In the oatmeal-and-Internet cafe where I am taking my breakfast this morning, a man sits one table ahead of me in a rather elegant serious-looking Santa Claus hat.
He's about thirty, lean, dark and grizzled. The pile of napkins and tea detritus in front of him indicate he has been here for a while, by himself. He is otherwise dressed in a hiply outdoorsy way: layered T-shirts and a down vest.
What worries me is that it took me about ten minutes to notice that the guy has on a Claus cap. I wonder if I'm in a fog and not noticing much and how much of the time this is the case.
And I wonder why he decided to throw on red velvet and faux ermine this morning.
*Is it just the sort of thing he naturally does: it's who he is.
*Is he a late-blooming sociology grad student monitoring reactions (don't think so, he blinks a little too much)
*Did he do it as one of his personal experiments with overthrowing convention
*Or because he is full of the Christmas spirit
*Or because he feels rakish and daring with that fur band around his ears, showercap style
*Did he do it to meet people (an older man in a knit cap, chatty and opinionated, has just sat down at the next table and engaged him in conversation. They shake hands. They both look happy and relieved.
*Is it a signal I haven't heard about?
I suppose someone might have asked the same questions about why I painted morning glories on my car. Answer: I'd always had an irrational craving that way and didn't examine it too closely. And, it didn't feel eccentric, it felt normal, with a twist of delight.
The two guys across from me are both visual artists, I now hear. The older one, black, garrulous, is articulate. The younger white stubble-faced one listens and says, "Holy crap, man!"
What I'm searching for, I think, is what distinguishes an odd gesture that's a natural extension of oneself in a particular moment, from a what-was-I-thinking move.
Did I mention that my beloved husband surprised me with 80 pounds of goat meat for our 25th anniversary on Monday? (I don't cook, don't eat much meat, tried goat once in 1978 and found it so-so.)
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Thursday, December 11, 2008
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Stephen King and Colonel Sanders
Reminders to persist toward your bold goals:
"Colonel Sanders was in his 60s before he founded Kentucky Fried Chicken.
...Stephen King wrote many novels before he had his first one published.
Dolly Parton was told that she sang like a billy goat and had no chance of making it in show business."
Please note the source of this encouragement: SZ Magazine, a publication on dealing with schizophrenia, created and edited by Bill MacPhee, who was diagnosed with this ailment at the age of 24.
"Over the years of publishing SZ Magazine," he writes, "I've noticed one common denominator: The people who deal well with their illness have persistence. that seems to be the difference between people who succeed and people who do not. People who keep trying...succeed despite their failures."
This is also true of people who don't carry the burden of schizophrenia.
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"Colonel Sanders was in his 60s before he founded Kentucky Fried Chicken.
...Stephen King wrote many novels before he had his first one published.
Dolly Parton was told that she sang like a billy goat and had no chance of making it in show business."
Please note the source of this encouragement: SZ Magazine, a publication on dealing with schizophrenia, created and edited by Bill MacPhee, who was diagnosed with this ailment at the age of 24.
"Over the years of publishing SZ Magazine," he writes, "I've noticed one common denominator: The people who deal well with their illness have persistence. that seems to be the difference between people who succeed and people who do not. People who keep trying...succeed despite their failures."
This is also true of people who don't carry the burden of schizophrenia.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
My Bold Bonus Life: 17
On my penultimate day as a 28 year-old New Yorker (my mini-life on the Upper West Side ends tomorrow), I took a bus to the Bronx.
It was the borough I hadn't yet hit. And I wanted to see it slowly and aboveground instead of popping up out of a subway. The part I saw around 145th, not far across the river, was jammed with fast food and bargain stores and sidewalk merchandise. Lots of narrow and crammed-full stores. One heavily devoted to voodoo. I chose one devoted to ice cream as my turn-around point for heading back to Manhattan. Food report: pralines and cream.
Earlier in the day, I'd had the best bagel of my life (this 18-day one at least) at Hot & Crusty, a bakery/deli a few blocks from the apartment. Twice before I'd been there and not been able to find a table. This told me to keep trying. I was glad I did.
Then for dinner tonight: pasta at Bella Luna, also nearby: cappellini with broccoli that was neither too raw nor too cooked and sun-dried tomatoes and warm goat cheese, etc.
I'm slowing down in the amount of New York I cover in a day, definitely on a trajectory toward my regular life.
At the same time, I feel as if I have all the time in the world. No need to cram anything in, which is a relief, because I'd never be able to cram it all in, even if I had two more days.
I like this feeling about time. I hope it follows me back into my Main Menu life.
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