It's a Process

I have moved five times in the last 10 years each time to a place where I knew no one, or almost no one. I am, at this stage in the game, a relocation expert. I firmly believe that people do it wrong, that there is a process and series of steps that must be followed in order to successfully assimilate into any new community. Failure to complete this series or to bypass one step to get to a later, more alcohol filled step will result in frustration, disappointment and inevitably the desire to uproot oneself again in favor of a location where the presence of family and friends makes life a bit easier.

Being in grad school and attempting to digest 1000 pages of theory a week has made sticking to my process a bit difficult. I know that before I can find a job, develop a network of acquaintances that grows into a network of friends, and eventually tackle that whole dating beast, I must first start at home.

I am a big believer in nesting. If your home isn't comfortable and welcoming than you won't want to be there and since you are at home a lot in the beginning - you know, before you get a life - it can be a depressing reality.

Downsizing from 900 square feet to 300 square feet has meant living in an endless game of tetris. Move the pile of crap from this corner to that corner to this corner and back again.

I have made multiple trip to Ikea in search of storage solutions and the place has slowly been coming along. This weekend, however, I decided enough was enough. I needed to get this place put together once and for all, if only to get it off my to do list. (Photos to come.)

There is still a lot to do but now I can actually sit on my couch and walk around without worrying about squashing fatty and even have room to do sit ups on the floor should I feel so motivated.

And I am telling you the process works. As soon as I didn't dread coming home, opportunities started to present themselves that kept me out of the house.  New acquaintances with serious friend potential, reconnecting with old friends and potential new work opportunities.  Even the theory started to get a little easier.

Life is a process and the key to making it through is making sure you enjoy life one step at a time.

Figuring it out

I don't get contemporary visual art.  I am trying and I am reading but so much goes over my head and so much I find terribly uninteresting.  The challenge of taking so many courses in exhibition design is that (so far at least) the entire focus has been on the exhibition of visual culture.  Painting, sculpture, new media, shit I do not understand and artists I have never heard of.

I wrote my first paper comparing two exhibits: Houdini: Art and Magic and Counter Space: Design and the Modern Kitchen.  Both interesting and both flawed.

I wrote in terms of theatricality.  Theatricality I understand.  Talk to me about modernism vs post-modernism vs contemporary and you are going to send me flying to google for clarity.  But explore something within social constructs I understand, specificity, clarity of intention, pandering to an audience vs remaining obtuse because of some misguided notion of cultural elitism and I will give you my option.  Loudly.

I am just not sure how these visual arts administration students feel about my coloring (or critiquing) outside the lines.

Toast

There are just some professions you don't want to know about.  Sure astronauts, archaeologists, ninja war lord - these jobs sound bad ass and worthy of further investigation but does anyone really want to know the day-to-day details of the guy who cleans the porta-potties after Bonnaroo or the health inspector at your favorite restaurant.

Add to this list, a supervisor at the MTA.

The subway and I have moved past the honeymoon phase of our relationship, where it was all niceness and courtesy.  Now we are like an old married couple and that bastard just refuses to put the seat down.  It seems that the subway could really give a shit if I have plans on the weekend.  His willingness to provide service is optional - such a man.

Still I feel I have to rejoice in the happy moments of our relationship, like squeezing through the doors of the train as it was just about to pull from the station on my way home from 3rd Ward.  I was about to o.d. on hipsters and skinny jeans and was for once thankful to return to the land of breeders.

I must say, my Indiana Jones-like entrance was a sight to behold - at least according to the business-casual 50-something sitting across from me.  We started chatting, which reminded me, as it does every time I initiate conversation with random strangers, that I am truly my father's daughter.

"Whoo! I made it. I have been seconds late for every flippin' train this week."

"Ahh, well another one would have been here in ten minutes or so," said business-casual.

"Not on this line.  It sucks. I spent 30 minutes waiting for it yesterday."

Man raises eyebrow. I am oblivious.

Chit-chat ensues, mainly about how awesome I ridiculously think I am and the adjustment to stroller central - "And I thought the Midwest was bad!"

"So what do you do?"  I finally asked when I got tired of hearing myself speak.

"I work for the MTA." Oh. Gulp. Well, aren't I just a red-faced asshole. "I do quality control, visit each station and make sure things are operating as they should."

"Well then,"  stupid, stupid cocky Lyndsey reared her ugly head, "Can you tell me what happened this weekend?"  I went on to recount the whole long story - train to bus to train that broke down and made passengers take another train back up town to catch another train that was evacuated for unexplained police reasons, to go back uptown to catch two more trains and eventually get home 2 1/2 hours later.

"Hmm, I am not sure about the police incident," he said, "Maybe someone fell on the tracks."

I shouldn't have taken the bait, I really shouldn't have, but MTA guy opened the door and so I asked and he answered way too many questions about such incidents, including what code the police and conductors will say over the intercom if someone has been flattened.

"Yeah that move you made getting on here was pretty stupid. One misstep and you could have been toast. Next time, young lady, leave earlier or wait for the next train.  It's really not worth it if you end up dead."

And with that MTA guy got off, never to be seen or heard from again.  And I have been scared shitless ever since.

This is what I get for insulting his job.

New York - Russia Connection

I feel about my life in New York in very much the same way I felt about my time in Moscow. So far my days are filled mainly with reading, seeing art and negotiating my limited living quarters overrun with stuff.

I haven't "done" much yet, at least not in the sense of actually living here, becoming a part of things, and I think that part of my sense of New York comes from feeling that time here is temporary. And it might not be. I just have yet to commit one way or another, which is quite different than packing up all my belongings and planting myself in LA or KC.

The unfortunate side effect is that I haven't had much excitingness to write about. Unless of course people what to read my Popular Culture response papers and I don't even want to look at them.

I have seen great art. And I am hoping that at some point I will be able to meet people to talk to about what I am seeing because right now the reflections are just swimming around in my head and what is the point of schlepping my ass across town if I can't chat about it.

This is just too true!

How Cool is This??

So one of my grad school classes discussed this new project from Google.  You get to fly through the galleries of some of the worlds greatest Museums.  Check it out!

Source: googleartproject.com via Lyndsey on Pinterest

Job Options

Grad school is expensive - crazy expensive.  And couldn't just be a sane person and take  a full course load.  No, I had to take a full course load plus an extra class.  So while my work load isn't going to leave time for much of anything, I desperately need to find a full time job in order to compensate for the fact the the disgustingly large student loan I took out has been almost completely been eaten up by tuition.  I figure I can swing two months of my ridiculous rent before me and fatty are out on the street.

I am trying not to freak out to badly about this.  I will figure it out, as my father says, 'because I always do'.

In the mean time, he has suggested some rather suspect income producing ventures:

1. Drug trial participant (I should, of course, use my skills at persuasion to get into the placebo group)

2. Vocal entertainer ( i.e. PHONE SEX, people.  My father got his inspiration from Anne Hathaway in 'Valentine's Day'.)

3.  Egg Donor.  (Because the world really needs random Lyndsey strays running around.)

While I hope he was kidding, I think it is fair to note that all options have serious physical and/or mental repercussions and I've got to hope I am not going to ever be that hard up.

At least he didn't suggest I take up pole dancing...