As I was wandering around the East side Thursday, large orange headphones draped over my ears, I passed a couple taking a picture of an old brownstone. Tourists mix themselves with locals throughout the city, cameras hung about their necks ready to snapshot the next sight they see that has been detailed out in their city guides so this encounter really didn't phase me at all. But then I stopped to take another look at them. They had paused and were talking fast to each other, not the normal take a picture and move on down to the next attraction routine. The man was getting really excited, his hands gesturing up and down as the woman took another photo. Now I was curious. I waited for them to head down the street and walked up to the building- similar in shape, size, and color as every other one on the block- my eyes darting to all its edges and curves looking for something of value that made it stand out. A small plaque was to the left of the doorway's arch and I moved closer, reading the engraved marking, claiming this house as having once belonged to Mark Twain. What?! I stopped and looked to my left, realizing my dorm was immediately across the avenue. I have lived here for a month now and not known that this house existed? I'm such a literary nerd, such a wannabe writer, and I had no clue that down the street belonged a house where Mark Twain had lived, written, thought, entertained, and created. I peered into the window, just a regular home, there was a bookcase (Huckleberry Finn and Tom Sawyer must be lining the rough wooden shelves), a chair (one of those soft leather kinds, good for curling up on rainy days), a couch (the print tacky and faded, but home like- comforting), and a lamp. How is it possible that people live in that house still. They watch TV, eat dinner, read books, put their kids to sleep, and walk the dog. It's funny how an ordinary thing like a house can be so transient, so motionless in time, unlike people. The lives inside of it run through and past, and if you could take a picture (one of those time elapsed photos that make the lights on the highway look like neon streams) of the house you would see it standing tall and stern amidst the centuries and the people inside would just be blurs, pale pink spots on a page. And among those spots would be Mark Twain, bent over a writing desk in the middle of the night- the New York heat seeping into his bones and thoughts- as he scratches out a masterpiece or a grocery list. One thing legendary and tactile the other disposable. It leaves you wondering about whether he could fathom that there'd be a plaque outside the house one day, and where the next plaque for the next somebody will go?
So I know its been ages since an update, so sorry, just haven't been around a computer much! But here's the rundown of the week. Thursday night I crashed at M's after going to Trivia night with her and H- we rocked popular culture and absolutely failed at sports movies (no Sandlot reference whatsoever? Come one!). Then after a wonderful night sleeping in an air conditioned apartment M and I went to Central Park to lay out. Then after a nice raid of her closet, I bid her goodbye, grabbed dinner at Kimmel and met up with K, L, and R for a fun night out. A bit of a shock when K and I got back to the dorm however last night. A girlfriend of mine from Ireland is sitting outside of Rubin with her sister clutching her hand. Bloodied napkins were wrapped tightly around her littlest finger and both of them had mascara streaking down their faces as they sat against the wall crying. I rushed over to them to find out what was going on, seeing as how they had texted me earlier to come hang out. S (the sister) shoves F's (the injured one) finger at me asking if I can hold it. So, on one of my more random nights in New York I sat against the wall of Rubin holding F's half sliced finger in place so that it basically won't fall off. After about ten minutes a guy friend of theirs took over the holding the finger in place situation so that I could go check on S. The poor girl is halfway around the world from home, her sister slammed her finger in a car and has blood gushing out of her hand, and she just got a phone call that her friend in Ireland has cancer. Needless to say all she needed at that moment was a shoulder, so I held her till the ambulance came. Thank goodness the doorman called one! After making sure that the girls were okay and were getting the help they needed I went back inside and hung out with SB and A for a bit before crashing. After a night like that it took me two seconds to fall asleep. (p.s. the irish girls ended up being fine, I talked to them a little later after the hospital and all)
And now I'm sitting here on M's couch with the smell of (yes!) pancakes drifting over to me. And with plans to go lay out today, dinner with S and her parents tonight at Swing, and then She and Him at Governor's Island tomorrow it's looking like it's going to be a wonderful fourth of July weekend.
-Mandy
No comments:
Post a Comment