pretentious and pop

Glimpses of New York...A Life in Instagram

2012-03-06T13:59:00.002-08:00

This is a bit of a cheat, as it's a belated post I never got around to posting...and life has gone on quite a while since then, with quite a few more Instagram photos, but at least it's a start in what will likely be a series of glimpses of life through Instagram. Are you on Instagram (I'm lameep)?

Left to right: a charming West Village street, a cafe to sit and writer, the novel in progress, and fall in Washington Square Park.

One of my favorite places in New York: Bryan Park and the grand library there.

New York nights...red nails and fur, mesmerizing skylines.

More Than Just Pretty....The White Deer

2012-03-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

Browsing art prints today and fell in love with the work of The White Deer...fragile, intimate, beautiful and yet a little desolate and broken.

Sundays, Volunteer Work, and Guns

2012-03-04T18:23:00.000-08:00

Sundays feel like a special breed of day, a lazy and pampering kind of day. Last weekend I turned off my phone for all of Sunday. It was nice, but also strange, and I felt a little at a loss, and took a very long nap. When I woke up it was dark. I don't think I left my bed very much.

I went to the orientation for New York Cares this afternoon. It was in the basement of a church with horrible fluorescent lighting, the kind that exists in the worst waiting rooms, institutions, that spill of sickness and exhaustion. I felt like I was back in high school, middle school, in a cafeteria with cheap gray plastic chairs and a teacher who wouldn't stop explaining the most basic things. I shouldn't have judged it so harshly, I suppose. It was a volunteer organization and all around me were people who wanted to do good. For a few moments I didn't know why I was there at all. Maybe my motivations weren't as pure. The people who sat there weren't like me, I thought. They nodded attentively and asked questions. I looked at my phone and was relieved when I left.

A few years ago I worked at a public elementary school on the Lower East Side as a work study job. The teachers always commented on my outfits and most of the kids were fond of me. I read to them or talked to them as they worked on art assignments and on Fridays sometimes I taught cooking class. Ironic, as I barely knew how to cook myself. It was a rewarding experience, as people would say. But I remember there were a few kids, especially one blond haired, sharp eyed boy who would make racist comments to me (they were in the first grade. That young!). I didn't know how to talk to him, what to say. One of the kids made me a card for Valentine's Day, or maybe some other holiday. It was adorable and I took it home and tucked it in a keepsakes box. I liked to think that I was making at least a little bit of a difference, though sometimes in the after school program I simply felt out of place. The leaders of each group of the after school program were often local high school students, familiar with each other, while I was a stranger to it all.

When I volunteer now it'll be different, I suppose. Go out of your comfort zone, the orientation speaker said. Work with kids and the elderly and do the unexpected. Mostly I wonder if it'll make me happy or frustrated or sad. On the train home I suddenly had the idea for a short story--a horror story, torture porn, maybe, even. I typed it in the Notes app on my iPhone. The dark side I'm so equally drawn to but sometimes fail to explore, the one I'll never know. At home, for the story, I researched suicide methods and guns and discovered a shooting range in NYC. Something that now, I really want to do.

Romantic Old Songs and Singalongs

2012-03-03T19:10:00.001-08:00

I rarely listen to new music, these days. Sometimes it seems like too much effort. So, I turn to old songs I love. Stars or Camera Obscura or Belle & Sebastian--even if I think I've grown out of my twee phrase, it is these comforting songs, songs where I know every line with eyes closed, songs that evoke a mood I already know so well, songs I've sang along with in the car and alone in my bedroom in San Diego, songs I pegged as soundtracks to the people and places and things that happened in my past (get me away from here I'm dying, play me a song to set me free).

A few years ago, any time I had a new crush, I made a mixtape, a playlist, just for him. Sometimes I burned it onto a CD, and wrote the tracklist by hand, after I meticulous arranged each song so that the mood, lyrics and order flowed perfectly, and delivered it in some perhaps trying to be nonchalant way. I thought I would remember each crush, as vividly as the color of his eyes or the way he smiled, simply from the songs. I still have a few playlists in my iPod, but I can no longer decipher message that I wanted to inscribe between the lines. I remember how I obsessed over certain lines of certain songs, marveled over how perfect, how fitting it seemed to be. Maybe I have a better grasp of reality now, or at least a more self conscious awareness of my tendency to romanticize (it's not love, no it's nothing like that).

But maybe I cling to these songs I know because sometimes I long to not know better, to abandon myself to these exaggerated emotions, painted sentiments. Maybe it's a cheap, easy thrill, to swirl up nostalgia and longing and sadness, with the easy click of a few buttons, and remember when it all seemed so much more real. And maybe it's because now, I'm much more frightened of feeling what was so easy then (when you sing you're the sweetest thing / I would trade my mother to hear you sing).

Something I always wanted to do with a boy (though it rarely ever happened): to drink until we're laughing and the veneer of discomfort has worn off, to play my favorite songs, to sing along, and sing to him, with conviction behind every line (I wish my heart was as cold as the morning dew/ but it's as warm as saxophones and honey in the sun for you).

Six Books I Am Reading All At Once (In All Their Different Forms and Places)

2012-03-02T13:42:00.004-08:00

In no particular order:

Selected Stories - Alice Munro (Paperback, bedside reading)

Last Friday night, I walked around the West Village alone in the rain, and stumbled into a magical bookstore (bookbook on Bleecker Street). It was warm and cozy and small, the sort of place that made you sigh and take off your gloves and settle in for a long, comfortable browse. And that was what I did, slow circles as I eavesdropped on the conversation the two booksellers were having, an intelligent conversation full of cultured names and references. The selection was impeccable, and I found title after title I wanted. In the end I tried to practice a little self restraint. I asked the booksellers for advice between a short story collection of Evelyn Waugh, and this, and they recommended this. I don't know very much about Alice Munro except that she has flattering blurbs and someone over at The Rumpus wrote a nice essay about her. I've read a few short stories and they are nice enough, though I am not very interested in rural Canada, and I prefer reading about the depressed middle class of Richard Yates, and I do not get that stunned sense of awe from her writing like I do with some other writers.

The Lover's Discourse - Roland Barthes (Paperback, bedside reading)

I picked this up at bookbook, too. What do you call the genre of this book? Philosophy? Theory? Literature? This was on my reading list for my Letter As Literature class last semester. Reading books like this makes me feel intellectually stimulated, which is nice when I'm no longer in school. It's structuralism or deconstruction or something, about love, "fragments," definitions, ways of grasping and explaining and explicating. I read one section at a time and sometimes I try to think about what Barthes says and apply it to remembering love, the real thing.

The Sense of an Ending - Julian Barnes (Kindle, subway reading)

I didn't know who Julian Barnes until my Letter as Literature class, too. We read Flaubert's Parrot by him for class and I really liked it, though I hadn't even read Madame Bovary then. He is another one of those playfully intellectual fiction writers, I think, someone who likes theory and story writing equal amounts and plays with the craft, the subject, and the form. But his novels are also just enjoyable to read, and not too long. I've been reading this book on my Kindle in the subway exclusively. It's a slightly strange way to read a book I knew nothing about, but I think I really like it.

The Collected Short Stories of Colette - Colette (Hardcover, bedside reading)

According to Goodreads, I've been reading this since September 10th! Well, it is a very long book, with very short short stories, so I was reading it continuously for a while, then forgot about it, and only just in the past few days remembered it again. I switch between reading this and the Munro stories. I much prefer Colette--she's French, sensual, a bit naughty and wild, but her language is exquisite, her descriptions and subjects utterly fascinating. Colette writes about music hall artists and pretty spirited girls and broken hearts and all the things I love. She is one of my idols and I like switching between her and the distant gritty realism of Munro.

Within a Budding Grove - Marcel Proust (Kindle...imaginary reading)

I finished the first book of In Search of Lost Time relatively quickly and felt quite accomplished. But according to the wise bookseller at bookbook, the second book is about as far as most people get with Proust. Sigh. I haven't given up yet--but admittedly this is just about the last thing I turn to under any circumstance when I have so many other wonderful books awaiting my attention. Someday I will read it all, though. I just need the right environment...a very long train ride with no other books, perhaps? A week without internet in my house? Insomnia?

Confessions of An Advertising Man - David Ogilvy (Ebook, computer)

I've been rewatching Mad Men, and that, along with book, has given me a fiery desire to work in advertising. I realize, of course, that modern advertising is nothing like the glamorous, thrillingly stressful life detailed in this book, but nevertheless. I like Oglivy's straightforward writing style and his business smarts, and I like reading books about business because it makes me feel like I'm really learning something. Good practice for my future career in advertising...maybe!

A Blog A Day // Tiny Fashion // 4 Things I'm Waiting For in the Mail

2012-03-01T13:32:00.000-08:00

This month, I will be writing a blog/note/letter a day, every day. Inspired, in part, by The Daily Rumpus, and by the grand ambitious plans I have for posts that never get realized, March seems like a good time to try a something different. Where I let myself ramble--make useless lists, go on about little obsessions, books I'm reading, people I see, thoughts in my head. No big marketable ideas, just bits and pieces a life.

Did you know that there are a whole subset of petite fashion bloggers? Who are and blog about being tiny and buying tiny clothes that fit? It's funny because many of them seem to shop at the same few petite friendly places--J. Crew, ASOS, Ann Taylor--and have a similar aesthetic. They own Louboutins and wear what I think of as conventional grown-up clothes, blouses and pencil skirts and pumps and cocktail dresses on the weekend. It's quite different from that other fashion blog/Tumblr aesthetic, of vintage and peter pan collars and full skirts and over the knee socks and chunk platform shoes, that I know. Or maybe the divide only exists in my mind.

I have been thinking a lot about this, lately. Part of it is this preoccupation with being "grown-up," whatever that means (having a job, the morning commute, drinks after work, wearing perfume, the dry cleaner's, keeping track of money). It's wanting to be more sophisticated, fewer overly twee dresses and more of this clean, effortlessly chic look. It's tailored and polished and timeless and minimalist clothes, things that go with my Ferragamo bag and perfect tiny ring. And all the while, self conscious and terrified of becoming one of those forgettable people, with their downcast eyes and bland heavy clothes, or just as bad, the women obsessed with labels of shoes and bags, that cliched superficial fixation.

And sometimes I feel guilty for caring at all, as if being an intellectual, a feminist, an activist, different--means that I shouldn't fall into it so easily, consumerism and the terrible business of beauty and fashion (with its underage, under fed models and molesting photographers and empty brained defendants and terrible perpetration of the same disastrous problems of sexism and racism and classism). Then again, I'm complicating things. Maybe the point is that I can love literature and shoes and lipstick all at once. Maybe the point is just that I'm getting a bit tired of my style and want an update. (I should be taking pictures, I know, but my cameras seem so difficult to set up lately...just another small thing I should stop thinking about and take action towards.)

Anyway! I am waiting for some things in the mail. Here they are:
-Warby Parker Japhy glasses in matte crystal (I stepped on my old perfect pair and broken them)
-ASOS Pique Skater Dress (in navy, to wear with red lips and Ferragamos)
-ASOS Gingham Sundress (impulsive but adorably necessary)
-Ann Taylor Perfect Pointy Pumps (because really I wanted this)

Tomorrow: the many books I am reading currently, all at once.

December is the Cruelest Month

2011-12-09T18:53:00.001-08:00

Oh, but, how can it be? December.

What happened last month? That crippling ambition didn't give way. I found myself writing 10,000 words of one novel, then starting another one because it just wasn't right. I tried to rewrite the same story a different way. I gave up on a novel altogether and wrote scattered short stories. I lost track of the pages in my notebook and lost the energy to finish any of it. It felt like the wrong goal. When I went to the write ins everyone seemed to be having so much fun discussing their stories and characters as if they were toys but for me nothing I wrote was good enough. And I didn't want to write it if wasn't. On the forum I said that I lost my "literary poetic sensibility" and for most of November I didn't find it.

But, well. I'm happy I did write consistently, every day, for a while. I'm happy to have learned what didn't work and to discover what will.

Yesterday I read Joan Didion's Blue Nights, all of it in one day, in the student lounge before lecture then during the lecture and then any time I got to wait on the subway. It was beautiful and sad and heartbreaking and honest. Maybe most of all it didn't seem like Joan Didion was trying to be anything, write a certain way. Because how could you, with something like the death of a child? I can't imagine what that feels like. And yet, I felt like there were parts of it that I understood, those endless hospitals, those small, distinct details that nag and cling to persistent memories.

It helped. I realized that my novel doesn't have to be a chronological narrative, not dramatized and carefully plotted but simply a story, told.

What else. I graduated, a few days ago. At least the ceremony. The bright purple cap and gown and a walk across the stage and sitting through speeches that were anything but inspiring, optimistic. I guess it's hard to write a original graduation speech. But still, when the moral seemed to be that our liberal arts education from New York University merely translated to a self occupation that will ultimately allow us to find a career in this difficult economic time, it felt bleak. It was only for show, anyway. My classes continue one last week. And these last few days I'm finding it especially difficult to concentrate. Finding it hard to do much of anything. (Though at night my dreams, as usual, soar, startlingly lucid, and before that, when I'm trying to sleep my mind spins, a ferris wheel of ideas and preoccupations.)

Yet I'm far from discouraged. Maybe momentarily paralyzed, but certain of a complete recovery. Call it blind optimism, call it what you will. I am eager to finish the last of school work, this semester, and of course, the new year.

Insomnia and the Impossible Ambitions

2011-11-02T00:31:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep. These past few days, maybe even weeks, I've had this problem. My head hits the pillow and my mind leaps to overdrive. Every passing thought from the day turns into an infinitely complex obsession. When I do get to sleep it is troubled and often light, and in the morning I feel barely awake. Yet I drag myself up, and tell myself to be productive about all the things that plagued my head the night before.

The only thing that seems to help: writing, writing it down, writing it out, either in ink in my journal or, as with the case tonight, when even that didn't do the job, typing it out, online, for someone else's eyes.

Tonight I am torturing myself with doubts about my novel--you know, the one I just started, today. I'm 5000 words along--I should be happy, excited, proud. Yet I think I'm trying to write a novel that is contrary to the idea of NaNoWriMo: a reckless, impulsive, and fun month of literary abandon, where the emphasis is on quantity rather than quality, and elaborate, unnecessary dream sequences and meticulous detailed descriptions are expected, even encouraged. But as a NaNoWriMo veteran for quite a few times I know that surpassing the 50,000 word count isn't going to be the challenge.

So the challenge, perhaps unrealistic, perhaps impossible, that I've set myself is that the novel I write this month be The One. As in: the one that will tell the story I've always wanted to tell. The one that will be beautiful and heartbreaking and brilliant and innovative and real. The one that will get me the publishing deal, a guaranteed writing career. I'm graduating next month, after all, and this feels like my last chance. While I still have the security of my classes, the protective framework of a college student, to do the thing that will save me from having to figure it out.

I choose to write the novel rather than apply to MFA graduate programs for the fall. Could I have managed both? Probably. But I spent a night reading requirements of MFA programs and felt utterly lost. I didn't think my writing samples were good enough, nor my relationships with professors solid enough for telling recommendations. I wasn't even sure why I wanted an MFA--perhaps because it felt like the inevitable next step. All my classmates were doing it. They were intellectuals and talented and prepared and career minded. And I was fixated on the idea of skipping the progress. A short cut: the novel, the masterpiece.

Which, ironically, is the same line of reasoning that makes me think that I can't apply for an MFA, not yet, because I'm just not good enough. I've finally hit a new turning point in my writing career, from that blissful period of being enamored with every word I wrote, enchanted with my way with language and imagery and that exquisitely sad sensibility, I've come to stand in front of a towering brick wall that tells me: no, not enough, something's missing, something vital. I can write pretty stories forever and stay on the other side of that wall, but I don't want to. It's not the real story that I want to tell.

Maybe the real story is the fictionalized memoir I found myself writing in my newborn novel, when instead of writing the present tense adventures of the main character I wrote far easier flashbacks and recollections of a past based largely on my own. But then: should I return home to San Diego and read my diary collection from the very beginning and attempt a truer to life memoir? Was I really absurd enough to think that I could write a memoir at age twenty-one? It wasn't any good, anyway, and read like my short stories, not like a novel. Should I then, try to write something light, fun, fantastic? I questioned my imagination for being able to sustain even that. It had before: but before I never had expectations, ambitions as solid and visible as this year.

My insomniac inner monologue finally talked myself out of the mess and into the more calming territory of: this isn't the most crucial time of your life, and there is next month, and next year, and the years after that. And I'll always have my voice and my ideas and always some story, be it the story or not. The worse thing now is to second guess myself, or try to write an impossible perfect first draft. My imagined dialogue with a therapist told me the thing I really knew all along: write, and keep writing, and even if you, in your needy conscious state don't know what you're writing about, something inside of you will.

And if it doesn't? Then I'll be that much closer to writing and writing out the excess until I get there.

Hello, I'm Writing a Novel Next Month!

2011-10-30T14:44:00.000-07:00

This is just to say.

It's two days from November, which is National Novel Writing Month, which is the time when slightly crazed writers all around the world attempt to write a novel of at least 50,000 words in exactly one month. I've done this before--I wrote my first novel, a something over 100,000 words monster when I was14, and then a few more the succeeding years. They were all very silly and absurd and nonsensical (and long), but that was the spirit of the project (and I was a teenager).

This year I hope my novel will be a little less embarrassing. Or maybe I just need to prove to myself that I can still do this. I've forgotten what it feels like, that delirious drive and focus, that sense of relief when it's the end of the month, or the end of the novel. Even though I'm a NaNoWriMo veteran, this year feels more uncertain than before, maybe because I'm feeling more ambitious as to the content rather than simply achieving the word count, maybe because I haven't been writing as much fiction lately, and certainly nothing of this scale. It is a bit frightening--but exhilarating.

So, I still have no idea what my novel will be about. I have no outline and no synopsis, not even the name of a main character or the perspective it will be in. Maybe it'll be a fictionalized autobiography--a writing professor told me once that maybe I have to tell the story of myself before I can write anything else, maybe something far more extraordinary and unlikely. Something about love and sex and violence and desire and loss, something about betrayal and despair and sleepless nights and empty subway trains, something about people--their pettiness, their kindness, their strange or comfortable lives. Something about the city and its secrets and layers, money and power and status. Something about dreams, something about loneliness, something about dreaming to escape it. Something about joy and something about grief. Something about fleeting beauty.

Maybe those are just what I perpetually wind up writing about, and I can't expect that in longer work I'd write about anything else. These are the questions and ideas that circle my mind so often that it's ingrained, and I've found that the best way to answer them is to write until something resolves itself. Maybe nothing ever resolves, really, but at least, I will have tried, and will have, with any luck, written a novel to suit.

Wish me luck!

A Little Audrey Hepburn, a little Parisan Chic

2011-10-13T17:26:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I forget: simplicity + polished classics go a long way. Basic colors and basic pieces: the striped shirt, the charcoal pants, a navy coat, and perfectly applied (I actually used a lip brush!) red lips.

It's in the details,, a sparkling goldfish necklace and OPI Kennebunk-Port nails.

I love this navy swing coat with bow accents, and of course, this outfit couldn't exist without my favorite shoes in the whole world: Ferragamo bow flats. Timeless, effortless and perfect. I've had to live without them for a while but finally got a new patent leather pair! They make everything so smart and instantly dressed up. High on my list of wardrobe essentials.

Shirt + pants, Gap. Coat, H&M. Necklace, Forever 21. Shoes, Ferragamo. Lipstick, Revlon Colorburst in Crimson.

In Gothenburg We Don't Have VIP Lines

2011-10-10T19:03:00.000-07:00

photo by Adeline Teh

Jens Lekman-"Waiting for Kristen"

I saw Jens Lekman play at the Music Hall of Williamsburg on Sunday night, the first time I've seen him do a real show (I remember once going to see him do a DJ set and he briefly sang along to a few songs, and how I longed for more), and it was every bit as wonderful as I had hoped. Jens with his sweet face and his simple, charming Swedish ways, his anecdote about his missed opportunity to meet Kirsten Dunst when she was filming in Sweden, his sad and pretty pop songs, his nostalgia and innocence and broken-hearted wistfulness.

Remarkable, how totally and completely Jens won the entire audience over, how his double encores were genuinely demanded, how engaged and happy everyone seemed throughout his entire set. And a moving, beautiful rendition of "Pocketful of Money" that featured the crowd on harmonies, and how perfect, for a room full of strangers to snap the beat and sing the same refrain--"I've been running with a heart on a fire" to the end of the song, to silence except for Jens's voice.

And, for me, to hear his acoustic version of "Black Cab," a song I clung to on certain tearful drunken nights, with those opening notes and that familiar chorus, the disappointment and self loathing so prettily wrapped up, that sense of giving in, giving up, take me home or take me anywhere, to sing along and feel every bit of that, shivering pleasure and sadness all through me: that was bliss.

Jens has a special place in my heart where very few artists inhabit. Sometimes I forget about him and then, on rediscovering a song when feeling sad, or when discovering his new EP for the first time, those sentiments of happy melancholy, of a dreamy nostalgia for a place I'd never been before surge up. Swedish winters, too big sweaters, love untainted by everything. I think that's a wonderful thing, to make even a cynic smile, to tug at the heart with that unfeigned, and yet, playful sadness. All woven through his cheerful melodies, as easy to sing and tap along to as it is to wretchedly feel.

I waited for Jens after the show to give him a hug. He was with a shy, sweet looking lady friend, and perhaps he no longer feels the subtle aches of a broken heart. As for me, I hold on t the same faint wish that, like Jens, I could remember every kiss like my first kiss.

Minty Green and Barely There Pink

2011-10-04T14:39:00.000-07:00

It's cool enough to wear sweaters and jackets!! And long skirts! I am wearing pretty much all H&M (sweater, belt, skirt). I love them, love them all. These oxford heels are my indispensable fall shoes. Every day. That and this blazer.

Favorite part of this outfit, aside from the fact that it feels modern and feminine but references the past, is that it makes such a fun silhouette and especially when it's windy, flutters fluid lovely motions. Perfect for twirling--or imagining to, anyway, on walks, in between classes.

Oh and lipstick. Let's never forget lipstick--my terrible photo color correcting skills means that they barely show, but they are a sophisticated rose brown color that really pulled everything together. I have nothing more intelligent to say today! What are your favorite fall pieces?

Coral Lipstick & A Seahorse Necklace

2011-09-29T09:44:00.000-07:00

It's gray and drab out, but I wanted to try out my newest lipstick shade--Revlon's Super Lustrous Lipstick in Kiss Me Coral, inspired by the excessive Twin Peaks I've been watching lately and the costume party to follow this weekend. It is a simple and summery outfit, but, why not?

Wearing: H&M shirt, American Apparel pencil skirt, Aerosoles flats.

The necklace I bought years and years ago from one of those designer discount stores, I think perhaps Loehmann's. It's adorable, but also a little too whimsical for me to wear very often, except for those hot summer Sundays when I want nothing more than a brightly colored sundress and this necklace. It is a nice pop of color in an otherwise very gray day.

I'm surprised by how much I liked the coral lipstick! Bright lipsticks aren't really my thing unless it's classic red, and when I tried it on last night under my yellow cast lamps (the lighting in my room is awful, which is why unfortunately my photos are always edited to death simply for color correction's sake) it looked garishly bright. In natural light however it actually is not too loud and rather sweet when paired with an outfit of neutrals. Not just for Twin Peaks!

Apathy, Jealousy, Wanderlust.

2011-09-28T12:28:00.000-07:00

photo by andrew meehan

These days I dream of staring out car, train, plane windows, at unchanging greenery or abandoned factories by a gray waterfront. I look back at my photos from England and I remember Europe and I ache to revisit it. I think of New York's familiar divides, the restaurants and coffee shops and bars I frequent so often I barely need to look at the menu, and I feel so, so, tired, bored, restless. Sometimes I go to different neighborhoods, the Upper West Side or Prospect Park, and find a cafe I've never been to and sit and read and dream. But it's not really enough. I grasp at names of foreign countries, hang on to the promise in accents. Chile, Venice, Moscow. I read books and stare at photos as if I do it for long enough they'll take over the familiar surroundings of my life here. I consider pin pointing a country at random and searching for flights, and simply leaving. In a way I don't even care about the destination, as long as it's somewhere I've never seen. Even a charming small town where I might chat with a barista about her day. Just: escape.

I've been reading Proust and Colette. Such beautiful, lyrical, delicate prose. Proust's dreamy inner world, his fixation on the smallest details, his exquisite nostalgia doesn't help me live in the now as I've been so often told to do, and Colette's life of Parisian theater halls, even though she writes of the suffering performers and the squalor behind the curtain, for me sings of the beauty in a life constantly in flux. The anemic dancers of her short stories glimmer in my imagination. Colette was tired of that life, too, its familiarity, but at least she captured it with such grace. What could I capture here? The cell phone conversations that ring loud, late at night when I try to sleep and escape to my world of dreams (sometimes I dread waking up, for my dreams are always more wonderful)? Overhearing voices and conversations that suggest the most insipid, dreadful lives? Their intonations betray their vacancy, their obsessions are easy, accepted, carefully suited to the slices of modern life. Hook ups and start ups and fuck ups.

I should be sympathetic, open minded, appreciative of the beautiful vast myriad of varieties of lives: and I am. But the truth is that I am jealous outsider. I wish I could be so easily satiated, I wish I had a life that fitted so easily into a schedule. I wish I constantly had phone calls and dinner plans and wanted less. I wish I didn't feel this need that cripples me, some nights, so that I lay sprawled across my bed, the hardcover Colette tossed aside, my laptop pushed onto a chair, despondent and dreading, dreading the hours of another day of waking up in the same place and the same tasks and buying the same stables from the same grocery stores. It's all self inflicted! I could and should be doing whatever it is that I need to do to live! Revolutionize! Occupy Wall Street! Protest technology! Be a bohemian, a radical, a not another jaded soon to be NYU graduate!

Except that I'm cursed with honesty, cursed with a need to express whatever it is: even if it's not bright and catchy and 500 words or less, and I'm good at rambling but not good at always writing what I think people want to read. I'm can't always live up to the life I like to pretend I have. I'm plagued by what's inside my head and the stories I read and the essays I write. Essay: essaie, to try. I haven't figured it out yet and writing is the only way I know how.

So here I am. No resolution and no happy ending. Simply: trying, again.

Music Obsession: Kimbra

2011-09-22T09:56:00.000-07:00

It is not so often that I discover artists I instantly fall in love with. But then came Kimbra--her infectious songs, her echoed harmonies, her covetable head of dark curls. Take this, the music video for "Settle Down" and my first introduction to her addictive aesthetics and style: unsettling young girls play at 50s housewives, wide watery eyes and brushed blonde hair, then dance, synchronized in dreamy, innocent little girl dresses next to Kimbra in front of shelves of porcelain dolls with chlorine colored eyes and ash charred faces set aflame. A throughly modern pastiche of glossy vintage glamour, pretty to look at on the surface but suggestive too, of something not quite right beneath.
The song itself is just the right note of that: a dark playfulness totters on the edge of the gets-stuck-in-your-head melodies, seductive with its ever so slightly off minor tones, the call and chant background, Kimbra's voice: almost-soul almost-jazz almost-pop almost-Bjork and completely brilliant. Distinctively now but so charmingly reverent of the past.
And then there is "Good Intent," when Kimbra creates a song that is pure atmosphere and sultry sizzle and also pop perfection:
It would probably be a little embarrassing to confess how often I've played this song since I discovered it. It's smoke hazed night halls, 4 am o'clocks, crisp suits and shadowed hats, velvet and gloved finger tips. Of course, Kimbra gets the music video just right. A false composure, understated eroticism, a jerky and dangerous dance. This is the violence and sex charged atmosphere of Chicago 1920s (like the musical), the heightened tension and drama of the tango, cobblestoned streets with fatal secrets tucked in a black satin bra. Anything might go but not without consequence and the unwelcome thrill ofdiscovery.
Love at first and after many listens.

A Modern Day Pin Up

2011-09-16T10:33:00.000-07:00

Every so often I get the urge to get dressed up for no reason. Well, correction: the reason is that today the Stop Staring dress I've been eagerly awaiting arrived in the mail! It's all Mad Men and 1950s glamour, but in subdued enough of a cut and color to be wearable everyday. It's my grown up dress--I feel completely transformed in it. And it demanded the accessories to suit. So!

On went the red lipstick. I'm wearing New York Color's dollar (!!!) lipstick in Retro Red, which is the perfect Marilyn, bombshell red, and perfectly suits a dress like this. Though unless you like eating lipstick, I really wouldn't recommend wearing it to dinner. It looks irresistibly moisturizing and kissable but transfers onto everything and is best suited for distant, sultry pouts. My indispensable pearls and bow belt completed the outfit--though the dress would have been fantastic enough on its own!

And what's a pin-up without a pair of seamed stockings and black pumps? Wearing: Leg Avenue stockings and Naturalizer Collette pumps.

All dressed up and nowhere to go...

9/11: A Vision Softly Creeping

2011-09-11T12:38:00.000-07:00

(photo by ck/ck)

I was 11. Long before I became an American citizen, long before, even, mastering English, I lived on the opposite coast in California where all was golden and beautiful. I stood outside my elementary school classroom and when I told the skinny boy in line behind me he asked if this meant his favorite cartoon show was going to be canceled. I felt indignant. But of course! I probably said. He didn’t seem to understand that what happened was monumental. But then again, had I? In February that year my family and I visited New York for the first time. We took pictures of the aerial view from the top floor of the World Trade Centers, crammed with the rest of eager tourists.

San Diego was the city of naval bases, the air show every year. Certain bright afternoons I would be in my room and hear the loud engine of a plane overhead. San Diego’s airport is right in the heart of the city, and the planes flew so low it looked like they might skim the tops of trees. I caught myself wondering, worrying, if one might crash into a house nearby. One year a small plane did and crashed in a neighborhood my friends lived in. It was much more bizarre than frightening. But I don’t think I ever thought very much about the noises of the planes before that day in 2001.

This weekend I read countless retrospectives, wrenching tales from New Yorkers who lived through 9/11 first hand. I read a story in The New Yorker, published in February, 2002, about a real, forgotten hero, a Security Advisor at the World Trade Center and a war veteran. The tag line named it a love story, and it began with a narrative of the unlikely meeting between the hero and the woman who would become the hero’s wife. It was a beautiful romance, and it ended with his valiant evacuation efforts on 9/11. He didn’t manage to save himself. I read it on my iPhone, on the subway and waiting outside a restaurant. It made me cry.

Then I read “The Decade of Magical Thinking” by Steve Almond, published in The Rumpus two days ago, 2011. He wrote about the “hysterical indulgence” and “bullying narcissism” of America. It was a critique of America’s lack of sympathy, its tendency to lean on political agendas and manipulations even in response to a tragedy, but a tragedy that was diminutive compared to the rest of the world’s infinite unrecorded tragedies. It made me upset, angry.

But why? I felt like I sided with the New Yorkers who were here, who lost, who stumbled, whose lives had a clear divide: before and after. Who saw Ground Zero and felt something. Except that I had no claim to it—I didn’t have friends or family or even distant acquaintances caught in the towers. When it happened I barely even knew New York.

I don’t think about 9/11 very much. It was something that was always past tense, a snapshot of devastation, with its aftermath infiltrating life in subtle but natural ways. I couldn’t remember the time when I went through an airport without its now ubiquitous security rules. Today I wonder if I had somehow, missed something. I wonder if my experience of 9/11 wasn’t quite right, I wondered if I lacked the authority to write about it.

A few weekends ago, New York City had Hurricane Irene. At the office I heard the manager frantically reporting weather predictions on his phone as he paced. At the post office I told the lady who accepted my passport information to stay safe over the weekend. Every block or shop I stepped into I overheard talk of Irene. I obsessively checked the news. It was exhilarating. It was all I wanted to talk about.

The night before the storm, before the subways shut down for the weekend, I couldn’t sleep. I worried about the leak in my ceiling, how the shattered glass from my window might change my room. In the morning I totted a few belongings to a friend’s apartment further inland. I saw and felt a smug recognition at the bulging overnight bags the other people on the subway platform carried. It felt a bit like the end of the world. But it was wonderful, too, something I knew everyone had in common. Well wishes and collective paranoid concern.

I wish that tragedies, long after they happen, could let their victims linger in that temporary, sensitive state of unity, that frail but all-inclusive bond. Even in the darkest of circumstances there is beauty in that human companionship, the bypassing of divisions, of regulations. Perhaps that’s why, in a perverse way, I wish I could have been older, and in New York, when the towers fell. Longing for a common experience so powerful it might have, however briefly, tempered all dissent.

Steve Almond writes that a central duty of the artist is to complicate moral action. He writes a beautiful, brief scene of a child silently starving to death in a mother’s arms. He writes of Americans talking about their experiences of watching television, this grotesque juxtaposition. He’s right, of course. Look at the bigger picture, at the history of the world, the notorious wars and tyranny and exploitation and violence, at the infinite nightmares that occur every moment. But it is also a futile point—it is easy to take this omniscient, all encompassing, objective moral perspective, and deem every tragedy an opportunity to reflect on all other tragedies in the world. (Though…not so long ago, Roxanne Gay wrote a moving piece in the The Rumpus in response to Amy Winehouse’s death calling for infinite compassion: “death is a tragedy whether it is the death of one girl woman in London or seventy-six men, women and children in Norway. We know this but perhaps it needs to be said over and over again so we do not forget.”) But why this, why now? Is criticism of a taboo subject really bravery?

I wonder. Maybe there aren’t so many other essays that take this perspective, not because others haven’t thought similar criticisms, not because they are too scared of judgment, but because 9/11 is a sacred occasion. One that makes it possible to, however fleetingly, share a moment of warmth, of grief and love and pain and forgiveness, of a unity rarely possible elsewhere. Maybe it’s best that this date should be focused solely on America, should be allowed to be bitterly, truthfully narcissistic. Maybe this is the one date that Americans shouldn’t be made to feel guilty about the hunger and war and poverty of the rest of the world. Maybe this is an opportunity to show the compassion that Almond so calls for, in exactly the way that he dismisses, by, yes, writing about watching television.

One story at a time, with no global platform and no lectures, only the voices of each person who remembers this certain moment in history, every touched and changed life. Maybe it is this call for a response, collective story telling that is the most wonderful memorial. No matter how insignificant, no matter how far fetched.

Weekends Away: A Silent Retreat

2011-09-06T14:55:00.000-07:00

After months and months of planning, deliberation, anticipation, on the last official weekend of the summer, I finally made it to the East Mountain Retreat Center for that blessed promise of peace, solitude, and nature. The retreat was nestled in the Berkshire mountains, in a forest off the small town of Great Barrington, MA (Pop: 7,000). The Reverend Lois Rose ran it, a vivacious woman with long gray hair in a ponytail that still carried traces of blonde, who despite her stooped figure carried the energy of a young girl. She showed me my own cabin in the woods. It was a small, slanted little house with sparse, rustic decor. In the kitchen, the clock ticked away, but the red second hand had fallen to the bottom. She gave me a brief tour of the retreat grounds: the meditation room, with its hushed stillness and open wood floors, the cozy library with its books on spiritualism, religion, and novels with the same leanings, the outdoor gazebos with their screened doors and windows, and gave me tips on walks to take and explore. I want you to really notice things, she said, about the fish in the pond, the animals in the woods. Then she left me on my own.

That weekend I passed many hours sitting in one of the gazebos outside, with my journal and pen in front of me, writing pages and pages, journaling and the beginnings of stories. I watched the dragonflies hover at the edge of the screen doors and the quivering of the leaves. I tried writing poetry (as the Reverend suggested, though I tend to have a distaste for usually) and liked the empty spaces it left on the page. In the mornings I went for a walk, up the ski trail which revealed surprises of mushrooms budding from the ground, butterflies fluttering with their yellow and orange wings, a frog that leapt beneath a stone. More stunning was the view of the mountains, especially when they were shrouded in a glaze of fog, and the empty and still skyrides overhead. To imagine that the desserted grass fields and forest around me, in other times of the year, could be padded with thick snow and busy vacationers....while I could hear the crunching of the pebbles and grass beneath my feet...was a remarkable feeling of wonder, relief.

There was a predictability to those few days that was reassuring. Every evening at six, cooked hot meals would appear in the kitchen, and next to it, green bowls that matched the number of guests who would be eating. I'd spent the rest of the evening curled up in a chair, reading novels from Lois's library. One evening I came upon a porcupine, who regarded my approach with raising its quills, then climbed onto the branches of a pine tree and mostly ignored me. I listened often to the spray of wind against the trees. Though the people were silent, the birds didn't stop their chirping, and animals treading through the trees sounded often like human footsteps.

But though I tried, I could not keep my mind from wondering to non-nature related things. I thought about shades of lipsticks and boys and songs I longed to hear. One night I heard the sound of fireworks and after combating my fear (without street lamps, the darkness there was utterly complete, frightening) ventured outside to catch glimpses of sparks over the tops of trees. It made me long for immersion of a different kind, of dazzle and not so subtle charm.

On my last day, my voice sounded like a surprise, foreign even to myself. I had breakfast--an all organic ham and egg baked sandwich and Earl Gray--at a charming cafe in the small block that counts as town center of Great Barrington, and delighted in finally being able to listen the song stuck in my head--Billie Holiday's "Guilty"--on the bus ride back. In the end, however, it was the sight of New York: the gloss of the yellow cabs, the brownstones and men with dark skin and white tank tops in fire escapes, the pavement of the calculated greenery of Central Park--that made my heart soar, and the smile that sparked to stretch on my face. Perhaps it took this flirtation with nature (and about a hundred bug bites) to remind me that, disillusionment aside, my one true love remains, New York, with its greed and ambitions, poverty and squalor, dazzlingly distractions.

Home, sweet home.

A Perfect View

2011-08-18T17:54:00.000-07:00

The park wasn't here when I left for London in September, but when I came back to New York and took the same walk down North 6th Street to the waterfront, it greeted me with a happy shock--a spectacular view of Manhattan.

This was the Manhattan of dreams, film stills. Uninhibited by construction or obstruction, simply the panoramic, self assured fullness of the city. The sort of sight that takes one's breath away regardless of whether it's a first discovery. Across the glistening dark waters of the East River there glittered the city, its unmistakable silhouette, a living beckoning postcard, like the thrill of a first touch, the first skip of a heart soon to be in love.

The park itself is a bit unusual. On a Saturday afternoon drenched in sunlight and so vibrant with picnicking hipsters and thiftsters of the flea market next to it, that barely a petal of the green grass is visible, and the silver and metal planked pier that stretches into the river are fitted with bodies pressed against the railings, photographers snapping away. The park was built in conjunction with the East River Ferry, which serves as a tourist friendly, if still a bit of a locals' favorite, escapist indulgence, an alternative to muggy dark subway tunnels with a view worthy of the more expensive far, traveling along Brooklyn to the southmost tip of Manhattan, or to that strange suspended bit of hospital land of midtown and First Avenue.

The crowd at the park is a strange mix--there are the happy, well established residents of the glittering (if rather generic) stretches of luxury waterfront condos, and the slightly less groomed faces of the surrounding Williamsburg locals, then the prim and proper sets of Jewish families, or loud and gleeful neighborhood teens, who called the area home before the underground Duane Reade and the chain of major banks opened their glass doors. There are fishermen with tanned, hairy arms at the far end of the pier, poised for their silvery prey, enamored couples with an arm tight around a waist or shoulder, scenes befitting a movie romance, and the trotting of an array of dogs, glad for a new playground.

At night, regardless of the stifled air of the New York summer, out by the water there is the most exquisite of breezes, that ruffle skirt hems and whips strands of hair, pure, sensual pleasure against bare arms and legs. Especially lately, there are these perfect evenings that whisper of fall, the rippling of the water and the thousands of tiny golden specks in the buildings of that awe inspiring view, the glimpses of blinking headlights in the shift of the traffic....it is a perfect wonder, even with the distractions of everything around it.

I've taken friends here, dates who were near strangers. But it is not a place that requires company. Lately, when I come, I am almost always alone. One evening there was a flash flood warning for New York, and the night before I woke up to a small pool of rainwater in my living room. But that day the rain came in sprouts, strong, but reasonable, and the gray sky outside awaited, alluring in its promise of coolness. I took my umbrella (from the 40's, the lovely faded peach and cream patterned thing I bought at an antique market in London), my iPod and walked to this same park, this same skyline that was transformed, the park quiet except for the steady platter of rain on ground, nearly empty but for a few scattered wanderers.

The city was shrouded in a gray mist, so still, magnificent in its grimness, its watercolored calm. The rain soaked the swaying edges of my long black skirt, but I was happy. I walked down the piers where the wind flipped the waterdrops sideways, where the whole city stood before me, and I took it in for my pleasure alone. I listened to the cooing of Fred Astaire, those aged yet timeless, enchanting melodies that carried me away from where I was, when I lived, and even, who I might have been. So happy!

Tonight, it is nearly 11, on a blessedly cool night, and I walked to the park through a different route. Perhaps because I remember the dulled, cloaked wet city of last time, but the lights seemed especially dazzling, a great shock, yet an assurance, a relief.

New York is rarely as beautiful from within as from afar, and I've been thinking a lot about at least a temporary goodbye. Its endless delights never stop, but perhaps my appreciation of them dampens. I barely notice the shops I once found so charming in the East Village, and though the dazzling costumed affairs of weekend nights still excite me, in my mind I'm already elsewhere. Paris, with its uniform apartments and tree lined parks, London, with its history in every white lace curtain, dainty tea set, rich in its (and mine) memories.

Yet it is this same unwavering painting of glamour and life, this same beautiful view before me of the city I live in that allows me to escape. It is the possibilities in those real lights at the tops of buildings, the distant yet pressing reminders of a hundred different worlds within one, coupled with the darling kiss of water tainted air on skin, the seduction songs of ages past, the familiar ease of forgetting that makes everything okay, if only for the precious mindless moments I spend here. New York, New York, sung, worshiped, by a thousand brilliant minds and voices, so vast and sprawling, here, simply still, and always, beautiful.

Summer to Fall

2011-08-10T06:28:00.000-07:00

Clothes are easy in the summer. Wear as little in as light of fabrics as possible, sheer chiffon and crisp cotton, accessorize minimally, wear the same dresses/skirt on alternating days, and voila. This has been more or less my uniform: sheer bow chiffon blouse a lucky recent find from Forever 21, my favorite (signature) H&M coral skirt, a flower in my hair, and other details that shift depending on the occasion: shade of lipstick, size and color of flower.

It is lovely. Honey warm tones and gold. I've found the thin gold bracelet rather indispensable--a gift from my mom. I remember seeing her wear it all the time when I was younger, not exact memories but faint images of her with it on her wrist. Now I feel naked without it. When my outfits are already so bare, it adds a touch of thoughtfulness that makes me feel that much more together.

But I've been dreaming, dreaming of the golden leaves and cool days of the fall...and the back to school signs and brown tones, blazers and jackets already in stores doesn't help. I have long skirts and coats in the closet I long to wear so desperately...I thought though it is far too early I'd play dress up and plan ahead!

A perfect new blazer (H&M) and gray over the knee socks (Sock Dreams) and patent leather Oxford heels (Macy's, long ago), Tolstoy and oh my! Rolled up sleeves and cuffed pants! Long walks without fear of sweat or discomfort! Fall is probably my favorite season in New York (second only to those unbelievable white blanketed snow days of winter)

All that I need is a perfect fall colored classic bag. I've been lusting after this Mulberry Conker Red Polly from My-Wardrobe:

I adore the old fashioned handle and the golden clasp, the timeless pebbled leather finish and silhouette, academic and serious, and yet hip view. Paired with a navy coat, black tights and oxfords (or, really, anything)...maybe it's a lhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifong way of savings away, but someday! In the meantime I can just dream...mid 60s weather and leaf lined streets...visit the website for more designer pieces to covet, from Marc Jacobs to Chloe, and even the preppy chic of Ralph Lauren for men)

In Defense of the Kindle

2011-08-08T12:58:00.001-07:00

I read an editorial by a bibliophile that suggested that publishers launch a sexy ad campaign in favor of the print book to combat Kindle's impressive marketing, citing books' sensory pleasures: the smell; the feel in your hands; that crisp, appealing crinkle of a turned page and smooth snap of a dust jacket. It does sound seductive--but then anything can be made so with a few quick sketches of words, anything can be made romantic.

I would know--I'm a writer, sorceress of language, slave to literature, beauty, romance. My life has been marked by books, tens of thousands of pages and titles and authors, covers and characters I can barely keep track of. It is my favorite refuge, my ultimate comfort, an always reliable pleasure. I would be delighted with a life spent looking out windows, with a book and pen and paper. I read Tolstoy as others would chain watch Sex and the City. I stop and eagerly browse at every used books stand I pass on the street. My first, dream job, was to work at the local bookstore (and I did). I am no stranger to the sensory and aesthetic pleasures of a book. I linger in bookstores, brushing my hands over matte covers and ivory pages, lusting after particularly exquisite covers. I fantasize constantly about the exact appearance, texture of my first published novel: the artist who would draw the illustration, my name in exact lettering, the typography and lines and spacing of each page, even the exact way the spine creases in the hands of adoring readers.

I am an avid bibliophile--and, I love my Kindle.

Let me tell you about my Kindle. It is an impromptu gift, from someone close. Most of the time it rests inside a bubble mailer manila envelope, creased and folded from all the wear, in one of my purses, or sits, naked, at my bedside. It is covered with a lovely white and blue porcelain art skin/decal that catches the eye and sets off the grey and black of the screen. The first book I bought for it was Fernando Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet, but now I've worked through quite a few more--David Foster Wallace's The Pale King, Tolstoy's War and Peace, Fitzgerald's This Side of Paradise, Somerset's Of Human Bondage, Dickens's Bleak House...(I have a thing for 700 pages plus 19th Century literature), as well as a dozen samples and a few new books I recently acquired. I can hardly leave the house without it in my purse.

It is there when I stand in the insufferable heat and humidity, the microwave of subway stations, awaiting the L train to take me home. It is there amidst a crowded train, when my one hand grips the poles so as to not topple over in the lurch of the train and high heels. It is there, next to me, on the tables of countless restaurants where I like to dine alone. It is there in parks, in offices, on couches, in bed, next to the cozy glow of my lamp and candle flames on the other end of my room. It is there to distract me when my mind is a mess of tortured laments. It is there when I take the ferry across the rolling waters of the East River to Governor's Island, where I find a white wicker and wood rocking chair on the patio of some old lovely house, and rock slightly back and force as I begin to read Proust. And when it is with me, so are all the vibrant characters and times and scenes from the particular book I'm reading. So is instant escape, freedom, relief.

I always read voraciously, but now I read constantly, incessantly. Before I debated the merits of a heavy bag with a creased paperback, but now even on a short errand run I can't imagine the brief subway ride without my constant literary companion. Before, when I struggled to locate volumes on the dim shelves of the library, with a few button presses I find just what I want and curl up with a smile. Before, when I heard recommendations, I scribbled them in notebooks and soon forgot them. Now I find and buy and can delve into a new world, instantly.

I can't imagine my life now without it, this gray screen I love above my iPhone, iPod, Macbook Air, this indispensable partner on train rides and flights. The Kindle is built for that, the dedicated reader with an infinite appetite in mind, not the casual browser who maybe once in a long while goes home to read a buzzed about new book, but the reader who can't live without books. So when I mention my beloved Ebook reader to friends, and they, in shocked tones of betrayal, tell me that they could never--abandon the smell, the sound of pages flipping, the feel of the weight of a book in their hands, I cringe inside. As if by owning a Kindle I'm turning back on my love of literature! As if they accuse me, the most passionate defender of language of words, to be a tourist, a traitor!

The rise of E-books doesn't demote the role of literature, far from it. In fact, the ease and accessibility of new technology can only help spread the act of reading as a leisure activity, free it from its old, very real, practical constraints. Sure, thick hardcover volumes are wonderfully romantic--but try bringing that on a day trip, on the subway, to class, on a flight to another country. And with the vast free library of classics available to E-readers, seemingly daunting literary masters comes with no obligation and become featherweight delights (seriously, read Anna Karenina--it is a page turner and far more enjoyable than the old Russian master's stuffy reputation might have you think). E-books don't mean the end of reading or publishing--in fact, publishers make better profits from Kindle books than the process of printing and distribution of physical novels. Embracing the rise of the E-Book, and not fighting it, is one of the smartest decisions publishers can make in this age where the very industry is in danger. But just as the MP3 didn't destroy the music industry, and only helped to create a more open, welcoming arena, this new technology and format won't ruin books and the people who love to read or create them.

Besides, publishers don't need an expensive campaign to remind the world of the pleasure of a print book--for those who love it already, it can't be forgotten or ignored. Every time I pass by an used books stand, I still stop and browse, and sometimes come home with surprise finds that stay at my bedside. Only, I might check if it's available on Kindle classics free first...

A Book Lover's Paradise: 20 Ebooks for $20!

2011-08-03T20:11:00.000-07:00

Harper Perennial is doing a fantastic promotion for August that features 20 of their backlist titles for 99¢ each in various E-Book format! This is like Christmas in the summer. I've been stuck reading lots of 19th century and otherwise older literature, and I'm excited to catch up on some modern writers I've missed. My head spins from browsing all the options and I want to buy all 20 now and read them all at once...(it is not completely impossible that I might actually do that), but in case you're a bit joyfully overwhelmed too, over the next few days I'm going to read samples and reviews of each title and give you my brief impressions to help pick out your next buy.

I'm not sure whether this is better news than discovering that Edith Wharton's complete works are available for the Kindle in one neat package for 99¢...but either way I'm ecstatic and can't wait to share what I discover!

In Olden Days...

2011-08-01T21:58:00.000-07:00

I am not a fashion blogger. I am not a fashion blogger because I have a very small wardrobe (and I've learned that I prefer it that way) and not many (if any) designer clothes, and most of what I own is from H&M or Target designer collabs from the past. I wear the same pieces all the time--just a few in slightly different combinations--for days and days and it makes me happy because they're all just right. I shop all the time but end up buying very little. But still! I get very much joy each morning, getting dressed.

Occasionally (and especially lately--) I discover things that I really fall in love with and long to share. I've been trying new things, slightly different things that I love--less cute and sweet and maybe a bit more classic, timeless. Longer skirts and simplier outfits. Pearls and black pumps. Eras of the past (though I am terrible with buying real vintage clothes because allergies and impatience and things that don't fit right) and subtlety and never, ever, casual, and all that jazz.

So, H&M has been answering my prayers. This dress!

Sheer navy with tiny polka dots, an adorable collar I can't quite deal with in the summer, a loose waist, a long skirt with an ever so playful visible shorter hemline, a full, twirly skirt!

I'm a little obsessed. And in love. The first of many H&M dresses from recently to be so inspiring. I've been in a 1920s phase--so, pearls, one set that's a real pearl chocker, and another long chain of glass pearls I accidentally tied and delighted in finding it looked good! Black suede pumps with a pleaded square bow (from here, and so comfortable!), and of course, that necessary flower in my hair.

I couldn't justified going out to work in all this, so I simplified this in real life with one set of pearls and a more subtle flower in hair. Still, walking down to the hot oven of the subways, amidst colorful tribal patterned dresses and golden flat sandals, shorts and tank tops, I felt like I might have come from another world, another time. C'est magnifique.

(Hi world! I'm blogging again. For your sake and for mine, about frivolous pretty things or sad, real things. This time I won't worry about what I can or can't do so much, and just do.)

Confessions of a Bored Depressive

2011-04-26T15:13:00.000-07:00

Inspiration: fleeting. Last night I went to a screening of a rarely released Saint Etienne film, What Have You Done Today, Mervyn Day. It was lovely and full of lush sunshine and meadows and worn down abandoned things. My heart ached for London. It was dreadful then, but now it seems wonderful, full of English charm, memories I barely considered at the time, but which haunt me now, filled with nostalgia. I walked to First Avenue and the M15 bus to visit Joey at the hospital, as I had for the past few days. That timeless space of healing and pain and death, where conversations occur with stifled joy, where machines and measurements and repetition take over the colors of life. Only the nurses, ever changing yet always familiar, with their enthusiasm and friendly comments a change. The windows safely prohibiting the outside world from seeping in. The bed, the curtains. The voices from the television on the other side of the room.

It became late and I said my goodnight for the walk that still frightens me down First Avenue alone. The last few days it was pouring when I left, and I could justify the cost of a cab. But not then. I didn't know which side of the street seemed safer: the coroner, the hospitals, the homeless men, or the lonely, looming shadows of the project housing on the other side. Stopped in for a too salty hot dog before a long wait for the subway home.

Today, though it is like summer outside, and the burst of fresh green leaves on the trees was a shocking sight, I stayed mostly in bed, in my perpetually cold room. Empty thoughts and empty gestures. A to-do list that I half heartedly checked off, put off. Clicking through websites with nothing in mind. Not even a faint twinge of desire. A vague shadowy guilt that manifests itself in a reiteration of this nothing. I am thinking of Francisco Pessoa's Book of Disquiet, his bleak, beautiful journal entries of a life lived in boredom, in his tortured head. Someone I had gone on a few dates with and slept with, someone who lived in a dreadful, mostly empty apartment, who always wore black and was so uncertain, whose mattress had made my back uncomfortable had recommended it.

Perhaps I just like too much the way these words sound in my head. I am crippling myself, forcing inertia, stability, this slow, spreading dread. It sounds much worse than it is. It is not glamorous and glorified artisanship but pathetic actually, despicable and pathetic. Uncertainty is my disease, stasis its symptom. I am prone of exaggeration, to being in love with the sounds of my pretty, petty words. Maybe it's just a role I play, easily solved with a walk in the sun, a smile exchanged. For now I stay in this dim light, under the forcefully cheerful duvets, staring fixedly at the window, and the light outside.

Show Your Knee Socks

2011-04-15T14:57:00.000-07:00

Britney Spears - How I Roll

Sometimes you get obsessed with songs. Sometimes you want to dance while you walk. Sometimes you wish you that it is already summer. Sometimes you need a spark, a flare, a lipstick kiss, a high heeled shoe. Sometimes every day is just not enough. Sometimes you want to drop your clothes piece by piece in a big open room, watch your smile spread in a big mirror above the bed. Sometimes you just want things to be simple and dazzling and bright.

Britney does just that. Throw away the irony and the condescending masks. Give in to the sugary sweetness of tequila on the rocks and the seduction of a snare drum, a melody, a line that stays in your head. Put on your lightest dress and flipped lashes and strut down the street. Take a boy home and watch the way he laughs. Kiss the tips of your fingers and remember the last time you felt so light, this good.

Another Spring, Another Love

2011-04-12T09:49:00.000-07:00

It has been a very long winter. One night, in the depth of the never ending cold, Joe and I watched An Education, and all I could think of during the lovely scene where Jenny and David lay bathing on the grass in Paris beneath the sunshine was how long it'd been since I've worn short sleeves.

But, yesterday. I finished an econ exam early and walked the quiet, gray streets around Washington Square Park, in a coat and sweater that felt too heavy for the pleasant warm pull in the air. Bursts of yellow daffodils sprung in clusters, and pale pink blossoms dotted eager trees in the distance. I watched the streets stir to life, a fruit cart merchant piling boxes, students lined up for their morning coffee. For the first time in a very long time, I didn't have to escape to a windowed room for comfort. I took off my coat and found a seat at a bench to watch the people passing. A policeman on horseback trotted past, and the horse's hooves made fresh, clear clicks on the asphalt street.

By lunch time it was bright and sunny and felt like summer. I caught glimpses of bare legs everywhere, a shock after so long of cover beneath heavy coats and thick tights. Everyone talked of the weather. The flimsy floral dresses that had already crowded the racks of stores months ago suddenly carried a new allure. I could almost believe that it was summer.

It was a marvelous feeling. In the evening, Joe and I went to Chinatown for dinner, and to walk the often forgotten streets off Canal after. The winding narrow alleys were mostly deserted, and beautiful, with the closed shutters of stores and signs bearing names of restaurants. Now and then we came across men sitting and talking on a stoop, or a group of kids in faintly oriental masks and costumes, having a photoshoot. We came to Doyers Street and the Nom Wah Tea Parlour, the backdrop to a recent Sartorialist photo I adored. At night, it felt like a complete transformation, of time and place. It was easy to believe that we were in 1920s China, arranging secret rendezvous in between games of cards and a haze of smoke.

We ducked into a Malaysian restaurant for dessert, and the moment we left for home giant rain drops fell upon us, slow but quickly increasing their frequency. We ran, laughing and cursing, to the subway, with damp hair and bag and clothes. It is finally spring.

(Need more convincing/to celebrate? This great compilation of Signs of Spring photos from around the world should satisfy even the most bitter skeptic.)

Trapped

2011-04-07T16:03:00.000-07:00

The rat was on the bottom step of the escalator going down, scampering up just in time as the escalator kept moving, running on an endless treadmill. Joe and I were on our way out of the subway and at first I thought it was cute. I thought that even about the ones I saw scurrying across train tracks, but this one was especially small and harmless looking. But the escalator kept moving and the rat kept running up and couldn't keep pace. We have to help, I said, probably in an abnormal high pitched voice, the voice people used to address cute small animals tinged with concern.

There was a small crowd gathered around the escalator watching and marveling, none who expressed any worry. The mouse ran into the edge of the escalator and struggled, panickedly to get away. We have to help, we have to help, I said, but I couldn't think of anything to do. Joe pressed the emergency stop button. The escalator stopped, but the rat's tail was trapped within the metal spaces of the escalator. The people around us crept closer, some crouching down to snap photos on the iPhone.

The rat began to chew his own tail. We have to help, I said, growing hysterical, panicked. I wondered if we could just cut the tail off. I didn't want to hurt him. I heard comments from voices without faces around us--"Call 311. Instead of you fucking assholes standing there taking pictures." A woman's voice retorting a mean response. "You see homeless men on the street all the time and no one wants to help. You're concerned about a rat." And all the while people with their phones and their gasps and no one who tried to help. I started to cry. "We just have to get the escalator to run the other way," Joe said. He squeezed me tight.

We told a subway worker. We went to the woman at the subway booth. We went to the J. C. Penny, where the men in cheap suits looked at us, oblivious, unhelpful with confused replies while we insisted on speaking to a manager, someone who could help. They said to ask upstairs, at the city mall. There was a small group at the top of the escalator, too, peering down at the helpless rat. A subway worker came with a dustpan and a broom, the same one we spoke to earlier.

"Please don't hurt him," I begged, still crying, voice uncontrolled. He looked at me, "Are you crazy?" He said. "I have to kill that thing."

I cried no, no! Voices around us, snippets I heard--"You better get out of here." I wanted to get out of there. I didn't want to know what he would do to the rat. Joe tried to get me to stay. But I couldn't stand the thought of being there, of having to watch one more person scoop down to laugh and snap a picture. I wish I hadn't paused to watch the rat in the first place.

I pulled Joe toward another exit. We reached another set of escalators leading to the street. Joe looked down toward where the rat was trapped and I told him, "Don't." "It's still alive," Joe told me. But that didn't help.

I was delirious and crying, still. The tears had stained my glasses so that I couldn't see at all, and I walked with them held in my hand. He pulled me toward the direction of our destination and I didn't register the streets. The thought of the rat was so awful. I half sobbed half spoke. How could they just stand there and take pictures. No one even wanted to help. And the awful workers at the store, from the subway. It was the people most of all, the people who completely ignored that there was a living thing, suffering.

It wasn't really about the rat.

I realized that if I had really wanted to save its life I wouldn't have left. I could have screamed at the subway worker until he relented. We could have ran upstairs and found the manager of the Manhattan mall. I could have tried to pull out the rat's tail myself, a thought that passed through my head before. But I was scared. I was selfish and scared and it was too much and too awful.
What upset me so much was those people. That there, they were confronted with a pained creature, helpless, and instead of trying to help they heckled and found the source of a viral video. It seemed to wrap together and represent everything I despised about our society. When YouTube and Twitter replace human sympathy, when empty, ironic and mocking essays replace intelligent thought.

I wondered if the people who loved vintage things did it because they longed for the past, because they simply liked the aesthetic, or if it was possible that they did it out of an aversion for the present. To forget. I thought about deleting all my online profiles and blogs. I thought I'd spend the rest of my life with my fountain pens and paper. Secluded, safe. I never really thought that I was born in the wrong era, or could only like things that were old. But now I felt this immense disgust and hatred of the present. A despair.

I remember when I was trying to catch a flight leaving London in the snowstorm. I dragged two heavy suitcases through the sludgy snow to the tube, and then struggled to get on an overcrowded train. Again and again, trains passed and I didn't get on. I kept hoping the next one would be empty, the passengers sparse. I was guaranteed to be late to my flight. A vicious look from a woman on the last train I tried to get on broke me down. I cried, wretched sobs, hating myself, hating my luggage, hating the thought that I might be stuck. Those last few weeks of the semester I had so desperately looked forward to going home.

Then this old man next to me, in a funny fur muff hat and funny old clothes, who I had been watching before, who was reading a philisophy book, came to me and hugged me. A woman on the other side of me rubbed my shoulder and said soothing words. The old man took out a tissue and handed it to me. It made me cry more. He dragged my suitcase on to the next train. There, there, he said. I remember this so well.

If One Could But Go to Brighton!

2010-10-02T15:43:00.000-07:00

A little sea-bathing would set me up forever.

Well, in my case, on a wet, foggy and rainy weekend, sea-bathing in Brighton was out of the question...luckily I did for once bring along my trustworthy camera, got it a little wet, and brought back a bit of this gray English seaside resort to set me up forever.

But aside from the beach, it kept secret charms in antique markets and cute little houses and a perfect spider web!

I'm still regretting this beautiful, elegant opium pipe I found in a charity shop I somehow I didn't manage to buy. (But I did buy a DIY dipping fountain pen holder and some tips, and beautiful blue ink, so all is not a total lost!) And, of course, there's nothing like dreadful weather for a truly authentic and weirdly delightful English atmosphere.

A Midnight Walk (Or: How I Fell in Love with London)

2010-09-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

It is perhaps, tonight, that I’ve fully let myself fall in love with London.

A long day of class and suffocating inside had lead to an imprisoned and eventually depressing night of cross-stitching, reading and half-hearted attempts at blogging. And, of course, the later the hour, the greater my melancholy and sense of doomed loneliness became. I needed a cure, and staying in the cramped quarters of the dorm was not the answer. So I walked.

The familiar path toward the Thames was not the most enchanting of London streets, it being a main road, and already desolate at this hour of the night. But a bright orb of a full perfect moon lit up a mostly cloudless, velvet sky, and with the soundtrack of comforting songs, I could at least let my sadness slip in silent tears in peace. I wondered if strangers noticed, but likely not, and that was okay. It was a delightful balance, that of the pleasure of the night air, and the slight danger of reality—playing a game of I wonder when/if I’d get run over or mugged. I, usually lacking sense of personal safety, at least followed traffic signals even when I didn’t have to, and made the slightly cautious decision to veer away from the darker, smaller streets.

And, in time, I came to the river. The sight of it was a near instant cure (though even the journey there had helped), and the motions of the dark waters, the sprinkling of blue and white lights woven in the trees across the water, and the silhouettes of buildings I already recognized well bade me to take in a deep breath of precious relief. I walked, slowly, down the riverbank. This was the same stretch that I had walked through a few weeks ago, amongst crowds to watch the midnight carnival parade and await the explosions of fireworks above the river. Now, the bank was entirely deserted, except for the ghosts of imagined figures I thought I glimpsed in red telephone booths, or waving from boats. The heavy, brooding masses of the docked boats seemed only inviting, their entrances unguarded except for a few easily stepped over chains. I passed the old monuments and touched their intricate metalwork, smiled at the sights of the dragons guarding the boundaries of the old London city. On my side of the river, too, outlined in subdued lights towered the majestic and elaborate architecture of old, made all the more wondrous by their contrast to the modern neon signs on their opposite side.

It was a pleasure like few others, and when I reached the entrance to one bridge, I turned around to begin my walk toward the other. London is quite a romantic city, especially at night, in this light. The empty, old-fashioned benches along the river begged for the warmth of two bodies entwined, nestled scarves and clasped hands. My real romance was in New York, but it struck me that if I could allow myself to be seduced by the magic of this city, I hardly needed a real romance. I could play pretend. And it wouldn’t be hard, would it, to create a three-month affair to remember? Not with those glittering lights and enchanting buildings as the backdrop. The birds quietly bathing in the river might have agreed.

So, it was, back towards Waterloo Bridge, and when the expanse of both sides of London came into view, and the glowing face of Big Ben smiled next to the bright lights of the London Eye, the dimly visible outlines of the palaces held their eternal ground, I felt weak and dizzy at the impossible beauty of it all. Even the National Theater, so plain and strange, too modern, in the daytime, at night, cast in its coats of bright lights, and its outdoor terrace, its expanses spotlighted, empty, became a place of make believe.

When I found my way to the bus stop on the other side of the bridge, I sat next to a couple who smiled and said hi. Sing us a song, he said. Really? I asked. We would love that so much, she said. They were both smoking cigarettes. I promised to look through my iPod for a suitable performance, uncertain. They made small talk, I told them I was studying literature and writing. Do you write stories then? He asked. I said I wrote many. Do you want to tell us a story then? I said I would. That I knew I was good at. It took a few moments for me to think. Telling stories are hard, she said, you don’t have to tell us one if you don’t want to. Oh I can, I reassured. Just give me a prompt. Tell us a story about people waiting for the bus, he said.

As prompted, I told them a story. Two people waiting for the bus, a boy and a girl. I told them it’d be morbidly depressing and they were okay with that. He pretended to lie on the road, in front of a slow moving milk truck. The driver said something to us, I couldn’t make out what. Probably laughing. So I told them a story about a girl in a floral dress, cold, alone, writing in a notebook. And a boy in an university sweatshirt, who watched her, and tried to ask her questions, offer her his jacket, a cigarette. But she always looked up, smiled, and said no. He asked her what she was waiting for, and she said, nothing. He said you can’t be not waiting for anything. He suggested possibilities: a bus that didn’t run during the night, the newspaper, a sunrise. But she shook her head, smiling, clutching her arms together in the cold, I’m not waiting for anything. He kept asking questions and she kept answering them the wrong way. His bus came, and he got on, sat at the very back so he could watch her from the back window, still wondering. He watched her until she was a barely perceivable figure, slowly rising to walk to the railings of the bridge, pausing, disappearing as the bus drove further. And he realized then that she had been telling the truth, she was waiting for nothing, and she would be there all night.

Nearly right on cue, then, my bus came. They thanked me for the story and bid a hurried goodnight. What’s your name? He asked. I told him. My name’s Sonny, he said. They waved from the bus stop as the bus began to lurch forward, and I waved back.

I couldn’t stop smiling all the way home (and overhearing, and understanding snippets of the conversation the two cute French boys who sat in the seats next to me helped). All my nuisances and complaints about the city seems so pathetic in this light, and perhaps, unlike New York, which is a whirl of excitement and adoration the moment you set foot on the island, London is the sort of lover that takes time to appreciate. The longer you learn the shapes and whispers of the streets the more she opens her arms, revealing infinity of history, beauty, & darling, fantastic life.

Music Monday: Definitely Not a Nashville Party

2010-09-06T09:54:00.000-07:00

Miley Cyrus- Party in the U.S.A.

So I still haven't quite found the proper soundtrack to my adventures in London yet (mostly I've been too concerned with marveling at the beauty of the buildings and being lost)--Belle & Sebastian feels too tired, all the Robyn I frantically listened to in New York seems too frantic, my collection of French pop drifts through my head now and then, but feels like it'd be better suited when I head to the streets of Paris. What, then? The Cure, The Smiths, sure, but that feels outdated. Maybe it'll take another week or two to find it, but in the meantime, there's this. (And no, it's not a joke, though a bit of a remainder from California.)

NYU threw us a get to know your fellow NYU in London students/come to the LCKSU waterfront bar social on Saturday night, where it seemed like the DJ tried a bit too hard to play songs she thought were American. (Think "Bad Romance" and "California Gurls," and later, inexplicably, "Don't Stop Believin'") Familiar, sure, but so was everyone I saw, and even the free Budweisers as part of our package. I get the feeling that we didn't come to London for a taste of American culture.

Luckily, I stumbled across the an indie dance night upstairs, and free from the confines of familiar faces and accents, with the spiked and pink haired DJs playing infectious songs I hadn't heard a hundred times before, I could dance without fear, and even chat with strangers and make friends who knew next to nothing about NYU. It was rather elating, and a bit like what I imagined my experience to be here all along. But best were the moments when the DJ played songs I knew, be it The Cure's "Close to Me" or Daft Punk's "Digital Love" or a familiar anthem from Sleigh Bells, when I could sing along to the lyrics and smile at my new friends, who were also singing along. It wasn't Miley's Britney or Jay-Z, but there is something fantastic in dancing to a familiar song in an unfamiliar place, this faint sense of belonging, of comfort in release.

"Party in the USA", I think, more than just an absurdly catchy pop song, hints at something bigger. The inevitable discomfort and anxiety of new beginnings, and finding solace in something so simple as a song, and finding delight in that reckless dancing, is very much a real and wonderful delight. And though that was far from a party in the USA (and, surprisingly, not as many girls here wear stilettos), the comfort of a song I love made everything feel that much easier.

Sunday Love: Anna Gillette

2010-09-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

This is a long belated post, but I did a photoshoot with the lovely Anna Gillette a while back, (a mutual friend, Wendy, my talented illustrator for that darling monocled cockatiel you see up there, introduced us) au naturel, I loved Anna's work the instant I saw her portfolio, and was delighted to model (plus, we soon learned that we had a shared love of taxidermy and morbid beauty). The entire shoot was done with various experimental film polaroids, and there is something so wonderful about the process that made the whole thing all the better. Here are some of my favorites from the shoot...

See the rest on Anna's website, and visit her Flickr for more of her dreamy work.

On London (and a rough start)

2010-09-03T14:47:00.000-07:00

The journey to London had not been easy. In fact, things started getting hard even before I left. There was the matter of various health issues (including an unpleasant and far from poetic infection on the toe and some bloody procedure that accompanied it the day before my departure), losing my wallet (and quite a bit of extra cash aside from that, and mysteriously a single slipper), and a seemingly endless stream of things to get done before I rushed off. September first went by too quickly, and instead of the joyous sendoff I envisioned with all of my friends, farewells came as one small thing after another. My last few hours in New York, after the panic of the week before, the boyfriend and I had a lovely dinner at Balthazar, then we rushed home (where the car service was already waiting outside), to stuff my last few belongs in my suitcases, and it was off to JFK, where there was hardly enough time for anything except a seemingly too short, tear stained goodbye.

The process of landing, immigration, suitcases and waiting for the NYU bus didn't make anything easier. Weary, jet lagged, sick from the plane, all I could remember were the luxuries of New York. The journey to the residence took forever (interspersed by spells of sleeping and not), and when I arrived, the tiny room with its twin bunk beds (sans bedding) and lack of storage space seemed hardly welcoming. The next two days weren't much improvement: everything was daunting, expensive, intimidating. Practical issues abounded, and the constant stream of introductions and reintroductions and the company of NYU students simply made me feel like I was repeating Freshman year. It felt like everything I had built up in New York had shattered, and I was helpless, small, desperate for approval. I hated it. Hated the sickening essence of being locked in this bubble I was so ready to leave behind...hated the lack of excitement and the slow climbing dread I felt.

Bloomsbury, where I'm living, is a beautiful part of town, and though full of charming buildings at every corner, quaint shops and discoveries, I was far too focused on all my problems to notice any. I walked past Russell Square endless times to run errands, but still hadn't stepped inside the delightful park. I headed off with strings of NYUers to places I didn't really want to go, not thinking, not noticing. My suitcases sprawled across my tiny room, unpacked, daunting. I was in terror of being run over on every street, looking right and left and back each way again, convinced of my inevitable doom. The British accents I heard around me only reminded me of the American accents that imprisoned me everywhere else.

What did it take to wake up? An email from my boyfriend (every reminder of him brought more tears, my comfy apartment, the familiarity of New York)? A breeze that stirred me just so, to look up, and notice, and remember where I was? At some point I stopped to take a deep breath. I took a walk. It was a small thing, pointless, really, but it was that: buying four tangerines from a fruit vendor on the street for a pound, stepping into an unfamiliar grocery store and marveling over the tea selection, staring at titles that were still familiar in a bookstore, looking at intricate churches and architecture, French windows, little red flowers in pots on windowstills, the green of the parks, the slower pace of London. I took a breath and remembered why I was here. Remembered London's history, culture, beauty, all that was waiting. The British friends I'd yet to meet, the familiarity I'd yet to achieve. I took it slower, soaked it in.

It's the night of day three, a Friday night, and I've made it through unpacking, through buying a few necessities, sleeping through orientation, stumbling through lunches, and had time to explore a bit, finally, the way I should have been. This afternoon I stopped by a sidewalk cafe to have a somewhat proper meal: English tea and a croissant (and it seemed entirely likely that that'd be something I survived off this semester). And walking through the narrow streets, I noticed the buildings, heard piano music coming from behind delicate white lace curtains at a room on a lower level, passed through bookshops, narrow alleys that seemed too historical to exist now, in between modern shops. I stumbled into a discount bookstore where every book (including an array of classics I'd been meaning to read) at £2 each, and then, found the British Library. Where I found the literature collection that took my breath away, and standing in front of those glass cases, beneath which, the exquisite handwritten manuscripts of Jane Austen, Virginia Woolf, Oscar Wilde, Chaucer, Shakespeare spread...the history of literature so close, I trembled and remembered exactly why I was here.

When I wandered back to my room I was in a far happier mood, floating on the discoveries I was making on every corner, delighted that I could find my way back at all. This evening my roommate and I went out for dinner (tip for future travelers: don't ask for still water but for tap...water will cost you £3 and make you want to die), and another walk that took us to Soho, Oxford Street, and the nightlife seemed marvelous, the shops energizing, and the city so alive in a way different from New York. Every pub on every street looked packed, and though the long stumbling walk back was not as fun, London shines a new light, and I can hardly wait to make its proper acquaintance.

Next week, classes start. I'm hoping desperately NYU's program upholds London's rich intellectual tradition, and if not, I'll seek elsewhere. Next week, I've arranged to meet a few locals (through lots of proactive attempts at socializing with strangers online!) and might, perhaps, get better at knowing how to cross the streets. I expect to be taking my books to plenty of these parks outside, and I'm giddy already envisioning the rest of London (and Europe) to discover.

PS: do you live in London? Around there? Drop me a line please! I'd like to be friends.

California Gurls

2010-08-26T10:22:00.000-07:00

I've just returned from a lovely, lovely vacation back home in San Diego (sleeping in too long in my familiar comfortable bed, welcome old traditions and friends, irreplaceable home cooked meals and comforts, a startling beautiful ocean, amazement at the skintight, too mini dresses and stilettos in downtown San Diego, petting miniature horses at the zoo (!), and all with the accompanying fresh eyes of the boy--who is a first time visitor, and in fact apparently the first in his family to ever visit California) and got back to a wet, cold New York. Feels like I've never left at all...except there's already the impending deadline of London, a flurry of preparations and panicking and last goodbyes with friends.

I'll probably be busy with preparations and leaving, so postings here might be a bit sporadic until I get settled in London. In the meantime, I've been obsessing over Katy Perry's absurd, superficial glamour of the golden coast in "California Gurls" (a far cry from its historical painful reality, of course). The video, as the song, is wildly addicting, and the celebratory approach to the hard to believe emptiness of California girls is somehow exquisitely delightful. A perfect song for the summer...and the impossible reality of the summer's end. What have you been doing all summer? And what are you looking forward to in the whispering hints of fall?

All About NYU: Part V, Should I Go?

2010-08-13T09:29:00.000-07:00

When it comes down to the ultimate decision making time, after you've received that marvelous purple postcard bearing the word congratulations! And weighing between other universities, priorities, dreams versus the obligations of reality, how to decide if NYU is really and truly worth all its weight in appearance...the decision is obviously, always, yours, and personal circumstances might play a far greater role than any stranger's description of the NYU student who would thrive, but, from my understanding:

Don’t come to NYU for a liberal arts degree if it means getting into tens of thousands of dollars of debt. NYU’s prestige isn’t really going to get you a job (experience, professionalism, and relentless drive will). The NYU experience, while, no doubt, unique, is likely not worth the years of regret and tears and poverty you’ll have afterwards. Also, don’t come if you are not (and don’t think you could be) independent, or have always fantasized about college frat parties and any sense of community. There is no sense of community save one of general cynicism and mild resentment. Without independence, you simply cannot survive here.

Why should you come to NYU, then? If, you’re one of those people who grew up hating your hometown, if you’ve always wanted to live and experience every aspect of the city, if you’re not afraid of obstacles, hard work, competition, if you’re desperate for excitement, if you can make concessions for life’s comforts for a life of unpredictable surprises, if you want experiences like nothing you’ve had before, if you’re not afraid to be embarrassed and learn silly new things, if you’re not afraid of disappointment, of shattered hopes and dreams, if you’re willing to give up almost anything for the opportunity that only New York City offers: then, come to NYU, because it will be a center of countless opportunities you haven’t even imagined before, it will be diverse adventures and meeting people you can’t believe exist. It will be what you make of it, what you force it to be, it’s a lover who needs to be tamed, who needs an equally strong match. If you’re not afraid of being alone (and it won’t be forever), if, even while reading all of this, the harsh reality and exaggerated nature of the university, you still feel the fire burning your insides screaming that you belong, then it’s not a matter of the quality of your department or the quality of living.

What NYU, really, truly offers, is outside of the university itself. Yes, you might get a few life changing professors. Yes, you might meet classmates who will alter your perception of the world forever. But ultimately, you will learn to live alone, to be a New Yorker, learn the taste of blissful success (even in small moments) and the bitterness of failure, unforgiving, cold, failure. You’ll learn how to live, and hardly how to live in a college, but in the world. You’ll learn much about humanity--suffering, kindness, and just inexplicable acts of humanity. Don’t expect NYU to be your magic ticket to anything. Expect to work for what you want, and hard, and expect for it to hurt, and to cry and hate everything you might have done. But in the end it’s a university that is rewarding in its freedom, its loose hold that lets you step off the pavement in stiletto heels, bruised bloody knees and a broken ankle, and lets you struggle with tear brimmed eyes until you can walk again (albeit, with a significant higher doss of New York irony and disenchantment with all that the city offers).

All About NYU: Part IV, Social Life

2010-08-12T10:30:00.000-07:00

With few sports or extracurriculars that students actively, and collectively engage in, NYU leaves far more room for individual exploration. And by the end of Sophomore year, nearly every single friend I had from Freshman year was living off campus, working and interning and living a life seemingly entirely distinct from that of a typical college student. You will probably find Freshman students to be, generally, more friendly and open, eager with bright shining eyes and confused directions at the start. But after that golden period of ecstatic introduction passes, many settle into friend groups and routines that feel impossible to break into. Tisch students, especially, form very tight collective friend groups.

Friend groups tend to shift and alter with living location, personal interests and schedules, and though enthusiastic orientation staff will convince you that the friends you make Freshman year will be your FRIEND FOR LIFE, and though occasionally this does turn out to be the case, most likely your friends from Freshman year will fade into a slew of lukewarm acquaintances you’ll learn to want to avoid rather than embrace in later run-ins on campus.

Freshman year social life tend to include stereotypical NYU activities: falafels and dollar pizza from St. Mark’s, marveling at the beauty of Washington Square in the fall, attending 18 or 19+ college freshman oriented parties and clubs (though I’ve never actually gone to any), trips to the Brooklyn Bridge or the MET with a special misty eyed significance, staying up late playing board games in dorm rooms (this sounds impossible but actually, inexplicably, always happens). This dissolves into various individualized paths, from going after every obscure and bizarre event listed in Nonsense NYC to fixedly over studying and panicking, to desperate hunts for glamorous internships (that inevitably end up filled with long hours and endlessly refreshing Twitter until that blessed six o’clock release).

Then it’s all a blur of house parties in the East Village, Bushwick. Weekend brunch at a scattering of restaurants, weekend nights scouring bars that don’t card. Occasional performances and events (that probably won’t actually be attended out of laziness, night of), fewer day trips, long afternoons spent between napping and half hearted watching a TV show (here, the hip favored show is Skins, and on the other end, Gossip Girl). Shopping (of course), whether it’s hip designer boutiques or the bigger stores down Broadway. After Freshman year, except for the most enthusiastic, there tends to be a period of anti-social tendencies, when even the thought of meeting a friend for coffee becomes dreadful (or perhaps that was just me?). At some point there tends to be some sort of disillusion, frightful realizations of reality and people’s intentions that might not always be the best.

But really, social life at NYU is hard to categorize, and though I suspect many would find similar echoes as my experience (and conversations revealed the same), there are just as many happy giddy NYUers who never experience a moment of anxiety or self doubt in their life. Well, not true, but can dismiss the negativity enough to go on deliriously happy (these are the types of people who gets picked to be your grinning orientation leaders! And hence, a cotton candy, rather unrealistic and overly optimistic, presentation of the university.) What is absolutely integral is the ability to self initiate, for unless you get sucked into one of those constantly existing and buzzing social friend groups, without any effort on your part, you’ll probably end up spending most weekends alone in bed with FroYo and leftover pizza.

All About NYU: Part III, Dorms, Food & Facilities

2010-08-11T12:19:00.001-07:00

This all mostly becomes irrelevant after Freshman year (as you will be much happier living off campus and be paying much less for--usually--better conditions, and you probably won’t care for the meal plan after having to indulge in it every day for the first year), but NYU Freshman dorms are nice as far as college dorms go. Without comparison as far as their locations, mostly basic, sometimes with wonderful views, but mostly what you’d expect of a college dorm room: repetitive furnishing, bland walls awaiting posters and photos. The newer dorms are shinier and apartment style, especially, do resemble a clean, minimal, dorm like apartment. RAs keep a (relative) close eye for incoming students, ensuring that not too many leap off of Bobst (the library) or transfer, though inevitably, some will.

Dining options are quite extensive, but not necessarily always appealing. Most of the Freshmen dorms have a dining hall or food options attached, though my Freshman dorm, Brittany hall, lacked it (as well as air conditioning or a kitchen! But it did have a ghost or two, so I suppose that made up for things).

The infamous Bobst library is not known for its aesthetic appeal--it sits in an ugly, heavy, brown-red building with dark, long stripes of windows down the sides. The inside feels oppressive and depressing, and during midterms and finals time gets extremely, extremely crowded. I prefer the lower levels of the library, which are newer and with less of a foreboding atmosphere. It’s a good resource as far as research goes, and Bobst has extensive online collections with nearly every major research center. Though their own selection seems a bit confused...copies of occasional obscure forgotten texts, yes, but lacking in seemingly basic novels.

Alternative study centers include some of the upper floors of Kimmel, the supposed student life activity center. Floors nine and seven have lounge/study areas by the open windows, which do present a rather gorgeous bird’s eye view of Washington Square Park and up. There are study lounges in Silver, the main CAS academic classroom building, and peppered elsewhere in the department buildings. I’d advise finding a nice department and nestling there, rather than vying for a spot in the already unpleasant Bobst. (The NYU Law School is especially nice, if intimidating). The school certainly lacks that grand, traditional campus appeal, but its scattered resources are, more or less, apt for most student needs.

All About NYU: Part II, Academics

2010-08-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

GETTING IN:

NYU has a just below 30 percent admissions rate, which seems relatively undaunting compared to Ivies and other near Ivy names. However, there is the matter of money to consider if you do get in, and whether that tens of thousands of loans price tag is worth it. A certain level of competence is expected, of course, as NYU is still a rather acclaimed university, but its standards are not at all impossible. If you have your heart truly set on the university, with a passionate essay, an unique talent, and an independent spirit, and solid academics to back you up, you should not be fretting about receiving that purple postcard in the mail.

THE UNIVERSITY/ACADEMICS:

I can only speak for CAS, so remember that experiences/expectations/quality of classes vary greatly between schools and even between majors.

I’m an English major and a Creative Writing minor, have taken a few Psych courses, and am otherwise oblivious to the rest of the university. CAS has quite a reputation for its core courses, a few of which you can test out of (language requirements, math and science), but most of which are unavoidable and really beat you in shape to what NYU is all about. The most notorious of those is the innocuous and tedious sounding Writing the Essay—but far from your high school essays, WTE is a rite of passage, that necessary staying up until four AM frantically typing a delirious draft filled with grand intellectual ideas, endless deadlines and three final products that determine your worth as a college student. (Or, as another NYU expert called it, the biggest ego boost afforded to Freshman. Hey! You’re in college! You can write long elaborate essays about real subjects!)

Also par for the course: a study on a specific World Culture, and Conversations of the West, a philosophy/classics course designed tax your ability to stay awake during lecture and write long essays about entirely irrelevant things. A few more required courses that you can wriggle your way out of with the right departments and appeals, and that comprises the heart of CAS academics. As you might guess, none of these classes (except maybe WTE, and always a brilliant professor) will probably dramatically change your life, or really contribute much to your college experience except increasingly irritating headaches.

The English department is good (if not all that brilliant). Required survey lectures are massive and boring, but if you get lucky with a smaller class (and avoid certain self-important professors who only care to preach his own theories) you might be in for some rewarding intellectual conversation...or be baffled by the banality of your supposedly equally brilliant classmates. It’s a somewhat popular major, so you’re likely to find gum chewing, iPhone on desk, blond hair twirling girls who are always late, though a bit less when you get into the smaller, upper level courses.

I can't speak enough praise for the Creative Writing department. The required intro to fiction and poetry class wasn’t half as painful as I expected, and although stuffed full with people wanting easy GPA padding, or convinced that they are writers when they are, in fact, entirely incompetent (adverbs and passive tense with every other sentence), not altogether unpleasant. The Advanced and Master workshops require an application to get in, but the two workshops I’ve been (taught by Irini Strauss and Marcelle Clements) have been absolutely wonderful. The professors actually, deeply care about the students’ work, are honest but encouraging, and often teach as much about life, and life as a writer, as about technique or craft. Am not sure the workshop model is necessarily the best, but at least interesting, if not entirely useful. Visiting faculty includes Johnathan Safran Foer, Zadie Smith and Junot Diaz. Those workshops are naturally harder to get into, but absolutely worth the battle.

Picking the right (and best) courses at NYU often feels like a game of Russian roulette, and even after scrutinizing RateMyProfessor and CAS's course reviews might reveal mixed messages. It's better to take a course by an interesting professor than base your decisions based on subject alone, as certain professors can make the most fascinating topics into the driest, most excruciating three hours of struggling to stay awake and feigned legible notes of your life.

All About NYU: Part I, An Overview

2010-08-09T10:21:00.000-07:00

I remember when it was the ultimate fantasy: an university that, while not as prestigious as its uptown counterpart, carried a weight in the Hip factor that made it all the more appealing, Washington Square Park (the fat squirrels, the marvelous people) as a playground, a shopping trip to Soho (where the affordable but wildly stylish stores I could only read about in fashion blogs lined the two sides of Broadway) too accessible in the breaks between classes, and most of all, of course, New York City at my fingertips, and the delicious independence that came with it.

So, I suppose it should be no surprise that I’ve received the flurries of questions and emails about NYU, from tips of admission to hint of school life. And, as promised (though much, much delayed and with apologies), I will endeavor to provide the best perspective I can from a university I’ve gained an intimate knowledge of—if not solely based on my own experiences, then the stories and misgivings from friends, transformations and lifestyles witnessed first hand. But be warned: this isn’t what the admissions office advertises, and certainly not a comprehensive indication of what your experience might be. It’s simply my version, and if there is one thing you realize from all of this, let it be this: there is no definitive NYU experience, and realizing that you make your college life what it is will influence absolutely everything about it.

A QUICK OVERVIEW:

This information is easily found on NYU’s website, of course, but for brevity’s sake, NYU breaks down into a number of smaller colleges for specific fields. CAS is the biggest school of general liberal arts (where I go), Tisch and Stern are the notorious and esteemed film and business schools, respectively (each rich in stereotypes and dramatically different lifestyles), Steinhart is the misc education/arts school, and Gallatin is the make-your-own-major wonder child of an ambitious and (seemingly) diverse university.

Among students, the most frequent NYU-centric topic of conversation is the hefty tuition (a bit over 50K per year, which is comparable to most other private universities) and the legendarily terrible financial aid that accompanies it. It’s also known for being a hipster breeding ground, fond of pretension, and flocks of Freshman generally irritating to New Yorkers and upperclassmen everywhere. That and of course, its ultimate appeal: a nonexistent campus generally circling the heart of Greenwich Village, and its ever expanding ties/annoyance to the rest of the city.

Mostly what people attend NYU for is for the chance to live in heart of New York City, and you’ll find few natives in the pool of students. And for those less fond of city life, and wanted either some experience the university itself offered and/or were forced to attend from lack of better options, it generally turns out to be a big more of a disappointment than it would otherwise.

It’s a big university, but that does not mean that you’ll be missing out on any of the awkward and unlikely run ins of the hook-up from Welcome Week two years later on a crowded subway train on your way home. It does mean that you probably won’t feel at ease instantly. And will probably get lost, a lot. And will be intimidated by the subway and the whole big stretch of the rest of New York. But that passes quickly enough, and anyway, chances are if your sights are set on NYU, you are probably not craving the intimate small college experience and don’t mind a bit of adventuring to find your way from one class to the next.

Tomorrow: getting in and academics, and for the rest of this week, elaboration on anything from dorms and food to social life and whether the university may or may not be worth it. In the meantime, email me (tweexcore at gmail dot com) any specific questions or concerns you might have, and I'll do my best to see what I can clarify!

Things That Seem Okay At First But Are Really Not Quite Good Enough

2010-08-06T10:13:00.000-07:00

+ That new street style blog by the girl with the big bangs and black lined eyes who sat a row behind you in your comparative lit lecture Sophmore year and who won’t stop asking you become to become a fan of her poorly shot photos of people who look kind of familiar and like the sort of people who gets recruited to work for American Apparel on Facebook.

+ The all organic, fresh herb roasted chicken sandwich with the exotic sounding vinegar dressing that costs $13.95 at the deli across the street from your office that everyone raves about and which you always feel vaguely guilty for buying knowing it is a bit bland and for half the price you could buy something from Subway you’d like much better, but won’t for fear of being judged.

+ The cutting edge hip, intellectual web journal that mastered the art of typography and white space in design but which features articles that either rehash recently printed features in the New York Times or might better suit the Self Improvement section at Barnes and Noble, only with everything written in reverse so that it’s ironic and witty when really it makes you click over to check your Twitter again instead.

+ The blazer you bought last weekend from that high street shop and which looked like something by that much admired (and recently deceased) designer your lover won’t stop talking about in the bright dressing room mirrors but which is just slightly too short and with buttons that look a bit too plastic to wear out without feeling embarrassed, but which you also feel too embarrassed to take back and so save for evenings when you’re sure you’ll only wear it in the subway and will take off and stuff away at the earliest possibility.

+ The poem your roommate wrote, asking for your evaluation of whether it’s good enough to warrant him quitting his day job in PR at a medium sized start up about the shadows of the moth’s wings flapping weakly against the fluorescent lights and how it mirrors his futile resistance, that you think might just be a combination of images from an Annie Dillard essay you suggested to him and buzzwords from his company’s profile, and plus an existential angle from the latest Charlie Kaufman film he watched.

What's on your list?

Little Obsessions

2010-08-04T12:56:00.000-07:00

Lately it's the smallest pleasures...

Tea candles and delicate flower pins, sultry aerial jazz/cabarets, a colored stone on a pretty necklace, thin elegant cigarettes.

Intricate lovely stones from Evolution (a store of taxidermy, shells & butterflies, bones & beautiful rocks), and Anna Gillette's beautiful polaroid from the photoshoot (warning: there is nudity!).

The loveliest Caitlin Shearer prints, defiant, melancholy eyes, skinned knees, soft hair and tender peak of pink rosebuds on uncertain breasts.

Long trips to the library, reading in Bryant park, and walking back to the subway carrying a heavy stack of writerly books...and feeling suddenly and entirely convinced that there can be no other future, no other reality than this, a self conscious literary aesthetic.

An oversized perfect flower in hair, lingerie so decadent and exquisite from nowhere else but Agent Provocateur, platform mary janes that look just right.

And mostly, this boy. Absurd conversations and days in bed, a smile or a certain look in the eyes. The trace of a bony wrist, soft warm skin, laughing and crying all at once, countless stories told and remembered and forgotten, tables sat across, glasses drank from, fingers laced, streets walked, nights slept, arms linked, and life blissfully forgotten.

Music Monday: But I Just Want to Hold You When the Music Ends

2010-08-02T17:00:00.000-07:00

Allo Darlin' - If Loneliness Was An Art

Theirs is a world of cardigans and Polaroids, unfeigned sweetness and cooking metaphors for love, Woody Allen references and soft dreamy colors, ukuleles and self aware pop that melts your heart. It’s twee in every respect, but with a slight wink of reality, with simple, sweet lyrics not so far from imagined conversations and muted shy smiles. Camera Obscura without all the melancholy. C86 without all the noise.

So: Marsha sits at the kitchen counter, fingering a sky blue and white striped mug with one hand (trimmed lemon yellow nails) and chin propped in the other, eyes at the sunlight from the window, the small brown bird singing his silent song on a quivering branch outside. Daydreams float by on puffs of clouds. She dreams of the boy who will dance with her, hand in hand to the sha la las of the chorus, who kisses her cheek to convince her that she’s pretty (she’s not. Just sweet). She wants just to lean her head against his after the local band strums the last chord on that wood guitar. When the breeze stirs stray strands of her loose brown hair tied back with a pink string, she closes her eyes and imagines him soothing it down, a boy who’s awfully scared and hurt, a lonely heart, two lonely hearts beating in tune to one day be together.

Sunday Love: Ricor

2010-08-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

There is not much I know about Taiwan based photographer Ricor aside from the haunting impression of her pictures, so ethereal and soft, with incredible dreamy delicacy and a softness, a lingering beauty in the soft tresses of hair or the imprint of a softened dress. But perhaps that is enough, to step into her world of light and wonder for a quiet Sunday afternoon. Perhaps the mystery is just as much a part of the appeal...

More at her website and flickr.

Where the Summer Goes

2010-07-21T05:48:00.000-07:00

I own you an apology. Four months of silence (sans my sporadic postings on Tumblr), and suddenly it’s hi! I’m back! I could make the usual excuses: but life got in the way, but the end of the semester became shockingly busy, but my emotions ran on overload, but I focused solely on fiction, all of which would be true...none of which justify. So, I turn to a fast forwarded recap, and promises of a future rich in updates and regularity.

Since March: I finished Sophomore/Junior year of college, gathered yet more pages of convoluted literary criticism to store in a musty folder to slowly disintegrate, thread through periods of bliss and contentment with the small daily rituals of my life, and then sudden plunges of self loathing, fear and despair, clutching to sheets at 3am with tear stained cheeks pressed against sympathetic pillows. I read books, fewer than I’d have liked, and sometimes not the right ones, sometimes not finishing them. I made decisions to quit poisonous affairs and began new ones. Oh, and, I fell in love.

Which is ridiculous, unexpected, and hard (or rather impossibly easy but hard to do well) to write about. It crept up, between weekends spent in bed, conversations without end, drunken confessions at mediocre parties. It took a strange conversation from a stranger from Omegle for me to realize it (he, somehow, recognized my feelings better than I). And it took: nerve wrecking obsessive thought, countless melodramatic reimaginations of the scene of confession (always with a bleak and tragic end), thousands of words written in various journals in panicked blue or red ink, and the incredible boost to clear minded and suddenly optimistic thinking that somehow only plane rides inspire, to finally reveal it. It was terrifying, and, I learned, well worth the pain.

It was the start of summer, then, which was a desperate roller coaster of ups and downs, wavering between constant regret and moments of sudden, convinced ambition. I’m still not sure it’s reached any sort of stability--any moment, tomorrow, this afternoon, a little line from an email, an unexpected phone call could still change absolutely everything. Unlikely, of course, but the structure of my life feels like a frail thin rope, spinning according to the whim of the wind and apt to snap at any moment. This is hardly the lazy days and careless nights of last summer (I suppose nothing can quite replicate that feeling of the first summer in New York), and instead wrought with tensions and deadlines and responsibility, all topped with the constantly looming deadline of August 31: my flight to London for the next three months.

I’m torn between wanting to slow down time, erase every bad decision and instead fully soak in the atmosphere, the luxury of this, before plunging into that other world, and wanting to leave now, today, all the small frustrations and irritations tossed away with the heat and humidity of the city, to gloomy gray skies and old bookshop lined streets, Paris a weekend train ride away. I suppose it hardly matters what I feel--it’s a settled affair, and for now, so is New York.

Anyway! What you can look forward to on the blog, from now on: very likely, a site redesign, or at least clean up, songs & photos & stories & such three times a week (including a much delayed, extensive expose on NYU you may or may not have been awaiting), and my full attention on anything you’d like. Want to ask for advice? Email me: tweexcore at gmail.com, and let me know if you want the question to remain anonymous (or ask on tumblr). I always adore your tips, suggestions, and comments, especially when I’m reshaping the site toward its absolutely best! As always, comment, subscribe, and recommend at will. I am nothing without you, my wonderful, wonderful readers!

xoxo

Music Monday: Home Is Where I'm Alone with You

2010-07-19T06:14:00.000-07:00

Edward Shape and the Magnetic Zeros - Home

What do I know about Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, or this song? Not much, save that once a friend had it stuck in his head, and sitting across the table on a hot summer’s day, in the safety of the shade but still the oven of the warm air, he performed a surprisingly accurate rendition of it, in the same cracked, country twang as the real singer of the band, drumming the beat with his fingers on the table. Later I heard it played at yoga, somewhere between the strained hold of a warrior pose and the smooth transition into downward dog, and felt this clap of recognition, of pure happiness at the opening whistled melody, and these comforting voices, now no longer a strange private performance but a full song. I still could not recall the name of the band, except that reminded me vaguely of the Magnetic Fields and was overly long.

Later I heard a friend play it while lounging in his cozy Harlem apartment, and when he sang along with the same chorus, the swell of the celebratory cheer, and then trickling came the charming dialogue of the bridge, the sweet strange little narratives accompanied by foot tapping guitars and whistles, I knew that the deed had been done: I had fallen slave to the melody, the infectious good nature of the song, and I would not relent unless I tracked it down and made it my own. And once I had--I fell more and more under its spell. A love song, a two character performance, girl-boy harmonies (but this isn’t the sentiment etched sweetness of Stars or the melt in your ears strawberries & marshmallows of twee bands), country accents and playful strings, and oh, those whistles! How simple, barefoot on a summer night--yes, it’s exactly that, running through expansive & scratchy grass fields, biting into over ripe apples, laughing with linked arms, and falling deeply, deeply in love with you. Just like that.

(PS: yes, I'm absolutely reviving this blog. And back to regularly scheduled postings soon! And expect songs every Monday as well as everything else!)

All This Sunshine's Making Me Dizzy

2010-03-21T13:06:00.000-07:00

It's spring. With each day of surprising sunshine New York peels off a layer of coats and reveals a teasing trailer of the future. Spring means people in parks and rising hemlines, picnic blankets and whisper of summer. It's not yet the non-stop gray showers of spring (but soon, I'm sure), this is merely a taste of delight, a sprinkle of pastels and cottons and wonders.

I spent all afternoon doing the reading I missed during break in Washington Square (still my favorite park), and little things I noticed mostly reminded me of other little things, the countless other times I've done the same exact thing. Like: a man approached someone next to me for a cigarette, and the vintage film camera dangling around his neck suddenly reminded me of Eddie the black photographer. Eddie asked for my picture in the park way back when. We went off on an impromptu photoshoot and he invited me to a movie I agreed to, I had no other plans for the afternoon. He showed me the notes for an inspirational self help book he was writing. Eddie worked two jobs, one as the security guard for a medical center nearby and one as a cashier at Duane Reade. He attended art openings and dance performances for people to shoot on his boxy old film camera. He kissed me on the cheek and I hadn't realized that he might have thought our afternoon a date. He called, every now and then after that, but I had excuses, I was always busy.

One night in the summer months after I met him, almost forgetting who he was, heading home at Union Square at three or four AM after an exhausting (and dramatic) night, I heard someone call my name. I turned around on reflex and there was Eddie. We talked, but not for long. I went home. I forgot about Eddie, until now.

I wondered how many similar such instances I'd forgotten, things that seemed impossible and sparkling gems when they happened and now slipped away in the cracks of my memory like the cracks in the sidewalks. People and conversations and interactions. Once I met two punk traveller kids who hopped freight trains at Union Square and took them to Times Square. The red steps were closed but we had fun anyway and they spent the night at my apartment. My roommate hadn't been happy but they had some great stories. When we walked past another sleeping traveler punk kid on the street they found change to spare though they still needed bus fare.

Once I walked past a homeless man with the cardboard sign in his mouth and one eye a bloody pulp, seemingly hanging out of his eye socket. It was so terrifying and grotesque I couldn't glance back to make sure if I'd imagined it. I remembered how much I hated it, seeing violence, decay, this living nightmare on the street just as easily as a storefront or a happy puppy.

That's New York. I was reading a book about New York, an old New York, but still, a New York of connections and patchworks and unlikely reminders and occurrences. Sometimes I forget--a lot, actually. But some days it's impossible to ignore, it's in the way the world awaits with a search at my fingertips, the way a smile or an overheard snippet of conversation lifts up my mood. It's the glimpses into unfamiliar apartments and imagining the stories I haven't heard. A love letter to New York, this? No, not just. A love letter to, oh, I'll allow it, the unfeigned adoration of this very life I lead, the frequency of the wonderful and the novelties in the routine that is not quite a routine, that is a delight in its familiarity and its flexibility.

I haven't absolutely figured out my summer plans yet, but spending it in New York, again, still sounds like an option I'd embrace. I'd miss this. I'd miss even simply sitting on the cold glossy floor of my apartment and laughing about something silly, walking to try brunch with massive portions, miss the history I'd evoke with every trip around the village or 14th street. Oh and, how could I forget, the people. The pink bubble of a blister against the hem of flats that didn't cause them, the ripped pattern of the back of black tights, sunglasses and colorful hair, wrinkles that illustrate a life worth telling, the voices and accents and limps and even if the rest of the world remains impassive, immune, these marvels will go on.

*A Sort of Excuse

2010-02-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

It's not that I have forgotten, it's just that I've been doing most of my writing here in the forms of bits and pieces of fiction and poetry lately. It's fun and it sounds pretty. But expect a proper update soon. I promise.

On Poetry

2010-01-02T11:40:00.000-08:00

What I mean is this.

It was five am at the latest, the first day of the new year. Minutes earlier, I'd been deliriously tired with my eyelids glued down and the need for sleep draping over my body like the tattered old blanket that rested there. Curled next to a girl from the party on the small couch, all of us drained from the endless night, when I turned and saw the bright white glow of the day peeking from behind a half closed curtain. Suddenly I was awake.

I didn't want to spend any more time in the uncomfortable dark room where my friends were already drifting off to sleep. I fumbled by that little streak of light to find my pen and notebook from the desk and made my way outside. The living room was nearly deserted, a stark contrast from the flashing colored lights and loud music that spilled from it not so long before. There was someone curled up half asleep on a loveseat, and the faint sounds of footsteps and door creaks from upstairs and elsewhere in the house.

I walked to the dining table and found a cigarette and a lighter among the small pieces peppered across the table. The painted glow of the sunrise and new day beckoned from the patio. I slid open the door to the yard and slipped outside, taking in a deep breath of the morning air. It was cold, a sharp chill that my thin cardigan hardly protected from (I didn't want to go searching for my warmer jacket in the mess of the rooms and couches and sleeping friends inside). I was alone, blissfully and wonderfully alone with the kiss of the sun and its melting colors dipping across the open sky, with the last few stars still sparkling and the moon still a visible pastel slice. It was silent except for the chirping of the birds, a light symphony I could appreciate.

I found a seat on a chair that overlooked the yard and opened my little notebook to write. It was integral that I had it, then, not that it ever left my side, the thin blue tipped ink and the fresh press of the paper. I smoked the lone cigarette (the playful wind kept blowing it in my face) and watched the lights of the sky and clutched my sweater ever so closer, and wrote.

I guess that was when I understood it. Maybe even the transcendental writers I so hate have a point about nature. You know, that one moment where the pure beauty of the world rushed to you, filling up your throat and mouth and caressing your lips, glazing over your amazed eyes, where the world, the moment, the cold and the light and the colors and the cigarette fused the most beautiful, tender, wonderful thing. Awe, maybe. Inspiration in the truest sense of the word. That was poetry.

In the settling breath of sunset at sometimes past five pm, I went for a walk in the park near my house that I'd frequented endless times before. Years ago I walked the same paths and listened to "Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying," dreaming of an escape from San Diego. Today I walked the same route and let my mind drift to a hundred other preoccupations and fantasies. It wasn't the same wretched need for change that enslaved me before, but it was still a sense of restless anxiousness about something that would not resolve itself.

After a while, the night settled over the park and the big field, with its corners of baseball fields and vast center of grass hadn't turned on its bright lights. I no longer felt like walking, and going over the same painful indecision and obsessions in my head. Instead I found a seat on a stone cold bench and looked towards the nearly empty park, and listened to an old favorite, sad Bon Iver song. Maybe it was the song. Maybe it was the moment, as I looked towards the apartment building with one room of a flashing orange light, wondering if it was a broken lamp or if its inhabitants toyed with something, and watched the steady pulse of a distant plane travel closer to its destination, the empty steps of the metal bleachers, the silhouettes of the masked trees in the dark.

I remembered that, not like New York, San Diego had visible stars at night. I watched them, pinpricks of light amist the dark sky, and the perfect cool evening air around me ever such a delight. And that was poetry.

A new year's resolution, though it seems silly, and I hardly believe in new year's resolutions, is to spend less of my time online. Perhaps, solely, because of this. Because I so rarely feel the beauty of the stars, the air, the silence, the solitude when I sit in front of my laptop. Sometimes, in bits of what I read or moments of conversations that stop my heart and freeze my breath inside my throat, but those are rare. And this, it's so much better, and fills me with hope, and gratitude, and a smile that hangs so naturally on my lips. Poetry.

Poetry in a girl who feels so much more at ease on a crowded subway train or the dirty Manhattan sidewalks than any desolate forest, poetry in a girl who despite all optimism carries the seed of a bitter realistic, a harsh cynic. Poetry in a decade meant for it.

2009: A (Slightly) Sentimental Year in Retrospective

2009-12-30T04:20:00.000-08:00

Maybe 2009 was the year for adult accomplishments, the ones like getting and working at my first two internships, both of which, despite their sometimes trying hours of sitting and refreshing a screen, desperately hoping for a distraction, the headaches and burning eyes at repetative tasks, taught me and motivated me so much more for the future that I envision. I remember when having an internship seemed like the most romantic thing in the world, and somewhat impossible to achieve. Scouring Ed2010 or Craigslist and emailing countless resumes and cover letters felt like college applications all over again (and later, apartment hunting would feel like the same thing), but I must have forgotten that this is my reality and it fits exactly the way it should.

Or, apartments-the wretched drama that accompanied each one, for the excitement and discovery of a new (albeit temporary) home, for the lifestyles and possibilities each glimpse at a different one offered, for finding one on my own and the little joys that comes with sort of living alone--and all the pains that stranger roommates accompanies. For the uncertainty and the potential for disaster.

With the apartment I learned that I am capable of everything I could have ever imagined on my own. More than ever, I am in love with and in charge of my independence and, especially in New York, it's invaluable knowledge. But with independence came an edging awareness of solitude, and loneliness. Nights where I felt entrapped and completely distanced from the rest of the world, my classmates, my friends. Irrational thinking, of course, but to tell myself that at 2am on a Friday night after a week spending evenings at home, alone, was a hard mistake to correct.

So I found distractions--lots of them. Boys with faces and names that are no longer burned into my memory like past lovers had been, nights marked off with an x--sometimes not even, only what came after time I spent with my real friends, or rushing off after an afternoon adventure to a late night rendezvous. I guess it'll never be the way it was in high school--a crush that burns my lidded eyes in sleep, a name that dictates my thoughts. (If it was, it was always the wrong thoughts about the wrong ones, ones that bite and cut into exposed flesh, ones that demand song lyrics with a razor sharp sting.)

I might have convinced myself of love--half of it, anyway. A broken heart--or at least half of one. A smile, a gesture that'd flash into mind anytime I heard certain songs. But it was never real. I knew better than to allow it to be.

So there was that, and a certain power that came with it. It was no longer a forbidden, impossible mystery but always a phone call away. It was no longer a Romance. with a start and end, definitions and names and rituals but the memory of one stray comment ("When people talk about someone having beautiful eyes it's always a lie--you have beautiful eyes, though"), the hints of a mark on skin. There was the unexpected show of interest I once marveled over that became so commonplace as to be vulgar. There was understanding and doing things for the sake of doing them and every little thing in between.

There was the disappointment and what ifs and false hopes and daydreams and ghosts that haunted the blur of consciousness between the night's sleep and the morning's bright call. There was the shadows of despair and perhaps, an even worse enemy, apathy.

And, it seemed, not only in the matters of the heart (and body). 2009 was the year when I began to grow disenchanted with New York , disenchanted with a lot of things. Last year, every adventure, every season, ever decision and change was bolded and glittered, but I can hardly remember distinct events that happened, can hardly remember a specific day or night when I simply waited for the pour of summer rain to wake me up from the echoes of the past. I found myself nostalgic, found myself habituated to what the city had to offer--even though, they were exquisite, they were the same incredible surprises and flashes of inspiration. I just had to look harder. But looking harder took that much more convincing.

I suppose it's simply inevitable with time. I can never maintain that bright eyed excitement of initial discovery, and can no longer always feel the thrill of that first love--but if I look hard enough, I can still find snapshots, and better, new ones.

Because, ah, you're dreading the moment, but I can't help it, of course, of course I have to write about writing. 2009, more than ever, was the year I knew without a doubt that this was going to be my future--completely. No more half hearted guessing at a future at marketing or psychology or anything 'practical.' 2009 was when a teacher told me "you can't be dumb if you tried" and the stories and words I wrote came with a new coat of paint, this one soaked in fearless honesty and deliberate beauty. 2009 was when I realized that my passion and career didn't have to deviate from one another, when every grand ambition I ever had seemed not so far from becoming true.

And that, that knowledge, that feeling, that burning and golden key in the middle of my heart, protected from cynicism and regret and loss and fear is what I'm taking with me to a new year, a new decade. No more self doubts and pathetic attempts at reaffirmation--I already know what I'm capable of (and it's so much more, and so much better than just endless daydreams without action), I already know what the world has to offer when I go after it. ("The road to rejection is better than no road at all," as Stephen Malkmus coos from my stereo.) I won't chase after a life too glamorous to be true and embrace the one I'm living--it's already doing pretty well, anyway. I can't wait for the new year--with fresh enthusiasm and untainted hope, with a confidence that seeps through my every step and every word, and the ambition that is no longer just a word, and the second guessing that stops, and maybe even allow myself to fall in love along the way. You know, the way it was, the first time, from the start.

**Oh, and 2009 was the year I learned to be a bit of a photographer too. That's got to count for something, right?

Things I Love Thursday!

2009-12-17T10:54:00.000-08:00

via.

+to do lists and crossing everything off
+cupcakes & free frosting shots, and a white daisy for "being cute"
+decorating a sparse tree with silver aluminum shaped into hearts
+hot chocolate cooked for strangers in the park
+walking across the williamsburg bridge in the freezing cold
+layering with cashmere
+new clothes: the perfect little tuxedo bra, a poofy red dress, a velvet blazer with a big bow in the back, a silk betsey johnson dress with gold daisy buttons
+last days of classes and nearly finishing finals
+gold white Christmas lights wrapped around trees that line the streets
+stepping into a warm apartment after the biting cold
+the subway tea party, of course, and the sweet folks who attended it
+Christmas songs as the perfect soundtrack to getting anywhere in the jolliest of spirits
+expected snow this weekend! Flying home on Monday!

Despite everything that has not been going well lately, it's these little things that remind me to smile and appreciate the season. And besides, it's almost 2010! I can't wait for so many things...in the meantime, New York near Christmas time is remarkable. I'm going to miss it, even for the short while (relatively) I'll be gone.

But enough about me, what has you happy and giddy a week from Christmas?

How to Get in the Holiday Spirit

2009-12-15T06:09:00.000-08:00

+Listen to Christmas music-let go of your cynicism, pessimism, sense of superiority, self important apathy and way-too-hip-for-this bias for just one moment and let yourself enjoy Christmas songs for what they are. So okay, maybe you despise the cheap, plastic sounding modern pop versions you hear in every store you walk into, but look for Christmas classics and originals and don't fight the sense of jolly spirit that seizes you. If you really can't bring yourself to listen to anything without a Pitchfork approved label on top, there are plenty of marvelous indie musicians with their modern versions of classics that you won't be embarrassed to add to your iPod. (Check out this exhaustive round up of Christmas mp3s/mixes/playlists for options). And trust me, it will get you all jolly and smiling and proper minded. Now skip down that snow lined street singing your favorite version of "Jingle Bells" with non-ironic delight.

Dress festive! Even if you lack the glamorous Christmas party department stores would lead you to believe everyone is throwing, you know, the ones where you wear extravagant red dresses and gold glitter heels and pose against various luxury furnishings with a thin, champagne glass in hand looking as seductive and holiday vixen as can be, you can still dress the part and make believe.

Even if you're not willing to go all out, at least incorporate bits and pieces of that holiday glamor into your outfits from now until New Year's. Try sparkling accessories like crystal necklaces and luscious big bows, party frocks and stockings and heels, or something as simple as an oversized brooch on a gray cardigan. Wear sexy lingerie beneath your everyday clothes and slink about your room in a silk robe and slippers. Feel like a starlet in red lips and black dresses for a simple gathering of friends. Work gold, silver, or red into any outfit--play it up, and don't feel guilty about looking as darling as you do.

Indulge yourself! Since you're already dressed for decadence, you might as well live it, too. Stop worrying about silly things like "calories" (what does that even mean? It's not in my holiday vocabulary and it shouldn't be in yours) or even really "money" and start worrying about how you'll fit all indulgent beauty products and exquisite desserts into these next few weeks.

Pick up a few bars of peppermint bark, make a pot of hot chocolate and sprinkle on plenty of soft marshmallows, pour apple cider into sparkling glasses and bit into as many pieces of those Christmas-time only sweets as you can find. You know, sensuous chocolate, light-as-butterfly toppings, melting caramel, refreshing peppermint, striped candy canes to match your red and white striped stockings (because you will be dressed up anyway, right?)

Give! Not to sound trite and cliche and sentimental or anything, but nothing will put you in the holiday spirit like, well, embracing the holiday spirit, you know, not the one of reckless consumerism (you'll already have done plenty of that anyway) but of giving! So not only do you get to go shopping for delights for yourself, shop for the ones you love. But stay away from prepackaged mindless gift sets and presents you're just giving out of a sense of duty...so, no candles unless it's something adorable like the ski cap candle from Antropologie, and try instead for something more personal and refreshing.

Get your best friend one of Lelo's luxury vibrators (or a less expensive but quite adorable dolphin shaped ones from Fun Factory) and she'll REALLY love you forever. (If you don't have one for yourself, stop reading right this second and go buy one. I'm serious. This is one Christmas present you won't regret...better than new shoes or chocolate.)

If your friends are scattered far across the country (or countries) over the holidays, gather up some addresses and mail out old fashioned physical Christmas cards. Only, don't send a boring old Christmas card, update formulaic sayings with absurd private jokes or redecorate a lame graphic with personal touches. They'll appreciate the gesture--and you'll have a lot of fun chuckling to yourself as you perfect your cutesy holiday snark for each card.

But remember, it's not all material presents to people you already know well. Give good wishes to the owner of your corner bodega, tip the waitress extra (and add a gold origami heart) at the next restaurant you dine at, buy a cup of something hot for the construction guys you pass by on your way to class. Offer to help someone, especially when they're not expecting it. Send messages to people you hardly know telling them just how wonderful you think they are. An unexpected good wish could easily make someone's day--and it'll put you more in the gift giving, Christmas tune singing, red dress in snow wearing and exquisite guiltless indulging mood too. Start now, and you're well on your way to having a wonderful holiday season*.

*Yes, even if you failed all your finals, despise your family members, dread holiday parties, are allergic to chocolate, and your cat just died.

Vintage Subway Tea Party

2009-12-13T08:16:00.000-08:00

Is it possible to travel back in history 700 years for just two dollars and twenty five cents? Just ask the attendees of Levys' Family's (NY's first family tour guides, apparently) (not officially sanctioned) vintage tea party they threw on a 1930s V train. Given the wicker chairs, whirling ceiling fans, jerking slow speed and flickering lights of the train plus the old time live jazz band that played, and the ever so well dressed (in various mashes of decades and eras and to various degrees of elaborate) riders, the atmosphere was nearly authentic.

As riders struggled with balancing cameras, plates of cookies and tea and gripping railings, delighted in the stares of unsuspecting normal train riders unaware of the time traveling shenanigans, as usual, I marvel at the adventures of New York and the romance of bow ties and top hats. Then, as the train lurches forward and I nearly spill my tea and drop my precious DSLR in my air constraining corset and with the discomfort of garter straps cutting into my thighs, I'm somewhat glad this sort of time traveling is temporary make believe. Really, really, wonderful make believe.

The Elusive Intellectual

2009-12-08T04:49:00.000-08:00

In NYU's infamous Writing the Essay class Freshman year, I wrote my final paper on the genius that is David Foster Wallace [1]. I don't remember much of the paper, only that it was over eight pages and received quite a good grade--especially for the class. I remember, mostly, the all nighters I pulled scrambling to stitch together each writing assignment, rubbing teary eyes sunken with exhaustion beneath a cheap fluorescent lamp, taking five minute naps with my head on my arms in front of the laptop, watching the hours slip away until I simply could not stay awake for another second. Alarms set for forsaken hours before the sun rose to finish assignments, and the brief but exquisite relief after turning in each assignment.

It was hardly ideal conditions for reading, especially of the sort of long, involved essays that David Foster Wallace wrote, with the weighing in of linguistic Descriptivists vs. Prescriptivists and sections and subsections dissecting the English language. I won't attempt to explain the complicated essay (but I'd encourage you to read the essay in its entirety for funny, eloquent and provoking insight in to the English language/grammar/usage/politics/general DFW brilliance), but the point is that I never did read the whole essay (even as I took out sections and footnotes that seemed relevant to fit into my paper). But today I returned to it without the delirium of sleep deprivation and the pressure of a deadline, to learn that I could appreciate Wallace's arguments and writing far, far better (and wish I could have turned back time to rewrite that particular essay, even if the end result was good).

But instead of discussing the essay, my thoughts circle back to me, myself, and I. Not that I have anything of relevance to add to the subject matter, but it was the glimpse into the fiercely academic, intellectual and critical world that Wallace offered that so seduced me.

My favorite tagline to describe myself comes from the God Help the Girl song (that I've written enough about) and tend to be one I stick in front of every online self description: "You have been warned, I'm born to be contrary." While most people are content fulfilling one or two stereotypes [2], I lust after such a scattered array of social identities and worlds that it's simply impossible to occupy every one. And the idea of the intellectual had always, always appealed to me, with its thick smoke and contemplative poses, the stacks of classic authors piled high on dark wood bookshelves, quoting philosophers with the same ease that people tend to quote favorite lyrics, long dissertations and romantic notebooks crammed full of scholarly handwriting, tweed blazers and an unnatural eloquence that flows even with an order of coffee...it's been haunting and taunting me enough with the contemplations of my future, possibilities of classes abroad, grad schools with prestige greater than NYU's privileged rich hipster-paradise reputation can offer. Reading DFW only sparked it further.

It shouldn't really matter, but in a recent chat with my creative writing teacher, she told me that I didn't have to aspire toward intellectual ideas in every short story or piece of fiction. She said I couldn't be dumb if I tried. It was something I needed to hear. She's right; my writing tends to veer in a few directions, either the case of "pretty" writing--aesthetics for aesthetics sake, senses engaged with those descriptions that create textures and scents and images like the pretty photos that accompanies them, or in exaggeration and grand ambition and vast abstracts, with intellectualism simmering beneath.

I didn't think (or maybe just didn't admit) that it was obvious, but despite my general self conscious self awareness, I'm pretty oblivious to these faults. After all, most of my followers on my inexplicably popular tumblr probably have an idea that I exist solely for the sake of pretty dresses, vintage cameras and well photographed cupcakes. And while I do adore beauty for beauty's sake, my mind simply cannot settle with simplistic ideals of cutesy crushes or a few lines of vague longing and loneliness or romanticized depression or whatever it is that a good number of Tumblrs seems to be obsessed with [3].

It's this restless striving for higher intellectualism, debates on authors and rhetoric and language, philosophy and existentialism and art and all of those higher fields on interests that hums inside of me. Single words with a few too many letters with a presence, like books with thick spines and faded antique gold titles and author names you can't pronounce. But then again...pretension (especially in writing) is despicable [4], and I love writing that is snappy and minimalistic, clever and smart without piling on layers of meaningless big words (as is too frequent in academic writing).

I suppose it's just another way of self validation, confirmation that I'm capable of discourse beyond the sort of small talk conversations driving my life. It's the romantic appeal, another set of aesthetics. It's longing for yet another niche that doesn't nestle quite right. Pulling threads from this and that to form some vague sketch of who I want to be...or, I suppose, it's just another way to sort out these thoughts, reflect on my favorite things in the world: words, letters, books, ideas.

But mostly words, and the shift they inspire, the footnotes that David Foster Wallace makes lovable even though I've always hated them, the ideas I want to exceed when I'd never even considered them before, the worlds I want to open with these clicks of the keys. I know, I write about writing too much, and this is what it's about, as always, in the end, but it can't be helped, I don't think. For my efforts spent on images or inspiration or anything of the sort, I return, always, to these words that can do so much more.

1. I also spent half the summer reading Infinite Jest--albeit without footnotes, so I suppose I didn't really read it at all.

2. Stereotypes hold such a negative connotation, but in this context simply mean "role" as in super hip electro Brooklynite or artsy photographer who lives for vintage owls or cute girl with bangs and every back issue of Lula as bible.

3. And yes, in real life, I really do wear big bows and poofy skirts/dresses and drink a lot of tea and have done/seen everything in my TILTs so no, it's not a fantasy, I just like making my life resemble fantasy as much as possible.

4. I'm probably being hypocritical, as is inevitable, as always, as I'm sure I've written self aware and overly pretentious prose plenty of time...

Things I Love Thursday

2009-12-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

+corsets (seriously I have brought three in the past few days, only one of which is around, but every time I put it on I feel ridiculously hot and it’s just so fantastic)
+this bizarre out of season warm (but windy) day—makes walking that much more lovely
+because somehow I really needed to hear it, “you can’t be dumb if you tried.”
+and on that note, compliments and reaffirmation and accomplishments in classes from professors
+awaiting packages
+out of nowhere long & fun if procrastination fueled conversations with my normally not-so-friendly roomies
+writing inspired bursts of ‘poetry’
+it’s the smallest thing but, spending time in coffee shops, even eavesdropping sometimes make the loveliest of evenings
+how did I almost forget this CAMERA OBSCURA CAMERA OBSCURA CAMERA OBSCURA (who were infinitely better this time live than the previous times combined)
+unbelievable cheap and unbelievably delicious literal hole-in-the-wall restaurants
+shopping as recreation—even when not buying anything
+it’s still early but, Christmas music and holiday decorations going up everywhere. <3

I know, everything sounds so materialistic, but really well 1. I spent last week being sick and in bed and now I can’t help it if all I can think about is dressing up in delightful lingerie and poofy skirts and high heels and big coats to strut down Fifth Ave and wander into department stores I can’t afford, gawking at window displays…

The quintessential New York Christmas—even though I won’t be in New York for Christmas. I’m rambling, but what has you happy and delighted this week?

Mix 2: God Help the Girl (pretty girls singing pretty songs)

2009-11-16T06:59:00.000-08:00

photo: mum, i am gay!

[Download]

Songs:
1. Jenny Owen Youngs-First Person
2. God Help The Girl-God Help The Girl
3. The Magnetic Fields-The Nun's Litany
4. Pink Martini-Je Ne Veux Pas
5. The Pipettes-Dirty Mind
6. Ida Maria-Queen of the World
7. Thao with the Get Down Stay Down-When We Swam
8. Lykke Li-Dance Dance Dance
9. Bobby Baby-Bye Bye Snow
10. Dirty Projectors-Two Doves
11. Camera Obscura-French Navy
12. Asobi Seksu-Transparence
13. Annie-I Know UR Girlfriend Hates Me
14. The Blow-Hock It
15. La Roux-Tigerlily
16. Friendly Fires-Paris (Aeroplane Remix Feat. Au Revoir Simone)

I know what you are thinking, but this is not that sort of mix. "Pretty" does not mean all pastels and soft edges, girls with big brown doe eyes in vintage floral dresses. "Pretty" does not mean writhing hands and writing love letters, hopeless optimism and sentimentality. This is not easy and simple and sugar sweet. And it is most definitely not harmless.

No. This is about a girl with complexities and aspirations you can hardly imagine. One who takes risks and smiles at the consequences. One who is at once in charge of her independence and sexuality as she is vulnerable. Shy yet aggressive. Subtle but bold. One who seeks the thrill of tottering at the edge between this and that. A girl who stays up all night waiting for a phone call and dismisses it when it does come, a hopeless romantic with a filthy mind. One with a sardonic wit and a tender sweetness. One who goes after what she wants and dismisses anything in her way. A feminist with a heart that can be melted with a single glance, a prototype with impossible to classify tendencies.

As God Help the Girl put it: you have been warned, I'm born to be contrary. And she demands your attention, in dancing bright acoustic verses and shouted choruses that stay in your head, in soft delicate cooing or catchy sassy riffs that you can dance to nonstop. In songs about desires and moments and boys and girls, with broken hearts or a pounding anticipation. In pop and beauty and dreaming of a future that hovers just ever so slightly out of reach.

As always, if you download this, please do let me know what you think.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-11-12T08:57:00.000-08:00

, originally uploaded by paper.lilies.

+acoustic indie karaoke: realizing my life long dream of singing "Stars of Track and Field" (and getting compliments from strangers on it!)
+buying darling lingerie (with ruffles and bows and garters, oh my!) on lunch break
+unlikely beautiful fall weather--and my favorite past time, reading in parks and petting puppies
+croissants & earl gray
+field trips and adventures (esp. when they're under the excuse of 'work')
+library books
+staying in bed on cold cold mornings
+making mixes (don't worry I'm making it for you too!)
+unexpected emails from people I rather like a lot
+revelations after painful obsessions
+grapes. (I know. Always.)
+chai, vodka milk cocktail (seriously best thing I've ever had.)
+(parentheticals)

Oh I know, I haven't done one of these in far too long, but don't worry, I haven't forgotten. And you shouldn't either! What makes you want to dance and sing and love this week?

Morbid Anatomy Library

2009-11-03T00:43:00.000-08:00

Death makes no sense
except to people who have passionately loved life.
- Cioran

There is something immensely beautiful about death and the grotesque. It's the quiet dignity of a still body, the tragic song of blood and bones. And everything that reminds you of your own mortality, at once stirs discomfort in the pit of your stomach and inspires a desperate worship.

Sometimes it's simply the soft fur of a taxidermic creature, eyes glazed and glassy with a body frozen forever, that provokes a silent appreciation. That's a large part of the appeal of Obscura (my favorite store of antiques and oddities store in the East Village), all the hidden treasures and histories of the past tucked beneath dark aesthetics. When I chanced upon the Morbid Anatomy Library (actually while fact checking for TimeOut), I knew I had to pay it (and my love of all things morbid) a visit.

And, cabinets of curiosities, exoskeletons and fraglile insects, human teeth and sinister dentist tools on display, books on sideshows and dead things and taxidermy--the library didn't disappoint. But maybe it's just because of my inner dark nature. Something that strives toward the bizarre and dangerous in the face of all this nonchalant loveliness.

In any case, it was welcome reminder of the sublime end we all approach. Visit the Morbid Anatomy blog for more like minded curiosities. Email morbidanatomy at gmail.com to visit the actual library in Brooklyn. Quote and further dark words of wisdom at Blind Pony books.

(And how fitting that as I write this, an email from John Sexton, NYU president informs us of the suicide of a fellow student. Talk of our imminent mortality.)

New York, I Love You (But You're Bringing Me Down)

2009-10-27T05:11:00.000-07:00

I wonder if I'm falling out of love with New York.

via

Maybe it's the man I passed while walking the same route to the same internship (it should be glamorous but how glamorous is it, really, sitting inside all day in front of an outdated Mac in too dim lighting and rereading the same blogs to alleviate boredom?) whose umbrella got scraped and broken by a postal van driving too close, and him screaming "fucking faggot!" at the driver and walking off, anger steaming from his shoulders in this miserable October rain and drenched pavement that splashes dirty rainwater that soaks into jeans and fake leather boots.

Maybe it's taking the same lines at the same times on the same days to the same stops and making the same walk through areas I've already memorized. Maybe it's feeling the same frustration as the L train chokes through its tortured route from Bedford to 1st Ave, circling the same never ending construction around Washington Square, watching the same tired performances and skate boarders and vendors pepper Union Square.

Maybe it's the oppressive roommates, 25 or 29 or 30 and living in the same Brooklyn apartment with a shitty job (waitress, bartender), still slugging through school and spending weekends at home with only the noise of her TV or a boyfriend without a job, their voices a constant terror and reason to stay in my room (or leave the place as often as possible). The fear of becoming them, their sad repetitive lives, their endless complaints and pains and same old answers to the same old questions (how are you? Good. How was your day? Long, I'm so tired).

Maybe it's Joan Didion or Meghan Daum's essays on leaving New York. Brilliant writers who described exactly how I've felt the little tidbits of New York, envisioned the same romantic future I do. Instead of Daum's 104th street apartment with the wood floors, my dream abode is on West 10th Street, with its brownstones and archway of leaves that I'd fallen in love with the very first time I walk down it, and still marvel over even after the hundreds of times down that same path.

Then there are her notes on numbers, those terrifying digits that tell the reality of debts and payments, and her little indulgences--spending money on freshcut flowers or a nice dinner, for example, because those didn't matter, in the big scheme of things, sounded dead on. And what's the point of living in New York if I don't indulge, if I don't allow myself to live the fantasy life I dream with exactly those amenities? Sure, I'm happy to skip lunch and never dry clean coats because of the cost, but not spending so much on that exquisite tea shop or a bizarre performance on a Friday night? Never.

It's not the same as only a year before, when every single trip outside meant a new adventure, and opportunity glimmered from every subway stop and little thrift store. When having a bad night meant I left my dorm at 10th and Broadway and simply headed to the West Village or the Hudson, stared at the sparkling skyline that I didn't even realize belonged to New Jersey.

When Times Square was still somewhat exotic, glamorous and each area didn't carry the full weight of its stigma, each New Yorker couldn't be pinpointed and dissected within a single glance. When I looked for time to sit in the park and feel the sense of wonder simmer through with each tourist snapping a similar photo of buildings that just began to feel familiar, when each face I recognized didn't carry a vague fear of an awkward conversation about something that shouldn't have happened, when I still spent ages simply worshiping the fact that I was here.

via

No, it's not the same at all. Now the averted eyes and buried heads in the subway are required, the quickened pace and headphones not for an illusion of a New Yorker but simply to get to the next forced destination on time. When I tell myself to spend a day exploring and waste it refreshing the same five sites online instead. When I try to force magic to exist again and listen to songs I used to live by and watch movies set in the city that should make my heart ache and instead, there is simply a dejected acceptance.

Yes, I am here. Yes, this is the life, my life, and yes everything, all the disappointment and nonstop errands and tasks and things to fix and bills to pay and calls to make and people to try to meet and befriend are the same old, the same tired old crap. I'm not ready to be cynical. Not yet, not dejected and broken--but maybe it is inevitable with this world, this city.

But then, as I walk through the wasteland that is midtown with my three dollar street umbrella with a broken handle and the rain pours around me, splashes onto my purse and the bottoms of my jeans and edges of my coat, I realize that I love the rain. I do. Not when it's humid and muggy but when it is cold and charged like this, like now, even the muted sky and the irritated New Yorkers can't take away the symphony it makes on top of my suprisingly effective umbrella.

When I pass by a splash of a shocking golden orange tree, every single leaf the same crayola brightness against buildings without history but all industry, and realize that the tree matches the exact shade of the golden rod cabs that drive past it, that single glimpse, that image burned to my mind, singing inside my lips, makes me remember. I remember why I suffer through the bureaucracy and sacrifice the ease of a normal college student for responsibility, why I cram myself into already overstuffed and overheated trains and mutter apologies to unhappy commuters and spend free moments worrying about every impending annoyance in the future.

And that is this, this feeling, this blessed euphoria perched on each raindrop and overheard conversation, this fulfillment and revelation that is painted on top of every building (elegant brownstones or industrial copies), this moment of inspiration and beauty that I can't find elsewhere. This, is New York.

So maybe. Maybe in another ten years, I will lose this, when my eyes will shut out the surprises that await, and the chains of debt and a living situation that isn't much better and a career that I like but doesn't satisfy, predictable friends and routines and no motivation to even look elsewhere. Maybe then I'll realize that maintaining the fantasy is simply too expensive. I'll pack up my bags and get ready for a life that requires a house, a car, a city that is not quite a city, a world doesn't exist solely in movies and books.

But not yet. Until then, I have this, and everything--the stories, the people, the discoveries, the misery, the tortured endless nights and disorienting mornings without sleep, the terrible parties and marvelous buildings and worlds and worlds that I can watch but not join--that accompanies it.

And you know something? I am still hopeless and utterly in love with each and every bit of it.

via

Skin Like Silk, Face Like Glass

2009-10-19T12:44:00.000-07:00

via

It's not winter but it feels like winter. Not winter from a snow globe and warm fires and soft layers but that different sort of winter. Distant, cold, tender. Winter in breaths of air frosted on windows, on fingertips and eyelashes that quiver with the wind, and the welcoming of the caress of warm air, indoors, anywhere. Fumbling for keys and misplaced pens and notebooks and adjusting this and that. But it's fall. And I know, I know, I write about it a lot, too much, but I can't help it--it's in the air, the room, the covers on my lap, the words falling from countless pairs of lips.

Lately I've been preoccupied with the idea of "pretty" writing--language for language's sake, songs for the loveliness they provoke, experiences because they match the versions played in my head. I've been dreaming in other worlds too, complex and vivid, and terrifying, most of the time, ghosts of little children and vengeance and blood spilled on board ships--it just sounds bizarre, explaining it, but in those foggy moments in between dreams and consciousness, the full potential of these dreams come alive. And I hardly want to wake up. Not waking up from nightmares, really? Yes, it is like watching the most absurd surreal horror films in my own sub conscious. And there is beauty in the morbid and terrible.

And what else. Lately I've been trying not to play the aggressor-so to speak. Letting things happen, and not worrying if they don't. Of course since picking up that approach lots of (unexpected) things have started happening. And I'm going to have to remain vague, for now, anyway. Vague and abstract. My old friends. Sing, muse, of these impossible to capture thoughts that drift, shadows fluttering across my eyelids before bed, bitter sweetness that sinks in between my lips, tinting my teeth. Sing of the burning eyes and a heart that won't stop shaking for whatever reason. Sing and sing and make it go away, like my broken headphones, my broken phone.

It's easy to forget how easily disconnected I can become, one little technical error and I'm without contacts, without constantly reachable friends. It's just a minor thing, of course, easily fixed, but it's a nice reminder. I know, this season sends most people tottering toward another's hand, fingers laced together and heads nestled on shoulders, two shapes on one bed and lips that mingle, but I think I like it just as well alone. Even without headphones, or a working cell phone. Without distractions and just this, embracing this, the dreams and the thoughts and the visions and the sensations that cling to my skin.

Dream Apartment

2009-10-15T10:22:00.000-07:00

I spent much of today looking at photos of wonderful apartments and fighting the screaming ache in my stomach for somewhere better, somewhere I could call my own. It's going to be a while yet before I can afford the apartment of my dreams, but for now, I can plan and imagine and fantasize.

It'll be an airy brownstone, with brick walls and one wall that is a bookshelf, and bookshelves underneath the stairs (the stairs will be a narrow metal spiral staircase to a rooftop with a few of a skyline!). I'd have a Rococo era couch with robin's egg blue cushions and ornate gold corners, and a glass coffee with copies of Lula and The New Yorker and strange little antiques and teacups.

There will be Christmas lights strung across each wall, and clipped in between on one side will be photos and on another side, scissors and skeleton keys will hang and when it gets really windy they'll quiver and tinkle against the brick behind. Then there would be the couche so soft you'd fall into it and never want to get up with luxurious blankets
in the softest pastels.

There'd be lots of paper lamps hanging overhead and candles that flicker from end tables and shelves. There'd be a kitchen with a display of exotic teacups and wine bottles and tall dark wood stools that surround a small square dining room table.

There'd be bedroom with a fluffy bed, all white and falling into it would be like being swallowed by clouds of cotton candy. There'd be a canopy and big windows and curtains that match, usually pulled back but sometimes closed with the light just peeking through, a silken glow. There'd be a closet and a wall that consists of mirrors and a shelf with books and journals and strange little dead creatures underneath dusty glass orbs. On the walls there'd be sparse wonderful art prints and typography posters and at the foot of the bed, curled, sleeping, there will be a darling old english sheep dog named Sebastian.

For now, I'm stuck with what I have, and it could always be worse, lots worse, so I'll make do with my mini photo wall and compact closet and comfy bed until next time.

What does your dream apartment (or house) look like?

Bring Your Hips

2009-10-07T11:02:00.000-07:00

Thao with the Get Down Stay Down-When We Swam

I'm walking, I'm walking, walking to the subway station, walking to my next class, walking with coat wrapped and scarf knotted, walking with a destination and pavement blurring beneath my steady heels. And then there is this. And I'm walking with a swing in my step, a sway in my hips, a leap in each movement of the feet, and there, my shoulders are shifting of their own accord, my body twists so and so. I'm walking and it has become dancing.

Suddenly I'm dancing under a bright sun, dancing with a smile and each step on the pavement sprouts a new golden yellow flower that spills to the sky, each breath in and exhale into pretty brilliant colors, rays that spin and dazzle. With a jerk and a nod, a wink and a shrug, I'm stepping and dancing and laughing, and oh, bring your hips to me, oh oh bring your hips to me.

How to Spend the Fall

2009-10-06T02:00:00.000-07:00

+read in a park (self explainatory and wonderful)

+go for a walk! Pick one: bring a camera and take pictures of every little detail you notice, the frayed edges of a leaf, the etching on a bench, or leave your cell phone and camera at home, and walk for the clear air on your skin, the blue sky and the trees, the call of the birds and sounds of the city.

+take a class! Since you're already involved in school and learning, you might as well take it further and tackle a few subjects not on your academic calendar that you might enjoy. How about picking up a dance class, yoga, drawing, screenprinting, cooking? There are a ton of fascinating classes in subjects you might never expect and now only will you learn something new, but chances are you'll have lots of fun and make new friends, as well.

+strengthen friendships! Be it someone you haven't talked to in a while or someone interesting you'd like to get to know better. Take a chance, invite them to lunch, or an afternoon at a museum, and remember why you wanted to befriend them in the first place.

+stylize! This is probably my favorite season to dress for, and with the variable weather you've got plenty of options when using the sidewalk as a runway. I especially love cardigans and coats with bare legs and flats/Oxfords, loose scarves in tie knots over vnecks, summer dresses with tights and a jacket--instant transformation and utter loveliness.

+shop! On that note, prep for the winter ahead and play with new ideas and habits with a few new indulgences. Be it delicate or bold new necklaces, eco-friendly and elegant notebooks with fine tipped pens (I have an affinity for Muji pens and if you can get your hands on any, the Uniball Signo or Pental Hi-C, all in .38mm), luxurious bath products and lotions that you can pamper yourself with.

+go out! Not only is the weather gorgeous, but (especially if you're in the city) this is a season abundant in events and festivities, exhibit openings or extravagant parties, film screenings and concerts a plenty. Take advantage of your energy and desire to leave the house. (I swear it's not just my internship talking: TONY has got a ton of wonderful events and things to do, New Yorkers, and I hardly want to miss any of it.)

Book Talk: The Rings of Saturn

2009-10-04T12:42:00.000-07:00

W. B. Sebald's The Rings of Saturn was another title off the book recommendation list from the fine folks at Obscura. And I can see exactly why.

I've been diving into these books blind, having never heard of them, read any reviews nor even knew what the books were about. And so, I expected this (not reading the backcover very carefully, as usual) to be a novel in the traditional sense, with a narrator and a storyline and conflict and resolution. But this, this was nothing like that. It's a bit of a travelogue, imagined and real, historical and present, delving into places of such incredible beauty and strangeness, a world that becomes too wonderful to be immersed in, histories and characters that touch and flutter. To try and name them would take away the magic, this floating sense of wonder.

Reading this on subways before class, while waiting for trains on heated platforms, it took me away to these lands, and made me never want to leave. The language is delightful, and the tone is so distinctive, I could actually hear the voice and it was one I wanted to listen to. I wanted to reread pages and passages over and over again, just in case I missed a detail. It's like a tour, narrated by Seblad, whose eye and ability to capture stories and histories is simply marvelous. Recommended? Yes. And I'm even more excited to reading the rest of the books on that precious list.

On Writing, On Blogging

2009-10-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

via

Public. Private. Real. Imagined. I'm born to be contrary.

The line resonates, and it does because it's true, because it embodies so much. I struggle, so much when it comes to this, blogging, writing, writing fiction, writing about my life, writing my life inside my head: living my life. It should all be the same thing, but it never is, never. In Personality there are countless theories, theories of identity and layers of consciousness and social perception and self motivation, there are experiments and beautiful ideas that just can't be true, absurd definitives, things that just sound about right but it certainly can't be right. Not really.

I haven't been blogging, as is inevitable when I get serious about a blog. I get excited about new projects very readily, and I attack it with enthusiasm, dedication. After a little while though, it loses its gloss, its glimmer. I forget--I get attached to everything else. Especially with blogs. God, I can't even remember ever single blog I've had, the topics, the angst, stemming from old livejournals and xangas in which I recounted useless details of my everyday life to a mp3 blog that just turned into an endless release of PR description, attempts at gaining more visitors and links and that whole vicious feed cycle. I started this blog because I wanted a change, something truer, something that was about the writing, the words, not marketing the next It artists. It's always about the writing, really. When I blog I write better. I'm writing for an audience, except, at the start, I didn't.

I wrote and wanted to keep it private. I write better when my words are displayed on an aesthetically matched site, I like seeing them, I like the idea of them, beautiful, published, complete for consumption.

And I am different when I write. I am different in different styles of writing, and I know, I have so many, I've played them all. There is the optimistic, sweet and inspiring blogger, there is the snarky pop culture/music critic observer, there is the serious, poetic and lyrical thought, there is the descriptive for the sake of descriptive, the anecdotal (turning my life into stories, my favorite thing in the whole world), the journalist, the novelist. And I can accomplish each, for myself, for an audience, for another site.

But it's only occasionally that I dare to write with truth, with emotion. In fiction, I can do it, I do it well, I do it because I speak for my characters, and they're not afraid to feel. But then there are things like this and this, and it's truer than most things, it's not about an image (or maybe it is, it always), it's not about an ideal. It's emotion that's too raw for me to admit. On the page, it's not me, it's a character, a character with my life, my sensibilities. But it's indescribable, you know? In Real Life I'm far from sentimental. Really far.

Just because it's writing does it make it not real? Just because it sounds more romantic on the page does it mean it couldn't have been as beautiful when it happened? The world is simply what we perceive it to be, isn't it?

So maybe it's a defense mechanism. Maybe the reality and disappointments of the world outside these letters makes me afraid to admit to anything. In this world I can create and maintain absolutely anything, but the world outside doesn't work exactly as I want it to. It's a never ending balancing act, and I wonder if I'll ever master it.

Perhaps, perhaps not. But it seems a bit silly to pretend that my other world, this inner world of thoughts and emotions that are far darker and deeper than my persistent optimism doesn't truly exist. And I suppose I wouldn't be a writer if I didn't lust after recognition, wouldn't be writing anything outside of a journal if I didn't hope for readers and connections. So I guess I shouldn't be so preoccupied, with what this blog should be or what I should feel. And stick with writing, my multiple personalities, and everything.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-09-17T08:42:00.000-07:00

[sorry lately i've almost forgotten i have a blog]

+resolving my horrific mosquito problem (via closing the window at night god i can't believe it took me so long)
+earl grey in the morning, orange blossom white tea at night
+making to do/plans lists and crossing things off
+the sound of chalk on blackboards, pens on paper. i think i like lectures way too much for my own good.
+speaking of which: my personality class. it's just about the most interesting lecture i've ever had
+packing satisfying lunches. who knew a sandwich could be so effective?
+reading sex blogs. seriously it's the most fascinating/wonderful thing in the world to me.
+naps, even if they are over slept. a sleep deprived laura can only take so much.
+new episodes of gossip girl, mad men, and glee. they are all so utterly brilliant.
+cute foreign people on the subway. so. so. adorable in their enthusiastic attentiveness.
+smiling at strangers. i know this should be on my list all the time but especially lately, it's more noticeable and wonderful.
+the sweetest missed connection, ever.
+omg let's hyperventilate some more because i will never get enough of FALL. WEATHER.

what about you, lovely readers? it's nearly the weekend and what little (or big) things are bringing you big big smiles?

Are Swans Deceiving Us All?

2009-09-13T07:52:00.000-07:00

via

Camera Obscura-Swans

Sometimes it's a photo, sometimes it's a song. Sometimes it's just that one line (but I'm not afraid to have an eloquent boy at my door.) It's hard to explain, exactly, just that it's a sudden reminder, shocked awake by images and senses of a world that just can't exist.

See, to describe it, capture it, is nearly impossible. But it's this song, played a hundred times, and the enthusiasm that dazzles from its opening lines, the dance and smile that it requires, but then: no surprises in the record collection, you must have thought I was someone else. As with any Camera Obscura song, sentimentalism, loss and a heart tender and offered on pretty melodies and Tracyanne's voice, that hint of mournful regret, dripping from this seemingly cheerful clash of instruments and delight. But it's not, just the song, because it never is just the song.

It's the way she sings, so you wanted to be a writer, fantastic idea, that half sweet, half mocking tease in her last words. It's the refrain: a deer, a deer, a deer, my dear. My dear. It's that world I so desperately strive for, the one captured on film, clothes that drape just right, soft slouchy cotton and faded colors, faces that mirror my own. Books in clever stacks on just right carpets, oh why can't it be real! Sitting on swings and watching trees overhead, front porches with stories that play out in front of your eyes, this unattainable notion of...what? I wish I knew. I wish I could touch it and hold it and tuck it in my pocket.

For now I'll settle for this song. And the silken pockets, soft hair and hidden smiles it reassures. Fantastic idea.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-09-10T05:26:00.000-07:00

via

+my classes! French, despite being at 8am every day (mon professeur est tres beau et de le Suède!), American Lit just reminds me of why exactly I attend university, the seemingly intellectual high ground of "literature" (spoken in a faux snobby British accent ala my animated professor), Personality is supposed to be one of the most challenging and interesting courses in the department, and my Creative Writing workshop is filled with fun people, good writers and insightful feedback.
+enthusiastic run-ins with old friends & classmates (even better if they happen to be in my class)
+museum day trips-PS1 has wonderful exhibits and the trip itself is an adventure, and even if only two floors of exhibits are open, a trip to the Guggenheim always makes me smile
+cardigan weather! (bare legs + light sweaters=♥), curled lashes and red lips (instant glamour for minimum effort!), cat hat, "twee" as a nickname, having friends with friends who are bartenders, brownstones, late nights & stomping in heels, Earl Grey and breakfast on too early mornings, art & characters so distinctively "east village," sharpie sketched portraits, cupcakes + macaroons, all you lovely folks who made it to the picnic (sorry I won't be late next time!), upcoming plans and aspirations.

Gosh, I love fall. Et vous, mon jolie lecteurs? What are you delighted about this darling season?

Book Talk: Underworld

2009-09-08T05:37:00.000-07:00

(I was reading through my old blog for one thing or another and came upon all my Book Talks, mini-book reviews of every book I'd finished, and it's such a wonderful idea that I have no idea why I stopped doing it. So here's for picking it back up again.)

It is no well kept secret that I made it through Infinite Jest this summer (although I guess it shouldn't be considered properly finishing it since I skipped the footnotes...I know, I know, but I hate flipping back and forth and I've read enough DFW footnotes to know what an ordeal/extraordinary treat that would have been and the book is still over a thousand pages sans footnotes, so I'll give them more consideration second time around, okay?) Although this was enough of an accomplishment on its own, perhaps just as much of a challenge to me was the fact that undertaking this massive reading project meant I couldn't (or at least, shouldn't) start reading new books for quite a while. And there are few things I love more than diving into a brilliant novel I've yet to discover.

This became especially painful when I paid a visit to my favorite shop in the East Village, Obscura (Antiques and Oddities) and spent a few hours chatting with the shopkeeper and a frequent visitor about favorite books and authors. They offered suggestions that filled up a few pages in my mini-Moleskin ripoff, and hearing about how marvelous all these other works were supposed to be made me itch for a new start.

I was good, though, and worked through the brilliant, dizzying epic that is Infinite Jest before I embarked on classics like Virginia Woolf's To the Lighthouse. Which, although poetic and atmospheric and much, much shorter, still didn't quite feel satisfying enough to the part of me that thirsted for reading that wasn't so impossibly dense or impossibly far fetched. That brings us to Don DeLillo's (arguable) masterpiece, Underworld.

This is a book that the regular in Obscura had hyped so much, as one of his favorite books, and given that all his other recommendations/our mutual favorites were of the most impeccable taste, plus I'd already heard much about the book, plus I'd read DeLillo before and loved it, I couldn't believe my luck when I found a paperback of its 800 something pages on one of New York's many sidewalk used book stands. I brought it home and counted down the days until I could start devouring it, even if it meant another commitment to a novel the size of two or three normal ones.

And oh, boys and girls of the jury, what a perfect commitment! If I had requested specifically a novel to get me out of the state of mind DFW+Woolf collectively set me into I couldn't have asked for a better option. DeLillo's language is beautiful, fluid, moving, with an essence that captures New York and a post-Cold War America. The beauty in the dangers and stories of the streets, squalor and glamor, I will never get that concept out of my head, garbage that sings of characters with lives in scenes, sometimes harsh and violent, sometimes tender and delicate. I do love the sense of foreboding and vague shadows, morbid obsession that clouds the novel, but I love even more (as with all novels) the awe that it inspires, in its chapters and words and sentences, thoughts that reflect my own, decades gone past brought back to life with this soft syringe of imagery and ghosts, in between lines and paragraphs and threading through the expanse of these lives.

It began with baseball, and I never thought I cared about baseball, just as I thought I'd never care about waste, or nuclear bombs, for that matter, this world so far from the one I live in now. But DeLillo reminds me that it's not so far, or maybe it is but it is real, as real as the keyboard I type on or the vaguely uncomfortable chair I sit on, as real as the clouds and sky and city outside and the people who live inside it.

It's been a while since I've been so moved with a novel, I suppose, fallen so in love with its character and ways, its silken whispers of text on paper, but I needed the refresher course. Not that DFW is not brilliant, and Woolf, too, but DeLillo hit reality in a sense that the other two couldn't. And for a hopeless daydreamer like me, perhaps that dose of reality is simply what I need most.

Sunday Love: Abby Try Again

2009-09-06T00:05:00.000-07:00

Abby captures a stunning beauty in the simplest of things. A streak of sunlight across scattered flowers, delicate fabrics and clothes in a picturesque line...her work is delightful and sweet, optimistic and charming with a timeless quality. A lovely existence that I can only dream of...check out some of her wonderful work and hear her love affair with film, her successful print shop, advice for aspiring photographers and a glimpse into the life of abbytrysagain.

When did you start taking photographs?
I've been taking photos my whole life, not necessarily good ones, but I've always been interested in journaling and documenting. I started sharing those in 2005 when I started blogging but feel like I didn't get serious about it until a few years ago.

What kind of camera(s) do you own and use?
The main camera I use is a Yashica Tl-electro I also own a bad point and shoot digital, several Polaroid cameras, a holga and some other really old medium format cameras.

You shoot film a lot, which is relatively rare to see this in this day and age. Any particular reason why you favor it? Do you ever shoot digitally and what do you think about it, in general?
I totally adore the look of film. I like holding something in my hands, I like its permanence. I love the color film produces, and I love the surprise of it. That being said-those are also the things that frustrate me about film-all the negatives to organize, the cost, the surprise etc. I've shot with a digital SLR and liked it okay, but I don't own one yet. I'm sure someday I will buy one-but for now it's not in my budget. Almost all of my cameras are from thrift shops and my main one (the yashica) cost me only about $10 or $15.

Do you think your environment influences your photographs?
Yes! I try to only shoot things that happen to me in my life. Every once in a while I will plan a shoot-but for the most part my photography is a glimpse into my life.

Speaking of influences, what are some of yours? Any favorite photographers or subjects that really inspire you?
My biggest influence is flickr. I look at flickr everyday and often go back to visit my favorites. I also post about people and things that inspire me at my new-ish blog, this is not my work. Right now I am loving Minato's stream.

How long have you been operating the prints shop? How is it working out?
My print shop has been open almost a year. I am lucky enough to say that it's worked out great. The cost of film and developing is high and since I blog almost everyday I'm sure you can imagine how it adds up. The print shop is nice way for me to keep going. I've learned some lessons about delivery confirmations and shipping internationally but the year ahead I really plan on keeping on top of that and learning from my mistakes. Overall the response has been awesome. Thanks to all the lovely souls out there....

Do you have any advice for aspiring photographers? Any for those who still shoot film?
I am hardly skilled so I don't have much technical advice to offer, but whatever you'd like to do-just do it! Bring your camera everywhere, ask friends to model for you, don't be afraid to turn your light meter off and go with your gut...you'd be surprised what can happen when you stop trying to make everything perfect.

What are some of your interests outside of photography?
I am obsessed with documentaries and non fiction literature. I don't drive so often times you'll find me going for long walks in my city, visiting new places and trying new food. I like cooking and reading about food, decorating and redecorating my house, making things from paper and hanging out with James. I adore dresses and games, and cannot get enough of radio shows like "This American Life" and "The Splendid Table".

See more of Abby's beautiful work at her flickr and blog.

Dreaming of Fall

2009-09-01T01:24:00.000-07:00

via

September! The breath of crisp cool air in the mornings, a not yet bitter gold sun, the promise of orange leaves and crunchy trails, the beginnings of wrapped sweaters and knotted scarves. Fall, one of my favorite seasons, with its promise of new beginnings and routines, classes and hurried faces, cheeks flushed and eyes bright, side stepping eager freshman, long lines for textbooks and lunches. It's a season (and month) worthy of celebration, of smiles that don't fade and bubbling anticipation. But it too is that hint of sadness, the summer slipped away between chlorine scented swimming pools, sand plastered in between toes and clinging like glitter on naked calves. Memories and long late nights, lazy days washed away with the flurry of activity that new beginnings bring.

Oh, let's remember it, summer. Those sticky hot days hiding in air conditioned coffee shops and bookstores, lunch in the shade with the occasional welcome splatter from the Washington Square fountain. Rooftops with a postcard view, long train rides and reading big books, ice clinking in countless cups of water, cold showers splashing relief. Conversations and faces that last for a starless New York night, cups of this and that translated into enthusiasm for friends I'll hardly see again. How even endless time seems like not enough, or maybe too much, episodes of long lasting TV shows counting down the hours until some other escape. Summer with its boredom and repetition, with its unexpected surprises and tinted memories..

But if you believe the spiritualists (and maybe you should), change brings energy, and I welcome energy with unabashed happiness. Imagine it, change! The switches not only in habits but moods, places and paces. Alarm clocks and schedules, weekend escapes and sleeping in, a luxury again. There's something about the start of a new school semester, despite years and years of the same new start that, still, refreshes, invigorates, inspires. To do lists crossed off and plans scribbled in. Fresh notebooks with pressed pages and the sound of ink pen tips scratching against paper. Stacks of books that encourage an academic yearning, lectures with sleep deprived classmates and impatient sighs.

I can't think of it enough. I can't wait another day (even if the break will seem sacred, necessary once things really start off). And I can't think of a better way to celebrate it than a proper picnic in the park. Oh, do join me, Central Park pond, tomorrow Wednesday the 2nd of this lovely month. Bring sweets and delights and friends and spend an evening in this beautiful weather. Come dressed up and have a decadent time. (6pm, Central Park South at 59th between 5th and 6th ave, email me if you need further info/a number to call!)

And regardless of whether you can make it, how are you spending your end of summer/start of this perfect season?

Hustle Rose

2009-08-28T05:05:00.000-07:00

All on flickr.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-08-27T05:26:00.000-07:00

+sharks!
+marvelous music--I haven't been able to stop listening to the (new) Taken By Trees, Girls or Rural Alberta Advantage.
+the Pacific! I never thought I say this but, sometimes there's nothing like spending a day at beach. Even if it does mean sand in my shoes and the frightening San Diego sun.
+baby boba--I guess this is what happens when bubble tea runs out of regular tapioca. But baby boba, aside from having an adorable name, are pretty adorable to eat/drink as well.
+long scenic bus rides
+reading in the grass-this pretty much never ever gets old
+discovering forgotten bits and pieces in my room
+time zones! Thanks to the three hour difference, I now go to bed and wake up at the most perfectly acceptable of times.
+racy conversations
+std fury-rarely does a semi educational song about stds sound so absurd and hilarious and catchy.
+these pointy yellow flats. A gift from Gigi and I've forgotten all about them until I came home. Now they might be my new favorite shoes ever. (Although I probably take pictures of them too much)

And what about you my darling readers? What's got you bubbly and smiling this week?

La Jolla

2009-08-25T01:38:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like the beauty of the Pacific...sorry East coast ocean, this is one area where you can't compare. Louise and I spend the afternoon at the beach, and her stories of her time in Europe made my heart throb to be abroad. Soon, soon!

In a dream life I'd own this adorable little vintage convertible. And perhaps have a house by the sea, a vacation house away from my time in the city.

Do You Keep a Diary?

2009-08-24T05:41:00.000-07:00

Reading old diaries. It's a become a ritual, especially on the occasions I'm infrequently home, or late nights filled with an emptiness, where nothing else seems to matter. So, I turn to the past. Retrospective and reminiscing, the silliness of an old version of myself, many old versions in colorful sizes and formats. There's the pink Juicy Couture journal, with its thick gold embossed pages holding all the secrets of my first real romance. There's the interchangeable slew of cute Asian notebooks with broken English and adorable designs. There are the trusty moleskins, with cramped writing crawling up the pages with endless aspirations, fears and stories and stories.

Stacks and stacks of notebooks (my love of stationery probably doesn't help this quick turnover rate of angsty journals) with days, months and years of life fitted inside. Each revisit of these old stories is quite a different feeling. There is relief, of course, that I'm no longer the trapped, fearful, naive girl I once was. That I'm no longer undergoing the hell that was high school, San Diego. There is a sense of bitter-sweet nostalgia. Those stories of the past meant so much at the time, after all. And then there is this inescapable fluttering sense of loss.

Like the joy that used to come with every little experience, every night spent away from home, every day in some familiar but far off destination. Or the simple happiness that rushed in after finishing a horrible school assignment, the butterflies from a glance of a crush. It was so painfully complex, but now complicated is the expected, simplicity is impossible.

Perhaps this is how it's meant to be, this evolution, this habituation, so that the little things that used to inspire blissful exhilaration now, at most, inspires a small smile, or some resigned acceptance. And always, striving for something greater, bigger, some adventure and excitement that exceeds the past, some explosive surreal dream that turns my life into another fantasy.

Someday this pile of notebooks and journals will turn into a massive box of them, pages and pages of daily life, endless pages in scrawling handwriting telling stories that I can't tell, feelings I no longer remember, faces I've long lost. For now they remind me of the incredible changes that occur in just a year, six months, a summer. And I wonder how much more can possibly happen in just a week, a month, a year.

The blank pages ahead voice their excitement.

Do you keep a journal? Read diaries of years past?

Sunday Love: keepcalmcarryon

2009-08-23T06:16:00.000-07:00

Sundays are a good day to bask in the delight of things that are ever so lovely and inspiring. Since I have a thing for themed days, every Sunday I'll feature a photographer, blog, website or project that makes me smile, and might do the same for you on in a lazy sunny afternoon. Today, the lovely work of Sophie.

More of her work on flickr.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-08-20T11:25:00.000-07:00

1. ♥ 2. ♥ 3. ♥ 4. ♥

+my overwhelming, brimming explosive optimism, mostly
+long drives and a perfect soundtrack
+frozen yogurt that taste like ice cream
+perfect weather, naturally!
+full time daydreaming that somehow becomes easier when I'm home!
+delicious fresh baked pastries from a famous bakery
+Don Delillo's Underworld--yes I know, another massive undertaking after Infinite Jest (but hey, I read a Virginia Woolf book in between!), but it is so beautiful in that squalor of New York way and absolutely brilliant.
+reminiscing about old friends and old adventures
+bliss vanilla+bergamot bubbling shower gel. gosh it is the best thing ever and smells/feels delicious

I think most of my TILT has happened in my last post, but please do share what has you happy and smiling this wonderful week. xoxo

San Diego

2009-08-19T11:27:00.000-07:00

I've forgotten, the perfect clear blue skies and streams of golden sunlight, the quiet streets and the neighbors who say "hello" when they pass by.

I've forgotten the mall, and its visitors, empty, normal, happy.

I forgot about blisters that can be fixed simply by walking home, long days stretched into books and tv and movies, walks and falling into daydreams and memories.

It's a lot easier to live in my mind back home, even in the two days that I've been here. I feel like a different person (I am!) and no longer, intimidated by snobby store clerks, or uncomfortable to lie down in the grass to read. I don't miss new york yet, but I think that is a good thing. I'm planning on a bit of exploring even while I'm here, and I think it'll be lovely (despite being told off for taking pictures of the mall's exterior because I needed a permit!!)

In the meantime, I think I might be allergic to my house and should probably try to be elsewhere. xoxo

You're Still the One Pool Where I'd Happily Drown

2009-08-18T03:52:00.000-07:00

photo via

Last night, in an aeroplane over the US, I watched the sunset soaked in the horizon stay with its painted lines of red and orange even late into the night. And when it approached California, and I could see the cities sprawled out below, lights twinkling like another set of stars, colorful and scattered and blinking, and real stars too, I've forgotten how much I missed those, silver studs in a dark sky, this surge of optimism and anticipation grew inside of me, bubbling and sizzling until it became absurd, and I was giddy with the promise of a few hours, a few days, a few weeks and months from now. This hope that felt so sure, so within reach I could taste it on my tongue, feel it in my palm, so brilliant and wonderful and unexpected I thought I'd explode.

It's a bit inexplicable, this, but wonderful. My mind is filled with all the beauty of everything, and the F U T U R E in glittering neon letters in front of me, of fall and cold cold weather (for oh oh, being stuck in my room without air conditioning, without a fan, in 93 degree weather nearly killed me, gave me headaches and dizziness and forced me to seek escape elsewhere), coats and boots and scarves and hats with big bows, of classes and reading and writing essays, yes, yes staying up late writing essays! How I miss it, how I miss the panicked skimming of assigned readings I've skipped, cups and cups of tea and music to try to get me to focus, watching the page count finally reach its end, editing and thinking and writing and thinking.

And classmates! People like minded, like me, English majors, writers, passionate intelligent kids (for I realized why I was so unhappy with my new roommates, they who are nearly thirty and content to be waitresses and bartenders, life's highlight consisting of days spent with a jobless boyfriend who lives in the house, too, their lack of ambition, of aspiration, of going places and creativity and the sort of environment that would inspire me, no, this was not it.) Making new friends and going on new adventures with these friends! And having an internship at somewhere I love (I've got an interview soon, wish me luck!) and a job, days taken up from 7am to 6pm, coming home exhausted to finish schoolwork and sleeping early (I will, I will!), and trying to make decent dinner despite it all, keeping things lovely and delightful and writing and taking pictures through it all. It overwhelms me, how excited I am for all of it, all of this.

And after that! It'll only be better. London, in the spring! The thought of it--it's nearly unfathomable but it will happen and it'll be utterly brilliant. I can't, can't wait. London in the spring and perhaps I'll spend next summer at home, writing and blogging and working to save up money so that I can spend another semester in Paris, and eventually my own apartment without unpleasant roommates and being scared of being in the same room, wonderful parties and events and oh oh oh how it fills me with joy, euphoria...

But not to get carried away. For the present, just now, it's perfect, too. This perfect weather that doesn't make me want to withdraw into an Antaractic ice cube and hide forever, this room that is so big and holds so many memories and all, all my own, discovering old rituals and noting new changes, this is strange but wonderful and I think, this time, this one time, I needed the break from New York City.

I Want Life in Every Word to the Extent That It's Absurd

2009-08-17T03:14:00.000-07:00

photo via

I don't really believe it either.

But it's true, and if you allow yourself that one moment where your cynicism hides, allow yourself a tingle of hope, an openness to try something new because, well, what's the worst thing that could happen? It's worth a try. Because, suspend disbelief for just a minute, dreams do come true.

Oh, I know, I know. It sounds ridiculous. She's out of her mind, reciting trite cliches without any idea of what reality is, the harsh ruins and disappointments and failures of it, it's not all pastels and bright light and soft dresses and cute girls with bangs. Glitz and glamor and how it is in the movies, it doesn't happen like that.

Don't I know. All the heartbreak and unexpected twists and things that did come out of a movie, but not in scripted beauty but in absurdity, and not always at all in a good way. But suspend that for a moment, won't you? Just for a moment. I know all about that just as well. But I know about this too.

This, if you will yourself to believe it. Close your eyes and feel it, whatever it is that you're desperately after. Is it a job, a boy, an escape? Can you see the skyline glittering in the distance, feel the gum studded pavements beneath your steps, the strangers and sights you'll be immersed in? Can you feel his touch on your skin, his lips against yours, the fluttering sensations of your heart, the butterfly heartbeats that encircle you, the smile that'll light up your face when you're together? Can you touch the worlds outside of this one, the dazzling terrains, the little details like footprints on the sand, the drifting of clouds in an unfamiliar sky, a foreign tongue, an exotic adventure?

photo via

You can. And if you're convinced, so so convinced that when you think of it, your inside burn with a longing, and if you let yourself wrap your lips and mind and body around that passion, that need, and turn it into knowing, knowing that it will be yours, knowing that everything you've pictured will happen. If not exactly like the way it is in your head, close enough, that you won't mind, that you'll only sit and marvel and with eyes burning you'll see it happen.

Trust me. And keep that conviction alive, when you do anything you need to make it happen. Write cover letters with your heart and not according to a formula, catch the eye of someone who strikes an impression, buy a ticket out of here, but not just that: send out these letters, and follow ups and ones after that and that to get what you want, approach the one you want, smile, say hello, I like you, buy a plane, train, bus ticket. Even just for a day. Even if it's just a fantasy.

It's a fantasy you'll soon turn into reality. And not because it's scientific or proven by psychological studies, not because this is what cheery false self-improvement books are made of, not because it sounds pretty and easy but because what do you have to lose just to try, to believe, to go after what you want. Because I've seen it happen, I've made it happen, and there is no muddled mind proclaiming help from higher powers or magical fulfillment, this is how it happens, and it is always how it happens. The surprises and breakthroughs, even the failures and disasters, it is all part of this. So give in to it, feed it, and feel alive.

And, trust me, soon it'll happen. Exactly as you imagined...but better, brighter, dazzling and dizzying and with so much wonder in its every moment you'll be marveling at the unreality of life.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-08-13T07:31:00.000-07:00

via

+Long walks. Down Broadway from Columbia (116th street) to NYU (8th street), with the glamor of NYC as it is in the movies, skyscrapers and glass buildings, tourists milling the streets in all the classic spots. Walking across the Williamsburg bridge into Manhattan, with the city approaching the whole time, the smiles of cyclists and passerbys, graffiti on the walkway, the perfect breeze, finally to the Lower East Side and a favorite cupcake shop, strawberry cheesecake cupcake and leaving hearts in the tip jar.

+Surprisingly cool, cloudy and rainy weather after the unbearable heat of the past few days, getting my first roll of film developed, the musical cooing of pigeons, the creak of metal swings, the soaked aftermath of pavement after rain, walking familiar streets in the deserted night, watching a drunken couple, the man stumbling to block a taxi in the street to propose, announcing his love to the four passerbys and the taxi driver (when the car behind it honked in frustration, to them, it was celebratory), the glow of white orbs of streetlamps in the park

+An older man in a business suit, eating a chocolate ice cream cone and throwing nuts toward squirrels, and the squirrels scrambling to bury them in piles of dirt hideaways, late night encounters in the subway, graffiti and sentiments scrawled on walls, walkways, posters, smiling at strangers (& smiles in response), ridiculous Japanese movies (has anyone seen Suicide Club?) , spending whole days away from home, people watching after shows, falling into the comfort of the bed and sheets and covers after a shower, sitting on stoops writing & watching the rain, ridiculous religious signs, making mixes again

+The promise of nearing the end of summer. I adored it, most of it, its adventures and surprises and marvels and beauty, but I'm ready for a change too. And a change will be just that. I'm flying home on Monday and by the time I return there will be hardly time before school starts again. And I am anticipating the fall like few other things.

And what is making you happy and warm (or cool in the summer heat) this week?

film

2009-08-12T00:39:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I finally got my first roll of film developed, and some of it turned out surprisingly lovely, and brought back quite a few fond memories. I really like the anticipation of a roll of film and remembering what exactly I shot, and it'll be nice to start balancing both film and digital for future endeavors. My next roll is 36 exposure, and having seen this I can probably play with subjects and framing a bit more. But even this, even now, reminds me of countless adventures in the city. And that is never a bad thing.
A few of my favorite things: birthday roses, my latest novel, and my dear, darling D40.
Once upon a time, Rachel and I had grand plans to see Shakespeare in the Park, and got up at five in the morning to wait in line. We never got the tickets, naturally, but at least we waited most of the time by the loveliest view.
From Luis, Rommie and my photoshoot. Rommie starring in trashy American Apparel ad, apparently.

A storefront somewhere down Metropolitan.
Classic east village.
Classic West 10th Street (previously)
Classic Tompkins Square Park?

Obscura might very well be my favorite store in all of the world, and if I could I would have just taken pictures in there forever, and lived there forever as well.
In fact, last time I visited I spent a good deal of time staying and chatting with the owner and a regular, about wonderful morbid books and the history of the pieces at the place. It's my Gothic oddities disturbing beauty dream come true.
And it's the scene for countless stories to come, I think.

Mix #1: Honey in the Sun

2009-08-10T06:38:00.000-07:00

Photo via

[Download]

Tracklist:
1. Lacrosse-I See a Brightness
2. Ray Rumours-Meaningless Words
3. Lavender Diamond-Here Comes One
4. Of Montreal-The Repudiated Immortals
5. Dirty Projectors-Stillness is the Move
6. God Help the Girl-If You Could Speak
7. Camera Obscura-Honey in the Sun
8. The Dodos-The Strums
9. Chris Garneau-Fireflies
10. Casey Dienel-Doctor Monroe
11. Regina Spektor-Folding Chair
12. Michael Andrews-5 on a Joyride
13. Oh No! Oh My!-Lisa, Make Love! (It's Okay!)
14. The Lucksmiths-Southernmost
15. Pulp-A Little Soul
16. Belle & Sebastian-The Stars of Track and Field

Hello, I've made a mix for you.

It's green grass fields and impossible blue skies, it's hookah and storytelling in dimly lit living rooms, books with pages eaten by travel time on trains, grass and dirt stains on knees, skirts held down against the summer wind, conversations and colors of eyes, fingertips and painted nails, blasts of air conditioning on skin, waking up at two in the afternoon and sleeping when the birds just start to sing outside, frozen cookie dough and countless cups of water with ice cubes clinking against the sides, heat clutching to skin like a lover, boredom and anticipation and restless tapping feet, clothes that stick to thirsty for air backs, sizzling gray pavement that never ends, familiarity and contempt and most of all it's the undeniable touch and whisper that it is summer.

But summer that bites back, summer that slips and slides in bruises and cuts, screens that won't flash to life and expectations denied, days that go on for too long and not falling asleep on beds that aren't quite right, coffee shops and glances and conversations that leaves a bitter aftertaste, scenes that should be zipped and sealed and sawed to pieces. Summer that beckons with a sleazy finger, a come on, a challenge, hey you, I am nearly at my end, what now?

Now this: there is nothing we can't do. There's still beauty in everything, and saxophones and honey in the sun, eyelashes that catch my sweat, weekends away, snaps and whistles, blue checky shirt and a dress, selling days we can't afford, death of a ladies' man, one, two, three four shots of happiness, I'll take care of you if you take care of me.

Please download, listen, and tell me what you think.

How Would You Describe Yourself?

2009-08-07T04:52:00.000-07:00

♥ creative ♥ beautiful ♥ delightful ♥ strong ♥ determined ♥ carefree ♥

♥ energetic ♥ inspiring ♥ kind♥ marvelous ♥ charming ♥ sassy ♥

♥ fabulous ♥ courageous ♥ dashing ♥ fantastic ♥ spontaneous ♥ willing ♥

♥ brilliant ♥ confident ♥ smart ♥ empathetic ♥ romantic ♥ assertive ♥

♥ efficient ♥ generous ♥ fearless ♥ receptive ♥ ambitious ♥ patient ♥

♥ sweet ♥ quirky ♥ trusting ♥ considerate ♥ hopeful ♥ enthusiastic ♥

♥ eccentric ♥ frivolous ♥ imaginative ♥ passionate ♥ open ♥ tender ♥

♥ versatile ♥ quick ♥ witty ♥ lovely ♥ gracious ♥ dazzling ♥

♥ incredible ♥ radiant ♥ captivating ♥ whimsical ♥ accomplished ♥ playful ♥

♥ engaging ♥ lucky ♥ alluring ♥ mercifull ♥ independent ♥ influential ♥

♥ bright ♥ blissful ♥ extravagant ♥ immaculate ♥ stylish ♥ observant ♥

♥ perceptive ♥ genius ♥ compassionate ♥ gorgeous ♥ ingenious ♥ calm ♥

♥ hip ♥ artistic ♥ innovative ♥ cheerful ♥ successful ♥ awesome ♥

♥ extraordinary ♥ powerful ♥ terrific ♥ talented ♥ eager ♥ cultured ♥

♥ wise ♥ delicate ♥ gentle ♥ fearless ♥ adorable ♥ debonair ♥ amusing ♥

♥

All of the above and absolutely amazing!

Things I Love Thursday

2009-08-06T03:50:00.000-07:00

1. ♥, 2. ♥, 3. ♥, 4. ♥

+going out dancing alone!
+green tea mochi ice cream
+cold cold showers on hot summer days
+staying up late reading in bed
+decorating & settling in my new place
+leaving origami hearts with cheerful messages on subways
+writing & passing notes with strangers
+combat boots!
+dark chocolate naked in bed
+B&H (not only do I feel like a kid in a candy store but there are actual bowls of candy everywhere!) because it is a photographer's dream come true
+stomping around in ridiculous too high heels all the time for no good reason
+decadent grocery shopping (♥ Trader Joe's)
+dinner table story telling long into the night
+getting brilliant ideas at ridiculous early hours of the morning
+making typography/lyric inspired art in my little notebook
+a cloudy day of relief from the heat after a terribly hot week!
+sweet and tiny grapes

Et toi, my loves? Bits & pieces that's making you absolutely delighted this week?

Combat Baby

2009-08-05T09:41:00.000-07:00

After reading Gala's 50 Things Every Girl Should Do in Her Life Time, most notably number 27, evolve your look & scare yourself (often!), I realized that I have been stuck in a bit of a style rut.

I mean, my love affair with all things feminine and excessive, big bows, ruffles, poofy skirts and dresses, pearls and flower headbands, floral print and pretty colors has been long established to the point where my friends are able to go into a store and point out, Laura would die over that. And anything with a bow I'm automatically inclined to want to buy (especially if it's on a headband.) I've become so at ease with this look that I'm getting a bit bored of it.

Lately, wearing my oxford stiletto platform oxfords (because, ironically, it does not irritate the painful blisters from my Ferragamos...) has helped me ease into a slightly more fierce, tough girl look. These heels have a menswear influenced vibe and the stiletto is quite femme fetale and immensely satisfying. So much so that today, on my unlikely trip to H&M today, I decided to embrace Gala's suggestion and start looking at things that I normally would never consider, like a big, heavy shiny metal necklace, or hot coral pink seamed tights, or even...the last pair of shoes I would have ever expected myself to look at: combat boots.

Yes ladies and gentlemen, after spending way too much time contemplating in the store, I decided to go for the unexpected and walked away with a pair of these. No frills or bows or dainty heels. Just rough attitude and total comfort. That, on top of the musical inclined earring set, colorful underwear, big chunky metal necklace, and coral pink tights, of course.

Okay, so maybe it's a bit questionable as to whether I'm the sort of girl who can pull off a layered ruffled Erin Fetherston dress with a pair of combat boots, but it's not about what you wear so much as how you wear it. The other side of that argument is that clothing makes the person, I known my attitude's certainly been affected by things I've worn. But either way, I wouldn't mind a bit of edge in my wardrobe or personality. After all, if lovely girls like Gala and Alix can do it and do it so well, then so can I.

What do you think? Are combat boots a comfortable and refreshing trend or better meant for the battle field? How would you wear them?

hello new apartment!

2009-08-03T07:21:00.000-07:00

I moved into my new apartment last night, and spent today getting too much groceries and setting up my room. It's lovely, and especially nice to have my clothes and jewelry somewhere visible! Plus, there is a fat, adorable squirrel who seems to live on the tree directly outside my window. I think I'll have a new friend soon, and the bright lights in here will ensure that I won't have too horrible of a time trying to read and write and take pictures.

The headband display.

Not pictured: Infinite Jest.

Left to right: Target patent leather mary-janes, newly repaired & shined Ferragamos ♥, brown patent leather oxfords, H&M stiletto platform oxfords (also with newly fixed heels!)

Have You Been Waiting for Too Long?

2009-07-31T05:20:00.000-07:00

(via)

Cale Parks-Knight Conversation

"I don't get it." She says, staring expectantly. He presses a finger to his lips.

They're sitting at the edge of the rooftop, she with her legs dangling over the edge. He sits with his knees drawn up and his feet touching the ledge, his shoes nearly grazing her hip. He tilts his head all the way back and stares at the sky. It is night but it is lighter than usual, and he can count exactly four and half stars.

"What are we waiting for?"

He doesn't reply and points up. She sighs and does the same. Her hair falls backwards and for a moment, he wonders what it'd be like if she loses her balance. But he doesn't let the thought continue, because then, then, as they stare into this sky, and the apartments around them shuffle with silent flashes of TVs and kitchen lights, they see something in the sky, something that no one else can touch, no one else can see. Her mouth opens in a silent o and he smiles so hard his face might rip apart.

From the sky a glittering spaceship, a small brilliant thing falls with a measured slow motion, a display just for them, a loose spin closer and closer. It eats the lonely half star, wraps around the others with a teasing tilt. But it's falling, and falling, towards them and for them.

He can see her hand, fingertips grazing the top of the ledge, the metallic blue nail polish, the indent from her old favorite ring on her finger. He imagines reaching out and touching it, running his guitar string callused fingers over her scar, imagines holding her hand and lacing fingers, her metallic blue against his dirty nude. He imagines the spaceship falling in front of them and falling into three words. He imagines a lot. He imagines too much.

The spaceship does fall, slower than his thoughts. She might not be breathing. It stops. It stops in front of them, directly in front of them. His heart stops. Her legs stop swinging. He thinks he might be able to touch it, if he reaches out his hand. He wants to try.

But he doesn't, and it floats closer, it's blue and yellow and gold and leaking sights and sounds like their private music box. It does a flip, it puts on a show.

"Oh my god." she breathes. His shoe touches her hip.

It swirls faster, until it becomes nothing, nothing and then a figure, a tiny robot with shiny eyes, really just a box, a shiny metal box with two shiny black eyes. But it can move, and it moves to the space between them, it totters, nearly over the edge. It bows.

And that is when he swings his legs over the edge too, and scoots closer to her, scooping the little robot onto his hand, offering it to her. She hesitates, then touches it with one hand, not the one with the ring indent. She looks at him, he smiles back. She takes it into her palm.

He reaches for her other hand. It's warm and soft, and he is surprised by how easily it slips into his, and surprised by the happiness that rushes into him when she squeezes his hand back.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-07-30T02:51:00.000-07:00

1. ♥ 2. ♥ 3. ♥ 4. ♥

+thunderstorms! Especially watching them from the safety of a room or under scaffolding, but sometimes being in them, too
+obscure family coffee shops in the East Village with cool older baristas and a perfect atmosphere
+readings books on writing in a bookstore (& being very much motivated/inspired!)
+writing fan, snarky pieces for my internship. Yay for ripping apart Cocorosie and Crystal Castles!
+giving a bag full of fruit bars to a surprised homeless man
+a present of unexpected cupcakes!
+hiding under a grove of trees in north central park as the rain pours around us
+makeout photoshoot + modeling in ridiculous, baby oil greased shoots for my friends
+finding a copy of Lula for six dollars on a stand on the street!
+meeting, as usual, the most interesting strangers with their own quirky projects
+The Game-yes the book about pickup artists by Neil Strauss. I finished it in about two days and I feel like I've learned so much. (I almost wish I was a guy so I can try out some of these techniques and watch it work, as fucked up as it might seem)
+the grass, flowers, and city bursting with life and beauty right after it rains
+finally bringing my Ferragamos and platform oxford stilettos to a shoe repair shop--now they are absolutely perfect and more comfortable than new <3!

And you? What little lovely things are making you smile wide in this last week of July?

How to Spend a Rainy Day

2009-07-29T04:10:00.000-07:00

, originally uploaded by cloudsfollower.

It's an utterly miserable day here in Brooklyn, NY, with dreadful gray muggy skies and a humidity and heat to suffocate. It's easy to get caught up in the general unfortunate state of the world and the weather and fall into an unhappy slump, but it's just as easy to embrace what the weather brings, whether by enjoying the loveliest day indoor or dancing in the rain! Here are some marvelous things to do on a rainy day:

+Make a cup of your favorite tea (or coffee) and curl up in bed with a book
+Start a project--art, writing, craft, whatever it may be. Find unexpected supplies in the house.
+Play dress up and blast your favorite electro-pop
+Watch a classic film (try Godard for guaranteed aesthetic delight)
+Find an area outdoors, under scaffolding or a hideout in a park where you can watch the rain and thunderstorm fall all around you
+Break out a bright cheery umbrella and a pair of rain boots and stomp through outside!
+Watch (and listen to) the rain drops against your window from the safety of your room
+Listen to rainy day music--be that old Elliott Smith or Crystal Castles, or just put "rain" as a keyword in iTunes and see what it brings
+Look through old photos and read old diaries
+Hide under pillows and sheets
+Learn a new language. No, really, why not start now?
+Make a list of things you want to do on a bright sunny day, and as soon as the rain stops, go out and do them!
+Reorganize your books, music, shoes and closet
+Play a board game
+Take an empty jar, head outside and catch raindrops until it's filled
+Put on some fun clothes and shoes you won't mind getting wet, and go dance outside! Get soaked and sing out your favorite songs! It'll be utterly exhilarating, I promise.

My Makeout Monday (in the rain!)

2009-07-27T11:03:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, in love with the idea of Makeout Monday and frustrated with the seeming limited supply of good kissing photos on Flickr, I put out a call for help to create a few good photos of my own. And luckily, my new friend Noah turned out to be a perfect model.

We went to North Central Park and walked around for a bit before it started raining (of course, right, it was sunny all day to start). So we hid in this little garden underneath a tree that at first provided surprisingly good shelter, then less effective when it became a downpour. We were both completely soaked by the time it stopped, but it was marvelous watching and hearing the rain fall on the water, the trees, the benches and ground. And when the sun came out again after, the park was incredibly gorgeous.

It started clouding over and looking like it might rain again after we took a few pictures, so we found scaffolding away from the park and escaped the twenty minute thunderstorm.

I do so love New York when it rains.

An Interview With...Sabino!

2009-07-25T05:26:00.000-07:00

You probably know Sabino best from his beautiful and widely loved Tumblr of the same name, but the 21-year-old photographer/blogger extraordinaire/part time law/journalism student has more to say than his impeccable taste in photographs. His numerous online projects include his Tumblr, Noquedanblogs and Recordis Photography, not to mention the beautiful photos of his own. He talks of the eternal film versus digital debate, his views toward "tumblarity" and his dreamy romance with Mon (aka Audreyhepburncomplex) in our interview.

How and when did you start becoming interested in photography?

I've always been interested in photography, bookmarking the photos I liked, going to photo exhibitions, reading about it, etc. But I never tried taking photos until I bought my first camera, a Holga, about a year ago. About a month after that some of my photos got shown on a little photography exhibition in Santiago that got me really exited on photography. Then I bought more lomo cameras just because they where cheap, until I decided to buy my very first DSLR, a Nikon D60 about 4 month ago and I have been using mostly that since then.

Film or digital (and why?)

Oh, that's a tricky question. I like shooting and enjoy seeing film photography a lot more than digital (Polaroids being my favorite). And I understand people liking film much more, saying Digital photography is not actually real photography and I also understand that there is no comparison on the quality. But probably many of the people out there don't understand that digital photography has increased not only the number of 'photographers' out there but also the quality of the photos because you can keep shooting.

Some time ago only professional photographers took good pictures. Nowadays, everyone, just like me, can take a digital camera and shoot literally hundreds and hundreds of photos and get two or three 'professional' shots, playing with camera settings in the way without knowing that much about photography. That's why we can see so many beautiful photos on Flickr lately, and I love it!

What are some of your favorite subjects to shoot?

I don't have anything in mind while holding my camera, but I think I enjoy the most taking photos of people. I love portraits and I really enjoy taking them.

So when did you get started on Tumblr? I know you've been on Tumblr long enough to see some of its changes, what do you think about some of its newer features?

I started using Tumblr in October of 2008, mostly as a bookmarking blog for photos I liked. I have a love/hate thing going on with the features. For example, I love the keyboard navigation thing that tumblr staff has come up with, and every dashboard feature in general are very welcome. But other features has been very frustrating for me, I've noticed that now we are limited -for example- to only two questions a day. That doesn't make any sense, no one should force us to blog or not blog something, we should be the ones deciding if we post an image, text, quote, link or whatever.

Tumblarity. Believe it or not, I like the idea of tumblarity because I'm a big fan of statistics in general and I think it's fair to know the popularity of your blog. But I like the idea just because I'm very interested in the internet in general and its impact as a media. The thing I hated was making tumblarity public, the popularity of your blog should always be private and you should be the only one deciding what to do with that information.

I think 'public tumblarity' is by far the worst experience I've ever had with tumblr, that includes the platform and community. I don't want to explain why in detail, but as my tumblarity was ridiculously high when the whole thing went public many people started judging me, and I received lots of negative comments about what I was doing.

So, personal question that you might not want to answer (& totally fine if you don't), but I know you and Mon have been dating for a while and I think it's the sweetest thing ever. It's kind of like The Sartorialist and Garance Dore. Anyway, I think readers would love to hear how you guys met and all that lovely stuff. How is the long distance thing working out (aside from being wonderfully romantic) and does tumblr play a part in your relationship at all?

Haha, I don't know if I should be answering this because it involves another person but I will try. We met at school, we both entered Law school and since I first saw her I thought she was the most beautiful girl of the whole school. I don't know how but we started dating very shortly after we met. Eight months later she went to study to the US and we both decided that should not be an obstacle in our relationship. And despite the difficulties and everything the long distance does to a relationship, we are still together after more than two years now. We see each other during our vacations and of course, even if this sounds stupid to some, we share a lot on the internet. Not only tumblr but thanks to all the things we have this days to communicate distances seems shorter in somehow. I know it sounds crazy, but it does help, I can promise.

What are some of your future goals as far as blogging and photography?

Of course, I have more blog ideas for the network and I will invite a few others to participate to create a nice community, oriented to everything coming from the creative world such as fashion, photography, images, design, art, illustration, etc. After that I just have to wait and see what happens.

And we can't wait to find out. Remember to check out Sabino's photos on Flickr and his other sites for more of his wonderful work.

How to Kiss a Stranger

2009-07-23T18:31:00.000-07:00

(photo via)

1. Be at the right place at the right time

For me, after a long night at a strange party uptown (where a few unexpected revelations twisted my mind and left me in a state of vague shock that stuck with me throughout the night), and talking to strangers at a hostel across the street, I finally took the long walk toward Union Square and home. Four in the morning on a New York weeknight/morning, the streets with a subdued quiet not not total silence. It was on my way across 14th that a obviously drunken stranger stopped me to ask for directions.

2. Be in the right frame of mind

Kissing a stranger had been on my list of life goals for the longest time. It's such an impossibly romantic idea: in my mind it happened like this. I'd walk down the street and catch the eye of the cute boy coming in the opposite direction. We'd smile, and in that moment there would be something, magic. Then I'd be brave and bold and stop him, say hello, grab him and kiss him, and walk away with a smile permanently fixed to my face.

When the boy started chatting with me, I was hardly surprised. After all, it'd be a surreal night/morning to start, and perhaps part of my reason for taking the longer route to the subway was this shimmering hope that something extraordinary might happen to get me out of my head. He asked me the way to Washington Square, ridiculously easy to get to from where we were, and I pointed him in the direction. He said it was his first and last night in the city. I asked him where he was from, he said Chile (!). I asked him how his time in New York was. He said amazing, he loved the city. And all the beautiful girls here, beautiful girls like myself.

3. See an opportunity, go for it

So I didn't have to do much work this time. He said he just wanted to kiss all the beautiful girls here, and asked, "Can I kiss you?" I thought of my goal, my list, how easily it just fell into place. And his last night in New York! I said yes, of course. So he grabbed me and we kissed on the sidewalk, a movie scene in hyper reality. He said he wanted to do more, and I think for the first time in my life, a total stranger asked me, straight to the point, if I wanted to fuck. Given my already discombobulated frame of mind, I laughed and couldn't believe his words, but he was serious.

And I considered it, I walked with him back to his sister's apartment by the park, in fact. My head spinning with the surrealism of all of this. And there, I realized that kissing a stranger was enough of a dream come true, another piece crossed off my list. He was cute and sweet, and even if it was his last night, I left him with the kiss, and just that. Better that way, I think, a brief memory, a capsule story, a life goal accomplishment.

Before this, there were daydreams and fantasies, boys at clubs whose names I've forgotten, brief encounters at parties, but those hardly mattered. It's funny how this came without any effort on my part, except for the ability to smile and say yes, and chat with a stranger, even at four in the morning, even with the weight of the night pressed upon me. So be brave, be bold, expect the unexpected. When it happens, it will be a movie scene. And for that briefest of moments, there will be magic.

Things I Love Thursday

2009-07-23T03:17:00.000-07:00

+late night rooftop existential conversations
+kissing a foreign stranger (finally!! And literally a stranger on the street!)
+not so late night bedroom philosophical conversations
+fancy picnics and ridiculous photoshoots in extravagant clothes
+meeting adorable new friends
+getting Virginia Woolf books from street shops and used bookstores for free or no money at all
+compliments from strangers
+baking!
+sweet emails from readers
+meeting beyonce's stylist/fabulous fashionista extraordinaire Devohn
+seeing the Dirty Projectors for free
+redesigning the blog. Much much more wonderful content to come.

Now what about you?!

t-shirt weather

2009-07-21T15:34:00.000-07:00

On Monday, Luis, Rommie and I got all dressed up finally for a picnic and photoshoot in Riverside Park, where I first met Luis, actually. We had pomegranate juice, vanilla chai tea, blackberries and strawberries and peaches and grapes (oh my!), chips and crackers, donuts and fancy pipes, and of course, we could not have had a proper picnic without a big bucket of KFC. Oh and the photoshoot that followed, of course. Playing with Luis's ring flash was so much fun, and I got to dress up in Rommie's Marie Antoniette wig and amazing pink tutu.

i can feel your heart beating under my skin

2009-06-29T09:53:00.000-07:00

, originally uploaded by y|.

When she smiled the stars danced, and sometimes I had to remind myself that I had to execute her, just like the others. We talked long into the night and she was the only one who ever laughed at anything I said. Then I realized that she laughed because she thought them jokes, and we learnt only ever to be literal. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her, so I let her laugh, and sometimes she’d reach out her small hands, her light fingers and rest them against my skin, and I’d smile, slightly, back.

I considered transferring, to another regiment, then I thought of another fifty girls with quick fingers and a waltzing, quivering sky. Then I thought of her face and the way the freckles peppered around her nose and stretched to the tip of her cheeks. When I brought it up to my captain, he looked surprised. He said they were quicker, a larger volume, but he thought I’d like it here, this was the smallest regiment because we were picked out especially to enjoy not the mass of executions but the details in each one. We took our time and perfected every single death as if it was the most delicate of watercolors, and cherished the product as much as the end. He said a transfer would be easy but to think of it, carefully

I thought about it. And then I thought of leaving her to another’s hands. And so I stayed, and each night she’d brush her finger against some part of me, and one night her lip, soft and tender and quick, a second of wetness and then a hand to cover the culprit. I smiled back but she was beginning to think, or had been thinking all along that I was on her side, an undercover sympathizer and different from the rest of them. And I was, I supposed, me and the rest of my small regiment, who took special care with each and every one of our subjects.

Too special, maybe. One evening we sat in the garden with its barren branches overhead and the cold gray concrete beneath our bare feet and watched the sun stain the sky purple and orange and red, and her finger as usual grazed toward mine, then it was her whole hand, her small precious hand curled up, laced with mine and she said, isn’t it lovely and I looked up and yes, yes it was and without thinking I wrapped my other hand around the small of her back and pulled her towards me and lingered just above her open strawberry lips. “I have to kill you, do you know that?”

Her eyes met mine. “Yes.”

“So. Why?”

“So why not?”

She grinned and bit away the frown that dragged the edge of my lips. I let her, and everything else, after that. The silk of her skin, the lust in myself that overtook us without mercy.

At dawn the order came.

I watched her turn to her side and traced my finger from the nape of her neck down the notches in her spine. She didn’t wake, but I had to wake her for our last goodbye.

Or maybe I didn’t.

I considered. Then the long silver blade came into my grasp as if carried by invisible ghosts and with its weight in me, its glisten and glow beckoning I slid it, pierced her paper skin and watched as blood seeped across the blade and her eyes opened, I met her eyes, and I’d never been able to read her, not like the others. The thought angered me, even now, I couldn’t read her eyes, and as the blade cut across her neck, and bones fell defenseless against its edge and a trickle of blood dripped from the corner of those perfect lips, I thought, this would be the last time.

But it never was.

vain, selfish & lazy

2009-06-15T14:56:00.000-07:00

Something’s missing.

Something is always missing, of course. But it shouldn’t be, it really, really shouldn’t be.

But I guess this is how it happens, this is the call of “reality.” I’m so obsessed, with this concept of reality, with these big words and ideas that don’t mean anything. Not really.

The thing is I’m always aspiring to this unattainable something and without knowing quite what it is except, it’s that moment, a flash a glance a chorus a line from a song the wind and the rain and shoes that make just the right sound and the layers and fit of a dress, a conversation that plays over and over on repeat in this broken tape deck that is my head.

And there’s something wrong even when nothing’s wrong. Because I’m obsessed and vain and selfish and lazy and that used to be one of my favorite quotes: all writers are, at their core, vain, selfish & lazy. It’s true. I can feel it in the weight of my eyelids now, a body that wants nothing more than to lie still and go through the same motions of today, tomorrow, subtle variations that don’t play to the right soundtrack and words spelled out in the air in invisible light paintings, big tipped paintbrushes soaked and bleeding into the air letters that no one will ever read.

Because it’s a front. It’s all, all a front. Always. And you probably have no idea. I’m so good at putting up fronts.

But it’s only a front if I let it be. Sometimes it’s true and I believe with every little piece of myself that this is right and this is it and there’s not the slightest doubt, or fear or regret or anything except that exhilaration in knowing, just knowing that it’s right.

Right now I don’t know. Those are powerful words, those three, I don’t know, loaded despite their simplicity, overused and ripped of their power. But not at all, for even typing them, even reading them strips away a layer of self control, will power and destiny ripped away in a repetition of a trite easy way out. I don’t know.

My god, no more of this. No more of this uncertain cry for something more, just fucking do something. Like that moment earlier this afternoon, watching the sudden downpour from the safety of a shoe store, and then deciding to fuck it, walk outside and in the time of those two seconds becoming horribly drenched, wet everywhere and laughing laughing as I duck into the McDonalds one door over, catching the eye of an Asian woman, disapproval evident in her empty expression but inside I’m delighted, still, for misunderstanding nature, for misunderstanding the rain but it’s just not practical then to run outside and dance in the downpour, without an umbrella but with my purse heavy with my cameras and books and technology and empty words.

No more of this grabbing at empty lines and sentiments and sentimentality. Needing “inspiration.” This isn’t about inspiration, this isn’t about waiting for the right moment or the right time but jumping into the rain wet and cold and unexpected fast in rivers on bare skin and soaking through cotton. This is impulsive and elation and freedom and the thrill and life delicious on my tongue like unexpected orange bites in dark chocolate, like green tea scented soap or silk covers against skin flushed from a shower, against unrealistic expectations and desires that clench at thin air, that should be transformed into nothing more than life and life itself.

I Know Where the Summer Goes

2009-06-06T02:58:00.000-07:00

Summer projects and ideas (because I love making lists and there's nothing quite like a blog entry in list form to remind me and keep me on track):

Big Ones:
+Read Infinite Jest
+Finish editing novel, query agents
+Learn to cook

little things:
+Photography projects (365 + 100 Strangers) as well as, maybe:
-The Housemate/Friends project: portraits of my new housemates and neighbors and friends
-Laura's Cooking Adventures project: photo diarying my attempt at learning to cook. This might fail miserably
-Use Film. Self explainatory.
-Fashion Photography project: style, make up, shoot, processing, the whole deal.
-Closet project: cataloging my favorite processions in an aesthetically pleasing matter
-Life & Adventures project: in which I attempt to do more exciting things with my life and actually bring my camera to said exciting things instead of being so caught up in the excitement that I don't take any pictures, as I usually tend to do in the past.
+Watch French movies. Both to review French and because they are quite delightful.
+Wear more makeup.
+Wear clothes I normally never wear.
+Make art
+Explore NYC. This has always been a summer project/mindset, but I've been letting convenience get in the way of it, so no more of that and yes to more embracing of the city.
+More to be added.

This is on top of internship + whatever job I'll end up having, provided that I can find one. I can think of lots more but I think this will be my basic list for now. The big ones should be quite time consuming, but necessary and rewarding. And my photography project are just brainstorming 101 to get me out of this slump. They might be fun, I might not do them. But perhaps I will do all of it, and that, ladies and gentlemen, would be quite wonderful. Too much thinking and planning now, so wish me luck and until next time.

Five Movie Marathons, Nine Times That Same Song

2009-06-05T11:31:00.000-07:00

Maybe it's just settling into the summer, but somewhere along the way I lost that restless drive that occupied most of my weekends just a few months ago. In New York, there is always a voice nagging and suggesting that I should be doing so much more, that every free night wasted marks me down a grade in the "living" scale. So, any Friday night I didn't spend at least hanging out with friends, on some sort of adventure, a party, a concert, felt like a dirty cop out. Even after an exhausting week, and a long nap, I'd feel useless without inciting something extraordinary, scrutinizing nonsense nyc and timeout new york and everything imaginable for just one thing I can motivate myself to go to.

And now--every night is a repetition of the night before, wishing for my bed lamp to be unbroken so that I can make progress with Infinite Jest, updating Tumblr and refreshing Flickr, hoping for emails, editing my novel (which is startlingly and slightly terrifying in its suggestive ability to predict the future--pieces of it sound like things taken from my life now that couldn't have possibly existed back in November, when I wrote it...), watching Weeds or some other new show online. Every night is a weekend when there's no school work, I guess. And although I had extensive plans to go on every possible adventure and exploring New York, the further I've explored has been to visit potential apartments. I tell myself that this new apartment, in Williamsburg, with five other strangers, should jump start my real summer. With my internship and now, again, a hunt for a paying job, that will start the new stage of my summer. But I'm not sure. After all, this is impossibly easy, staying on my bed with the trusty laptop and endless resources at my fingertips.

This laziness, this unmotivated repetition has carried into the realms of photography, where I'm struggling with 365 since I lack any desire to go out even with my camera. And I'm not sure how, or what will fix it. And maybe a change of environment is just what I need, or some new big challenge, something to ignite what's inside. I'd hate to waste the summer--especially this one. For now, five movie marathons, nine times that same song. I'm busy doing nothing and wasting away and not taking advantage of NYC and something has to change. So inspire me, life. Throw something big my way and let's dance.