First of all, Cait went to go see Rilo Kiley at Webster Hall last Sunday. I would have been there with my heart on my sleeve if only I’d gotten tickets sooner. Before she left, we made a package for Jenny Lewis: A two-page letter written on the back of flashcards, our business cards, two photos and a question about where we could mail the short film we are in the process of making for her.

At the show, Jenny (Oh, Jenny!) saw Cait clutching the envelope. She looked Cait in the eyes and said, “Hey, that has my name on it.” The crowd sort of parted, and Cait walked up to the lip of the stage and handed it to her.

“Thanks,” Jenny said. “I can’t wait to open it.”

And then she got a four-second video of Jenny holding our package in stage, looking at it, and setting it next to the keyboard. This blew my mind. Jenny Lewis. My love.

Number one, number two: I hung out with Wes Anderson, Jason Scwartzman, Dr. Ruth and the more! at Tavern on the Green. I stood behind a seated Bill Murray head, staring at his hair, his scalp, trying to think of something to say. By the time I was ready, he and Anjelika Houston had risen, and shuffled out the door.

Anjelika is just as much woman in person as she is on the screen.

A friend from the writing Program, Nicole, and I decided to double-team the premier of the new Wes Anderson flick, “The Darjeeling Limited.” We’d never spent time together, but both shared deep love of his movies. We got coffee and waited by the barriers at the Lincoln Center, doing homework. We waited on the bricks for hours, reading, chumming it up with the red carpet security guards. We met two especially helpful ones: Santos and “Buckles.” When we had to leave the site to go do some scouting, they always held our place. It rained. The sun set. Then the paparazzis started to show.

Nicole and I were inches away from the VIPs. Bill Murray, Adrien Brody, Heather Grahm, Jason Scwartzman, Molly Shannon, Leelee Sobieski all stopped and looked at us, let us take their Polaroid. Oh yeah, and then someone shouted: “Look! It’s John Waters!” And suddenly, Mr. Waters himself was standing in front of us, looking us in the eyes. We have a picture of him with his head-cocked, point-blank, smiling. Even Dr. Ruth scooted by, though I know not what her association was with the film

I shrieked, “OH MY GOD, IT’S DR. RUTH!” and her publicist said, “Yes it is,” and tapped the Dr. on her shoulder. She turned and faced me, and I blubbered, “I appreciate you so much,” clutching my heart. We got a good shot of her, too.

She is the smallest person I’ve ever seen.

So yes, yes, yes, it was all very exciting. Then “Buckles” asked us, “You going to the reception at Tavern on the Green?”

“Oh, heavens no,” I said. “We couldn’t even get into the movie.”

“Talk to Santos,” he said. “He can hook you up.”

So, unsure whether we could swing it, but ready to give it a shot, Nicole and I raced all over Fifth ave. looking for more Polaroid film and a sewing kit. If we were going to go to a black tie event, we at least had to fix our busted seams.

It was a very cold night. We raced to Tavern on the Green and there was Santos, with two silver, prismatic Admit-One tickets. “Have a good time,” he said. We fixed our bobby pins and walked inside.

For those of you who don’t know about it (I didn’t, but Nicole seemed to think it a pretty famous place) Tavern on the Green is this country club-esque restaurant/reception hall on the edge of Central Park. There are tables and tables of salmon, sirloin, big hunks of grilled squash, pasta, garlic drenched greens. There were cakes, flan, pink filling, barrels of ice cream and sprinkles.

We chatted with Jason Scwartzman on a couple different occasions. He was using a cane because he broke his toe during a soccer game. I watched Willem Defoe reach for a spoon. I put my arm around Wes Anderson and told him his movies were like eating candy. Leelee Sobieski was wearing a long, gold gown. I asked her for a picture, and she responded in her beautiful, drunken, husky voice: I’m not worth a Polaroid. But maybe next to this stain-glass tiger.”

She led me to the tiger and hooked her arm around my belly, shook my hand. If you want to see pictures, or just plain don’t believe me, you can check out at Facebook.com on my account (Adrian Shirk.)

I’m just shit-shooting now. There’s gotta be someone out there who’s going to wet themselves over this: Who else? Can’t remember. But we ran into a group of students towards the end (they were at least appropriately dressed) who go to NYU. And the girl, this dashing, exotic thang from Toronto, happened to be roommates with the only person I know who goes to NYU. That’s something.

I am working on a story that is a story-within-a-story. I am really into mythology right now. The Greeks know all about it. Speaking of the Greeks, Virgil and I sat in Fort Greene park last night, and got Cuban sandwiches at this sustainable Cuban restaurant that is solar powered and uses a stationary bicycle to make smoothies. After some violations and boundary-drawing, my roommate and I are parting ways. It’s all for the best.

One of Jack Keroac’s girlfriends spoke at a the Brooklyn Book Fest last week. She said that all the speculation on whether or not Jack was on mescaline during the transcription of “On the Road” was horseshit. “The reason it sounds so crazy, is because he never stopped drinking coffee.” she said. “That book was written by caffeine.” Jenny, a girl from my program, told me this over a game of Scrabble. I got two words for-the-price-of-one-turn that night, with: PEWS/SIN. Triple word score.

I’ve been brewing coffee on my bathroom counter. I find myself aching for bottomless cups, just like Jack. Like, conciously wishing for the mug to remain heavy and hot for hours. There’s something heartbreaking about the last gulp. It’s the same with the celebretory cigarette, slice of pie, cup of tea. I sit there wishing neither of them to end. They’re all ceremonious substances, embedded in ritual, kinship and energy. They wake your liver up (afterwards of course, promptly putting it to sleep.) I understand that they are unhealthy, and if that’s a case for banning them from our lives, let’s create new ritual in their place.

That’s all we’re really looking for anyway.

Scrabble has become a fix. We play on a storage box, and take out the silver board and the chrome letter stands like heroin paraphenilia. I got a package from Maggie the other day filled with acorns, cowboy boots, and a Tiger Lily headdress made out of Osprey feathers. I ripped open the package in the grass and then laid in the autumn sun. I’ve been wearing the headdress everywhere–to the workrooms to write, in the kitchenette to make Indian food, to the hall council meetings.
  
Last night Cait and I saw a photography and photo blog expose in da’ city. We were sort of horrified by the art and the ineloquence–until this guy, who had virtually nothing to do with that scene, barreled onstage and stammered about his black and white prints, crying, swearing, his belly protruding over his nylon shorts. Beautiful! Old holocaust survivors and cat fights in Bed-Stuy, circa 1986. He had this one shot of corner bodega’s window, in the height of the blow-craze, wit crack pipes and the makings for cocaine sitting right in the window, under a Miller High Life Sign.

One of the photographers was a physician on the side, who has his own practice that he makes available to people who are underinsured or have no insurance to speak of. For a flat fee, he offers home visits and checkups, plus unlimited Instant Messeging, email or phone consultance–another revolutionary use of the digital age.

The names of the presenters are escaping me, but if you’re intrigued, the event was called NYC Photo Bloggers at the Apple Store in SoHo.    

People who are working anti-9-5 lifestyles are paving a new road. My elementary school friend, Grace Shibley, was just interviewed on the KINK 101.9 website about her career as a dancer, at eighteen-years-old. And folks, she’s making money, too. Naomi, a friend since the sweet peak of adolescence, is thinking about hiring herself out as a fairy princess for little-girl birthday parties, after a lucrative first experience. Clown school means something totally different to me now.

I am working about three hours a day, two to three days a week, drinking fresh juice, talking to the neighborhood folks, and organizing shelves. My dumpster diving efforts are still coming back in consignment checks. And I still have time to go lock myself in a spare room on the second floor of Stabile Hall and write for two, three, four hours.

Some regulars at The Carrot are still alarmed when they see me.

“Oh… you new?”

“Third week,” I say.

“I guess he’s been talkin’ about hiring…” surveying, almost smiling.

Trust is a big theme here.

By the end of the transaction, they’ve warmed up, settled into the change, shaken my hand and welcomed me to the ‘hood. And, not that I had any doubts about the power of eating well, but there is a canyon of difference between those who do and those who don’t. It is so apparent working in a health food store. They’re not necissarily all friendly or gung-ho, but the people who come into The Carrot are awake, alive, look you in the eyes. And they’re beautiful. Their skin glows and their bodies look comfortably fitted with the weight that they carry.

My teachers are very thorough. The feedback I’m getting is specific, and there’s no sense of urgency upon receiving it: they know what they want to say, and they take their time. I am reading Oedipus Rex, Jesus’ Son, Happy Days by Sam Beckett and a slew of insta-fiction (anyone into Lydia Davis? She’s quite the alchemist.)

Rode my bike around Fort Greene Park the other day. Sat under an acorn tree and made lists. I don’t know how everyone perceived New York City, but it’s green. It is bursting with foliage–literally busting sidewalk seams and telephone wires. There’s a slope of lawn outside our building and a lot of us congregate there in the evenings, and the in-betweens. Moments ago I was sitting there with Lily. I had a hit that we come from the same type of family, that it shaped us in similar ways, and so I said, “Who’d you grow up with?” and sure enough: kin. 

Tonight Nicole is going to do a poetry slam at a coffee shop on Dekalb. There’s also some kind of open mic/party at a writing upperclassman’s flat. I think it’s going to be a good time.                   

A fellow writer reported about me for the Pratt newsletter.                        

            Dumpster divers, gleaners, whatever you want to call them: we’ve all seen them. They prowl around campus, searching for broken mirrors and bathroom tile to use in sculptures and 3D class. Yes, we are all used to those who dumpster dive for artistic purposes, but what about those who use this hobby as means to make a living? I spoke to one of these enterprising individuals, Adrian Shirk, for this article, and learned that for some people, dumpster diving can be far more than
just a hobby—it can be a lucrative career option.
            Adrian, a freshman writing major, graduated high school as a junior and was all set to pursue her plans for college this year when she learned that she was a few thousand dollars short. She quit her job at a local thrift store and began dumpster diving and consigning to make ends meet. “Between June and August, we made roughly $3,400,” Adrian says. Added to her work wages and money she had made from on-and-off consigning over the course of the year, she ended up
making about $4,900 overall, and the money is still rolling in from recent sales of her items at consignment shops.
            For those who are turned off by the thought of searching through
piles of trash for great finds, there are other ways to go about it, all of which have been utilized by Adrian—“free” boxes, garage sales, and just picking up items abandoned on the roadside. However, for those who are worried about the sanitary aspect of dumpster diving, Adrian says that she “sees nothing unsanitary about it. Wash your hands. Don’t lick anything. Get over your sanitary complexes. This is the future!”
    For those who are interested in dumpster diving in the Pratt vicinity, Adrian keyed me in on some hot spots. “There’s a cluster of dumpsters at the back of the engineering building that always has
something useful. Also, on Fridays and Saturdays, the lovely people of Clinton Hill and Fort Greene unload their weekly “trash” on the curb—clothing racks, lamps, stools. And eco-sized construction
dumpsters are great, too, because the contractors go into these houses and just toss out everything in their wake.”
    Although some people are squeamish about the concept of dumpster diving, Adrian thinks that “everyone should give diving a shot. Eventually we are going to run out of resources, and our economy is going to depend on the recycling of goods. Places like Goodwill and the Salvation Army have thousands of warehouses across the country full of shit. Let’s stop making more—let’s use what we’ve got!”

And also: I’m going to Kansas City for Thanksgiving. I keep forgetting to mention that. Cait’s family invited me, and it’s about $400 less to get there than Portland. Feast in the Heartland. Prairies and kin.

Oh it is so glorious and blue outside right now. The aftermath of a humid downpour.

If you’d like to see photos of my time here, go to www.Flickr.com and choose the tab ‘people’ and search for ‘adrian shirk.’ I’m not quite sure how to use the site, but if there’s an option to look at ‘tagged photos,’ click those, too.

Also, if you choose the tab ‘photos’ and search ‘adrian shirk,’ you’ll get all of Cait’s photos of our adventures.

Love.

Cockroaches are just amazing.

My friend Jackson has an apartment in Sunset Park, and before we got there the other night, he warned me: “We’ve got bugs.”

This means something entirely different over here, than it does in the West.

In the West,”we’ve got bugs” implies the presence of silent, lurking creatures, quietly eating the interior of your house. Or it means, fleas. Over here, the bugs are right out in the open, crawling on your walls, in your sinks, underneath your refrigerator. They are no bullshit creatures–they walk through your living room like they own the place.

I watched two crawl along his kitchen cabinets, hiding in a nook, side by side. They kept their bodies hidden, but extended their antennae like radars, as though this rendered them unnoticed. They are the most cognizant insects I’ve ever seen. Just like biscotti or bomb shelters, they could survive the apocalypse. This admiration I felt for them replaced my repulsion.

And they watch you.

Cait and I went to the Brooklyn Museum and saw this exhibit about global feminism. There were intense Brazilian artists who used a lot of meat and animal intestine imagery, and a twenty-one minute video of classic movie clips in which women profess their love and beat the crap out of men. And there was this huge installation of banquet-style tables, each place set for an important woman, starting with the collective primordial goddess. At each place was a different hand-made linen, iconography, and a plate painted as the respective woman’s vulva.

On field day in elementary school, we always had this relay race where, instead of passing a baton, you had to chug water as fast as you could from a large plastic cup. This is what academia feels like. Information flowing like wine, and all you can do is drink and swallow, drink and swallow. My belly is sloshing with knowledge.

Speaking of digestion, I feel like I haven’t slept since I got here (one month ago!) and just the other day, the fatigue descended on me like Mt. St. Helens. I just crashed. A fire alarm woke me from a nap and I stumbled into the corridors in my terrycloth shorts and crouched on the lawn, woozy, waiting for the fire department. I sat on the lawn, watching bodies rush around–hoses, hats, boots, kids from my hall laying head-to-head with their arms in the air. I scratched bug bites on my legs. I felt like an outsider. I slept more.

The honeymoon is over, and now we are our raw selves.

Jackson called me that night–a river of warmth and familiarity–which kicked off two days of adventure. Bagels and late nights and rusty, soot-caked fire escapes as the sun crawled over the BQE. Another friend from way back (we’re talking middle school) was in the city with his roommate this weekend, so Jackson and I met up with them in Little Italy.

Do Italians know how to party, or what? They have been celebrating The Feast of San Gennaro forever. A while back, I got nougat candy chopped off the block, and they were partying just as hard then. That was three weeks ago. Jackson, Davi, Johhny and I ploughed through the alters and the singing and the game sharks and nougat candy vendors. All of the telephone wires on Mulberry St. were covered in red, white and green tinsel.

We went to a rooftop party in the lower East side. It was a fundraiser for NYU’s new theatre company. Oh, those nutty theatre kids. It was a beautiful night. The city was illuminated and the roof was pitch dark. The four of us went back to Brooklyn, stayed up all hours, talking–about culture, inherited religion, what it means to cling to race, tradition, ceremony, wondering about its destructiveness. Jackson is Modoc, “native American” and Davi is Brazillian-by-blood, and both of them feel more connected to their roots than the culture they were raised in.

Nicole–who is a first gen Italian, dealing with her own culture polarity as her family bursts at the seams from a recent death of it’s patriarch–and I watched “Kinsey” last night. Woah! It’s about Alfred Kinsey–the sex pioneer of the 40s and 50s. It’s not a very thorough telling, but it’s a good way to just get an idea of what he was doing. America never internalized his message, after all these years–what happened? We ate cake and wondered.

I’m getting my history education from Radimus at The Carrot. He often talks about history in reference to old Westerns. He knows a lot of about the Civil War. The other day he told me that Abraham Lincoln was assassinated by the French government, and that John Wilkes Booth was merely a scapegoat. He told me that Abe was talking about giving Arizona, New Mexico, the bottom half of California back to Mexico–”We can always go back and reclaim them later!”–and was planning to move the battle North, to a more industrialized place, and fight for rights to Canada.

And the French we’re like, the hell you are. Though, most people don’t know this.

Another fire alarm this morning. We have sensitive detectors. It’s a regular thing. We all gathered outside in our underwear and t-shirts, and basked in the early morning sun, letting the firefighters come and do their rounds, shaking their heads.

Pratt Sustainability is an institutionalized branch of the administration. This is so cool. There are individuals paid full time to figure out how live more sustainably in the city. Woah! I went to a meeting and realized that they’re doing a whole bunch of stuff: they’re creating off-the-grid offices, green roofs, permaculture nature walks on the campus that serve as a learning device. The coordinator wants to create a vegetable garden that the students maintain, and that uses its produce in the dining hall. They’re in the process of building an entirely green extension of Pratt classrooms and studios–three blocks up and around the corner. And now I’m part of the team, too.

I focus best on the subway. The amount of homework I’ve completed mid-commute, is astounding. There’s nothing more grounding than being the eye of the storm.

After sleep, gray morning in the back of

The van, washed awake in birds, light and bugs.

We swing our feet outside, looking for love,

Find the ground instead, as lost time tugs.

And I’m in awe of your skin, Baby–

Beautiful skin, untarnished despite your skinned knees.

In this bath of morning, I see that things, maybe,

Are worth letting go! We’re fawns in the trees,

See us through the green, spit from the Volkswagon,

Knobby and naked, like, what now? The rest?

We’re leaving, washed up in the wake, lagging.

The feeling, like loss, caught up in our chest.

You snake around me like Eden’s arbor,

There’s breath and life in releasing ardor.

Sushi. Steamed vegetables. Pizza. Refried beans on rice cakes. Peanut butter pie. Peanut butter and bakers chocolate chips. By the fork-full. Artichokes. More sushi. Okra. Jerk chicken and wild rice. Lemon bars. Grapefruit juice. Old coffee. Shredded Spoonfuls with soy milk. Fat burritos in veggie tortillas. Thai coconut soup from the can. Pre-packaged hashbrowns. Wraps with cold portabellos and tofu. Wedges of tofu in curry sauce. Cheeseburgers. Cherry tomatoes. Duck sauce. Egg noodles. Baby corn. Pineapple. Grapes that taste like lotion. Calzone. Wheat grass shots. Peanutbutter and banana smoothies. Superfood. More pizza. Seaweed salad. Pasta salad. Plantains. Chocolate cake. Greasy breakfast sandwiches. Grid-like french fries. Nachos. Salted endamame. Better coffee.

Vicky is from a part of the Bronx called “Co-op City” which is a little hood within a hood, operating off of its own power plant and reservoir. A lot of the housing is only the cost of utilities, and there is a mix of old and new blood.

We went to Upright Citizens Brigade again, and sat on stage again at Amy Poehler’s feet. If you stand in line for the 9:30 show, you get in for free. So we took notes for class, played Travel Scrabble, and talked about starting a performance troupe for spending money. We started dancing in an attempt to keep our blood moving, and soon a group of people followed suit.

So I said, “Do the ‘airplane.’ Another inanimate object dance party emerged. Do the ‘envelope.’ Do the ‘oven.’ Do the ‘bridge,’ the ‘plane,’ the ‘koala.’

We got jicama salad and sangria at a Mexican restaurant on 14th Ave. We tap danced on the train platform. There is a lot of love flowing. There is a lot of–a collective sense of being gotten.

Ah, to be gotten!

“She’s upset because she’s an erotic person, and she feels like people pigeonhole her into innocence because of the way she presents herself,” Allie explained to someone about me, as I groped for the words.

I had class outside today. I had ecology with my increasingly doomed science teacher. I shot baby food with a price gun at work. I got a letter from my grandmother, which contained a list of similes for writers to avoid, not excluding:

“He was as tall as a six foot three-inch tree”

“She walked into the office like a centipede with 98 missing legs”

“Oh, Jason, take me!” she panted, her breasts heaving like a college freshman on beer night”

Thanks, grandma!

It is the fact that New York could collapse in on itself at any given moment that makes it so alive. One-hundred self-sustaining villages. New York and I are still on our honeymoon and so you have to take my ardor with a grain of salt: but damn, where has this force been my whole life?