I was standing on friend_pat (FP) and friend_matt (FM)'s stoop this morning, chatting while FP smoked a cigarette. We somehow got onto majors and what we would do it we could go back and do it all again. Aside from reminding me of the basic premise of the movie Accepted (if you haven't seen it, do it, it is awesome) this was an interesting thing to talk about.
He first said he would consider anthropology because it sounded cool, i neglected to tell him that whenever i discuss my own major, i embellish the cool parts and leave out the very dry academic sections that i have to contend with on a daily basis. Its all Wari eating dead and nothing on the finer points of postmodernism. Anyway. Then he mentioned business, for reasons of a monetary nature. Yeah, that money thing is important. I had to think. What would make me totally happy if money and eating didn't matter.
Pottery and Sculpture. I would go back and do art and focus on pottery. That would be my dream. I would've taken classes here, but they're so damn expensive for materials and everything. I think I'm going to wait and take classes at a community college or something over the summer. Cheap and close by. This art thing doesn't come out of nowhere, I took art for around 5 years or so outside of school when I was younger. I took classes on all sorts of things, but my teachers in grammar and high school killed the want to do art in me, so i stopped and I wish i hadn't. oh well.
What would all of you out there go back and do if you got the chance?
So I stopped into Spice yesterday to see when I'd be working, because Sherry told me over Thanksgiving that she wanted me to work. She told me to be in at 4 and we'd discuss the rest then. Turns out she wants me to work friday, sat, sun, mon,tues and then after christmas too. not just dinner, but fucking lunch and dinner shifts. thats 11-10, with 3-4 off. What the fuck? She also cut down shift pay to ten bucks. son of a bitch. Thank god for the snow, I left early today and refuse to go back. I also have to share tips now with whoever ends up working the weekend days with me. She expects so much of me and then like gets upset that I'm giving her time on my time away from school to work. 10 hour days? i don't even have that much class time.BLAH.
i shoveled when I got home, after almost dying on the roads, and my body is sore and i'm tired right now. i'll blog more later. ciao.
A friend--we'll call her Princess, as opposed to a) her real name, b) a nickname or c) remaining anonymous (I only say this now because the name will pop up here and there, princess is a friend of mine who I can talk writing with, not some stripper, or anything lascivious like that. See look, bonus points for reading and keeping up. Go you.)-- told me to write about air in my next post. She was tired of reading food, and anyway, she said, the tone was whiny. I thought she was a little crazy and a little stupid--air? really? just talk about air?--until I got to thinking about it. Air. Air air air. We breathe it, we cough it, we choke on it, we blow it, we suck it, we whistle it, we do so many things with air. All that crap, though, would make me sound like some pretentious little dick if I talked about it. I'm not trying to go cosmic here, I don't want to. If my ideas ever become to highfalutin, I am almost certain I'd run full force into a sharp object at heart-height.
There are two kinds of air I love. I absolutely would, if they were physical beings, have sex with them. The first is winter air. At home in Jersey (and anywhere it gets really cold. Really,this feeling is only intensified where the air is... fresher than in Jersey), when it gets colder, the air gets crisper. At dusk, right as the sun is going down and right before the temperature plummets there is that short time where you can still see your breath--thick and slow moving like cigar smoke--but you can still feel your face. Sucking the air in deep, all the way to the diaphragm it chills then stings your insides. What feels like an icicle from your throat to your stomach stays there until you exhale and watch the breath wisp away. I love that air. I love that crisp feeling. I love it even more in the morning when, right after you wake up, walking outside for the mail or the paper you can stretch, inhale, and become awakened( get awoken? become awake?) instantly. It is a jolt. And I like jolts.
The second kind of air isn't air I should love. This is a dirty, hot, heavy secret relationship fit only for back alleys and two-dollar whorehouses. I love city air. Let me be more clear, I love New York City air, and the air in the subways and on the PATH, the air that goes between Jersey and the City. I was immersed in that air every day for four years on the PATh twice a day to get to and from my high school. Hot and heavy and slightly saline--whether from the sweat of thousands of immigrant workers, or the dollar peanuts, or other viscous substances emitted by whoever--the first thing that comes to mind when I think about it now, six hundred miles away, are the toxic bright yellow lines on dead gray concrete. That, and steam. The air, even inside the PATH where they pump AC, is steamy and heavy. It sits on your shoulders like a conscience, reminding you that the City is what it is--dirty but full of everything, anything you can think of. But then what is that? A whiff of flowers or something. Perfume. Cologne. Whatever. Something new to the mix, strangling that scent that hangs in the air, another reminder that things are changing. Slowly. The perfume stays for a few moments then goes, but comes back when another tourist boards. Slightly omnipresent, like a ghost, in and out. I don't like the perfumed air. I love the stale, muggy air. It reminds me of day trips to the city--the American Museum of Natural History, the Intrepid, Radio City. It reminds me of high school--all those days dressed in khaki and dress shirts, watching as vagrants begged four feet away, hoping that they wouldn't come close enough that I'd have to interact. Then there is always that burst, that new cologne, a tourist in a cowboy hat or an I <3 New York shirt, forcing their way into a seat, oblivious of the old black grandmother, two grandkids in tow that couldn't make it fast enough from the platform.