We Love That Dirty Water!

N sang that song about Boston the night we met at Hope & Anchor in Red Hook. The song choice is what it gave me the courage to go up and talk to him, thinking he might be a nice New England boy. Instead, he turned out to be a nice Midwestern boy who had never even set foot in New England (my, how that has changed). And now he's moving to Portland with me. Maine, Minnesota--they're both cold, what's the difference!

Last weekend we decided we should check out the city that brought us together. After taking in the Wilco show at the Bank of America Pavillion (a name which absolutely no one in New England seems to recognize--they must all call it by it's former name--possibly the bandshell? Over by the aquarium?) we stayed at a hotel near Fanueil Hall. The next day, I showed N where I played a French horn recital in 8th grade outside of Fanueil Hall, and then we walked all around the wharves. N said Boston reminded him of Minneapolis. Ting-Tong liked the dolphins. (turn your head sideways)

Heat Wave

Ha. Everyone keeps talking about how hot it is here today in Portland. Puh-leeze. I still remember returning to my apartment at 329 E. 14th St. in Manhattan the weekend after July 4th in the summer of 1999 (shout-out to Sue F!). We lived (then-roommate Sue F. and I) on the fifth floor of an old tenement-type building in the East Village. To this day, almost 9 years later, friends and family still talk about that apartment, and how hard it was to climb up the stairs.

That weekend was so hot the Amtrak train I was on from Rhode Island apparently melted onto its tracks and was delayed for hours. After finally making it to Penn Station, I'm sure it was a relief to get on the subway (in the early years in New York, I almost never took cabs). After getting out at Union Square, wading through the sticky soup-like air of summer on 14th Street, and walking up 5 flights of stairs, I was greeted with a "Welcome to Hell!" by Sue F. We didn't have air-conditioning, and the apartment was so hot the sheets on my bed were actually retaining heat. The old cordless phone was warm to the touch. The only way to even try to get to sleep was to take a cold shower and stand naked in front of a fan right before bed. I was so broke then (working at Penguin Books) that when I did finally buy an air-conditioner, I brought it home myself and rolled it up the five flights of stairs. Why I could afford an A/C but not the delivery fee, I do not know. It was my own weird form of economics I guess.

That is what I call hot. This, with the Maine breezes still blowing through the 90 degree air, is just a warm summer evening.

Writers write!

I am going to write a few words today, even if it kills me. Yesterday I was reading my friend Sarah’s wonderfully written and brutally honest blog about motherhood and marriage (Quality-of-light.blogspot.com), and was shamed to realize how little I write in my blog, especially considering I don’t have a child or husband to distract me.

It’s shameful to think how little I write at all, really. I studied creative writing in college (both fiction and non-fiction), worked as a writer for a little while, aspired to write novels and articles and children’s stories, and still, at 35, have not produced anything that I wasn’t contracted to write on deadline.

I think about writing a lot. I outline articles and novels and short stories in my head, and occasionally even on paper. I sometimes even write a few paragraphs. But I complete nothing.

I also start a lot of sentences with “I.”

I remember being given an assignment in elementary school, in which we had to write 10 sentences, or something similar. Every single one of my sentences started with “I.” My teacher (Mrs. Bowlus, a family friend to this day, actually) gently suggested I try mixing things up a bit, try starting some sentences with a word other than “I.” I think I did then, but apparently the lesson didn’t stick.

Or, possibly, when I sit down to write after a hiatus of any length, I revert, blindly almost, to that early, solipsistic mode of writing. Maybe writing really is a practice, as every book about writing and every writing instructor will tell you, and in not practicing it enough, I get rusty, and do this, spew out nothing but “I” sentences.

Once I get going, I really enjoy writing. It’s like exercise—you know it will make you feel great when all is said and done, but it’s so hard to motivate to do it in the first place. Perversely, it feels more fun to procrastinate. To lie on the couch, clean the bathroom, run an errand. But when I really do it, when I write something coherent and cohesive, I feel great.

And yet so often I choose not to. What is up with that?

I have a few writerly friends, a woman who was once an aunt by marriage, and some friends from my publishing days, who all claim to feel completely relieved because they gave themselves permission to no longer feel compelled to write. All of them have published works of varying lengths and/or are/were successful editors. All of them are talented and ambitious. Yet they all say they felt a huge weight was lifted when they decided to allow themselves to stop feeling guilty about not writing. I’ve tried to do the same thing. But I suspect that they, like me, probably still have that niggling feeling in the back of their minds, come a lazy Sunday afternoon or free evening, that there is some task they are avoiding. It’s probably a bit like dropping out of school—it feels great at the time to let go of all the responsibility, but deep down you kind of know you’ve copped out.

Last Hour of the Longest Day of the Year

Maritime photos

I took these photos last weekend. And no, they're not of Portland! They were taken in Red Hook, Brooklyn, the neighborhood where I met N and where he lives, and which I often fantasized about moving to. It seemed a sort of last-resort-compromise on moving away from Manhattan and other parts of Brooklyn, to a more tame part of the city that reminded me a lot of small New England coastal towns--like the one I live in now. The reality of living there is a bit different, as the commute into Manhattan requires a bus-to-subway transfer, or a car. But New Englanders will be able to see why I love the neighborhood so much--it practically looks like Maine! (Sorry they're sideways.)

Spy Cat

Thumbelina checking out the action at my neighbors' place.

Inside Out

I always seem to do things backwards. Honestly.

I just moved to Maine, one of the most naturally beautiful parts of the country. My intention was to take advantage of the beautiful outdoors, and run more, bike more, breathe in more fresh air. Instead, I’m finding myself becoming more and more addicted to exercise classes at a yoga studio above an Enterprise rental car place.

You would think I would have done this more in New York, where you can take an exercise class of any sort at pretty much any time of day. But in New York, I ran back and forth across the Williamsburg Bridge, along the Brooklyn Heights Promenade and through the industrial streets of DUMBO, and even rode my bike from the Lower East Side to East Harlem for work upon occasion. (My most recent housemate will no doubt dispute me on that last one.) My tendency to run or bike rather than take a class was partly due to not feeling up to spending $15 on an exercise class (that was money better spent on going out for drinks! God.). But since I am so much less mobile here, thanks to my newfound reliance on my car, I am forcing myself to take classes, because I keep wimping out on my jogs along the Eastern Promenade. Beautiful as it is, I find myself lacking the motivation to run very far or fast.

What else do I do backwards? Well, now that I’ve moved to a city with excellent microbrew beer, one of my favorite beverages, I’m finding myself more inclined to drink wine, now that I know which ones are less likely to stuff up my sinuses.

And, I’m probably one of the few people in the world who could move to Maine without a job, then end up getting one two months later in my chosen field that pays more than I was making in New York City. In a flash, the fifth-floor walk-ups and apartments shares with people I met on the Internet are gone. I’m living much more comfortably now than I have since I left Tiverton when I was 18 years old. I know I’ve given up a lot by leaving New York, access to culture and the excitement of the street and my friends and the interesting people you meet and the stories you hear and the things you see. Maybe I’m just getting old, or maybe I’ve always been a homebody and tried to deny it, but I think I really like my creature comforts. Like, a couch I can call my own, and let my cat slowly claw to pieces. A separate office to put all my electronics in so I don’t have to sleep in a sea of digital lights in my bedroom at night. And a nice little deck that gets lots of sun in the morning and smells like salt air. Does coveting all this stuff more than proximity to Manhattan mean I’m totally lame?

I don’t want to jinx myself, but things have been so much more comfortable since I moved to Portland, in ways both big and small. I have a real bed, not just mattresses on a floor or futon frame, for the first time in 15 years. It only takes me 15 minutes to get to work. I buy paper towels instead of using random leftover take-out napkins. I actually care about home décor.

I’m not sure why I always felt like I was hanging on by a thread when I lived in New York. Was it because I was so economically strapped? Or did I just perceive the risks to be greater, since I was there on my own? Did I not give the city a chance, because I never really intended to stay there forever anyway? Was I just using the city, without any intention of ever committing?

Pics

The big, gothic-looking building is my new office. It’s the original portion of the hospital that was founded over 100 years ago.

I also took a shot of a rainbow that appeared while I was in the Whole Foods parking lot after my Cardiolates® class tonight. If you look closely, you can see the end of the rainbow shining on the Portland Observatory, just feet away from my apartment! Seriously. I think that’s a good omen.

Yoga, Portland style

I went to my first Portland yoga class last night. The first thing that distinguished it from yoga classes I've taken in New York was the fact that I drove there. It felt like it sort of defeated the purpose, to go somewhere to get exercise, but to drive there? I know I should ride my bike, but the forecast called for rain and I was pressed for time and blah blah excuses.

The second weird thing was that there were more men than women in my class (3 men, 2 women, including myself). That never happened in New York. Also, the other woman in class was not super skinny and beautiful. She was in good shape, and attractive, but not like the uber-flexible, thin, toned and somehow tanned women of your average New York yoga class. I felt less competitive than I usually do, which is probably a good thing, since yoga is meant to relax you, probably not to make you feel bad about yourself for not being able to touch your head to the floor while pointing your right leg towards the ceiling.

My teacher was great, as dynamic and knowledgable as any teacher I've had in New York. And the studio was clean, spacious, and smelled good. The only odd thing was that it was located right above an Enterprise car rental place. It was also strange to look out the windows and see so many trees. But really kind of nice!