Out West (compound prop.noun) is not just a longitudinal direction. It's an attitudinal* direction. So, when I packed up and headed west three years ago despite my mother's plea that I needed to stay put for like two seconds**, I wasn't worried. I mean, COME ON, I pointed out to her, I was in good company: Christopher Columbus, the pilgrims, the gold rushers, the Mafia and other visionaries, retired Hollywood cowboys, stoned journalists and most recently crime scene investigators.
And, truth be told: the fact that I felt the need to head out west was all her fault anyways.
Back East I had had a dream of living in one of those TriBeCa lofts where the elevator door would glide open and directly deliver into my living room something other than the fourth! Victoria's Secret Semi-Annual Sale catalog this month (I'm no math professor, neither is Bar, Allesandra nor Leilani--I understand this--but how is this even possible?). Namely, the door would open and out would come glamorous friends, witty editors, morose (but brilliant) photographers, and brilliant (albeit morose) art directors armed with complex Cabernets from the Loire Valley and little boxes of nuanced truffles from SoHo's Vosges promptly at 7:30 every Thursday evening.
In this dream of mine, we would gather around my very grown up coffee table and complain about the incompetence of the interns*** at the magazine (I SAID A VENTI TRIPLE HALF CAF HALF DECAF MOCHA GREEN TEA LATTE WITH SUGAR FREE CINNEMON DULCE SYRUP EXTRA WHIP EXTRA DOUBLE HOT NO ROOM BECAUSE IT'S THURSDAY, DILL WEED) where we all worked together and then would move on to a more civilized discussion about the merits of the mock turtleneck versus a real turtleneck, Woody Allen, and then perhaps Rick Moody and post-modernism.
I also imagined small, but stylish photos of me on the contributor page of other equally relevant magazines. I must have fashioned these portraits in my mind a thousand times. They were to be expertly composed, but never obvious or strained. They were to allude ever so subtly to the very real and envy-inducing possibility that well, yes, I do just happen to be standing against this sun-splashed wall wearing a custom-fitted Brooks Brother white shirt with a cashmere sweater playfully wrapped around my shoulders at the US Open and well, yes, that does just happen to be Tom Ford, JD Salinger, and Princess Diana behind me playing croquet on this lovely little piece of violet-strewn heaven that, well, yes, is the front lawn of my house in the Hamptons. I admit I sometimes didn't pay much attention to the logistics of the dreams--the point was supposed to be yes, people, the world has just opened up to me and my pen.
In these photos, I wouldn't be smiling, but my expression would belie a secret life beneath the serious demeanor--a secret life of said coffee table conversations and morning jaunts for Dean and DeLuca coffee and crepes. Over time, I conjured up more sophisticated snapshots--there were hammocks and a frothy ocean behind me, a YSL tuxedo jacket and my boyfriend's jeans. Often, a small purebred dog or two would be involved. And always always always the caption beneath the photo would read: She lives and writes in New York City.
Tomorrow: Herein Lies the Problem or The Appellation Trail Part 3
*I am aware of the fact that attitudinal is not a real word. But if my students can make up words, so can I.
**or two months...
***OK. OK. Admittedly in reality I was usually the intern--though I had the special pleasure of fetching things like saffron-colored velvet fabric that was "neither too yellow nor too not yellow" and "the craziest, most unique, UNROUND lightbulbs you can find. In bulk!" Um, yeah. Mr. Sam Bennet, oh I'm sorry, I mean Mr. Publisher and Editor in Chief, if you are reading this, I want you to know that attempting and actually finding these things for you in Chinatown in less than two hours is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and yet it is wholly unlistable on my resume, jerk.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment