last night in Woodstock

glow-in-the-dark plant behind Riva's mom's bookstore

Chaya

Steven, Grandma, Debra, and Scott

Larry, Steven, and Debra

pouting Chaya

study hour with Riva and Tanya

after the turkey; sigh.

Last night, Riva read me the funniest children's book, The Latke Who Couldn't Stop Screaming: A Christmas Story at the bookstore where Gaela works.

I tried not to laugh too much, what with the broken back.

Attached to a children's book, we found a pony necklace, which I am proudly sporting.


More pictures of Riva's home taken this morning:

Thanksgiving in Woodstock

My back went out on Wednesday. I went to the E.R. I still wanted to come up to Riva's for Thanksgiving. Most of these pictures are taken while I'm hopped up on Vicodin, Motrin, and Flexeril.



























Unbeknownst to me, after insulting the entire Criterion Collection (and yes, I DO like some of the Criterion movies including Kicking and Screaming, My Own Private Idaho, Wes Anderson movies, Jules et Jim, and I Am Curious Blue and Yellow) I ended up mingling with Tom Hurwitz during Thanksgiving. He is the son of Leo Hurwitz (blacklisted documentary filmmaker). Turns out Tom was interviewed for the Criterion edition of Native Land. Somehow Riva is related to these people. She's a star!

go ahead and yell at me

but I think the Criterion Collection is stupid.

Here's why:

I don't like being told what movies are supposedly worth watching. I don't think Euro-centric movies are necessarily more arty, more intellectual, more worth my time. I DON'T EVEN LIKE BLACK AND WHITE MOVIES! Most of the time.

Anyway, I'm tired of Criterion. I am not more cultured now. This month, I have wasted too many hours fast-forwarding through Criterion DVDs. I miss thinking for myself and I am officially revoking my membership to the Snooty Film Society.

Give me Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants any day.

p.s. You are welcome to point out all of my contradictions. I am not afraid.

you made a hole in me

Remember the art I left on the roof of my old apartment in the East Village? I just found old pictures of Jen H and me in college when I was right in the thick of this project. Riva must have taken these.

Currently, I'm working on a story that is working against me. Nothing happens. Everything has to be conveyed through conversation over dinner. My inspiration is the short story, "Mermaids" by Deborah Eisenberg. When do I get to be as brilliant as Debbie?

Let's take a look at the genius in action: "Because when people got angry, they were angry and then they stopped being angry, and it was something that went from them to you. But when people were disappointed in you, it was something that went from you to them. It was as if you had made a hole in them, or had gotten a spot on them that could never be taken away."

Um, hello! Is anyone witnessing this?! When do I get my Eisenberg brain transplant?

*getting me through: coconut tea from The Chocolate Bar and Now Professional Care E-Oil
*reading: Saul Bellow's The Actual (so far, a little worried Bellow's a bit of a racist. will keep you posted.)

love thy neighbor

I heard someone leaving their apartment on my floor this morning, and I looked out the peephole before stepping into the hallway to avoid contact. But my next door neighbor had been out of peephole range and so I ended up talking to her.

This was the second and a half time that I met Sandra. But this time I found out that she's a poet and last weekend she was at a poetry conference in Massachusetts with Steven Cramer, the director of my graduate school. She teaches writing at a community college in the Bronx and she is working on publishing a collection of poems.

And she's Jewish.

In a way, I'm glad to know there is a real future for me in writing (she's at least twenty years older than me), and to know my next door neighbor is interested in similar things.

On the other hand, now I have to be on my best behavior so that she doesn't start to dislike me as a neighbor. Anyway, small world.

Now I'm at the Cafe Bar in Astoria, cranking through my Raymond Carver craft essay.

I had a lovely dinner with Aimee last night, which was a great introduction to the weekend. Tomorrow, she may come back over so that I can model her handmade/knit paper halter top for her portfolio. She wants a bosomy model. Who better?

*bored by: Masculin Féminin

quick, before Aimee freaks out

I have to blog more. That's the not-so-passive comment Aimee keeps leaving on my blog.

Update:

I didn't get in to the National Book Awards. Instead, I went to see Umberto Eco talk about his two new books. The place was packed. The highlight was when he spoke of the world in between beauty and ugliness. He mentioned Barbara Streisand as an example of this. He calls this category, "charm." But I think she's beautiful.

While standing around before the reading, I flipped through an architecture book and came upon a drawing (called The Story of the Pool) by the Dutch artist, Madelon Vriesendorp. I believe her drawing is based on a story written by her husband, also an artist:
"In the late 70s Rem Koolhaas wrote a parable on the political trajectory of Constructivism called The Story of the Pool, in which Constructivists escape from the USSR in a self-powering Modernist swimming pool, only to die, after being criticised for much the same reasons as they were under Stalinism, soon after their arrival in the USA. Meanwhile, many of the original Constructivist buildings are poorly preserved or in danger of imminent demolition."

I can't find the image online (but I've supplied another image created collaboratively by Rem Koolhaas and Elia Zenghelis, with Madelon Vriesendorp and Zoe Zenghelis called Exodus, or the Voluntary Prisoners of Architecture, 1972), but it reminded me of the floating pool idea that Aimee?, Joe?, and I? (not sure who was originally involved) came up with for New York. Only to find out that someone had stolen our idea and created it ahead of us.

All this is to say that I really miss swimming daily. I need a pool. I heard that there's one at Astoria Park. As soon as I stop being lazy, my life is going to be amazing.

In the meantime, I've got a new cultural literacy project. (Aimee gets Kanye, I get Madelon.)

Tonight's plan:
*spy on a friend who is on a blind date?
*The new Coen brothers movie, No Country for Old Men.
*listening to Any Old Wind That Blows by Johnny Cash

about time

Past:

Mom and Dad came to town with a box spring on top of their giant-mobile (sorry, Al Gore. My parents are apparently going Republican if driving a monster car is any indication of how they feel about the earth) and a nightstand inside of it. (This is where they will say something about how I wouldn't get the box spring, etc. if it wasn't for the giant car. Do not even try to put this one on me. But then they admitted to not really reading my blog anyway, so maybe they won't notice that I'm accusing them of being part of the Religious Right.) They treated me to meals, houseware, books, and a lot of desserts. A highlight for them was meeting the Great Theater G-D, Tom Stoppard and much freaking out ensued.

Watched a million movies (including the new one, Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead, which was mostly really good), went to dinner with the youth of tomorrow at Angelica (Not-Morris accounted for), and saw some art both in a small gallery and at the big sheep farm known as MOMA. Bah!

I’ve taken back my feelings about Roni Horn. I’m working on distinguishing my dislike for an individual artist and their artwork.

Present:

Tonight is the National Book Award Finalists Reading at New School. That’s twenty authors. The chances are high that at least one of these authors will be an amazing reader. (And this is the second time I’ll be hearing Lydia Davis read, so that’s a treat right there!)

I think I’ll skip my Aveda brow waxing to make sure I get a good seat. Lucky you, getting to learn the play by play.

Future:

Thanksgiving in Woodstock! Hippies unite. I cannot wait to see my beloved Riva Liorah. Her family will spoil me with good food and I’ll get to be at her house, which means instant relaxation. But before I go, I have to write my final submission for the semester. This means Hiber Nation.

***

Other movies watched:
Monkey Business with Marilyn Monroe (boring, but funny at times), Closely Watched Trains (endearing and smart, a bit boring at times), and Pillow Talk with Rock Hudson and Doris Day (supremely boring).

Reading:
Friend of My Youth by the great Alice Munro (It’s good to be back with you, Alice.)

Listening:
Mexican Blue by Jolie Holland (in preparation for Joe and my extended separation. Yes, yes, big grossed out groan here. That’s fine. You can’t stop me!)

Best cure for the winter blues (and if not cure, temporary alleviation):
Skin Milk Foaming Bath Soak ($5.99 at Ricky's)

Let the obsession continue

My parents and I took a trip to Ikea. I didn't end up with much, but check out this Swedish tribute to Jens.

In other news, I've moved from preparation to actualization in the hibernation department. (So boring am I.)

*Finally saw Blade Runner (And it's on the big screen. So good!)
*Joseph made me homemade chicken noodle soup for my horrible cold. He even made the noodles and used a whole chicken.
*Reading Claire Messud's The Hunters, which I want to like more than I do.
*I heard Amy Bloom read from her new book, Away. Generally, I run from the hills when I know something is historical fiction, but it's Amy Bloom. Deborah Eisenberg and Amy Bloom are now in the running for sixth place (best contemporary writers according to me).
*listening to Katy Song by Red House Painters