apartment hunting

...is a little like internet dating. Sounds good, looks good, there might even be a nice e-mail correspondence beforehand, but then you show up, sit across the table from one another, and have a conversation. Reality. It's not for everyone.

Pretty soon they are telling you they don't believe in wireless technology, or sniffing your fleece coat and reporting that if you want to live in their house you'll have to change fabric softeners, and, "I just smoke in my office... I'm sure you can barely tell.." [cough, cough].

Onward...

It seemed beautiful to me

I read this lovely thing about laughter the other night, in Marilynne Robinson's novel Gilead. The dying narrator, a minister, is walking by two local mechanics standing outside of their garage:

"There they were, propped against the garage wall in the sunshine, lighting up their cigarettes. They're always so black with grease and so strong with gasoline, I don't know why they don't catch fire themselves. They were passing remarks back and forth the way they do and laughing that wicked way they have. And it seemed beautiful to me. It's an amazing thing to watch people laugh, the way it sort of takes them over. Sometimes they really do struggle with it. I see it in church often enough. So I wonder what it is and where it comes from, and I wonder what it expends out of your system, so that you have to do it till you're done, like crying in a way I suppose, except that laughter is much more easily spent."

More Than Just a Name

Here's a short-list of what I get called at work:
Laura
Laura D
Laura Didyk (my theory about this one is that people like to say my first and last because each name is a perfect trochee, stressed syllable followed by an unstressed...so they go well one right after the other, and it would be the same if one were to add my middle name: Laura Esther Didyk, three trochees, you can say them in succession with no interruption. Try it. It's fun).
LD
Lauralu
L-Dawg
The Enforcer (alas, this is my job)

I like my new job. So far, no one has called me "babe" as almost every other person in my life, but I'm sure it's just a matter of time.

Brilliant commercial

Windows reply to Apple's commercials. Brilliant advertising--they've stolen the enemy's approach to say "How you like us now?" (Oh, and how can one not laugh and sort of respect Mr. C there at the end... hysterical).

Valentine's Day

I can't believe it's been since Thanksgiving.
I kind of lost my focus, and couldn't figure out what it was I was supposed to be rapping about on here.

I was afraid I'd write something too personal, and either over-expose myself, or offend somebody somewhere.

The whole ambiguous nature of a blog has been evading me.

I don't write about politics. Mostly because I don't know politics enough to write intelligently about it. I don't write about food. Or fashion. Or writing. Or music, per se. I write about what I know best--the complications of the heart--of mine in particular. I know that some of those complications, when examined under just the right circumstances, are incredibly, incredibly funny. I know that I avoided writing about love and romance, dating and desperation, breaking up and breaking down, relationsnhips and relationshits, because I thought people would think it was trivial, trite, not intellectual enough. But I can't run from it anymore.

Tonight, on my friend Kate's couch, she hit me on the arm and said "You never write on your blog anymore." She told me she checks it every week. Which made me feel kind of loved, and then guilty (in a loving way), and then we went and saw He's Just Not That Into You--yup, on this day, the 14th of February, and I had a crapload of popcorn and most of a divine brownie (made by aforementioned friend) and am now quite the wired creature. I'm also now a first-class passenger on the will-the-whole-marriage-thing-ever-happen-the-way-I've-always-imagined-it-happening-will-it-feel-how-I've-always-imagined-it-feeling-with-that-guy-(who-will-it-be?)I've-always-imagined-it-happening-with-or-is-it-all-just-broken-hearts-on-the-wind-and-should-I-even-focus-on-those-fantasies-at-all-and-instead-put-my-whole-self-into-my-job-and-writing-my-book-which-is-problematic-since-my-book-is-about-all-the-relationships-and-men-and-dating-and-absurdity-of-trying-to-have-relationships-with-people-who-are-incapable-of-relationships-(including-myself)-and being-single-for-years-and-internet-dating-and-regular-dating-and-falling-halfway-for-inappropriate-people-like-a-celibate-monk-an-only-recently-clean-crack-addict-the-ultra-promiscuous-bass-player-of-a-band-I-adore-and-because-my-book-is-about-this-journey-and-these-men-and-the-fantasy-of-finding-true-love-at-last-and-how-it's-driven-me-more-than-any-other-force-in-my-life-and-it-makes-it-difficult-to-shift-my-focus-to-anything-else-this-exploratory-surgery-of-my-past-for-true-love-and-true-connection-and-true-marriage-makes-it-almost-impossible-to-recalibrate-my-attention-elsewhere-in-order-for-it-to-happen-on-its-own-while-I'm-turned-in-an-entirely-other-direction-(happen-in-a-way-I-couldn't-have-predicted-and-won't-be-able-to-account-for-because-this-is-how-they-all-say-it-happens-when-you-don't-want-it-to-and-aren't-looking-for-it-or-thinking-about-it-or-hoping-for-it-to-be-so-it-happens-when-you-are-trying-to-decide-if-you-should-spend-an-extra-$1.25-for-an-organic-avocado-given-that-it-will-taste-better-based-solely-on-the-fact-that-you-know-it's-organic-or-it-happens-when-you-haven't-showered-and-are-in-your-sweats-shopping-for-screws-at-Home-Depot)-so-the-book-which-is-what-I-want-to-focus-on-because-it's-my-work-and-makes-me-feel-happy-and-purposeful-makes-it-simultaneously-challening-because-when-I-am-in-the-book-it-is-all-I-am-thinking-about-that-and-the-relationship-I-am-currently-in-which-is-a-good-relationship-(not-average-good-but-good-to-the-bone-good-at-its-heart)-a-decent-hot-chemistry-filled-thing-between-two-people-a-relationship-however-that-includes-a-hard-fact-that-cannot-be-overlooked-the-fact-that-between-those-two-people-also-lies-2,000-miles-two-time-zones-is-conducted-with-2-cell-phones-4-e-mail-accounts-two-of-which-include-video-chat-and-FaceBook-but-does-not-include-the-multitude-of-text-messages-pinged-back-and-forth-not-to-mention-that-it's-unclear-if-any-of-these-numeric-facts-will-change-ever-or-soon-or-even-later-when-or-if-the-2,000-miles-will-be-traversed-by-one-party-or-the-other-who-will-throw-in-the-bedspread-first-or-pack-up-their-car-and-just-decide-THIS-IS-GOING-TO-HAPPEN-if-either-of-us-will-do-any-of-it train.

It's a bumpy trainride, but on it I'm eating a box of exquisite chocolates the bf got me for valentine's day (and he's wished me many happy valentines), plus I had a good hair day, and a cup of really amazing coffee this morning at a basement-cafe and spent the whole day with a dear friend who likes to talk as much as I do and in that way satisfied me to my very soul and the sky was open and blue all day and the clouds were Laura-loves-these-kinds-of-clouds clouds--and all of this on my train, which is running through my life, on its way into my unknown future. I never had my own train before. And I kind of like it.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Near and far, in cold weather and warm, meat-eating and no, may your inner pilgrim be transported, or at least enjoy a day off from pilgriming.



And for the realistic pilgrim in all of us, here's a beautiful poem of thanks by W. S. Merwin.

"Thanks"
W.S. Merwin

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are
saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

Rated G for "Gruesome" and "Gawd"

Oh
my
god.

This is almost beautiful, the comedic synchronization.

You can't make this stuff up.

Listen to the question the interviewer asks at about 1:15, and what's going on in the background.



And then there's the part where the turkey is fighting for its life and the dude holding it, chewing his cud, is apologizing. For what? Killing the turkey? Digging Sarah P. into an even deeper hole of mud?

Thank god that yes, we did.

Mis-Fortune

Oh my, it's been a long time since I've been here.

And I can't think of a better way to return than to share the following clip of Elna Baker, which I cannot get enough of. You can find her at her website--www.elnabaker.com. [For some reason, this clip can take awhile to load. I'd led it load first, then watch, otherwise it'll drive you crazy. It's worth the wait.]

My first....

orchid! It's wee, but it's beautiful. And smells heavenly just for my birthday... Nice work, boyfriend!

Post Road #16 on web (sort of)

So they don't have a link to my piece, but they do excerpt the beginning.

5 Friends

Hilarious and moving and send it to people.

The great schlep

If you don't have an aversion to Sarah Silverman, check it out.

He Could Be a Cup

An interview with Miranda July's book, No One Belongs Here More Than You. Click here.

Sadder

Here's a link to a short Salon article on David Foster Wallace, and a brilliant commencement speech he gave at Kenyon College in 2005.

I don't even know what to say. It's no more shocking than any other suicide perhaps. Sadder, maybe, because of what an influence he's been on so much of what's being written right now in America. Sadder, because always in his work, despite what some people deemed overly self-conscious cleverness, was a deep and rare wisdom about the internal concentric layers of all things human. And we can't forget humility. He had that, too.

Post Road #16 available on Amazon

Hola friends,

Was informed by a Post Road editor that issue #16 (with my new nonfiction piece "Farewell") is available on Amazon.

Of course I want you to buy it because it has my piece in it, but I'm also a sincere believer in the literary magazine and think everyone should support them whenever possible.

So in the spirit of helping literature, supporting writers, and investing in the power of the printed word, here's the link to Amazon where you can purchase the "lite brite" copy of Post Road.

Wisdom

Wisdom.

Post Road #16

It's out, on the stands, in select stores (see St. Mark's Book Shop below). My piece "Farewell" printed in its pages.

PR sometimes posts some content from the new issue up on their website, and have a place where you can order it, but it's not up yet. #15 is still hanging around.

When 16 is up, I'll post it here. It's a great issue.

Playing the Building, Playing in the City

[David Byrne installation, Playing the Building]

Spent Saturday and Sunday in Manhattan. And aside from doing the regular NYC things--eating pirogies at Veselka's in the East Village, going to St. Mark's Bookshop to peruse the lit mags--I stayed at a famous cartoonist's apartment in Washington Heights; walked across the Brooklyn Bridge (for the first time!) and saw Ms. Liberty all regal in the sun; and went to David Byrne's installation, Playing the Building (pic above, and you can watch a video w/DB at this link), at South Ferry. The installation was wild. The whole building an instrument. Standing there, in it, was like being in the belly of a confused clock inside the body of a whale. Clinks and clanks and hisses and exhales--through the pipes, on the radiators, all controlled by the keys of the piano played by whatever visitor.

Speaking of bellies...had a great dinner at Cafe Habana on Prince & Elizabeth. The corn! If you ever go there, get the corn! It's grilled in spices and rolled in some kind of soft buttery cheese. Best ever.

My friend A. and I also discovered a strange patch of land on Broadway and 25th and watched tourists take pictures next to over-sized planters on weird beige sand.

And, thanks to A., I contracted the worst laugh attack ever on the subway. Could not stop. Tears and everything. So embarrassing (and totally fun).

Post #100!

So for this post, the 100th, I'm here only to say that this chick went rock climbing this week for the first time since she was 22 years old (and that was a long time ago)!

Aside from worrying about whether or not I'd done an adequate job shaving my legs, it was an awesome experience--I did well I think. Am mostly proud of myself for even giving it a shot, and now am so sore that whilst smoothing a Post-It note at work yesterday morning with my right index finger, i was like "ow ow ow ow ow ow..." Fingers, hands, arms, shoulders, toes, calves, quads... OW .. but YAY!

The best part, aside from getting myself up there, was the group of people I went with. So supportive and encouraging. Made it really easy and totally fun. And I want to go again!!!

Congrats to Jane!

Shouting out to my dear friend Angela Jane Fountas in Seattle, Washington, who was just chosen to be a Hugo House writer-in-residence. A big deal. And a great gig. You can read this short article in the Seattle Times! May her success be contagious.