I'm not really sure what this blog is about, to tell you the truth. It's supposed to be my gimlet-eyed ruminations on New York, but it seems like most of the time I just go on and on about myself and the minutiae of my existence - to read it you'd undoubtedly conclude that I'm hopelessly self-absorbed.
It's not that, really. It's just that I don't really know how to blog.. I ought to know -- I've been copyediting the blogs at Nymag.com for a few months now and I think I get their format. Blogs have to be about something - that's the idea. One of these days I will start a blog that is about something - maybe a ramen blog, or one called Lower East Snack.
For now, I guess my goal for this one is to focus more on the writing, so it's an enjoyable read no matter what I'm blogging about, and to make it more sharp-eyed observations, less diary-style gushing.
Thoughts, dear readers, on how Green Eyes on the City could improve?
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
New digs, fresh start
Sometime mid-last week I felt the first twilight chill in the air, and this time I dug my winter clothes out from under my bed and kept them out. Though the next day, when I tried to wear a purple wool cardigan, drops of sweat beaded on the small of my back and I looked around and it was hot.
It's still too hot for turtlenecks and wool. I know this because I moved across town today, and even in a cotton t-shirt and cut-offs, perspiration pooled and plinked off of me and off of the Uzbek movers. After they had loaded the truck (while I frantically finished packing the kitchen) they set off downtown and I did the same, taking a cab so they wouldn't beat me there. What luxury the cab people enjoy, speeding across town with a view on every side! We mole people of subway voyages get none of that, not counting the occasional sight of a rat.
My driver took the FDR highway, which hugs Manhattan's Eastern edge, and as we merged and he accelerated I realized how little I ride in cars anymore (especially during the day) and how apparent driving's precariousness is to me now; I'm skittish in a car. But the view was glorious, grand, sweeping, and every other cliche. The angled light of a late-fall afternoon burned blue above the East River, above Queens' former factories (now lofts), with the Triborough reclining elegantly in the background. I was suddenly no longer consumed by drudgery of packing and moving. I felt as light, and as much in wonderment, as the day I arrived.
It was a good way to begin a new beginning. And that's what this apartment is, a fresh start. It's more beautiful than I had anticipated, the poshest place I've ever had. Of course, my standards for poshness in housing aren't high -- throw in a dishwasher and I'll swoon as though you offered me the penthouse suite at the Ritz. But it's apparent that care has been taken in the details. There's a marble stoop, granite counters, exposed brick, recessed lighting, closets galore (with clever separate storage units above) and brand-new, good quality kitchen appliances.
So it's gorgeous and for two days, until Sabra arrives, it's mine alone. Mine and my boxes -- they have a life of their own. But I'm tired of being owned by stuff, so a lot of this is going. It's smarter to purge before you move, but it took this new place to inspire me. I now see that the old place was a drag on my energy. I'm glad to be out, and so glad to be here. Bring on the new season, the new place, new opportunities and new attitudes.
It's still too hot for turtlenecks and wool. I know this because I moved across town today, and even in a cotton t-shirt and cut-offs, perspiration pooled and plinked off of me and off of the Uzbek movers. After they had loaded the truck (while I frantically finished packing the kitchen) they set off downtown and I did the same, taking a cab so they wouldn't beat me there. What luxury the cab people enjoy, speeding across town with a view on every side! We mole people of subway voyages get none of that, not counting the occasional sight of a rat.
My driver took the FDR highway, which hugs Manhattan's Eastern edge, and as we merged and he accelerated I realized how little I ride in cars anymore (especially during the day) and how apparent driving's precariousness is to me now; I'm skittish in a car. But the view was glorious, grand, sweeping, and every other cliche. The angled light of a late-fall afternoon burned blue above the East River, above Queens' former factories (now lofts), with the Triborough reclining elegantly in the background. I was suddenly no longer consumed by drudgery of packing and moving. I felt as light, and as much in wonderment, as the day I arrived.
It was a good way to begin a new beginning. And that's what this apartment is, a fresh start. It's more beautiful than I had anticipated, the poshest place I've ever had. Of course, my standards for poshness in housing aren't high -- throw in a dishwasher and I'll swoon as though you offered me the penthouse suite at the Ritz. But it's apparent that care has been taken in the details. There's a marble stoop, granite counters, exposed brick, recessed lighting, closets galore (with clever separate storage units above) and brand-new, good quality kitchen appliances.
So it's gorgeous and for two days, until Sabra arrives, it's mine alone. Mine and my boxes -- they have a life of their own. But I'm tired of being owned by stuff, so a lot of this is going. It's smarter to purge before you move, but it took this new place to inspire me. I now see that the old place was a drag on my energy. I'm glad to be out, and so glad to be here. Bring on the new season, the new place, new opportunities and new attitudes.
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