summer in the city.

it was so hot in new york the other day.

so hot that i wanted nothing more than to get home, strip to my bones, get as close to the floor as possible and just lie there. not move. just press into any remaining winter that the floor might've retained.

instead i purchased a pint of ben and jerry's at the corner store and trekked down the hill, toward the river, breathing in the heavy, still, hot air.

i was barely in the elevator before i could take it no longer. off the top of that ice cream flew and there i found myself face first in a pint of ben and jerry's half-baked.

no spoon.  just dove right in.

it was not a pretty sight. me face first in a pint of ice cream.

and as i was there getting equal parts cold and mess all over, the thought i kept coming back to was: if something were to happen to me. if in the next few days something really bad were to happen and the police had to go looking for some trace or trail, they'd come across this. this elevator surveillance. of me. face first. pint of ice cream.

i weighed my odds. sent up a prayer for my continued health and safety. and sojourned on (foodie that i am).

and just as the elevator neared the sixth floor, the doors opened and my fifth-floor neighbor stepped on-- the one who always says hello--the one with the children i remember to ask about. he appraised me. smiled. said something about catching me in a weak moment.

and i just stood there, pint in hand. one painful floor more. face covered in chocolate and flushed with being-found-out.

i finally arrived home. pulled out a bowl. plucked a spoon from the drawer. stripped to a tank and shorts. situated myself directly in front of the fan and carefully (and demurely) ate what was left.


new york city living really is terribly glamorous. and sometimes a gal shouldn't have to wait.

photo. 

a friday night cab ride.

i took a long, lone cab to brooklyn last friday.

i finished work, slipped out of my trusty black heels into a pair of worn flip-flops, untucked my work blouse, pulled my hair into a pony, and with exhaustion in tow, raised my arm and hailed a cab.

i listened to johynny flynn's sweet william, part one the whole way there:

i was born with this story, it's older than i.

as the familiar lights of ninth avenue streaked past and a cool air slipped in the window i could think of nothing but a night nearly seven years ago when i and three girls from school squeezed ourselves into our friday night best, piled into a yellow taxi, and headed into the belly of the beast that  friday night in manhattan invariably becomes when you're young, wide-eyed, and (yes) impressionable.

we hardly knew each other then. hardly knew new york. hardly knew ourselves. and certainly didn't know what was to come.

but i do remember that paused at a stoplight, i thought: i should remember this. this will be one of those nights i'll need to remember. this is the beginning. this is the starting point. 


and that's all i remember of that night.

well, that and the gorgeous garden balcony boasted by the chelsea apartment we finally ended up at.

one of the girls in that cab is married now. to the man she began dating not long before that late september night. another is engaged. many working actresses. all thousands of miles from home. all forging lives and ferreting out truth--or trying to, at least. one girl i haven't spoken to in years. with the others we do what we can but life is hard and time is short and the phone calls have become uneven at best.

i have spent so much time in the seven years sandwiched between those two cab rides wishing it all went differently. wishing the great love of my life proved himself such. wishing i was well. successful, even. wishing it all went a little differently.

but here's the thing. headed to brooklyn last friday, still in my work clothes, speeding down ninth avenue, i felt so...happy. so at peace. so aware that all those seven years and all those things i would've changed led to that moment--to that delirious, little, heaven-sent moment--to that moment in which i was filled by a story older than i, filled by the past, charged by attraction and desire, and thankful i didn't get the guy or the job the first go round.

because i'm still so young. and i've got a little rebellion left. and i'm finding all it takes is a smile to melt a man. they don't care what you're wearing or what you do or even the size of your hips. just a smile and they turn to putty. and it's so damn fun to watch for that moment in which they return the gesture and then wonder if they've done it suavely. and men, i'm gonna level with you: most of the time you haven't. but that makes it all the better. suave is so uninteresting.

and i'd take interesting and flawed any day of the week. whether it's a man. or my life.

the fat radish. (and on my manhattan).

in figuring out what to do this go round (with my mom in town) my mind immediately went to the new leaf cafe. 

(let it be known, my love for the new leaf knows no bounds).

but it was my mother who pointed out that we first fell in love with new leaf two years ago when we went in the spirit of trying something new--expanding our own idea of new york.

so with this in mind, we tabled new leaf (after all, i can pop up to fort tryon whenever my heart desires {and my wallet allows}) and went in search of new restaurants. (recommended restaurants).

both peels and the fat radish were suggested by a co-worker and i must say: she done good. they both pleased and tickled my aesthetic sensibilities and rustic palate.

but more than the wooden tables, and farm-to-table food--more than the downtown-chic-beard-wearing-men or the beet chips and butter biscuits--more than any of that, what i really loved was that both restaurants got me to take in parts of manhattan that are foreign--foreign, to me, i should say. parts that i rarely see, rarely explore. but parts that when i do take the time to wander about fill me with a deep, rumbling satisfaction.

the reason i entitled the series in which i show photos of manhattan, my manhattan, is because manhattan is so many different things--so many different things to so many different people. it wears many masks, changes by street and neighborhood. one could live here their whole life and still not know all of it. 

manhattan is experiential. and it is because of this that so many come in search: in search of the city, in search of themselves. it is this that entices and excites--allows new yorkers to overlook the day-to-day grind that makes city living quite difficult. 

so for all my hawing about how much i dislike the city at times (and i do. dislike it. often.) that's on me. because that dislike can be changed, transformed--by simply changing my attitude, my perspective, or walking a city block. by taking a train to a new and foreign neighborhood and finding a new part of myself in what the city offers up in that small nook.

so here's to the rest of the week. and as many new moments i can unearth in this (mostly) concrete jungle. 

we meet again.

oh hello, summer in new york.

didn't expect you so soon. or so warm and malodorous in your arrival. 

thinking i'm gonna need a new wardrobe. primarily one of long, loose skirts and sleeveless t's.
and thinking i might just bring the red lip back. 

life, as of now.

there is this consistent, persistent feeling that i'm being pulled under by the tow. 


not that i'm drowning--i've felt that before and this is certainly not that--but that i'm running out of air. and gasps are getting harder to come by.

it's getting harder to pack my life--lives, really--into two bags each morning. to carry those (three?) lives outside of me--toting them from one location to the next--zigzagging across a city that is unforgiving of such things. tennis shoes, computer and camera, black dress and high heels.

i find myself arriving home late at night. too late. crouching on my knees, spilling the contents of my bags--my lives--onto the floor in search of my keys. my keys, please, just let me find the keys. i empty out everything i own, tossing books and cards and all the receipts that need to be sorted, and there they are--bottom of the bag--fallen into some hole in the lining. and before i can pick up the now scattered content, i desperately thrust that single metal stick into the lock, and it breathes air into me. it is a gasp for air that thrust. just in time. coming home breathes in new air. and i stand there. chest heaving. alight with the panic that comes from feeling like you won't get that next breath in time. and when the lungs are just full enough and the heat of fear lines only my extremities i sink to the floor once more. pick up the contents of my life for the last time that day and cross the threshold. 

and just as this true. so is the feeling that i am buoyant. and good. and so very happy. so very lived in. 

so very in love with waking each morning to begin again. so very in love with my coffee on the windowsill and the way the sun slices through my flat, wood blinds. in love with the new stack of books piled under my makeshift bed-side table. in love with the scent and feel of a spring long-overdue in this cobbled, fragmented city.

it is always an interesting experience to operate on both ends of the spectrum. to hold two opposing ideas next to each other and say, yes, both are true. for me, these two opposing notions are true. right now. at the same time. it is electric. creates more space, actually--you know, for that air to get in.

i don't hate new york. i thought i did. turns out i'm just not entirely keen on the life i've built here. and so slowly, ever-so slowly i'm making changes. 

if there is frustration--and yes, of course there is--it comes from feeling the need to justify those changes. from feeling like i must contain this life that is desperate to barrel forward, tumble out. from having to pause and wait while every inch of me screams to continue on. 

the good news is, before long this shall pass. there may be a few meltdowns along the way. but it shall pass.