start spreadin' the news

start spreadin' the news

Hi.

I am here:
Which is to say that I am in Morningside Hieghts. Which is to say that I am in New York.

I guess I have a backlog of explaining to do (not that this blog is much for explaining any particular element of my life). After fake graduating in May (I'm going back for a victory half-lap in the fall), I've flown out here to begin an internship that begins tomorrow. I'll be interning at the Bronx Museum of the Arts through the Arts & Business Council of New York. Most of my feelings about this internship involve rapid fire excitement and vague, haunting fear. It's enough to say that I am, as always, worried. But I know it'll be fine. Even if I know nothing about art.

It's nice to be back in the city, even though, as I told my friend John, I'm still trying to adjust my gaze from a touristic mode to a residential one. It's strange living in Manhattan and having Zabar's a couple of subway stops away. It feels, one could say, empowering. I could be Woody Allen and Meg Ryan. (Is it sad that those are the only two people really conjured up when thinking of the Upper Westside? Yes.)

For the first time since I've been here, the heat haze has temporarily lifted off the city, but only because of the threat of thunderstorms and hail. In fact, walking back from the bookstore, I was almost cold; a funny sensation that nevertheless made me wish I had changed out of my shorts.

I am someone who sweats. A lot. And not anywhere strategic or unnoticeable. It seems like most of my sweat comes from my head and lands directly on my face, where it becomes mired in my eyebrows, above my lip, or right around my nose. It makes me look like I am an oily, ghastly brute. It makes me feel like one too. I hate it. I realize that I'm going to be feeling like that a lot this summer with an apartment that isn't air-conditioned. But never mind that for right now. I'll have plenty of time to complain.

Back to the bookstore. I love how bookstores seemingly are just in constant supply in Manhattan. On Friday, I picked up a book at my favorite bookstore, McNally Jackson Books. It's called Dancer and it's by Colum McCann. It's a fictional retelling of Nureyev's life. If anything, I am a very specific fan of this very specific genre. Non-fiction sometimes gets stuck. Fictional retellings of non-fiction people flows, particularly this example. It flowed so well that before I knew it, I had read a third of the book. Now I arrive at a quandry. Today, I went to another bookstore and spent an hour and half deciding. Do I purchase the book that I really want to read, but have already read partly through? Do I buy his other book, which I hear is also fantastic but might be too much McCann for one person to read in such a short time? Or do I go with something else? I went with an art theory book, which also made me really worried that I wouldn't read it because I would be tired from thinking about art all day with my job. Though it will be great for dropping little factoids.

Once again, this is to say, Oh well. I am happy. I am spending lots of money. But right now, feeling the breeze whirl around my room and threaten to push over the box fan, it's good. Now I have to try and remember how to tie a tie.