having to prove it

My friend J gave me the best advice the other night. "We all know you're smart," he said. "You don't have to go to law school to prove it."

Because, in one sense, that would be what I would be doing. I just hadn't thought about it that way. I think I would be really good at it. That's not the same thing as wanting to do it.

Because I don't actually want to be a lawyer. I already have a master's degree. ("How's that working out for you?") I'm already a hundred thousand dollars in debt. Research, analysis, argument? Totally my thing. Yes, please. But in a completely different setting. I have no qualms about not wanting to be a teacher or professor. So why have I been thinking about law school again so much?

(Re "again": Anyone remember when I decided at the very last minute not to take the LSATs a year and a half ago? I remember that moment very clearly.)

Because I've been feeling a little directionless. That's not actually accurate, but that's how it feels. I feel like I'm going in a few different directions and neglecting the one that means the most to me.

(So fix it. - It's not that simple.)

This is not a new feeling, it's sort of a constant tide that is flowing more than ebbing at the moment, and it's exacerbated by the fact of itself. The anxiety only makes me more anxious.

But it will fade. There are a lot of projects I'm working on, the magazine is off to a nice start, and work (while having nothing to do with my academic/artistic life) is going smashingly. I really do enjoy my job, and my colleagues are my best friends, and I do a better than good job, and I try to do a great job (although beginning the composition of this blog entry while behind the bar on a Saturday night might not support that statement).

So going back to J's statement, if this is partially about proving it, which of course it is, if only in the sense that success is proof of itself, then the only way to do that is to do the work and to not worry about it because worrying only means that it doesn't get done. So what that I'm reading (or not reading) like seven books at the moment and working on (or not working on) like ten pieces? I should start five more of each! Bring it on. It will all get taken care of.

(my) girls and (some) clothes; poetry

A week or so ago I'd been reading an article in the New Yorker about the CEO of J. Crew ("The Merchant," Sept 20,2010), and a few paragraphs in I thought of emailing the article to my sister, as she has aspirations that include merchandising for a clothing company. A few days later I got to the fourth page - because I am only on the train for ten or fifteen minutes at a time these days as my commute is mostly walking and much shorter than it once was - and I happened on Brenda Shaunessy's lovely poem, "I wish I had more sisters." Instantly I decided I would tear out the article and send it to my sister instead, so she could share the poem with me (and our other sister) and also because I knew she would enjoy getting actual physical mail from me.

A few days later, still only halfway through the piece, our 92-yr-old grandmother died. Deep breath. So, long story short, I was able to give it to her in person. I was able to share it with both of my sisters at once, and also with my mother, who has two sisters as well. (And two brothers and sisters in law and cousins and nieces and nephews and an additional generation going to boot. We're a tight family.) But this poem is about sisters. But it's also about family and about close friends and it really meant a lot to me in this moment that happened just after the poem appeared in front of me. Serendipitous.

The J. Crew article I found more compelling at the beginning than toward the end - it was a long article. But I delighted in it at times, and I thoroughly enjoyed the article that followed it: "Tavi Says." It took me back to poring over Harper's Bazaar when I was thirteen, when I ironed my jeans at the prompting of a book about French women sensibility that I bought at Express when it was still what I thought of at the time as European, classic, and chic. (Wow, that seems long ago.)

The piece inspired me to actually go through with cleaning out my closet once and for all and doing a major thrift shopping therapy. It's a new season and I am settling into my new neighborhood. It's time. Am I going to start reading her blog? I don't even read my friends' fashion blogs - or literary blogs or political blogs for that matter. I have a feeling that this will in fact be changing. The creation of trans lit mag was intended to get myself to focus more on the literary world than I had let myself because of my other career in the restaurant business. "So I'll just have two careers!" I said to my father a few hours ago.

I have the feeling I've pushed a very large boulder over a cliff and just realized it's tied to my foot. Here we go.

First days of a new summer

I was looking forward to blogging on the train earlier, about the fact that it officially felt like summer, and then I actually got on the train. It was full. On a Sunday at 7pm. Wtf? I wondered quietly. It was full of families on their way home from Coney Island. Which should have added to my cheerfullness but really just terrified me a little. So much energy. A friend of mine told me that she looked up how to deal with with living across the street from a school in and there wasn't one. This is the second home I've had in New York a block from a school and I can see why. So much energy. And it's beautiful and powerfully creative and in theory I sort of worship it. I just don't want to be around it. I need my solitude. However when a little boy touched my ring where my hand held the pole above his head and then looked at me, waiting for my reaction, I couldn't help but smile. Little moments.

I spent the better part of the rest of the evening preparing an elaborate pasta salad for tomorrow's festivities in Prospect Park. I mixed whole wheat and semolina fusilli pastas with tuna, capers, olives, tomatoes, some hard boiled egg, a little onion and garlic, and in the morning I'll stir in some chopped parsley, baby spinach, and arugula, and a shake of crushed red pepper for a little kick, a little olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Yum.

Normal

What is a normal life? Is it a choice one makes or is it a series of decisions one is forced into? Having found oneself not with a normal life, can one elect to suddenly have one?

The definition of normal is "conforming to the standard or the common type; usual; not abnormal; regular; natural."

Let's look at that a bit. Conforming. To the standard. Common. Usual. Not abnormal. Regular. Natural.

Wow, that sounds boring.

And it always has to me. I've never been one of those people who naturally conforms to the standard, who either naturally or very carefully fits in -- or who longs to be like everyone else when I'm not.

But neither have I swung the other way, overtly rebelling or simply unable to fit in. I fit in just fine, but I wouldn't say I'm normal. Thank heavens.

Several things have prompted these musings. One: I watched a ridiculous number of episodes of Mad Men last night. (It totally counts as research.) Two: a very dear friend of mine wished for a normal life the other night. I believe my exact response was to wrinkle my nose. "Why?" I didn't ask. "What does that even mean?" I also didn't ask.

What it seems to mean, when someone wishes for a "normal" life, is that they feel their life is abnormal and therefore any difficulties they are experiencing are in large part due to a series of much larger decisions that they have made over time that have led them to their current (abnormal) state. But that seems to me a counterproductive way of thinking about things. Wishing for a "normal" life is the opposite of making decisions and choices in one's everyday life that will change the aspects of one's situation that one is unhappy with. Because if you would really have been happy with a "normal" life, then you would have "naturally" fallen into one.

And you'd be just like everyone else.

Ew.