Boston 2004 - On People

With windows that begin at eye level,
people pass by me each day with no bodies- no faces, no expressions, no feet or animated hands.

There are no children or adults, no grandparents or uncles.

There are no white women or black women. There are no clothes, purses, strollers, or cars.

There is light, though- morning beams that collide with the window frames, their clean whiteness beaming back out at the world. This crisp early light brings footsteps, clicking quickly until a car door opens somewhere across the small parking lot.

The morning brings music, an answer to the question of what people listen to in Boston at 8 AM while driving. Laughter floats through the window, often above the voice that precedes it. Angry silence never reaches my window.

Glaring couples in the throes of a noiseless argument do not walk by my apartment. Of course people who are angry sometimes shout, and then, to me, they exist. Usually they are hurrying someone else along, by the sound of it, impatient to get going somewhere, as so many people are in this city.

I suppose not everyone is hidden to me, though. Not everyone glides unseen and eavesdropped upon, beneath my view, coming so near the inhabitants of a room they’ve never seen. Some people, I’m sure, have seen me. Changing my clothes before bed, probably, from their windows across the driveway. The apartments surrounding the little parkway between Naples Road and Comm Ave. are in tall buildings. They’re the overflow of urban height from Boston, right before the street turns into the less threatening, more neighborly Brookline. Split by a ribbon of pavement, my neighbors and I silently watch one another, and are greeted by the early risers, the mid-day flood of construction workers, the evening glow of sunset, and young men (or women) cruising slowly by, playing reggae at three in the morning. The woman I particularly think of when picturing the apartments across the way lives in the top left corner of the left building, closest to the dumpster side of the parkway. She is not one I have ever seen folding laundry, pacing on a cell phone, or turning on the television. I do no know her name or in fact, if she owns the building. She could be my landlady, for all I know (because I am only a sublettee), but she has made her mark by being the only one person who seems to know or care when we, unauthorized of course, throw trash into the dumpster.

“I’m gonna have you evicted!” she growls from above, claiming she has already gathered photo documentation of our crimes. She is an angry shadow to me, one that I pity for having nothing to do but watch a dumpster. I feared her the first time, urgently thinking I should go up and make a peace offering…something better than my garbage of course. Maybe muffins, or some jam. But the impulse passed, and so far, with continued usage of the dumpster, we have yet to be kicked out. I suppose she is not my landlady after all. Her shouting has not been the only thing that keeps me from the giant bin, a contained wasteland, sitting squatly on its concrete beach. Some days, in the kitchen, what sounds like pirates hollering reaches my ears as I stir vegetables in the frying pan. In a language I can’t quite place, several men seem to argue about nothing in particular, taking turns throwing themselves into the side of the dumpster for dramatic effect in punctuating their sentences. I always wonder whether they’re just bickering over an old kitchen chair left behind or if there is true hate in their voices, shouting about things of significance in a tongue that will never reveal itself to me. Maybe someday, I’ll go outside and get a good look at them. For now, I’m sitting in my room, listening to water…what I’m sure is a hose, but I pretend is a city stream, cutting through the T tracks and the sidewalks and the gravel, passing unseen under my lofty windows.

The inclination to talk to strangers on the subway is unnerving. Because there is little you can know about a single stranger aside from the way she looks, what she is holding, and how she carries herself, it is easy to find yourself attracted to someone, but the urge to actually speak is rare. Pity is the most common motive, coming in second would be attraction and then usually the desire to quiet someone down; a drunk or disorderly crazy person. I’ve definitely been that person. I hope I’ve never been pitied, but knowing how I can leave the house sometimes, I wouldn’t put it past the kind bourgeois of Boston. When I am faced with an odd attraction, so out of character and so alarming as to disallow my concentration on my latest novel…well, I start to think fate is involved somehow. Today, I rode the E line out to Brigham and Women’s Hospital, to fill out three hours worth of paperwork for a sleep study I may get into (please, oh, please?). I rarely ride the E line. Quite a project in getting there itself, it involves an inbound ride of at least 20 minutes, followed by another outbound ride of 10. I was reading, seated upon a brightly painted green wooden trunk, locking away some sort of MBTA gear that I know nothing about. She approached gracefully; catching my eye was her long dark coral skirt, being teased around her jean-clad legs by the July breeze. An odd combination of clothes to begin with, I slowly gazed up the side of her as she settled against the fence, waiting with her giant portfolio folder in her arms. A tank top, snugly pulled over a tie dyed T shirt that could have been washed inside a blender, hugged her frame. It was her arms that drew me in, staring at her for what seemed like several minutes. They were, along with her face and neck…and feet, come to think of it…were covered in grayish smudges, like she’d been working on charcoal drawings all day. That must be what was in the portfolio, or in the giant rolled up stack of paper at her side. She was intriguing, not quite pretty, definitely not clean, but with such a strong sense of self, I was overwhelmed and intimidated without her speaking a word, without her being wealthy or arrogant. Well, that I knew of, then again. Her hair was thick, a deep honey blond that Bob would’ve loved to cut (and wash and wash and wash), and wound around itself and a beaded headband that was slipping down onto her forehead. Hair like this belonged on farm girls, I thought, not eccentric artists. It gave her brilliance I had never seen. I didn’t speak to her. I decided only to admire her grace for the moment, then forget her. Admiration was easy. Forgetting, obviously, has not been.

I guess I just wonder about people too much. It’s not my concern or my judgment; it’s curiosity. I wonder if anyone’s wondered about me…I will never know.

But I’ll always wonder.

How sick is too sick?

I have a cold. It's the pestering coughing and sniffly kind that you see cure commercials for all winter long. I've actually purchased several of these OTC remedies in the past day. So far...not cured. Sorry, Mucinex and Zicam.

My question posed today is this- as I sit in the office, slowly accomplishing things and coughing little bits of myself into the air- When is sick too sick for the office? And when does coming in despite all odds triumph? I have a double standard in my head, I believe, from many days stayed home from school in my younger days. You should stay home and rest if you are sick. But if you don't come in (to school, to work, etc.) you are weak. Weak and lame and unlikely a child of a school teacher or nurse. I got it in my head that staying home means that yes, you're sick, but you're also just plain lazy. Unless you are at deathbed status (which, thankfully, I'm pretty far from), you should truck it on in. And it's this quest to be tough and to ride it out that brought me onto the train and into work this morning.

I got to the train just fine today. But as I sat, riding into Center City, the quiet desperate coughing began. The kind where you try not to cough until your throat feels like there are spikes being shoved in from all angles. And then...the cough arrives. Looking around with just my eyes, I was taking stock almost immediately of who seemed germophobic, who was recoiling from my very existence and who seemed not to care. It was then that, despite the Halls train ads beckoning me to "Stay strong," I began to feel guilty for exposing the public and my coworkers to whatever it is that has decided to inhabit my system as of this past weekend. Guilty, but of course, still very strong.

Arriving at the office, I took on the start of the day with gusto. I made coffee, I made conversation, I wrote some very important emails. And then, the long, slow fade begun. I stepped out around 10 to acquire the supposed miracle cure for my cough (aforementioned Zicam), but am still, as of 1:25, on the "quite awful" side of bad-sounding.

I guess I just think there should be guidelines somewhere. Guidelines that we can all adhere to. Because I know there is part of me that, if I have a meeting, will want to come in at all costs. And another part of me that will know that if I look enough like crap, I will not be taken seriously and should just pack it all in. Is it a fever? Visible sickness? Audible sickness? Where is the line drawn between sick and pushing through and just rampant germ exposure to the world?

I need answers. But for now, I just need to stop this ridiculous coughing.

Last published - October 29th!?

I guess there's no way around that. Unless I surreptitiously posted 12 posts in the middle of the night, spanning the days between November and February. But I'm an honest guy- I wouldn't do that.

So much has been happened- it would be a long one if I tried to go into all of it. Went to another close friend's wedding (Congrats Steph and Jimmy!), attended my dad's 61st birthday dinner (and my brother's 21st had just happened), went off to Ireland with my friend and roommate Jess for a whole week, had my second-ever Thanksgiving away from my parents here in Bryn Mawr, had many holiday happy hours, a fantastic office holiday party and cocktail party, one wonderous snowy weekend with what seemed like 109 dogs, a journey back to upstate NY to see friends (but not nearly enough of them), family, and make merry for the holidays. The new year has brought some challenges- in body, in mind, in love and in work.

Reading back over old posts, I can laugh a little bit at how confident I was in my existence over the summer. But the ebb and flow of that confidence is what makes me me I suppose. I don't think I'm going to try and catalog the events of the past three months, but rather pick up right where we left off, chugging right along.

Today, I am chasing a cold away with hot whiskey, getting some work done for the upcoming week and eating vegetarian chili with Jessica. It's Superbowl Sunday! Rejoice America! And we know that in the past, that's meant wings and pizza and beer. Not today, my friends, not today.

Cheers to a new year (a month and a week in) and new adventures :)

Chug Chug Chug! (Like the train, not the beer chant.)

I've been nose to the grindstone lately, making an attempt to get caught up (or- gasp!- ahead) at work so I can jet off to Ireland in peace. Or at least semi-peace, knowing my coworkers won't be bombarded by BS I've had to leave behind. I'm excited about Ireland, of course, but equally stressed out about how I am going to pay all of my bills (the spreadsheet could choke a digital horse) for November and December and still make the following happen: Halloween celebrations, Steph's wedding weekend, IRELAND, Thanksgiving, Christmas...I have already slacked on some birthdays lately and though I have big dreams for making more money next year and enhancing my credit score (think bows and ribbons on a janky Charlie Brown tree enhancements,) but I don't want to count any chickens pre-hatch.

On the love end of things, I'm just adrift. I'm connecting with people- a lot of boys actually, which is new and different- and feeling a lot of great things. But I still haven't felt heart-wrenchingly, knock-the-wind-out-of-you stabbed by anything. Not since that one boy fell off the radar. That's OK. We can't feel big things everyday, or else we would all probably be a mess and never able to get work done or get to the gym. But I hope, someday, I end up with someone who makes me feel small pieces of a big things everyday. Talking with friends in long term relationships lately- healthy ones, at that- I have come to realize though I am enjoying the dating world so much, I do, in the back of my head, just want someone to cook dinner for, wash the dishes with and cuddle up with for a movie. It's fun staying out late and discovering hidden corners of the city and meeting new people and unearthing miscellaneous facts about them, but come on...a girl can only remember so many things about so many people. Or make out with a certain number of people til she starts wondering the value of half empty kisses. And I mean half empty on my part...Counting chickens may not be a good idea in this realm either, but putting eggs in one basket...as I've said before...might not be so bad. We'll have to see.

On the creative side of the world, I have been having lots of fun. I have been working on a secret project since May and it's starting to take some fun shape. I have been updating my roommate's company's website and working on monograms for a friend's wedding...creating a logo for an LA a capella group and pixelating pictures for my friend's apartment wall art project. I love that people come to me with ideas and projects, but I sometimes feel guilty that I can't do more or put more time into them. I feel like balancing these things into the equation makes for a happier Amanda, but spending more than a few hours a week on each just leads to me getting less sleep. Not good.

But this, my friends, is all for now. For it is time for lunch. And then back to work. I will write more soon and I apologize to some people who feel coughcoughrichcoughcough like I've been slacking....Love to all. Watch the leaves fall.

Project Mission: Day Twenty-Seven

Well, it has been said before. I am often unable to fully commit to projects I throw myself into. I usually finish things, but it often takes a few days. Or weeks. Or sometimes, a hiatus of years (I speak of a particular mission to grow my hair to my waist.)

Looking back to days 1 and 3, I was looking to achieve a more relaxed balance for life. I think in many respects, this has gone well. I am more comfortable leaving the office at 5 even if every single thing hasn't been taken care of. This may sound like poor work ethic, but I will say this much- working 13-15 hours a day for multiple days in a row keeps stress at a very high level and makes for a poor Amanda ethic.

In a more personal sense, I have refound that feeling that I've had before...that I don't need to prove my worth to any person, place or ideal on this earth. I often get wrapped up in new people or new situations or commitments that become "be all, end all" for a hot minute and I forget that I am perfectly fulfilled without those anxieties. Balancing a social life and a professional life has also become slightly easier or messier, which ever way you view it since the arrival of
this little buddy.

On the eve of my running out of cell phone minutes for this guy,

I realized that I had another resource. I am not a heavy cell phone user as it is. I don't chit chat, really. Simple necessaries, I call it, though I lived many years without having the ability to communicate these "necessaries" on the road...and I survived. As demonstrated in July, I can live without a cell phone just fine. But I feel taking small advantage of my resources to keep life organized is a smart choice.

I have also resigned myself to the fact that I do need money for food every week. Sounds like something the obvious girl could have told me, but gosh, in the tizzy of getting every bill paid every month, I often forget. I forget that food doesn't extend to the backs of the cupboards and that I will often walk into the office kitchen, seeking what combination of leftovers and gift basket condiments could possibly be a meal today.

So pulling it all together, I have worked hard to put the correct pieces on each side of the scale, and though it's still wobbling and things fall off and get placed back on, we are somewhat balanced today, these days, and hopefully, in the days to come.

So the mission for day 27 and beyond...to be more graceful in all things. This will have to be a continuation of the original combination of relaxed balance, but incorporating a more steady heart and mind and applying beauty to the whole damn thing. That will be the mission. Graceful balance. Like walking with an unabridged dictionary on my head in 5 inch stilettos in Shelton Hall in 2004, I will probably tip over and crash into people. And I will probably resort to sitting on the ground and eating olives and laughing hysterically. But if not for trying to grow, we would all stay small and unremarkable. Here we go, here we go, here we go again. Here we go again.

Spiky Spikes.

An Interpretive Poem for Wednesday Morning


I am at the cube at Comcast
And when I sit up straight (which I usually do)
And stare straight ahead
I am eye level with the top of the wall part where it meets the glass part
and I see only the spiky hair of the middle aged man who sits in the next cube
The middle aged spiky hair man...
Just the spikes
like a tiny patch of brown grass.

It is my corporate field of dreams. The spikes are always spikier on the other side of the cube.

A brighter grace

I left work on Friday and half ran to the XPN Free at Noon concert at the World Live Cafe, mainly to see my new musical obsession, Langhorne Slim. Maybe less of an obsession and more of a calculated and adoring interest. His band's sound makes me want to lie in the grass and then get up and jump around and sprint to the river and jump in. What grass? What river? I'm not sure. But I'm digressing. Langhorne Slim did not let me down. I was blessed to be with Susan who, though I was ready to run back to work, bumped into the Slim himself and brought him out to meet, greet, hug and smile in pictures for me. And then she bought his CD and the whole band signed it. These were all amazing things.

But the real punch in the face happened during the second half of the performance when fellow Americana folk rocker, Will Hoge, and his band were on stage. Nearing the end of Langhorne Slim's performance, I'd gotten a little teary eyed because their music was so *UGHH* good. The good kind of good. The great kind of good. But there was something about Will's voice and the bluesy steel pick sound that tore me up from the beginning of their time on stage. I literally spent the entire set in various stages of tears and grinning and clapping and dancing. Not in a gross, snotty, eww-look-at-that-gross-girl way, but in a more contained and natural way. At least I think it was :) That is, I felt contained until I had a great moment of brain and heart and soul seizure. The thoughts, as I was grooving to these sounds pulsing and pulling on my chest, started flowing into my head- "I do not want to grow up, grow old, get cold, forget how to love like this, to let myself go, to let myself become fully a part of things. I don't want to. I don't want to. I can't let it happen." And it was at that moment, when realizing how much I had been willing to compromise to find someone to share myself with every moment- friends, family, lovers, coworkers, even strangers on the street- and how I kept little bits of my happiness hidden and major parts of me to myself, and how little I really needed to do so, that I felt the most warm and joyful.

I will grow old. I will grow up. I already have. Though, I’ve felt very young lately. Young at heart, which is nothing new, but especially young in my mind. I’ve felt confusion and hesitance, coupled with a heart-stopping compulsive joy that has just boggled my mind. The joy has come from within and from my experiences and maybe even things I don’t understand yet. The confusion though, and the hesitance, from a place that feels oddly like my later teenage years, when I was trying to figure out just who it is that I am and what I’d like to get out of the world. I guess I'm back there again, but a little more graceful and quieter and sweeter this time. I'm trying to get this being a girl thing down, I swear.

But just because I am getting it all down, the task of getting my heart into one solid piece to give to someone else can't really be a focus. Not at all. I think it may just happen when I'm not looking. For now, I'll just make sure the music never dies, my fingers keep painting and tapping and drumming and my face keeps smiling and that my mouth never says things my brain doesn't agree with. I haven't found it, but gosh, maybe I haven't lost it either.