You can never go home again

And yet, here I am, back at good ol HiC instead of its Wordpress surrogate. This place is just so easy. Not better, just different. Still therapeutic, we'll see.

In case you were wondering

Reader,

I moved. I now live in Amman, Jordan, and I blog (in theory) here: Jebel Amman. Of course, I haven't been doing much of that. Nope, I write long emails about boys, and I don't publish them to the general reading public. That's it. Someday I will tell you more.

Long time no talk

Hello Reader,

I'm sorry; it's been a while and I have been neglectful. Too busy with the minutiae of a life that still feels in transit - somewhere between DC, Cambodia, Menlo Park and Brooklyn - and soon to relocate again, to somewhere not very far, but with more square footage. I have been taciturn (discreet? can I claim discretion on a personal blog?) also because I've been censoring the stream from brain to page - which means what I most want to discuss must be unsaid, along with anything and everything else. Ruminations on my last few (ish) relationships are absent, along with the almost absurdly typical New York City adjustment debauchery phase I am apparently experiencing. And you have no idea the things I want to tell you, so you and I can commiserate and cocelebrate all these "lessons" and jesuschristhowdidthathappen moments that have impressed and appalled Small Town Me. My college roommate, dearest Lauren B, would not be surprised that I still brush my teeth and hang up my clothes when I get home at 3 or 4, even if the rest of the evening's decisions were less responsible or otherwise insane. I didn't know there was a Small Town Me. The Big City will learn you but quick.

What I am getting at is here I am at this point of inflection, and a lot of what I expected to define my life and livelihood is still undetermined - is this relatively stable? In some ways I am in extended adolescence, a kind of retrograde where I am hanging out with 24 year olds and semi-unemployed and testing my limits, changing my hairstyles. I can still smell the fumes of the high I rode last Fall, when I was convinced I had discovered the secret recipe for my own happiness and I was unshakable and brilliant. It's there, if less exhilarating. But I will allow a little bit of emo now and again. I return to this question of character and identifying qualities - whatever immutable things you can know about a person, or yourself. What would I never do? What do I know you will always do? These thoughts can trend melancholic and are overwhelmingly self-absorbed, but I think I have them in check. I think so until I have told the nth person about the shady colleague or thoughtless friend who behaved "out of character," and I see I am still thinking about it.

But there is the fun stuff, too, I swear! I am chatty with a tattooed waitress because I am a regular at her restaurant! I can do roll ups in pilates now! I went to England, and I went to Miami, and I met the world's hipsteriest, swarthiest, hottest Chilean blogger! I regularly attend literary panels and cultural events! I impress people at karaoke! I put together hip and interesting outfits on an almost daily basis and I can do complex word problems in under two minutes. I can read html and Spanish. I feel so much love.

We're famous, Ma!

The NYTimes sees transparently into my soul in its Real Estate section article on Greenpoint. Link to slideshow here. The shots of Lomzynianka restaurant, the G train exit and Matchless are each located "around" various corners of my home location. The "Matchless... attracts newcomers to the area" line is especially cruel.

Note the omnipresence of both tattooed youth and the robustly Polish, which contributes to my growing urge to ink myself, or purchase red, white and bird gear to fit in.

I'm struggling with the parallelism and subject-verb agreements in these sentences. GMAT, you and I have a long way to go.

The G train - take it to not go to Manhattan or most of the rest of Brooklyn, love it for the Al Harrington shoe ad:

Blaudungs, blaudungs

The household is coming apart in August, which makes me feel like this:

Can't blame a kid for wanting to live in Manhattan and the renter's market should mean Molly and I find a much nicer two-bedroom (maybe in Ft Greene!) without having to pay more. But I'll miss Xinxin. And it's his birthday today.  

UPDATE: Don't worry, they caught the guy

I ran into some cops at a bodega on Manhattan Ave last night who confirmed that the perpetrator of the failed carjacking/smashing of church/hit and run was caught. When I related this story to the boys downstairs their principle concern was that I had initiated contact with police officers. I'm comfortable with public servants in uniform, OK?

Screech bang squeal

This just happened in front of my house:

Guy leaves his keys in his car while he visits the pharmacy on our corner. Other guy sees opportunity, steals car, screeches away the length of 6 parked cars, sideswipes the next one and crashes into the front of the church two doors down from my own. Carjacker flees scene on foot while car owner chases after, screaming "STOP! STOP!"

That was dramatic. Despite my really wanting them to be so, none of the firefighters were actually hot.

Our place is the third floor of the gray building, church is on the other side of the wacky pinkish fake stone building.

Sad: