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Monthly Archives: June 2002

Extracurricular activities

Tuesday, June 18, 2002

The other day, I watched “The Professional” for the second time. It was just as excellent as it was the first time, and perhaps more so because this version was the “uncut” version, with scenes that had been trimmed for the American audience. The movie worked very well, and left me incapable of doing much of anything as I tried to recover from having been so absorbed by the film. The relationship between Natalie Portman and Jean Reno was so tangible; you could find yourself being drawn in as their bonds deepened. And so, at the end, you’re left feeling much the same way Natalie is.

I find myself going through the motions of a life nowadays–as a creature of habit, I still wake up and head to school, spend the day in the lab sitting in front of the computer trying to find ways to amuse myself, and occasionally leave either for food or to seek out company. When all else fails, I pop in the StarCraft CD and lose myself in a mindless game played against the computer, only to be left wondering what to do next when the game is over. By that time, I find that it’s eight o’clock–past the bulk of rush hour, time to head home before it gets too late. I return home to a mostly empty apartment and not much in the way of entertainment–broadcast television with nothing but reruns; CDs and MP3s I’ve listened to time and again; dead notesfiles; a digital photoalbum that, if it were a physical photoalbum, would be showing signs of wear and tear by now; an empty email inbox…

But it’s not as if I don’t have anything to do. On the contrary; I should be tidying up what remains here, sorting out the trash from the non-trash, taking out the garbage, and packing up what remains. It’s just that, after having moved the majority of my things last week, I’m running very low on energy and motivation. I haven’t been in very high spirits, either, which doesn’t help things. I go to school out of habit and I see people that, in a week or so, I won’t see for a very long time at the least. This time around, though, I’m only too aware of the fact that I’m leaving. (To the one who will never read this: I’ll miss you, too, more than you would know. That’s what makes things so hard. Do I just conceal it that well, or do I give myself too much credit?) It continues to wreak havoc with my ability to get things done by tempting me to wallow in that pool of misery I know so well.

I know I’ll get done what needs to be done. But first I need to stop and take note of where I am, write down exactly what needs to be done, and then just do it. Even before that, though, I think I’ll just sit here and be…melancholy.

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Eating New York

Sunday, June 16, 2002

When traveling, I try to stick to the nationally-known establishments when it comes to sating my hunger. It’s safer that way, I think. I have this image that no doubt has its roots in the old Western movies that showed the local watering hole, a veritable place of entertainment and inebriation: the stranger walks in and the music ceases, everyone stops, turns and stares at him as he approaches the bar and asks the bartender for a drink. That having been accomplished, the music resumes and the customers return to their drinks or card games. This, I think, informs my apprehension about going to the local diner when in unfamiliar territory.

Sad to say, I think that race also plays a part. I feel much more comfortable in diverse settings after having spent so much time in New York, probably the most ethnically diverse place I have ever seen. When I’m in a place that’s much more homogeneous and all of a sudden I stick out, I become ill at ease. So while I might have no qualms about hitting up the local establishments in a new place provided the area is pretty ethnically mixed, if the situation proves otherwise, I’ll hesitate.

It’s strange, if you think about it. I grew up in Chicago, which, for all its diversity, still can feel pretty segregated at times, an observation I believe Martin Luther King made once when visiting the town. But I think the urban setting, combined with the fact that it’s my home town and it’s familiar to me, makes this a useless, if not interesting, data point.

For all my misgivings about patronizing the local food establishments, however, my dad and I still went to one such place for breakfast while in Pittsburgh. (20% discounts can be strong motivators.) And, at least for this one occasion, my fears proved unfounded. It was a fairly pleasant experience, as diners go. In fact, it was surprisingly pleasant! The staff was so friendly, striking up conversation about the weather and whatnot; when we left, one of them even ran out after us with the medicine bottle that my dad had left on the table. I really hadn’t seen anything like this in a long time.

I guess I had gotten used to the often-impersonal (perhaps it’s better described as utilitarian) nature of interactions in New York, where, while your server might be very agreeable and pleasant, conversation is restricted to only necessary communication. Chewing the fat, especially prolonged, is a very rare occurrence and never happens spontaneously. If it does happen, it’s usually because those involved already know each other.

So, while I think this bodes well for my impending move, it does nothing to make leaving any easier. I’m still going to miss this city. Strange how that works, isn’t it? You spend the first two years in the place just waiting to leave, and when the time finally comes, you don’t want to go. There are lots of things I’m going to miss–the plethora of bars and restaurants, a 24-hour transit system, so many things to see and do, the advantages afforded by the anonymity that comes with such a large population…and I guess even simply being able to say that I live in New York. It’s like a badge that you wear proudly.

At the same time, there are things I won’t miss: the sirens at 3:00 AM, the rush-hour subway crowds, the traffic, the smell of garbage and the broiling-hot subway cars in the summer, and the incredible cost of living, among other things. But while I won’t miss them, those things are part and parcel of living in New York. It’s part of what defines a New Yorker. As I spent more time in this city, I got used to them and stopped minding them. And when people would say, “How can you live in that city?” I just shrugged it off and let my record speak for itself. If you can put up with all that–more importantly, if you can survive despite all that–you really can make it anywhere. Everything else is a piece of cake. The only question is: after living in New York for so long that you have mastered it, would you want to live anywhere else?

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Life goes on

Saturday, June 15, 2002

It’s late, I just drove back to New York from Pittsburgh moving the majority of my things, and I’m tired. The apartment is mostly empty, though, which is good, but it needs some tidying up so that at least it looks more….presentable.

Once my credit application goes through, I’ll have a bona fide apartment in PGH. There will be much rejoicing in Mudville. Can’t I skip the whole moving part and just pretend that I already have the place and am already all moved in? I hate packing, and I hate moving. Especially when I haven’t really exerted myself in awhile–all that lifting and carrying of boxes without proper warmup and cooldown means one aching Anthony–and one sleepy Anthony.

Next up is sorting out the trash, taking out the trash, and packing up what’s left here. Then there’s the matter of Ari’s wedding and the road trip.

I found out that someone I knew from high school died in a car crash on Tuesday. I’m…shocked, really. I can’t really express what I’m thinking or feeling about that. A former co-worker who was also the husband of one of my mom’s volunteers also passed away. Truly weird…bad vibes all around lately, it seems. Karmastorm, perhaps?

I guess we’ll see.

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MOVING NEVER DIE!

Monday, June 10, 2002

Sitting in what I would generously describe as my half-packed apartment, I can’t help but feel overwhelmed. I look around, trying to figure out if I’ve packed everything that I can pack, but I always reach the conclusion that everything that can fit in boxes is already in boxes. I’ve emptied my two bookshelves of books, my semi-gargantuan computer desk is empty… I suppose what I have to hit up next are the kitchen and the closets. Bah! Is there no end to the amount of crap that I have to move? Why am I not rich enough to be able to hire someone else to do it for me? But the more fundamental question is “Why am I packing alone?”

Sometime tonight, I will find enough energy and motivation to sit down and come up with a methodical way of attacking the problem. Would that not be the proper thing to do, after all?

*sigh*

I think maybe the underlying problem is that I really have no motivation to pack up and move. Sure, if you asked me maybe three or four years ago, I would have said that I couldn’t wait to get out of this city; but the place really grows on you. This syndrome probably isn’t unique to New York, as it’s probably descriptive of anyone who moves to a new place after having been settled somewhere else for a long time. That knowledge doesn’t make the task at hand any easier, however.

Everything is happening so fast. By week’s end, the majority of my things should be sitting in a storage facility in Pittsburgh, with only enough here to allow me to live comfortably for a couple of weeks before I head out for good. Yet, I still don’t think I realize the simple fact that I’ve graduated. When I was going through a similar situation at high school, there were lots of senior-type activities that helped you take it all in. There was a proper sense of closure after you walked across the stage and received your diploma. But here, I don’t have that feeling. What I do have is the feeling that I’m hanging from a tree branch, not really sure of what comes next and not ready to let go of the branch and fall to the future that awaits me.

I started to feel comfortable here only recently, and now I have to leave? Maybe there is some wisdom after all in following the five-year plan. Hell, at least someone else would be footing the bill, so there’s no motivation to finish earlier. All the motivation is towards staying put, living off of your parents just a little longer, and avoiding the real world at all costs. Sure, going to grad school means you still get to avoid the real world, but it doesn’t avoid the first part (unless you succumb and enroll somewhere in the city).

And then it occurs to me that all this is an elaborate attempt at rationalizing my laziness in packing up my things. Certainly that’s possible. It further occurs to me that I would have a tangible sense of progress if I would just sit down and make a checklist of things to do and then just do them. Because, looking around at my apartment, there is no other way to reach that feeling of a job well done.

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