variations on a theme

Okay, so here's the deal. There are frillions of cool people online. And there is only one little me. If you would like to read me, I'm flattered. But I can't read everyone. And concern for my privacy has caused me to switch to friends-only entries. So leave a comment and add me if you are so inclined, and I'll go over and check you out, and I may add you back. Or I may not. Either way, I wish you well :)

Ladies and gentlemen, in the video link above, I give you Rochester's Clock of Nations. Formerly the centerpiece of Midtown Plaza, it now graces the city's airport, where I had a chance to film it in action as I waited for a delayed flight. A fascinating piece of public art, inspired by the Disney "It's a Small World" ride, and run entirely by old-school clockwork technology, it features displays on 12 of the nations of the world, each set to an hour of the clock. There's Ireland, full of leprechauns! Puerto Rico, our then-recent conquest! Canada, lifeless and inert! Scotland, well-known for its... native unicorns? And of course the United States at twelve o'clock, champion and leader of all cultures and all peoples. Note the Confederate flag in the bottom row. One wonders at certain of the chosen nations, though - what prompted the decision to feature, say, Thailand and Poland? What would the display for England have been like - full of tea drinking and matchstick arranging? And am I the only one to find the whole thing sort of deliciously creepy?

To learn more about the original dreams Rochester had for the now-derelict Midtown Plaza shopping center, please enjoy this article from an April 1962 issue of Time Magazine. It is notable both for the phrase "lively Vienna-born leprechaun" and for the idea that Midtown could ever have been considered "glamorous."

Reposted from Facebook.

Sometimes I forget to charge my cell phone. Sometimes I don't realize this until much later. Today, this was the result:

"Hi Katie, this is [name] from Columbia University. I have some good news for you..."

That's as far as I got. That's as far as I needed to get.

Holy shit.

I heard the whooping and music increase, and I ran to the window.

"They're marching!"

"What?" My boyfriend and his roommate jumped to their feet from where we had all been clustered around CNN.com Live, whiskey bottle and shot glasses now empty. The noise from the street was growing louder.

Looking down, we could see the corner with Flatbush Avenue, a flash flood of people streaming down from their apartments, joining the already enormous group which had come marching up the street. There were red and blue police lights swooping and darting across the windowless expanse of the CVS and the billboard above it. The sound of drums struck up, a lively, dancing beat. Firecrackers popped off in the distance. And then, that milling group of people began to march.

"I'm going down there!" Geoff was already throwing on his boots and his leather jacket. I was hesitant, years of suburban-white-girl training making me wonder about the safety of joining an excitable mob in a poor neighborhood.

Then I realized: fuck that way of thinking. By popular vote, an enormous majority of this nation has decided that we're better than that.

We scrambled into jackets and shoes, and hunted out our IDs, keys and cell phones, just in case. Ran down the flights of stairs, out the door and into the street, arm-in-arm. We were one of maybe three or four clusters of two or three white people each, but there were hundreds of people, easily 500, out there, dancing their way up Flatbush Avenue, snapping pictures, hugging and calling out to each other. We walked and we danced, and we laughed and talked with strangers; we took photos of our own, and hugged and kissed, and marvelled at this night. We were not the only ones saying this was a night to tell the grandkids about. We were not the only ones celebrating the march of history.

We did this, America.

And we will do more.

I'm in Alan's neighborhood, which is predominantly black. There's screaming and laughter and drumming and car horns in the streets. There is so much joy tonight.

Fuck yes, America.

I had a party and people came to it and had fun! And ate cupcakes! If you had told the young Katie-child, perhaps around the age of 13, that to celebrate turning 25 she would eat cupcakes and dress in costume and debate the merits of My Little Ponies amongst a crowd of similarly-disported friends, the young girleen would have been, perhaps, perplexed? How strange - by 25 one was supposed to be a grown-up, doing such grown-up things as having a mortgage and a fiscal solvency. And young Katie would have put it away in the back of her mind, to worry about later, and gone back to whatever she was doing at the time, which probably involved writing suicidal poetry or being allowed a single Taco Bell taco for dinner. Maybe sauce, if she had been good that day. If she had earned it.

I have acres of time, simply acres, unspoiled, pristine, full of scampering wide-eyed woodland creature-friends, before I need to get college apps out. This is reassuring to me. I have been taking little baby steps forward, for example attending information sessions where I scribble down details into an enormous, radioactive-orange binder. I raise my hand to ask about resources for older, returning students, only to have every overprotective parent's head swivel wildly around, as they commit to memory the sight of this outspoken, dangerous twentysomething, who will surely devour their tender little froshspawn. The froshspawn ask questions such as how can they possibly choose between majoring in psych and education; the tour guides discuss dorm life and why they haven't chosen a major yet. I tend to wander off once the tour part of the session is underway. Fortunately, I am no longer going to college for the "college experience," which seems to consist of sleeping in piles of your own dirty laundry and growing fat off of terrible, inedible food. I am going to take classes and kick ass and go home and hang out with actual adults in my free time. The ones I was talking about My Little Ponies with.

I have also learned that requesting a course catalog to be mailed to you is like sending a letter to Santa. Maybe somebody does get it and reads it and briefly thinks about honoring that request, but you're much better off getting that pony and that plastic rocket and that undergraduate degree information by your own efforts. (Or, in the case of outlandish Christmas presents and collegiate funding, by pestering your family to give it to you.)

My therapist asked me recently what I like to do for fun, and it genuinely floored me. I'm not a hobby person. Oh, I make a pretense at knitting, but I have long since realized that that craft is mastered by people who tend to possess at least some degree of analytical, mathematical, organizational sense, rather than my periodic outbursts of "HAI GUYZ IM SO KREATIV I MAED A SCARF." While I would like to keep that up as well, I wouldn't mind working out again regularly, as that was genuinely pleasurable for me, and also my arms are getting too soft. Aside from that, though - hmmmm, what? What do twentysomethings do for enjoyment, aside from drinking exuberantly? Things I enjoy include making art* and being active (but not yoga, I've finally decided that's too yuppie for me and I like the good healthy sweat of a tough workout better) and helping people out, possibly in a volunteering capacity? I will have to muse on these themes later.

Basically I am crazy and thinky and disorganized and alive.

*Damn it, I have just realized I can't ever buy this shirt, it would make it seem like my nipples were not only talking but inviting your gaze.

I don't often throw up an entry just for the sake of linking to something, but today's XKCD is too much the best thing ever not to. I wonder where my copy of House of Leaves is... I'm due for a reread. I wonder which IHOP in Rochester he's referring to, as well. My money's on the one in Henrietta.

And a deliriously happy birthday to my dear Joanna!

What's the difference between an inexperienced, nasal-voiced, small-minded, patronizing, horrifying little woman with a cutesy narrative, absolutely nothing to say about policy, and a willingness to ride the idea that she should be lauded as a feminist role model simply for existing; and a vice presidential candidate?

Evidently nothing. I'd prefer the pit bull with lipstick.

Quickly: No net access at home, drowning in too much work the last few weeks, and somehow managing to have this strange thing called a social life. I know, right? I am at the boy's now and he made food and stuff, so I should go eat it and hang out or whatever. But I just wanted to reassure you all that I am alive, and I owe many of you emails (especially Cami!) and that I will get to it soon, I swear, life just needs to calm down a bit. Loves! Time to get back to drinking Veuve Clicquot and eating cheezy rice.

All right, the last entry proves two things: I have some pretty awesome and intelligent friends, and the thought we had at work today* was correct. If you didn't check out the previous post already, I asked which female artist would be the first off the tip of your tongue if I asked you to name one. It's too hot for me to wonder if the grammar on that last sentence was correct, so I'll just go ahead and say ( Read more... )

*Yes, we only had one thought today. Hey, you try working in a former sweatshop** where the AC is broken on a day with a high of 98.

**I work in the Singer Building, and where my desk stands there used to be row upon row of sewing machines.

Here's a little poll, brought about by a discussion at work. Without stopping to think about the coolest one you know, or that one you learned about whose name you just can't quite remember and have to Google, please tell me the name of the first female visual artist that pops into your mind, when I ask you to name such a person. And don't look at other people's comments first.

Also feel free to note whether you have formally studied art history before.

More on this later.

Thirty second post: Back in Brooklyn, so tired, received unbelievable amounts of loot, had so much fun with family and friends, miss everyone, left cell phone in cab on way home, will sort everything out tomorrow, so tired, must sleep.

If you were a part of the friends-list-cut I just made, it's not because I don't like you. Odds are pretty damned good that I like you very much. It's because we never comment on each other's LJs anyway, we're never in touch via any other medium, and frankly, I spend too much time on this website as it is. Yes, I'm saying it's not you, it's me. Please don't take it personally.