More and more, my alternative selves have me somewhat schizophrenic and conflicted.
I removed the descriptor "lately" from the end of that last sentence as I wrote it, for as though it seems to be exacerbated presently, I've felt torn for longer than I can remember (note: we are not referring to actual, but metaphoric schizophrenia). As both an observer and participant in my own existence, I struggle with the appropriate ratio of doing to ruminating and interpreting.
I've been neglecting the rumination lately, I'll admit. This city- I believe they refer to it as never sleeping for a reason. One can get caught up in the mentality of needing to eke out every possible fragment of opportunity from it. Pretty soon you realize your bedtime has shifted two hours later, your apartment is colonized by lazy stacks of bills, magazines, recycling, and dust, and you can't recall the last time you read anything longer than an article in the Times or wrote a note that wasn't a work memo. I don't think it's a requisite that New Yorkers all stumble into this mentality like overachieving zombies, but I can see the pattern of how it happens to many.
An excellent visit to my native northwest, the return to a demanding workweek with new projects to manage, a week of entitlement to birthday self-indulgence, some extra-curricular volunteering, commitment to study for licensure exams, and I find myself wanting to unfurl the days longer like an accordion to reveal more hours and accommodate my idealistic commitments. I left the office last night after a grueling fifteen-hour work day, feeling simultaneously grumpy, exhausted, and pretty on top of the world. Juggling two significant deadlines, I had pulled one off entirely on my own time and creativity after a former coworker's project needed submission to the city's public design comission within two days of my boss asking me to take care of a project I'd never seen before. Feeling accomplishment in one of the most challenging places to succeed is intoxicating; I can see how the Madoffs and Trumps of the world are drawn here and get caught up in it.
With that said; me? Am I truly buying into the so-called Rat Race? The girl who photojournalizes obscure signs that make her laugh, who takes frequent breaks from architectural drudgery with irreverent emails to former coworkers mocking corporate facial hair and mind-numbing newsletter subjects, and who keeps an extensive collection of bus transfers from three years ago for future use as an art installation? I tend to perceive myself as more of an interpreter of observations than a Type-A personality, generally. I regularly wake up Saturdays after noon, read in bed for over an hour, and don't leave the house until 4 pm. I do not check my work email on the weekends.
But we don't operate in binary; there is a gradient and complexity to the human personality. I suppose someone who moves from their safety circle, all alone across the country with two cats in tow into one of the most demanding and difficult cities of the world can not be called very passive.
So here I find myself, walking home late on uncharacteristically sedate Manhattan avenues, coming down off the relief of meeting a deadline, developing an understanding of what fuels some New Yorkers. I am listening to Death Cab for Cutie's "Marching Bands of Manhattan" through my headphones as I step out of the elevator, toward Fifth avenue and Broadway and through Madison Square Park. Looking up at the uplit clocktower, and the Flatiron building,
I find myself humming about life out of body, of making observations rather than decisions:
If I could open my arms
and span the length of the isle of Manhattan,
I'd bring it to where you are,
making a lake of the East River and Hudson.
If I could open my mouth
wide enough for a marching band to march out
they would make your name sing
and bend through alleys and bounce off all the buildings.
I wish we could open our eyes
to see in all directions at the same time.
Oh what a beautiful view
if you were never aware of what was around you.
And it is true what you said
that I live like a hermit in my own head
but when the sun shines again
I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in.
...but while you debate half-empty or half full,
it slowly rises...
And I can relate to this, for all the work victories and photos of comedic punctuation you can turn out can not provide meaning for life on their own. You either keep striving for bigger victories, in the true New York fashion, or you bow out of the rat race and move to the West Coast (or bow out metaphorically by moving to Brooklyn), where you can spend time with loved ones, coining philosophy from patio chairs.
Or maybe, since we don't operate in binary, meaning in life can be found in striking a happy balance, such as starting a misanthropic journal out of Fort Greene, or becoming successful enough in business to semi-retire early, owning a farmhouse in France that you spend enough time in to actually know the better vintners of the region. For now, I'm going to straddle the line between career dedication and daydreaming. I shall ponder the existence of and timeline for my NYC expiration date, wondering for whom, and when, I want to make my arms span the length of the isle of Manhattan.
