Girlwich

Sigh. Rainy day. No bike ride. Lots of walking around in wet trousers. A blood test. A visit to the physical therapist's office, which is nice and has jazz playing in it but still involves being poked in the most painful spot on my butt.

My mom is getting me a massage for my birthday, and I am not sure whether to look forward to being kneaded into a more relaxed shape, or to fear the pain it may involve.

I am sick at heart lately, I'll admit. Nothing terminal, and nothing really unusual, but it does make me awfully weepy when a fairly good romantic movie comes on TV. And it makes me not have the energy, sometimes, to talk to friends who call all bouncy (Annabelle likes rainy days; more power to her) and just want to chat, like friends do.

I know what the trouble is, sort of, but there is nothing to be done about it at the moment. I have an awful lot of shit in front of me, and I have to just keep plowing at it. And that isn't even the worst of it.

I remember feeling this way, a long time ago, and I thought I might have grown out of it somehow. Well, I have grown out of some of it, actually. I no longer feel incomplete as a single human, and I sure don't feel any desire to get married or "settle" or go through any other of those proscribed motions.

But unfortunately I seem to have retained the ability to be lonely. Not even garden-variety lonely, but to feel longing. And of a peculiarly annoying sort - it's not attached to anybody in particular, and it's not attached even to a specific vision of a somebody.

I don't know that I'd want a boyfriend if I were offered one. I just know that not being offered one is not doing me any good, either.

I was talking to a friend some time ago, about her mother, and how she'd never quite found anyone who was right for her. It's a variation on the theme that's the black-hole center of virtually every single-girl movie and TV show ever made, but the end of that, always, even in the supposedly singles-positive world of Carrie and the girls (though I'd argue that it's absolutely not singles- positive), is that the girl's "problem" is solved by meeting The Right Guy.

It may well be that it just doesn't work that way in real life, and maybe what I am feeling is step A of coming to terms with that. Maybe that's what my hesitation to even wish for a boyfriend is about. Maybe I am starting to recognize that any romantic relationship is always going to fall short, or that I want a degree of autonomy and freedom that is only achievable when one isn't paired off like one of Noah's monkeys.

Maybe it's because I've realized that my soulmate may well be that bicycle hanging on my wall. He's damn sexy, that's for sure.

Do you ever have trouble figuring out what's going on in your very own head? I am having one of those days. One of those weeks, actually. Maybe one of those fortnights.

While I was tie-dyeing some socks today, one of the color combinations got rather out of hand, and I kept trying to get a handle on it, adding darker and darker greens until, well, I have really no idea what I'm going to end up with. I mean, it's tie-dye; it's always a gamble.

But lately, I swear that's a metaphor for my whole life. Or least the current state of it. I really have no fracking idea what I am doing.

I know that I am not quite happy with a lot of it. I know that I am suddenly overwhelmed with loneliness or longing. But then when I imagine what it might be like to have a boyfriend (which is generally the answer to that particular sort of longing), well, the very idea makes me want to wriggle away and go dancing at some giant mythical party with a hundred gorgeous slave-boys.

(Shut up, I know slavery is wrong; this is a fantasy. And no, my fantasies don't generally run to subgugation; it's just that slave boys are often depicted in nice little purple togas, their skin lightly oiled, and equipped with big bunches of grapes in the one hand and nice fat palm fronds in the other, the better to wave at me with.)

Okay, fantasy over. Where was I? Oh yes, wriggling away from the restrictive clutches of having to say yes to just one boy.

The trouble is, I am not being presented with that problem. I am not being presented with any problem having to do with any specific boy.

I am being presented with a singular lack of boy. A few of them were emailing me, and vanished, as the email boys often do, before you ever get a chance to meet them, even when you've taken the bold step of asking them out and they've said sure, and then when you try to arrange a date, nobody has time that week and so you agree to meet next week, but by next week they've either lost interest or found some magical perfect mate with whom they are off on some Hawaiian island, and there you go, now you are back to the slave-boy fantasy.

In fact, I'd settle for it simply being Celebrate the Bicycle Day again. Every day. Because it's occurred to me not once but several times over the last few days, while I was milling around in my metaphorical mess of color, that I really ought to make it a prerequisite that any theoretical boy with whom I might theoretically become involved at some potential future date should of necessity be a Bike Boy, and preferably, a Bike-Obsessed Boy. And in fact, really it might be best for all concerned if he rode fixed-gear, not because I am a snob about such things (all bikes are good bikes!), but because, well, it's a bit of a spiritual experience, only it's the kind that one likes to be able to rhapsodize about with a like-minded someone.

Oh golly, what a long-assed post this is. See, I told you? Lost in a tie-dye factory, right? I mean, if it were only a fortune-cookie factory, you might be able to send for help via message-in-cookie, or perhaps retrace your steps using that long long strand of cookie-fortune-paper you so cleverly laid out on your way in.

On the other hand, there are good things about messily tie-dyed items. I mean, consider the Icee. I refer, of course, to the rainbow Icee, which amounts to nothing so much as a tie-dyed snowcone. And how can you argue with a dessert that stains your tongue in variegated stripes of blue, lemon, orange, and red. (Rhetorical questions get no question marks, mind you.)

That's all. What, you were hoping for a witty punchline?

Today I slept and slept. Very unusual for me. I got tired at 1am, and got into bed sometime before 2, and read, and turned off the light and fell asleep - all before 3. I know, you're thinking that's so late that it's practically early, but really, for me, it is very early.

And then I woke up at 9, all startled and out of a dream, and went to take care of those things that require doing first thing in the am, and then went back to bed. Tried to find my orange bandana (aka. blindfold), couldn't. Fell asleep anyway (also unusual). Woke up, again startled out of a dream, at 11:45.

So that means I got, like, nine hours of sleep. That's almost twice what I've been typically able to manage the last month. I feel like I'm underwater now, which is interesting given that the last dream I had was about swimming in a saltwater pool, and then jumping into a chlorinated pool with my backpack on. And shoes.

Soanyway, I am in something of an altered state. Sleepy/mellow overlaid on incredibly stressed out. I think I was trying to sleep myself into a different life.

But you know, I actually really like most aspects of my life. Okay, some aspects of it.

I like where I live. I like my little cat (most days) a lot. I love love love my bicycle (you knew that was coming).

I like my apartment a great deal; it's lovely and just the right layout for me, and my views are pleasant and green.

I love my friends, and a bunch of them have moved back to the city in the last couple of years, so we are all kind of a happy converged posse. I love not going into an office every day. I love not getting up early (duh).

Here's what I need to escape: work. It's been bad lately. Oh so very bad.

So bad that I need to change the subject. Right now.

Okay, so tomorrow I have planned the following:

a) tie dyeing with two of the aforementioned friends. One of them lives in a work/live space, which is nice and industrial/grungey - perfect for tie-dyeing.

b) bowling. Ha!

Much better.

Okay, then the other news (and this is rather big, in a tiny way) is: I am knitting socks. Well, sock. Yes, and if that weren't big enough, I am doing it via Magic Loop! Yawn, I know, you experienced sock knitters, you. But you see, I have tried this before. I tried and failed to do Magic Loop on some Lornas Laces about a year ago, and I just couldn't get the method to stick in my head. I did about an inch of ribbing, and then put it down and promptly forgot what the hell I was doing, and couldn't figure it out again.

Then a few weeks ago I went and learned the 2 circs method, and somehow that made Magic Loop make sense to me. Go figure. Of course, some of us will not be surprised by the reason I chose to do ML instead of just continuing w/ 2 circs: it's cheaper to buy one needle than two. Plus, in my case, I can't seem to remember that yarn stores exist after about April 25th, and I already had one long size 1.

Blah blah blah. Knitrivia. What can I say? It's been a long week.

PS. Almost forgot crucial info: The yarn is Colinette Jitterbug, in Castagna (128), the exact blend of purples and browns that I've been favoring lately.

Riding home at night is like a haiku. All you hear is wind whispering in the spokes, soft stroke of pedal, and the fact that the chain needs a little lube. The bike sings to me, but it's a song composed largely of motion and breath, rather than actual sound.

Except, of course, for the quick sshhhhh! of brake pads when cars or pedestrians veer out in front of me without warning, as they often do.

I'm wearing Shrodinger's Cat on my arms, which so far smells primarily of melons. Though it's hard to tell, since the apartment also smells of chain lube.

I'd intended to help out with a friend's podcast earlier, but the cigarette smoke in that joint was way too much for my virgin (and I'd like to keep them that way, thank you) lungs.

It meant that I spent some time sitting in the window of a cafe on a chic street in Williamsburg, watching the hipsters march by in insouciant procession.

For a moment I thought I caught sight of the Brown Bike Man, walking unsteadily on bike shoes, but I don't think it could have been him. His shoes were ordinary sneakers, if I recall.

Okay, okay. I got nothin'. So I will try to regale you with selected excerpts.

I still hate my work. But I need the money. What else is new.

My friend Special J has designed an extensive questionnaire that I am to hand out to first dates at the 90-minute mark (assuming they last that long). She apparently roped some geek-date of hers into formatting the thing with proper checkboxes and all. She has magic powers.

I am busily knitting lots of little projects on 2 circs, but I have yet to get some tiny needles for sockmaking. I just keep forgetting to hit a knitting store. That happens to me in spring. I forget they exist. I'll wait while y'all make a grab for the oxygen.

Better? Okay. Too bad one can't install smelling salts as an option in Movable Type.

Current project is a shoulder-strap pad for my bike bag. Yes, yes, it's still all about the bike, and always will be, if I have anything to say about it.

I was trying to explain to a potential date about the bike-love, but I don't think he got it. I mean, he's a fellow cyclist and all, but when I mentioned that I sometimes kiss the top tube after a ride, I could just hear him getting weirded out. Through email.

The only person who's yet gotten it is this guy, whom I met at an event appropriately titled Bicycle Fetish Day. He really got it. I asked him to tell me about his bike, and he started out by saying, somewhat abashedly, that he's become obsessed with it. He can't stop thinking about it. He can't focus on work. He doesn't want to do anything other than ride it, all day every day.

I smiled and nodded, and told him about my bike, and how he has a name, and how every time I am going down the big hill on the bridge, I yell the bike's name as a rallying cry.

The bike-obsessed man appeared to melt and laugh and relax all at once, and we had a nice few moments, and I took his picture* and then I went over and talked to some other bike fiends. I mean, bike friends. Yeah, that's what I mean. Uh-huh.

*I hope Brown Bike Man doesn't mind me posting his picture. I forgot to ask his permission. His bike is brand-new (in a sense; it's a custom build-up from an older frame, I believe), and really nice. Graceful lines, and a lovely shade of brown.

PS. I see in this picture now that Brown Bike Man was rather handsome, and that perhaps I should have asked him out.

Is it just me or is there something inherently funny about a cat sniffing a Guinness can?

That's about all that's funny 'round these parts at the mo, but I thought I'd spread the wealth, such as it is.

Still:

1) Working when I want to be playing.

2) Wrastling with recalcitrant clients.

3) Looking futilely for a suitably boyish distraction.

4) Wanting to ride my bicyclette and feeling concerned about his seatpost.

5) Planning to attempt a test-voyage tomorrow (would have done today, but too too rainy).

6) Wondering if I will ever get some time off.

7) Knitting in between the cracks, such as they are.

8) Staying up far past the point when the birdies begin to sing, and sing, and sing their fool little feathery heads off.

9) Watching science fiction on TV and DVD.

10) Honing my nascent superpowers while drudging along in my Clark Kent suit.

11) (why stop at 10?) Being the center of one small stripey cat's admittedly limited universe.

12) Unable to find biking pants that fit me right.

13) (lucky!) Waiting to find out what Schrodinger's Cat smells like.

Often when spring hits I lose all desire to knit. But this time - perhaps because the weather continues to be intermittently cool, especially after the sun drops down - I am experiencing a late-season surge in knitting.

In a small way, of course. I haven't been working on my sweaters-in-progress or anything, but the legwarmers are done, and I am already working on another small project.

I am digging the two-circs method, and as soon as I get around to buying some size 1s or 0s I can start those momentous First Sox. (Already have plenty of sock yarn, natch.)

I had a big, long, rather fraught day, the details of which I will not go into, except to say that I tried and failed to fix part of my bike using a bolt and a can of Guinness. Just the can; the Guinness I drank last night in preparation.

I'd planned a triumphant and hilarious play-by-play of my amazing McGyverlike powers, but alas, 'twas not to be. That's okay. It would have pegged the sillyometer right off scale (not that that is a bad thing).

So now I am enduring the horrible ads for those egregious videos of college girls disrobing in assorted drunken stupors, which is pretty much what the Spike channel advertises at this hour, again and again. Geez. What a girl has to do to watch a little Star Trek.

In other news, I was totally suckered into ordering some "Imps" from here, and I am excitedly awaiting their arrival. It will be a while; apparently they have a backlog. Probably Juno's fault; she writes so eloquently about perfume that I can't imagine anyone not being drawn under her spell.

Then again, the names of their scents are enough to lure anyone with half an imagination. Carnal. Cheshire Cat. Forbidden Fruit. Libertine. Dragon's Blood. Venice. Lightning. Delirium. Ophelia. I mean, c'mon!

Short form:

1. Tangled successfully with Client A.
2. Lack of sleep and plentiful stress due to need to tangle with Client A made me sick.
3. Had to cancel all lovely social plans for weekend.
4. Got better just in time to stay up all night reading and then wake up to more client difficulties Monday morning.
5. Tangled successfully with Client B.
6. Am in the final ribbing on legwarmer #2 of set of legwarmers #2.
7. Went on (last week, or the week before: who can remember?) one bad and one decent date. The decent still hasn't quite erased the bad. I think I need another good one.
8. Have scheduled a date with a different boy for later this week.
9. Dad coming to visit.
10. Bicycle Fetish Day requiring my attendance.
11. Saw Ironman. Note to world at large: If Robert Downey Jr. should suddenly mysteriously disappear, it is because I have him tied up in my room. I will release him in a few weeks. Maybe. It might take longer than that to fully have my way with him. (Stamina, you know.)
12. Apparently everyone has decided I need spa treatments and is taking me there; who am I to argue?
13. Paid quarterly taxes (only a couple of weeks late).
14. Ordered bike clothes. Ordered perfumes. Ordered bike shoes. Ordered a change of career and a fabulous young boy. None of these have arrived yet. I am hoping I can afford the latter two.
15. I swear, I swear, as soon as these legwarmers are done, it's Sock Time.
16. Sometimes I feel just like this beer can.

I've been a little quiet here lately, I know. Partly it's because I have been busy like one of those ants you see scurrying so fast they can't even move in a straight line. But partly it's also because I'm having a lull in wanting to post. Or all the things I would say are simply very trivial - the same kinds of things that I always say.

It's not that I don't have thoughts anymore; it's just that I never have them in the right way or at the right time to want to post them. And maybe they are private thoughts.

And maybe spring is just a time of shifting, stirring the pot, watching the colors meld and change and alchemize into something entirely new. I don't really know.

It might be that like so many other bloggers, I am getting a little bored by the medium itself, or by the specific parameters of this one (not that I necessarily adhere to much of a theme, but it can still get stale). Or it may be that I am tired of talking here, in this space, in this particular way, and am simply taking the time out to just talk to my friends. I don't know. Again.

Boywich asked me recently if I had decided whether to keep Girlwich up or take it down. And the funny thing is, I hadn't even remembered mentioning that I was considering taking it down. I've been wanting to start some other things - pure photo blogs, or photo projects with small stories attached to them. And to some extent, keeping this one up interferes by taking up the little time I do have to devote to such things.

But I haven't quite decided what to do yet. I know at least one other blogger who's in the same kind of boat at the moment (or a related one; kayaks and canoes, as it were), and that makes me feel better.

It may just be a cycle of nature, to get tired of one's blog in the same way that one gets tired of one's room as a teenager and wants to redecorate.

The cat keeps climbing into my lap the very instant that I sit down at this computer. I think it's because she knows I am a quivering, frantic, furious, stressed-out mess, and she is trying to help.

Of course, when I am a q,f,f,s-o mess I really do not want anybody touching me. Not her. Not the horrid guy I had a date with last week (ugh, I get the creeps just mentioning it). Not nobody, not no-how. (Points to anyone who can identify the source of that line.)

Thankfully, I had a better, less bizarro date on Sunday night, so I am no longer quite as repulsed by the idea of the entire human race, but not by much, because a client is driving me so crazy I cannot even express it to you. And when words fail me, my friends, you know it is serious.

Anyway, that would and will account for any dearth in verbiage you have encountered or may encounter in the near future. If I come out of this project with my bloody triumphant sword over my head, life here at girlwich may resume some form of normalcy (that being a relative rather than an absolute state, of course).

In the meantime, I leave you with these here random assorted news items.

1. I am knitting legwarmers again. I'm about a third of the way through the 2nd one.

2. I rode my bike all weekend. Huzzah!

3. I have laundry in the dryer. Huzzah!

4. There is a cat paw on my arm. Her way of saying, "Yo! Pet me!"

5. I am giving the men my age a try lately, but I honestly think I prefer the younger ones, so I can't say that any of them have that great a shot. I just thought I'd see.

6. All these dates have made me realize that I am infinitely more entertaining, scintillating, and visually pleasing company than any of the guys in this city (or at least the ones who ask me out) seem to be. Which is a) an ego boost, and b) a problem.

7. It is raining.

8. These pics were taken by a friend to whom I loaned the Nikon. Aren't they nice?

Of course, not everyone here has to work for a living.

I am in something of a state. Work has gone to some next level of stressful that I didn't know existed, which is funny (strange, not ha-ha) because this very same client sent me to what I had thought was my maximum level of stress a few months ago. And here we are again, except that we are farther onto the plane of insanity.

If I had any hair, I'd tear it out.

Yesterday was so bad that after my horrible meeting there was nothing that could possibly save my life except to get on my bike and go have dinner with friends. Which I did. Of course, the fact that my rare and precious cranks could break at any moment because they are not properly equipped with pedal washers* does not make for the completely carefree biking that I would like to have.

But I had no choice. I hope the bicycle gods will be merciful.

Anyway...that's a whole other story. All of that. I mean, not just the bike stuff, but the whole horrible shebang of shit. Pardon my french, this is not a G-rated blog. Don't like it? On your bike, as the British so charmingly say.

Anyway...again.

One thing the gods seem to be suddenly providing me with is men to go on dates with, all of whom have Biblical names. We started with the old testament last week, and now we are moving on to the new.

If I end up getting a date with the Bodhisattva, though, I am gonna really laugh.

So what do I do with all this bounty? Why, I go and acquire an instant liking for one of my friend's roommates, of course. Yeah, uh-huh. What is it with me and the men in unexpected places? Last time it was a bicycle mechanic. Didn't work. He likes 20-year-olds.

This time, well, who the hell knows, but he is awfully cute, and (based on the impression of 10 minutes) just my type of boy. Anyway....

I know, I know, this post seems to be ratcheting around like a ball bearing set loose in a rubber room, but, well, that's what the inside of my head probably looks like right now. Okay, the inside of my head looks like a soft pink glob of neurons, but you know what I mean.

"Don't want no pork chops and greens. Just give me gin instead!" - Nina Simone, and I agree wholeheartedly.

*Worry not; I have ordered the washers and they will be here tomorrow, and either I or my bike mechanic (not the one I had the crush on) will install them, and all will hopefully be well, at least in that area of life.

I've had several conversations in the past few days having to do with art - whether it should stand on its own two feet or whether one ought to need context - historical background or a curatorial explanation - to understand it. I am of the former camp, but much of the art world (I am told by those in a position to know) is in the latter. And those who are in the business of art call my camp formalism and say it's something to rebel against, which is puzzling to me, given how restrictive the idea of needing a translator in order to approach a piece of creative work seems.

I have the urge to expand this dichotomy to life. I suppose because it sticks in my craw in some way, but also, maybe, because it seems to express two different larger viewpoints: the one that wants help making sense of something and the one that wants to figure it out for itself.

I suppose it is clear which one of these hypothetical views I fall into. I would like to think that I can respect either viewpoint, but I am not sure I am that magnanimous. Or am I? I truly do respect the beliefs of highly religious folk, not because I share them in any way (I don't) but because I can see and acknowledge and even admire how much strength and peace their faith gives them.

Okay, so there is one example. But on the other hand, I have been feeling contemptuous lately, and I won't go into the details, except to say that when someone else's lack of courage or spine directly affects me, I am not so forgiving about it.

And on the third hand, it is precisely those kinds of situations (ones that call for courage) that show us who we are, and if I am lucky enough to be a strong, brave person, perhaps I can just be proud of that and walk on, standing a little taller in my boots with that knowledge.

Well, well, welly well well. Still here. Kind of blah. Took a couple of days off (yes, that's called a weekend to regular humans), which was a good idea, but only now, after having done so, do I begin to realize the depths of my tiredness.

I had a date today, which had that effect that first dates sometimes have on me. It's not when they go drastically wrong that it gets me. It's when they're quite nice, but I'm not interested. I find that very depressing for some reason. "Close but no cigar" is what my dad would call it.

It's depressing both because I somehow end up feeling lonelier than I did beforehand, and (I suspect this is the bigger reason) because I then have to tell the person that I liked them but didn't like them. And I hate doing that, because I know just what it feels like to be on the receiving end, and there's just no good way to reject or be rejected. It all stinks.

So, I'm rather down. Also, I didn't get to ride my bike today because I woke up with one of my many injuries bothering me - and bothering me to the point where it was clear that I should not do anything to exacerbate it. So I didn't, and it doesn't hurt quite as much now, and that is good.

So here we are, the little feline and me, and we had a nice little super-snuggle moment on the couch (rare these days because I am so busy that I'm a neglectful cat owner), and that made both of us feel better, I think. But still.

I am coming to the conclusion that online dating is much like online shoe buying; nice in theory, but it would really be better if you could try them on in person first.

Well, I'm workin' and I'm crazy, and yet somehow I keep having these moments where I just love everybody and everything. There are several potential explanations for this (yes, I feel a list coming on!):

1. The Bike Is Back. It (he, actually, and he has a name, which I am keeping secret because he is my lover) is on the wall now, but when I first brought him in, I had to roll him into the living room so I could just stare at him lovingly, and gloat over his beauteous and rare vintage French cranks, which match his bad-ass French self. Oh he is so hot.

2. The Boys Are Out. It is spring, and in spring, this city has a habit of rewarding its long-suffering overwintered single girls by unveiling lovely sleek little geek boys for them, in little fits and starts. One here, a few more there, one at the cafe where you'd least expect him to be, flirting as he hands you a menu and ponders whether or not he has any Guinness available, and then screws up your check and promises you a free dinner if the credit card turns out to have been charged twice. Uh-huh, sure cutie. Lemme see those tattoos on your arms again. As he walked away, I turned to my friend B. and said, "Do you suppose he'd fit on my bike?"

3. I am perhaps just a trifle overcaffeinated.

4. I got to sneak in a tiny little bit of girltime tonight, right smack in the middle of my horrid deadlines, and that cheered me up. We were very silly, and we laughed, and that is healthy for me. I like laughing. It feels so damned good.

5. I am going to have a picnic on my birthday, in Brooklyn. It will be fab. I will toss a frisbee with my good shoulder and eat angel food cake. Yay, picnic!

6. If my knees hold up (please hold up, guys!) I can stop riding the subway. Yay!

7. My exotic French cranks have exotic French threading, which means I couldn't use my spanking new (and very nice) English-threaded pedals. A minor bump in the road which ended, entertainingly, with my bike builder taking a very fine antique pair of pedals off one of his own personal bikes and selling them to me, at about half what they're worth. I love him and he loves me (platonically, in both directions).

8. When I got home, I realized that my bike had given me a hickey (from the messenger bag strap). The funny thing is, so did the Nikon when I first got it. See? I love everyone, and everyone loves me.

9. Okay, okay, I will cut back on the caffeine.

10. But you do see why I love the Nikon so much, don't you? Claudia, these are again taken on auto exposure, sans flash.

Spring, and a Girlwich's thoughts turn to (in no particular order):

1. Legwarmers. I have finished the brown ones and am currently wearing them (or I'd take their photo for you). They are wonderful. I want to wear them all the time. Because that would lead to smelly legwarmers, I have already begun knitting Pair #2, in a pretty pinky/purpley Lornas Laces DK called Valentine I received from Anna a wee while ago. Anna, they're going to be beautiful.

2. Birds. My cat would like me to mention that. It is highly amusing and/or endearing to watch her get all excited about the increased bird noise and activity around our windows. She chatters at them; she lies in wait, hunkered down on the window ledge; she takes sudden leaps into the screen. It's hilarious.

And I quite like going to bed to the sound of birdsong. Yes, Annabelle, I am going to bed at your wake-up time again. Really folks, it's a hoot; A. will text me sometimes when she's just woken up, and I get the text in bed, having just laid down to sleep. And we have a little chat, and she goes to work and I go to dream about #3:

3. Boys. You knew that one was coming, didn't you? Been getting some entertaining emails from a new one, whom I've not met yet. But at least his emails are interesting - more imaginative than the usual lot. Also, there are the fleet of adorable bike boys who hover like a crowd of angels or elegant moths in the vicinity of my bike shop. Sigh. I wonder how many of them I could fit in my messenger bag.

4. There are cherry blossoms in Central Park now. All of a sudden, boom. Explosions of fluffy whiteness everywhere. Like snow laid on by fairies. (I know, I am getting fanciful, but you should see them.)

5. God-damned awful work schedule keeping me from enjoying all of this a bit more, but I suppose I am lucky to have the work. When I did my taxes and looked at how much I made last year, I was shocked, and couldn't understand how I'd actually managed to survive on so little in such an expensive town. I guess I must be better at managing money than I'd thought. Or else I wiped out more savings than I thought. Or a little from column A and a little more from column B. Anyway. Let's just leave #5 by the side of the road and hope it gets run over by a local bicycle team, shall we?

6. Not entirely unrelated to #3 (math geeks, there is a joke in here for you): I have a few additions to The List. Item the First: David Oyelowo. Oh my fracking god.

Item the Second, Robson Green. I know, I've mentioned him before; he's been at or near the top of my list for years, but his series is back on with new episodes, and I am getting a fix every Sunday night, so I must present him again for your enjoyment.

Items the Third and Fourth, Sam Troughton and Jonas Armstrong, who play Much and Robin, respectively, in BBCA's retelling of Robin Hood as a form of teen rebellion. It's marvelous, and the concept works, and it has a lively, independent Marian in it, too. FYI, I put Sam first because I find him hotter, despite his being relegated to the status of sidekick.

And while I am slavering over BBC actors, puckish little Burn Gorman from Torchwood is a bit of alright, too.

Since it is spring, I am taking open nominations for new List members. Vote early and often, my friends. Tell me whom you love and why I should love them, too. In fact, let's make it a meme. Give us your To Do Lists, be they ever so quirky, kinky, or plain. Please alert me if you blog about your list, because I love to read such scurrilous matter. Behold, it's a Rite of Spring!

* The title of this post is a Nemo quote, from Dude Crush the turtle. He's on my List, too.

Bon soir, mes amis. Voici! Le printemps est arrive!

Well, sort of. Today dawned cool and cloudy again, but it's the fits and starts of spring, not the dregs of winter. Or that is how I am choosing to view it.

I took the Nikon out for a little gambol yesterday when the sun was more outish than it was today, and look. I found flowers.

And their fallen petals.

And - well, construction sites and graffiti and old cans and spray painted lines on the sidewalk and cars parked with reflections in the windows and people eating Chinese food in the front seats and so on and so forth.

And some little dachshunds in little coats promenading on tiny legs. Cute, n'est-ce pas?

PS. Forgot to add this for Claudia: All shots taken with my Nikon D40 (the D is for darling), on auto exposure, flash turned off.

Then I happened upon this jewel of a series. And I remembered the crucial thing: that I am an artist, that I have always been an artist, and that when that part of me is walled off from my daily life, I suffocate and die. It happens bit by bit, so that it is hard to notice it happening.

Oh, it's not that I never do anything creative. But the work I get paid to do is not creative, and it's been a long time now, that I've been pecking away at it, trying not to notice how much I hate it.

I am usually able to ignore it by the pure expedient of not throwing too much time at it. I work in spurts, so that I have weeks where I don't do much of that sort of work, and then weeks where I work round the clock to make some money so I can ignore it for a few more weeks.

But that plan is not really working for me, and I've known that for a while. I just haven't known why or what to do about it. I am still not sure of the next step, exactly, but the larger answer is clear. I need to make art, and to make it for a living. Somehow.

Somehow I have to do that, even though everyone has told me, my entire life, that it is impossible.

So the thing that made my cry while watching this beautiful series was here was the lie. The people who have said that have been lying. Because here are tons of people making things, and making a living at it. And god, they all sound happy. They sound just like I sound when I am playing, only they are working. Why? Because my play is their work, and their play is their work. And that is all there is to that.

From where I am sitting now, it could take any one of a number of forms. There are the photographs, there is a novel, there are plenty of other things I like to make and play with, and some of them are quite saleable, I think. I just need to hop tracks. Maybe I will go take some pictures of trains, as Boywich suggested the other day - just to get in the mood.

I keep trying to post, really I do. I get one half-written, and then it's the middle of the morning (as in, 4 am), and I am too tired to go on, and I leave it for the next day.

And the next day comes, and I am too much like a hummingbird, only less joyous than that sounds, and I have no time to breathe, much less fix or finish a half-posted post, and then it's the next night, and I no longer feel like what I said, or no longer want to share it.

And then four days go by, and it is spring, in the sense that the birds are singing and the sun is shining, and I can go out without anything more than a jean jacket.

But not in the sense that I can enjoy it in any fashion.

My arm hurts. My shoulder hurts. My ass hurts. My knees hurt. My head hurts. I am tired. I am busy in a way that cannot be measured or even effectively described with current technology.

My cat is insane because it is spring and she wants to kill all those singing birds. And she, too, is cooped up and unhappy about it. I love her for that.

I hate every single person who glides by me on a bicycle. Hate them.

I hate the people who talk about riding their bikes. "Oh, I had the nicest bike ride today," said one of my friends. "I hate you," said I.

I like the Nikon. I like the legwarmer (#2) I am knitting. I liked the doctor I saw yesterday. He told me I wasn't old enough to be needing a doctor like him. I told him how old I am. He said, "Okay, you are old enough. But you look younger."

Well, doc, today I do not. I look every minute of my age, believe me. If this whole mess keeps up much longer, I am gonna look every minute of my age, plus every minute of the doctor's age. Plus my cat's, for good measure.

See, I meant to write you a nicer post. A happy post, or a contemplative post. Something to make you go "ahhhh," after you read it. One of those. A post with life and color in it.

The trouble is, I am depleted of life and color at the moment. I am angry, and I am frustrated, and I am petulant.

And there you have it. Spring seems like a slap in the face to me, administered on the wheels of so many bicycles. Fuck it all.

Here, look at these nice roses.

That title applies in more ways than one. Normally, I don't title a post until after I've written it, sometimes well after. But this time, I had the title first, perhaps because I just went swimming for the first time in a week.

Oh, the shoulder/arm situation is nowhere close to all better, but I wanted to try it and see how things were. And honestly, I am so much happier for having gone in the water at all, even though I could only do a few little floppy laps of crawl, and some boring-ass breaststroke, and a little sidestroke, and some kick-kick-kick with the board.

It was still nice. Like being in my element. Also frustrating, because I was in my element but not able to do my Thing. Much like getting on a bike and realizing you can't ride it. Hmmmn. That all sounds far too familiar. Let's get off the subject, shall we? Right off.

These pics are from several weeks ago, on a day when I got on the (stinkin') subway (because I can't bike yet) and wondered what the heck all these teenagers were doing carrying pillows with them. Giant mega citywide slumber party?

Almost.

It was a pillowfight. A pillowfight protest, for peace, in Union Square. And the damn thing was hilarious, and a little unnerving, and a magnet for photographers of all sorts.

Unfortunately I had only brought my pocketcam, but I did the best I could to capture the scene for your amusement. There were cops. There were many teenagers and some adults. There were pillows flying through the air, people climbing on lampposts and statues, and an inch-thick layer of feathers and assorted stuffing materials lining the pavement.

There were some signs painted on quilts and pillows, but for the most part, if you didn't already know what it was, you wouldn't know what you were looking at. A freak snowstorm? A mob?

It was weird, and not quite entirely nonviolent (some people got hurt), and also disarming (as in charming).

When I came out of the crowd to meet my friends (who hadn't wanted to venture so far into the fray), I was covered with feathers. I'd worn a black coat that day, and it still has white flotsam on it. Click for bigger, as always.