Alvin Ailey

Just half a block from my apartment is the Alvin Ailey, American Dance Theater. Walking past each day I see dancers grouped on the sidewalk in chic dance outfits, waiting for class. In the day, sun shades cover the studio windows, so a best one sees only a glimpse of the action inside.

Tonight, Amber and I went out for Afgan food at a little place on 9th Ave. On the way home we found the bench outside the studio full of spectators, some are eating ice cream. We joined.

From outside we hear no sounds of music or words from the instructor. In an instant the studio moves from stillness to light, airy motion. The instructor demonstrates, everyone practices a challenging bit of routine independently, then they group into threes and try it again with arms interlaced. Heads are held high, legs and arms gracefully extended. Burst of fluidity, halt, reset... The dancers wear their own clothes, no costumes. They make mistakes. They laugh. They try new things. It is the perfection of ballet melded with human imperfection.

The viewers are captivated.

Manhattan

Dear Family,

After two months in Brooklyn and the priceless experience of one major trade show under my belt, I re-packed my belongings and moved from an outer-borough to Manhattan. As expected, such a move is accompanied by a reduction of space. This is an island is so densely populated that if all buildings disappeared and the inhabitants tried to stand together on the ground, we would not fit. Space is a commodity.

My good friend from Boulder, Amber, serendipitously moved to New York around the same time I did to accept a job as a software developer. We decided that I would join her and her attentive dog, Shiloh, in their midtown-west, two-bedroom, ground-floor, apartment. On the morning of my arrival, we both eyed my mountain of boxes uncertainly.

One sweaty, hot, tiring day later, after struggling to find time for both work and the move-in, I feel surly and overwhelmed. Mostly unpacked, but fresh out of space for the piles of remaining items, I stop and cook a meal for Amber.

Amber arrives home to tabbouleh and Greek salad. Lemon, parsley, and freshly-cracked black pepper in the Bulgar wheat. Water-packed feta and a local tomato with simple dressing on red leaf lettuce. We give ourselves pep talks, drink beer, and watch the new episode of Mad Men.

After Amber goes to bed, I continue to work on my unpacking puzzle. With so little storage, I begin emptying boxes onto the walls. Tacks, pins and nails hold up familiar etchings, newly collected business cards, spools of wire, framed photos from the trade show booth, pin boards for hanging jewelry, ribbon, maps, articles... I forget my exhaustion and work late into the night. Eventually, pausing to look around the space feels like mine. All 74 square feet of this room, too small for both a bed and work tables, is filled with my favorite things: piled, overlapped, overflowing. The decorating style is not too different from that of my room at age nine.

Reclining against the wall on my floor mat, propped up by pretty, patterned pillows, I listen to people passing by on the street, conversations in foreign languages, car noises, trash collection... This is my small claim in a big city.