Writing

My blogging has suffered because I've been spending my blogging time on writing assignments. This one fits in with this blog ...

Flea Markets. The name says it all. Unsuspecting hosts out for amusement meander through endless aisles readily collecting little parasites that multiply and are impossible to get rid of. Legend has it the term comes from the French marche aux puces, an outdoor bazaar in Paris named after the pesky creatures that infested the upholstery and clothing for sale.

In rural areas pack rats drive hours to get to the largest and best flea markets. You can’t miss these. Billboards start announcing them from 100 miles away and the shouting gets louder the closer you get. Pickup trucks fill parking lots while traffic jams of shoppers search for nothing in particular and everything they can’t possibly live without.

Manhattanites swarm like flies to fast disappearing empty lots on Sixth Avenue or The Antique Garage on 25th Street to eclectically furnish their apartments. I’m told if you want the really good stuff you have to get there early, as in 5am on a Saturday morning.

The infamous Annex Antiques Fair & Flea Market at 26th Street and Sixth Avenue, which was started in 1976 by Alan Boss, was ousted two years ago to make room for a high-rise apartment building. Loyalists now have to schlep over to Hell’s Kitchen to scout for their vintage and kitsch. In an interview in The Village Voice lamenting the move Boss characterized the flea market as “the world’s largest group therapy session.”

That’s nice for him but frequenting flea markets would put me on a fast track for therapy. My issues are manifold:

• I’m blind to the good stuff, which of course is already gone by the time I arrive at a respectable Saturday hour, because I’m preoccupied with the plethora of junk.
• I’m tormented by visions of gigantic landfills where these treasures will ultimately end up and where some of them should be already.
• I’m overwhelmed with visions of dead people and the loved ones sorting through a lifetime of clutter.
• I’m paranoid at the thought of my house being infiltrated by bargains that will end up in the basement I don’t have.
• I’m saddened when vendors pack away more stuff than they arrived with in the pre-dawn hours, and exhausted picturing all the hauling required to collect and assemble their wares every weekend.

Most people do not share my neurosis. They love to start a conversation with, “You won’t believe how cheap my new (fill in the blank) was.” I desperately want to tell them the reason it was cheap but politeness always trumps honesty and I dutifully nod and applaud.

A few years ago my wife brought home a vintage glider for our balcony that she’d found at The Annex. It was only a hundred dollars (so cheap!) and delivery was free. The faded green frame contrasted nicely with the rusty springs she contended. Of course we had to spend another five hundred dollars to outfit it with cushions. Despite the upgrade I could never look at it without thinking of sitting on my Aunt Velva’s front porch in Waleetka, Oklahoma while Uncle Floyd alternated gliding with spitting tobacco juice into a Folgers Coffee can.

My on-going ordeal ended abruptly when a neighbor stopped in and remarked how perfect the glider would look at her new house in the country. “When can you pick it up?” I offered, “It’s free.”

Forging Every Stream

I saw Tom Crean, the one-man production by Aiden Dooley, at the Irish Rep Theater this week. He went on three unsuccessful Antarctic expeditions to the South Pole.

Adventurers have always been an inspiration to me. Not the kind of inspiration that would get me out climbing the highest heights and forging the widest streams but the kind that leave me awestruck at the incredible tenacity of the human spirit.

At the prospect of being lost on an iceberg, or stuck in a crevasse, I don’t know that I’d have the fortitude to get myself out, or even to try to wait it out. I think as soon as the illusion that I was warm and could lay down and go to sleep presented itself, I’d do just that. But given the actual circumstances, perhaps I would persevere.

I think that’s what I find the most fascinating. I don’t wonder why someone would set off on a trek to the remotest bounds – that sounds very appealing for a multitude of reasons. It’s the persistent effort to make one’s way home after going off-course or encountering extreme situations that perplexes me. What is it that keeps them going?

There’s an IMAX film about a mail pilot whose plane went down in the Andes. He keeps walking through the mountains for about seven days until he finally happens upon a road where someone finds him. It was the thought of his wife that kept him taking one step after another for a solid week.

Perhaps the type of people that set out on such adventures are wired to do anything to prove they are invincible. This has often gotten people killed, but it’s the same cloth that allows them to triumph over the harshest environments and terrains.

I’ll ponder this a little more as I traverse the concrete jungle of my habitat - Manhattan.

The Survival of Mother Earth

The good news is our blue planet will weather humanity's storm. That's the encouraging message I took away from The 11th Hour.

I don't really mind the conclusion that humans may become extinct. If we can't make the necessary adjustments the hostile environment we will create will likely not be one we care to live in.

Once humans have self-destructed, Mother earth will refresh herself, renew her beauty and grandeur and live happily ever after for the next 2 billion years. Our presence will have left little impression on her pristine tableau.

The option of change, of course, is more appealing - green buildings dotting the landscape, with energy-free transportation zipping us to and fro. This future seems sublime, though the likelihood of it becoming reality is left to the blithering optimists.

It will require big government to nudge her bow on an uncharted course. Something she is capable of though not something she does without a fight. It will be an exciting chapter in our history, whichever way it goes.

Let's just make sure it's printed on recycled paper!

My Turkish Rug Writing Assignment

In my creative writing class on Monday we started the session with 15 minutes of writing about a favorite possession. I wrote the following, and liked it so am posting it unedited:

The rug I carried home from Turkey is wool on wool and tightly woven. I don’t remember the knots per inch but I’m told it has some significance.

The base color is red; not fire engine red but just as bright – with a deeper, richer tone. The geometric patterns at the outer perimeter are set off with navy blue and the gentlest cream color peeking through adding highlights. The cream is also flecked throughout. The top and bottom edges have a subtle grey fringe.

The border at both ends is a checkerboard pattern that’s mostly red and blue with a pinkish square added here and there as part of the pattern. The side edges are bound with a thin blue stripe. The center has a large, spread out pattern that repeats and undulates as patterns inside a pattern.

Throughout there’s a combination of geometric and floral. That’s what drew me to this rug over the hundreds of others we were shown. The red says traditional, as do the floral patterns. The geometric shapes bring a more modern feel though they are clearly tide to an ancient art.

I love the feel of it under my bare feet – lush, solid and sturdy.

The underside has the appearance of a finely woven tapestry. It would be beautiful as a wall hanging in a large space. I find reassurance in the precise attention each double knot has been given. It’s like a hidden treasure. The beauty of it is always there but is kept turned away from the public eye.

But anytime I like I can flip over a corner and marvel at the masterpiece of the young girls’ hands.

Words

I love the way words roll off my pen when I write in my journal during "freewriting" as they call it. Just set the pen free and let it march out in front of my thoughts.

Writing at the computer allows for faster input. But it's always a little more formal and staid. The quick ability to re-write, focusing on correct spelling and passable grammar, keeps me reigned in.

I'm always amazed at the reward that comes from sitting down to write. The conscious effort to address the blank page rouses the Gods to come to my rescue. They carry me on their soft wings to the reassuring safety of their mighty words.

Take this one, they urge. Play around with that one a bit. I dare you to show me what can be done with this little phrase.

My pen - or finger tips - dance to their challenge. As we tango my spirit rises up within me and frees me from myself. I joyously play, rolling phrases and tossing up questions. No need for answers in this game.

I want to write more. Fear asserts itself time after time. I must fight back. Beat down the temptation to submit to inertia, uncertainty. Forge ahead in sunshine and through storms.

These words are not mine. But they are me.

Theroux's Trek

Joan and I are planning to go to Africa. I’m interested in seeing wide open spaces filled with wild animals, the safari scenes from Out of Africa being my ideal.

As I like to travel twice, the first time being research and getting to know a place, I set out to find what was not included on the travel safari websites. Looking for some behind the scenes views, the ones my isolationist tour group would be leaving off our itinerary, I wanted at least a little flavor of what I would miss.

I bit down on a full-flavored taste in Paul Theroux’s Dark Star Safari, his walkabout off the grid between Cairo and Cape Town.

Egypt has never been on my must see list. Theroux confirmed my hesitation. Though the Nile sounds beguiling, a populated desert leaves little to be desired. Sand in my shoes at the beach is unpleasant, but sand covering my body every time I go out for a cup of coffee would turn me into a recluse. And I don’t think Cairo has Fresh Direct.

Though the trek was harrowing, he seemed primarily happy at each leg. It fulfilled his goal of being completely unreachable. I can understand the joy of that. Saying, “Here’s my itinerary, call me only in an emergency” allows for some measure of getting away, but having no number at all must be completely liberating.

He meandered south via riverboat, bus, dugout canoe, train, cargo boat, cattle truck and the like. All were far from plush and some were close to life-threatening. He survived them all. Sleeping arrangements included desert planes, tents to protect from prowling hyena, bug infested motels and wooden train benches.

By the time he’d reached South Africa he’d seen very few animals, choosing to by-pass the game reserves in Kenya and tourist-ridden Serengeti. Not wanting to be completely deprived of all that Africa has to offer, he settled into a Game Lodge near Kruger National Park at the tail end of his journey and understood why people pay huge tabs for the pleasure of sitting on a porch in the middle of bush country.

That’s where I want to be, relishing the view of the vast plains after a fulfilling game drive, focusing only on my most basic animal needs – good food and a safe place to sleep and unencumbered by every modern convenience.

Being Granny

What's more fun than hanging out at the pool with three of my favorite people: Shelaine, daughter; Elliott, grandson; and Kylee, sister. There's nothing better!

That precious smile, coupled with googling sounds and purposeful kicks and stretching, directed straight at me, is the closest there is to heaven on earth. Heaven right there, poolside.

Elliott giggled while wearing my big brimmed black sun hat. I understood in that instant what impelled me to buy it. It must have been a premonition. When faced with the $5 price tag I knew it was for me though I wasn't completely convinced I would wear a pseudo-Hamptons summer benefit hat. But I did know I had to have it enough to pack it up and take it across the Atlantic.

Impulsively I grabbed it as I headed out the door on Saturday. It was to be my only scheduled day near water for the duration of the summer. What could it hurt, there would be plenty of room in the car.

Little did I know it would be our best photo prop of the weekend. We'll have a lifetime of memories: Kylee wearing black hat holding Elliott in pool; Elliott with black hat; Granny holding Elliott wearing black hat.

I must prompt Shelaine to email it to me. One's destined for my desktop and I know just the one. And I may just get to posting some here.

Won't I have fun showing them off to Elliott's first love interest!

Imagination

Shelaine's the one who's blessed with imagination. I don't have it. When she was little she loved to dwell in la la land, much to my envy and dismay. If only I had the ability to imagine a little!

I tend to imagine things that could happen in real life but probably won't. Often these are centered around bizzare things I might do.

Last night at the New York Liberty v. Los Angeles Sparks game at Madison Square Garden I imagined myself running on to the court in the middle of play. I pictured myself making it undetected down the few steps to the courtside seats where Teresa Weatherspoon was sitting. Then I'd quickly run on to the court. But my imagination didn't take me to what I might do once I got out there: steal the ball, make a basket, disrupt play, perhaps. No, my imagination fast forwarded to me getting dragged off the court and being rejected from my season seat for the remainder of the season.

That wouldn't be such a terrible penalty for this season as I've watched one too many games where the difference of a few points has meant gloom rather than glory. But there will be other seasons. And my imagination doles out long-term sentences for its mischief.

My more typical imagining comes in the form of free-falls: diving into the orchestra pit at the Met from my seat in the highest balcony box; falling onto the subway tracks just as the train is coming; leaping off the stern of the cruise ship in the middle of the Aegean and getting sucked down in the swirl of the propeller wakes.

These are always followed with questions: "Will they stop the opera? Will I land between the viola and the tuba or on top of them? Will I have time to stow myself between the rails? Will my butt stick up too far and get caught in the mechanism? Will anyone notice I've dissappeared? Where does one float off to in this blackest of nights with nothing on the horizon?"

These imagined consequences keep my grounded. Holding on lest my concentration break for one brief second.

My brother was hit by a train. He was the imaginative one. A free-spirit, not dull and responsible like me.

I picture the after affect. He stands there triumphant having stopped a freight train speeding through the flatest stretch of Arizona with nothing more than his bare hand. And I am left broken in half.

My painfully strict imagination serves me well.

Bad Hair

For someone who has "good hair" I've had a disproportionate number of "bad hair" days. These are when my tresses get completely out of control and no amount of rewetting, or product will tame them.

Fortunately I forget about my hair other than when I'm confronted with a mirror or a reflective window as I'm walking down the street. My heart sinks as I try to manipulate it with my bare hands. Combing and unsnarling and flattening in several broad strokes. It satisfies me briefly. Until my next bout with my reflection.

I could counter this by dutifully scheduling appointments once a month, or even every other month. But getting myself to the hairdresser is right up there with ERRANDS. My mind resists. My body rebels. My spirit breaks.

It's not that I don't love a new haircut. I just don't know what my haircut is. When I slide into the hairdresser chair and say, "Cut it however you like," I always end up looking like someone else. And when I describe how I like it - or at least the most recent cut that sort of turned out alright as it grew out - well, that never seems quite right either.

And so I go on. Too much hair in search of a head that will appreciate it. A head that's looking for something not too straight, not too curly. Just right. It's not that it can't be straight or curly. I'm just not up for doing battle first thing in the morning. Besides, the hair always wins.

Last week I took revenge. Arriving home late on a particularly bad hair day, I took to my mop with scissors. There was no preparation. There was no wetting, or measuring or combing. I just grabbed at chunks and chopped. Then I took the shaver and gave it one pass up and one pass down. Voila, a new style was born. It's definitely shorter and not completely even. Though, as Kylee, who has stringy straight hair says, "A few curls can hide a multitude of sins."

I may just stick to this dramatic approach. Forget the appointments and pseudo-conversation. Just wait for a stressful day and start hacking. The stress will either fall away with each tumbling lock or I'll finally have something real to stress over.

Repetition

The office down the hall is used for post-production editing. It's pretty much a one man show. Dave sits at his giant monitor, with occasional reinforcements appearing erratically and unpredictably.

Dave has headphones that he seldom uses. Or perhaps he uses them often and I only notice when he doesn't. Amateur musicians being diced and spliced. I suppose this helps but I'll let others be the judges.

Currently there are incomprehensible groaning noises emerging, with expletives sprinkled in. This seems to be a staple of the post-production life. Typically it is preceded by one snippet (not sure of the technical term) being played repetitively. The modern version of the now extinct "broken record."

Until recently the office in front of me - on the other side of the wall - was used for making mix tapes for Latin radio broadcasting. Spinning was primarily done at night but there was the ocassional mid-afternoon blast. The noisiest moments came from Paco making sales calls. He has one of those voices that rises higher than most and is unaware of its predominance. I suppose this is natural for a radio personality.

Other midday sounds include Peter taking a break from all things lawyerly to pluck out a few tunes on his guitar. This appears to be a 3pm doldrums-buster. It's kind of soothing and helps to pass the time.

I do not own a radio, ipod, CD player or any other music machine. My computer, I understand, is so equipped, but I prefer it to keep quiet and let me do the talking.

Spontaneous outbursts of unrequested music are enough for me. Can you repeat that, please.

Pics

I'm not much of a picture person. I may have owned a camera once. But if I did it must have been a hand-me-down of some sort. Someone else's castaway that I surely cast right away.

I'm pretty good with a disposable camera. The point and click variety. Some of my better shots have been when I forgot to use the flash, hence inadvertantly adding a bit of mood.

Countless photo-ops in sublimely beautiful places have been missed by me. I prefer the mind's eye version. My own private memories.

Caroleen was in Italy recently, a few weeks after we were there. When I saw her we shared stories about our respective trips. Her stories were more vibrant and colorful with the aid of her images.

I noticed most people asked about our trip (to Italy, Greece, Turkey and Croatia, if you're interested) but after recounting a few highlights I learned to ease off. They just wanted the brief summary, the polite response version. If I'd have had pictures I could have strung them along. After all, don't most people just scan the pictures when thumbing through a magazine. The effect is similar I think. They want to see my stories but who has time to read them? I surely don't. If I had photos of my trips they'd simply languish in my bra drawer, which has no room for bras because it's filled with old memories waiting to be sorted.

Fortunately, lots of people enjoy taking pictures. After attending an event I can usually cobble together a few from people who are generous enough to share them. And that's what I've presented here today.

High School Reunion, compliments of Scott.

Smile for the Camera!

Hangin' Out

Work as play! I love days like this. Kylee's at my feet programing her new phone. I believe I'm her first picture. It only took four tries to get the lighting, angle and smile just right.

Had lunch with Robert at the Food Court in Grand Central. It had been much too long! Reminds me that I prefer life on a less serious basis. A little work here, a little play there!

And boy do I shun responsibility these days. In my former incarnation I couldn't imagine how one wouldn't welcome as much responsibility as could be handed out. I thrived on challenge.

Perhaps it's related to self-worth. I think I used to derive a sense of worth by what I was able to do. By who depended on me and what I accomplished. I've grown into a comfortable sense of worth simply by being. Just being me.

The day has flown by. And I've been able to do more work than has been required. Having light-hearted company keeps it all in perspective. It's hard to be complacent while being cheerful.

And now I have just a wee bit more work to get done. Responsibility calls! And I keep answering.

Taking the Plunge

First times are sometimes fraught with fright. But all they are are firsts. Nothing more, nothing less. Imaginary fear silenced by the first step over the precipice.

I've wanted to take a writing class for as long as I can remember. The last time was Journalism 101 in 1990. That was when I was newly embarking on a career change. Testing out the waters.

Then a big wave came in and knocked me off my feet. Divorce can have far reaching repercussions. My career stood still.

For years I made excuses. Not enough time. Too many other responsibilities. The usual. Then I made my mid-life detour and quit working entirely. Plenty of time to do what I wanted. But did I write? Yes, a little. But I only dabbled. Never giving it any structure or support. The new fear was money. I balked at spending on something that was only a hobby. The one thing I had never lost interest in, yet never given much more than the time of day.

So today I plopped down the big check. Little more than theater and dinner for two. Not such a big check after all. It took a lot of emotional coaching to get past denial. It's always easier to make excuses than to make tracks.

I just got the confirmation call. Creative Writing 101 starts in three weeks. And I'm in!

There's nothing like the first time. And it's never too late to begin. Right after getting the call I checked my email and found an announcement from a friend about her first book. Her bio cites a 65-year career as an actress. An after eighty first time must be as exhilirating as the very first time.

Errands

Errands. Don't like 'em. Will do just about anything to avoid 'em.

I know they're a necessary evil but to me Jesus could have said, "Deliver us from errands" with just as much validity as, "Deliver us from evil."

When the refrigerator is completely empty and the toilet paper is down to the last perforated sheets, I'll begrudgingly get myself to the grocery store. At this point it's with shopping cart in tow. I'm the type who makes one big haul as infrequently as possible.

I once worked with a mother of four daughters, which I'm sure quadruples the requests, who said she always shopped at the Super Stores. "I buy everything there," she told me, "If they sold furniture at the Super Store I'd buy it there, too."

Shopping in the suburbs requires so much stopping and going. Park in the hinterlands. Hike to the store. Then cart it all out to the trunk. Repeat at next location until you can't take it anymore. Then drive home and run back and forth from the car to the kitchen until every last plastic bag is in.

I get overwhelmed just writing about it!

It amazes me when I go to the store in New York. The longest lines are always the people with two or three items. Does that mean they're in here every night? How can they tolerate it?

I always think it should be easier to run errands now that I have a Duane Reade on every corner. How hard can it be to pop inside and pick up a toothbrush? But my feet always want to keep walking. To steer clear of the merchandise.

My disdain for shopping has probably saved me thousands of dollars over the years. Think of all the impulse buying I've deprived myself of. If you don't see it, you don't buy it. I've seen gizmos and gadgets galore in other peoples purses that wouldn't even fit in mine.

I'll leave it at that. I have another errand I'm sure to avoid.

High School

Boy meets Girl. Girl becomes enamored with Boy. They get to know each other a bit and Boy decides he'd rather meet new Girl. Girl cries for a day or two until the shuffle offers new Boy for Girl. And so it plays out, for some more often than others.

In the world of Boarding School, where I lived, it took on a heightened intensity. Boys and Girls had breakfast, lunch and dinner together. Weekends could be entirely devoted to each other with relatively low supervision. There were rules. But rules were meant to be broken.

25th year reunion offered new opportunities for this Boy/Girl matching and unmatching to play out. Some came with their spouses. Others left them at home. The games began with those who had none.

Scott liked Pam, and it turns out Pam liked Scott. We weren't surprised when she graciously opted out of dropping us at the train. We liked her better option, too. Just like in High School, I'm curious to know how it went. But now that I've matured it can wait until I see her again. No giddy inquisitions needed.

Jenny had her opportunity, too. And he seemed like a very nice man. A little older, which hasn't lost its appeal. She said she didn't notice he was hitting on her but I'm not so sure. She related to guys the same way in High School. No wonder she showed up at the reunion spouseless. I offered to get his number so she could rectify the situation but it must be she prefers the security of not giving them a chance.

No wonder I didn't want to go. I couldn't be happier in my life and have no interest in boy meeting girl. As in High School, so at a reunion, that was the mainstage. We filled in details about our kids (and for me - grandson) and work and other mundane details. But how fun is that?

The fun part will be hearing about Pam's date with Scott!

The Black Eyed*

"Unanswered questions. Answers unquestioned."

Women oppressed, making their voices heard through the language of silence. The alluring and tempestuous Delilah weilding her power with a glance. Aiesha, isolated by exile angrily flailing the only weapon she could find. Taman, stone cold silent throughout her violation and subdued when telling the tale. And the other girl, alone in her fantasy, stunting her life with each self-fulfilling script.

All these characters collide while in the pink room of limbo at the door to the martyr's room. Though living at separate time periods, their stories echo familiar refrains. We laugh, we sigh, we are disgusted, we sympathize. This is our story, too, we think.

But how can I, a blue-eyed woman, married to the woman of her choice, travelling at will, working for leisure, the daughter of a blue-eyed hippie feminist from Oklahoma, relate in anyway to the black-eyed women, sisters, daughters, wives and mothers of men named Mohammed. How can I claim in anyway to empathize with her plight?

My decisions are my own. Hers are handed down.

But ...

Your rules don't apply to me. I claim the right to claim your rights. I empathize through action. My actions will break your chain of stolen ownership. My dignity will be her dignity. You cannot stop the waves of freedom from crashing through your barrier walls.

I question your answers. Don't you dare question mine.

* A play by Betty Shamieh

The Street Performed

Paul arrived late this morning (not late for him, but late for an appointment) due to detours on his walk from 40th and 2nd Avenue to 40th and Madison. His greeting: "Did you see that steam yesterday? It was amazing." The commute was short this morning compared to the hour it took him to go four blocks last night.

He left five minutes after me. I was heading West. When I emerged from the building I was assailed by the sound of sirens. Not unusual ... but something seemed different. The streets were swarmed with people. Again, not unusual ... but there was something about the vibe of the street that wasn't an average Wednesday evening. As I pushed through to cross the street I was aware that a disproportionate number were on cellphones. Once again, not unusual ... but it wasn't normal. It was fear.

Listening in I picked up on comments such as, "A building just collapsed" and "There was a bomb in Grand Central." Whatever it was, I was heading the opposite direction of the approaching Fire Engines. Walking West on 40th street, and looking back, there was no way to tell, other than the fact that the cars were backing up and out to let the emergency vehicles in.

Approaching Fifth Avenue the crowd thickened. The steps of the Library were filled with people, all looking in one direction. This was typical ... only they were not there to watch the street performers. Today, the street itself was performing. The steps provided premium seats - a front row view of black smoke billowing up as high as the skyscrapers on the vista. Impromtu videographers captured the scene. The smoke appeared to be approaching, so I continued on my way, stopping only long enough to wonder at the few whose clothes were sprayed with mud.

By the time I got to 42nd Street traffic was blocked off. Officers ordered us to head West. It was the first time I'd walked down the middle of 42nd Street. I'd seen this scene before, but only in the movies. Most people struck the classic pose of walking forward with head turned back. Lot's wife representing our common humanity.

Several times I reached out to make a call only to realize - each time as if for the first time - I'd accidentally left my cell phone at home. It was hours before I heard the NEWS. Steam pipe explosion. 1 dead, 26 injured, sinkhole the size of a truck, subways evacuated.

Today back to work as usual, the tone having changed from fear to "that was amazing." It's raining again and tonight I catch the subway downtown from Grand Central Station.

Umbrella Madness

Rain today. With anything more than a drizzle, umbrella madness sets in. New Yorkers, never willing to slow down, begin an intricate dance of aggressive maneuvers.

Entering and exiting subway stations requires an unspoken agreement for those entering to raise their umbrellas just a bit higher than those exiting. This allows for fairly safe passage. Though the trick is knowing when it's safe to raise the umbrella - before getting wet, or once the mob has thinned a bit.

Heading through mid-town, the trick is avoiding the runoff from an opposing umbrellaer. And angling to and fro lest a wandering spoke be lunged imprecisely. On most ocassions the dancers stay in step. After all, this is well rehearsed.

Pity the person who left Brooklyn before it started to rain, unless he happens upon a corner where the umbrella entrepeneurs lie in wait. "Umbrellas - five dolla, five dolla." Where do they come from? While visiting the Parthenon last month I learned it is an international network. The rain started as soon as we approached the base of the hill. "Umbrellas - five euro, five euro." Though the trepidation here was more about maintaining one's footing on the marble steps than any damage an umbrella could do.

The wind tunnels in lower Manhattan are sure to turn your umbrella on you. It's a two-handed job down there. One to hold the frame in place, the other to guide the handle. I've never been on the open sea during a storm but I'm guessing the financial district is somewhat comparable. Every corner has warnings of the consequences of letting down your guard. Wastebins become impromtu umbrella mortuaries.

Not to worry. Just make sure you always carry five dolla.

Getting past number one

And so I will blog ...

Kylee says it's hip. How many grandmothers are blogging? This one's just making an effort to save herself. To bring sanity to the mundane with the hopes of breathing life into the emptiness of unoccuppied stretches of time within the narrow confines of the workday.

This first one's worse than the blank page. It could go in any direction. Aren't the successful blogs oriented around themes? Cooking, games, music or general teenage angst.

I could write about a "funny story of the day" - for myself. Or New York moments - to myself. Or my secret inner thoughts - about myself. I'm seeing a theme coming forth - be myself! I can write about anything, anytime because it's for and to me.

Freedom!! This post will usher me safely past the first blog-o-fear. Then onward I will flow.

Come with me!