renovate\REN-uh-vayt\
verb:to restore to a former better state (as by cleaning, repairing, or rebuilding)
:to restore to life, vigor, or activity : revive
Yesterday, after attending a reading by five poets from the women's movement, I hailed a cab on 116th and Broadway. I got into a prius (yay, my favorite of cabs) and was whisked away crosstown, back to the Upper East Side. The middle-to-senior-aged driver had an amazing mustache and a pair of classic spectacles. The thing about the prius cabs, unlike others, is that there is a vast amount of open space that allows for conversation between driver and rider. Sometimes, this is not a good thing, but tonight I was feeling congenial.
"Did the Yankees finally win?" I asked.
"Yes, finally! About time they started winning." The driver answered.
That got us started. Picking me up was almost like Déjà vu, he explained. Just an hour earlier he had stopped for a professor, who had been tied up in class, unable to watch the game, and asked the very same question about the game, hoping too, that the Yankees had renovated their talents. Continuing to chat, I found out that the pitcher from Texas, whose name slips my mind, is going to make $200 million next year, that the cab driver teaches dancing lessons - more specifically international folk dance in Central Park - as his primary career, that a Gemini's best match is really a Gemini, and that he thinks I should either work/write for the President or become a diplomat.
I really liked this guy! I told him that yes, I actually did contemplate at one time or another becoming a diplomat because "diplomatic" is one of the words that people use to describe me most often. He also said I was a polished conversationalist, which would surprise many people (including my Mother and Father, who had recategorized my communication skills as "Dulcy Speak" years ago).
So, according to the fab Mr. Cab man, I need to call up some diplomats and start talking to them about how it all works, get some ideas, and start making my way. It was about that time that we found ourselves on 88th street behind a posse of ConEd trucks. Not going anywhere. "Hey, Buddy," someone shouted, "Didn't you see the road closed sign back there?"
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
StopTime, in writing workshop
Writing Assignment #6: Writing a Scene
Reina
The taxi driver pulled up to the curb and got rid of us as quickly as one might a carton of sour milk. The entrance of the trendy hot-spot of Istanbul was unbecoming but as the bouncers smiled, I felt a mixture of coziness and privilege. I knew I was getting in.
Now shielded from the bustling, winding streets of the city, the five of us stared, unconditionally, at the oasis before us. The Bosphorus Bridge, the iconic connector of Europe and Asia, loomed in the open backdrop. Beams of steel and taut wires, strong enough to support hundreds of thousands of vehicles, looked graceful, delicate, and luminous in the moonlight. Lights strung along the wires shown blue, then melded to green, morphed to yellow, and seared into orange, red, and purple before cooling off to blue for just a few seconds. Then the pattern started again. Hundreds of feet below the bridge, the water posed gracefully, a silent rictus upon which cheerful cruise liners, quiet yachts, and flimsy dinghies playfully skated. To me, the water wasn’t quite black, more like a midnight blue pigmented by the reach of the lights above.
The ground level of the club stretched to the water’s edge and was sliced into sections. A second floor verandah, which outlined the club’s ground floor, was nestled with comfy wooden tables and chairs upholstered in stripes of antique whites and reds. Looking down endearingly on the people below, diners sampled the flavors of Istanbul’s haute cuisine placed gingerly around tranquil votives. A cornucopia of aromas flirted with my growing hunger: garlic, myriad grilled meats, sizzling seafood, spicy kebabs, marinated olives, seared vegetables, honey, nuts, fruit, and freshly baked breads.
On the dance floor several dozen bodies festooned with fabrics (sequins, spandex) and trends (distressed designer denim, and stringy, heavy necklaces) caressed the air with their upper appendages, and swerved their hips like pendulums. Their feet stomped around on a smaller-than-expected square consisting of sixteen separate boxes, which flashed on and off in a random mathematical order that mimicked the transitioning lights on the bridge above. Shining down on the dance floor was a brighter-than-life plasma television screen that emanated the glow of celebrities who once, or twice, graced the very same boogie cube. Giggles, shrieks, coos, whispers, and chatter of various decibels only slightly marred the sharpness of the international soundtrack. Da, Da, Di, Da, Da. The bass beat divided the thick air like thunder. In the distance, I could hear the Blue Mosque’s tantalizing call to prayer.
Elsewhere on the ground level, cocktail waitresses fluttered about in punchy stilettos, serving dwellers of sultry, secluded cabanas. Through sheer crimson curtains, I could see smoke oozing from cigarettes and mingling with the ashes of a fat man’s cigar. Just beyond the cabana row, an alcohol infused centerpiece wrapped in sandy wooden paneling held four or five bartenders captive as they attended to patrons who jiggled and gyrated to the syncopated, synthesized melodies. Hands moving seamlessly, the bartenders flipped and spun bottles of tequila, vodka, rum, gin and whiskey around and around, pouring and mixing liquids into glasses like enthusiastic chemists.
The cool breeze that crept in from the water swirled around portable heaters, which lined the floor like lamps with big metal shades and a warm, bright blue-yellow fire in the middle instead of a light bulb. The heat from the lamps, the breeze, and the scents of food, drink, and body braided together and ran like a current through the club’s passageways. My hand grasped the railing as I slowly ascended the staircase.
Reina
The taxi driver pulled up to the curb and got rid of us as quickly as one might a carton of sour milk. The entrance of the trendy hot-spot of Istanbul was unbecoming but as the bouncers smiled, I felt a mixture of coziness and privilege. I knew I was getting in.
Now shielded from the bustling, winding streets of the city, the five of us stared, unconditionally, at the oasis before us. The Bosphorus Bridge, the iconic connector of Europe and Asia, loomed in the open backdrop. Beams of steel and taut wires, strong enough to support hundreds of thousands of vehicles, looked graceful, delicate, and luminous in the moonlight. Lights strung along the wires shown blue, then melded to green, morphed to yellow, and seared into orange, red, and purple before cooling off to blue for just a few seconds. Then the pattern started again. Hundreds of feet below the bridge, the water posed gracefully, a silent rictus upon which cheerful cruise liners, quiet yachts, and flimsy dinghies playfully skated. To me, the water wasn’t quite black, more like a midnight blue pigmented by the reach of the lights above.
The ground level of the club stretched to the water’s edge and was sliced into sections. A second floor verandah, which outlined the club’s ground floor, was nestled with comfy wooden tables and chairs upholstered in stripes of antique whites and reds. Looking down endearingly on the people below, diners sampled the flavors of Istanbul’s haute cuisine placed gingerly around tranquil votives. A cornucopia of aromas flirted with my growing hunger: garlic, myriad grilled meats, sizzling seafood, spicy kebabs, marinated olives, seared vegetables, honey, nuts, fruit, and freshly baked breads.
On the dance floor several dozen bodies festooned with fabrics (sequins, spandex) and trends (distressed designer denim, and stringy, heavy necklaces) caressed the air with their upper appendages, and swerved their hips like pendulums. Their feet stomped around on a smaller-than-expected square consisting of sixteen separate boxes, which flashed on and off in a random mathematical order that mimicked the transitioning lights on the bridge above. Shining down on the dance floor was a brighter-than-life plasma television screen that emanated the glow of celebrities who once, or twice, graced the very same boogie cube. Giggles, shrieks, coos, whispers, and chatter of various decibels only slightly marred the sharpness of the international soundtrack. Da, Da, Di, Da, Da. The bass beat divided the thick air like thunder. In the distance, I could hear the Blue Mosque’s tantalizing call to prayer.
Elsewhere on the ground level, cocktail waitresses fluttered about in punchy stilettos, serving dwellers of sultry, secluded cabanas. Through sheer crimson curtains, I could see smoke oozing from cigarettes and mingling with the ashes of a fat man’s cigar. Just beyond the cabana row, an alcohol infused centerpiece wrapped in sandy wooden paneling held four or five bartenders captive as they attended to patrons who jiggled and gyrated to the syncopated, synthesized melodies. Hands moving seamlessly, the bartenders flipped and spun bottles of tequila, vodka, rum, gin and whiskey around and around, pouring and mixing liquids into glasses like enthusiastic chemists.
The cool breeze that crept in from the water swirled around portable heaters, which lined the floor like lamps with big metal shades and a warm, bright blue-yellow fire in the middle instead of a light bulb. The heat from the lamps, the breeze, and the scents of food, drink, and body braided together and ran like a current through the club’s passageways. My hand grasped the railing as I slowly ascended the staircase.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
The Literary Dude Ranch
erstwhile\ERST-wile\adverb: in the past : formerly
Several weeks ago I truly believed that I had met my soul mate. He sat down next to me, holding a banana and a Grande Starbucks cup. Check. Then I realized that we were reading the very same article (about Brad Paisley), from the very same magazine (the New Yorker), from three months ago (that's the kicker). I spoke to him, we laughed, said that was "like, random," and those 30 seconds were it. I might be hopeless.
So today's Daily Candy newsletter gave me a bit of a lift. "10 Guy Writers We'd Like to Cozy Up With." Sweet! I guess if you can't find a guy, the next best thing might be to get a good book written by one.
I liked Daily Candy's introduction to their Fall literary round-up: "Forget the idea that male writers are shy, sensitive souls. We think they’re like wrestlers: They coax us to a ringside seat; butt heads with bad grammar; and spin, slam, and twist plots until they come to dizzying finishes. Here, ten guy-produced books that will keep you mesmerized this fall."
Erstwhile hopeless, now literary lush.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
My Brain
gimcrack\JIM-krak\
noun:a showy object of little use or value
For eight years and counting, my brain has sat on my desk. I am not quite sure where my Uncle Steve got it, and it does have the name of some miscellaneous company on one side. Nevertheless, it looks like a brain should look: it's grey, spongy, and smooth on the outside. There are quite a few wrinkles on it too. I'm proud of my brain's sustainability.
In a world of gimcracks, my brain has been, by far, one of the best. Keychains, flashing LED pins, USB ports that look like superheros, and pens in the shape of red lipstick don't have much of a shelf life. Not this little brain though, it has survived quite a bit of back and forth - college, Delaware, New York. And I imagine that it'll be right there with me in my next venture after grad school, which I am hoping involves frequent trips to Montreux.
Once my brain was lost for several weeks and, until I caught it under my bed with a dust bunny, I had no idea that it was missing! After that, I always vowed to keep better track of my belongings, especially the ones that are hardly replaceable.
Today, on the subway, I finished Ian Frazier's article in Aug 30th's New Yorker about Soviet Stalin-era prison camps. After reading about the desperate plight of the individuals who were confined to these prisons, I learned something new about modern day Russians. They name inanimate objects. They refer to their telephones as "he" or "she," alarms clocks are affectionately called Aunties, and speed bumps are lezhachii politseiskii, which literally means "lying-down policeman."
Short of choosing a pet name for my brain, I have decided to now call it надежный, or nadezhnyĭ, which is the Russian word for dependable. Nadi for short.
noun:a showy object of little use or value
For eight years and counting, my brain has sat on my desk. I am not quite sure where my Uncle Steve got it, and it does have the name of some miscellaneous company on one side. Nevertheless, it looks like a brain should look: it's grey, spongy, and smooth on the outside. There are quite a few wrinkles on it too. I'm proud of my brain's sustainability.
In a world of gimcracks, my brain has been, by far, one of the best. Keychains, flashing LED pins, USB ports that look like superheros, and pens in the shape of red lipstick don't have much of a shelf life. Not this little brain though, it has survived quite a bit of back and forth - college, Delaware, New York. And I imagine that it'll be right there with me in my next venture after grad school, which I am hoping involves frequent trips to Montreux.
Once my brain was lost for several weeks and, until I caught it under my bed with a dust bunny, I had no idea that it was missing! After that, I always vowed to keep better track of my belongings, especially the ones that are hardly replaceable.
Today, on the subway, I finished Ian Frazier's article in Aug 30th's New Yorker about Soviet Stalin-era prison camps. After reading about the desperate plight of the individuals who were confined to these prisons, I learned something new about modern day Russians. They name inanimate objects. They refer to their telephones as "he" or "she," alarms clocks are affectionately called Aunties, and speed bumps are lezhachii politseiskii, which literally means "lying-down policeman."
Short of choosing a pet name for my brain, I have decided to now call it надежный, or nadezhnyĭ, which is the Russian word for dependable. Nadi for short.
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