Saturday, 1pm, the first of February, fighting a hangover,
foggy and disconnected at Schenley Plaza, surrounded by snowmelt and the sound
of dripping water.
People are out, laughing, eating North Korean takeout from
Conflict Kitchen (a place I’ve been meaning to try), slugging books from
building to building, holding hands, crossing streets more slowly, it seems,
than yesterday, when winter was more brutal and self-evident.
Thin snow covers the plaza lawn, save for a winding patch
of green along its south end, a path that culminates in an unfinished snowman’s
abdomen, caked with dirt and gloveprints and blades of yellow grass.
The sky is classic Pittsburgh, a gray plane that just barely clears the Carnegie Library, that building I love, that gift to the city from a
man who came here with nothing and left with everything; a man who, despite his
flaws, gave back nearly as much as he took.
I read somewhere that Pittsburgh is the smartest city in the
country, and on days like this I’m inclined to agree, to feel a maybe
undeserved pride just for being here, remembering bearded bartenders with PhDs
and an old neighbor of mine, DePaulo was his name, an angry Italian who lived
on his porch and smoked cigarettes in his white t-shirt, reading Foucault and
calling 911 when Pitt kids spiked the noise level.
I’m trying to concentrate on the plaza, to see the chunks of
ice blasted across the sidewalk, the green table I’m sitting at, the names
etched into bricks beneath me “In Memory Of…,” and the single tree across
the lawn that kept its brown leaves, but others file into the pavilion beneath the
white funnel tent, making this the first time I haven’t had it to myself this
year, and while that’s probably a sign of things improving toward spring, I
feel a definite disruption in focus and remember the deep anxiety I woke up
with this morning, an uneasy knowing that I have more work to do than I can
finish today, that I’ll spend my afternoon in that library, drinking coffee
‘til I shake and trying to summon a thesis statement for a paper that’s mocked
me all week.
And now the plaza isn’t so interesting or peaceful.
Does anybody else get self-conscious writing in public?
It seems like a normal-enough thing to do, and if I were one
of these others in the pavilion, if were to see myself sitting alone with this
notebook, I wouldn’t give me a second thought, but for some reason it still
feels strange to put pen to paper with so many people around, probably because
of this girl I met at a bar once: a friend of a friend brought her, and she
seemed nice but also like she was trying too hard with her ironic schoolgirl
outfit and grandma glasses, and partway through the table’s conversation she
pulled a journal from her bag and started writing and didn’t look up for the
rest of the night.
At the time I thought it was the most pretentious thing I’d
ever seen (even after going to
Williamsburg), but now, surrounded by strangers, I have to say that looking back I at least
admire her poise, if not her tact, and here at Schenley Plaza, bordered by libraries to the east and west, thinking about this city and its
tough and brilliant and (usually) unassuming people, I wonder if I should have
ever been surprised at all, to see a writer doing what writers do, getting the
words out even as the world carried on around her.
8 comments:
Great visuals. I especially liked, "unfinished snowman’s abdomen, caked with dirt and gloveprints and blades of yellow grass. "
Looking at yourself as you looked at someone else writing in public was interesting.
Wow, really great post. I liked the way you threw your insecurity out there, and then concluded with the story of the girl and how, even though she seemed weird then, now thinking about it, you can appreciate the need to write - no matter where.
And yes, I totally feel weird writing in public places sometimes. It depends on what I am writing - if it's so revealing or vulnerable, I feel like people can hear me thinking :)
"Does anybody else get self-conscious writing in public?"
Yes, yes I do.
I think it stems, kinda like your experience, from how I feel when I see other people writing in public places...you worry about them writing about you, writing you away.
But i agree too, it takes balls to just start writing like that in the middle of a conversation- can't do anything but respect that.
Sarah Shotland has taught me well that writing in public spaces is worth it. She was at a bar once and didn't say a word to anyone, but two older male strangers sat next to her, pulled out their notebooks, and started freewriting next to her. In the best situations, your bravery can be contagious.
hiiii :)
cool question! i feel both awesome and self-conscious writing in public. it's public art making but unlike when a painter sets up an easel and a stool, no one else can participate or view what is happening. so it feels like a secret, a pushing away of anything but the notebook and pen. but i also feel inspired when i see other people doing it, so freaking curious about what they're scribbling away. :) they automatically become more interesting to me and i want to be their friend.
i love reading your posts because of your history with your place and with Pittsburgh, the ways you reflect, ways that i will never be able to because i don't have the connection you do. the pride you have for the tough and brilliant and (usually) unassuming people of this city in this post is so awesome and it makes me proud to live here, too, now!
I do not get self-conscious writing in public anymore if I ever did, and could have easily been the girl you mention if it were 30 years ago. But I understand how odd it must seem, in a way. But once you grow into the writer-self that you know you are, maybe you will feel less self-concsious. Also, you are a naturalist in training and they are always writing outside.
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