The Road to...Somewhere

I spent a night last week driving up-and-over inside the lines of New York State for a grad school interview. After a long day of work I made my way to Hertz and met the disappointment of "fine print" from my online quote. My car was going to cost twice as much as expected but it was too late to do much about it. Someone pulled up in a white compact and I got in, light-headed and cloudy-eyed. I began to work my way through the one-ways.

Eventually the George Washington Bridge was in view and I could see the long road ahead, reeling out of the city. I spent the five-hour drive singing, singing, and singing some more, wavering between lanes as I flipped through my CD case. There weren't many cars on the road and I used my bright-lights often, though everything still seemed so dark. It occured to me on my third album that I rarely, almost never, spend time in a space alone. I've adapted my life to the city and I am constantly surrounded by strangers, friends, aquaintances and students. In fact the only time I'm actually alone is in my room with the door shut, heading to bed. Even then my roommate, Mimia, is usually pecking on her sewing machine outside my door or watching Japanese cartoons.

I've also not driven a car for longer than fifteen minutes, save a Niagra Falls wedding excursion with a car full of friends last summer, for the last five years. My body remembered the motions from college years of road trips and long distance relationships. It wasn't until I finally stopped for a snack and nearly backed into a McDonalds that I noticed I was driving a bright new Mustang featuring curves of years past. The entire experience had the makings of another life— the Mustang, the McDonalds, the crumbled and greasy road map.

I'm not sure exactly what will happen with that particular quest for higher education. My interview happened. I felt exhausted and somewhat outside of my own body. But the trip certainly allowed me to some space to think. The last few weekends I've had disparate fun in my hometown. Three weekends ago I was unexpectedly transported back to 1985 by the Pyramid Club's near perfect 80's night, dancing with an old coworker until 3 a.m. Last weekend I went to the Russian and Turkish baths on 10th Street. I hunkered down in the 150 degree "Ambient Heat" room watching people being beaten with soapy oak leaves and stepping out every half hour for a dip in the 50 degree plunge pool. The bath crowd was one part Eastern European, one part hippie, and one part where the fuck am I?

Then last night I went to see the Yeah Yeah Yeahs at the Bowery Ballroom. Karen O wore what I think was a rejected gold encrusted figure skating costume from the Nagano Olympics. During the second song she pulled some long feathers out of her bodice and began chewing on one. She spent the rest of the night picking feather pieces out of her teeth. During the encore Karen dedicated a song muttering into the mic—This is a love song and it's for all you motherfuckers....and It's for you too, Mom and Dad. Mom and Dad waved from upstairs.

I'm not saying that my entire life is rock'n roll and girls gone wild in Russian spas. In fact, tonight I have a date with a bottle of wine, my futon and some knitting needles. Somedays just seem entirely too foggy. I guess we all have the tendency to hatch escape routes, to imagine running far and fast away from our lives when things feel difficult, mismatched, and half-empty. I like surrounding myself with people, and seeing different scenes and hearing different sounds. We are social animals after all, not designed to live in the interior of a Ford or a parking garage or closed office. I guess in part I'm relieved that I realize I have the ability to change things from the inside out. I can thank the Mustang's smooth ride for that temporary piece of clarity.

When I Grow Up

I received my first grad school form-rejection letter yesterday. Three or four people most likely sat in metal folding chairs and watched light projected behind a reproduction of my drawings. If one blinked, she might have missed the image. Then they moved on.

It's amazing how this minor nod makes one feel so completely unsettled. It's as if my brain isn't connected to the motions my hands make, and the ideas that pass in and out are foreign to others. If I tried to speak to the panel, it would sound like Swedish, or a metaphor from high school creative writing class. Then again, I've been told I'm too sensitive.

I'm thinking that if this whole starving artist thing doesn't work out, I might give competitive eating a try. Did you hear that a 100-pound woman ate 26 grilled cheese sandwiches in 10 minutes last week? She was thereby declared winner of the World Grilled Cheese Eating Championship. Atleast that career move would solve the whole hunger issue.

It's All in the Details

This week I spent a morning in postal hell. I work during evening classes on Tuesdays so I usually make a long list of things-to-do for my morning and then end up snoozing 17 or 19 times until I finally drag myself out from under the comforter for some eggs and email before work. Tuesday morning however, I woke at 7.30 a.m. to pack up and arrive at the Atlantic Avenue USPS as they unlocked their doors. I had a bag with about 10 pounds of mail including—my last three grad school applications, an application for a summer residency, 40 handmade invitations for my cousin's wedding in Poland, and a thank you gift for a recent weekend getaway.

I've spent approximately 6 hours of my life over the last month in post office lines waiting for that all-important postmark date stamp, and delivery confirmation slip on each and every application packet. Some days as I rushed to the line, I noticed others fingering through slide sheets and wrapping carousels ahead of me. Maybe there really is a large concentration of artists in Brooklyn, or maybe I'm shit out of luck because 10% of the entire population is applying to the same programs I aim for.

As I arrived upon opening on Tuesday there were somehow already five people in line ahead of me. I waited for ten minutes until one of the two postal worker's light went off. I approached her with a smile and then noticed a NO DEBIT CARDS AT THIS REGISTER hand scrawled sign. I was sent back to the line. On my second turn I asked for the postal worker to weigh my slide carousel so I could estimate postage for the return envelope. I requested delivery confirmation for all my applications. I hadn't filled out the international contents form ahead of time. I asked to see his selection of stamps for my pretty wedding invitations. He became less and less accommodating and began to slam the bullet-proof glass door on his side of the counter. Then he lost it and began screaming at me for "not being prepared for posting."

I talked back. It went something like this "I am prepared, it seems that you aren't willing to do your job, I have several things to mail but as far as I know that isn't a crime." He began mumbling something behind the bullet-proof plexi and promptly tossed my slide carousel which hit the edge of the big mail laundry cart and toppled in. This felt like seeing my baby thrown across the room and landing head first in a pile of sharp edges. Something switched in me and I asked to see his manager. The manager came out with his fly down and I began to explain the situation. His eyes glazed over and he mumbled something about his employee following instructions. A growing line of people stared at me watching as my face became red, hovering somewhere between anger and tears, as I sweat in January heat. It was humiliating. The icing on the Atlantic Avenue USPS cake was that their void of LOVE stamps or anything beyond some leftover Disney Christmas stamps for the wedding invitations. I re-wrapped my wedding invites in their tissue paper and huffed my way out to a subway.

I still had a few hours before work began so I decided to visit another post office in Chelsea in search of the LOVE stamps. After another half hour line I arrived to the window to find they had only American flag or Stop Family Violence stamps to offer. The Stop Family Violence stamps had a picture drawn by a child of a stick figure crying; I decided this would not be the best omen for the wedding invitations. The post man directed me to the mothership of all New York post offices at 42nd Street. On the subway I scowled to myself wondering if I would ever find the goddamn LOVE stamps and if anyone receiving the invitations would even notice. I often find myself at the bottom of an avalanche of life-altering details only to realize that it is my own tunnel vision and mild OCD that has put me there.

The 42nd Street post office was like a futuristic machine with 100 windows for service, automated post-machines, an enormous spread of stamp designs; yet only two people were working at the front of the wind-around line. I waited for another 45 minutes, salivating over the prize— yellow stamps with two blue birds nuzzling each other so that the negative space between their necks made a heart. After my arduous wait I bought the "True Blue" bird LOVE stamps, caressed them for a minute and then pasted each envelope with a stamp at the perfect right angle a few millimeters from the corners' edge. I posted each envelope in a big swinging mailbox and left empty handed but satisfied.

My cousin's wedding is in one month in Poland, it will take a seven hour flight, navigating Polish roads in a rented car, purchasing another bridesmaid dress with money I don't have, and most likely having my hair formed to an unbecoming shape with a bottle of hairspray. All this seems par for the course, but the True Blue stamp expedition— if that is not LOVE then I don't know what is.