Alizah Salario

The view from my window

Like many Americans, my consumption of 9/11 coverage has dramatically increased over the past week.  And also like many Americans, I still stare in disbelief at photos taken in the wake of the destruction. But these days I’ve been doing something I haven’t always been able to do. I look at the photos online, then I looked out the window of my office at Ground Zero. I looked back at the photos, and then again out the window, where an unconventional triptych emerges fifteen floors and ten years below me: one part pool of water, one part transformer-like metal structure, and one part gaping hole.

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When I moved to Brooklyn, I felt slightly disgusted with myself. Does this borough really need another writer with liberal politics, too many advanced degrees, and a penchant for organic kale? I didn’t think so. But alas, after the purgatory that is apartment hunting in New York, I’ve landed in Park Slope. Oh yes. I’m lapping up the sweet yuppie nectar that oozes from the pores of Slopers and can be used as an alternative to agave sweetner in tea and/or fair trade coffee. That’s right. I’m living at ground zero of what makes Brooklyn Brooklyn, or at least, the Brooklyn I’ve come to know and love (and sometimes find obnoxious).

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Who wants to sit around with their nose in a book (or a Kindle) now that the warm weather has finally arrived? The question is, who doesn’t? Every year my reading prowess goes into overdrive during the warm months. Blame on more plane rides and car trips, or just call it what it is: procrastination.

Read books by women that men should read – my picks are Atwood, Munro, and Dillard

Listen to Rachel Aviv discuss mystical powers, mental illness, and forced treatment in the New Yorker

Enjoy Courtney Love in Istanbul in xojane.com: “It’s kind of like a coffee commitment at an AA meeting, though. If you don’t show up, you get really embarrassed.” I have to give her credit for prancing around in a bikini like that. Maybe that’s what I need. Bikini pics and another global adventure. Or not. Which brings me to my next point on how infidelity affects the kids. Thankfully my parents never cheated on one another (they were only married three years) but somehow I have the same trust issues I write about here. Yes, here’s the part of this post where I shamelessly self-promote. Now back to the regularly scheduled program.

Oh, I know everyone is Tweeting and liking the pants off of this one, but Franzen just nails it. And yes, I do have unrequited iPhone love.

My latest in The Rumpus.

It’s spring, I’m restless. Chicago is still cold. Here’s what I’m doing to stay inspired.

Reading:

The Gift:Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World by Lewis Hyde. A must-read for any artist/performer/writer. More on process, patience and why the market economy isn’t everything. Why haven’t I picked this book up years ago?

“Atria,” Ramona Atschul’s stunning short story about growing up and giving birth to monsters in this week’s New Yorker. This insightful writer (and my fellow Pitzer College alum) has published a gem about the public/private paradox of pregnancy and the dull ache of emerging adulthood.

David Orr’s Oprah Magazine’s adventures in poetry. If James Franco can’t make poetry cool, then can Oprah?

Watching:

The Merchant of Venice at the Bank of America Theater (I hate having to call it that.) Set in the present day, the cast infuses the time-worn script with computers instead of caskets, smartphones instead of scrolls, and lots of sexual innuendo (gay and straight). F. Murry Abraham’s portrayal of Shylock is nuanced and authentic.  If ever there was a time for mercy and tolerance, this is it. A brilliant production.

Listening to:

John Legend’s cover of Adele’s Rolling in the Deep. His voice is pure talent.

Drinking:

Ipsento latte: honey, espresso, coconut milk and a dash of cayenne pepper. Just the kick in the pants I need.

After watching half an episode of Two and a Half Men, I needed to purify my brain.  Thankfully I found this lovely talk tucked away in my Facebook feed, and it made me feel vulnerable about my lack of vulnerability instead of sullied by the #winner. Great. Big improvement.

What does this have to do with anything? (Can’t you see I’m working backwards – first marriage and babies, now love?) Nothing….but I’ve been thinking. (Yes, really). We’re a culture saturated with ideas about romance and hook-ups but very little information on maintaining loving, lasting relationships. Or maybe that’s just me. Since Oprah is going off the air and Dr. Phil is rather phony, I figure the world needs new voices about healing, love and spirituality. This lady is one of them.  But don’t listen to me. Just watch the video.

Random thoughts on my latest for The Daily Beast on how radiation affects a fetus:

Maybe it’s because my Facebook feed is dominated by pregnant friends or adorable babies, but I’ve suddenly found myself acutely aware of all things infant-related. Half the time I’m annoyed at women who define their identities by posting pictures of their kids spitting up all over themselves, the other half I’m lamenting the fact that I don’t have a little dough ball to spit up and poop all over me.

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The Chicago Tribune’s endorsement of Emanuel for mayor comes as no surprise. In today’s editorial section, there’s a picture of Rahm staring off into the distance — no, the future —looking stoic and utterly driven. Whether or not you’re in Emanuel’s corner, the picture and the eloquent text surrounding it makes a convincing case for Rahm. Chicago is in dire financial straits, here’s what needs to be done, here’s why Emanuel is the man for the job. Boom. There’s no waxing poetic, mention of sideshow scandals, and no ego-stroking inflation, either.

Then there’s the above video titled “Too Big to Fail,” written and performed by “DJ Freddie Mac and The Blue State Cowboys.”

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Let’s call it the Angelina effect.

A talented, beautiful and independent woman reaches a high point in her acting career. She has a breakout role, affirms her place on Hollywood’s A-list, and earns accolades from the Academy. Even Perez Hilton fawns over her. Then out of left field, she’s pregnant.  Natalie Portman, who just yesterday announced she’s engaged to danseur beau Benjamin Milliped and pregnant with his child, is a testament to the fact that marriage does not always precede the baby carriage.

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I don’t know Cameron Dabaghi , but I’m going to imagine who he was for a few moments. I’m first going to think about why people choose to take their own lives. I know all the psych book answers, but they don’t seem sufficient. Then I’m going to think about why someone so young would choose such a dramatic, visible way to die. Then I’ll ask myself the obvious question: of all the ways to go, what would prompt someone to choose to plummet 86 floors from the Empire State Building?

Then I’m going to wonder what it looked like on the way down, who might have seen him falling, if he ever had a moment of unfettered freedom before splattering on the pavement, and when, precisely, he actually died.

It doesn’t seem fair to speculate on the life of a total stranger, but I’m doing it anyway. It is facile to stay that suicide is an escape, and that for some, it seems the only option when hopelessness and desperation take hold.  Once one decides to die, how does one decide to go? The living never get to hear the stories. Some likely go the way of least resistance, at least pain-wise. Others, however, think of the impact on others.  I imagine that Cameron didn’t feel heard, because he didn’t go quietly or privately. Had he overdosed in his dorm room at Yale, we likely would never have know his name. A tale of torment and anguish needs a dramatic finish, and I wonder if he jumped simply because he wanted a powerful ending to his story.