Last Saturday, we received our first snow of the season.  (The sudden onslaught of wet snow on Halloween weekend didn't count since the last time I checked, October wasn't a winter month.)  I think we only got a few inches in my immediate neck of the woods; I'm not sure because I was sick and slept the entire day away.  The next afternoon, something snapped and I needed to get a swig of cold city air into my lungs.  I feared going off the deep end if I didn't Get Out Now.  Stir crazy in the apartment much?  So I threw on whatever clothes nearest me and stumbled down the street to the park with my camera fashionably hung around my neck.  I thought the chill would snap me awake, but the day's drear wouldn't seem to let me go.

And then.

Just when I thought there wasn't a hint of pretty or majestic to be found under the gloomy grey of the sky, I spot these cheery red speckles peeking out from the white.

Madison Square Park

2012, January 22

I Wish You Could See All of Them

January 2012, Flatiron

Sometimes I wonder what it might be like if I were strong enough to see the beauty in the ordinary all the time. It can be stunning.  I mean, cups.  Hundreds of them.  With drawings.  And designs!  Strung together!  So whimsical and vibrant.  Sometimes I play a childish game where I pick my favorite among a collection.  I'm usually terribly indecisive, but this time, I was immediately drawn to the sketch drawings of the girl with the raincoat and galoshes and umbrella and, voila, there was my decision.

Untethered

I'm surprised to see how so many of my photos on this landing page present with such an air of secrecy.  It's a bit startling just how closely it reflects me in the now.  Somewhat reserved, inconspicuous, not so much subtle or quiet as...still.  Anonymous.  I guess I'm not doing a good job of describing this observation of mine, but what I can say is that the photos supremely stink of Julia.  So many of them are of inanimate subjects.  So many of them are incomplete, halved, or sliced.  It's accurate, this reflection of how things are. I go to work, I e-mail, I chat occasionally on the phone with a friend or two hundreds of miles away.  I very rarely do things.  When work is through, I relish in the comfort of my blanket and my weekend films.  I'm quite removed from the hustle and bustle of life around.  It's odd.  I know.

That clawing desperation I once had to leave where I was, that gnarly itch to go away from everything, that was so long ago.  But not so long ago to have forgotten already.  I acted, and it released me.  Is that what happens when you end up in a city where you swore up and down you'd never live?  I'd like to know what's next, please.

Most of the time I prefer it this way, being left unbothered.  Untethered.  Without obligations.  Without responsibility to anyone but myself.  It still feels new.  And sometimes I wonder how much of this is really me and how much of that is enabling who I think I may be but am not really.  Or something.

A lot of head space has been dedicated to these thoughts this week.  I've made it a habit of staying up past two, sometimes three, or even four in the morning, trying to sort things out behind the closed French door to my tiny humble bedroom.  That leaves five, four, maybe three hours of on-again off-again sleep.  It's been difficult delivering myself the fifteen feet to the shower every morning.  Once the hot water reaches my burning neck and shoulders (do you know that that is where I carry all my stress?), the cloud begins to lift, but it's a little touch and go getting myself to the other side of the window panes of my French door.

I took this earlier today on my way out the door to return to the office in the afternoon.  Hats and I were never friends, not even acquaintances, but since I got this extra long looped scarf last winter, when the bite of a cold city winter nips, I swaddle my head in its soft acrylic nubs and somehow, something about its softness against my cheeks makes me feel ok.

Spring Was Good Last Year

I took this on my way home from work one Saturday last spring.  According to the digital file stamp, it was April 30th.  I remember that last day of April, emerging from the school and thinking how, while I enjoyed this part-time job, having a six-day work week every week makes each week terribly long.  And spending that sixth day indoors isn't particularly awesome when it's balmy and beautiful outside.  Don't get me wrong: I'm very much a homebody who happily spends entire weekends behind closed doors, but when the city's emerging from a dark cold winter, sun and breeze among cherry blossoms and some greenery can really do wonders for any hibernating spirit, even mine.  And so, on that day, instead of hopping the subway a block away as I usually do, I walked a few blocks to take in a little of the fresh air and spring sun.  I slowly made my way to the edge of the park.  And then through it.  And then all the way downtown.  It's about an hour and a half on foot, from my Saturday job to my place.  It was probably the best hour and a half of my entire week.

Winter's come late, but now that it's here, my skin is reacting mightily.  My hands have begun softly scraping against the torn cashmere lining of my gloves.  So, besides the obvious solution of lotion-ing up (I have no right to complain if I'm this lazy), since I don't have the option of escaping to a quiet shore somewhere where the air isn't so dry and the sun isn't constantly fighting high rise buildings, I'm looking through my photo archives to remind myself of what's in store for us in just a few short months.

The New York

A stranger surfacing from the subway tonight, with me and Pablo behind.

5:36 p.m., a downtown 6 train exit

Different people have different reasons for what makes New York the New York. One of the qualifiers of mine is that folks can comfortably walk around in funky ensembles without drawing negative attention.  There's not another city I can think of where you can wear black nylon stockings, plaid red-pink summer shorts over them, and a floral printed poofy bomber jacket without getting smirks and stares from fellow subway riders.  Here, the style diversity is grand, the anonymity in it secure, and the judging of it nil.  I thank New York for that.

Broked

It came back with a tiny little chip along its lip along with a sincere apology, albeit mixed with unblinking speculation that it might have been there before I lent it out. The thing is, this bowl, one of the few unique pieces of anything I own, was a gift. It was handmade in a pottery studio on Martha's Vineyard. It had been with me since my first apartment out of college. It was one of the few notable items I spent a small fortune storing in a Manhattan storage unit when I left everything behind and landed here in the New York. It would have been unusual had a chip gone unnoticed in my care.

Within twenty-four hours of its return, the bowl did exactly what I had feared.  Despite my dabbing crazy glue to the crook of the chip, overnight, the bowl had angrily split from the tiny triangular missing shard at the top straight down to the base.  Who knew clay would break ever so neatly?

Unable to part from it, I crazy glued the two halves together and resolved to find a way to keep the bowl in my life.  To hold hunky muffins, maybe. Or crispy wedges of tortilla triangles. Maybe some crunchy apples. And so I did, until the crazy glue gave out late this summer.  I let it sit on the counter for a day or two which then turned into something much longer than I care to say.  It hung out for so long that Soeur, the slob of all slobs, even asked what it was doing there. I told her the truth, that I was mentally preparing myself to say good-bye.  You'd think it was my boyfriend.  It took me a while longer, but I eventually mustered up enough will power to suppress the anguish of loss and escort the pieces to the trash room.

Gone was one less beautiful thing from Julia.

But why the drama?  Exactly what was the big deal?  When did I start caring about stuff? As urban girls go, I shy away from things and names and trends.  Sure, I see pretty things all around, but it's one of those things that I see waaaaaay over there, waaaaaay outside of my reach.  And that's ok.  Because somebody's gotta be glam and Julia ain't she.  As I kid, I naturally detached myself from wants, more as a means of necessity than a condition of my character, I think.  When you're little and your friends make out like bandits on their birthdays and Christmas and you get nothing, what are you going to do?  Get a job?  At 7?  I don't think so.  Decades later, that residual childhood discipline has morphed into something more of a stubborn restraint.  I have a difficult time getting myself things.  It's almost ridiculous.  When I do get something nice, it's almost always as a gift and it usually takes me ages to actually use it.  Which brings me back to the bowl...

I don't know how long it was before I stopped staring at it sitting pretty on the shelf and actually used it.  Its deep maroon tones were dreamy.  I made a lot of baked goods in it - that I know for sure.  I was careful to mix by hand worried that an electric mixer might not be good for the little bumps that lined the bowl here and there.  Then, one day, I obliged a friend without thinking twice.  My big red bowl?  I don't have a red...oh, wait, that bowl?  You need it for what?  For your party?  Sure!  Why not?  See you at the party!  

Contrary to what they teach the kiddos these days, I now embrace the new and improved no sharing policy.  It sounds a bit ridiculous, an adult not sharing, but I want to hang onto the things that are beautiful to me, the tangible things that make up the stories from years past, even if it's just a one-of-a-kind handmade piece of pottery I used for pancake batter.

For the Feets

One thing I've loved since the beginning of time are these Korean footies.

My feet this evening (as if you needed this caption)

Our mother always referred to them as dub-puh-sun, but I think dut-sheen is more common now. I really don't know. All I know is that I adore them and have never been able to buy them stateside.  I often wonder how I'd go about importing them to share the love with my American girlfriends. When you're at home and don't want to go barefoot, these are the bestestest.  They come in stretchy or non-stretchy weaves and can be thin or thick, printed or solid, rubber grips on the bottom or not, I mean, I've seen them in so many pretty ways, really.

I hope they stick around because I hear that they're losing popularity in Korea. My cousins laugh when I ask for a few pairs if they're passing through town.  The humor is probably from the fact that ahjummahs (older married women) wear these, not teenagers or young women. As you can see, I don't care.

On a related note, I have just about the least attractive feet you'll ever see on a girl, and these bad boys are the only things that have ever gracefully slipped onto my feet without putting up a fuss. That in and of itself might be motivation enough to start my own importing business for these guys.  The first thing I'd do is ship a bunch to my female readers.  The way I see it, there are only about a dozen of you, which is such a manageable number of packages to bring to the post office, I don't see why I wouldn't!

Yes, I really wrote my first post of 2012 about things that go on my feet. I shall continue to dance to the beat of my own drum. Hope you will, too.

Christmas Eve, on 34th Street

Brushing Teeth Can Mean A Lot of Things

The 13th

I like things simple.
I took a day.
For myself.
Slept in.
Spent time with Photoshop.
Ran errands in Flatiron.
Munched solo on cupcakes.
(Yes, plural.)
Arrived three minutes late for dinner with the sibs.
By virtue of the day, couldn't be mad at me.
Win.

These siblings of mine, they keep me well.

Life-Changing.

No, life changed.  Because the life-changing has officially happened.  Twice: once last night at dinner and now again at lunch.  I'm talking about a few spearmint leaves with two large basil leaves julienned and sprinkled about crunchy romaine and baby greens.  It's delicious!  It's the new reason to do a little dance around here.  A crumble of very mild feta (I don't like the sharp kind) and a slab of lightly pan fried tilapia, and lunch is on.

I'm pretty sure the people looking out their office windows across the way right now think I'm really weird to be shoving greens into my mouth while taking pictures of my plate on the windowsill.  But weirder things have happened, like Monday afternoon when a man ran by me on Fifth Avenue decked out in full jogging gear, running in his bare feet.

People, wear shoes when you go running in the city.  And toss some confetti pieces of basil and mint into your crunchy salads.  It's awesome.  I promise.

I am so pleased that even though it's grey and rainy out right now, the new Ikea floor

lamp provided plenty of light for this shot.

Her Colors

Looks like the Empire blinged herself out for Thanksgiving.  It suits her, if I do say so myself.