a few thoughts on loneliness

just some storys on weheartit

For the most part, I like being alone. I know that sounds weird, but I do. And I like being alone more than most people do. It probably has something to do with the fact that I am an only child. I’m used to being by myself, with only my thoughts and imagination. I like the company I keep. As those alcohol advertisements ask, yes, I would have a drink with me.

I don’t, however, like being lonely. There is a difference.

Being alone means being comfortable with being by oneself. Being alone is generally a choice. I chose to go to the café by myself to have a coffee, I chose to go on a walk by myself to clear my head, I chose to spend the evening at home with my tea lights and Netflix and glass of wine. Sometimes being alone is also very, very necessary, especially after a long day at work. Being lonely…well, I guess you could say being lonely is a choice as well. I can choose to put myself out there and make friends, or not. I can control things like that. But sometimes—I can’t help it—it feels like I can’t control those things. Sometimes the fine line between being alone and being lonely gets blurred. All of a sudden, after a wonderful afternoon spent in the company of me, myself and I, it becomes nighttime. And nighttime is typically the loneliest of times.

As Matt & Kim sing, “In the daylight, anywhere feels like home.” Days, especially beautiful sunny days, are easy. There are plenty of things to do, plenty of places to go; days are full of distractions. Then cafés start shutting down, the sun begins to set. Everyone goes home, to their families, to their lovers and friends. I go home to an empty room and hang out with my good friend iTunes. Sometimes I lay in bed for hours, tossing and turning because all I wanted was to share a story or two with somebody, and maybe (just maybe!) get a smile and a hug.

As much as I like hanging out with myself, I think it’s time to see other people. I’m not breaking up with you; I just think we need to take a break. It’s not you, it’s me.

…What?

bibliophilia

from weheartit.com

I've always been an avid reader and writer. Even when time doesn't permit the freedom to actually engage in those pursuits on a regular, meaningful level, I still keep up with my daily New York Times browsings and weekly New Yorker enlightenings. So yes, even though I am part of a generation for which the appreciation of the written word is dying, I continue to be drawn to reading. So much so, in fact, that I get overwhelmed sometimes.

Why overwhelmed? I am currently reading (or attempting to read, rather) David Foster Wallace's Infinite Jest. All 1,000 pages of it. I had heard from various people that every single sentence of Wallace's is constructed with such care that it literally changes your world view, with every punctuation mark, every syntax choice. A bold statement, my friends, so I decided to check it out for myself.

What I'm finding out, as I read sentences two or three times in order to be sure I have the gist of it, is that literature is art. Honestly. Not that I didn't realize that before, to an extent, but this book is different. As my friends had said, Wallace plays with and manipulates the English language so skillfully, in ways that I have not read or seen before. He uses sentence structures that are beyond my comprehension. I am reading with a pencil in my hand, underlining phrases I like (as I often do), but also circling the words whose meaning escapes me.

That, I think, is the most overwhelming part: the fact that there are so many words in this language that I will never know--and I thought my vocabulary was pretty good! (I like how I chose to use the word "good" there; I'm sure I could have come up with a more advanced synonym...right?) And yet, despite the vast number of words in the English language (over 200,000 entries in the OED, with more being added year after year as terms such as "unfriend" enter the popular lexicon) there are phenomena for which our language lacks a precise word.

Such as (thanks, StumbleUpon):

• l'esprit d'escalier: (French) The feeling you get after leaving a conversation, when you think of all the things you should have said. Translated, it means "the spirit of the staircase."
• waldeinsamkeit: (German) The feeling of being alone in the woods.
• meraki: (Greek) Doing something with soul, creativity, or love.
• forelsket: (Norwegian) The euphoria you experience when you are first falling in love.
• gheegle: (Filipino) The urge to pinch or squeeze something that is unbearably cute.
• pochemuchka: (Russian) A person who asks a lot of questions.
• pena ajena: (Mexican Spanish) The embarrassment you feel watching someone else's humiliation.
• cualacino: (Italian) The mark left on a table by a cold glass.

And yet, somehow, we get by. Somehow we can still communicate and understand each other, even though our language--and other languages--are imprecise. Imprecise yet indispensable. Where did all these words come from?

At the risk of becoming a pochemuchka, I will stop here--only to experience l'esprit d'escalier a bit later, I'm sure. Ah well. At least I meraki-d.

lucky duck

The other night at dinner, my dad told me about a professional poker player named Johnny Chan. Now, I'm not into poker (I'm sure I could be if I could wrap my head around what was going on) but what intrigued me about this guy is the fact that he won the World Series of Poker two years in a row (1987 and 1988), which is pretty impressive. Strategy, or luck? Chan is known for keeping a "lucky" orange with him at the poker table. Before every play, he'll dig into the rind with his fingernails and sniff the citrusy scent. It's apparently to clear his head, but now that smoking at the poker table is no longer allowed, it's become sort of moot. Still, it's his trademark. It's habit.

So that got me thinking about luck, and the superstitions we associate with it. There's hundreds of them, I'm pretty sure. Four leaf clovers, rabbit feet, fingers crossed, et cetera. Ladybugs and butterflies landing on you is considered good luck. Rainbows are lucky. I've even been told that being pooped on (by a bird..) is excellent luck. Granted, that might have just been because I was pretty upset about that incident. I think that, for a lot of people, religion can also be considered a special sort of good luck charm.

It goes the other way, too. Breaking a mirror is seven years of bad luck. The number thirteen is unlucky in all of its permutations. If you happen to spill salt, make sure to throw some over your shoulder. Never open umbrellas indoors or walk underneath ladders. Black cat crossed your path lately? Might want to spit three times if it has.

Why do most superstitions revolve around the idea of luckiness? Why do many of us believe in good luck charms? Is it a bit of a placebo effect-- in that we believe they may work, but really it's our hard work and preparation and maybe a bit of coincidence that makes things work out the way they do? But then, isn't coincidence sort of like luck? If it's the good kind, anyway..

As Calvin (of Calvin & Hobbes fame) once said, "Some days, even my lucky rocketship underpants won't help." Those lucky charms (no, not the cereal..) don't do anything. It's all up to us. Why don't we believe that we can do it all ourselves, and instead search fruitlessly for a four leaf clover? How come we need an object, a symbol, a ritual, to give us that extra courage?

You can do it! Just do it.
With the help of some Nikes, of course.

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.)