home, sweet home

(our beautiful christmas tree)

things i love about being home:

-flannel sheets and pj's
-sheepskin slippers
-a glass of wine (or two) with dinner every night
-my mama's cooking
-fresh bread à la papa hariasz
-the rubber ducky in my shower
-driving around in the little old honda
-coffee dates with amazing people
-snuggling with my kitty
-sky and trees and open spaces
-not paying for anything
-time to read
-my papasan chair
-sleeping in (relatively speaking)
-the fireplace of course

et, la belle chose du jour:
Ohio is a snow globe today. Snowflakes were swirling madly all day, piling up one on top of the other and blanketing the bushes in front of my house. When the Christmas lights turned on, their heat and energy melted away little craters in the snowcaps-- there is a golden glow emanating from the bushes and it is beautiful. Kind of like this...

to be human

(from weheartit.com)

"A human being is a synthesis
of the infinite and the finite,
of the temporal and the eternal,
of freedom and necessity."
-Kierkegaard

can you keep a secret?

(found on weheartit.com)

I'm writing a paper about secrets...
...so I thought I'd share some of mine.

-I beatbox in the shower.
-I screen calls and I have no idea why.
-Firefighters turn me on.
-I don't wear my retainer every night (sorry mom).
-I have a crippling fear of being less than perfect.
-My favorite thing to do when I'm home alone is dance around in my underwear, making up choreography to songs from musicals.
-When I was little I shut the door on my cat's tail and the tip fell off.
-Sometimes I think about 'auditioning' for a reality show.
-Sometimes I wish I wasn't so responsible.
-'The Luckiest' by Ben Folds makes me cry every time.
-I am petrified of Hasidic Jews.
-I have really bad road rage.
-I am incredibly judgmental.
-Caffeine makes me gassy.
-I haven't actually started this paper on secrets quite yet.

-I can't stop thinking about someone that I definitely should not be thinking about.

conscious spontaneity

(found on weheartit.com)

"The Situationists pronounced a commitment to living 'a life of permanent novelty.' They were interested only in freedom and just about any means to it were justified. The creativity of everyday people, which consumer capitalism and communism had weakened but not killed, desperately needed expressing...To the Situationists, you are--everyone is--a creator of situations, a performance artist, and the performance, of course, is your life, lived in your own way."

Freedom. Tastes foreign on my tongue. Why live your life according to the standards set by others? You were blessed with a beautiful body and a capable brain, and have hopefully been surrounded by smart, inspiring people (both living and in books) and have learned enough about life thus far in order to beat your own path and beat it well.

"Debord developed some effective ways to break out of the mass-culture trance. One way was the dérive. Literally 'the drift,' the dérive was an idea borrowed from the Dadaists. The Situationists defined it is 'locomotion without a goal.' As a dériviste, you float through the city, open to whatever you come in contact with, thus exposing yourself to the whole spectrum of feelings you encounter by chance in everyday life. Openness is key. You embrace whatever you love, and in the process, you discover what it is you hate."

As Adele sings, "I ain't lost, just wandering."
Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid.

"The Situationists saw a world crushed by wasted potential. Mass mechanization, for example, was supposed to create vast stretches of leisure time in which people could create free flowing, imaginative lives for themselves. Instead people were allowing their leisure hours to be gobbled up by programmed entertainments...The Situationist solution: Take back the show. Create your own atmospheres, ambiances, and situations. Build something 'provisional and lived.'"

If only the Situationists could see us now, our leisure hours defined by programmed entertainments. Our every waking moments spent in front of glowing rectangles. Mindless entertainment in order to unwind, we say. What if your life was so fulfilling you didn't need to unwind? And why would you want something mindless, anyway? Live and learn.

"Maybe only when you're shoved into a new pattern of behavior and make the commitment not to back out--when your hand is held to the fire or you hold your own hand to the fire--do the real gains come. When the trance is interrupted, you catch a brief, tantalizing glimpse of the way life could be...Stopping the flow relies on an element of surprise. Debord called this kind of thing 'breaking the old syntax,' and replacing it with a new one. The new syntax carries the instructions for 'a whole new way of being in the world.'"

Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid.

"The American dream has devolved into exactly the kind of vacant obliviousness they talked about--a have-a-nice-day kind of happiness that close examination tends to disturb. If you keep up appearances, keep yourself diverted with new acquisitions and constant entertainments, keep yourself pharmacologized and recoil the moment you feel real life seeping in between the cracks, you'll be all right. Some dream."

That phrase: have-a-nice-day kind of happiness. It has become so impersonal, a nicety uttered without eye contact. It's become part of the routine. It's like the security guard in your building, or your favorite barista at the coffee shop: these are people you are dealing with. Real, live, breathing, thinking human beings. But do you even know their name? Vacant obliviousness. Prozac nation. Ingesting chemicals to keep the real world, with all its nuances and emotions and twists and turns, away. Why divert yourself from the utmost experience we have, life itself? Because we are all afraid. I am afraid. Don't be afraid.

"The new American dream is simply to approach life full-on, without undue fear or crippling self-censorship, pursuing joy and novelty as if tomorrow you'll be in the ground...There's no other way to discover what's at your core. This is what the new American dream is all about, and this is the kind of person the culture jammer aspires to be: someone who, to paraphrase Ray Bradbury, 'jumps off cliffs and builds his wings on the way down.'"
--quotes from "Culture Jamming," by Kalle Lasn, 1999.

winter wonderland

(from noodlepip's deviantart)

I think that, from now on, whenever I'm sad, I'm just going to go to an outdoor skating rink and watch people on the ice. I stood downtown on Friday night, watching two of my best friends skate while Christmas music blared out of the speakers behind me, and I could not keep the smile off my face. Awkward young couples holding hands, little children wobbling around the rink and holding on to the railing, graceful skaters with rosy cheeks and the wind in their hair.

So then I buckled up my skates and whizzed onto the ice myself. So happy and free.

I spent a good part of the past few days outside, and loved every minute. There is something about the wind that is so invigorating. There is something about the night sky that that just makes me dream. There is something about the sunshine that makes me instantly happier. I love crunching through leaves and fallen branches in search of a secret stairway leading down to the river.

This weekend was exactly what I needed.

merci

(starmanmike on flickr)

This year, I am thankful for:

[mama and papa hariasz]
'Nuff said, really, but I'll say some more anyway. They are my two favorite people on this planet. So smart, so humble, and always here for me, pushing me to be the best and believing in me every step of the way, even when I stop believing in myself. They are my rocks. I feel so blessed to have such intelligent, open-minded, loving parents. I mean, I always knew they were, but I think that growing into an adult has made me appreciate them from an even deeper perspective.

[my akron friends]
Crazy, really, how we can move to opposite sides of the country and see each other, on average, about two weeks (if not less!) a year, but still maintain this effortless bond. This lovely bond. My core group: my best friends. I look up to them all so much. We are so lucky.

[my new york friends]
This year has been strange, friends-wise. I was very used to having one group of friends and doing everything together; seeing the same people all the time. Now that I no longer have that, it's been really wonderful getting to know a lot of people better, and not being attached to a drama-ridden group. The world is full of beautiful, inspiring, intelligent people, and I am proud to call a lot of them my friends.

[and, in no particular order]
sunshine...red wine...the night sky...bonfires...intellectual conversations...good books...driving around aimlessly...public transportation...airplanes...student discounts...lunch specials and speedy deliverymen...two dozen roses for ten dollars...yogurt...fruit...fresh bread...cute shoes...warm socks...bear hugs...amazon's free song of the day...inspiring professors...photography and creativity and art in general...paychecks...outdoor concerts...home...pandora...clean sheets...towels out of the dryer...planet earth the show...planet earth the actual planet...and people who care enough to make a difference.

pixels

(from motleyphotos.blogspot.com via weheartit)

Pretty sure that all the readings for both my Photography and the Visual Archive class, as well as my Advertising and Society class, are making my brain explode. Thanks to all of these theories that are deconstructing the world as I know it, I no longer know how to take it all in. "It" being daily life.

Some gems I find particularly mind-blowing:

In a world where images now supercede reality, we have entered the realm of the hyperreal (thanks Baudrillard). It's difficult to tell what, exactly, reality is, now. The majority of things around us are reproductions, are fakes. We are constantly striving for authenticity, to make up for the loss of the aura.

Is there such a thing as an authentic commodity nowadays? Sure, you can develop a personal relationship with a material good, but does that make it "authentic"? Feelings are still real (I think....) so maybe some authenticity remains... But it's a secondhand reality.

Starting with the mirror stage (in Lacan's view), we recognize ourselves and begin constructing our identities based on an image. An image that is actually just reflected light. And once we realize we can manipulate our image to become something that is not our natural state, to get something we want, etc., we lose sight of our true selves.

Searching for some freedom
So intend to sing them
Songs to spark, memories
What is a man with no history?
Where am i ?
Who am i ?
What is this place?
We're just spinning in space
I will be light
-Matisyahu, I Will Be Light

let's be honest

(weheartit.com)

self-psychoanalysis
is it possible?

working things out.

really need to pick up the pieces of my mind, figure out what i want and what i don't want, stop being a flake and making empty promises, and find a passion and forget about the little things.

looking good (enough to eat?)

(photo from the nytimes blog that inspired this post)

While browsing the World Wide Web a few days ago, I came upon the New York Times' Room for Debate blog. The format is this blog is a bit of a forum: experts on a subject offer their opinions in beautifully written paragraphs. This week's subject? Japanese bento boxes. "What does the care devoted to the visual details in a packed lunch suggest about the culture? Why is such value placed on aesthetics in everyday life in Japan?"

I found this post particularly interesting because in many of my classes we've been talking about aesthetics and style and how they influence consumption. For some reason I find the Eastern aesthetic particularly appealing, in its philosophy and simplicity. There is something very poetic and pragmatic about making less look like more. I like the idea of "combining critical thinking with critical making." I like the attention paid to detail; so elaborate, and yet the end result is utmost simplicity.

Perhaps if Americans placed more importance on the aesthetics of food (and food packaging: the bento box is actually a form of fast-food delivery!) then the way we eat would change. Which is huge, really-- the way something looks has such an effect on how we consume it (consume in all its definitions: to eat, to take in, to absorb, to buy, to think about, to process, etc.)

Which is probably why I've been getting such strange and disdainful looks today. A sweatshirt AND glasses? I don't think so. Not at NYU anyway.

http://roomfordebate.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/10/19/beauty-and-the-bento-box/?scp=1&sq=bento%20box&st=cse

new york moments

(weheartit.com)

6:13 PM, Lafayette and 4th Street
My boots click darkly, with an almost militant precision, on the gum-spotted sidewalk. Black boots, black coat, black bag. So New York, especially on a cloudy day. My phone in the palm of my hand, as if I were an important person. I toss my hair back as I look behind me, trying to hail a cab uptown. I turn around, walking backwards, raising my arm in the air. A black towncar pulls over to me, offers me a set rate of fifteen dollars. I take it. I have places to be. I slide in, across the smooth soft leather seats. We sit in traffic. New York at rush hour. Being in the towncar makes me feel like an important person.

6:49 PM, 23rd Street between 7th and 8th Ave
I settle into my seat at the free screening of New York, I Love You. With the girls from my a cappella group, we are a loud, giggling bunch. Happy to see each other, in breathless anticipation for this movie that pays homage to a city we live in and breathe in and love in. Raisinets and popcorn. Nostalgia.

8:47 PM, 23rd Street and 5th Avenue
While making my way across the street, I focus on the black and white stripes of the crosswalk. Why don't I ever look up? Someone throws a glowing red, half-lit cigarette into my path, and I compose a line of a poem. It's only poetic because of the alliteration: still-smoking cigarette on city streets.

9:30 PM, 23rd Street and 3rd Avenue
Text messages, high hopes, letdowns.

10:18 PM, Underground
I wait for the 6 and stare blankly ahead, fluorescent lights casting a dim glow on the platform. Listening to my own iPod, I wonder what the others around me are listening to. The jock-type who looks like he just got done pumping iron? What if he's listening to Amadou & Mariam? Why stereotype?

10:32 PM, Lafayette and Canal Streets
The movie has gotten me thinking. Movies always make me introspective. Good ones, anyway. It is a movie about love, about human connections and relationships--with each other and with this city; a city of great possibility, opportunity, where anything can happen. But New York is also a very lonely place, especially when you are busy. I am busy, and lonely. You really have to like yourself in order to survive in New York: you spend a lot of time with yourself. You can only rely on yourself. And when you like yourself, love yourself, you have high self-confidence. Maybe that's why New Yorkers get a bad rep for walking in like they own the place. You have to think that way in order to succeed. No room for passivity.

11:13 PM, My Bedroom
I really am lonely. Where is my New York moment? You know, the one where a beautiful stranger asks you for a light on a street corner and your life is forever changed. But I guess that only happens in the movies. That's why I love movies. They make me dream.

11:24 PM, Still My Bedroom
Goodnight.

i think of you in colors that don't exist

(found on innovatorprocrastinator.blogspot.com)

I remember, when I was little, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the Sunday New York Times (sometimes on Saturday night!) just so I could flip straight to the Sunday Styles section. I remember curling up into a little ball, in a little patch of sunlight on the porch, and dreaming of one day being photographed by Bill Cunningham, of owning the beautiful things featured in the pages of the Times, of going to operas and movie screenings and being, overall, a successful, happy New Yorker. I remember reading the wedding announcements and the Vows, a section about a couple who are particularly well-known or whose love story is particularly interesting, or just plain beautiful.

I found Vows again today.

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/10/11/fashion/weddings/11VOWS.html?pagewanted=1&ref=weddings

I am a successful, happy New Yorker. I am still looking for my interesting and beautiful love story, but I have time. I knocked out two of my dreams already, and I am going to keep living them.

cast of characters

(found on weheartit.com)

I would like to devote this blog post to two people who, quite frankly, are perceived by your Average Joe as freaks. "Freak" is a slang term that, according to Dictionary.com, means "a person who has withdrawn from normal, rational behavior and activities to pursue one interest or obsession." What is normal, rational behavior though? Is being a freak the same thing as being interesting? Or does a freak go above and beyond unique and interesting, and become something almost unsettling and jarring?

I have two examples today.

The Timekeeper
There is a short little man who stands on the intersection of Washington Place and Washington Square East every day. The top of his head is bald; he has gray-brown tufts of hair exploding from his general ear region. He's pretty stocky, almost dwarf-like. He has a huge, bulbous nose, and a great big watch. He's the Timekeeper. As students rush past him to class, he yells out "Five minutes til the 9:30 class! Hurry up! Watch the traffic." He's become sort of an NYU legend.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=txvyiwRngGo

The Girl With Wings
Unfortunately, I do not have a video to share with you for this one. So let my words paint a picture. There is a young woman, tiny and frail: like a baby bird. She has jet black hair, and lines her eyes with dark eyeliner. Using this eyeliner, she draws three stars around her eyes. She has different outfits, but one recurring costume is her angel wings. She'll come in to the bar at the restaurant at which I work, have a drink, exchange air kisses with the managers, place her headphones firmly over her ears, and go out onto the street and dance. While the cars are moving, she'll dance near the curb, muscles flexing and relaxing, body swaying almost robotically. When the cars are stopped at the red light, she'll dance through the bumpers.

People either love her or they hate her. Most stop to take pictures, or videos. Others heckle her, yell, "Freak!"

I was talking about her with one of the managers the other day, and he told me a little more about who she is. She's a stockbroker, on Wall Street. A very intelligent woman, apparently. This dancing in public, this is her creative expression. This is what she does to unwind. Which complicates the definition of a freak, really.

Can one be a "freak" only some of the time?

live it up love, everyday

(from weheartit.com)

fifteen things that make me terribly happy

1. the smell of fresh ink on warm copies
2. rainbows in gasoline puddles
3. reading in the fountain
4. taking naps
5. a good, sweaty yoga class
6. toddlers in glasses
7. falling in love on the subway
8. silk scarves
9. lemon tarts
10. flirting via text message
11. big, comfortable man hugs
12. the smell of barbecue in the late summer air
13. sparkly new york sidewalks at night
14. brushing my teeth
15. making music


(inspired by the creative geniuses behind the rockstar diaries blog, at taza-and-husband.blogspot.com)

(oh, and this is not a comprehensive list at all)

=]

worth a thousand words

(from grayskymorning.tumblr.com)

"Good art makes you forget where you parked your car."
-Haley Mellin

Another post inspired by my photography class. It's so nice (and refreshing!) to finally have a class that makes me think, that inspires me to delve deeper within myself, that's informative and fun at the same time.

We had to read Roland Barthes' Camera Lucida for today. A summary, stream of consciousness style:

within photography there exists a duality, a "co-presence of two discontinuous elements," which he calls the studium and the punctum...the studium is the range of meanings that are universal to anyone and everyone...the punctum is "a cast of the dice," the private meaning; the detail that attracts and holds the spectator's gaze...the photo-self never coincides with the actual-self, creating a life of its own, and the subject photographed suffers from inauthenticity...the photograph does not necessarily so what is no longer, but only and for certain what has been...every photograph is a certificate of presence: the photograph has no future.

I have a lot of (still sketchy, only slightly explored, mostly questioning) thoughts on the subject, and I'm not really sure how to cohesively and coherently share them. Perhaps continue with this stream of consciousness motif (I take my notes in this format too...it's a little disorganized, because when I go back through my notebooks I don't necessarily understand my own thought process. But when looked at from a distance it makes me look so smart!)

Here goes:

There is a sort of nostalgia that surrounds every photograph taken, even the ones that were taken just last week, or yesterday. Photography is the act of capturing an instant of reality, a moment that will never happen again. Barthes refers to this as the "death" of a moment, but to me that's a little macabre. Rather than despairing that the moment will never occur again, I'd prefer to have the photograph as a reminder, as a memory aid. So what that the moment will never again occur? It could have been the most beautiful moment of your life. But life is full of beautiful moments. And it's better to have a photograph, I think, because the moment lives on through it.

(That wasn't exactly stream of consciousness.)

a negative has as much integrity as a painting-- the same rays of sunlight that touched the negative touched the subject...the punctum should affect: it is more about an energy, a feeling. how does this photograph make you feel? bring your own personal visual history to each new image you encounter...the only thing universal about photograhy is that it's subjective...what defines a culture is what it chooses to reproduce and archive.

It used to be that photographs showed the ultimate truth. The same rays of sunlight that touched the negative touched the subject. It was authentic, and accessible. The instant of reality captured on film could not be faked. Nowadays, with digital technology, we have no way of knowing if what we are seeing is what actually happened, or what something/someone actually looks like. I feel that this has skewed with our perceptions of reality (whatever that is, anyway), and I think it has rendered a lot of skepticism surrounding art, or advertising. Now that we can manipulate an image that used to tell it like it is (was), is there still an honest punctum when we look at a photograph? I know a punctum is inherently honest, but isn't it a little tainted if the image isn't real? What's the point of photography, then, if not to capture a slice of time? Does it just become another artistic medium?

I don't know where I'm going with this.

last sunday of summer

(from gingerlillytea's flickr page)

cloudless blue skies, perfect temperature
shopping for sweaters, socks, squash
transitioning to fall: macintosh apples too
chrysanthemums at the farmer's market
brunch on the patio & fresh-squeezed oj
remembering and laughing and looking forward

it was a good summer

bare boned and crazy

(image from mirjan.'s flickr photostream via weheartit)

Honesty. Something that is desired, and something that is feared. We are always told to speak the truth, but do we really want to hear what other people think of us? The pure, unadulterated truth? Honesty is scary. It creates vulnerability.

Honesty is unapologetic, upfront, and real. I think that a lot of the reason why some people can't handle New York City is because they are put off by how in-your-face this place is. They can't handle the truth that is loud noises, bad smells, poor people-filthy rich people-crazy people. This city is a truly global city. A little bit of everything. A little bit of everyone. I think that many people have become desensitized, and sheltered. It's like the theme song from Weeds: "Little boxes on the hillside, little boxes made of ticky tacky; little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same." Where's the real world in that?

People have become desensitized and sheltered not only in terms of their environment, but also, I think, in terms of how we interact with each other. Very few people are always honest. We tread lightly, afraid of offending, of being politically incorrect. Many people can't handle the truth, the bare bones of it all, and put up their "little boxes" in the form of anti-depressants and the like. Perhaps I am trivializing it, but I think there is some truth in the matter. Pun intended.

It's sad that honesty has become so fleeting, and elusive, because I think that honesty can also be very beautiful. When the stars are aligned (I like to imagine those fiery balls of light playing that game where the puzzle pieces are all jumbled up and you have to slide them one by one into the correct place), being honest with someone, expressing your innermost feelings, can be...well...I wouldn't really know. I imagine it's beautiful. I don't have the guts to make myself vulnerable like that. I, too, am afraid of being honest.

Maybe it's time for me to venture out of my little box made out of ticky tacky. I'll go get the mail. Sweep the sidewalk. Plant some flowers. Baby steps. And then...

Touch your lips just so I know
In your eyes, love, it glows so
I'm bare boned and crazy for you
When you come crash
Into me, baby
-Dave Matthews Band

collection of memories

(from weheartit.com)

To me, an archive is, quite simply, a collection of memories. There are many different types of archives, categorized by the location in which these memories are kept. It can be a diary, a photo album, a memory box...it can simply be the mind.

I've always been terrible at collecting and storing memories. I'm not one of those people who write faithfully in their blog to chronicle their quotidian events. I've tried, sometimes with moderate success. Every day in 8th grade I'd write in my calendar interesting things that happened on a certain date: "Sat next to (insert latest crush here) at the basketball game :) Had stew for dinner. Gross." I've also tried, and failed. In high school, for an art project, I made a memory box, and put a lot of mementos from the beginning of senior year in it. But I left that memory box in the studio--my attempts to contain time actually made time fly away from me.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised. One usually thinks of 'archives' in the grandiose historical sense, as in, the National Archives, et cetera et cetera. That kind of archiving takes a lot of research and a lot of discipline. Discipline is something that I am lacking in. So, for this project, I decided to start small. I decided to archive one day: Wednesday, to be precise.

I archived Wednesday in two ways, which I think makes the collection of memories more comprehensive and complete. I purchased a disposable camera and snapped away throughout the day, capturing interesting sights on my way to campus, chronicling the way the sky looked at a certain point in the day, etc. There are limitations to photographs, however. The quality of the camera. The absence of smells, sounds, movement. But a visual representation is often better than just words themselves. For that reason, I added captions to my photographs (PostSecret style) to help me remember why I took that photo in the first place.

These photos are not a complete archive, though. I'm not sure an archive can be called an archive until the memories are in a place of their own. That being said, my second method of archiving Wednesday provides just that for the memories. I taped food wrappers, receipts, flyers I picked up on the streets, as well as my daily crossword puzzle attempt (which was an epic fail by the way) to the Wednesday, September 9 2009 box in my planner.

It was difficult to remember to keep my receipts, and I definitely got some strange looks while using the disposable camera (apparently it's an ancient relic), but at the same time I was more observant of my surroundings. This project will definitely help me remember almost every detail of 09-09-09.

(Inspired by a speech I had to write for my Photography and the Visual Archive class. The assignment? "Show me what you think an archive is.")

midnight train

(from weheartit.com)

what is a journey?
a journey is not a trip
it's not a vacation
it's a process of discovery.
it's a process of self-discovery.
a journey brings us face-to-face with ourselves.
a journey shows us not only the world,
but how we fit in it.
does the person create the journey?
or does the journey create the person?
the journey is life itself.
where will life take you?

(inspiring words from a louis vuitton commercial that can be viewed here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m5xCGZuvhWI)

to print or not to print...

(from audreyhepburncomplex.tumblr.com)

...that is the question.

I like to call myself an amateur photographer. I enjoy taking pictures, playing around with cameras, learning about angles and lighting and what makes a beautiful shot. But that's exactly it: I like to take beautiful, interesting pictures. Most of us do.

I cannot imagine being a photojournalist working, for example, in Afghanistan. That is a dimension of photography that, quite frankly, frightens me. I really admire those who will do anything for an important, inspiring, even controversial shot.

In the New York Times the other day, a post on the Lens blog (photography, video and visual journalism) really caught my eye. A photo taken for the Associated Press which shows a mortally wounded corporal in Afghanistan is the cause for debate in journalistic circles across the country. Does one respect the wishes of the family, who really doesn't want to see their son in his last moments of his life, in such pain? Or does one fulfill his or her promise to the public: to show things how they are?

Words from the photographer herself:

"It is necessary to be bothered from time to time. It is too easy to sit at Starbuck’s far away across the sea and read about the casualty and then move on without much of another thought about it. It’s not as easy to see an image of that casualty and not think about it. I never expect to change the world or stop war with one picture, but only hope that I make some people think beyond their comfort zones and hope that a few of them will be moved into some kind of action, be it joining a protest, or sending that care package they’ve put off for weeks, or writing that letter they keep meaning to write, or donating money to some worthy N.G.O., or just remembering to say I love you to someone at home. Something.

I believe that is why I decided to send the photo in to the N.Y. desk despite what the media rules of engagement said, to start some conversation about it and hope that it will move out there. It bothered me too much not to have at least some discussion about it. And with great respect and understanding to all the opposing arguments to publication, I feel that as journalists it is our social responsibility to record and publish such images. We have no restrictions to shoot or publish casualties from opposition forces, or even civilian casualties. Are those people less human than American or other NATO soldiers?"

-Julie Jacobson

The rest of the blog post is here:
http://lens.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/09/04/behind-13/?emc=eta1

i want to hold your hand (a poem)

(from maryruffle.tumblr.com via weheartit)

a touch of the nose
a touch of the hip
was that a physical
freudian slip?

where the heart is?

(found on weheartit.com)

Where is home? What is home? Where the heart is? Where you can dance around without pants on and be comfortable about it, as the picture above suggests?

Comfort has a lot to do with it. So does my pillow. But it'd be nice to have a more permanent home. I think a lot of the reason why I've felt so unsettled (all shook up) lately is because I haven't put down roots in one place for more than four months for so long. After freshman year, it was Ohio, Thirteenth Street, Paris, Fourth Avenue, and now Lafayette Street.

I just want a place of my own. Ohio will always be home, but I'm never there. I want somewhere that I can go to and feel comfortable. It's been so long since I've danced pants-less.

windows of opportunity

(found on vickstar's deviantart)

"To laugh is to risk appearing a fool,
To weep is to risk appearing sentimental
To reach out to another is to risk involvement,
To expose feelings is to risk exposing your true self
To place your ideas and dreams before a crowd is to risk their loss
To love is to risk not being loved in return,
To hope is to risk despair,
To try is to risk to failure.
But risks must be taken because the greatest hazard in life is to risk nothing.
The person who risks nothing, does nothing, has nothing is nothing.
He may avoid suffering and sorrow,
But he cannot learn, feel, change, grow or live.
Chained by his servitude he is a slave who has forfeited all freedom.
Only a person who risks is free.
The pessimist complains about the wind;
The optimist expects it to change...

and the realist adjusts the sails."

-William Arthur Ward, "To Risk"

paper or plastic?

(found on weheartit.com via cloughridge's flickr)

While sitting in the grocery store parking lot the other day, I got to thinking of what an interesting sociological study would come out of observing people's food-buying habits. I'm sure that someone has already done it, even multiple times. It's not my most original thought.

But think about it. The food items that people buy, for the most part, seem to determine their socio-economic status. Hostess snacks versus Pepperidge Farms, for example. Types of beers. A lot of it has to do with prices, sure, but I also think that certain kinds of food have come to define and differentiate one social group from another.

You know what's weird? The observation that inspired this blog post in the first place was parking lot demographics. It's almost like the parking lot (at Acme, anyway) resembles a high school cafeteria: different types of people park in different areas of the lot. Older people, poorer people, yuppies...each have their own area where they regularly park. And the only reason that I noticed this was that my mom decided to park in a totally different area than usual, and I found our little black Honda Civic surrounded by gigantic Escalades with flashy rims.

It probably even comes down to the ubiquitous "Paper or plastic?" Eco-conscious people will choose paper, probably. You can tell a lot about a person just by following them around the grocery store.

Now! Where's my Twinkie?

ticking clocks

(found on weheartit.com)

We don't have enough bookshelves in my house. The ones we do have are at maximum capacity, I'm pretty sure: there are books squeezed into every nook and cranny, at every possible angle. This just goes to show you how important reading is to my family; reading and knowledge. Outside the family room, though, we have the Book of all Books displayed on its own little stand. No, it's not the Bible. It's the Encyclopedia.

It's open to a different topic every time I walk past it, depending either on the whimsy of the person flipping pages, or a topic he actually was interested in, or something relevant to his (or her, I guess, women are the majority in this family) life.

Tonight, I flipped to "Machines That Measure Time."

I would like to make time go a little slower some days, and faster on others. What is time? Does it exist? It's just a human construct...right? So why can't I manipulate it the way I'd like?

loneliness is a choice

(from farruggio.tumblr.com)

Bear with me. This is going to come out really emo.

I don't know where I belong anymore. I'm kind of a vagabond, only that seems too romantic a term to call it. Being at home and hanging out with old so-called friends from high school has made me realize that I have very little in common with these people anymore. Very little or nothing in common with these people. And then I think about my college friends, and the various conclusions I've come to this summer: how difficult it is to find genuine, unselfish, intellectual but fun people. Whatever it is that I'm looking for, it's proving hard to find.

Now, these are just sweeping generalizations. I have lots of people I call friends, even best friends. But in general, right now, I am lonely. And it bugs me.

clickety-clack

(yyellowbird's photostream on flickr)

When I was little, I wanted to be a great author when I grew up. Well, actually, in kindergarten I desperately wanted to become a nurse, but that quickly changed when I found out that I'd have to deal with blood. Blood gave me the willies. Still does. (Did I really just use the word 'willies'?) Anyway, I'd mass-produce stories and wheel them around in my little red wagon, selling them for 25 cents. When I grew a little older, and got my first computer, I'd type story after story--usually about fairies, or ballerinas, or orphans (for some reason I found orphans terribly romantic). Reading these stories now, I laugh out loud at how, well, elementary and immature they are.

But what I remember best is how much I loved writing. I devoured books, and then clickety-clacked on that sticky old keyboard, trying my own hand at the craft, anticipating my own masterpiece. I had this brown corduroy hat I'd wear. I called it my Author's Hat. (Creative, I know.) I'm pretty sure I really believed that it made me write better, that it had some sort of powers that would turn me into a literary genius. I think it's because my role model at the time was Jo March: I'd picture her scribbling away madly in a garret (I'm not really sure what a garret is even today) with some sort of cap sitting askew on top of her head.

I have no idea where that hat is anymore, and if I did I don't think it would fit. But I think that once I stopped believing in the hat, I stopped believing in my writing. In fact, I stopped writing. I think I've finally figured out a relatively good replacement for that hat, though. I think it's good books.

I believe that good books make me write better, and that they have some sort of powers. Maybe not to turn me into a literary genius, but they definitely inspire a long-dormant creativity within me into action. The latest good book to light that spark? The Catcher in the Rye. (Yes, finally.) I've been clickety-clacking all night. And I love it.

searching for everything

(from redridinghood.tumblr.com via weheartit)

As usual, my summer reading list has remained relatively unread. Perhaps I just shouldn't make lists. It's nice to organize my thoughts and to give myself deadlines and to-dos, but I never follow through. Anyway, that's not the point of this entry.

The point is that I did read some books, the most recent of which is Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love. (There's no underline function on blogger. That's annoying.) To quote the back cover, "Following a divorce and a crushing depression, Gilbert set out to examine three different aspects of her nature, set against the backdrop of three different cultures: pleasure in Italy, devotion in India, and on the Indonesian island of Bali, a balance between worldly enjoyment and divine transcendence."

I guess I wanted this book to speak to me more than it did; I wanted it to apply to me perfectly, which is ludicrous, really--in no way have I experienced the loss, heartbreak, and depression that the author did. But I feel as though this summer has been one full of soul-searching, and I was hoping this book would provide me with valuable insights for figuring out myself, my place in the world, and the things I want from myself and those around me.

In some respects, it did. A few choice quotes that made me stop and think (and ask questions):

"To me, the Augusteum is like a person who's led a totally crazy life--who maybe started out as a housewife, then unexpectedly became a widow, then took up fan-dancing to make money, ended up somehow as the first female dentist in outer space, and then tried her hand at national politics--yet who has managed to hold an intact sense of herself throughout every upheaval. I look at the Augusteum, and I think that perhaps my life has not actually been so chaotic, after all. It is merely this world that is chaotic, bringing changes to us all that nobody could have anticipated. The Augusteum warns me not to get attached to any obsolete ideas about who I am, what I represent, whom I belong to, or what function I may once have intended to serve. Yesterday i might have been a glorious monument to somebody, true enough--but tomorrow I could be a fireworks depository."
So what's the point of trying to figure myself out if the person I am today is definitely not the person I'll be in a year? Why waste all this time worrying and wondering? I don't dispute that the world brings unanticipated changes to everyone, but then what's the point of even trying to make sense of it all? And why does the thought of not wanting to make sense of it all bother me so much?

"Ketut said he could answer my question with a picture. He showed me a sketch he'd made once during meditation. It was an androgynous human figure, standing up, hands clasped in prayer. But this figure had four legs, and no head. Where the head should have been, there was only a wild foliage of ferns and flowers. There was a small, smiling face drawn over the heart. 'To find the balance you want, this is what you must become. You must keep your feet grounded so firmly on the earth that it's like you have four legs, instead of two. That way, you can stay in the world. But you must stop looking at the world through your head. You must look through your heart, instead. That way, you will know God.'"
The way I understand it, Gilbert believes that "God" is actually just an energy within her, within all of us. We all have "God" in our hearts, and we can call it whatever we would like; it is just comfortable for her to call that God. But then aren't you just praying to yourself, trying to get in touch with your inner energy and balance? Isn't that kind of strange?

So instead of being enlightened, I am burdened by more and more questions. But there was a quote that I think we should all live by:

"...and when you sense a faint potentiality for happiness after such dark times you must grab onto the ankles of that happiness and not let go until it drags you face-first out of the dirt--this is not selfishness, but obligation. You were given life; it is your duty (and also your entitlement as a human being) to find something beautiful within life, no matter how slight."

faking it

(amadika's photostream on Flickr)

I'm pretty sure no one actually likes each other anymore. In general, I'm the type of person who believes that people are inherently good. I like to look for the best in people. I don't know if that's my fatal flaw, or what, but no one else seems to like anybody else.

All my friends seem to do when they get together is bitch about this person, or that person. At the restaurant? Same thing. Everybody complains about everybody else. It's getting really tiring trying to keep who-hates-who straight.

One of the managers made me laugh tonight, but it was kind of a bittersweet laugh. He just walked over to my hostess stand, got on Wikipedia, and then motioned to the page to show me how he was feeling. "Misanthropy."

Good grief.

summer lovin' happened so fast

(appletea's photo from fotolog.com)

Where did the summer go? Seriously, how is it already August? I really don't understand this whole time thing. On a day to day basis, everything feels so long. But this summer has flown by. I came to New York two months ago without anything set, and now I'm leaving with everything going for me. Promises of the potential for an amazing fall. Opportunity.

Anyway, I just want to write a little bit about some of the events of this past week. Just so I can remember them and the thoughts that they've inspired.

On Sunday I went to this huge outdoor music festival in Jersey called All Points West. After a four-hour rain delay (which I spent clad in a garbage bag laughing with my two best guy friends) I danced and swayed and let the music take over and do its thing. We saw Akron/Family, We Are Scientists, Mogwai, The Black Keys, and Coldplay. There is just something about an outdoor concert that really gets to me. Sure, I get the feeling at a regular ol' concert as well: everyone together, enjoying themselves. But outdoors, it's different, I think. There is something more raw and human about it all. And the fact that the entire park turned into what Chris Martin called a "mud jacuzzi" certainly added to that organic, natural one-ness with my surroundings. It was an epic, epic night.

Yesterday, after a much-needed yoga session, I had dinner with two of my closest friends and my landlady, who happens to be an Episcopal priest. We chopped, grated, baked, and ate. We drank wine. And we talked. We talkedtalkedtalked for a good four hours, and sitting there, being a part of this amazing conversation, was the most invigorating experience I've had in a while. There is nothing like good wine and good company. There is nothing like having an intelligent conversation with intelligent people. That is something I definitely needed, something I was definitely missing.

Last night's conversation made me think about a lot of things. How much there is I don't know, for example. How different people think in different ways. I would really like to take a history class, a politics class, a comparitive religions class. I guess I could always just read a book, but I want someone to help guide me. I want someone to lead me and prod me into thinking in ways I've never thought before.

Or can I be my own teacher? Is that possible?

love poems

(celestephotography on Flickr)

I love you without knowing how,
or when, or from where.

I love you straightforwardly,
without complexities or pride.

So I love you
because I know no other way.

-Pablo Neruda, XVII

little letters

(by Sssamantha on deviantart.com)

dear new york city,
i'm completely in love with you, but you smell sometimes.

dearest paris,
i miss you. more than i thought i would.

dear simon & garfunkel,
thank you for making my lazy sundays marvelous.

dear roommate,
please clean the bathroom, or shave your head.

hello best friend,
i'm so excited to see your new life.

dear sunshine,
keep shining. you make me so happy.
p.s. tell summer to stay.

love,
faustyna

philosophizing

"Life must be lived forward,
but can only be understood backward."
-Kierkegaard

(image found on weheartit.com)

So I'm going to pedal forward and make it a beautiful journey.

I am realizing now that I am okay with not understanding why people do what they do, with making mistakes, even with being in a constant state of change, and feeling things out. A lot of times not having things figured out and set in stone really bothers me, but it seems that's pretty much impossible. And I am okay with that. I think that as long as I think my life was beautiful, when I think about it in retrospect many years from now, I will be happy.

that's amore

At the restaurant today we had a guy propose to his longtime girlfriend. He came in earlier in the day to give us a heads up and to make a few special requests, to pay tribute to some of their inside jokes; it was all really thoughtful and super cute. And she said yes! It was also probably the most beautiful ring I've ever seen.

But the moment was ruined (for me, anyway, and we all know I am a huge sap when it comes to things like this) when immediately after they sealed the deal with a kiss, they took to their Blackberries to spread the good news. They spent the rest of their 45 minutes at the restaurant on the phone, pausing occasionally to take a celebratory sip of champagne.

Technology is changing a lot of things. It's like we can't live in the moment and savor it in our own memories, we have to let everyone and their mother know what we're up to at any given moment. Granted, I myself avidly Facebook and Tweet and all that...but I think that for something as monumental and life-changing as an engagement, or the birth of your first child, you could put down the cell phone and just enjoy being with the ones around you.

Privacy, mystery, secrecy, whatever you want to call it: everyone else can wait.

blowin' through the jasmine in my mind

I cannot believe it is July already. Summer is already halfway over, but it feels like it really just started. I mean, I guess I did have a two-week limbo period where I was still trying to figure things out and get settled. Now everything has fallen into place.

Relatively speaking, of course. Lately I've been feeling a little distant and unattached from everyone and everything, and I'm not really sure how to explain that. I think I just have a lot on my mind: I grew a lot this past semester, and I'm trying to figure out what I want my life to look like now. So I sit and observe a lot. I watch the way people interact, what they talk about, what they do. I want to know if I want to surround myself with these people, or whether I'm wasting my time.

I am so lucky, though, to be surrounded by quite a few people who do inspire me to be a better, smarter, more active person. I'm tired of drama. I'm tired of conversations consisting solely of gossip about what's-his-name. I don't need friends just for the sake of having friends; for the sake of looking popular on social networking sites. And I'm embarrassed that I ever thought that way. I feel like I've been learning a lot lately from all my observing of the people I'm around. I'm realizing what I want out of the relationships in my life. And that makes me really happy.

But now I need to stop observing so much, and actually hold up my end of the friendships. Sometimes it's intimidating; I feel like these people are so much better than me, and it's weird to be intimidated by the thought of being friends with someone. I've never felt that way before; it's always been really easy for me to make friends. People just kind of flocked to me. Actually, funny little anecdote: in fifth grade, apparently, there was a new girl in school who wanted to be friends with me, really badly. I don't remember this very well, but I guess I sent my minions, my envoys, over to talk to her to see if she was "cool" enough to hang out with. But now I actually feel like I have to work to be friends with the people I want to be friends with, and I'm very okay with that.

balancing act

I have come to the conclusion that really, when it comes down to it, all of life is just one big balancing act. Balance, at least according to Merriam-Webster, has many definitions:

It is a means of judging or deciding.
It is a counterbalancing weight, force, or influence.
It is an aesthetically pleasing integration of elements.
It is physical equilibrium.
It is also mental and emotional steadiness.
And it can be something left over.

Balance is very difficult to achieve, and sometimes people are even predisposed to be imbalanced, and so will never achieve it. But if you think about it, balance affects us in almost every aspect of our lives.

Can't eat too much junk food; it'll make you fat. But on the other hand, too many blueberries, or brussel sprouts, aren't good for you either. Balance. Can't be a workaholic, but you can't just sit around and be a bum all the time either. Balance. Can't spend all your time with just one person, no matter how much you like him or her. Chances are other people in your life will get tired of being put on the back burner. Balance. Can't spend too much time alone, but going out all the time and being surrounded by noises and people and smells all the time isn't too healthy either. Balance.

Too much of a good thing makes it not so good anymore.

summer: a work in progress

Summer came like cinnamon, so sweet.

This summer is already so much different than any other summer. What happened to the days of playing in the sprinklers in the backyard and going strawberry picking? Who am I kidding, those days were gone long ago.

I am the type of person who likes everything planned out before it happens. I probably annoy my friends with texts demanding to know what the plan is a good five hours before it happens. But this summer I'm trying something new. I bought a one-way ticket to New York City, without any concrete job/internship offers on the horizon. In short, for the past two weeks, I've been flying by the seat of my pants.

And so far, so good. Internship? Check. Job? Check. Housing? Check. And I'm having a wonderful time. As much as I complain about growing up and how scary this all is, all this responsibility, being here in New York gives me a feeling of optimism and opportunity, and it gives me energy.

I am meeting all sorts of crazy people this summer, and I think I need to write a play or something...

simple pleasures

I like taking my tea, mildly sweetened, on the front steps overlooking the fields at sunset after a summer thunderstorm.

I like waking up without an alarm clock, and rolling around under crisp white linen sheets for a good hour or so before actually getting up. Hey, I've got nothing to do today but smile.

I like giving dogs belly rubs and watching them snort with pleasure as they roll around in the grass.

I like reading good books in the sunshine for hours, floppy hat, and praying for freckles.

I love a good tomato.

i love you

So I was flipping through my phone earlier today, as I usually do when I'm bored and/or feel awkward, and I stumbled upon the templates for text messages. There are, of course, the "I'm going to be late" and "In a meeting" templates, but the last one on the list particularly floored me.

"I Love You." That's a template? Really? If you love someone you should be able to (and should want to) take the time to type that out...I mean, what is it, eight buttons to press if you're using T9? Is that too much effort if you love someone?

Who knows. Are we really too busy to stop and tell someone how we feel?

birthday

It's my twentieth birthday
& it's raining in Paris

Oh well. It's nice somewhere =]


EDIT: The sun came out!!!

highlights

This weekend...

Thursday
night:

The Pont des Arts is where Parisians, young and old (but mostly young), go on warm spring and summer nights. This bridge, for pedestrians only, turns into one big party. Everyone is picnicking, with lots and lots of wine, bien sûr, and there is music and dancing! Joie de vivre, f'sho.

Friday:

I went on a photo date by myself, and got some decent pictures for my Paris Je T'aime (60 Things I'll Miss About Paris) album. At one point I was waiting to cross the street when I was surrounded by a group of high school boys from a tour group, and was serenaded with a very lively rendition of "Manamana." I almost peed my pants laughing. I then waited in line for about an hour behind a PDA-heavy couple to see the Andy Warhol exhibit at the Grand Palais. I thought I was going to die. Friday night: Casablanca reunion, complete with couscous, thé à la menthe, and watching the movie! Here's lookin' at you, kid.

Saturday:

Although we picked a terrible day for our excursion (train maintenance resulting in ridiculous detours), Giverny was beautiful. If I was talented artistically I would definitely never want to leave Monet's home and just paintpaintpaint the days away. So many flowers! So many smells! So many colors!

Sunday:

Got up bright and early and ventured slightly outside the borders of Paris to the marché aux puces, or the flea market. Lots of antiques and knick-knacks and kooky things, like doll heads and broken clocks and crazy hats. After that I walked around Montmartre for a little bit, en profitant du soleil, and found the mur d'amour, or the love wall: a mosaic-type thing in which "I Love You" is written in every single language imaginable. I was standing there for a while, trying to find the Polish equivalent (epic fail), and had to take the picture of about five sickeningly in-love couples. And then I came home and got a hothothot baguette from the boulangerie and all was right with the world again.

I can't believe I'm leaving in four days!!

look how they shine for you

"I know nothing with any certainty,
but the sight of stars makes me dream."
-Vincent Van Gogh

One thing (among many) that Paris can lord over New York City is that one can actually see stars at night here. In New York I was constantly wishing on unseen stars. Here I can be inspired. Funny that I can feel both really tiny and really big when I look up at the stars. The star-studded sky is a vast expanse, but it is part of the universe in which I exist.

I could look at the night sky for hours and hours. I've been talking a lot about my bucket list lately, and it is my goal to learn the constellations and the stories embedded in them. I would also like to name a star. But would I ever be able to find it?

I'm excited to drink some wine on the Pont des Arts tonight and look up at the stars and dream. It's going to be lovely.