Furniture, or "Where Am I?"

I'm in the chair by the window, it's a 50's-style square-shaped club chair with an ottoman, the colors of the two pieces don't match because the ottoman was sold out in the same shade and since they were both supremely on sale I told myself non-matching but complimentary colors would work just fine. The chair is a light gray-blue, it came from a Crate and Barrel set with the sofa. The ottoman is charcoal gray and that they're not the same color is very flattering, actually. A good choice on my part. I got all these pieces last summer, the first "real" pieces of large furniture I've ever bought. I had an old sleeper sofa and love seat that were handed down from friends of my parents when i moved into this apartment, i kept them covered with chenille throws to hide where the off-white fabric became grubby but when the sofa started springing holes it was time for an upgrade. 

Despite the fact that i had overnight guests once a year at most, i liked having that pullout option so i looked online for sleeper couches like the one i had. They were all boring or too expensive but i didn't imagine myself as someone who had more unique furniture, I live in a small space and wanted something that blended in, not something i had to redesign around. I'm not creative like that. But during a visit to Chicago, I asked my friend Jennifer if we could look in the Crate and Barrel we were passing on Michigan Avenue, I saw my swingy new pieces there live for the first time. Not a sleeper! Modern cut! And light blue!!! Could I go there? Could I be that person? We looked at some of the dowdy alternatives i'd checked out on their website but we were pulled back to club land. So much more fun! My friend had couch envy, even! And that was that, I came home and ordered them up, made my non-matching decision and then my new furniture, my new chapter, was on their way. 

But what to do with the old pieces? I don't live in the suburbs, where my husband would drag the items to the curb for a friendly garbage man to tote away. If I could even get my super to help me drag the sleeper and the love seat downstairs, there's no guarantee they'd get picked up: they could become a rotting eyesore on the sidewalk and my super could get fined. The Salvation Army pickup truck had a too-long wait list and wouldn't take the sleeper for fear of potential bedbug threat [I wonder if this happens in the suburbs]. After calling and being rejected by several other charitable organizations—which infuriated me, I'm trying to help here!—I finally paid some guy named José $200 cash to just get that shit out of my apartment. He was just leaving when the elves from Crate and Barrel flew in, did they bit of assembly, and ta dah! New furniture! New life! 

I could see immediately I would need a new coffee table. That came the following week, also from Crate and Barrel. Dark wood with curved legs and a shelf underneath, very sturdy, very adult. I managed to drag my old shite Ikea one to the curb where, according to my doorman, it was hauled away by some guy in less than 10 minutes. 

I think I can, I think I can...

I'm having a hard time committing to this writing practice. Making new posts feels satisfying and righteous and productive—but I'm not doing it. Why not? I open a new page and all that comes out is little personal burps about my day that are better suited for a written diary or my more facile online journal. When I'm not looking for work I spend too much time reading others' online journals, and then Facebook, and then Twitter and then blah blah blah the day has passed and the summer has passed it feels like I've got nothing concrete to show for it. 

Well, fall is here—for real!—and I'm making a concerted effort to take myself back to school. I've pulled down Julia Cameron's The Right to Write from the shelf, and I'm opening myself to writing exercises and memory recollection and whatever have you. I'm going to hold the critic and the editor back and let it flow. It's the effort that matters and it will—just as long as, as my friend Jill would say, I'm banging the keys. 

Remembering Caroline

I'm communing with the late Caroline Knapp today. I've pulled her books from the shelf [two of them are actually under my alarm clock] and am in my chair by the window rereading my favorite passages from Pack of Two, Appetites, The Merry Recluse, and Drinking, A Love Story. And feeling sad that this incredibly gifted writer died way too young at 42. Her struggles to recover from anorexia and alcoholism become so much more poignant when read knowing what I know, that Death is just ahead. I feel her mortality, and my own, more significantly. Life is short, we must reach out, get help. Though I sympathize with those particular challenges, I can more specifically relate to her questions about loneliness and lifestyle choices: her wonderings about how much time alone is too much, how much love for one's dog is too much, how does one know they're living their life the "right" way, especially when it looks different from everyone else's. These can be painful and confusing feelings and Knapp gave them the most tender and eloquent voice. In sharing her weaknesses she became strong, and I know I'm not the other one who read her work gratefully thinking they'd found a kindred spirit. I know now I'm not the only one, period. I am most thankful for what she was able to articulate while she was with us, and she is much missed. 

Observing silence

This is all I feel like saying today. It's raining, the nation is mourning, and I'm in a mood. 

A Dutch treat

I generally keep pretty well abreast of current museum exhibitions but was pleasantly surprised to be in the Met for today's opening of their Johannes Vermeer show. The Milkmaid, on loan from the Rijksmuseum, is the stunning centerpiece and several other lesser-known but still inspiring works are featured. I first saw this painting when I visited Amsterdam with my mother in 2005—I have the milkmaid's likeness on a refrigerator magnet, my mom got her on a trivet—seeing it again this afternoon made me very happy. It really is an incredible piece in any context, but knowing Vermeer was able to achieve that representation of light and those colors with homemade paint always makes my jaw drop. Totally edible! 

The Vermeers will be at the Met until November 29. 

Valderiiii, valderaaaa

A knapsack on my back!

Did a lot of hiking this summer. I joined the group Outdoor Bound on a few of their day trips, and took several treks with friends who have a car. Said friends and I both have copies of the excellent resource book "60 Hikes Within 60 Miles" and we'd each got a chance to choose the destination.

I love this pic, taken on a 4th of July hike with Outdoor Bound, to Terrace Pond in Wawayanda State Park in New Jersey [that's me in the orange shorts, third from the top]: 

I took the Full Moon Hike with Outdoor Bound, as well as a memorable Hikes and Hounds trip where dogs were included. [Alas, Biscuit is not a hiker, but he was represented with a photo on my pack.]

My friends and I hiked most often on Mondays [free weekdays, yay!], sometimes we took advantage of the prolonged daylight hours and set out later in the afternoon. At my peak I went out four times times in 10 days: the full moon hike [5 miles], Storm King mountain [6 miles], the dog hike [7.5 miles], and the Teatown Lake Reserve [5.5 miles]. After a short vacation, this past Monday we went out to Jenny Jump State Park in New Jersey a walked a very pleasant 5.5-miler. 

It's incredible that you can drive out of Manhattan and an hour or so later be in the deep woods. The ferny greens and craggy outcroppings are transportive and other-worldly, I've been known to repeatedly exclaim “this is very Peter Jackson!” Even when you're watching your feet while scrambling over rocks, it's so soothing, and quiet. Nature sounds instead of city sounds. Green instead of granite. Even when it's really hard, huffing up a steep incline, it's heavenly. Looking forward to more this fall! 

Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!

Back from the deep

Yeah yeah, i said i was going to be posting more regularly and I haven't. Late August got right sleepy for job searching so I packed myself and the pup off to the beach until the 31st, best decision ever. Here's my collected daily FB posts from that lovely, lovely time: 

Deep Island Day 1: the watch is off.

Deep Island Day 2: two birds doing call and response outside my window early this morning, sounded like "Secret, Secret, Secret, Secret!" "Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger, Cheeseburger!"

Deep Island Day 3: Hurricane Bill is making tumultuous surf. At some point i'll get in there beyond the old lady dip and splash.

Deep Island Day 4: making chocolate lunch cake this afternoon. Will need to diet upon return to the mainland.

Deep Island Day 5: Took my morning coffee Otis Redding-style, sitting on the dock of the bay.

Deep Island Day 6: Going out to dinner tonight, will have to put on shoes.

Deep Island Day 7: Dog and cat have forged a peaceful co-existence. It's all good.

Deep Island Day 8: Aye, storm's a-brewin'. Ominous, dark storm clouds over the bay, but pink, tranquil skies over the ocean. Let's watch.

Deep Island Day 9: Romantic rainy...Friday? It's Friday, right?

Deep Island Day 10: I'd be laughing all the way to the beach if it wasn't raining.

Deep Island Day 11: back in the sarong again.

Deep Island Day 12: Cool morning beach walk under streaky apricot sky. The real world beckons, but not until 5:30.