My family and friends have a bit of a running joke about me: when Lissa gets bored, she rearranges her apartment. There might be a grain of truth to how that started out -- in middle school, I frequently rearranged my bookcases in order to quiet my mind and let me think clearly about what books I had available to read. That led to bedroom rearrangements in high school, dorm room rearranging in college, and optimum space utilization reviews in each of my apartments since moving into my own place after grad school. The process has nothing to do with boredom, however.
How I utilize space says everything about the focus of my thoughts. If a room revolves around books, I'm reading. If it revolves around a table, that's where I'm working. If there's nothing restful to gaze at, my mind is a flurry. I tend to be very focused on one or two things at a time -- even when a million projects are floating in the periphery of my thoughts, one or two steal 90% of my attention. So, when I begin to tear apart space, it's because the things that I'm trying to focus on are at odds with what my environment is guiding me to think about.
I flipped my flat around tonight, and the new space just screams "relaxation," and "camaraderie," and "openness". It makes much better use of light and space -- and after I fix a few things (find legs for my coffee table, re-hang the artwork, choose paint colors, get the bike into storage) it will be perfect for entertaining friends.
Which is really important, because 12 hours ago it was anything but. The whole flat revolved around my desk -- a place where I tend to spend an inordinate amount of time doing work after I've left the office for the day. I have a very nice office -- a gorgeous, new, mission-focused, LEED-certified building in midtown, filled with fun, friendly, passionate, brilliant people doing amazing things. My cubicle contains everything I need in order to be effective at my job -- which means that there is no good reason to have the center of my apartment be a secondary workspace.
The desk is now tucked behind a door where it's more than half out of sight. I have a bag of books, articles, white papers, and notes packed to bring to Manhattan with me in the morning. More importantly, my living room is now focused on conversation, with plenty of seating and space for a group of floor cushions when friends come to visit or a yoga mat when I make time to practice. My sewing machine, guitar, saxophone, sheet music, games, and craftng materials are easily accessible, rather than shoved in hard-to-get-to nooks. The bedroom, even with the desk in the behind-door alcove, is restful. I'm going to drag my Mother and Sister here for two days to help me sort through some things that I still have way too much of, but that can wait until later in the summer. Only a few casualties -- a beautiful vase that I bought from the Corning glass works in college, my 20-year-old alarm clock that was held together with duct tape before taking a tumble from the side table, and the circulator fan (knocked over by the cats in a frantic scramble to escape from the "OMG LOUD MONSTER IN THE WINDOW who's going to EAT us!"). Not bad, considering how many things I usually drop and break.
I have room -- at home -- to think about and focus on the things that are priorities, which means that I can finally quiet my brain a little and have an easier time getting the big things accomplished. My best friend calls this "rearranging my chi." That's a little froufy for me, but whatever you call it, the process works.
Hurrah.
First published at NYC to the Nines
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Sunday, July 12, 2009
"For the first time I feel ... Wicked"
I have fallen in love with the score from Wicked. Makes sense that it's only happening now, since it took me three years post-publication to read and fall in love with the book.
Seriously though.
The Wizard and I is fucking brilliant. Catchy, tuneful, driving, character-building, and a dream-song. And Schwartz -- right, Clay? I haven't mis-attributed something written by an assistant lyricist? Schwartz so cleverly plants the "everyone thinks I'm horrible and evil and worthless but there IS something special in me and I will work so hard that no one will be able to NOT see it" seeds of over-achievement.
And then, of course, the prophecy is so heart-breaking that it makes us want to take this prickly, hard-to-love girl who is so full of dreams and possibility and wonder, and wrap her up in a fluffy blanket and feed her soup and protect her from the world.
If there's one song that would be a sales pitch for the show, that's the one I'd choose.
Then, of course, there's the I'm Not That Girl reprise into As Long As You're Mine, for which reason I've ordered the book of saxophone solos and am dedicating a significant chunk of my staycation to mastering these scant pages. I have never heard a single piece of music so masterfully move from the sweetest spot of the human vocal range to the most mellow, mournful fifth of the alto sax. It's so pure and seamless, it takes a full three beats to realize that there's an interplay of voices at all rather than just lush remixing. I can't wait to learn how to play this.
Although I'm sure my neighbors are sick of listening to it already.
First published at NYC to the Nines
Seriously though.
The Wizard and I is fucking brilliant. Catchy, tuneful, driving, character-building, and a dream-song. And Schwartz -- right, Clay? I haven't mis-attributed something written by an assistant lyricist? Schwartz so cleverly plants the "everyone thinks I'm horrible and evil and worthless but there IS something special in me and I will work so hard that no one will be able to NOT see it" seeds of over-achievement.
When I meet the wizard
Once I prove my worth
...
He'll say to me, "I see who you truly are -
A girl of whom I can rely!"
And that's how we'll begin
The Wizard and I
Once I'm with the Wizard
My whole life will change
'Cuz once you're with the Wizard
No one thinks you're strange!
No father is not proud of you,
No sister acts ashamed
And all of Oz has to love you
When by the Wizard, you're acclaimed
And this gift or this curse I have inside
Maybe at last, I'll know why
When we are hand in hand -
The Wizard and I!
And then, of course, the prophecy is so heart-breaking that it makes us want to take this prickly, hard-to-love girl who is so full of dreams and possibility and wonder, and wrap her up in a fluffy blanket and feed her soup and protect her from the world.
My future is unlimited
And I've just had a vision
Almost like a prophecy
I know - it sounds truly crazy
And true, the vision's hazy
But I swear, someday there'll be
A celebration throughout Oz
That's all to do with me!
If there's one song that would be a sales pitch for the show, that's the one I'd choose.
Then, of course, there's the I'm Not That Girl reprise into As Long As You're Mine, for which reason I've ordered the book of saxophone solos and am dedicating a significant chunk of my staycation to mastering these scant pages. I have never heard a single piece of music so masterfully move from the sweetest spot of the human vocal range to the most mellow, mournful fifth of the alto sax. It's so pure and seamless, it takes a full three beats to realize that there's an interplay of voices at all rather than just lush remixing. I can't wait to learn how to play this.
Although I'm sure my neighbors are sick of listening to it already.
First published at NYC to the Nines
Sunday, July 5, 2009
A Cloistered Day
Yesterday, I spent a glorious afternoon at The Cloisters in the northernmost part of Manhattan. The Cloisters is a branch of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Like the Isabella Stewart Gardiner museum in Boston (which is one of my favorites) the collection is very specialized, and curated in such as way as to show off the medieval art and architecture of Medieval Europe in a setting that enhances our understanding of each piece's origin.
I always forget the medieval predilection for gruesomeness until I'm exposed to large collections of art or artifacts. As I pointed out to my date while we walked through the glass room, I am repeatedly disturbed by the fervent obsession with sainted reliquaries and their contents that museums tend to glorify, considering that non-religious obsession with the remains or belongings of individuals who met violent ends is an indication of potentially sociopathic tendencies. And yet there's something beautifully and disturbingly fascinating in the art of an entire culture that was so focused on capturing the rictus of death, that last instant between life and death.
Having an nearly endless supply of architecture to examine as well as the art provided a grounding counterpoint to the violence of painting, carvings, and statues. The sweeping arcs of ceiling trusses and grand entryways, the gorgeous stained-glass windows set into alters, and the incredible detail in the smallest of spaces in order to adorn the simplest room with detail and interest and beauty were breathtaking. The photo below is one of my favorites of the day.
First published at NYC to the Nines
I always forget the medieval predilection for gruesomeness until I'm exposed to large collections of art or artifacts. As I pointed out to my date while we walked through the glass room, I am repeatedly disturbed by the fervent obsession with sainted reliquaries and their contents that museums tend to glorify, considering that non-religious obsession with the remains or belongings of individuals who met violent ends is an indication of potentially sociopathic tendencies. And yet there's something beautifully and disturbingly fascinating in the art of an entire culture that was so focused on capturing the rictus of death, that last instant between life and death.
Having an nearly endless supply of architecture to examine as well as the art provided a grounding counterpoint to the violence of painting, carvings, and statues. The sweeping arcs of ceiling trusses and grand entryways, the gorgeous stained-glass windows set into alters, and the incredible detail in the smallest of spaces in order to adorn the simplest room with detail and interest and beauty were breathtaking. The photo below is one of my favorites of the day.
 |
| From Trip to the Cloisters |
If I hadn't packed up my camera before the post-Cloisters picnic, or the wandering through Downtown Brooklyn and along the Promenade for fireworks, or the return trip searching out Independence Day pizza I might have a different favorite. But even taking snaps during one part of the day is a vast improvement over my usual, "Oh, I wish I had a photo of this but I left my camera locked in a drawer at home again," complaint. But I'm very happy with the results of my first lesson in how to take a photograph.
Not to mention totally thrilled with the day.
First published at NYC to the Nines
Friday, July 3, 2009
Tea with Emerson
I didn't go running this morning, but after crawling out of bed after a totally decadent holiday-weekend 8 o'clock lie-in I did take a bit of a walk down to Rice for steamed milk with a bit of chai. Molly is sweet so I like popping in every now and again, even though I can't consider tea-bag-steeped chai a suitable cup of caffeine bliss.
This morning we got into a debate about sweeteners.
Molly is a big fan of agave syrup as a sweetening agent for warm beverages, and was tremendously disappointed when I shared that I've never found it satisfying. I explained that, like honey, the amount of agave that can be dissolved properly into a hot beverage diminishes as the liquid cools. In order to get the appropriate ratio of sweet to tea, I have to place the honey and tea together in their vessel (cup, pot, pitcher) and then pour just-off-boil water over both simultaneously. This works beautifully with herbals, and even with less delicate white or green leaf teas, but will ruin a cup of robust black tea -- particularly the full-bodied assams and masala chais that I prefer.
Quality black teas are at their best when allowed to steep properly -- in a pre-warmed vessel cozied to trap the heat, with pure, cold, filtered water brought to precisely the right temperature. Nothing else should be added to the pot -- not sweeteners, citrus, creams, flowers -- nothing. Once the cozy has been lifted and the leaves discarded, then the additive fun can begin -- sweetener, then cream (or citrus, as taste may indicate), then any new fusion "spice blends" that one might want to try. (Personally I don't understand why anyone would sprinkle raw cinnamon atop a perfectly balanced cup of chai, but to each her own.) As most of my black teas require four-and-a-half minutes of steeping time, liquid sweeteners and coarse-cut raw sugar are out. I prefer a spoonful of finely granulated white table sugar trailed in then stirred continuously through the dissolution point (about 35 seconds), followed by a splash of foamy steamed milk. (I don't have a steamer/frother at home, thus my occasional walk to Rice or Tillies -- when I'm not agonized for time and settling for Starbucks, which makes a delicious drink that isn't precisely "tea".)
It occurs to me that I'm more than mildly fanatical about this. Given my personality, that's only surprising when you consider that I bake without recipes -- palming stuff together out of the cabinets to make delectably bready, fruity, chewy, chocolatey, desserty things with relative regularity.
'Salright. Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, after all.
First published at NYC to the Nines
This morning we got into a debate about sweeteners.
Molly is a big fan of agave syrup as a sweetening agent for warm beverages, and was tremendously disappointed when I shared that I've never found it satisfying. I explained that, like honey, the amount of agave that can be dissolved properly into a hot beverage diminishes as the liquid cools. In order to get the appropriate ratio of sweet to tea, I have to place the honey and tea together in their vessel (cup, pot, pitcher) and then pour just-off-boil water over both simultaneously. This works beautifully with herbals, and even with less delicate white or green leaf teas, but will ruin a cup of robust black tea -- particularly the full-bodied assams and masala chais that I prefer.
Quality black teas are at their best when allowed to steep properly -- in a pre-warmed vessel cozied to trap the heat, with pure, cold, filtered water brought to precisely the right temperature. Nothing else should be added to the pot -- not sweeteners, citrus, creams, flowers -- nothing. Once the cozy has been lifted and the leaves discarded, then the additive fun can begin -- sweetener, then cream (or citrus, as taste may indicate), then any new fusion "spice blends" that one might want to try. (Personally I don't understand why anyone would sprinkle raw cinnamon atop a perfectly balanced cup of chai, but to each her own.) As most of my black teas require four-and-a-half minutes of steeping time, liquid sweeteners and coarse-cut raw sugar are out. I prefer a spoonful of finely granulated white table sugar trailed in then stirred continuously through the dissolution point (about 35 seconds), followed by a splash of foamy steamed milk. (I don't have a steamer/frother at home, thus my occasional walk to Rice or Tillies -- when I'm not agonized for time and settling for Starbucks, which makes a delicious drink that isn't precisely "tea".)
It occurs to me that I'm more than mildly fanatical about this. Given my personality, that's only surprising when you consider that I bake without recipes -- palming stuff together out of the cabinets to make delectably bready, fruity, chewy, chocolatey, desserty things with relative regularity.
'Salright. Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds, after all.
First published at NYC to the Nines
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