Happy Late Birthday John and Sean!

Wow, so it has definitely been fall for a while now. I need to be better about this whole blogging thing. What has happened over the last few months? One person I can't seem to escape these days is this guy who always jumps on the L train

heading to Brooklyn (usually in the afternoon), and he proceeds to sing "A Change is Gonna Come," by Sam Cooke in an attempt to earn some generous donations for his efforts. Even if I don't tend to give anything myself, I can at least appreciate people that try to do more than simply panhandle on public transportation. But this guy somehow inevitably ends up standing directly behind me, and he always sings super loud, and after a long hard morning of working I'm often tempted to scream at him to shut it. But I have yet to totally lose it. We'll see if I get there.

What else? I turned 23 recently, not that that is news. Obama won the Nobel Peace Prize, which is surprising. Halloween is coming up, and I'm excited, because for once my costume isn't going to be planned at the last minute. I'm going to be Waldo from "Where's Waldo?" I can't wait to find a crowd to get lost in!

Happy birthday John and Sean Lennon. Too bad you can't share it.

I Need Some Soil

The summer here has been heavy with rain. As a result the trees in my backyard have been inching closer and closer to my window. I'm slightly terrified that one day soon they'll just bust through, and my bedroom will be nothing but a large pile of leaves and broken glass. 

I officially quit my bakery job today. I gave my two weeks notice, it went as well as could be expected. In fact, it felt pretty good.

I really need some soil for my little houseplant that watches over my books. It's growing bigger. Today, every summer day camp imaginable was taking public transit. They're always easy to identify, because they all wear shirts that are the same color. I could barely get through the neon and kelley green masses. It was the neon green summer day camp in the morning, and the kelley green summer day camp in the afternoon. I did summer day camp myself for years: my parents were at work, and there was simply no where else to go.

Hopefully there won't be a severe downpour when I try to go do my laundry down the street.

Truckin'

Ah, summer. Even though it has been raining for what feels like a hundred days here in New York, it hasn't stopped Brooklyn's favorite entrepreneurs of the season: ice cream truck drivers.  There's this one guy in my neck of the woods that drives around in his big white truck at all hours of the day and night. It could be 8am, or 10pm, and he'll be out there, going at five miles an hour. Something else I've noticed is that he plays at least three different songs as he passes by. I don't know why I haven't yet taken advantage of such incredible access to ice cream at all times, maybe I'm just a little confused by it.

The other night I had a dream in which I was really flexible, and I ate more pizza in one sitting than I would ever be able to consume in real life.

It's Been a While, I Know

Dear Blog of Mine,

I want you to know that I am deeply sorry. I didn't forget about you, and you do mean a great deal to me. I guess I just let you slip into the back corners of my mind, and I know that might not be the most legitimate excuse, but it is the truth. All I can do is apologize, and hope that in time, you will forgive me. I am back now. I will not leave your side.

Sincerest Regards,

Tia

Wow, that felt good to get off the ole' chest. So, it has been a couple of months since my last post, and many things, strange, mundane and otherwise have happened since. My mom came to visit, and we filled up the days with many things. I now have two fully functional bookcases, having shoved the dilapidated brown one (from Target for a whopping $15) out of my room. These new ones are sturdy, they are black, they are from IKEA. They are called "Billy," because everything from IKEA has a name. I also bought a small plant there, did anyone else know you could buy plants at IKEA? News to me.

While she was here, we also went to the top of the Empire State Building (touristy), checked out artwork from the Middle Ages at the Met (goblets), and saw Cirque du Soleil: Kooza on Randalls Island (breathtaking).

Blog, I have returned.

Reading with Robots

People are always talking about what will happen to books. Will they just become these specialty items that you can only find at garage sales and obscure antique stores, pages all wilted and yellow, and on the verge of disintegration? Will our children's children's children go on school field trips to museums or historical societies, and walk through dimly lit galleries that house all of our favorites as though they were once part of some ancient culture of paper? I could speculate myself, but only time will tell.

Actually, let me speculate for just a moment. I think that even though we are in an age of crazy technology that seems to jump forward every minute, I'm not especially worried about the future of the book. Even with things like the Kindle, that new fangled device that allows you to download hundreds of books, and read them page by page, at your leisure, I'm not worried about it. I saw a woman using a Kindle for the first time ever the other day. It was weird, and then moments later a woman sat down kiddy corner from her and she pulled out her real book. This is what gives me hope. There are far too many of us (myself included) who will always love holding that book in our hands, turning each crisp page. Books have a smell, an intoxicating aroma that a Kindle, or any Kindle equivalent will never ever have.

Although in the end, I suppose, what really matters is that people continue to read. 

Almonds and Acorns

The other night I dyed my hair, with the help of one of my roommates, and two boxes of hair color that only added up to about $16.00. I was blonde for so many years, my whole life up until two days ago, and so I was a little apprehensive about this DIY venture at first. But when the time came to mix those chemicals and cover my head with them, I was raring to go. Now here I am, and I have to say I'm pleased with the results. Feels like a new beginning.

Started my internship today. I was happy to be productive. Lately I've been noticing the weird little things that people do when using public transportation. There was a woman on the B52 bus who always had her right hand gripping onto one of the poles, even though she was sitting down, and with her thumb she kept stroking the metal. Back and forth, almost as though that action was happening outside of her control. Today on my way home, riding the A train to Brooklyn, there was a man reading a copy of Macworld very intently. With one finger, he kept scraping at the same spot on his cheek, but his eyes were on the articles, on the words. I guess it isn't so much people I've been noticing, but what they do with their hands.

It's getting warmer.

Keeping Kosher

For the past several months, I've been working part-time at this bakery on the Upper East Side. It's been around for nearly a hundred years, and in fact many of the regulars that come in every week often tell us stories of how they themselves, or their parents, or grandparents have been coming to the bakery for as long as they can remember. I've never seen such fierce loyalty shown towards bread and pastry, and I often find myself caught halfway between respect for such loyalty, and thinking it's downright silly. And because the bakery has been under new ownership for a little over a year now, we hear both praise and complaints from these regulars everyday. 

It's so intriguing to watch how people deal with changes. Something as simple as a loaf of rye bread with a few less caraway seeds seems pretty minute to me (and I do enjoy a good rye), while to some it's drastic, almost life-changing. The bakery is situated in a fairly Jewish neighborhood. The previous owners were Jewish. The current owner is Jewish, though more secular I think than the guys he bought it from. A few people each week raise concerns, wondering which products are kosher, and which are parve (something I hadn't learned until I started work: food that is prepared without meat, dairy or their derivatives), and we always do our best to help make sure to give them the correct information. It is true, that things should probably be labeled more clearly. And now I will skip ahead.

Most Sundays, things at the bakery tend to slow down. Even when there are a few rushes of people here and there, generally Sunday is the most mellow day of the week. The only Sunday that was crazy busy was Super Bowl Sunday, and surprisingly it had nothing to do with the two giant sheets of cupcakes that were smothered in brown frosting and shoved together to make the shape of footballs with "XLIII" written on each one in bright red.

Yesterday however, was not Super Bowl Sunday. So things were relatively calm, and the sun was out, which seemed to put most customers in good spirits. All was fine, until this one guy comes in. He looked normal: middle-aged, wearing glasses and a casual suit. He had a beard, which I normally associate with my dad, who is generally a calm and quiet fellow. He waited patiently in line behind two people, and then told my boss's father (who always runs the place on Sundays) that we needed to label more clearly the things that were kosher from the things that were not. He said that he had tried to tell my boss to take care of this many times, and that it was getting annoying, and then he told us that if nothing was done about it, he was going to "fuck it up." At that point, he was asked to leave, and he reacted to that news rather poorly. He ran up to the counter and slammed his hands against it hard enough to create a slight echo. My boss's father whipped out his cell phone and called the police, and this man continued to yell, talking about how everything in the bakery should be kosher, cursing up a storm, and refusing to leave until it was made clear that the police could be sent over within minutes. 

When he finally did leave, it was in a huff. Moments later he came back, opened the door halfway and said that the next time we call the police with a "real emergency" they will have no incentive to show up, because of this apparent "false emergency." If he ever shows up again, we're supposed to phone the police immediately.

Some have a harder time dealing with change than others. After that rather terrifying instance, I journeyed home and watched Single White Female with one of my roommates. I'm not sure why, it just somehow felt right. 

Kid Stuff

There's just something about the childhood stories. They have been on my mind lately; maybe it has a little bit to do with the thawing of everything. It's slowly becoming spring. But thoughts of the books I read, or were read to me growing up are always present.

I think that these stories stick with us for a reason. It's the nostalgia, of course. They gave us comfort, fueled our young imaginations, propelled us into a world where nothing was impossible.  

When we were kids, we used to spend part of every summer at my grandma's house in New Hampshire. My brother and I shared a bedroom upstairs that used to serve as where my dad and his younger brother slept. My older brother got the privilege of the bigger bed (he was also just a larger person), and right before bedtime my dad would read to us. The story I remember the most clearly was "The Hobbit." And I remember always feeling caught in between a state of calm sleepiness and a yearning to stay awake so that I could keep hearing, keep living in that imaginative world. There are so many books that I always look back to. Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs: a harrowing tale where kids get to miss school, because the weather becomes strangely food related. It rains meatballs, yes, but also enormous pancakes smothered in butter and syrup. Harold and the Purple Crayon: where a young boy leaves his bed with a purple crayon and sets off on an adventure where he literally draws his world and what he wants to happen in it. My favorite part is when he draws a picnic, and several delicious-looking pies, all of which he fully intends to eat.

Today was St. Patrick's Day. I chose to celebrate by drinking a beer in my pajamas. 

My Two Grandmas On My Two Fingers.

I was supposed to get my grandma's pearls, but since they couldn't be found, I was given her wedding ring. And now I have my two grandmas on my two fingers. Grandma Hills on my right hand, placed firmly on the ring finger, and my grandma Hanke sitting comfortably in the middle on the same hand.

Yesterday was International Women's Day. I had work all day, so I wasn't quite sure how to celebrate. This holiday has been around for a while (since 1909), but I had never heard of it until the other day. Most other women I asked at work had never heard about it either, and the more I thought about it, the more peculiar it felt. It's a legitimate holiday, as I glance at my calendar I can see that it's written there on March 8th, right above Daylight Savings Time begins. Apparently the holiday is much more of a big deal in the formerly Soviet countries like Russia and Armenia, and in some places women receive presents. In Italy, the men give the women yellow mimosas, which are actually beautiful flowers known as Acacia dealbata. I just worked, and then came home feeling like I might be coming down with something. But boy does it feel great to overcome all the struggles I've faced as a woman!

Today I came across a song I hadn't listened to in a while. "Alone Again (Naturally)" by Gilbert O'Sullivan. This is what truly strikes me on such a gray day as this:

It seems to me that there are more hearts broken in the world, that can't be mended

Left unattended,

What do we do?

What do we do...

Stories of People Fainting.

Last night/this morning I dreamt that I had a baby girl. Her hair was dark brown, sprawling on top of her small head. In the dream, it seemed clear that it had been some time since I had given birth to this child, about a year or so. I was back in Ann Arbor, and it was summer. The entire dream took place in the middle of the day, and the sun was out in full force. For some reason, I wasn't compelled to protect my baby from the sun with a hat or Coppertone. And throughout the day, it felt like no one was happy about my having this child in my life, except me. The people I cared about were ignoring me in a way that normally would have hurt me very deeply, but just then I didn't care at all. I was just pleased as punch to have this tiny thing in my arms. Strange, at the moment the idea of having children is far from my thoughts. At one point in the same dream, I was back at high school, I think I was visiting or something. I was sitting on the floor in one of the classrooms, and there was a teacher there I had never seen before, this short woman with short black curls. She had her glasses placed at the very tip of her nose, the way my mom used to wear her reading glasses before she had to get a stronger prescription. She was leading the class in a discussion on whether or not the school should start initiating each day with the Lord's Prayer, and so I started in with my objections. And she just kept glaring at me over the tip of her nose.

Earlier today, I almost slipped and fell down one of the flights of stairs in my apartment. Luckily, I was able to grab onto one of the railings with my arm, and so I only slipped down about four steps. No serious injuries, just a sore arm and I might find a couple bruises on my backside tomorrow morning. I broke the piece of railing off in my fall, however.

How frightening would it be if I had fainted on those stairs? I've never fainted before, but the whole idea of it makes me uncomfortable. You're walking along, going about your normal routine when suddenly, BOOM! You're on the floor, unconscious. There are many things that can cause a person to faint, such as low blood pressure, or lack of sleep. Still, the idea of fainting has a mystery to it I think. I spoke to my dad earlier, and he told me this story of how he had once fainted. He was in high school back in New Hampshire, and he had come home late one night, so late that everyone else was fast asleep. Back then, he enjoyed taking showers at night before going to bed. So he did, and once he was clean he headed to hid room and changed into his pajamas. And just before getting into bed, his vision became cloudy, almost blue. His field of vision started to blur, and then he lost consciousness. He woke up moments later on his bedroom floor. He thought he might have been out for two to three minutes at the most. And then he just got up, settled into bed and fell asleep. It hasn't happened to him since.

We'll Just See How This Goes...

My trip to Chicago brought back all kinds of blustery feelings. I traveled back for the AWP Conference, and of course to see some old friends. The place smelled different than when I had left it some six months ago. The wind that used to irritate me, instead felt invigorating. There are moments in New York (Manhattan especially) when I wish that there was more wind to carry away the stenches of the traffic congestion, and the piles of garbage that sit on the edge of the curb. There aren't many alleys here. I suppose that was something about Chicago that I took for granted. The abundance of back alleys, each one equipped with several giant dumpsters. You could just open one up, toss your trash in and forget about it. In New York, everyone's garbage is out in the open, exposed. But I'm sure it's like most things. You just get used to it.

Living here has made me impatient when it comes to public transportation. Being directly off the G train in Bed-Stuy isn't always the most reliable way to get around, and in fact it reminds me of the trains in Chicago. Sitting backwards on the "L" and watching one part of the city pull itself away as I move towards another, there are still the classic delays. The stops and starts. Even when it's going at a steady pace, it can feel painful. Before moving out here and truly realizing what I was missing, I think I gave the "L" too much credit. Sure, there were always moments of frustration, but in my mind I had to treat it like the little engine that could. Chug, chug, chugging along, like so many things in the Midwest.

On my last train ride early in the morning, my CTA pass slipped out of my fingers onto the tracks. There couldn't have been more than two dollars on it, but still.

My grandma Hanke passed away that same week. I had received a voicemail from my mom early that Thursday afternoon, but she didn't mention any of it. Her voice carried no sense of urgency. She got a hold of me in the evening, while we were waiting for a table at my favorite all-you-can-eat sushi buffet. She was vague in the voicemail, because she didn't want to upset me while I was at the conference. "Grandma passed away today," she said, very calm. "She went peacefully." She told me that she wouldn't have been able to put me on the phone with her before she died, that she was just too far gone. Because of the conference, I felt like I needed to mentally force myself to repress it in order to keep focused on why I was there. It's so strange, but it still hasn't fully hit me yet. When my other grandparents died, I started sobbing immediately upon finding out. I'm sure it'll get me when I fly out to California for the memorial service.

I suppose that last part might have been a little morbid for my first blog post, but I suppose those were my circumstances. 

Here's something good. A love poem that the folks at the W. W. Norton table gave me while I was roaming the book fair at AWP. They were giving them out for Valentine's Day.

'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?

Oh wilt thou therefore rise from me?

Why should we rise because 'tis light?

Did we lie down because 'twas night?

Love, which in despite of darkness brought us hither,

Should in despite of light keep us together.

Light hath no tongue but all is eye;

If it could speak as well as spy,

This were the worst that it could say,

That being well I fain would stay,

And that I lov'd my heart and honor so

That I would not from him, that had them, go.

Must business thee from hence remove?

Oh that's the worst disease of love,

The poor, the foul, the false, love can

Admit, but not the busied man.

He which hath business, and makes love, doth do

Such wrong, as when a married man doth woo.

-John Donne