephants in the middle of this crazy city that has caused so many people so much pain in the last months – and then there are elephants. And suddenly we’re whole and, by the collision of this world with another, reminded that there are so many worlds and lives outside of this city and this season. It seems that these hundreds could have just as easily cried as laughed. It didn’t matter; there were elephants in the street.
And even this is not the way I meant to write about this night for what is the use of intellectualizing elephants? I have never been so affected by seasons. The seasons here are vivid and purposeful and go to great lengths to prove themselves and their innate power over all our defenses. Such committed seasons. But there is no light without darkness. We need shadows to discern our breadth and depth and where to step. Spring is here; you cannot argue with elephants. I love New York.
This is what Ursula K. Le Guin has to say about it: “Happiness has to do with reason, and only reason earns it. What I was given was the thing you can’t earn, and can’t keep, and often don’t even recognize at the time; I mean joy.”
Monday, March 26, 2007
All about love
Belle's hair was dyed a scorching red that brought out the highlights in her winter coat. Gert's hair was a dying blonde. You could see the cold cling to them even in the subway car, like a body bag, or an ill bred child.
"Put on your gloves, our stop is next… Our stop – it's next. Put on your gloves."
"Did you know I bought this mink coat twenty years ago? It doesn't look a day old. Twenty years, can you believe it?"
"Your gloves, Belle, put on your gloves."
"You see that pole?" Belle pointed to a seemingly arbitrary pole on the passing platform and her younger companion seemed to roll her eyes. The last pole before the dark void of a tunnel. "My husband and I used to leave notes for each other in the cracks of that pole. So many it filled all up and there were no more cracks left. They were the sweetest notes. I'd blush if it weren't so damn cold down here. Only one day we went to our pole to find a bunch of teenagers surrounding it, laughing at it…Twenty years old this coat is. Can you believe it?"
"Put on your gloves, Belle."
"Put on your gloves, our stop is next… Our stop – it's next. Put on your gloves."
"Did you know I bought this mink coat twenty years ago? It doesn't look a day old. Twenty years, can you believe it?"
"Your gloves, Belle, put on your gloves."
"You see that pole?" Belle pointed to a seemingly arbitrary pole on the passing platform and her younger companion seemed to roll her eyes. The last pole before the dark void of a tunnel. "My husband and I used to leave notes for each other in the cracks of that pole. So many it filled all up and there were no more cracks left. They were the sweetest notes. I'd blush if it weren't so damn cold down here. Only one day we went to our pole to find a bunch of teenagers surrounding it, laughing at it…Twenty years old this coat is. Can you believe it?"
"Put on your gloves, Belle."
Monday, January 8, 2007
Ichiwakisha and the Wind Mountain - or - adventures of the unfinished
I went back the farm for a very brief visit and there was snow up to my knees and I took a walk by myself in snowshoes through the field and over the creek and up the mountain and when I got to the top of the hill there was a forest and no matter where I stood I was in perfect proximity between the trees. I could have been one of them I stood so still as the sun knelt behind us. I ran over streams and fresh snow, stuck my hand in icy water. There was only the sound of my shoes and the snow under the weight of them, just beginning to form a fine crust.
At night I was up to my chin in cloud. As the fog fell around my feet I looked up at the hyper-real starry sky. Tears don't freeze as one might imagine. It is so good to know that the farm is as unchanging as it is changing, that I can come back after letting New York do something to me, change me in whatever direction, and everything will be just as I left it, but whiter. Clad in snow.
Here is the beginning (or middle) of the story I wrote for Kia, our six-year-old farm neighbor, and one of the wisest people I know. Ichiwakisha is her Native American name: Wild Mountain Girl. The story is unfinished – I am letting her take the reins. But what do YOU think happens next?
Ichiwakisha climbed her mountain in a deerskin dress.
It was not easy. She slipped on the ice and the ice slid into the water and the water sunk and sprang far below her and she looked down to see the ripples she had made in the moonlight. All day she worked on her metal cube, folding her wind-strong fingers around it until her skin was raw, smoothing out the edges. The winter hit her hard, but she ran her wind-strong hands over it, too, soothing it like an angered child and she took care of it even in its absence. Below, below even the valley, were the people and the myriad creatures Ichiwakisha's quest would save, though she was too far in the mountain forest to hear their calls.
That night, the moon made water ice and the let the snow melt and fall at once.
In her dreams Ichiwakisha had seen how both her worlds, mountain and man, could coexist and so she placed her man-made metal cube at the tip-top of the mountain and in it the moon reflected all of Ichiwakisha's worlds and dreams and all the spirits in her and in the mountain her water-strong feet fell upon. And as she turned to leave, her long, gold hair spiraled with the wind and caught the moon and in it too the moon showed what came before, and after, though she would never know this.
At night I was up to my chin in cloud. As the fog fell around my feet I looked up at the hyper-real starry sky. Tears don't freeze as one might imagine. It is so good to know that the farm is as unchanging as it is changing, that I can come back after letting New York do something to me, change me in whatever direction, and everything will be just as I left it, but whiter. Clad in snow.
Here is the beginning (or middle) of the story I wrote for Kia, our six-year-old farm neighbor, and one of the wisest people I know. Ichiwakisha is her Native American name: Wild Mountain Girl. The story is unfinished – I am letting her take the reins. But what do YOU think happens next?
Ichiwakisha climbed her mountain in a deerskin dress.
It was not easy. She slipped on the ice and the ice slid into the water and the water sunk and sprang far below her and she looked down to see the ripples she had made in the moonlight. All day she worked on her metal cube, folding her wind-strong fingers around it until her skin was raw, smoothing out the edges. The winter hit her hard, but she ran her wind-strong hands over it, too, soothing it like an angered child and she took care of it even in its absence. Below, below even the valley, were the people and the myriad creatures Ichiwakisha's quest would save, though she was too far in the mountain forest to hear their calls.
That night, the moon made water ice and the let the snow melt and fall at once.
In her dreams Ichiwakisha had seen how both her worlds, mountain and man, could coexist and so she placed her man-made metal cube at the tip-top of the mountain and in it the moon reflected all of Ichiwakisha's worlds and dreams and all the spirits in her and in the mountain her water-strong feet fell upon. And as she turned to leave, her long, gold hair spiraled with the wind and caught the moon and in it too the moon showed what came before, and after, though she would never know this.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
at the diner on the corner
I am sitting at Neil's Coffee Shop. A corner diner, really, with a big front window. I am at the bar writing, drinking hot chocolate, waiting for my 5pm eggs and I feel epic! My eggs - just arrived as I wrote this word - my eggs (will) have cheddar cheese on whole-wheat toast. My Grandma says I should fatten up for the winter. I have been realizing again the immense guilt I feel for my relative thinness. Borges is sitting by my side and though I've only read a page I feel smarter for his close proximity. There is a very handsome man sitting on my other side (was Borges handsome?). He looks like Scott Joplin, or at least an image of an image of Scott Joplin, clothes and all. My eggs took two minutes to make and ten to eat.
An old man just walked in. He is undoubtedly a regular but most of these patrons are not sure where they are. One asked, is this Columbus? And another, curse the thought, asked what pies they had. She ordered Cherry and I found myself day dreaming about Agent Dale Cooper. (Been watching 'Kingdom' and therefore thinking of Twin Peaks often.)
I am writing with this blog in mind - a strange thing for me to do. But the other day I finally articulated the thought that this bloggery is a finally blatant admittance to the idea that journaling is not for one's self (no writing is solely for one's self) but a stab at immortality i.e. 'someday my grandchildren will find this diary, locked and bound as I leave it now.' No writing is meant to go unread. Now the act of blogging acknowledges this. I am journaling knowing my friends will read it.
If Scott Joplin is beside me than Ted Joans just sat down behind me. Scott Joplin looks over my shoulder. What is she writing on the miniature pad, he thinks. One woman with scarlet lips has been waiting for someone since I arrived. She has a white scarf, important hair, tweed suite. She is the Upper East Side (seemingly lonely, wealthy and white) but she doesn't fit in this Upper East Side All-American diner with waiters from India.
For those who would like to know what I've been doing, not just my wide-eyed reflections: I have officially moved to the upper east side and live in the maid's quarters on the tenth floor of a ridiculous apartment building in a room that most resembles your mother's walk-in closet. But everything has a place. My loft bed sways to and fro on it..s sad little legs but now I have gotten quite used to falling asleep to imaginings of oceans and masts and treasure islands in the distance. Though land sickness the following day will not do. There is a roof garden and I am the only one who uses it. I am now a part of the lights and city I watched for hours from Justin's Lower East Side time-robbing window. The family I nanny for lives a few floors below me and no longer has any shame in my presence. I've also been doing admin work at a sun-lit yoga studio.
I think it's time to go. Joplin left, Che (who came a little after) is almost done with his eggs and Ted Joans is deep in his book and hat. Many great (dead) people eat alone in New York. It has gotten very crowded in my Nighthawk café and the woman with important hair has found her friend. I am very much in love with today.
An old man just walked in. He is undoubtedly a regular but most of these patrons are not sure where they are. One asked, is this Columbus? And another, curse the thought, asked what pies they had. She ordered Cherry and I found myself day dreaming about Agent Dale Cooper. (Been watching 'Kingdom' and therefore thinking of Twin Peaks often.)
I am writing with this blog in mind - a strange thing for me to do. But the other day I finally articulated the thought that this bloggery is a finally blatant admittance to the idea that journaling is not for one's self (no writing is solely for one's self) but a stab at immortality i.e. 'someday my grandchildren will find this diary, locked and bound as I leave it now.' No writing is meant to go unread. Now the act of blogging acknowledges this. I am journaling knowing my friends will read it.
If Scott Joplin is beside me than Ted Joans just sat down behind me. Scott Joplin looks over my shoulder. What is she writing on the miniature pad, he thinks. One woman with scarlet lips has been waiting for someone since I arrived. She has a white scarf, important hair, tweed suite. She is the Upper East Side (seemingly lonely, wealthy and white) but she doesn't fit in this Upper East Side All-American diner with waiters from India.
For those who would like to know what I've been doing, not just my wide-eyed reflections: I have officially moved to the upper east side and live in the maid's quarters on the tenth floor of a ridiculous apartment building in a room that most resembles your mother's walk-in closet. But everything has a place. My loft bed sways to and fro on it..s sad little legs but now I have gotten quite used to falling asleep to imaginings of oceans and masts and treasure islands in the distance. Though land sickness the following day will not do. There is a roof garden and I am the only one who uses it. I am now a part of the lights and city I watched for hours from Justin's Lower East Side time-robbing window. The family I nanny for lives a few floors below me and no longer has any shame in my presence. I've also been doing admin work at a sun-lit yoga studio.
I think it's time to go. Joplin left, Che (who came a little after) is almost done with his eggs and Ted Joans is deep in his book and hat. Many great (dead) people eat alone in New York. It has gotten very crowded in my Nighthawk café and the woman with important hair has found her friend. I am very much in love with today.
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