...there you are

well, did you miss me? i thought you might, so i'm sending a notification of whereabouts. precisely: 302 eastern parkway, brooklyn, new york (see the link).

i'm a few blocks down from the botanical gardens, the brooklyn museum, the brooklyn library and grand army plaza--where brooklyn's arc de triomphe (manhattan's is in washington square park, as you might remember from the film "when harry met sally"), celebrating the union victory in the civil war, is located. the g.a.p. is located at the northern end of diamond shaped prospect park, which, it turns out, is a great place to play wiffleball with hipsters. the apartment is located on the border between the neighborhoods of prospect park and crown heights, the latter of which is slowly being taken over by the former, which makes me rather feel like a bead of water on the tip of a large eastward-moving wave of gentrification. crown heights is an interesting place, split pretty evenly between large african-american and orthodox jewish communities.

previously, i was staying with sara on the western end of the park, in a lovely place with a great view: of all of lower manhattan, and, from the small window in the shower, lady liberty (i got a great view of the macy's 4th of july fireworks from the top of a roof in williamsburg, the neighborhood right across the river from the lower east side; people there were so nice to me despite my london underground t-shirt, newcastle beers, and renditions of rule britania: shocking, no?). now, i'm pitching my tent with two roomies: one of whom, greg, is a jazz trumpet player with a not-too-shabby record out.

so, during the day i'm working on papers and sending out job applications. i think i've topped over twenty of the latter now, and i'm sick of 1) not hearing from the applied-to company, and 2) otherwise reading the phrase "please apply to our internship program"(read: unpaid labor exploitation for upper-middle class proto-yuppies). the only copy of my resume that of mine that has been as yet seriously considered was the one i slipped to a former boss, after her third margarita. this is what they call a life lesson, i hear. i'd probably go back to school if i wasn't still in it. as it stands, i'll keep on keepin on. [life: a tautology on top of a contradiction?]

but, i'm not at all bitter--erroneous purchases like old typewriters and new books can wait (though i did splurge on a $7 signed copy of martin amis' memoir "experience"). it's great to be back in The City. new york still has the capacity to turn your blood into electricity just by inviting you to walk down its streets. i've gotten to see a performance of arthur miller in a bar basement and attend an art gallery opening, blocks away from john zorn's new jazz club and the small apartment building where "kaddish" was written. They've invited me to read poetry there later in the month. i've seen two sublime thunderstorms (the phenomena for which, i think, the adjective was invented) from various fire escapes and rooftops and have gotten myself caught in a few others. caught in a thunderstorm: a good place to be young.