Now, Voyager

Each time I visit the polar bears at the Central Park Zoo, they're doing the same thing; pacing back-and-forth. It makes me terribly sad. When I inquired in the past about the bear's pacing, a caretaker told me, that the bears simply were anticipating feeding time. I think it's something else. I know it's something far more sinister. I never pay the entrance fee, I just stand around, outside the gate, hoping to score a sighting of the lovely creamy bears. It sometimes feels like I am a parent waiting for their kid to come out after school. I just stand around, outside the gate, wondering how my child has spent their day, hoping it was well-spent and happy. Zoos creep me out, always have, since I was a little girl. The thought of a great, powerful animal taken against its will, and put in confinement is a catastrophic error. I believe that there is always a gaping void where the animal was taken from its natural habitat, and thrown into a manufactured one. The animal can never live out its tendencies, the animal always waits for the opportunity to return to its natural land. And it never comes. The pacing signifies biding time and boredom, as well as a significant motion towards a hopeful outcome. Although the bear is marooned, locked into its fate, it nonetheless traverses its course by being a lover of the long-shot.

I am a lover of the long-shot. Sometimes this reasoning gets me into trouble because it's perceived as arrogance, or haughtiness. I assure you it's something entirely different. It's actually a humbling belief in the vastness of the universe and what it might and can provide. Working towards an "impossible" outcome - whether it's pulling off an intellectual, entrepreneurial, or physical feat, is always belittling initially. The course or voyage is all-encompassing, tremendous, compared to me, or you, a mere blip, in the machinations of the galaxy. It is not only the curiosity of the "con," it is a con-viction realized.

I wake up every morning to the great unknown. There is no pre-ordained schedule, or appointments, there is only one thing I can latch onto: the vagaries of the voyage. Something is bound to click, if not today, tomorrow, or the next day. I pace back and forth, like the bears, hoping against all reason, for a positive outcome, for a voyage home, back to my native land - New York.

Simply Irresistible

"Make me irresistible!"  My haircutter gave me and my request a double-take.  "Yes, that's precisely what I want: double-takes, head-turns, and a general susceptibility to my embedded charms," I exclaimed.  "Okay, I'll see what I can do," she said quizzically, scissor in hand.  I want a do that does people in.  A do for the good of all concerned; me and you.  

Can hair have that much of an effect on its audience?  I say a resounding yes!  Hair can haggle for you, give you a halo, create hoopla, and bestow you with hallowed stature.  Good hair is the crowning touch on good personality, good looks, and good fortune.  Take Marilyn, Jackie, Diana.   All dead, but while alive, possessed drop-dead dos that defined them.  Their legacy is much more than the hair that was on their heads.   Let's be frank though, when we think of these women, our thoughts return again and again to the stuff that framed their iconic faces.

And I too, return again and again to my haircutter, because she always comes through.  And today was no different.  A few flourishes with her trusty scissor rendered me irresistible, at least for the afternoon.  It's mathematical.  I had the world on a string, not a heartstring, but a hair-string.  My upper region contained a natural affinity and openness for people's deepest emotions and affections.  People were heart-whole, and hearty to me, me, the heartwarming heartthrob (I'm now out of "h" words).   People reacted differently to me; even people who don't particularly care for me.  I ran into a former colleague that was never that into me, in fact, I downright disgusted her for whatever reason, and yet today, she was all smiles, hugs, and warm utterances.  Her persistent glances were fixed on my gleaming coat.  Hark!  It was then, that Robert Palmer's fantastic song came to mind, and its lyrics mischievously triggered an internal soundtrack  "How can it be permissible/compromise my principle/that kind of love is mythical/she's anything but typical/she's simply irresistible/the trend is irreversible/the woman is invincible."  That's me New York.  You might hate me all other days, but this afternoon, fess-up, you loved me.  I got under your skin.  Now, I just have to stay there.  

What Are You Into?

The F train.  Oh, the F train.  I wish there was a song about the "F," as there is one about the "A."  I would do Ella proud if I could scat some sentimental vocable about the ace aspects of the "F."  But there are none.  It is perhaps the smelliest, and the slowest of its sisters; suffering from systematic breaks in its choo-choo make-up.  But last night, I was happy to be waiting a long time for the "F."  Instead of "f__k" it, it was a fare-well-spent. It gave me a chance to observe life underground; and experience an untold amount of spiritual wisdom.  It came like this.  A man was selling vintage comic books, a great array of "Spiderman," and a group of his mighty cartoon cousins.  Initially, the man was having no luck engaging the nonchalant crowd.  Repeatedly he cried out in earnest "Two comics for one dollar, five for ten."  And then came the mantra: "What are you into? What do you like?"  Slowly, just barely dribbling in, another man wearing a three-piece suit stared intently at one of the myriad muscle-clad super-heroes; so intently, that I thought maybe he himself was one of those heroes sprung to life.  I fantasized about his days spent as an office drone, and his nights spent saving gotham.  But no-matter.  As the man-in-suit, cum superman, spent time looking at a few of the comics, a few others, men and women, sensing something was in the air, started flocking to the comics and the man selling them.  Again, “What are you into? What do you like?” blared and blotted out the other inconsequential subway platform noise. Here, I thought in the most unlikely environment -  a microcosm of the workings of the world we live in.  It takes just one person to be interested in something or someone, and then lo and behold, the interest fans out and over, like live volcanic ash blanketing and sparking its surrounding region.  People started buying the comics in a rush, one, two, three, four, five.  The man selling, kept on with his incantation – “What are you into? What do you like?”  Apparently the crowd liked it all, because by the time the “F” rolled in to the station, the stash was practically gone. 

Comparatively, right now I am slow to catch on.  I continually invoke: “What are you into? What do you like?,” sounding rather grimly, like the sleazy query a sex-worker must ask her john of the hour.  I have “caught on” in fits and starts in the past, and the popularity lasted for a time, and then it went away, as suddenly and mysteriously as it entered.  I admit that I am not the popular girl right now.  I guess there is no formula for it; just a lasting inner impression, that good or bad, this too shall pass.  So I will continue to do my time, and others will eventually get on board.  And to that, and in the spirit of things considered, I will improvise a nonsensical vocal retort, something to the tune of “scat-a-tat-tat” a la Ella. 

 

 

Tippy Toes

A couple of weeks ago, I signed up for an improvisation class at one of the city's venerable acting schools.  I don't want or ever have wanted to be an actress, but from time to time, in darker or trying moments, I like to be gently compelled to stay on my tippy toes.  This is not a ballerina fantasy either, I assure you; just a way to re-acquaint myself with that most powerful and guttural hobgoblin of the soul - reinvention.  It seems to me that in its initial stages, reinvention has always stewed slow in my soul, its makings and workings take on an immaterial identity, the path is slow, and then, bam, like an act of God, an extraordinary, unforeseeable manifestation of all the forces of the universe collide, and make me the new person I am.

This time around however, I find myself in deadlock.  I am perhaps the only human Gordian knot - a feat even to Guinness, wherein I am a compact intersection of interlaced disappointments - fastened up way tight.  Although I seemingly am not getting anywhere work-wise, the improv class is doing well by my entanglements.  In the class, all is offhand, and therefore rendered pure.  You're, I am, entrusting my immediate actions and reactions to a set of strangers doing odd things in a room with props, with next to no cynicism, no calculation, or foreseeable gain.  But the gain is gargantuan.  Transcendence occurs here every Tuesday night. I am no longer the knot cited earlier, as in the complex problem, but one now representing an entirely different system of measurement - a unit of speed, and agility.  I am a nautical knot, easily gliding, nimbly navigating the calm after the storm.  

At the end of the class, all fifteen of us, without saying a word, put on our coats, and descend the rickety stairwell back out into the cold.  The silence is gratifying because we all know what we have given, and what we have taken from rendering ourselves completely vulnerable, and naked to the rest of the class.  We, as an individual, and as a collective have surpassed our own trust in ourselves, and our peers.  The reinforcement is delicious when sometimes all there is out there is choppy waters, wind, and a cold shoulder.

The Two Year Itch

My feet were itching last night as I was falling asleep.  I don't think it's a mean case of athlete's foot, I think something is in the air; maybe a brush with luck.  Gamblers talk about physical sensations indicating a transcendental flight from a present reality, ie. my feet are itching, I will win the lottery, or in my case, my feet are itching, I will win a job.  I am gambling, things are at stake here. I wager a wonder, I hazard a guess, I venture for victory.

My mom got us tickets to a talk at the 92nd Street Y, with MSNBC's talk show "Morning Joe," co-hosts Mika Brzezinski and Joe Scarborough.  Both Mika and Joe have new books out.  The talk focussed on them as a team on the morning circuit, but mostly honed in on the crux of Mika's book: "All Things At Once." The book, and the talk concerned Mika's career as a high-profile anchor/reporter for CBS, and consequently her being fired on her thirty-ninth birthday, and her having to start all over again, from scratch.  This is the rub.  In the talk, Mika said she hounded MSNBC, and would take anything, any job to get back in the business.  These words are gospel.  I too, would take any job to get back in the business.  I just need for someone to give me one of those jobs.  I wagered last night as my mom and I waited on the book signing line.  My mom was in line for an autograph for her friend who is a huge fan of Mika's, and I was in line to see if Mika would sympathize with my plight or brush me off.  She didn't brush me off. A kindred spirit? Maybe.  I handed in a small summary of my parallel experience - of not being able to wrangle a way back in.  I included my website, and this blog, on a piece of paper.  Mika liked the name of the blog, sympathized with my plight, and had her talent producer hand me her business card.  I have to be honest, some faith in my fellow New Yorkers was restored.  This small gesture of taking me in, at least initially, meant the world to me.  Que sera sera.  In the interim though, my itchy feet are telling me to stay firmly grounded on terra firma, with some flexibility for sporadic flight into uncharted skies.   

Our Breed?

I joined my parents and my dog yesterday for their bi-monthly trek to the neighborhood K-Mart to restock on wee-wee pads.  The wee-wee pads are for my black-and-tan dachshund who is weather-sensitive because of her small dimensions, and belly proximity to the cold and unforgiving concrete.  She, Billie, often likes to do her business indoors during inclement weather, which are all months, save for September, October, April, and May, or at the very least have the option of wee-wee-ing in the comforting confines of her home. 

I'm sure you'll want to know where I'm going with this, and I'm about to tell you.  K-Mart like other similarly-run outfits with excessive amounts of florescent, and rows of  "bargain" products that never seem to be under-stocked, have a dog policy very unlike the one at Bergdorf Goodman.  Here, at the Mart, dogs are allowed; if they're carried.  While Billie is no great dane, she is no feather either.  And, so, in the interest of saving all our backs, I stayed with her at the front of the store, right beyond the security sensors, while my parents foraged for spreadable diapers.  It was a picture perfect moment, as often happens with dogs; Billie was looking very cute propped up on a ledge, head out of her Sherpa bag, surveying the scene.  All things come to an end however.  The security sensors were working overtime, and apparently gave every other paying customer an audible accusatory "ding" when they passed through.  "The back-up" which manifested itself as an on-duty security guard, and there were a few rotating in the space of fifteen minutes (Why is there so much security at the Mart?) stopped each customer, procured their receipt, and nodded approvingly when a product matched the number on a receipt.  The "ding" was shrill, and I thought it would tear into Billie's sensitive canine ear canal, so I pressed her long luxurious ear flaps down, to close out the terrible noise.  A disgruntled customer, who for some reason was not stopped by the gestapo sensor, was even more disgruntled when he discovered the Billie ear flap scenario.  "Don't you know your own breed?" he exclaimed.  "...Yours, is a dog bred to deal with gun-shot noises," he continued.  And, while I tried to add, rather unsuccessfully, that she is a domesticated animal, and no longer hunting for badgers in the rolling hills of the German countryside, he shook his head abruptly, and said again rather powerfully, "Don't you know your breed?"  

I acknowledge that he was a nut, but I also acknowledge that his message was not entirely to be overlooked.  I clearly do not know my breed.  Or, cannot come to terms with knowing my breed.  My breed is one to look out and help one another, at least sometimes...Right?  This has not been the case for me in the last two years.  In fact, my breed has shown themselves to be mostly lazy, disaffected, disengaged, and unresponsive.  My breed, my brethren, are my fellow New Yorkers, my hometown players, my neighbors, my family.  They're my mates.  We are of the same stock, a commonality.  So why can't we be of more service to each other?  We all exist on the same water, over-priced living, and congested apartments, streets, and subways.  We survived the tragedy of 9/11 as a collective, and yet now, a lot of us are suffering at not only the hands of a bad economy, but at the hands of our compatriots.  I need people to be responsive to me, I need my fellow New Yorkers to acknowledge that I am living, that I am here, that I am mortal like them, that I am of their breed.

Job or job?

I like to think of myself of being "Job-ish."  For two years now, I have endured all manner of afflictions with fortitude and faith; I like to think that I have handled what could be the biggest crisis of my life with style and grace, but you might want to do a little fact-checking with my friends and family.  My biggest affliction stems from the fact that I have been unemployed for the better part of twenty-four months.  Twenty-four months sounds like a lot more time that two years, and in the interest of "fortitude" and "faith," I want you to know just how courageous I've been, and how long I've lasted.  While I have not suffered the burning down of my roof, the loss of family, or boils on my skin, I, in my own small way, have suffered inequities intently. 

It seems that my hometown, NYC, either hates me, and/or has rendered me an inhabitant of the unseen world.  In this I mean, I am a ghost whose pitches, resume and follow-up calls go unanswered; I am Job's ghost incarnate who is suffering for sins never committed.  Here, is where, as J's proxy, I will address not the problem of evil, but the problem of apathy. Indifference has always been sorely problematic; and in the interest of making my rankled rant circular, I will return just for a second to J's dilemma, and the fact that his supposed friends did not put their feet in his shoes or clogs or whatever they wore back then.  They were satisfied with their confining beliefs that there had to be a reason for the all-mighty to strike down a pious man.  We will not help this man, by understanding his plight, but we will go along with the easy reasoning, that he is not okay, but we're, and therefore, why meddle, and get your feet wet in someone else's puddle?  The thing about puddles is that they can grow, and they can splash others on the sidelines.  And there is no need for me to wax further on the story of Job, and eventually how he emerges victorious, or how his friends eat their words.  Suffice it to say, I keep trying to find this job, a job, with qualifications that are good and an education that is sturdy.  I quit my job as a TV reporter right before the implosion.  Am I paying for the sin of having left a job before finding another? Am I paying for pursuing a somewhat creative and largely competitive field? Am I paying for being attractive, and still youthful?  What is it?  This is more than a play on spelling, this is a microcosm of Job looking for a job.  Boo.