Wandering, Wondering and Drug Dealers

Wandering

You walk everywhere in New York. Actually, you walk everywhere really fast in New York - at least everyone else does. I don't have a reason to walk quickly yet, but I'm sure when I do, I'll race with the best of them. When walking in mass places, I always find it interesting how people come into and out of my life. For example, I could sit next to someone in the park, make small talk for five minutes, and then leave in the opposite direction never to see him again. Yesterday when I left the subway, I told one guy to have a good life - have a good life! Crazy thought. It makes me feel small and insignificant and makes me wonder about life. He will go on living without even remembering my existence. I sometimes feel relieved. I look around and see someone running to get something done, and I ask myself who actually cares if that person is on time? Not me. Not the thousands of other people stepping to get out of his way as he maniacally sprints forward. I guess it matters to his boss, who controls his salary, which affects his marriage, kids, dreams, future - see that's the problem. I get sucked into it too. I don't know. I just feel like I understand the world and my own life better when I forget about agendas and view it as a series of connections - of hellos and goodbyes passed between people floating into and out of each other's lives.

Wondering

The past week has been challenging. Moving to a new place is like jumping into a lake in April. Your head is full of memories from last August when the lake was as warm as the muggy air. You leap out of the car, race to the dock, tear off your shirt and shoes and jump. The air feels great but the water shoots cold steel through your spinal cord, you can't breath and your testicles shrivel like raisins. You look around and question the decision, thinking it would have been better to have gone golfing - or gone to grad school, stayed in Minneapolis, applied for the Peace Corps.

It took me all of college to accept the importance of art and theatre. I knew I loved it, but I couldn't rate its importance. It's easy to see the value of doctors, social workers, mechanics and teachers. We need them in society, even in the midst of an economic crisis. But theatre? Couldn't we survive on reality TV? Well, it's a long story, but I do believe in theatre. I believe in the importance and power of telling stories well, and I believe in art as an exploration, a question, an answer, a plea, a statement, an evaluation, a reflection, a hope and much more. I needed to write this paragraph because I need to remember these ideas when shivering on the edge of the dock wanting to get back in the car to go home.

Drug Dealers

Craigslist embodies everything sketchy about the internet. It is a place where anyone can post anything hoping to lure anyone into doing anything for them. I've been looking for apartments and jobs on this website and have "met" some real winners. First, there was a lady doing "peace work" all over Africa. She owned an apartment in Brooklyn and told me that she was too busy doing "peace work" and couldn't find anyone to take her apartment. Even though her emailed reply could have been written by an illiterate 3rd grader (really, it was horrible), I didn't suspect much until she asked me to send two months rent to her address (which wasn't in Africa). Once she got my money, she would send me the keys to the house. She told me that even though I couldn't see the apartment until I actually started renting it, I could enjoy her three skewed pictures plastered on the craigslist page. Really? Does anyone fall for this stuff?

I actually received four emails very similar to this one, but the shadiest one was from a man supposedly splitting time between France and Australia (random). I replied to his ad for a personal assistant, and he emailed me five minutes later. He told me that the job would be easy: he would send me packages every week, and I would need to forward them to destinations all over America. He was going to pay me a lot of money, but after a five minute internal debate, I decided to not get involved with the international drug trade.

I hope you are enjoying my blog. It's not going to be a linear life summery because I'm realizing that just like my life, I don't want a blog that is plot-driven.

New in Town

A few definitions:

The New York Subway - a metal box with windows that flies through and under the biggest city in America. Carries anything from hammered junkies to Wall Street's finest. Every class, type, size, ethnicity, and color of humanity clump together at rush hour like sardines while an eerie silence floats through the air and a monotone male caucasian voice calls out the stops. Babies cry, ipods rap, suited men smirk and students try to sleep as we fly in unison through the rat-infested tunnels waiting for our respective stops and thinking about what we'll do when we get there.

I think the subway is one of the most interesting places in the world. I guess I'm new to the whole experience, but where else are incredibly different people forced to share the same twenty by six foot space? It's a beautiful thing. I can barely stand it, and I've been making a point of starting conversations on almost every ride I take. Yesterday I sat next to a guy covered in skull tattoos who was reading a Martha Stuart book. What?! How could I not talk to him? It is a writer's paradise where characters sit next to you breathing the same air, waiting for the same stop.

The craziest thing about the subway, though, is the silence. At rush hour, we are crammed butt to butt, groin to groin, face to face with complete strangers. In Minnesota, the uncomfortable situation would force us into small talk. Not in New York. We all just stand there and pretend we have already arrived at our own destinations. Of course there is the guy in the back singing the newest Kanye West song to himself and the two girls next to the door gossiping about their mutual friend who is cheating on Ryan, her one-year boyfriend. But the rest of us? Nothing. I think it's hilarious. I think it is sad. I don't know what I think. It's weird how people can be lonely in a city of millions. I hate loneliness. I hate it.

Astoria, Queens- Twenty minutes from Manhattan. (I've found that in New York, you rate every place based on its proximity to Manhattan.) One of the most diverse places in New York. I heard over ten languages my first day here. Up and coming - which means that its close proximity to Manhattan will soon attract semi-rich people and make it more expensive next year. Greek restaurants, actors and anyone else you could imagine. My home.

My first five days in New York - Confusion, ambition, exhaustion, excitement, exploration, late nights, early mornings, new people, getting lost, job hunting, wine, subway, cooking, Twins losing, writing, prayer, dealing with a new kind of freedom.

Random notes:

I'm getting headshots taken next Thursday.

I joined a running club which runs through Central Park. They are intense, and I'll be sore tomorrow.

The Jump

I took swimming lessons when I was young. I loved them, and I have many memories of diving, bobbing, floating, etc. The most vivid memory I have, however, is the instant before jumping into the pool. My brothers and I took lessons at 8 in the morning. We crawled out of bed barely awake before our instructor blew the whistle to begin. We walked on the hard square-tiled pool deck and my stomach started to quiver. The dark blue water of the deep end would gloom in front of me, and in my mind it could have been the ocean. You couldn't see the bottom and any number of things could be lurking in the shadows. It looked so big and powerful and mysterious. I remember hearing the second blow which meant it was time to go in, and I remember being the last one to finally do it. I would walk to the edge and peer into the blueness and it felt like time stood still. I had no choice but to jump. Going back to Mom would mean humiliation, but it was hard to understand the fifteen minute change from my warm flannel-sheeted bed to shivering on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. How the hell did I get here? I remember counting down from five, closing my eyes, holding my breath and taking the leap.

I arrived in New York yesterday morning. I had been anticipating that moment for a long time, but it still surprised me. The flight felt like seconds. I talked with a man from Hawaii who told me that everyone is motivated by either love or fear. He said that every action from the bombings of the World Trade Center to the marriage of high school sweethearts springs from one of these. He made me think, and as I left the plane I hoped my adventure was backed by the love. I grabbed my bags and headed to the entrance and realized I had no idea where I was going. I had forgotten to get the address off of my email, and then I realized that even if I did know where to go, I had no idea how to get there. I remember walking to the corner of the airport and looking out at the sea of people flowing past me. Where was I? What was I doing? And where the hell was I going? My stomach started to turn inside me and time slowed a bit. Two hours later, a phone call, a bus ride, and forty-five minutes of trudging my two suitcases and two carry-ons, I was sitting in my apartment in Astoria, Queens. I dumped my stuff on the floor and moved to the window to look outside. I was living in New York City. I had taken the jump.