I pass the garbage stewing in black plastic and wonder “How long can I hold my breath behind this face mask without passing out?” A rank odor will send me trotting down any street with halfway fresh air whether or not I know where it leads. Not that this helps. I never manage to outwalk that Manhattan street fragrance, Stalestench & Je ne sais quoi, always laced with weed. It trails me everywhere, reminding me of where I am and where I’m not.
I love the city, so I try not to dwell on the small things about it that make me uncomfortable. I try not to dwell at all, unless it will lead me to some deeper understanding. Sometimes dwelling upon a thought will do that, but the short-term time cost is high. I can dwell for hours on a mistake, an inadequacy, or an embarrassing moment, peeling back the layers until I eventually see the dwelling for what it is – a nesting doll with no set core, no end point. Then I start hunting for the layers I’ve peeled off, hoping they haven’t floated away and that I might be able to weave them into something meaningful, like a poem. If my search proves fruitless or my weaving fails, I get angry with myself for all the time I’ve lost looking.
It’s time I could have spent getting things done that never seem to get completely done here. Like grocery shopping when you don’t have a car and don’t want to pay for a delivery service every week. And just things, like making doctor’s appointments, buying clothes, or reading slowly. There is no time to do things the way I like to do them. New York is a city of speed. I feel pressured to be fast, get faster. It’s not the way I like to live, and, honestly, I find that going fast usually ends up being a waste of time, because the end result is often not to my liking, and I end up having to do the thing all over again. Fast is not the way I like to do it. But I love New York, so I do fast, when I have to – mainly in the store or in the street, but sometimes at work, too, where fast usually means not making people wait too long for answers, or getting my thoughts out on a topic before the discussion shifts to something else.
I enjoy my work, except when my brain is overwhelmed with trying to get things done and put things in order. I thought I knew how to prioritize, but I’m having to learn that skill all over again, as well as how to prepare big-pot stews in a semi-Lilliputian kitchen.
And I’m having to answer some semi-important questions, chief among them being how do I merge tenure-track expectations of scholarly specialization with the pull of my gypsy mind? I’ve always found the intellectual gypsy life enjoyable and enlightening, and I really can’t see giving it up. There are only so many hours in a day, though, so I’m going to have to make some choices. Do I read Black Cake or Knowledge Justice? Write a poem or read my third fine-print journal article of the week? Gypsy minds don’t always run on predictable schedules. I find myself working on papers and poems at strange times and in inappropriate places.
There are people in the academic world who seem to have done everything and who seem to be happy with their lives. Seem. I don’t aspire to do everything, only a lot of things. I don’t have to be like everyone else. I need a job when I need it, and a home outside of the job, an intellectual and creative home that will be there when the jobs are long gone. I will watch the clock and take my time. I will do what is important, whether or not it fits into the tenure plan. I will work like an academic, walk like a gypsy.
The days are warm now. I come from a hot place, so I don’t mind much. I know how to cozy up with the air conditioner when I need to and just do nothing for a while. It’s an important part of being free, this doing nothing. It is a tremendous privilege and an undeniable necessity, like money, meals, and cool air in the summertime. I don’t take any of it for granted.
Stacy Torian 