2010: the year in review

Trying to remember what experiences filled a year, all 365 days of it, is nearly impossible. I can barely remember what I did last week, let alone twelve months ago. But I guess that’s why we have journals, and planners (and, more likely, blogs and Twitters and Facebook statuses) –what we write down, we can later look back and reminisce upon. What we write down is most likely the most important stuff anyway. The problem with my blog is that I tend to write all sorts of artsy fartsy things instead of what is actually happening in my life, but despite that I have combed my various outlets of expression and have pieced together my 2010.

In January, I moved into my cozy little East Village apartment. I remember being absolutely terrified, my first night there. I was alone, on a sagging air mattress, with only the bare necessities, hearing the ominous nighttime sounds of an ancient walkup for the first time. But I made it through the night, and I have made that apartment my home. January was the month that saw the earthquake in Haiti, the death of JD Salinger, and the announcement of the iPad (insert tampon joke here). It is also the month in which, according to my Twitter, I “had a dream where I wrote out the Boom Boom Pow lyrics in magnetic poetry and danced in a safari.”

February was dreary, I’m assuming, because I can’t remember much. The Winter Olympics happened, I know, as did the Tiger Woods scandal. As for my personal life, the only thing I could glean from my digital doings was extreme excitement about snow days. In fact, I apparently wore my pajamas inside out on more than one occasion. March, like February, is blurry. Those wintry months are never all that special, to me. Perhaps I should become a bear and start hibernating through this season. Or a fish.

April was unseasonably warm, if you remember. On April 7^th, in fact, I tweeted “80 degreeeeeeees yowza.” (I have a way with words, I know). I remember forsaking my homework and instead sitting on rooftops with pretty friends, watching the city ebb and flow beneath us. April was also when I got to see Florence + The Machine in concert, one of the best live performances I’ve ever seen.

May 12, 2010: Faustyna turns twenty-one. I rang in my birthday with a small group of friends at the W Hotel in Times Square, sipping a Manhattan, of course (a not-so-tasty drink, as I learned, but being completely and utterly cliché was fun). In May, I finally (belatedly) got around to realizing that the oil spill in the Gulf was not your run-of-the-mill oil spill and voiced my outrage by boycotting BP. But then I realized that my brief protest was really quite pointless, as I only drive when I’m in Ohio. Speaking of Ohio, late May saw my arrival upon the campus of THE Ohio State University, where I was surrounded by inordinate amounts of straight men and I didn’t know how to handle it.

Summer. Ahh, summer. In June, I started my career as the marketing intern at BBC America and subsequently began to think and dream in a British accent. I spent a lot of time at the Bowery, working for and accommodating the needs of New York’s high rollers. Also obnoxious tourists. June was also the beginning of Governor’s Island Boot Camp. Every Friday morning (well, almost) found me, and a very good friend of mine, in line for the ferry that would take us to Governor’s Island, a funny yet idyllic little place five minutes from the tip of Manhattan. Free bike Fridays, oh how I miss thee! June was also the beginning of the World Cup and the reaffirmation of New York’s love affair with day drinking.

July was hot. Hot hot hot. An old childhood friend of mine was my roommate for the month, and together we’d sit in my unairconditioned apartment and do a little creative journaling. Watercolors and magazine cutouts and colored pencils. I remember restaurant week with two new and incredible friends of mine, and dreaming up screenplay ideas with them over gourmet homemade pizza. I remember discovering the greatness that is Santa Cruz Strawberry Lemonade (it was on sale at Whole Foods literally all of July). And, finally, the song that best sums up the month: “¡Yo soy español español español!”

August was also hot, but my cheap and frugal side (it exists! I swear!) refused to buy an air conditioner. I began to really enjoy going to work simply because it was cool. Er, refreshingly cold. August was the month of concerts in Central Park, and ritzy dates at hotel bars with older men. It was also the month of my retreat to the cool waters of Lake Placid. What a trip! The Adirondacks might just be my happy place.

September saw the beginning of my senior year of college. That’s really all I have to say about September, although major worldwide events such as the withdrawal of the last combat unit in Iraq and the death of the Segway owner (by riding his Segway off a cliff…) also transpired. October was more exciting, at least from what my Twitter tells me. I got to attend the centerpiece film of the New York Film Festival, which was Julie Taymor’s adaptation of The Tempest, starring, among others, Helen Mirren and Russell Brand, with whom I shmoozed on the top of the Empire Hotel after the screening. October was also the month in which I sold my soul to the CrackBerry. The month wrapped up with a road trip to our nation’s capital, where I restored sanity.

November: midterm elections. I was not a happy camper. Among my tweets of displeasure, this disturbing fact: “Meg Whitman’s personal spending on her campaign: $163 mil. Natl Endowment for the Arts 2010 budget: $161.4 mil.” I really don’t know what else happened in November, with the exception of the release of the first installment of the last Harry Potter movie—which was incredible, but made me feel really old.

December. Here we are (phew). WikiLeaks! Cleftos road trip! (I haven’t devoted any words to the Cleftos here yet…but those girls are an incredible part of my life and we have so much fun together. Hell, I got to beatbox a marriage proposal. Tell me that’s not fun.) Repeal of DADT! And Christmas. God I love Christmas.

In retrospect, 2010 was a really really (really) great year. For me, anyway. (I hope it was good for you too!) To ensure 2011 is just as good, a sampling of my New Year’s resolutions and goals:

• Graduate!
• Find a job…eek.
• No but seriously. A REAL JOB. Like a real person.
• In a less serious vein, use only reusable shopping bags.
• This is pretty important, but workout 3-4 times per week.
• Be proactive in my classes/in networking situations.
• Cook more!
• I’m going out on a limb here, but… fall in love? Granted, it doesn’t have to be with a person, I can just find a new passion or something…But ho-lee-crap do I want it to be with a person.
• Stop slouching (this one’s for you, mom).
• Pay off loans (!)
• Write more. Read more. Smile more.

Happy New Year, everyone.

all i want for christmas

Home for the holidays means entire days spent in fleece zip-ups and pants. It means sleeping til noon, eating the best food on the planet, and snuggling with pets (and parents). It also means reminiscing about holidays past.
My mom asked us about our most memorable Christmas Eves and Christmases at the dinner table. It was nice listening to my parents' stories about their lives before I came along. A lot of Christmases blur together, simply because the traditions we follow render each one the same. But there are some years that I can remember vividly.What I can't remember, however, is when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. It seems that I was around 9 or 10 when I started writing letters addressed as follows: Dear 1/2 Santa, 1/2 parents. What prompted my doubt, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps the realization that a red-suited, gray-bearded, present-bearing magic old man didn't exist was so traumatic that I have blocked it out of my memory.Regardless, my parents continued to insist that "if you don't believe, you won't receive." And thus, I continued to write my Christmas wishes to "Santa," even through middle and maybe even high school. Seriously. Even now, I still put out milk and cookies (although now it's morphed into soy milk and vegan gingerbread). Why? I'm not really sure. I think I just love the magic of Christmas.

the gemma show

Whenever I am set to work the brunch shift at the restaurant, I concentrate all my efforts, the night before, on making it rain. While I feel sorry for all of the delivery people who bring food to New Yorkers who refuse to leave their apartments, as a hostess, rainy days make my life a lot easier. Last night's rain dance... well, let's just say I'm going to have to try those moves again.

Today, from about 10:15 to 10:58, the restaurant was completely, utterly empty. Since I work at a hotel restaurant that never closes, a window of time that large--on a Sunday during peak breakfast time--in which no customers come in is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of. So what did we, the staff, do?

Why, cat-walked around the entire restaurant, of course. Oh, and did yoga in between tables. Some jumping and dancing may have been involved as well. Perhaps a push-up contest transpired. It was absolutely fantastic.

In my producing class this week, we pitched ideas for films and TV shows to each other. One group had the idea of an HBO show that takes place at a fictional New York hotel called the Soho Majestic. Brilliant. An absolutely brilliant idea. I think that the staff at the Bowery Hotel should be a model for a TV show, if we are not worthy enough of a reality show ourselves. Posh hotels are always a good subject for a TV dramedy (though I hate that word). Just this week, a swimsuit designer was mysteriously murdered and found in the bathtub of her suite at a swanky hotel in the meatpacking district. Turned out her scorned lover did it. (When is that not the case?)

But seriously. How great would that show be? Follow the lives of Massimo, the at-first abrasive and OCD maître-d' with a fiery attitude who turns out to be a big old opera-loving, bad-joke-telling softie at heart. There's Noah, the tall and lanky male model wannabe who works room service and makes a little extra money selling special brownies to the guys in the kitchen, but is quite possibly one of the friendliest people in the whole hotel. Don't forget Angelina, a beautiful hostess with a behind out to there and an attitude to match--you don't want to cross her, but if you're on her good side you're golden. Names have been changed to protect identities, and some exaggerations have been made. But still. Don't you want to know more? Don't you want to watch these people as they interact with celebrities, socialites, tourists, and the homeless people that sometimes wander in to use the bathroom?

Yes. That does indeed happen.

Season Premiere Fall 2011.

lost boys (and girls)

(from weheartit.com)

Coming home from college for Thanksgiving break is always a weird experience. It's such a short reprieve from the ins and outs of quotidian life, but sometimes a very necessary one nevertheless. Freshman year, it was incredibly exciting to fly home and compare stories with high school friends. Sophomore year, I stayed in New York and went a little stir-crazy. Junior year, it was an incredible relief to get away from the oppressive concrete and loneliness of the streets. It had been a rough semester, and going home for a little well-deserved hibernation was exactly what I needed.

It's senior year, now: the last Thanksgiving break of my college career. It's been a crazy semester-- crazy, but happy. Still, the thought of going home for these few bleak November days was the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as I stepped off of the train and into the car that would take me westward, I breathed a sigh of relief. I could relax. I was going home.

Home! What a magical place. Flannel sheets to sleep on, a fat cat to snuggle with, incredible food to eat, wonderful people to talk to. It is so nice to be able to come back to a place from which I've been absent for six months and to still be completely myself, completely comfortable. It is also nice to be able to catch up with friends that I haven't really talked to for that long, either. Those are the best kinds of friendships, I think. Each person is so driven, doing his or her own thing, and when we do get together it's a genuine interest in what goes on in the others' minds. That constant contact is not a necessary thing, because we are secure enough to realize that these people always have our back, regardless. It's beautiful.

Last night I met with two of these inspiring, beautiful people. We sat around my kitchen island, drinking Little Penguin and snacking on pumpkin bread. We just talked, and talked and talked, for nearly four hours. I remember, when I was little, looking at the adults around me and thinking to myself, "Man. They talk so much! How boring. When I'm grown up I'm still going to play with my stuffed animals and be imaginative and fun."

Jokes on me. I can't even remember the names of my stuffed animals. At my old house, my bed was cut into the wall; it was a nest in which I surrounded myself with a community of animals. And that's really what they (we?) were-- every night, I would tell them all about my day, about my hopes and dreams. They were all arranged in a specific order, and I went down the line and slept with a different animal each night. There was a bear named Mayor, his wife Nicola. A blue monkey named Swinger, who was married to a dolphin, whose name I cannot remember. I cannot remember the other animals. These animals used to be such a part of my daily life, and now I have forgotten almost everything.

"Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting," writes J.M Barrie in Peter Pan. Also known as the boy who refused to grow up. Going away means forgetting. Growing up means going away, and thus, forgetting. It's scary.

Talking with these two was reassuring, though, and inspiring. One of them has already made the transition from college life to, well, "real" life. She's moved away (far away!) from home. She has a job, working 50+ hours a week. She is living in a real house, with real people, dating real men, doing real things. By "real," I mean there is no protection, no shield to hide behind. College is definitely a sort of shield: Oh it's okay, I don't have to be responsible yet, I'm in college. Et cetera. You know how it goes. But she did it. She did it; it was hard, but she's surviving. The other one is graduating in just a few short weeks. Full of anxiety, but also full of determination to make something of herself. It was so interesting to listen to them talk about their decision-making processes and the thoughts going through their head, the emotions they experienced (or are experiencing) during the closing of another chapter. It made me feel more mentally prepared for my own chapter closing coming up in a few short months.

Growing up is funny. Life is funny.
And I am ready to turn the page.

(Sorry that was hopelessly cliché. I'm a bit rusty.)

pillow talk

from aishagabriela.tumblr.com via weheartit

I had a strange experience in bed the other day.

Please, keep reading, it's not inappropriate in the slightest.

I was lying in bed, awake at 2 AM, a victim of too much caffeine (brunch does have a negative side, it turns out). Earlier that evening, it had stormed: thunder and raindrops had been the soundtrack to my studying. As I tossed and turned, I realized the world outside was eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the bed in my East Village, New York City apartment felt like it could have been anywhere.

I closed my eyes and began composing a little poem in my head about the phenomenon that is middle-of-the-night silence (on a par with empty Sunday morning streets) but then...almost as if on cue...a car alarm went off.

I giggled to myself, and then: a thought.

Was that God?

I've never been particularly religious (and only somewhat spiritual), so this thought was very strange to me. The idea that someone or something out there had heard my thoughts and played a little joke was rather disconcerting, actually. I comforted myself with the idea that there was no way, if God were real, that He would be listening to my thoughts. Surely there were one million--even one billion!--other people whose thoughts were more important than mine at that moment and needed God's attention.

Unless He needed a break from all that work.
A laugh...

But it was probably just a coincidence anyway.

shake your bon bon

from weheartit.com

Once upon a time--third through seventh grades, to be exact--I was in love with a swivel-hipped singer named Ricky Martin. Remember him? I wanted to be the one making him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain. Figuratively speaking, of course; I was only nine years old. Who do you think I am?

I had a poster of him in my bedroom, and, if my memory serves me well, I'm fairly certain that I practiced kissing on it. Typical. His face was just so tan and...well, symmetrical. Of course, I moved on to other, slightly more real crushes, and that poster is probably crumpled up somewhere in one of the many memory boxes I have in the storage closet. Also, it turns out Ricky Martin is quite gay. Story of my life, really, but it just allowed me to move on faster since I knew that now there really was no chance we'd ever be together.

Fast forward ten years or so. One sunny September Saturday, I walk into work and who is seated at a table by the window but Señor Ricky Martin himself. A little scruffy, with mirrored aviators on, but still, unmistakably, that tan, symmetrical face. One of my childhood idols, in the flesh, mere inches away. Sitting, unaware of the flood of emotions coursing through my body. Nostalgia. Breathless anticipation. An uncontrollable urge to laugh, both at myself and at how utterly ridiculous life is sometimes.

As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said:

"Life is infinitely stranger
than anything the mind could invent."

i bet you think this song is about you

from weheartit.com

I hate to say it, but it's true. I care about what I look like. I've always cared. I've always been the one comparing myself to others to make sure I'm cool enough, stylish enough, etc. I mean, we all do that, to an extent (at least, I hope so!). We need to make sure we look appropriate for the situation, the milieu, in which we find ourselves.

But lately I have found that I am succumbing to the pressures of New York City even more, in that I literally cannot leave the house without makeup on, or in the twenty minutes I spend in front of my closet every morning trying to decide what to wear. I have become even more obsessed with my image. And you know what isn't helping? Working at the restaurant.

I work at a pretty hip place. It's a hotel restaurant. I seat people who give hundred-dollar-handshakes, and celebrities. I need to look good so I get some tips. I need to look good, because otherwise, I will be looked down upon. Everyone's always telling me I do look good, and, sadly, these compliments have become what I strive for every night. If I don't get complimented, I'm doing something wrong.

The other day we got a new hostess. Tall, lanky, a beautiful doll. I felt like a child next to her. I found myself fishing for compliments from the staff to boost my temporarily deflated ego. I literally heard myself saying those words and wanted to slap myself.

Why does what you look like have to be such an important part of social life, especially here in New York City? It's funny (not in a haha-funny way, more of an interesting/ironic funny sort of thing) how far being good-looking can get you. Tall, attractive men get promoted more often, or so studies have shown. The pretty girls are the ones that get in to exclusive bars and clubs (not that that's what I aspire to, but still). It's all about image here, and I'm really starting to resent it. I want to rise above it. All I want to do is go camping in the Adirondacks for two weeks: no makeup, lake baths, no mirrors. And I don't want to be judged.

It's strange, really. All of the staff at the restaurant tell me they like me because I'm not all about image--there's more to me than just my face. And yet I find myself becoming more and more shallow day by day, spending less time beautifying my mind and more time learning how to apply my eyeliner just-so.

I think I need a swift kick in the rear.

objects in mirror are better than they appear(ed)

(fotolog on weheartit)

I was in the Strand recently, browsing through the maze of bookshelves and relishing the smell of books old and new. I stumbled upon the poetry section, and, always wanting to be more interested in poetry than I have been in the past, I decided to take a closer look and picked up a collection of T.S. Eliot poems.

I studied Eliot in high school, closely, even; we had to be familiar with some of his work and to be able to differentiate his words and structures from his contemporaries'. I flipped through the pages and found 'The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The only thing I remembered about this poem was simply how much I had hated the fact that I had to read and analyze it.

I leaned against a pillar (fearing the bookshelves would fall like dominoes) and read the poem. "Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky." I loved it. And I got to thinking...

It's funny how we often dislike (or even hate!) something we are forced to do, but then, upon re-discovering the same thing on our own, we change our mind. Like me and poetry, for example. Or me and art museums. Me and practicing piano. Or me and arugula. I could go on.

I wonder why that is, why things that seemed so horrible while they were occurring end up being some of life's little pleasures. I think it has a lot to do with independence and choice. Choosing to read a poem, or eat a pine nut, is a lot different than being forced to do so with no other reasonable explanation other than "Because I said so."

Choices...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.S. Eliot

caffeine & introspection

from weheartit.com

Over dinner the other night, some friends and I were discussing our personalities, and the vibes we give off to outsiders. It's an interesting thing to think about. How do others perceive you? We all like to think we send certain signals, but are they read in the way we want them to be? People dress a certain way to be considered just-so, or affect certain mannerisms to appear more flirty, businesslike, what-have-you.

Anyway, Stephen came up with a metaphor to illustrate our personalities for us. The three of us are in a café in Paris. Nneka is the one surrounded by fifteen French people, despite having come alone. She is the loud, gregarious one. Everyone wants to be around her. Her laugh is infectious, her personality draws you in. Stephen is the one surrounded by fifteen friends. The Frenchies are eavesdropping on the conversation, chipping in here and there, but from afar, and for not very long. Stephen keeps his posse close, and is comfortable in any place because of the security provided by his relationships. People sense that, and don't necessarily want to intrude.

I am the one sitting alone, with a coffee, a book, and a cigarette (because this is Paris, after all, or so Stephen's metaphor goes). Apparently this is not a bad thing. Apparently everyone in the café is staring at me, wanting to talk to me, but because I look so content to be by myself, they are intimidated by my quiet but powerful aura.

I thought this was interesting. It's true that I often like being alone, even in public spaces. (And here I must mention this beautiful poem/video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7X7sZzSXYs) But sometimes being alone does make me feel insecure, which in turn makes me even more quiet. Silence is mysterious and alluring, yes, but my silence also seems to make me unapproachable. If I cannot be approached, I cannot meet all sorts of interesting people. I will not be able to share stories with you about certain experiences because I just don't have them. Because I am, too often, alone.

Sorry so personal.
Next time my post will be more interesting, I promise!

insouciance

New York City sucks the life out of you. It's a place teeming with millions of interesting and driven people, but it is also, often, a lonely and heartless place. Everyone's in it for himself. As much as I love New York, as much as it might be impossible for me to live elsewhere for a long time and be completely happy, I still believe it is important to escape the constant movement that is the city. It's important to get away for a while, reconnect with the world and with yourself, and re-appreciate the chaos of the city upon return.

Enter Lake Placid: an ideal location for such an escape. A couple of weeks ago, I packed my weekender bag with flannel shirts and bathing suits and took the train upstate. I was to be spending the weekend with my friend Caroline, who had neglected to inform me that her home was actually on an island in the middle of the lake. You can imagine my confusion when we pulled up to the marina instead of up a driveway.

That first night was beautiful; one of the clearest I've ever seen. My trip happened to coincide with the yearly Perseid's meteor shower...so you can imagine the crick in my neck the next morning from my inability to look away from the Milky Way and the hundreds of stars falling and shooting across the sky. As Van Gogh famously said, "I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of stars makes me dream."

The trip was a complete success, judged by the fact that I literally could not stop smiling the entire time I was there. I climbed a 4,000 foot mountain. I jumped into the lake. I relaxed in the front of a boat with ruddy-cheeked, preppy college boys. I road-tripped to Vermont, singing really bad songs at the top of my lungs, my hair being whipped violently by the cool breeze. I saw Grace Potter & The Nocturnals in concert, and got a bar of chocolate autographed by Grace the following morning, following a breakfast of blueberry pancakes with authentic Vermont maple syrup. I soaked up more than my fair share of beautiful views. I took a lot of photographs. I slept well. I laughed a lot.

I would love to spend two or three weeks there every summer.

rosebud;!;!;!;!;

(hidden sims player from deviantART)

This post is going to solidify my reputation as an all-out nerd, but so be it. I have accepted the fact that I am, deep down, a dweeb at heart. (Side note: are there specific nuances to the different types of nerd? Namely: nerd, dweeb, dork, geek, etc.)

Anyway, lately I have been seeing the world through the eyes of a Sim. What's that, you say? You don't know what a Sim is? What, you didn't waste away childhood afternoons in front of the computer building houses for and manipulating the lives of pixellated people?

Pixellated people, indeed. Perhaps that is all we are... but that is a topic for another (existential) blog post. What I want to write about today, specifically, is relationships.

In the computer game, you can see how well two Sims get along through a simple graphic: if there are lots of green bars, the Sims are pretty tight. If not, well, good luck trying to make your Sim happy. (At least, this is how I remember it. I haven't played that game in years. I swear.) Anyway, many times in the past few weeks I have felt as though the amount of green bars in my life has been growing exponentially. Sitting on my bed between three other girls, watching old movies and eating Chinese takeout, for example. Or at the hostess stand, talking to one of the waiters and solidifying a friendship.

Speaking of the hostess stand, sometimes I watch people seated at tables, and try to discern how many green bars in that relationship. Creepy? Perhaps. Sociological experiment? Most definitely.

My nerdiness just shot through the roof.

shave and a haircut, six bits

(frogandcrowns.tumblr.com)

I got my hair cut today. Just a trim and some layers, no big deal. Nothing crazy. What was crazy, however, was the barbershop (salon?) itself. Astor Place Hair.

The entire place is underground. I've walked past it millions of times, always curious but never daring to go in. I'd heard good things: that it's one of the cheapest haircuts in New York, that everyone there has a lot of character, etc. After examining my split ends and deciding enough was enough, I finally mustered up the courage to go down those stairs into the unknown.

What a world! It's huge! A labyrinth of mirrors and vanity cabinets. Each stylist (and there's probably at least thirty or forty of them) has personalized his or her own station. Today I got my hair cut by Rosa, whose area was painted a bright flamingo pink. Next to us was Dominick, who must only cut guys' hair, as his entire area was plastered with magazine cutouts of Justin Bieber, Zac Efron, Leonardo DiCaprio, and other male celebs with iconic hairstyles. That or Dominick has some serious crushes on these youngsters.

As I sat in the chair, a curtain of hair obstructing my view of all the action, I listened to the sounds of the business surrounding me. Dominick, your typical Brooklyn born-and-raised Italian guy, cracking jokes with whoever was getting buzzed in his chair. The Doobie Brothers warbling in the background. Sounds of blowdryers, female laughter, spray bottles. I was filled with a random burst of joy at how human this all was.

Seriously, though, can you imagine robots cutting hair in the future? (Maybe such a thing already exists, I don't know). I, for one, think that would be a disaster. Humans can listen and adjust. And say there was a technical glitch... Besides, there's something oddly comforting in this anonymous closeness.

Those were the thoughts running through my head, which of course dissipated as soon as Rosa gave a harder-than-necessary yank that brought tears to my eyes. No tip for you! I thought to myself. But tip her I did. And back again I'll go.

story of my life

A cartoon from this week's New Yorker...

heat wave

from hotpixel on flickr

It's the hottest July on record here in New York City. Clothing sticks to people's bodies as they walk around on steaming streets. What at first may seem like a light, refreshing rain turns out to be air conditioner drippings. The dark, airless subways are hot like hell. Instead of throwing out the ice left over from cold drinks, every bit of cold is sucked on and relished.

I haven't worn pants in weeks.

Good things about the heat wave:
Not feeling bad about running the fan all night. Indulging in lots of sorbet. Spending lots of time in clothing stores and bookstores and libraries and movie theaters. Sleeping nearly naked. My skin looks great from all the water I've been drinking.

Bad things about the heat wave:
Wasting energy. Sweat stains and a perpetual sweat-stache. I haven't been to yoga in weeks. Swollen feet. Spending money in aforementioned air conditioned places.

As much as I don't want summer to end, I would love a respite from 95-degree days. Mother Nature, are you listening?

futbol

from boston.com

I am going through withdrawal. It has been just over a week, and yet I am at a loss as to what to do with myself. The FIFA World Cup, my friends. Alas, it is over.

No more screaming at the television for poor calls from referees. No more adrenaline rushes from a particularly stellar play. No more watching the game streaming on Univision, listening to the Mexican announcers yell "GOOOOOL!" until the air in their lungs runs out. No more drinking before noon. No more ogling the bodies of the most physically attractive men in the world. (You like how I got progressively more shallow there?)

The best game I saw, in terms of crowd atmosphere and overall outcome of the match? US vs. Algeria, hands down. The scene: Dempsey's, an Irish pub in the East Village. 10 AM. A long, tense game, what with all of Team USA's missed scoring opportunities. And then...THEN! The entire place (actually, most of 2nd avenue) exploded when Landon Donovan's ball found the net. What a celebration! Nothing compared to the gatherings in town squares in European metropolises, but still. Mayhem. Absolute, glorious mayhem.

I cannot wait for 2014.

play it again, sam

(from istanton on flickr)

You know those first few hours after you've watched a particularly engaging or compelling movie or play? Those hours where everything seems to be moving more slowly, where everything mundane suddenly seems that much more dramatic, where you can't help but imagine your own life in the context of said movie or play? No?

Maybe it's just me.

I remember, when I was little, coming home from the ballet, say, or a musical. I would go up to my little v-shaped room and twirl around, make faces in the mirror, pretending I, too, was a star. But there have been--there are--more pensive reactions. It's a sort of coma, almost. I watched Grey Gardens tonight. Not the best movie, but it did provoke a similar sort of feeling. Everything seems more alive, more important... It is a sort of dream world, I suppose. But I love this feeling. I feel creative.

So I will write.

if you like piña coladas

(from weheartit.com)

The other night, I was walking home a little past midnight after a few pleasant hours spent celebrating birthdays. The sky was a deep blue, almost black--but became purple every time a lightning bolt flashed across. All of a sudden, I heard a whooshing sound behind me and smelled the first few raindrops. It's both creepy and wonderful to see or hear the rain behind you, but to not feel it yet. I whipped out my umbrella just in the nick of time, just before it started to really pour. Hurricane, even. Maybe 'monsoon' would be a better word choice.

Instead of grumbling about getting soaked, though (and soaked I did indeed become), I loved every minute of my walk home in that warm summer thunderstorm. The smell and the mist were unbelievably refreshing. For the last few blocks, I closed my umbrella and turned my face upward, towards the sky. There was no one on the street--everyone had taken refuge in doorways. They probably thought I was crazy.

So be it.

experiences: summertime yoga

(from NamWizard on flickr)

Yoga is, in my belief, one of the best things you can do for yourself. Not only is it a good workout, strengthening the core and toning muscles, but it is also a test of emotional stamina. Finding balance, in many poses, requires immense concentration and focus. The end of the practice is both a relief and a moment of suspension. You have finished the workout, but you have not yet rejoined the world outside the yoga studio. The real world. It's a very pure, raw moment.

I went to candlelit yoga tonight, by myself. It's rare that I go to the studio by myself; yoga has become a very social "sport," if you will, the "cool" thing to do. But tonight I mustered up enough motivation to go alone. Summertime yoga is intense. The heat and humidity of the day weigh heavily in the air, and once 60+ bodies begin to move in sync, sweat droplets begin to form. They grow bigger during chair pose, forming rivulets that run down the back, the face, the bare legs. I used to hate breaking a sweat--but now it feels good. It feels good to know that my body is working, and it feels like I am doing something good for my body.

What is wonderful about yoga, at least the way it is practiced at the studio I go to, is that you can go at your own pace. You can take a break when you need to (and boy, did I need to). You can make any sorts of weird noises that you want. When the going gets rough, it is so liberating to be able to release a huge sigh or groan and not be judged for it.

The last few minutes of class find me practically glued to the mat, panting. We are able to take these last moments and go into any pose we'd like--so I go into my supported shoulderstand. My body is tired, dripping with sweat, but my pose is unfaltering. My concentration has not yet been broken. Finally, the teacher opens the windows, and a cool breeze comes floating through the room, and with it, some raindrops and relief. A quote is read:

"You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves."
-from Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver

Together, we breathe one last breath. As we exhale, the Tibetan singing bowls are played, and the sound rings and echoes in my head for a few seconds after the teacher has stopped. The first few notes of an Iron & Wine song come floating from the speakers in the back, and the first few tears from a hidden well in the back, somewhere, float their way down my face.

boys and girls

(from i am tough via weheartit)

Last night, I was watching Say Anything, which I'd never seen before. I loved it, of course. I love eighties movies, despite the horrendous haircuts and ridiculous outfits. Perhaps, more specifically, I should say that I love eighties teen movies. There is something very honest about the relationships portrayed in those movies (like Sixteen Candles, Pretty in Pink, etc.) Something honest, something real. Untouched by the media-saturated 21st century and the jaded-ness (if that's a word) that has come with it.

Anyway, one particular scene in the movie just made my molecules tingle and my whole body smile and ache for someone to love me. Perhaps an overreaction. Perhaps. If you've seen the movie, it's the scene in which Lloyd and Diane are in the backseat of the car, by the beach, at night, the waves crashing onto the rocks. Making out, obviously. Obviously. But for those who haven't, what made me love this movie was the dialogue within this scene. Simply put, Diane asks Lloyd why he's shivering. Is he cold? No. Then why?

"I don't know. Because I'm happy."

I died. I melted into a little puddle of endorphins and I died. Have you ever been so happy that you couldn't stop shivering? What a lovely feeling. And so beautiful. So human.

Despite the fact that interacting with people you're attracted to is nerve-wracking, how beautiful is that adrenaline coursing through your veins? You're alive, you're into someone, you love someone, you're putting yourself out there. It's a wonderful thing.

** Special thanks go out to two gentlemen who also inspired me to write this post: to the waiter who could not stop nervously fiddling with the postcards while asking me out, and to the old friend back home whose voice shook when he made some valiant efforts at flirting with me, I thank you. I thank you, and I love you. I need to be more like you and get the guts to talk to someone that I like.
** Also, Jim and Pam.

just do it

(from shabaaam on tumblr)

In no particular order, my summer goals...

-learn a lot and succeed at my summer internship
--->HOW: pay attention. read/research. ask questions. talk to people. give 300%. be focused, creative, innovative.
-get in shape
--->HOW: dietary discipline. join the gym (only $50 for the whole summer!). yoga every sunday. GI Boot Camp.
-become a better cook
--->HOW: explore recipe websites. experiment!
-jump off a cliff, into a lake
--->HOW: lake placid weekend trip :)
-plan my future
--->HOW: read all my producing texts. research backup post-college opportunities. actually just research post-college opportunities in general. write everything down! organization.
-watch AFI's 100 must-see movies
--->HOW: thank you Netflix! (check out my blog devoted to that pursuit: bigscreendreams.wordpress.com)
-arrange music for Cleftos
--->HOW: discipline. creativity. with a little help from my friends (and Finale Notepad, which is lovely).
-read my way through the giant stack of books on my nightstand.
--->HOW: subway reading? laying out in the park. limit extraneous internet usage.

Stay tuned!

we'll try and catch the wind

(from InTheSunStudio on flickr)

I am fond of saying that I believe that, in a past life, I must have been a cat. I like to take naps in a random spot of sun on the floor. I love having my head scratched. In general, I am pretty graceful, and wary of strangers.

However, it is very possible that I also have some dog-like tendencies. Namely, my joy and appreciation of the wind in my face. I get a case of the giggles while walking down the wind tunnel that is Broadway. There is something very invigorating about wind. Wind is lively, whipping hair and clothing around everywhere. It's playful.

I love rolling down the windows (even though it's not technically rolling them, anymore, unless the car is particularly ancient) and sticking my head out the window, face upturned towards the sun, perhaps, and just feeling the wind on my face. It's like the dog in the photograph, who was captured in a moment of pure joy. Of bliss.

This post, however, was inspired by a bike ride I took today around my neighborhood. Whizzing down the big brick hill on my street, feeling my shirt fill up with air behind me...it's a wonderful thing. One of life's little pleasures for me.

things i love; akron edition

(from beautyineverything, via weheartit)

I love...

...burying my face into my cat's soft furry belly. And also hearing her start purring the second i scratch behind her ears. it's the most relaxing sound in the world.
...a faucet with an extendable nozzle.
...being barefoot in the grass.
...having a glass of wine every night with dinner.
...being able to see the stars.
...coffee dates with old friends.
...driving, especially with the windows down and music playing. And especially down the winding back roads.
...how green it is here!
...sushi dinners with mama and pops.
...living in sweatpants.
...playing in dirt.
...my super comfortable rolly desk chair.

I love being home.

wisdom

(from drygluestick.tumblr.com via weheartit)

This is what you shall do:

love the earth and sun and the animals,
despise riches, give alms to
everyone that asks,
stand up for the stupid and crazy,
devote your income and
 labor to others,
hate tyrants…
have patience and indulgence towards the people,
take off your hat to nothing known or unknown
or to any man or number of men,

go freely with powerful uneducated persons
and with the young and with the 
mothers of families,
read these leaves in the open air
every season of every 
year of your life,
re examine all you have been told
at school or church or in 
any book,
dismiss whatever insults your own soul,
and your very flesh shall be 
a great poem
and have the richest fluency not only in its words
but in the 
silent lines of its lips and face
and between the lashes of your eyes
and in 
every motion and joint of your body.






Walt Whitman.

talk to me

(from weheartit.com)

I've noticed lately that very few people seem to be able to hold a conversation. I'm totally serious. More than once in the past month or so I've found myself in situations where I'm the only one asking questions or bringing up interesting topics.

Now, I know that everyone loves to talk about him or herself, but really, people? Can you at least ask me about me, for a second? Things I think about, things I do? It's a good thing that I'm genuinely interested in other people and the thoughts in their head, but this is getting ridiculous. It really makes me appreciate the precious few with whom I can hold an intelligent conversation.

Good conversation is a dying art. I'm reading a biography of Madame de Stael, who ran a literary salon out of her home in revolution-era Paris. Those people actually practiced their conversation talents. They took notes on what types of questions to ask, how to ask them, how to behave, how to feign interest, etc. Communication was a skill. Now? Not so much.

Thanks, Twitter.

when we sleep, we speak fireworks

(from coup de grâce on tumblr)

I have a problem.

Well...it depends on how you look at it.
(Doesn't everything?)

I have an overactive imagination. I create fantasies in my head about people I barely know, or haven't even met yet. Outlandish fantasies, sometimes. Mostly about boys. Sometimes about hypothetical future situations, like jobs or travels or marriages or houses.

It goes like this, for example: I meet a boy. He strikes my fancy, to some degree. My mind spins into overdrive. Next thing I know, I'm imagining singing a duet together on my rooftop, or planning our first date. Three days later, the fantasies are gone. Zip!

Why is this bad? Well, for one, I'm worried that I will never be able to tame my imagination (my constant barrage of what-ifs and highly implausible situations) and will thus never be happy with one person. Also, all these thoughts are extremely distracting when I'm trying to do my work. Because, strangely, my overactive imagination only kicks into gear during daydreams. My nighttime trips to Dreamland are undisturbed by my colorful mind.

Perhaps it is better to have a colorful, creative mind than to be utterly boring, though...

movie magic

(via weheartit)

About a week ago I got the chance to be part of my roommate's film project-- she's a film student at NYU and had to write and direct a short film (about nine minutes) for one of her classes. (I realize I just over-used the word "film" but "movie" sounds so much less...artistic) It was a really cool experience: I was brought on as co-production manager and art director.

My role as co-production manager was not very exciting, I just had to work with my friend to make sure everything was running smoothly, to facilitate communication between crew members, to be in charge of food, etc. Art directing was pretty cool, though. Most of the art director's job had been done pre-production, but on set I was able to set up scenes, play around with props, and had to creatively troubleshoot a couple of times (how to cover up black gaff tape against a wood-paneled wall? how to make the background look less flat--and stat!)

Movies--films?--have always held a sort of allure for me. I love escaping into the world of a good movie; much the same as with good books, but with the added visual dimension. Now that I am learning about how movies are made, I thought that perhaps some of that allure--that magic!--would be lost, but becoming aware of how a movie develops has simply deepened my appreciation for the craft. It is wonderful to see a project slowly build and come together with the help of many talented, creative individuals.

new york moments

(via weheartit)

I sat at the hostess stand this afternoon at the restaurant in which I work, reading The New York Times during a fleeting free moment. A customer came up to me- a tall scruffy-looking man who had been eating brunch in the back dining room and was on his way out. He asked if I happened to have any mints, or gum. Unfortunately, I told him, I didn't. We proceeded to make some sort of small talk about that sad fact, and the fact that both of us were in desperate need of a mint. He then wished me a good day, and left.

About five minutes later, he came back, just as I was about to seat another party. He handed me a small paper bag and said "You left this outside." Not thinking, I took it from him and said thank you, and proceeded to go about my business. When I got back to the hostess stand, I saw that he had scrawled "Faustina: Now you're covered for @ least today :) -Richard." And below were listed two phone numbers, one for New York and one for L.A. In the bag? Some mints.

Sweet? Creepy? Hard to say.

But it was definitely a New York Moment.

graffiti this

Cool collection of photos of Banksy's work.

http://www.boredpanda.com/80-beautiful-street-crimes-done-by-banksy/

epistolary romance

(from escape on flickr via weheartit)

Dearest Sunshine,
I'm so glad you and Spring decided to visit this week! I could have done without the sunburn, it's true, but maybe it'll turn into freckles. Thank you for warming my bones and bringing the crocuses out of hibernation.

Dear Night Sky,
You know, you're pretty awesome in New York, but in Ohio you're even better. I missed seeing the stars and feeling small. This summer I plan on sleeping under you at least once.

Hello there, Driving!
I don't know that I've ever written a love letter to a verb before. But really, Driving, you're quite nice. I miss you when I'm in New York. You feel so natural. I especially love being alone with you.

Dear Cats and Dogs,
Thanks for not raining on me anymore! Also, why are you so cute and friendly and lovable? Let's snuggle all the time, please.

Dear Scaramouch,
Will you do the fandango? Let me know.

Dear Time,
Please slow down. I'm trying to enjoy you but you're moving too fast! If somehow you could rewind and replay certain moments, that would be wonderful too. I kind of like you though. I kind of like your mystery. I do like some mystery in love affairs...

Dearest Love,
Where are you? Come hold my hand.

finding his voice

Roger Ebert: The Essential Man

A beautiful, beautiful, very moving article.

in between dreams

(from weheartit)

Dreams both fascinate me and freak me out.

Two nights ago, I was in that woozy, half-conscious state where I could feel my body getting heavier and heavier as it sunk into sleep. Thoughts and pictures were flitting intermittently across the movie screen that is my mind. I'm not sure why, but I suddenly found myself in a conversation with a stranger who decided to flick his cigarette ash into my ear. I heard the sizzle. I felt it. It was so realistic that I was shaken awake by this phantom occurrence.

Does that happen to everyone? Do other people have dreams in which they trip and fall, and the reaction is so physical that the real self (not just the dream self) actually jolts as well?

Something else about dreams that fascinates me is dreaming of real places--places I've actually seen and been to--that are not represented in my dreams the way that they actually look in reality. I'm not explaining myself well. Take, for example, my high school. In my dreams, Firestone appears as a single hallway: one that does not actually exist. Yet despite that, somehow, I instinctively know where I am. And that hallway represents high school from dream to dream to dream.

I don't know if I want the subconscious and unconscious mind to be explained or not. I kind of enjoy reveling in the mystery.

lent

(from thecatholicsun's flickr photostream)

Today is Ash Wednesday, the first day of Lent. While walking around New York City today, I noticed a fair amount of people with the telltale dark cross on their foreheads. I don't know why it seemed so out-of-place to me...I guess I never really think of New Yorkers as being terribly religious. But what a testament to the power of religion; people will unabashedly, proudly wear a smudged symbol of their belief on their foreheads. Interesting.

Are you giving up anything for Lent?

ode to lemon tarts

(found on flickr)

submissive, she cowers
'fore this forbidden treat
first explodes, then it sours
then is delicate and sweet.

though she may be unwilling
in her heart grows a lust
for the lemony filling
and the buttery crust

as she takes the first bite
her taste buds ignite
bite number seven
she's in sensory heaven

with a lick of her fingers
she picks up the crumbs
in her mouth the taste lingers
...she always succumbs

valentine's day

(from weheartit.com)

“I think that when we look for love courageously,
it reveals itself, and we wind up attracting even more love.
If one person really wants us, everyone does.
But if we're alone, we become even more alone.
Life is strange.”

-Paulo Coelho

overdue

(from weheartit.com)

I think it's high time for a blog post. I've certainly taken enough time off. I mean, this is my first post of the new year, and it's already February 11th. I wish I could say that during my blogging hiatus I've come up with all sorts of brilliant pensées and what follows will change your life as you know it.

Alas, it is not to be.

I thought I could instead update you, dearest blogosphere, on my comings and goings and my life in general. So if you'd rather be privy to my thoughts on cultural odorlessness, the importance of educating women, my obsession with ted.com, or assorted Valentine's Day-related emo-ness, stay tuned. Right now, I'm going to be entirely selfish and talk about myself.

I will try to make it entertaining, and brief.

This semester is kicking my ass. I am taking a bunch of comm classes (Intercultural Communication, Media and Global Communication, Business of Media) and also a basic essay-writing class with fourteen freshman. Which is actually not as terrible as it sounds! I am getting into the groove with all of my classes, and while it's a lot of work I think it's going to be a really good semester. It IS going to be a GREAT semester.

It's already so much better than last semester because of my cute little apartment. Yes, be jealous. I am a denizen of the East Village. La vie bohème at its finest. It is absolutely lovely to come home to a singing tea kettle, a comfy red futon, a place of my own. (And a roommate that farts, but I'm used to that by now.) But I still need a bookcase.

And I cannot wait until summer so I can sit on my fire escape and drink wine. Or play Moon River on the guitar à la Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's...

Anyway, life is good.
Very good, even. :)