And now I remember...

Ah, it was nice to rejoin the living, this weekend in particular. After a week immersed in timelines and editing (job) and coming home to rooms full of boxes (recent move) I felt human again during my stroll to the park--the same Astoria Park that barely a month ago proved to be a haunting experience, with a looming Triborough and phantom Hellgate in the fogginess of a winter snow storm. If my last visit was black, white and grey, this time it burst with the promise of color and new noises, amidst the same old cars and trucks rattling the rafters from above. The pop of metal bats for pre-season baseball practice, the bouncing of basketballs on the pavement, even the slaps of gloves from men boxing in the center of the track, while a little girl played in the sandbox next to them. Soon enough, the pool will be full, chlorine and hotdogs will fill the air, and people will be laying out on the great stretch of lawn with coolers, Frisbees and hookah, as cars and motorcycles promenade down Shore Boulevard below them. And I will be jogging down to the track at dusk, when the heat is somewhat bearable, trying to enjoy the plum-colored skyline as I heave along, the high-school track team breezing by.

So much focus on a busy work week and not enough time to take a breather and merely get outside leads to a loss of sanity, simply put. (The Rolling Stones were right. Lose your dreams and you do start losing you mind.) A little sun heating up my head and a glance at the water, even if it is the East River, reminds me of the trip to Italy I am supposed to be planning.

I must admit, my new route to the park from my new place is a little less enjoyable than my old route, starting off from 30th avenue. I do prefer the long stretch of little brick houses and front yard gardens down Crescent Street to a busy, and at times threatening Astoria Boulevard. But the plus? My new route thus far includes a turn on 24th Ave and a pass of the beer garden. I foresee a well-deserved icy mug of beer and some kielbasa on my way home from the track this summer.

Moving blues...

Hey, stay tuned! I'm moving apartments this week and have had an onslaught of job-related craziness. I'll be back to stress-free trekking next week. Until then, there will be plenty of this going on....

La Vie Boheme, a la 2010

The opposite of war isn't peace...it's creation!

I hate to quote show tunes, but this line from Rent's La Vie Boheme always stuck with me.  Simple but often forgotten, perhaps?

Rent may have become too dated for most of us to still find it shocking or feasible (whether we're meant to find it feasible is another story). I can't help but snicker when I think of my friend Sophia's blunt response to the opening number (How we gonna pay...): "Why don't they get jobs?" And she's just about as bohemian as they come. But, practicality aside, its heart was definitely in the right place. So, let this post be a dedication to the bohemian spirit of being what (or who) you create, rather than merely what you own--and nourishing that spirit amidst the juggling act of city survival.  

It's no longer this fun to be broke in NYC. 

When I finally made a move to this city, I believed it would provide enough juxtapositions to keep an aspiring writer, or just plain restless person, occupied and inspired. Obviously, I don’t think that in order to be creatively proactive you must flee to a chaotic urban setting. Look at Hemingway. Or more relevantly, look at my dear friends: denverette, who is writing beautifully out in Colorado; Jess, who wakes up early to fill her 3-page quota in Montclair. It’s a mindset and a dedication, above all. For me though, NYC suited my current taste for unpredictability and perpetual activity. I also believed it would contain a higher concentration of people caught up in their own, alternative pursuits, enough so that I would have the luxury of being left alone. Not as many people would really question or condemn a general desire to produce artistic work (my actual writing, well that's another story...) when they were at it themselves. So I could peacefully (ha!) become just  another writer, melodramatically wandering the streets, writing about the city with dreams of being published.

See, there is some comfort and even privacy with taking part in the cliché.

I moved here revved up on angst and envy, hoping like so many others to achieve something "meaningful," and to do something of my own accord. Envy seeped in when I saw others doing it--performing plays in LES gardens, reading poetry at the EAR, singing in cabaret shows. It seemed like a VIP world from which I was excluded. But I learned where there is envy, there is a potential path, and the only way to start pursuing it is to basically force yourself in, no matter how unworthy or novice you may feel. And what I discovered is that NYC has plenty of entry points, and even some unpretentious people who will support you along the way.

My unpretentious bohemians.  

While I have intense reveries about living la vie boheme myself (and I mean intense), I have been cursed with the practical, safety-net mindset. I have a romantic view of the starving artist, but realistically, my love of food and cooking alone (as shown in previous posts) doesn't really fit the living-off-Ramen-until-I-finish-my-novel image too well. I do hope that one day I will loosen the net a bit, but as for right now, life is a rather self-indulgent juggling act of full-time job and artistic endeavors. The good part about being in this city though, is that partly because it is so expensive, there are plenty of us in the same lifeboat, often anxious and nauseated by our jobs and time constraints, trying to make enough money to actually enjoy living here, while at the same time creating alternate lives that will hopefully one day become our livelihood. All vacillating between frustrated, to defeated, to suddenly inspired again. This may be why in the field of medical editing, nonetheless, I just happened to directly and indirectly meet some of the most creative people to date who have kept me inspired and pushed me to look at the world beyond the one that is paying my bills.  

So, speaking of those creative people (see, there was ultimately a reason for this extended spiel), I had the pleasure of seeing one of them perform her original songs on guitar and banjo at Jalopy in Red Hook last Saturday.  Per usual, the journey commenced from my flat in Astoria where, further feeding into the theme of  work/art balance, I had the luxury of catching the tail end of some retro, jazzy singing and guitar playing by Colin (comic, musician, engineer by day) and Dana (musician, writer, yoga-enthusiast, fellow editor by day), in a rehearsal that combined their songwriting talents. 

The rest of my lovely bohemians. 

Sorry, we were too cold and buzzed to do much exploring, as I had originally intended. But here is what I was able to catch a glimpse of on the cab ride there. (Though, it's just not the same...)

As mentioned previously, Jalopy is an eclectic and intimate venue, giving a cozy, antiquated sensation, without being too divy or dilapidated. It's a performance space, school of music, and a shop for new and vintage string instruments. There is a large assortment of such instruments hanging on the wall when you first enter, along with a small bar and cafe. The back space opens up to the staged area, with seating resembling church pews and where to the left of the stage is a large and rather frightening Romanesque bust of a man with bulging eyes. Jalopy is also an inspiration for local visual artists, who often come to  sketch performers; their work hangs on the walls and is also sold at the venue.

The show was hosted by Juliet Jeske, providing a mix of comedy and refreshingly explicit (very explicit) songs about dating woes on her accordian and ukelele. (All from a woman who by day graces little girls as Princess Sunshine yet by night produces burlesque.) Jen Kwok was featured in the show, also on ukelele with a full back-up band, overflowing with a melodic mix of spoken word irony and ballad-esque sweetness, sung with a pristine voice. (You can check out her Date an Asian video on youtube.) 

But what I personally found most fitting for this art-in-progress venue was Tinkerbel Tompsin, getting up on stage with her big ol' blue guitar, taking us back to a deep bluegrass Mississippi, on through the mountains of Appalachia and into a punk-rock New York City. Starting the night off fun and racy ( I have an idea of how we can play, come to my house my mama's away), channeling up some Muddy Waters with slide guitar, then switching over to an ancient yet at times theatrical banjo (Dance with me your demons call), Tinkerbel’s music reflects those juxtapostions that not only make her sound so original, but keep fueling those of us who want to stray a bit out of the mainstream while keeping close to our capricious hearts. 

Tinkerbel doesn't what in Batesville?! 

Switching to banjo. 

Finale. 

Perhaps some of the enchantment is seeing Tinkerbel offstage as Leigh Ann, meeting nearly every Sunday with our creative group, and performing musical works in progress and monologues for auditions (she is an actor as well). Then, knowing that in between working those frustrating hours in advertising she's writing, rehearsing, and fitting auditions in on her lunch hour. To look up on stage and see the final package of all of that definitely keeps one inspired and at least levels the boat for a little bit... as it drifts towards the next venture. Whatever that may be.

Photo credit: Photo of Rent taken from: http://media.collegepublisher.com/media/paper937/stills/438f5c7eb0457-85-1.jpg

Astoria in black and white

Today, I capitalized on my time off from work by trudging through the neighborhood to get a glimpse of Astoria Park and the East River in the snow. I haven't really "played" in the snow since childhood, so I really enjoyed crunching through to said destination, watching a father and son pummel each other with snowballs, and witnessing what I can only describe as the Hell's Angels of snowmobiles. Everyone seemed a bit happier on the streets as well, which is slightly odd considering that many New Yorkers border homicidal when it merely rains. But I got plenty of smiles walking about, as though I had become a fellow warrior, fearlessly bearing this unruly weather with my other brave Astorians. 

In any case, I'd thought I'd share some images of a snowy Astoria, if you happened to be smart and stayed inside with a nice cup of tea.

Fearless Athena does not mind the inclimate weather. 

30th Ave. 

A shot down Crescent Street. 

Corner of Crescent and 24th Ave. 

Finally, the park. I had this crazy notion that I would be taking a solitary stroll. Not sure what I was thinking with school out today.

Snowboarders and sledders. 

And to the water, the quite ominous water! Coming down the hill and crossing over Shore Blvd, the wind picked up, the snow morphed to hail, and the icy East River was a choppy grey. It seemed vacant enough, but lo and behold, city of ever-ambitious artists--I encountered several other people happily getting pelted by hail to capture the eerie Triborough in a haze of snow. 

A misty view of the Hellgate, looking east. 

Lonely seagull. 

Heading up Shore Blvd, into oblivion. 

Hellgate looking west. 

Lonely lamp post. 

And back into cheerful territory. 

I appropriately ended my icy escapade at Igloo on Ditmars, where I enjoyed a hot chocolate and a mushroom barley soup, watching the neighborhood come to life out the window, treading, trudging, playing, shoveling. But overall...business as usual. 

Banjos and bad girls a comin'

Tonight, I will be trekking down to Jalopy in Red Hook where I have the pleasure of seeing singer/songwriter Tinkerbel Tompsin and performance artist Jen Kwok for a night of music, comedy, and hotness. (Trust me, they're pretty hot.) Tinkerbel is a friend of mine, whose unusual world of performance,  banjo playing, and interchangeably hysterical to deeply poetic lyrics caught me somewhat off guard this past year. (We originally met as editors in pharma advertising. One of the reasons I continue to love it here; you never know what worlds will unfold by merely starting a conversation.)

If you're in the mood for something refreshing and atypical, I suggest you attend, especially since the threat of snow seems to have diminished. The venue alone is worthy of a visit--my lovely and talented counterpart performed here last month, describing it as "antiquated, rustic and filled with old school charm." You can read his account of the experience here. 

Tinkerbel takes stage at 9PM, followed by Jen Kwok at 10:30. There is a $10 cover charge (beyond worth it), and a bar. Click here for directions. 

If stay sedentary you must, stay tuned for a journey to this new borough, an account of the evening, and of course, some in-depth commentary on the work/art balance.

But sorry, I think I will be traveling via subway this round....

From waste comes art. And plenty of photos.

Dismal day. Dreary day. Nineteen degrees and relentlessly pale sky day. Still, I managed to venture outside this past Saturday, perhaps to walk off the remnants of Friday's Guinness and a spicy margarita from Sweet Afton; only the shock of the cold could really snap me out of it. Since apartment hunting has kept me (rather happily) confined to Astoria, I decided to venture down to the Socrates Sculpture Park, which I haven’t visited much since taking summer pilates. Located in the "up-and-coming" industrial zone off Vernon Blvd and Broadway, on this particular day I sought eeriness to fit my off-kilter mood, and this space (combined with the walk that precedes it) certainly can have an eerie effect.

I walked down to 31st Ave, which I usually follow straight to 12th, turning onto Vernon and continuing directly to the park. This time I decided to zig-zag a bit through the streets, looping down to Broadway... 

...eventually finding myself in future high-rise territory past 23rd Street. It's somewhat of a desert around these parts, and excessive scaffolding, netting and boarded off sites combined with the proximity of the East River gave the stench of potential crime scene. I was therefore surprised to learn that the Long Island City High School was located here, in an immense concrete building that I would have taken for some type of warehouse. 

I picked up my pace, continuing down Broadway, then up one avenue to 30th Road, until I came upon the southern entrance of the park.

In the same vein as many of the community gardens throughout New York City, the park, formerly a landfill and illegal dumping ground, was transoformed into a functioning public space by people of the community in 1986. In one sense, it is no different from its surroundings. It's industrial. It's experiemetal and modern. It's a constant work in progress, doubling as an outdoor museum and educational space, and a work shop for emerging sculptors (through the Emerging Artsist Fellowship program). Raw material is strewn about the grounds—wood, iron, steel, much of which is visible behind a fenced off site on the shore of the river. 

Saturday, it was nearly vacant with the unmistakable smell of sewage ocasionally wafting in from the river. The flags at the entrance of the park flapped in the wind, like constant footsteps. A Russian man played ball with his dog, and another man in a hooded jacket ran across the park with a large stick in his hand. The latter induced a wariness that eventually prompted me to leave. (Too many BBC mysteries have heightened my paranoia.) But not before capitalizing on the best interactive feature of the art currently on display. You can walk on it. At least some of it. This alone cleared up my doldrums for the day, and shifted me into a forward looking perspective as I treaded my way down the yellow-brick road into the Bronx horizon. 

Part of "Launch." 

"Assisted Boardwalk." 

This one has been disturbing and intriguing me since I first saw it this summer. It's entitled, "The Persistence of Agony." 

Unfortunately, I couldn't include all the installations at the park in this post. In which case, I suggest you go explore them on your own. Also, stay tuned for future posts; as the weather becomes a bit more forgiving, the park perks up with various activities, including new exhibitions, yoga and pilates on the waterfront, and cinema en plein air.  

Ah, my route. Can't tell what it resembles. Something...industrial? An arrow prompting me to jump in the East River? (Joke. I'm all for immersion, but even I have my limits...)

View Brief Sculpture Park Walk in a larger map

Greek-inspired pizza: Part II

So, here is what happened post pizza-ingredient pilgrimage.... 


I spent some time beforehand soaking and draining the 4 heads of spinach to remove any dirt, and separated the leaves. Then I quickly prepared the tzatziki, a very basic recipe found on allrecipes.com, consisting of  yogurt, minced garlic, cucumbers, lemon juice and olive oil. 

We chopped the rest of our garlic (about 4 or 5 cloves), onion, tomatoes and olives. In the meantime, the dough was rising (this took about 2 hours) and the oven was preheating at 450. When it was about ready, the spinach was sauteed with some olive oil, red onion and a tinge of parmesan cheese. 

Then the spinach and the rest of our ingredients were ready to go atop the dough (which I placed on a greased pan, putting some flower on the bottom to prevent sticking); this included our feta cheese, which we cut and crumbled, sliced kalamata olives, sliced sun-dried tomatoes, parmesan cheese, a little fresh mozzarella, and chopped tomato. Pizza making is fairly simple (okay, I realize that I got bakery dough and didn't make it...), you just need the right, fresh ingredients. 

Pre-oven, then baked until the crust is golden...

Post-oven. I look a little crazy. It was a long day. 

Post ingestion of the Greek-inspired pie and tzaktki sauce, post enjoyment of some sweet cabarnet, some jasmine incense and Ella Fitzgerald, Colin began to read out the history of the aubergine and onion, of yeast and baking and how the first pizza may have very well developed in Egypt. (Really, who would have thought that this would be our Saturday night?) The culinary escapade was derived from Italian Pizza and Hearth Breads by Elizabeth Romer, equipped with lovely watercolor illustrations. I randomly picked this up from Bonnie Slotnick Cookbooks, a little shop on West 10th Street in the village that is very easy to miss if you're not paying attention. She specializes in out-of-print and antiquarian cookbooks. 

I get somewhat overwhelmed when I start exploring the history of food, delving into  cultures that were, and still are, so largely self-sufficient. For the most part, there is a huge disconnect between myself and food, a certain lack of creativity that stretches beyond cutting back on take-out or concocting original recipes. While I admittedly love the concept of not just running across to Key Foods and, rather, exploring my neighborhood, it's people and variety, with my current life this is what I am resigned to doing most of the time; it's just far less time consuming. I’m not at home aging my own cheese, preparing my own breads, pressing my olive oil. I do not consistently view grains as a "gift of the gods," as the Egyptians did. (Though beer, perhaps...) I take it for granted; I don't even think about it most of the time. 

While one can dream about ancient cultures or retreating to a commune somewhere in the Green Mountains, I suppose there are options available for us city-folk to somewhat restore the balance of our constantly conflicting desires. There are food co-ops. There's urban gardening. There's simply taking a walk through your neighborhood to see what else is out there, to see how other people are doing things, and coming to your own theoretical conclusions on the foundations of pizza [or insert food of choice] and, hence, of life. Yes, it all goes back to the walk. 

Rebecca Solnit has a great moment of insight in her non-fiction work, Wanderlust, on which I will leave you. It's not related to cooking, but it sums up the sentiment pretty much exactly.

  

I had told [my friend] about an ad I found in the Los Angeles Times a few months ago that I had been thinking about ever since. It was for a CD-ROM encyclopedia, and the text that occupied a whole page read, “You used to walk across town in the pouring rain to use our encyclopedias. We’re pretty confident that we can get your kid to click and drag.” I think it was the kid’s walk in the rain that constituted the real education, at least of the senses and the imagination. Perhaps the child with the CD-ROM encyclopedia will stray from the task at hand, but wandering in a book or a computer takes place within more constricted and less sensual parameters. It’s the unpredictable incidents between official events that add up to a life, the incalculable that gives it value. Both rural and urban walking have for two centuries been prime ways of exploring the unpredictable and the incalculable.