FUMES

I've just placed my shoes in a drawer in my office. This is apparently an act of containment; the cheap shoes from Penneys in Ireland ("EVERYONE shops there," said my sister when I came back with two paper sacks full) are emitting so many fumes that I've begun to lose my voice from exposure. I'm debating my next line of assault: talcum powder? Febreeze? A plastic bag and a dumpster?

I offer this information as a means of producing a metaphor later on. I'll get there.

I've been writing in airy bursts. I have reams of thoughts on my computer at home, thoughts on Scarlett Thomas's amazing Our Tragic Universe and the roles we play in our own narrative, thoughts on Cincinnati writer C.E. Morgan and the fact that we share the exact same birthday, and how this made me feel even more compelled to read her work ("Twins," published in last month's fiction issue of the New Yorker, was great, and I'm hoping All The Living will be just as good. I've heard good things.).

But these are all incomplete thoughts. I start out writing them, trying to make the thoughts bold and significant, about BOOKS and THOUGHT and METAPHOR and HOME and they become bloated with fumes (there it is), too broad and vainglorious. So I tuck them away in a drawer and ponder my next steps with them.

For now, I find it easier to focus on music and images. I've been listening to the new Sun Kil Moon album on repeat and devouring other people's photographs with deep exhaulted breaths, thinking to myself if I could only do THAT. These are things best not to be tucked into a drawer, but aired out big and beautiful for the rest of the world to see, hung in a row like sheets on a line. My own personal gallery of favorites.

I found Katie Spence's photographs through Sarah's Tumblr, and I've found myself trying to mimic her style on more than one occasion.

Natalie Kucken and Laura Vancane are two young photographers—one from Michigan, the other from Latvia—whose eyes I wouldn't mind borrowing for a week.

I met Jeremy Blakeslee at an art show curated by my cousin and his girlfriend a few years back where he was showing some test Polaroids of his work. Even the tests were impactful.

Cincinnati native portrait photographer Michael Wilson makes me wish I'd spent a little more time  capturing Lyle Lovett.

There's been some photographic inspiration of the vintage sort with the Library of Congress collection of photos in color, 1939 - 1943, and there are always my old favorites: Jim Griffioen has added new work to his portfolio, some of his best yet, and Chris Glass's photographs remain a constant tug at my heart and my eye.

If there's a photographer you think I'd enjoy, please leave a note with a link in the comments. I think right now I need to spend less time with a computer on my lap, inhaling the fumes, and a little more time with my camera.

ADMINISTRATION

Two years ago, out of some insatiable desire to be in a room full of people who might have some idea of what it felt like to write your thoughts out loud on the internet, I attended BlogHer. While I don't plan on attending the actual conference this year, it's coming to this coast and bringing with it many of my favorite women I met in San Francisco back in 2008, and we've all decided to meet at a bar next Saturday and invite anyone else who wants to come hang out with us to do so. No badges, no sponsors; just us, a few drinks, our cameras, and probably quite a few tubes of lipstick. Come say hello; details here.

Let me tell you about the weekend. How many other blog posts begin this way? And then proceed to create a list of "and then"s. And then and then and THEN.

But I'll be brief; just a sliver of Friday; just the bit worth telling.

There was a tornado warning, apparently. The sky began to bruise*, trees bent deep and heavy. Soon Union Square was rushing past us, paper scraps, umbrellas, people running heel-to-toe, the rains. We sucked down spicy lime chicken and pad thai and thanked the opening heavens that we were inside.

"I'm going to dance tonight." I sipped at the dregs of my frozen lychee martini through a straw, watching the couple next to us read from a religious tract. "I'm just warning you."

We compared chopstick technique and watched lightning explode above the skyline.

We were headed to Webster Hall to see Edward Sharpe & The Magnetic Zeros. Post-"tornado", the outside air hung so thick that walking felt more like swimming. (I want all of New York City, just for a day, to turn into a swimming pool. The fashion: victorian suits, swim caps for hats and goggles for glasses. Streets turned into lanes by lane markers of curbs. Someone blows a whistle, not to catch a cab, but to signal the end of adult swim. A bagel tied to a string thrown into the street to drag out a drowning rat.) By the time we reached the hot bowels of Webster Hall, the band was already on stage, and we were dripping.

We made our way up to the balcony. Balconies at shows are the savior of every short girl, and up there, as if expecting me, was a chair I could stand on to see over the row of people lining the railing. J was getting the beers in, and I was waiting for him to come back.

And then they played "Home."

I used to roll my eyes at people who would cheer on the band's biggest hit. But then they played "Home," and it didn't matter that I was the one cheering on the band's biggest hit. This was the song I was going to dance to. There were other girls dancing too, girls in loose skirts, girls in vintage lace, somewhere an Olsen Twin. And then, suddenly: J was there, smiling big and dancing along with me, sweaty limbs thrown to the ceiling.

Man, oh man, you're my best friend.

Sometimes when I try to turn my New York experiences into stories worth telling, I forget that the periphery - the thick air, the tornado, the dancing girls in vintage lace - none of it makes a lick of a difference to me until my favorite character comes into the scene. And then: I come across the emotion that makes it worth telling.

If none of this makes sense, then just take away this nugget tonight: spend a bit more time with your favorite characters, dancing on balconies.

*Credit to Bruce Robinson for that gem.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

One.

Marvin Gaye and His Girls
John Lennon & Yoko Ono - Double Fantasy
Paul & Linda McCartney - Ram
Loudon Wainwright III - Album II
Rick Nelson - The Very Thought Of You
Herman's Hermits - There's A Kind Of Hush All Over The World
Yaz - Upstairs At Eric's
The Best of Burt Bacharach
Burt Bacharach Plays His Hits
Donovan's Greatest Hits
Tim Buckley - happy sad

"I'll throw the Tim Buckley in for a couple of bucks," said the record clerk. "It's my last day. What do I care." He slides the records into a brown plastic bag. "Overworked and underpaid."

"Well, thanks for your help, and good luck with whatever you do next."

"I'm going to the moon."

"To the moon?"

"Yeah, to the moon."

"Well, good luck with that."

*  *  *

Two.

Tammy Wynette - Stand By Your Man/Bedtime Story
Elvis Costello & The Attractions - Punch the Clock
Cat Stevens - Tea for the Tillerman
The Steve Miller Band - Book of Dreams
Dick Hyman at the Lowrey Organ - Electrodynamics
Utopia - Oops! Wrong Planet
Utopia - Adventures in Utopia
Utopia - Utopia

"Do you want to try anything out?" said the girl at the counter. "I've been listening to The Kinks all day."

"I'd love to hear how this side sounds. There's a big scratch."

"Do you come in here often?"

"I try not to. If I do, I'll just spend loads of money on Todd Rundgren albums."

"I know what you mean. That's like me and bookstores."

"Oh, me too." Dick Hyman plays his Lowrey Organ. "I'm definitely getting this one."

"I used to be so into listening to new music. Now I'm just like, whatever." The sound of a cash register. "My boss will be so happy. He called before and said 'did we earn any money?' and I was, like, 'no.' I've been here for seven hours."

And with that, I crossed "record store" off our list of possible storefront ideas.

*  *  *

Three.

Prince - Purple Rain
Grand Funk - Phoenix
Christopher Cross* - s/t
Bessie Smith - Nobody's Blues But Mine
Kate Bush - Hounds Of Love

"Ah, yes. Kate Bush. I met her once."

"Was she nuts?"

"Well, hold on, hold on. She was signing records as a promotion for her album back in 1993."

"Rubberband Girl?"

"Well, no, let's see, it was… hmmm. It was called The Red Shoes."

"Uh-huh."

"This was in the days before the internet, but somehow word got out, and by the time I got there the line stretched six blocks. She ended up signing for six hours."

"Wow." (…ow, wow, wow, wow, wow; unbelievable.)

"I actually handed her something to sign that she'd never seen before."

"Cool. Do you still have it?"

"Of course." He flips back to the beginning of the stack and starts counting the prices all over again.

He never did tell me if she was crazy or not.

*Purchased because I confused "Sailing" with "Come Sail Away" by Styx. Oh well. At least I have something to listen to now when I take bubble baths.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.

© Zan McQuade. All rights reserved.